‘That’s all very well for you and your class, sir, but for the rest of us it’s a bit of a sore point when we’re concerned with doing our duty and fighting for Rome and our comrades. When your arse is in the grass and you’re knee deep in blood and the only thing between you and the barbarians like that lot over there is your shield and sword, then it’s a little disappointing to know that your betters just see you as a piece in their game. You know what I mean?’
They stared at each other for a moment before Glaber nodded. ‘Fair point, Centurion. I will try to remember that.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Glaber cleared his throat. ‘Since I am surplus to requirements, I think I might find myself a nice fire to warm me up back at the camp. What about you?’
Macro took a deep breath. ‘I need to find Prefect Cato and report to him. Whatever the legate may think, I’m not convinced that the enemy have played me for a fool. Cato will have a view on it. He usually does.’ He smiled fondly. ‘That’s what he’s good at.’
‘It seems you admire your superior.’
Macro stiffened. ‘He’s a bloody fine officer, sir. One of the best in the army, and anyone who knows him would say the same.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. It’ll be interesting to make his acquaintance.’
Macro was still for a moment, caught up in the anxiety about the burden of what he must reveal to his friend when he found him. He coughed and looked at Glaber. ‘Sir, would you do me a favour?’
Glaber’s brow rose slightly in surprise. ‘A favour? What is it?’
‘What you told me, about his wife. Would you care to come with me to break the news to the prefect? He will want details. It would be better coming from someone who knows more about it than me.’
Glaber eyed him shrewdly. ‘You can’t face telling him?’
Macro’s expression was fixed for an instant before he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a hard thing for a man to inform his friend that his wife has died. Cato loved her dearly, sir. She was a good woman. Well, you know that for yourself.’
‘You knew her as well, then?’
‘I was there when they met in Palmyra.’
‘Ah yes . . . That fracas with the Parthians a few years back. I heard about it. I had no idea Julia was caught up in that business. I dare say she kept her wits about her. She was always a tough character as a child, I recall.’
‘That she did.’ Macro smiled sadly. ‘As brave as any soldier. They were a fine match . . . I’d give anything not be the one who breaks his heart.’
Glaber pursed his lips before he replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’
They returned to their horses, remounted and rode back to the camp’s main gate. Macro spared a last look towards the crossing and saw that the tide now covered the muddy route across to the island and only the tips of the stakes appeared above the water. Out to sea, the sky had cleared, and a thin blue hue seeped across the snow-covered landscape. On the near bank, the casualties from the last attack were having their wounds dressed, while the rest of their comrades were scraping the mud from their kit. Their lethargic demeanour spoke eloquently of the poor state of their morale, and from the far side of the channel came the sound of the enemy’s jeering. That stuck in Macro’s throat in the way that all such reverses chafed the sensibilities of soldiers who had suffered a setback. The trick of it was to turn the sentiment into a cold determination to win through and prove yourself better than the enemy. The alternative was to sink into despair and watch, dull-eyed, as any prospect of victory faded and it all became a matter of grinding endurance.
They entered the camp and asked the duty centurion for directions to the tent lines of the Blood Crows. The auxiliary unit had been assigned an area alongside the other mounted units, down the slope from the legionary tent lines, close to the drainage run-off and the latrines. What little warmth the day had brought had turned the surface of the snow to slush in places, but the temperature was dropping rapidly in the gathering dusk and the men were building up the campfires with the proceeds of the day’s foraging.
Macro soon spotted the standard of the Blood Crows rising above the large tent that served as the cohort’s field headquarters. Rather than feeling pleasure at the prospect of seeing his closest friend again, he felt his heart contract into the pit of his stomach, and a dreadful weariness settled over him. Beside him, the young tribune pointed to the standard.
‘Is that Cato’s lot? Have to say, I like the standard. Very dramatic. No wonder the natives quail before you, eh?’
Glaber’s tone was forced, and Macro realised that the tribune too was apprehensive. He wished Glaber would just keep quiet and accept the dreadful nature of the task that lay ahead. There was no place for levity in the situation. None at all.
They walked their mounts over to the standard and dismounted before handing the reins to one of the headquarters sentries.
‘Is the prefect here?’ asked Macro.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. See that the horses are watered and fed.’
The sentry nodded and led the beasts away as Macro hesitated outside the threshold to the headquarters tent. Through the narrow gap in the oiled goatskin flaps he saw two clerks sitting at a trestle table, one rubbing furiously as he worked the marks out of a waxed tablet. His colleague was lighting some lamps on a stand with a taper. Smoke trailed upwards to a vent at the top of the tent from a brazier just out of Macro’s field of vision.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Glaber asked gently.
‘No. How could I be?’ Macro sighed heavily, then ducked through the flaps into the tent. The clerks looked up and Macro turned in the direction of the screened section set aside for the cohort’s commander. He could hear Cato’s voice, in quiet conversation with someone, and sensed his friend’s exhaustion from his tone. He paced over to the gap in the leather screen and saw Cato bending over his campaign desk, Decurion Miro standing to one side.
‘You’ll have to tell Pausinus I need every man,’ said Cato as he tapped a finger on a tablet. ‘Every man who can still get in the saddle is to be declared fit for duty. We’re below half-strength as it is.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The leather rustled lightly as Glaber pushed through and joined Macro. Cato looked up, and there was the slightest of pauses before he straightened up with a broad smile. ‘Macro! What in the name of the gods are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the fort.’ His smile faded as he noted Macro’s leaden expression. ‘What’s happened? An attack? Is the fort taken?’
‘Nothing like that, sir.’
‘Thank Fortuna. And who is this?’
‘Tribune Glaber. I plucked his arse out of the fire when I came across him and some others who had been ambushed.’
‘We had the situation under control,’ Glaber protested.
‘Anyway,’ Macro continued, ‘I had urgent intelligence I felt obliged to pass on to Legate Quintatus. At least I thought it was urgent.’
‘Tell me.’
Macro explained as briefly as he could, not omitting any detail of the legate’s dismissal of his report. Cato listened with an intense expression, nodding at salient points. As soon as Macro concluded, he sucked his teeth. ‘I think you were right to warn him. Quintatus is grasping at straws. All he cares about is putting an end to the Druids. If the enemy are trying to cut across our communications, then we’re going to be in a sticky position. I’ll send patrols out to investigate at first light. The Blood Crows are not required for anything at present, so there’s no need to put it through headquarters. If asked I’ll say they’re on an exercise.’ He winked at Macro, and when he saw no reaction, he narrowed his eyes a fraction.
‘What’s wrong, Macro? There’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘Yes, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘There is.’
He cleared his throat to speak, but the words would not come.
Macro swallowed anxiously and gestured to Glaber. ‘Please, sir, if you’d wait outside, in case the prefect wants to speak to you later . . .’