Macro drained his cup and raised a finger. ‘That’s enough. Cato won his rank the hard way. I know. I watched him do it.’
‘Fair play to him then,’ Tullius conceded. ‘And now you’ve both fetched up here, the graveyard of ambition, or so they say.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there’s no glory to be won here. Not any more. The big battles are over. Caratacus and his mob have taken to the hills. Most of our lads are stuck in small forts keeping a wary eye on the natives and trying not to get themselves bumped off when they go out on patrol. Once in a while we manage to chase a few of the painted bastards to ground and stick it to ’em. But the rate things are going I dare say Rome will still be struggling to tame these Britons long after anyone has forgotten there ever was an invasion. You want my advice? Apply for a transfer as soon as you get the chance.’
Macro replied, ‘You’re wrong. Ostorius is about to give them one last chance to bend to Rome, then he’s going to hit them with everything he’s got.’ His voice was beginning to slur.
Tullius chuckled. ‘Is that right? You think it’s the first time a governor’s tried to wipe the floor with the bastards? What makes you think he’s got any more chance of finishing the job than Aulus Plautius before him?’
Macro waved a finger at Cato and slapped himself on the chest. ‘Because this time we’re going to be doing the fighting for him. That’s what!’
Cato folded his fingers together and gently shook his head.
Macro had warmed to his theme and raised his fist. ‘We’ll give Caratacus what for, you’ll see! Bloody his nose and whip him like the cur he is. It’ll all be over by Saturnalia.’
‘Care to place a bet on that?’ Tullius asked slyly.
‘Course I will.’ Macro nodded vigorously.
‘Macro!’ Portia snapped. ‘Don’t!’
Before her son could respond there was a cold draught as the door opened and a headquarters clerk came into the inn. He looked round until he spied the table at which Cato and the others were sitting, just as Macro glared over his shoulder and bellowed, ‘Put the bloody wood in the hole!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The clerk pushed the door to and the latch clicked home then he made his way over to the table and stood to attention. ‘Begging your pardon, Prefect, but the governor sends his compliments and says that you are both to be ready to join him tomorrow morning when he rides to Durocornovium.’
‘Very well.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll be there. You may go.’
The clerk bowed his head and departed. Cato stood up. ‘Come, Macro. We must find Decimus and have our packs made ready. Then an early night is in order.’
‘Stuff that. I’m enjoying a drink with Tullius here. I’ll be along when I’m done.’
For an instant Cato considered ordering his friend to join him. But he knew that would only put Macro in a sour mood. Better to let him drink his fill and roll back into their quarters happy and drunk. Besides, the inevitable hangover the next morning would give Cato some peace and quiet on the road to Durocornovium.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Portia came to see them off shortly after dawn the following day. Cato had provided Decimus with enough silver to buy three mules, two to carry their baggage, and one for the servant to ride. The governor had authorised the provision of two horses for Cato and Macro. There was no tearful parting scene at the gates of the town because they had not been constructed yet and Londinium merely petered out amid a shanty town of shelters either side of the road leading west. Fearing for his mother’s safety amongst the barbaric-looking denizens of this fringe community, Macro stopped his horse, waited until the last men in the small column had passed by, and briefly kissed her on the forehead. He wished his own head was not pounding so. Nor did he like the raw nausea in his guts that threatened to humiliate him in front of his companions should he have to throw up.
‘It’s best that we part here,’ said Macro. ‘I’m not sure how far I trust this lot.’
He nodded to some of the inhabitants who had risen early and watched the Romans leading their horses down the rutted roadway.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She lifted her cloak aside to reveal a cosh hanging from her tunic belt. ‘A souvenir from my Ariminum days.’
‘Try not to kill too many of the natives,’ Macro joked, attempting to lighten the mood at their parting. ‘Leave some for me. That’s my job.’
She smiled weakly then cupped her son’s cheek in her hand and stared intently at him. ‘Take care of yourself, and that boy, Cato. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you. I know what you’re like. Just don’t take unnecessary risks. Understand?’
Macro nodded.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Maybe one day you’ll have a son of your own. Then you’ll understand. Now go. Before you make me cry.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ Macro drawled. ‘Tough as old boots, you are.’
‘Just go!’
Without another word, or any lingering hesitation, Portia dropped her hand and turned to walk back down the road towards the heart of Londinium. Macro watched her briefly, but she did not look back.
‘Tough as old boots . . .’ he repeated under his breath. Then, tugging on the reins of his mount, he strode forward to catch up with the rest of the governor’s escort while the natives, their curiosity sated, turned away and went back to their rude huts. Once they had passed beyond the last of the huts and emerged into open countryside, the governor gave the order for his men to mount.
Cato had been taught to ride as a recruit and had had some practice in the following years, but he still did not feel wholly comfortable in the saddle and the horse he had been given had a tendency to nervous jerks and twitches at the slightest flicker of movement in the periphery of its vision. Ostorius rode a length ahead of his men and glanced over his shoulder once in a while at Cato, and the latter understood his intent well enough. The governor was testing his new cavalry commander to see how he handled a difficult mount. Accordingly, Cato concentrated on keeping the beast in check and trying to anticipate its reactions to its surroundings to make sure that it did not bolt, or rear, or cause any embarrassment to him.
