Simon Scarrow: Britannia

Cato longed for the comforts of Italia, with its milder climate. More to the point, that was where his wife was waiting for his return, in the home they had bought in Rome. By now, Julia would have given birth to their first child, and Cato was anxiously awaiting a letter from her to set his mind at rest. It would be months, years maybe, before Britannia was settled enough for him to request permission to return to Rome, so he had already decided that he would ask Julia to travel to the island. The first towns of the new province were rapidly expanding, and although they were primitive affairs, they featured enough comforts to offer a semblance of the civilisation found in the rest of the empire. Besides, he and Julia would be able to see each other more easily, and Cato could savour some of the home life that he had been yearning for the moment he received news of her pregnancy.

Macro led the way up the slope through the trees, boots rustling through the fallen leaves and softly cracking the twigs underfoot. The ground soon evened out as they reached the crest of the hill and started to descend the other side towards the track where the squadron of auxiliary cavalry was waiting for them. With the hill between them and the enemy, the officers felt safe and able to speak in normal tones now that the danger of detection had passed.

‘Do you really think those bastards are going to stick it to us before winter comes?’ asked Macro.

Cato thought briefly before he nodded. ‘More than likely. The Druids will want to strike swiftly while their people are still celebrating the death of Ostorius. They’re going to make things difficult for us, but I doubt they will have the strength to drive us out of the mountains. Thank the gods they don’t have Caratacus to lead ’em any more.’

‘Yes, thank fuck for that,’ Macro growled with feeling. ‘Bastard had more tricks up his sleeve than a ten-sestertius whore.’

Cato arched an amused eyebrow. ‘Colourful.’

Macro spat on the ground. ‘And just our luck that we won’t get any reward for capturing him, not once but twice. Instead, it’s going to be some other lucky bastard who claims the credit.’

Cato could well understand his friend’s bitterness. There was no justice in the situation, but he had served long enough in the army to know that a soldier rarely received his due. Not when there was a politician around ready to claim the success of others as his own.

‘Wonder how Caratacus is going to be received in Rome when he arrives in chains,’ Macro continued. ‘Hope they give him the same treatment that Caesar gave that Gaul.’

‘Vercingetorix?’

‘Him, yes.’

Cato recalled the man who had opposed Julius Caesar a hundred years before. Beaten at Alesia and taken prisoner, he had languished in a dungeon beneath Rome for several years before being dragged out into the streets and strangled as the centrepiece of Caesar’s triumph. An unworthy end for a noble enemy, Cato thought. He hoped that Caratacus would be spared such a miserable and humiliating death by Emperor Claudius. He had fought bravely and tirelessly against Rome and deserved the respect of his enemies. Despite what Macro might feel.

‘I hope not.’

Macro shot a wry glance over his shoulder. ‘Pity for the noble barbarian?’

Cato smiled. ‘Something like that.’

‘Shit, when are you ever going to learn, lad? There’s us, and there’s them – the barbarians – standing in the way of Rome and our destiny. If they’re smart, then they give way to us. If they don’t, then more fool them. There’s no room for pity in this world. That’s all you need to know in our line of work.’

Cato shrugged. Such an informal exchange between a centurion and his commanding officer might usually be frowned upon, but the two of them had served side by side since Cato had joined the legions a decade earlier. In private company they still conversed with the informality of earlier years, and Cato valued that. Far better to have a comrade who could be relied on to speak his mind than one who would just obey mindlessly.

‘Besides,’ Macro continued, ‘do you think for an instant that they return the favour? Not a bit of it. They hate our guts and would cut our throats in a trice if they could. The only people who believe in noble barbarians are those literary ponces back in Rome turning out their bloody histories. There’s no such thing as noble barbarians, just barbarians.’

‘I think you might have mined out this rich seam of invective long ago,’ Cato responded. ‘Why not do me a favour, and save your breath, eh?’

Macro pursed his lips and frowned. ‘Please yourself, Prefect.’

The reference to Cato’s rank betrayed Macro’s hurt at the slight, and Cato sighed to himself as he followed his friend in silence. There was light ahead through the trees, and a moment later they emerged on to the native track that passed through the forest. They paused, breathing hard, and glanced to both sides, but there was no sign of the soldiers they had brought with them from the fort.

‘I don’t recognise this spot,’ Cato muttered. ‘Must have started out further along.’

‘Which way?’

He looked up at the crest of the hill and spotted some crags he had seen earlier. ‘To the left. Let’s go.’

They paced quickly along the track, hemmed in by the trees on either side, the breeze swishing through the branches. A short distance further on, the path turned to follow the line of the slope, and there, fifty paces ahead, stood the patrol. Ten men waiting by their mounts, while one held the officers’ horses as well as his own. Their cloaks, leggings and boots and the flanks of their horses were covered with mud. As soon as he spied the officers, Decurion Miro alerted his men and they readied themselves to mount.

‘You were right, Decurion,’ said Cato as they reached the patrol. ‘There’s trouble brewing.’

Miro bowed his head in acknowledgement, relieved that his commander agreed with his assessment. ‘Your orders, sir?’

‘Back to the fort. Then we’ll pass on what we’ve seen to the legate.’

Miro stared at him. ‘And what do you reckon Quintatus will do about it, sir?’

‘It’s not our place to second-guess the legate, Decurion.’ Cato pulled himself up on to his saddle and swung his leg over the back of his horse, then gave the order. ‘Mount!’

The rest climbed into their saddles with a chorus of grunts, creaking leather and the snorts of their sturdy mounts. Once the men had taken up their reins in their left hands and settled their lances into the saddle rests, Cato waved his hand forward and eased his horse into a trot along the track. It was narrow enough to oblige the Romans to ride in single file for a while before it left the forest and passed over open ground. Then Macro eased his mount forward to draw alongside the prefect.

‘We’ll need to get the lads ready to march, sir. In case Quintatus gives the order.’

‘I’m aware of that. I want you to prepare a full inventory of our supplies. I’ll see to any shortfall at headquarters. We’re not going to have a repeat of that nonsense earlier this year.’

Macro nodded with feeling. The two units of Cato’s command had been tasked with guarding the baggage train, and the army’s supply officer had put them at the back of the queue for replacement kit. It was only when Cato had cornered the junior tribune concerned and given him a thorough bollocking that the baggage train escort had finally been given what they needed. If Quintatus was forced into a fresh campaign, then this time it would be essential to ensure that the Blood Crows and Macro’s legionaries were properly equipped and supplied for the rigours of mountain fighting.

Cato abruptly threw up his arm and reined in. In the time it took Macro to react, his horse had continued another length before drawing up. The remaining riders followed suit as Cato leaned forward in his saddle and scrutinised an outcrop of rocks looming over the track a short distance ahead.