Macro thought about this for a moment before he puffed his cheeks impatiently. ‘If the natives got wind of the fact that the new governor was sitting on his hands, they could make life very difficult for us.’
‘Quite!’ Glaber laughed. ‘It’s going to be a tricky situation all round, until Claudius drops off the twig. I guess that is always going to be the way while we have a drawn-out succession. Much easier when emperors do the rest of us a favour and disappear from the scene quickly and unexpectedly rather than wait for natural causes. Though these days an assassin’s knife in the back is natural causes for those who would be emperor.’
Macro was not amused. He had long since decided that he hated and despised the endless conspiracies swirling around the imperial household. Moreover, he was growing resentful over the way in which soldiers on the frontiers of the empire, like himself and Cato, were regarded as no more than playing pieces to be moved by those vying for power in Rome. A reckless expenditure of life might yet win the throne for Britannicus, while a craven retreat from Britannia might benefit his rival, Nero. Either way, soldiers would die.
The way was clear ahead. The men hurriedly bundled their shovels on to the back of one of the wagons and the small convoy rumbled on over the snowy ground. An hour later they were climbing a gentle gradient when the young tribune’s keen eyes caught sight of a faint smudge of haze in the distance. He alerted Macro, and shortly afterwards the veteran was able to make it out as well.
‘Looks like smoke from campfires, sir.’
‘Then let’s hope it’s our lads, not theirs, eh?’
They reached the top of the slope and the ground began to even out. As they struggled round a large formation of rocks, there, quarter of a mile ahead, lay a fortified outpost blanketed in snow. It had been constructed to guard the pass linking the two valleys and, thanks to its position, was subject to the worst of the weather. Macro spared a brief moment of sympathy for the small garrison before his gaze extended to the valley beyond, which opened out on to the coast and the grey expanse of the sea. To the left, behind a line of hills, the smoke from the large camp was far more evident; a dark stain against the overcast.
‘Not far now, then,’ said Glaber. ‘Be glad to find some proper shelter, not to mention safety in numbers.’
Macro glanced round at the snowy landscape but could see no sign of movement, no sign of the enemy. ‘We should be safe to leave the wagons and escort now.’
They halted outside the outpost and the two officers climbed down from the raeda as Macro called in the horsemen riding ahead and behind the wagons. The outpost commander, a swarthy optio from a cohort of Dacian auxiliaries, emerged to greet them and the three exchanged a salute.
‘What news of the campaign?’ asked Macro, nodding towards the smoke from the camp. ‘I take it that’s Quintatus and the army.’
‘Yes, sir. The legate’s been having a crack at getting across to the Druids’ island. Started well enough – they shifted the lot on the near shore. But it’s been tough going since then from all reports.’ The optio gestured towards the wagons. ‘Supplies? Food supplies?’
‘That’s right.’
‘About time, sir. It’s the first supply convoy I’ve seen in days. My men are getting hungry. We’re down to the last few bags of barley and hard tack. Any chance you could spare some?’
‘Ain’t down to me, lad. That’s the purview of the army’s quartermaster. Best you send a request to him.’
‘I have. Two days ago, and had nothing back.’
Macro saw the concern in the man’s expression. ‘I’ll mention it when I reach headquarters. Best I can do.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The muffled sound of horses’ hooves interrupted the exchange as Lomus and his men joined the convoy. Macro took a horse for himself and another for the tribune, and left orders for the men remaining with the convoy to continue to the camp. Then he led the party down into the valley towards the distant sea. As they approached the coastal strip, they saw the outline of an abandoned camp close to one of the headlands overlooking a sheltered bay. Another outpost lay in one corner of the camp, and they exchanged a brief greeting with a sentry before continuing along the coast. As they rode over the final ridge, the panorama of the struggle to take Mona lay spread out before them.
To their immediate front sprawled the army’s camp, large enough to accommodate the two legions, their attached auxiliary cohorts and the draught animals and vehicles of the baggage train. Scores of fires burned brightly, those still in camp huddling round them to warm themselves. Horses and mules stood in their roped enclosures, nuzzling aside the snow as they searched for the stunted tufts of grass beneath. A quarter of a mile from the camp lay the Roman battle lines: artillery batteries deployed on ground levelled by engineers, covering the channel over which the army must pass, and laying down a steady bombardment at long-range of the enemy positions directly across the water. Their efforts were aided by the three warships anchored in the channel, their bolt-throwers trained on the fortifications along the shore of Mona. The tide was out, and a thin sliver of exposed mud snaked across from the mainland to the island. It was no more than ten feet wide and had been thickly sown with sharpened stakes to render it impassable, though it was clear that the Romans had made some attempt to clear the obstacles.
Not without cost. Macro could see scores of corpses, some impaled on the stakes. Around the bodies lay abandoned kit – helmets, shields, swords and javelins – much of which was already half submerged in the mud. On the near side of the channel stood two cohorts of legionaries, each century formed up four abreast. More legionaries stood further back, ready to reinforce their comrades.
As Macro watched, a signal sounded from below and the trumpet call was echoed by others. The century nearest to the causeway began to advance. At the same time, the artillery batteries peppered the earthworks on the shore directly opposite. The defenders there remained hidden from sight, but further along, their comrades lined the defences to watch the attack, quite unperturbed.
‘By the gods, they’re plucky fellows,’ said Glaber.
Macro guessed that they had become accustomed to the Roman assaults and knew that they were safe as long as the missiles rained down on the defences immediately in front of the low-tide crossing point.
As the legionaries moved out on to the causeway, their pace suddenly slowed and the following ranks began to bunch up. The centurion and optio struggled alongside to cajole their men back into formation, and the century continued advancing across the narrow strip of mud. Macro could well imagine the effort it would take a heavily armed legionary to make any progress across such a quagmire. They encountered the first of the remaining stakes close to the mainland, and pairs of men peeled off to deal with each obstacle, using their swords to work the bases of the stakes free before tossing them aside.
‘I need to find the legate.’ Macro lifted his reins.
‘Me too,’ said Glaber. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he should be over there. Behind the rightmost battery. Do you see?’
Macro squinted and a moment later picked out the party of riders in scarlet cloaks. He nodded. ‘Let’s go, sir.’
They descended the slope, passing between forage parties and the cavalry pickets assigned to protect them, and skirted the outer ditch of the vast marching camp. They were still afforded a view of the legionaries wading out across the mud. As the men approached the as yet undisturbed thickets of stakes, a Roman trumpet signalled the artillery to cease shooting. The last of the bolts arced across the channel and plunged harmlessly into the turf and log rampart. There was the briefest of pauses before a war horn sounded and the enemy rose from behind their battered defences, unleashing their own barrage of missiles against the approaching legionaries. Arrows, slingshot and light javelins rattled down on the heavy curved surfaces of the legionary shields. Occasionally a missile found its way past the wall of shields and injured one of the men, who was then forced to drop out of formation and do his best to return to the friendly shore. Some were too badly injured to turn back, and instead did their best to take cover behind their shields as they waited for help.