Simon Scarrow - Britannia

They entered the camp and asked the duty centurion for directions to the tent lines of the Blood Crows. The auxiliary unit had been assigned an area alongside the other mounted units, down the slope from the legionary tent lines, close to the drainage run-off and the latrines. What little warmth the day had brought had turned the surface of the snow to slush in places, but the temperature was dropping rapidly in the gathering dusk and the men were building up the campfires with the proceeds of the day’s foraging.

Macro soon spotted the standard of the Blood Crows rising above the large tent that served as the cohort’s field headquarters. Rather than feeling pleasure at the prospect of seeing his closest friend again, he felt his heart contract into the pit of his stomach, and a dreadful weariness settled over him. Beside him, the young tribune pointed to the standard.

‘Is that Cato’s lot? Have to say, I like the standard. Very dramatic. No wonder the natives quail before you, eh?’

Glaber’s tone was forced, and Macro realised that the tribune too was apprehensive. He wished Glaber would just keep quiet and accept the dreadful nature of the task that lay ahead. There was no place for levity in the situation. None at all.

They walked their mounts over to the standard and dismounted before handing the reins to one of the headquarters sentries.

‘Is the prefect here?’ asked Macro.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. See that the horses are watered and fed.’

The sentry nodded and led the beasts away as Macro hesitated outside the threshold to the headquarters tent. Through the narrow gap in the oiled goatskin flaps he saw two clerks sitting at a trestle table, one rubbing furiously as he worked the marks out of a waxed tablet. His colleague was lighting some lamps on a stand with a taper. Smoke trailed upwards to a vent at the top of the tent from a brazier just out of Macro’s field of vision.

‘Are you ready for this?’ Glaber asked gently.

‘No. How could I be?’ Macro sighed heavily, then ducked through the flaps into the tent. The clerks looked up and Macro turned in the direction of the screened section set aside for the cohort’s commander. He could hear Cato’s voice, in quiet conversation with someone, and sensed his friend’s exhaustion from his tone. He paced over to the gap in the leather screen and saw Cato bending over his campaign desk, Decurion Miro standing to one side.

‘You’ll have to tell Pausinus I need every man,’ said Cato as he tapped a finger on a tablet. ‘Every man who can still get in the saddle is to be declared fit for duty. We’re below half-strength as it is.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The leather rustled lightly as Glaber pushed through and joined Macro. Cato looked up, and there was the slightest of pauses before he straightened up with a broad smile. ‘Macro! What in the name of the gods are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the fort.’ His smile faded as he noted Macro’s leaden expression. ‘What’s happened? An attack? Is the fort taken?’

‘Nothing like that, sir.’

‘Thank Fortuna. And who is this?’

‘Tribune Glaber. I plucked his arse out of the fire when I came across him and some others who had been ambushed.’

‘We had the situation under control,’ Glaber protested.

‘Anyway,’ Macro continued, ‘I had urgent intelligence I felt obliged to pass on to Legate Quintatus. At least I thought it was urgent.’

‘Tell me.’

Macro explained as briefly as he could, not omitting any detail of the legate’s dismissal of his report. Cato listened with an intense expression, nodding at salient points. As soon as Macro concluded, he sucked his teeth. ‘I think you were right to warn him. Quintatus is grasping at straws. All he cares about is putting an end to the Druids. If the enemy are trying to cut across our communications, then we’re going to be in a sticky position. I’ll send patrols out to investigate at first light. The Blood Crows are not required for anything at present, so there’s no need to put it through headquarters. If asked I’ll say they’re on an exercise.’ He winked at Macro, and when he saw no reaction, he narrowed his eyes a fraction.

‘What’s wrong, Macro? There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘Yes, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘There is.’

He cleared his throat to speak, but the words would not come.

Macro swallowed anxiously and gestured to Glaber. ‘Please, sir, if you’d wait outside, in case the prefect wants to speak to you later . . .’

Glaber glanced at both men, then nodded. ‘Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

Once he had gone, Macro approached Cato and indicated the chair by the campaign desk. ‘Sit down, lad.’

‘What is this?’ Cato demanded, but he did as he was told, even as Macro remained on his feet. ‘What is going on, Macro? Speak up.’

‘All right then . . . After the lads and I pitched into the fight to help Glaber, I asked him where he had come from. He told me he’d been sent from Rome. He said his family knew Senator Sempronius, and Julia. It was shortly before Glaber left that he heard the news.’

‘News?’

‘About your wife.’

The atmosphere in the tent seemed to turn icy around Cato as he leaned forward and stared intently at his friend. ‘Go on.’

‘Lad, I have to tell you something bad. The worst of all things. Julia is dead.’

Cato said nothing and sat quite still.

‘Julia is dead,’ Macro repeated, to break the unbearable silence. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I received a letter from her less than a month ago. She can’t be . . . How? How did she die?’

‘Glaber says she caught a chill. He says she was weak from the birth of your child. Lucius still lives, though. The gods have spared you that loss at least.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’ Cato sat back and ran a hand through his dark curls. ‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

Abruptly Cato rose to his feet and crossed quickly to the gap, addressing the tribune waiting outside. ‘Is this true, Glaber? What exactly do you know about it?’

‘It’s true, sir. I know very little more than what Centurion Macro has already said. I was told by my father, after he had come back from rendering his condolences to Senator Sempronius. It was all over very quickly. By my father’s account, she did not suffer too badly and passed away while she slept. A great pity. She was always well liked by all who knew her. I . . . I . . .’ The tribune dried up uncomfortably.

‘Yes.’ Cato turned away. ‘That will be all, thank you, Tribune Glaber. Please find yourself some shelter and get some rest.’

‘Of course, sir. Is there anything else?’

‘No. Nothing. Go, please.’

Glaber bowed his head respectfully. ‘If I am needed, I will be at army headquarters.’ He turned away and hurried outside, and Macro heard the snort of a horse as the tribune mounted and wheeled the mount around to trot up the thoroughfare towards the heart of the camp.

Cato walked slowly back to his chair and slumped into it, still too numb to react. At length he looked up at Macro. ‘Dead?’

‘I am afraid so, sir. Here, you’re trembling. Let me get your cloak.’ Macro picked it up from where it lay over a chest, splattered with mud and a little damp. He arranged the folds about Cato and then rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I cannot tell you how it grieves me, lad. The gods should never have taken her at such a young age.’

Cato swallowed and looked up at him. ‘Please give me a moment to myself.’

Macro saw the rawness in the prefect’s eyes and nodded. ‘I’ll be outside, then. If you need me.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Macro waited a moment to see if there was anything else, and then backed out quietly and joined the clerks in the main part of the tent. He took a last look and saw the prefect lean forward and press his face into his hands, his fingers clenched like claws into his hairline. There was a soft groan, and Cato’s shoulders convulsed.