The road was a rough affair, often no more than a muddy track, and where the ground was particularly soft the army’s engineers had constructed corduroys of logs packed with earth to provide a stable surface for marching columns, riders and wheeled traffic. Although there was no rain, the sky was overcast and pockets of mist filled the hollows of the landscape. With no sun to burn them off they were set to remain there through most of the day and Cato could well understand why that was the prevailing impression of the island in Roman minds. The country-scented air was cool and a relief after the cloying stench of Londinium. It was late in April and the bare limbs of trees and shrubs were budding and hardy flowers provided a splatter of bright colours across the landscape. Soon, the town had fallen behind them and only a faint brown hue on the undulating horizon marked its presence.
Cato soon came to master the idiosyncrasies of his horse and could give some attention to his comrades. There had been a brief round of introductions at the governor’s headquarters before setting out but Cato had forgotten most of their names. He was familiar with the types, though. Aside from Ostorius, there were ten picked legionaries who acted as his personal bodyguard. Tough veterans with good records who could be trusted to give their lives to protect the governor. Then there were the tribunes. Six junior officers who would go on to a succession of appointments in civil administration and who might one day be rewarded with promotion to the Senate. From there, the select few would be awarded the post of governor of one of Rome’s provinces. Ostorius Scapula was such a man. He had devoted his life to the twin ideals of Rome and to adding lustre to his family name. No doubt he had hoped to tame Britannia as a fitting end to his long career, Cato reflected. Too bad the native tribes had different ideas about being tamed.
The last member of the party was a native translator, though with his neatly cu
t brown hair, red tunic and cape he could easily be taken for a Roman. It was only the gleam of the ornately patterned torc round his neck that indicated his true heritage. Marcommius, the latinised version of his native name, was in his thirties, slender and well-groomed. It was clear that he had abandoned the ways of his people.
Cato rode behind the tribunes while Macro had slipped back to join the bodyguards and engage them in conversation. Their cheerful chatter mingled with the rumbling clop of hoofs as the small column followed the track across the green downs of the lands of the Atrebates. There was heavy cultivation and small farms, and a handful of villas with their more regular pattern of fields lay scattered amongst the remaining woodlands of ancient oaks and smaller trees. Now and then they passed some of the natives working their land; Ostorius smiled a greeting, and his officers followed his example, Cato noted approvingly. He could never understand the haughty, high-handed attitude of many Romans to the peoples they had conquered. The swiftest way to Romanise a population was to encourage good relations. The quickest way to antagonise them was to beat them down and treat them as inferiors, a policy that only caused bitter resentment where it did not result in outright revolt.
Five miles or so down the road Ostorius gently tugged on his reins and fell into step alongside Cato. The road had dipped down into a shallow vale filled with mist which closed in around the riders and made vague shapes of the trees and bushes on either side. They exchanged a nod before the governor began speaking.
‘I briefed my tribunes and the bodyguard before we left, but just wanted to ensure that you, and Centurion Macro, were put in the picture. As you can appreciate this is very much a make or break occasion. Our last chance to secure peace with Caratacus and his followers. Of course, there’s no guarantee that he will put in an appearance. But there will be some there who share his views and will doubtless report back to him. The vast majority are already firm allies. Some, admittedly, are more grudging. Even so there will be more voices raised for peace than war and, if nothing else, this meeting will serve to emphasise the isolation of those who still resist. That said, I am taking nothing for granted. You, and your subordinate, will at all times treat the native delegates with courtesy and respect. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that goes for any Druids that are present as well.’
‘Druids? I thought they were our most implacable foes, sir. That was certainly the case when Macro and I last served here.’
‘Oh, they still hate us with a vengeance, and it is official policy not to take any of them alive, but if we don’t allow them to attend then there is no chance of peace. I hope that they can be persuaded to see reason.’
Cato clicked his tongue. ‘The Druids I knew were fanatics, sir. They would gladly die rather than give an inch to Rome.’
Ostorius turned to him with an irritated expression. ‘As I told you before, Prefect, that was several years ago. Men change. Even the most determined of enemies can grow tired of killing each other and desire peace.’
‘Most men, yes. But Druids?’
‘This is the kind of thinking that you must put aside. That is why I am telling you this. There can be no misunderstanding between us, Prefect Cato. You will behave as I have said, to all who attend the meeting, including the Druids. No, especially the Druids. And that goes for the centurion as well. I will not have either of you cause any trouble. That is an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The same applies to Caratacus, if he shows up. Or any who represent the Silures or the Ordovices.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Then be so good as to make sure that Centurion Macro does as well.’
