Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Macro briefly considered the legate’s argument and had to admit to himself that it made some sense. As he did so, he felt a flush of shame that he could have been manipulated by the enemy into sabotaging the Roman campaign. But then he checked himself. The legate might be right, but there was an equal possibility that the prisoner had revealed the truth about the enemy’s intention to set a trap for the Roman army. He had to stand firm on that possibility, not for reasons of pride, but out of concern for the safety of his comrades.

‘Sir, I hope you are right. All the same, I think it would be prudent to consider the possibility that our prisoner’s information is accurate.’

Quintatus eyed him coldly. ‘What would you have me do? Halt the attack on Mona while we send patrols to find this enemy army of yours? Look around you, Centurion. Winter is here. This snow is but a precursor of worse weather to come. We have a brief opportunity in which to crush the Druids and return to winter quarters before the mountain tracks become completely impassable. I will not give up the chance of eradicating the single greatest obstacle to establishing peace in Britannia. Now, I have wasted enough time on this matter. You may remain in camp for the night, but you are to return to your fort at first light and resume command.’

‘But sir, my place is here, with my lads in the Fourth Cohort.’

‘Your place is where I say it is,’ Quintatus concluded, then looked over Macro’s shoulder. ‘And now tell me, who the hell is that?’

Macro glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tribune Gaius Porcinus Glaber, sir. Sent from Rome. I came across him on the way to find you.’

‘Tribune Glaber, over here!’

Glaber hurried across and saluted, but did not get a chance to formally introduce himself.

‘Centurion Macro tells me that you have been sent from Rome.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

Glaber was momentarily taken aback by the legate’s directness. ‘I have been sent on the orders of the emperor to inform you that the new governor of the province has been appointed and will be arriving in Britannia shortly. I am to liaise with you and your staff to arrange the handover.’

‘New governor?’ Quintatus looked shocked. ‘Already? That can’t be possible . . . Damn the man, why so soon? Who is he?’

‘Aulus Didius Gallus, sir.’

‘I know of him. Why Didius Gallus? The man has never stepped outside of the Mediterranean. He has no experience of fighting the Celts, or of a climate like this. A poor choice, made by meddling politicians to settle some debt or curry favour, no doubt. I am perfectly capable of governing the province until spring.’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about the timing of it, sir,’ Glaber responded flatly. ‘I am just the messenger.’

Quintatus sniffed. ‘You are Gallus’s man. And you will have to wait until my work is completed here before we can begin to consider the process of handing over power.’

‘My orders are to begin making preparations for the arrival of the new governor immediately. Gallus requires that you provide a full inventory of military and civil personnel, their disposition and functions.’

‘He requires that, does he?’

‘That, and a number of other requests, sir. The full documentation is in my travel chest, and I am ready to begin working with your staff at your earliest convenience.’

Quintatus laughed. ‘Does this look like a convenient moment to entertain any such bureaucratic exercise, Tribune Glaber? I am fighting a war. I will deal with your queries when I am good and ready. In the meantime you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of my camp. Unless you would prefer to return to Londinium to await the arrival of your master?’

‘Having witnessed the hazards of these mountains, I prefer to remain with the army, sir.’

‘Very well, but be so good as to stay out of my way. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The legate turned back to Macro. ‘You see? There’s even more reason to move to crush those Druid bastards as quickly as possible. Now, I have an army to command. You two are dismissed.’

He did not wait for a response, but turned and strode back towards his command post, crunching across the snow. Glaber waited until he was out of earshot before he let out a low whistle.

‘Touchy character, our legate. Is he always like this?’

‘Only when someone is after his job, I should imagine, sir.’

Glaber turned to him with an amused expression. ‘No doubt you think this is all about politics and the endless round of backstabbing that passes for after-dinner entertainment in polite circles.’

‘I, er . . .’ Macro shifted uncomfortably on to his bad leg, winced at the discomfort and shifted back to his good one.

‘Well you’d be right. That’s exactly what it is all about. My man is on his way up and Quintatus has yet to make his mark. It’s too bad for him that the credit for his efforts will probably be pinched by Gallus, but that’s the way it goes. I can well understand his mood.’

‘That’s all very well for you and your class, sir, but for the rest of us it’s a bit of a sore point when we’re concerned with doing our duty and fighting for Rome and our comrades. When your arse is in the grass and you’re knee deep in blood and the only thing between you and the barbarians like that lot over there is your shield and sword, then it’s a little disappointing to know that your betters just see you as a piece in their game. You know what I mean?’

They stared at each other for a moment before Glaber nodded. ‘Fair point, Centurion. I will try to remember that.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Glaber cleared his throat. ‘Since I am surplus to requirements, I think I might find myself a nice fire to warm me up back at the camp. What about you?’

Macro took a deep breath. ‘I need to find Prefect Cato and report to him. Whatever the legate may think, I’m not convinced that the enemy have played me for a fool. Cato will have a view on it. He usually does.’ He smiled fondly. ‘That’s what he’s good at.’

‘It seems you admire your superior.’

Macro stiffened. ‘He’s a bloody fine officer, sir. One of the best in the army, and anyone who knows him would say the same.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. It’ll be interesting to make his acquaintance.’

Macro was still for a moment, caught up in the anxiety about the burden of what he must reveal to his friend when he found him. He coughed and looked at Glaber. ‘Sir, would you do me a favour?’

Glaber’s brow rose slightly in surprise. ‘A favour? What is it?’

‘What you told me, about his wife. Would you care to come with me to break the news to the prefect? He will want details. It would be better coming from someone who knows more about it than me.’

Glaber eyed him shrewdly. ‘You can’t face telling him?’

Macro’s expression was fixed for an instant before he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a hard thing for a man to inform his friend that his wife has died. Cato loved her dearly, sir. She was a good woman. Well, you know that for yourself.’

‘You knew her as well, then?’

‘I was there when they met in Palmyra.’

‘Ah yes . . . That fracas with the Parthians a few years back. I heard about it. I had no idea Julia was caught up in that business. I dare say she kept her wits about her. She was always a tough character as a child, I recall.’

‘That she did.’ Macro smiled sadly. ‘As brave as any soldier. They were a fine match . . . I’d give anything not be the one who breaks his heart.’

Glaber pursed his lips before he replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

They returned to their horses, remounted and rode back to the camp’s main gate. Macro spared a last look towards the crossing and saw that the tide now covered the muddy route across to the island and only the tips of the stakes appeared above the water. Out to sea, the sky had cleared, and a thin blue hue seeped across the snow-covered landscape. On the near bank, the casualties from the last attack were having their wounds dressed, while the rest of their comrades were scraping the mud from their kit. Their lethargic demeanour spoke eloquently of the poor state of their morale, and from the far side of the channel came the sound of the enemy’s jeering. That stuck in Macro’s throat in the way that all such reverses chafed the sensibilities of soldiers who had suffered a setback. The trick of it was to turn the sentiment into a cold determination to win through and prove yourself better than the enemy. The alternative was to sink into despair and watch, dull-eyed, as any prospect of victory faded and it all became a matter of grinding endurance.