Simon Scarrow - Britannia

As the dim figures of the legionaries dissolved into the gloom, Cato turned to Macro with a grim expression. ‘Time to get started.’

‘Can’t say I’m terribly keen on this,’ said Macro. ‘It’s not the kind of send-off the poor lads expected when they joined up.’

‘They’re dead, Macro. They won’t be aware of any indignity. Besides, if it were me, and I knew that I could still help my mates, then it would please me.’

Macro eyed him doubtfully. ‘I suppose.’

‘Besides, it fooled us when the enemy did something similar earlier in the campaign. To work, then. I’ll get the Thracians forward and let the other side know we’re still here. The Fourth can start work on moving the bodies. No time to waste, Macro. The sooner it’s done, the better. It could stop snowing, and the last thing we want is the enemy to see what we’re up to.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded and turned away to gather his men for the job. Half remained under arms, standing to along the thin line of defences facing the valley. The others approached the wagons and began to unload the corpses. The bodies were taken over to the campfires and posed around them, propped up seated or standing as if they were taking advantage of the warmth of the fires. Once they were in position, Macro ordered that the fires be built up so that they would burn until long after the living Romans had left the scene. When the snow did stop, the enemy would see the bodies huddled around the fires clearly enough, and would no doubt wait until dawn, when the field defences would be visible, before preparing to attack. By which time the Romans would have stolen several miles’ march on them. More importantly, they would not be caught between the Druids on Mona and their allies debouching from the mountains.

Cato led his men forward, stopping a short distance from where the ground had been sown with caltrops. The fresh snow had covered the telltale indents where the iron spikes had been placed, and now the unblemished expanse of white neatly concealed the danger lurking beneath, waiting to cripple any man or horse unfortunate enough to step on one of the vicious devices.

‘Miro!’

‘Yes, sir?’

Cato hurriedly considered how to position the hundred mounted men he still had under his command. ‘I want a squadron posted on each flank, with two to patrol the ground between and the last one held in reserve. Don’t go beyond this point, and make sure none of the lads gets it into his head to go tearing after any enemy pickets that venture too close. We can’t afford to get drawn into a fight.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As Cato waited for his orders to be carried out, he watched for the enemy. Occasionally he caught a distant glimpse of a figure as one of their lookouts edged closer to observe the Romans, but they would always draw back out of sight. At length he was satisfied that the enemy was unlikely to mount any attacks, and he moved back to find Macro. He found him overseeing the placing of the last bodies around a fire. It was not an easy task. Some corpses had stiffened in postures that lent themselves to being set up hunched beside a fire. Others had not, and had to be propped in standing positions or laid down on the ground, their capes swaddled about them as if to preserve their body heat. It was an eerie sight. Their faces, some mutilated by their wounds, were lit by the flames, their jaws slack and their eyes blank and unseeing. In life they would have sat round just such a fire sharing wineskins, jokes and comradeship. Now their still, silent bodies seemed to mock the idea of the vibrant existence they had once shared in the army. All their memories, experiences and ambitions – gone.

Macro draped a cloak over the shoulders of the last corpse and stood up to examine his handiwork. Then he patted the head gently and turned away with a sad expression, catching sight of Cato.

‘It’s done, sir. They’re all in position.’

‘Good job, Macro.’

‘Can’t say I am happy about it, even if I understand why it has to be done. These lads deserve a proper funeral.’

‘They’ll be properly honoured when we reach Deva. I swear it.’

Macro chuckled. ‘You mean if we reach Deva?’

Cato cocked his head. ‘What’s this, Macro? Are you losing heart so soon? You haven’t even started to lay into the enemy. Must be a sign of your years.’

Macro frowned. ‘On that subject, with the deepest of respect, sir, I would kindly ask you to just fuck off out of it.’

Cato laughed. ‘That’s better! There’s been too much doom and gloom of late . . .’

Then his expression changed and he clenched his mouth shut tightly for an instant before he regained control over the grief that threatened once again to overwhelm him. He knew that he could not afford to give in to his private tragedy. Not now, when the lives of his men depended upon him concentrating all his efforts on doing his duty. There would be time to dwell on Julia’s death later. And if he did not survive the challenges of the coming days, then so much the better. He would be spared the awful anguish of losing his beautiful wife and they would be reunited in the shades that followed this life. He did his best to thrust all thoughts of Julia aside as he drew a long, deep breath and his expression became serious.

‘You must get your men out of here, Centurion.’

‘What about the wagons, sir?’

Cato looked round and saw the vehicles, snow drifting up against the wheels. The mule teams stood in their traces, heads down, as flakes settled lightly on their hides before immediately starting to melt.

‘Leave them behind. They’ll only slow us down.’

‘And the mules?’

That was a different matter. Mules were valuable and could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. In other circumstances Cato would have ordered Macro to kill them all, but they might be of use to the army. ‘Unharness them and take ’em with you. They can carry kit, or casualties. And if the time comes, they are always useful as meals on the hoof.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro made a face. ‘Not my first choice of meat.’

‘With what may lie ahead, I doubt it will be the worst thing we eat. You’d better get going, Macro. And be certain to take that horse I assigned to you.’

They clasped forearms and Macro spoke. ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks, you hear?’

‘We’ll be fine. The mounts are fresh and we’ll be able to keep ahead of the enemy. Just make sure you’re ready to turn and support us when we rejoin the column.’

‘I’ll see to it. Good luck, sir.’

Macro released his grip and they exchanged a salute before he turned away and called the order for his cohort to form up. The legionaries waded calf-deep through the snow to take their places, and when all were ready, Macro gave the order to advance. Cato watched as his friend climbed into the saddle of his mount and trotted to the front of the cohort to lead his men away through the flakes drifting down from the night sky. Soon they were gone, leaving the Roman lines to Cato, his men and the dead. The latter were like sculptures, thought Cato, as he watched the snow building up against them and settling on their heads, where there was no longer any warmth to melt it. They would be covered by dawn if the snow continued. Ill-defined hummocks in the winter landscape, waiting to be discovered by the enemy.

Cato pushed the morbid image aside and made his way forward to the centre of the line, where Miro and the reserve squadron stood with the Blood Crows’ standard. The men were walking up and down to keep their feet from freezing, and cupping and blowing into their hands. Their mounts stood, heads down, as a slight breeze picked up from the direction of the mountains and blew down the valley.