Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Then Macro pulled the leather section dividers together and closed the gap to afford his closest friend in the world a little privacy to grieve for his lost love.

‘Here we go again.’ Macro leaned on the parapet of the camp’s corner tower and looked down towards the crossing. It was late the following morning, and there had been a further fall of snow during the night. The camp, the artillery platforms, the earthworks on both sides of the river and the decks of the warships and transports lay under a gleaming blanket of white. Down by the water’s edge, the legionaries were formed up again, waiting for the order to advance across the mud to continue removing the obstacles blocking the route. Overhead whirred the bolts unleashed by the Roman artillery – the ‘morning hate’, as the common soldiers referred to the barrage of missiles raining down on the enemy positions. Not that it seemed to have any particular effect on the natives, Macro mused, watching the small puffs of dirt and splinters as the missiles struck the defences. The Deceanglians and their Druid leaders were keeping well under cover, waiting for the bombardment to cease before they took their turn against the legionaries attempting to remove the stakes from the crossing. Macro could see that they had used the cover of darkness to replace many of those obstacles removed the previous day.

‘Looks like it’s going to snow again,’ said Glaber as he stood beside Macro, watching proceedings.

Macro glanced up, then round at the band of dark clouds gathering over the mountains. ‘Just to add to our woes.’

Both officers turned their attention back to the tidal crossing point and watched quietly for a while before the tribune commented, ‘I find it hard to believe there isn’t an alternative way of going about this.’

‘Oh, there are a few alternatives all right, sir,’ Macro responded. ‘But since the storm destroyed almost all the transports and most of the fleet, an assault directly across the channel is off the menu. As is any question of making a landing elsewhere along the coast of Mona to get round their defences. I dare say the Druids have stockpiled plenty of supplies and we’d go hungry long before we could starve them out. If you want my opinion, the best thing the legate can do now is give up and withdraw to Mediolanum and have another crack at Mona in the spring, when he’s had a chance to replace the ships that were lost. But we know he won’t be doing that, thanks to the imminent arrival of the new governor. So that’s why he’ll stick with this approach, blunt as it is.’

‘Blunt is the word.’

They both looked down towards the raised and flattened ground of the artillery battery, where Quintatus was surveying the enemy positions stolidly while his officers clustered round a freshly lit brazier in which flames crackled fiercely and bright sparks flew a short distance into the air before dying away against the grey of the distant landscape of Mona. The legate waited until the tide had ebbed sufficiently to uncover enough ground for the leading century to advance on an eight-man front, then turned and gave an order. The headquarters trumpeters raised their brass instruments, puffed their cheeks and sounded the advance.

Just as had happened the previous day, the leading century tramped across the snow and down on to the stretch of mud leading towards Mona. And just as before, they were pelted with arrows and slingshot as they approached the stakes.

‘Good morning.’

Macro turned to see Cato climbing into the tower. His friend looked drawn and exhausted. Even so, he forced a bleak smile on to his lips as he approached Macro and Glaber.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Macro greeted him evenly, unsure of the tone he should adopt. He had lived with death for so long that it had become almost part of everyday life and there had been comrades he had grieved for, but nothing seemed to have prepared him for the pain he felt for his best friend’s loss. If there had been any way he could have traded his life for Julia’s, he would have freely done so. There was a haunted expression in Cato’s eyes that cut him to the quick, and he looked away towards the channel and cleared his throat as he struggled to find something to say.

‘The legate’s going straight at it again.’

Cato nodded. ‘Third day running, and we’re still not likely to gain the far shore for another three days, at least. It’s too slow.’

Glaber glanced at him. ‘Too slow for what, exactly?’

‘Those wagons you brought in yesterday were the first to reach the army for two days. With this snow, I expect the planned supply convoys are being held up. For that reason, or something more worrying.’

‘Such as?’

Cato hesitated before he replied. ‘What if Macro’s information is right? What if the reason we are not being supplied is because the enemy have cut us off? Either way, we’re going to be on half-rations before we ever get on to the island, and then we’ll have to fight our way across Mona step by step. Who knows how long that will take?’

Glaber considered this briefly. ‘Are you saying the army is in danger?’

Cato gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Tribune, the army is always in danger. The trick of it is to make sure that you are ready to respond to any potential peril that fate throws in your path. As the saying goes: proper planning and preparation prevent piss-poor performance. Our problem is that the legate’s original plan has been scuppered by the storm. That’s why we’re stuck with trying to force a passage across the causeway. Nor are we adequately provisioned to prepare for a siege. So on current form, I’d say that leaves us with the prospect of piss-poor performance. At the very least. My greater worry is that we’re in danger of being caught out on a limb, and Quintatus is refusing to accept that.’

‘Do you really think the enemy is planning to trap us here?’

‘We’ll know soon enough. I sent those patrols out, like I said. Before dawn so that they didn’t attract too much attention. If the enemy are lurking close by, we’ll find them.’

Macro regarded him with concern. The last he had seen of Cato before finding a billet with the Fourteenth Legion the previous night was his friend breaking down in tears. Now it seemed that Cato had permitted himself only a scant few hours of sorrow before taking up his duties again. It was doubtful that he had slept, and more than likely that he had not eaten, neither of which was advisable if there was a day’s soldiering to be done.

‘You should get some rest, sir, while you wait for the patrols to come back. I’ll wake you myself if there’s any news.’

A slight frown creased Cato’s brow. ‘Certainly not. There’s no need for that. I don’t need any rest, thank you, Centurion Macro.’

Macro was about to reply, wounded by the cutting formality. But then he thought better of it. Cato might be his friend, almost a brother or son to him, but he was also a senior officer and had forcefully reminded him of the fact in a way that brooked no informality. He swallowed before he replied tersely, ‘Yes, sir.’

There was an awkward silence as they all regarded the action taking place towards the shore of Mona. A screen of legionaries was doing its best to block the enemy missiles as their colleagues wrestled with the obstacles driven into the seabed. As the three men watched, one of the soldiers was struck down by an arrow piercing his neck. He stumbled back and then fell to his knees in the mud as blood coursed over his shoulder and down his arm. He swayed a moment, dizzy from loss of blood, and then folded on to his side and lay in the mud, writhing fitfully. The leading century’s optio detailed two men to help him, and they dragged the wounded legionary back to the safety of the dressing station on the near shore before rejoining their comrades.