Miro came striding up to Cato, a look of naked elation on his face. ‘We’ve done it, sir! By the gods, we’ve done it!’
‘Not just us.’ Cato pointed with his sword to the legionaries pouring through the breach, and others climbing on to the rampart as the enemy gave way. All resistance seemed to have collapsed, and the shallows of the channel were filled with men splashing through the freezing water to try and fight their way on to the boats to make good their escape to Mona. Hundreds of others were climbing over the palisade at the far end of the line of earthworks and fleeing along the shore then inland for the safety of the snow-laden pine forests.
‘It’s a fine victory, sir.’ Miro beamed deliriously. ‘We’ve crushed the bastards. Completely crushed them.’
‘Yes, we have,’ the prefect agreed in a measured tone. ‘Fine work to be sure. Bloody fine work. But it’s only half the job.’
He turned to survey the even more formidable defences along the shore of Mona, and the silent ranks of warriors and Druids who had been watching the struggle on the mainland. It stood to reason that they would not run like their comrades. There would be nowhere to run to. Their choice was simple. They must hold Mona, or die. He felt a feather-light touch of something cold on the back of his hand and looked down to see a snowflake melting against his skin. More flakes drifted down as he looked at the sky, now a dark grey. Within moments they gave way to a steady fall, settling over the shore and the bodies scattered along its length. Cato cleared his throat and spat.
‘This was the easy bit. Taking Mona is going to be a far more difficult prospect. Mark my words . . .’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The heavy snow of the previous day had made it hard going for Macro and the small convoy he was leading through the mountains to Legate Quintatus and his army. After his party had joined the survivors of the enemy ambush, Macro had driven them on as speedily as possible. The wagons, and Tribune Glaber’s raeda carriage, were kept closed up while the auxiliary infantry escort marched alongside them, screening the flanks. Macro had divided his mounted party, tasking Pandarus to scout ahead with three men while Lomus brought up the rear, hanging back a quarter of a mile to keep watch down the track in case the enemy decided to follow them. Macro’s horse was hitched to the rear of the raeda, and the centurion sat on the bench beside Glaber, who held the traces since the tribune had lost his driver during the skirmish. Glaber’s personal chests had been piled behind the driver’s bench to make way for three of the wounded, who were forced to endure the constant jolting of the light carriage as well as the pain from their injuries. Distant figures were sighted from time to time, but it was impossible to divine if they were the enemy, or merely the inhabitants of the mountains warily giving the Romans a wide berth. Not that it made much difference, Macro reflected. In these lands, everyone seemed to be an enemy of Rome.
The snow had started no more than an hour after they had left the site of the ambush, a few light flurries at first, and then a continual fall of soft downy flakes that quickly began to settle and blanket the landscape in a winter mantle of white. Soon the track was covered and they had to follow their instincts where it was not possible to discern the route that led through the valleys. As night fell, the snow stopped and Macro gave the order to halt when they reached an abandoned farmstead. Anything of value had been carried off when the natives had fled, or had been looted by the Roman soldiers passing by. At least the structure had been spared and offered the small party shelter for the night. Sentries were posted and a fire was lit in the hearth of the largest hut, and the men huddled round it to get warm and cook their rations.
Tribune Glaber had been content to allow Macro to take command and made no secret of the fact that his was a purely political appointment. He was keen to serve the minimum amount of time that he could in the army before resuming his career in Rome the moment the new governor gave him permission to quit Britannia. As they sat in the glow of the fire, Macro had gently pressed him for any more details about Julia, but all Glaber could tell him was that the illness had come on suddenly and she had lived a few more days before dying at her father’s house in Rome, in the same bed in which she had been born. At least her child, Lucius, had survived, Macro mused. According to Glaber, the infant boy was thriving in the care of a wet-nurse purchased before Julia had fallen ill. Macro hoped that that at least might offer some comfort to his closest friend when Cato heard the dreadful tidings.
They were not troubled during the night and continued on their way at first light, pausing only to clear the worst of the drifts that had accumulated on the track. As the men toiled to shovel the snow to one side, Macro felt a growing sense of unease at the change in the weather. Legate Quintatus had taken a risk launching a campaign so late in the year. He had gambled on a quick knockout blow to the enemy with a view to returning to Mediolanum before winter set in. The snow had come earlier than expected, and if it remained for any length of time, then it would severely hamper the ability of the army to negotiate the mountains of the Deceanglian tribe. He glanced round at the cloud-shrouded peaks and pulled his cloak tighter about him as he spoke to Glaber.
‘The new governor, Gallus. Any idea what his plans are for the province?’
Glaber paused to cup his mittened hands and blow warm breath into them before he responded. ‘That’s his business, Centurion. However, there was a certain amount of gossip doing the rounds in Rome before I set off, and the word is that the palace is starting to get anxious about the situation here. Best part of ten years in and Britannia is still a drain on the imperial purse. There have been considerable losses in manpower, and no immediate prospect of the province turning a profit. Frankly, it’s all starting to make the original decision to invade look like a mistake. But the emperor has built his reputation on the conquest of the island and has too much invested in it to let Britannia go.’
Macro nodded. ‘We’ve lost a lot of fine men to get this far, sir. It would be a bloody shame if it was all for nothing. Quintatus thought it could be resolved with one more push. One final effort to wipe out the Druid cult for ever. He could be right about that.’
‘He might be. Quintatus may not be my patron, but I cannot help hoping that he has already done as you say. With the Druids off the scene, maybe the will of the tribes of these mountains will be broken and your mission to warn him will be rendered moot.’ The tribune stamped his boots on the foot board and took up the traces again. ‘Be that as it may, when Claudius is gone, it will be a different matter entirely.’
Macro looked at him sidelong. ‘How so?’
‘Depends who becomes the new emperor. If it’s Britannicus, then I dare say the current policy will continue. We’ll keep piling men and treasure into the island until we have killed off every tribe that resists us and bought off all the rest. That, or Britannicus is going to have to find himself a completely new cognomen.’
They shared a brief smile before Glaber continued. ‘On the other hand, if we get Nero as emperor – and that’s what the smart money is saying – then he has nothing to lose in terms of withdrawing from Britannia. He’d be free to say that he never accepted the need to invade in the first place, and that it was all a very costly exercise in self-promotion by his predecessor. Which is a fair enough argument to make. Anyway, Nero could give the order to pull out without losing any face. Which is why I think Gallus would be wise to bide his time rather than trying to complete the conquest of the entire island. If I were him, I would definitely wait until I knew who had succeeded to the purple before I risked losing any more men.’