Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Crispus mused. ‘Been nearly ten years since I last saw my family, back in Lutetia. I have a woman there, and two daughters. Doubt any of them will recognise me any more.’

Cato felt dread at such a prospect. To be so long from home. Not to see his son grow from an infant into a boy. To have never been known by Lucius, and to be forgotten by Julia. That was worst of all. The thought made him more determined than ever to fully play his part in ending the conflict in Britannia. Every enemy he cut down would bring him one step closer to home, and the embrace of his wife and child.

‘But the Druids,’ Miro continued. ‘You know what they’re like. They’re demons in human form. And they have magic. I’ve heard how they can summon the powers of their gods to strike us down with storms and monsters. And now Quintatus wants to lead us into their most sacred realm, where they will be at their most dangerous. I’m telling you, it’s a mistake.’

‘Magic? Fuck that.’ Crispus sniffed with contempt. ‘Hasn’t done them much good as far as I can see. Either their gods are sleeping on the job, or they’re a bunch of milk-livered pansies not fit to kiss the feet of Jupiter and Mars.’

Miro was not persuaded. ‘I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I’ve seen the effect they have on their followers. They turn ’em into frenzied beasts.’

Cato had had enough. ‘They’re men, just like us. They can be just as easily killed. I’ve done that myself. I can assure you they’re no more dangerous than any other barbarian. So I’ll have no more of that talk, Decurion. Understand?’

Miro clicked his tongue, then nodded. ‘If you say so, sir. I hope you’re right.’

Cato ignored the last remark as he turned his attention to more immediate concerns. ‘Since we’ll be leading the march, there will be no place for baggage in our column. Our carts will travel with the main baggage train. And I don’t want our men laden down with yokes. I’ve managed to get the supplies tribune to allocate us some extra carts for our kit. So we’ll march ready for action. That’ll please the men.’ He smiled, and Crispus responded in kind. The marching yokes were the bane of every infantryman’s life on campaign. Laden down with kit and rations, they weighed half as much as the men carrying them, and as a consequence were roundly cursed.

‘Just armour, shield and javelin will do for the legionaries,’ Cato continued. ‘Same for my foot soldiers. The cavalry will leave their feed bags on the same carts, Miro. Along with their kit. We have to be light on our feet, and not so exhausted that we can’t put up a good fight, or mount a vigorous pursuit. And we shall want prisoners, when we can take them. I must provide headquarters with good intelligence about the lie of the land ahead of us, and the men we are up against. Given that the legate wants to push forward as far as Mona, we’ll need to know precisely what we’re facing at every step.’

Cato saw Miro flinch at the name of the Druids’ stronghold and felt uneasy that such a man was following him into battle. He’d far sooner have Macro. Someone he could trust with his life. In fairness, Miro had not let him down yet, but neither had he revealed so much fear of his enemy, and Cato wondered how far the sentiment spread through his column, and indeed, the rest of the army.

‘One further thing. We will be joined by an officer from army headquarters. Tribune Livonius. He will be mapping the route day by day.’

Crispus frowned briefly, then nodded. ‘Livonius. He’s a narrow-striper serving with the Twentieth, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Do you know anything about him?’

‘If it’s the same Livonius, then I’ve heard he’s handy in a fight. He led a woodcutting party into the foothills a month ago and they were attacked by a war party of Silurians. Could have ended badly, but the tribune held the lads together and they cut their way free and made it back to the nearest outpost without losing too many men. Sounds to me like he has a cool head. Though why he’s been given a job as a cartographer is a puzzle. Men like that should be commanding troops in the line.’

‘An accurate map might well be a very valuable commodity, particularly in the mountains,’ Cato countered. ‘Still, if he’s as reliable as you say, then he’s a welcome addition to the column. Just as long as he doesn’t hold us back. All right, gentlemen, I’d offer you the chance to lose some money at dice, but we have an early start and a long day ahead of us. So unless there’s anything more to say?’ He glanced at Crispus and Miro, but neither man responded. ‘Then I’ll bid you good night.’

They rose from their stools and exchanged a salute before leaving the tent. As the flap slid back into place behind them, Cato let out a long sigh and stretched his shoulders until he heard them crack. Almost all the preparations had been made at the fort, and his men were ready to march at dawn. He had some misgivings about Miro, but it was too late to change anything now. To send him back to join Macro would demonstrate to all that he had lost confidence in the decurion. That was the kind of blow to a man’s esteem that was hard to overcome. Better to give him the chance to prove himself and gain the confidence that might eventually allow him to get the better of his innate nervousness and caution. After all, Cato reminded himself, he had had to face his own fears earlier in his career. He recalled all too vividly the cold, sinking dread that clenched in his guts during his first combat against the German warriors on the Rhenus frontier. Even now, he still experienced the same moment of fear before a fight, but knew that he must never reveal it to the men who followed him. Even if that meant taking more risks than some of his rank were inclined to do. He must be seen to be courageous and confident, whatever he felt beneath such a hardened veneer.

The tent flaps opened and Thraxis stepped across the threshold. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Before I turn in? Is there anything you need?’

Cato thought about the one last task he had been putting off, and nodded. ‘Some heated wine, and give my cloak a brush. I want the mud off it when we lead the army out of camp tomorrow.’

Thraxis hissed softly to himself, but loudly enough that Cato heard.

‘Problem?’

‘It’s just a little mud, sir. And it’ll be in the same state as it is now when we’re no more than a mile from the camp.’

‘Look, I’m not asking you to comb every fibre out, tread it in urine and rinse it in spring water before drying it in the sun and doing the whole fuller’s special. Just get the bloody mud off and hang it with my armour.’

‘As you will, sir.’ Thraxis crossed to the cape lying bundled on a stool. He picked up the folds of red wool and turned to leave, muttering darkly about the pointlessness of the task.

After he had gone, Cato reached down into his document chest and rummaged until he found a clean sheet of vellum, a pot of ink and a stylus. He laid the sheet on the desk, unstoppered the ink and dipped the nib, taking care to tap the excess off before he poised the stylus over the vellum. Then he wrote neatly, ‘To my beloved wide Julia, mother of my beloved son Lucius, greetings.’ He cursed, and erased ‘wide’ with several quick strokes, writing ‘wife’ above. He was tired and needed to focus his thoughts. This was too important a letter to be composed carelessly. He breathed deeply, then began to write again. He told her that he had heard the news of their son’s birth from another officer; he had no doubt Julia had sent a letter relating the same event, only it had not yet arrived. And since the army was about to march, he was taking the chance to write to her expressing his delight at becoming a father and his pride and love for his wife for bearing him a fine son.