Sinking down on to his wooden-framed camp bed, Cato shivered in the cold night air. He gratefully pulled up the blanket and sheepskin cover that Thraxis had left out for him, and lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling of the goatskin tent as a light shower began to patter above. His last thought before he fell asleep was of the expression on his servant’s face when he saw the inevitable mud that would result from the rain falling during the night.
He was awake an instant before Thraxis entered the tent, as if by some innate sense of the appropriate time to return to consciousness. It was still dark outside, and the rain was falling in earnest now, making the air chilly and damp as he yawned.
‘Your cloak,’ Thraxis said as he laid the folded woollen garment on the table. ‘Clean, though it might as well have been dragged through the mud instead, given the weather. Do you require food, sir?’
‘No time. You can bring me something once we set off.’ Cato stood up in his tunic and held out his arms so that Thraxis could fasten on his shoulder padding before helping him to struggle into his scale-armour shirt. The servant carefully fastened the ties that ran down the shield-arm side of the shirt, and then Cato stood still as his sword belt was placed over his head and arranged on his shoulder. Lastly there were his boots and his cape, which he fastened at his shoulder with a brooch.
‘How do I look?’
‘Like Julius Caesar himself, sir,’ Thraxis answered in a weary monotone.
‘Just as long as I don’t end up like the man.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. Pack up the kit and have my cart join the main baggage train. I’ll see you in camp at the end of the day.’
Thraxis bowed his head. ‘Yes, Prefect.’
Cato eased the tent flap aside and looked out over the lines of the Blood Crows and the Fourth Cohort of legionaries. The men were already up, barely visible in the first glimmer of the coming day. Rain drizzled steadily from an overcast sky in a soft hiss as the soldiers took down their tents and carried them to the waiting carts. Cato glanced back over his shoulder.
‘And I’ll want warm, dry clothes and a fire.’
‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’
‘Is a sunny countenance too much to ask for?’
Thraxis stared back bleakly.
‘Fair enough.’ Cato emerged from the tent and made his way over to his horse. One of the Thracians was holding his horse’s reins and handed them to Cato before helping him into the saddle. From his elevated position Cato looked out towards the vast sprawl of the fortress of Mediolanum and the surrounding marching camps of the units concentrated there for the campaign. Thousands of men toiled to break camp in the gloom and then form up in their marching columns, hounded into place by the bellows of their centurions and optios. The vanguard was waiting just outside the main gate, and Crispus snapped an order to stand to attention as Cato rode up to join his men. The prefect cast an eye along the ranks of legionaries before he turned to address the centurion loudly enough for all to hear.
‘The men are looking hungry for glory, Crispus.’
‘Yes, sir! Hounds straining at the leash. That’s the men of the Fourth Cohort all right.’
‘Then may the gods show mercy to the enemy, because your men surely won’t!’
Crispus grinned and drew his sword, punching it into the air as he bellowed the legion’s title: ‘Gemina! Gemina!’
His men instantly joined in, giving full throat to their cry, and the other soldiers of the army briefly paused and turned towards the din before continuing to break camp.
Cato smiled at the legionaries, happy to indulge their keen spirits. He gave them a salute and rode on to the head of the column where the Blood Crows sat in their saddles. The two centuries of foot auxiliaries had been assigned to protect the vanguard’s baggage train. An officer in a red military cloak was with them, together with a swarthy-looking servant on a horse laden with saddlebags.
‘You must be Tribune Livonius,’ Cato called out as he trotted up. ‘Come to chart the army’s passage through the hills and mountains.’
The officer nodded. ‘Prefect Cato?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Livonius smiled. ‘I’ve heard plenty about your exploits and those of the Blood Crows since I joined the legate’s staff. It’s an honour to serve with you.’
‘An honour?’ Cato shook his head, immediately suspicious of easy praise. ‘My men and I only do our duty and carry out our orders. No more or less than any other soldiers of Rome.’
Livonius pursed his lips with an amused expression. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do. Now wipe that foolish smile off your face.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune looked a little crestfallen.
‘And who is this?’ Cato gestured towards the man at Livonius’s side.
‘Hieropates, sir. My private secretary and drafter of maps. He’s the real brains behind our double act.’
‘Is he now?’ Cato looked the man over more closely. Hieropates was clearly from the Eastern Empire, and didn’t look as if he was enjoying being sent to the far end of the emperor’s domain. His dark curly hair was streaked with grey, above a heavily lined face out of which two dark eyes gleamed. His cloak appeared bulky due to the layers of clothing beneath, and his head seemed to hunch into the folds of cloth about his neck, like a bird withdrawing into its nest. ‘You have experience of map-making amid such mountains?’ Cato gestured towards the grey outlines of the ridges stretching away to the west.
Hieropates bowed his head gracefully. ‘Indeed, sir. I and my master Livonius have mapped the eastern frontier from Cappadocia to Nubia, at the command of the Prefect of Syria.’
‘A slave, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a bloody good teacher,’ Livonius intervened. ‘Old Hieropates has taught me all I know about making maps. And he taught Tribune Plinius before me, on whose recommendation my father bought Hieropates.’
Cato felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He was clearly well educated and might well believe that he deserved to be freed after giving many years of good service to his masters. As it was, he had been passed from one aristocratic family to another to educate the scions of their bloodline. And now here he was in Britannia, far from the warm comforts of the Eastern Empire. Cato smiled faintly at Livonius. ‘Then I am pleased that you are assigned to my column. I trust that you and your maps will serve the army well.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Livonius. ‘An army needs good maps just as much as it needs regular supplies, fortitude and the blessings of Fortuna. Between Hieropates and myself, we shall detail every step of the route the army takes in bringing the war to the enemy. We shall measure distances and sketch prominent landmarks so that we can shine a light into the darkest valley of the barbarians’ mountainous lands.’
‘Just as long as you don’t hold my column back in any way. We can’t afford to stop and wait for you to complete your little sketches and pacing-out of distances. You will need to keep up with us. If you don’t, I’ll leave you behind. Is that understood?’
The tribune looked chastened and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. You’ll ride with the fourth squadron of the Blood Crows. The decurion will remain in command and you will regard yourself as supernumeraries.’
Livonius was clearly struggling to contain his discomfort at being placed under the command of a man several ranks beneath his own, and Cato relented.
‘How long have you been in Britannia, Tribune?’
‘Nearly three months, sir.’
‘Three months . . .’ The prefect sighed. It was unlikely that Livonius had much grasp of conditions in Britannia. While Cato appreciated the need for such young men to get some military experience early on in their careers, they tended to serve for too short a time. Most were attached to legions on garrison duty and merely had to adjust to the daily routine of such a life. Livonius had picked the short straw, thrown into a posting where he would need to learn fast just to stay alive. Still, it might be the making of him, if he survived the experience. And Crispus had vouched for him at least. Cato forced himself to smile encouragingly. ‘Well then, you’ll have something to tell your family when you return to Rome. Observe all that you can, Livonius, and listen to any advice the veterans give you. That’s the best way to learn the craft of soldiering.’