With that the governor urged his horse forward to resume his position at the head of the small column. Cato watched him with a sense of misgiving. It seemed that Ostorius might be staking too much on his desire for peace. Even if he could persuade Caratacus to lay down his arms, Ostorius must know that the terms of such a peace would be unacceptable to Rome if they could be construed as a humbling of the Emperor and his legions. However much Cato shared the governor’s desire for an end to hostilities, he feared that the most likely outcome was the continuation of the bitter struggle. Which would suit Macro nicely, Cato reflected with a grim smile. His friend thrived on it. Battle was as much his element as water was to a fish. It would be interesting to see how his friend coped with the governor’s orders.
Cato reined in and waited for Macro and the legionaries to catch up. Macro seemed to have recovered from his hangover and was telling a story as he clutched a wineskin that one of the men had handed him.
‘. . . and I said, “That’s just too bad if she’s only got one leg.” And he didn’t get it!’
The others roared with laughter as Cato fell in alongside his friend. ‘That’s an old one. Must be at least the tenth time I’ve heard it.’
‘Jokes are like wine, they only improve with age,’ Macro replied, and hitched his reins over the saddle horn so that he could lift the wineskin and have a quick swig.
‘Is that wise?’
Macro smacked his lips and shrugged. ‘Hair of the dog and all that.’
‘I wonder what your dear mother would say.’
‘You can’t imagine. So what are you doing, slumming it back here with the squaddies?’
‘Passing on orders from the governor. He wants us on our best behaviour in front of the locals. So I’d go easy on the wine if I were you.’
‘Not a problem, I can handle it when I want to. Right now I’m just having a laugh with the lads. You can trust me to play my part when the time comes. Have I ever let you down before?’
‘Not let down as such. You’ve got me involved with a few brawls in your time. There’s a time and place for that. For now we have to be good boys. Model citizens.’
‘If I wanted to be a model citizen I’d never have joined the army.’
‘We’re under orders, Macro. That’s all there is to it.’
Macro nodded sullenly and dropped back to return the wineskin to its owner before he rejoined Cato, who was glancing warily from side to side as the column clopped through the eerie mist. Macro could not help an ironic snort.
‘I just hope the tribes are as keen to win prizes for good behaviour. This would be a fine spot for an ambush. They could hit us from all sides before we knew it.’
‘Thanks for the comforting thought.’ Cato’s eyes and ears were straining to pick up any suspicious movement or sound but there was nothing apart from muted conversation between the tribunes and the bodyguards and the steady, dull clopping of the horses. Above them the sky cleared a little and the sun appeared as a pale disc, providing light but little warmth.
Some hours passed and the sombre ambience was only briefly lifted as the road crested a low ridge before descending back into another valley and more mist. As the sun reached its zenith, the governor halted the column to rest the horses and allow his men a brief break from their saddles. Two of the legionaries trotted forward to hold the reins of the officers’ horses while they stretched their legs.
Ostorius smiled at Cato. ‘How does it feel to be back on British soil? There’s no place in the empire like it for making the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, eh?’
Cato recalled that the mists and fogs of Britannia could wreath the landscape for days at a time, playing havoc with the imagination of some of the men. Not something that plagued Macro, of course, but it left Cato feeling tense and anxious. He was about to respond to Ostorius when he heard it. The faint sound of hoofs pounding along the track.
At once Ostorius’s smile disappeared and he stepped off the road and looked back past his bodyguards standing silently by their mounts.
‘Centurion Macro, get those men off the road. And that servant of yours. Half on each flank, fifty feet out, and wait for my order before you move. The rest of you, mount up and form up across the track.’
As the soldiers moved into position, Cato and t
he others swung themselves up into their saddles and formed a line across the track. Ostorius stood listening, and was the last man to mount, easing his horse forward so that it stood in the middle of the track a short distance in front of his officers. Cato saw the governor’s left hand slip down to rest on the pommel of his sword as he waited. The sound of the approaching horses was much more distinct now and one of the junior tribunes at Cato’s side cleared his throat nervously.
‘How many of them, do you think?’
Cato was unsure who the question was aimed at but knew that the young officer needed reassurance. He had heard enough cavalry in his time to hazard a guess. ‘No more than ten, I’d say.’
The tribune nodded and, following the example of his commander, he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Cato noticed the nervous tremor in the officer’s fingers. He recalled his own fears in the early days of his army service when combat seemed imminent. The fear had gone, but he still suffered from the gnawing anxiety of letting his comrades down, Macro foremost. That and the terror of a crippling wound that would leave him as an object of pity and ridicule. Then his thoughts were distracted as his mount shied and tried to retreat from the line. He dug his heels in firmly and gritted his teeth as he struggled to still the brute and get it back into position. By the time that was done the sound of hoofs was much closer and then a shadowy form emerged from the gloom, and there was a shout an instant later, in a tribal tongue. The rider reined in abruptly and then there were several more, forming up on each side, and others behind.
A challenge sounded, in the same language, and Ostorius raised his left hand in greeting. ‘Romans!’
There came a gruff muttering in response and then stillness and silence. A faint metallic scraping sounded close to Cato and he glanced aside to see the tribune’s sword emerging from its scabbard.
Roman 12 - The Blood Crows Page 7