Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘What news of the campaign?’ asked Macro, nodding towards the smoke from the camp. ‘I take it that’s Quintatus and the army.’

‘Yes, sir. The legate’s been having a crack at getting across to the Druids’ island. Started well enough – they shifted the lot on the near shore. But it’s been tough going since then from all reports.’ The optio gestured towards the wagons. ‘Supplies? Food supplies?’

‘That’s right.’

‘About time, sir. It’s the first supply convoy I’ve seen in days. My men are getting hungry. We’re down to the last few bags of barley and hard tack. Any chance you could spare some?’

‘Ain’t down to me, lad. That’s the purview of the army’s quartermaster. Best you send a request to him.’

‘I have. Two days ago, and had nothing back.’

Macro saw the concern in the man’s expression. ‘I’ll mention it when I reach headquarters. Best I can do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The muffled sound of horses’ hooves interrupted the exchange as Lomus and his men joined the convoy. Macro took a horse for himself and another for the tribune, and left orders for the men remaining with the convoy to continue to the camp. Then he led the party down into the valley towards the distant sea. As they approached the coastal strip, they saw the outline of an abandoned camp close to one of the headlands overlooking a sheltered bay. Another outpost lay in one corner of the camp, and they exchanged a brief greeting with a sentry before continuing along the coast. As they rode over the final ridge, the panorama of the struggle to take Mona lay spread out before them.

To their immediate front sprawled the army’s camp, large enough to accommodate the two legions, their attached auxiliary cohorts and the draught animals and vehicles of the baggage train. Scores of fires burned brightly, those still in camp huddling round them to warm themselves. Horses and mules stood in their roped enclosures, nuzzling aside the snow as they searched for the stunted tufts of grass beneath. A quarter of a mile from the camp lay the Roman battle lines: artillery batteries deployed on ground levelled by engineers, covering the channel over which the army must pass, and laying down a steady bombardment at long-range of the enemy positions directly across the water. Their efforts were aided by the three warships anchored in the channel, their bolt-throwers trained on the fortifications along the shore of Mona. The tide was out, and a thin sliver of exposed mud snaked across from the mainland to the island. It was no more than ten feet wide and had been thickly sown with sharpened stakes to render it impassable, though it was clear that the Romans had made some attempt to clear the obstacles.

Not without cost. Macro could see scores of corpses, some impaled on the stakes. Around the bodies lay abandoned kit – helmets, shields, swords and javelins – much of which was already half submerged in the mud. On the near side of the channel stood two cohorts of legionaries, each century formed up four abreast. More legionaries stood further back, ready to reinforce their comrades.

As Macro watched, a signal sounded from below and the trumpet call was echoed by others. The century nearest to the causeway began to advance. At the same time, the artillery batteries peppered the earthworks on the shore directly opposite. The defenders there remained hidden from sight, but further along, their comrades lined the defences to watch the attack, quite unperturbed.

‘By the gods, they’re plucky fellows,’ said Glaber.

Macro guessed that they had become accustomed to the Roman assaults and knew that they were safe as long as the missiles rained down on the defences immediately in front of the low-tide crossing point.

As the legionaries moved out on to the causeway, their pace suddenly slowed and the following ranks began to bunch up. The centurion and optio struggled alongside to cajole their men back into formation, and the century continued advancing across the narrow strip of mud. Macro could well imagine the effort it would take a heavily armed legionary to make any progress across such a quagmire. They encountered the first of the remaining stakes close to the mainland, and pairs of men peeled off to deal with each obstacle, using their swords to work the bases of the stakes free before tossing them aside.

‘I need to find the legate.’ Macro lifted his reins.

‘Me too,’ said Glaber. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he should be over there. Behind the rightmost battery. Do you see?’

Macro squinted and a moment later picked out the party of riders in scarlet cloaks. He nodded. ‘Let’s go, sir.’

They descended the slope, passing between forage parties and the cavalry pickets assigned to protect them, and skirted the outer ditch of the vast marching camp. They were still afforded a view of the legionaries wading out across the mud. As the men approached the as yet undisturbed thickets of stakes, a Roman trumpet signalled the artillery to cease shooting. The last of the bolts arced across the channel and plunged harmlessly into the turf and log rampart. There was the briefest of pauses before a war horn sounded and the enemy rose from behind their battered defences, unleashing their own barrage of missiles against the approaching legionaries. Arrows, slingshot and light javelins rattled down on the heavy curved surfaces of the legionary shields. Occasionally a missile found its way past the wall of shields and injured one of the men, who was then forced to drop out of formation and do his best to return to the friendly shore. Some were too badly injured to turn back, and instead did their best to take cover behind their shields as they waited for help.

The centurion gave an order to his men, and they paused to form a testudo before plodding slowly towards the defences, where the men inside the formations began to work on clearing the stakes away as best they could as the missiles clattered around them, splintering shields, glancing off armour and striking down any of their comrades who were unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of those weapons that found their way through a gap in the shields.

Macro turned his gaze aside and looked towards the army’s camp, knowing that Cato was most likely in there somewhere. He felt a sickening dread at the prospect of breaking the news about Julia’s death, and made himself resolve to do that the moment he had warned Legate Quintatus about the enemy’s scheme to trap the Roman army.

He dismissed the men who had ridden all the way from the fort with him and sent them to find the Blood Crows’ tent lines in the camp. Then, together with Tribune Glaber, he turned the corner of the fort and rode down the side in the direction of the artillery battery. A screen of legionaries surrounded the legate and his headquarters party, and as the two men approached, an optio stepped into their path and raised his hand.

‘Halt and state your business, sir!’

Macro reined in a short distance away. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I have to see Legate Quintatus at once.’

The optio leaned to one side. ‘And who is the other officer?’

Glaber trotted up alongside Macro and looked down at the man. ‘Senior Tribune Gaius Porcinus Glaber, envoy of Governor Aulus Didius Gallus. I also need to speak to the legate.’ He paused and bowed his head towards Macro. ‘Though I’d say the centurion’s case is more pressing. Let us pass.’

The optio stood his ground. ‘Sorry, sir. Standing orders. No one is to interrupt the legate while he is conducting the battle. Not without the say-so of his camp prefect, Silanus.’

‘It’s vital that I speak to him,’ Macro growled. ‘Now get out of my way!’

As the centurion clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward, the optio quickly gestured to the men of his section and they hurried forward to block him, their javelin tips lowered.