‘Sir.’
The image faded in an instant as Cato turned towards a barely visible figure who had approached from the mound. He could just make out the transverse helmet crest against the greater darkness beyond, and recognised the voice.
‘Festinus. Are the men ready?’
‘All but the lads with the ram, sir. But the optio’s sent word that they’re close. They’ll be in place in good time.’
‘Very well. And how are the men’s spirits?’
The centurion chuckled. ‘You know the lads well enough, sir. They’re grumbling like short-changed whores about the cold and the delay, but they’re raring to get stuck in. Especially as there’s rewards and promotions to be had. No need to worry on their account. It’s the poor bloody sods over there I’d feel sorry for.’
Both men glanced towards the settlement. Behind the gatehouse and the rampart, rosy hues bloomed from several locations as small fires burned within. Figures were visible along the line of defences, outlined by the loom of the flames, but they showed no sign of alarm as they kept watch over the darkened landscape.
‘Do you really think it’ll go as easily as the legate believes it will, sir?’
Cato recalled the briefing they had attended the previous morning when Quintatus had outlined his plan. His staff had appeared to cover every contingency, and yet . . .
‘Have you ever known a plan that did?’
They shared a brief laugh before Cato softly cleared his throat and spat. ‘Just as long as we play our part, Festinus. That’s all that need concern us. As long as the Blood Crows can get up on the rampart before the enemy have sufficient men in place, then your legionaries should be able to breach the gate without too much difficulty. There will be some losses, but let’s do what we can to keep them small. Best to go in hard, make as much noise as we can and put the shits up those native bastards.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
There was a brief silence before Festinus blew into his hands and rubbed them together. ‘It’s a crying shame that Macro isn’t here with us. If anyone could do the job well, it’s him.’
Cato felt moved to agree. His old friend would be in his element in such an assault, and his example would inspire his men to fight like furies. But Macro was far to the rear, watching over the lacklustre garrison of the fort as he recuperated from his wound. The burden fell on Festinus, and Cato did not want the centurion hampered by comparison with the man he privately considered to be the best soldier he had ever known.
‘You can tell him all about it when the campaign is over and we return to the fort. But until then, you are in command of the cohort, Festinus. The men will look to you. So will I. And I know you will do your duty, and do it well.’
‘Yes, sir. Of course.’
Cato turned to his horse and unhitched a small wine skin from the rear saddle horn. He offered it to Festinus. ‘Here. It’s a little brew that Thraxis has prepared to help keep the cold out. Wine and a few spices.’
Festinus nodded his thanks and raised the wine skin carefully. He took the spout in his lips and squeezed gently a few times before handing it back to Cato. ‘Ahhh! Good stuff-’ Abruptly he coughed and gasped. ‘A few spices . . . What the fuck did he use, sir? Pepper?’
‘Amongst other ingredients.’ Cato took a few quick sips, swallowing cautiously as he knew what to expect. The liquid felt fiery as it slipped down his throat into his stomach and gave him a cheery warmth inside. ‘Helps keep the cold out at least . . . Better rejoin your men. I want them primed and ready to run for the gate the instant the signal is given. The gods be with you, Festinus.’
‘And with you, sir.’
They exchanged a dimly visible salute and the centurion strode off into the darkness, leaving Cato alone with his horse. Hannibal had lowered his head and was grazing lightly on the frost-fringed blades of grass with a contented champing, oblivious to the concerns of his master and the other men waiting quietly in the night. Cato took up the reins and led the animal down into the hollow behind the mound. The air suddenly felt colder, and damp, and the gathering mist made it seem as if he had plunged under water. He instinctively snatched a quick breath before he took control over his senses again.
Handing his reins to a trooper, Cato went to find Decurion Miro. He was standing with the other decurions of the Blood Crows, who were talking in subdued voices. Cato paused to overhear the exchange.
‘Mark my words,’ Miro was saying. ‘This ain’t going to end well. We’re supposed to charge over open ground to the walls, weighed down with ladders and grappling hooks? No chance of using our shields, and fair targets for any barbarian bastard on the ramparts with a good eye.’
‘You fret too much,’ replied another voice, which Cato recognised as belonging to Corvinus. ‘That bunch of hairy-arsed barbarian scum are going to run the instant they realise the game is up. Just like they did back at the gorge.’
‘That wasn’t because they were afraid . . . Listen, Corvinus. No offence or anything, but you’ve only been in Britannia a few months. What the fuck do you know about the enemy? When you’ve faced ’em in battle as often as I have, then tell me about it, eh? As it is, I ain’t happy about the prefect volunteering us for this. He’s a bloody glory-chaser.’
Cato resumed his progress and one of the other decurions quickly coughed and spoke up. ‘Commanding officer present!’
The decurions turned towards Cato and stood to attention.
‘At ease. And keep your voices down. We’re trying to launch a surprise attack, we’re not on the drill ground.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Cato looked round at his subordinates. Already he thought he could make out more detail in their faces. The dawn was not so far off. ‘All set?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Miro answered. ‘Me and the lads are ready for anything.’
Cato suppressed a smile. ‘Delighted to hear it. I’ll expect to see you at the head of the charge when the time comes. Show Corvinus here how the Blood Crows go at the enemy, eh?’
There was a brief hesitation before Miro cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Of course. You can rely on me. All the way, sir.’
‘Just as far as the heart of the enemy camp will suffice for now, Miro. That’ll win us more than enough glory.’
Cato let the decurion suffer his embarrassment for a moment longer before he glanced up at the sky and tried to discern if there really was a faint band of lighter sky along the horizon or whether he was imagining it. No, he was certain. Dawn would be breaking soon.
‘Better rejoin your squadrons, gentlemen. Get them into the saddle and ready for the signal. When it’s sounded, you know what to do. Let’s teach those barbarians a lesson they’ll never get the chance to learn from.’
There was a pause before Miro responded uncertainly, ‘Sir?’
‘Never mind. Just do your job and I’ll see you all inside the ramparts. Miro, I will join you and your men for the attack.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The small group separated, the decurions striding away towards their squadrons and Cato seeking out Hannibal before leading his mount to the standard of Miro’s troopers. Around him in the mist he could just make out the outlines of men and horses and hear the muffled thumps of hooves and the jingle of bits and equipment. Miro stood beside his horse and called out as loudly as he dared, ‘First Squadron . . . prepare to mount.’