Simon Scarrow - Britannia

The Druids had halted their force half a mile behind the rearguard some while ago and had remained there since. Just as they had the last two times Cato had been forced to turn and make a stand to allow the stragglers and some of the slower vehicles to catch up with the rest of the column. Their refusal to attack was perplexing him. In their place he would have harried the Roman troops every step of the way and given them no respite. Eventually, hunger and exhaustion would have broken them and all that would remain was to mop up the survivors. So why were the Druids seemingly content merely to follow Quintatus and his force?

‘I’m getting a little tired of this,’ said Macro, as if reading Cato’s thoughts. ‘Why aren’t those bastards getting stuck in? They know we have no bolt-throwers left. They could sweep us aside just like that.’ He snapped his fingers to emphasise the point and then cupped his hands together and breathed hard into them a few times. ‘It’s getting colder still, isn’t it?’

Cato nodded. ‘Much colder.’

The night before had been the worst so far. A blizzard had closed in round the army, the wind howling over the tents and stretching and straining the guy ropes. Several of the Blood Crows’ tents had been blown down and it had been impossible to erect them again, forcing the men to crowd in with their comrades to see out the night. The dawn had revealed the army almost snowed in, the long tent lines weighted down by snow that had also drifted up against the sides. It had taken hours for the men to dig themselves free, and get the column on the move. Any water that had been left out overnight had frozen solid, and even the water in buckets inside the tents was iced over. Nor had the temperature lifted much during the day, the sun remaining invisible behind a dull overcast.

Macro cracked his knuckles and stared towards the enemy. ‘This has got to be as difficult for them as it is for us, surely?’ he hissed.

Cato thought a moment. ‘Maybe. But they have food, and they are used to the mountains and know how to shelter in them. They’re hardier, too. Most of our lads come from Italia, Gaul and the provinces around the Mediterranean. They won’t be as used to this as the enemy. I’d say the natives are coping with it better than us. They are defending their homeland. That always lends heart to a cause.’

‘Not to mention that they’ve got us on the run and can scent blood. That also helps.’

‘Very true.’

Both were silent for a while before Macro began to punch his fist into the other hand. ‘Now they’re taking the piss . . . Speaking of which.’

He strode out in front of the line, his gait still a little stiff from the wound. He continued for a hundred paces across the well-trodden snow and then stopped and planted his vine cane in the ground. Reaching under his tunic, he fumbled for his cock and waited a moment before unleashing a stream of urine in the direction of the enemy.

‘Useless shower of piss!’ he bellowed across the open ground. ‘That’s all you lot are! Fucking Druids! I eat ’em for breakfast and shit out the remains!’ The men of the rearguard roared with laughter at his crude challenge and joined in with their own mockery and jeering.

At first there was no response from the enemy. Then one of the Druids stepped forward a short distance in front of his men and reached into a bag at his side. A moment later he raised something in his hand and held it out for all to see. Cato did not have to squint hard to realise what it was. A severed head. To remind the Romans what fate awaited them.

Macro, having emptied the last drops from his bladder, tucked his cock away and turned and strode casually back towards his men. They chanted his name in a rising tone, ending in a rousing final cheer and then some laughter, which gradually faded away. Macro reached down to cup snow to rub between his hands, then grinned at Cato.

Cato smiled. ‘Nice try, Macro. But I doubt they’re going to take the bait. Whatever it is they are planning, they’ll do it when they are good and ready. I just wish I knew what it was.’

‘Maybe they’re just scared witless by the thought of taking on our boys in a stand-up fight.’

Cato gave him a look. ‘I don’t think for an instant that is a serious suggestion.’

‘If not that, sir, then what?’

Cato shrugged. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I fear.’

He waited until the last of the stragglers still walking had disappeared over the brow of the next rise, and then dismissed Macro and his cohort. He allowed them a half-mile head start before the Blood Crows followed on. They approached a man hunched in his cloak beside the route. He had abandoned his marching yoke and his helmet, but still wore the heavy lorica armour favoured by the legionaries, and Cato drew aside, waving his men on.

‘Soldier!’

There was no response from the man, who just stared blankly out along the shingle at the bodies and the remains of the ships that had been wrecked there.

‘On your feet!’ Cato said loudly. When there was no response, he slipped down from his saddle and stood directly in front of the man, blocking his line of sight. The legionary blinked and then looked at Cato with a surprised expression. He was an older man, with thick dark hair and a straggly beard. There was grey at his temples, crow’s feet around his eyes and white scar tissue across his brow and on to his cheek. A veteran, then. Someone who had served many years on the frontiers of the empire and taken part in numerous battles and skirmishes in the name of Rome. A man who should know better than to give up and accept death at the hands of his enemies without a murmur.

As soon as he saw that he was confronted by an officer, the man struggled up and stood at attention, swaying slightly with fatigue.

‘That’s better,’ Cato said mildly. ‘What’s your name and unit?’

The soldier frowned, as if struggling to recall, then snapped, ‘Marcus Murenus, Second Century, Eighth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, sir!’

‘Well then, Marcus Murenus, you have lost contact with the rest of Legate Valens’s lads, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir . . . I- I don’t know how. I was with them, marching. Then . . . then here just now. What’s happened?’

‘You’re tired, Murenus, that’s all.’

‘Yes, sir. So tired. So hungry.’

‘As are we all. But there’ll be plenty to eat soon. You’ve heard, I’m sure, that Legate Quintatus has sent men ahead to organise a convoy. It’ll be with us any day. Why, it may well be in camp this very evening. Think about that!’

He saw a desperate gleam in Murenus’s eyes, and the legionary nodded.

‘So come on. Get back on the road and rejoin your unit, eh? Let’s go.’ He gave the man a gentle push.

Murenus lurched forward a step and stopped. ‘I . . . I don’t think I can, sir.’

‘Nonsense. Just put one foot in front of the other.’ Cato hesitated a moment and then reached into his side bag and fished for one of the two slim strips of salted meat he had left. He held it out to the legionary. ‘Here. Eat this and give yourself a little strength.’

The man tried not to take the meat too eagerly. ‘The gods bless you, sir.’

Cato felt slightly embarrassed by the man’s evident gratitude and just nodded in acknowledgment. ‘I’ll see you in the camp later on then, Murenus. Remember, just keep moving and don’t stop.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato smiled encouragingly and then drew himself back into the saddle, his stomach churning at the thought of food. He clicked his tongue and urged his horse into a trot, riding along the line to resume his place at the head of the Blood Crows. When he glanced back a little later, he was pleased to see that the legionary was walking at a slow but steady pace as he chewed on the end of the strip of meat.