Macro clamped his lips together and seethed in silence as he reflected that one of the main reasons why he was a centurion and Quintatus was a legate was because the latter had been born with a fucking silver spoon in his mouth. He wished that the infant Quintatus had bloody well choked on it and saved them all a lot of trouble. All the same, he went over the details of what he had reported, step by step, and concluded that if the legate was right in his suspicions, then the enemy had to be very devious indeed. Not only that, but they would have been depending on a chain of coincidences to bring their plan to fruition. It was hard to believe that he had been gulled by them, but equally his story seemed to cut little ice with Quintatus.
‘I do not doubt that your interrogator was thorough,’ the legate continued, ‘but add it all up, Macro. One man, your optio, sees some enemy soldiers, and one of them just happens to fall into his lap. When he gets the prisoner back to the fort so that he can be questioned, there is only one man who is able to translate both the questions and the answers the prisoner gives. It hardly sounds very reliable. And then your prisoner could simply have been lying to mislead us. Isn’t that possible?’
‘It’s possible, sir.’
‘Then isn’t it also possible that the very last thing the enemy would want is for me to continue the campaign while we are on the very cusp of a great victory?’
‘I suppose so.’ Macro glanced towards the crossing point, which was fast disappearing as the tide began to come in. Already the second century had abandoned their work of removing the obstacles and were backing away from the enemy-held shore. They picked up their wounded as they clambered through the mud, and left their dead to the rising sea as the last of the enemy’s missiles began to fall short. The crossing point was still thick with obstacles and the enemy would almost certainly do their best to set up more stakes under cover of darkness. To Macro’s experienced eye it looked as if the legate was very far from being on the cusp of a great victory. It was much more likely that he was on the cusp of a great defeat, unless he took the warning seriously and acted to remove the army from the enemy’s trap.
‘Then why, in the name of Jupiter, best and greatest, didn’t you make the connection between the information that was fed to you and the wider strategic situation? You have been played by the Druids, and played handsomely, I might add.’ Quintatus softened his tone. ‘There’s no shame in admitting it, Macro. The Druids are devious fellows and you have to pay them due credit for orchestrating the whole thing in order to force me to break off and retreat. They knew they would never be able to stop us fighting our way to the shores of their sacred island. They knew that they would never be able to hold the island against us. So they confected this plan to try and divert us from our goal. Surely you can see that?’
Macro briefly considered the legate’s argument and had to admit to himself that it made some sense. As he did so, he felt a flush of shame that he could have been manipulated by the enemy into sabotaging the Roman campaign. But then he checked himself. The legate might be right, but there was an equal possibility that the prisoner had revealed the truth about the enemy’s intention to set a trap for the Roman army. He had to stand firm on that possibility, not for reasons of pride, but out of concern for the safety of his comrades.
‘Sir, I hope you are right. All the same, I think it would be prudent to consider the possibility that our prisoner’s information is accurate.’
Quintatus eyed him coldly. ‘What would you have me do? Halt the attack on Mona while we send patrols to find this enemy army of yours? Look around you, Centurion. Winter is here. This snow is but a precursor of worse weather to come. We have a brief opportunity in which to crush the Druids and return to winter quarters before the mountain tracks become completely impassable. I will not give up the chance of eradicating the single greatest obstacle to establishing peace in Britannia. Now, I have wasted enough time on this matter. You may remain in camp for the night, but you are to return to your fort at first light and resume command.’
‘But sir, my place is here, with my lads in the Fourth Cohort.’
‘Your place is where I say it is,’ Quintatus concluded, then looked over Macro’s shoulder. ‘And now tell me, who the hell is that?’
Macro glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tribune Gaius Porcinus Glaber, sir. Sent from Rome. I came across him on the way to find you.’
‘Tribune Glaber, over here!’
Glaber hurried across and saluted, but did not get a chance to formally introduce himself.
‘Centurion Macro tells me that you have been sent from Rome.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why?’
Glaber was momentarily taken aback by the legate’s directness. ‘I have been sent on the orders of the emperor to inform you that the new governor of the province has been appointed and will be arriving in Britannia shortly. I am to liaise with you and your staff to arrange the handover.’
‘New governor?’ Quintatus looked shocked. ‘Already? That can’t be possible . . . Damn the man, why so soon? Who is he?’
‘Aulus Didius Gallus, sir.’
‘I know of him. Why Didius Gallus? The man has never stepped outside of the Mediterranean. He has no experience of fighting the Celts, or of a climate like this. A poor choice, made by meddling politicians to settle some debt or curry favour, no doubt. I am perfectly capable of governing the province until spring.’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about the timing of it, sir,’ Glaber responded flatly. ‘I am just the messenger.’
Quintatus sniffed. ‘You are Gallus’s man. And you will have to wait until my work is completed here before we can begin to consider the process of handing over power.’
‘My orders are to begin making preparations for the arrival of the new governor immediately. Gallus requires that you provide a full inventory of military and civil personnel, their disposition and functions.’
‘He requires that, does he?’
‘That, and a number of other requests, sir. The full documentation is in my travel chest, and I am ready to begin working with your staff at your earliest convenience.’
Quintatus laughed. ‘Does this look like a convenient moment to entertain any such bureaucratic exercise, Tribune Glaber? I am fighting a war. I will deal with your queries when I am good and ready. In the meantime you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of my camp. Unless you would prefer to return to Londinium to await the arrival of your master?’
‘Having witnessed the hazards of these mountains, I prefer to remain with the army, sir.’
‘Very well, but be so good as to stay out of my way. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The legate turned back to Macro. ‘You see? There’s even more reason to move to crush those Druid bastards as quickly as possible. Now, I have an army to command. You two are dismissed.’
He did not wait for a response, but turned and strode back towards his command post, crunching across the snow. Glaber waited until he was out of earshot before he let out a low whistle.
‘Touchy character, our legate. Is he always like this?’
‘Only when someone is after his job, I should imagine, sir.’
Glaber turned to him with an amused expression. ‘No doubt you think this is all about politics and the endless round of backstabbing that passes for after-dinner entertainment in polite circles.’
‘I, er . . .’ Macro shifted uncomfortably on to his bad leg, winced at the discomfort and shifted back to his good one.
‘Well you’d be right. That’s exactly what it is all about. My man is on his way up and Quintatus has yet to make his mark. It’s too bad for him that the credit for his efforts will probably be pinched by Gallus, but that’s the way it goes. I can well understand his mood.’