Glaber glanced at both men, then nodded. ‘Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
Once he had gone, Macro approached Cato and indicated the chair by the campaign desk. ‘Sit down, lad.’
‘What is this?’ Cato demanded, but he did as he was told, even as Macro remained on his feet. ‘What is going on, Macro? Speak up.’
‘All right then . . . After the lads and I pitched into the fight to help Glaber, I asked him where he had come from. He told me he’d been sent from Rome. He said his family knew Senator Sempronius, and Julia. It was shortly before Glaber left that he heard the news.’
‘News?’
‘About your wife.’
The atmosphere in the tent seemed to turn icy around Cato as he leaned forward and stared intently at his friend. ‘Go on.’
‘Lad, I have to tell you something bad. The worst of all things. Julia is dead.’
Cato said nothing and sat quite still.
‘Julia is dead,’ Macro repeated, to break the unbearable silence. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I received a letter from her less than a month ago. She can’t be . . . How? How did she die?’
‘Glaber says she caught a chill. He says she was weak from the birth of your child. Lucius still lives, though. The gods have spared you that loss at least.’
‘Yes. I suppose.’ Cato sat back and ran a hand through his dark curls. ‘She’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
Abruptly Cato rose to his feet and crossed quickly to the gap, addressing the tribune waiting outside. ‘Is this true, Glaber? What exactly do you know about it?’
‘It’s true, sir. I know very little more than what Centurion Macro has already said. I was told by my father, after he had come back from rendering his condolences to Senator Sempronius. It was all over very quickly. By my father’s account, she did not suffer too badly and passed away while she slept. A great pity. She was always well liked by all who knew her. I . . . I . . .’ The tribune dried up uncomfortably.
‘Yes.’ Cato turned away. ‘That will be all, thank you, Tribune Glaber. Please find yourself some shelter and get some rest.’
‘Of course, sir. Is there anything else?’
‘No. Nothing. Go, please.’
Glaber bowed his head respectfully. ‘If I am needed, I will be at army headquarters.’ He turned away and hurried outside, and Macro heard the snort of a horse as the tribune mounted and wheeled the mount around to trot up the thoroughfare towards the heart of the camp.
Cato walked slowly back to his chair and slumped into it, still too numb to react. At length he looked up at Macro. ‘Dead?’
‘I am afraid so, sir. Here, you’re trembling. Let me get your cloak.’ Macro picked it up from where it lay over a chest, splattered with mud and a little damp. He arranged the folds about Cato and then rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I cannot tell you how it grieves me, lad. The gods should never have taken her at such a young age.’
Cato swallowed and looked up at him. ‘Please give me a moment to myself.’
Macro saw the rawness in the prefect’s eyes and nodded. ‘I’ll be outside, then. If you need me.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Macro waited a moment to see if there was anything else, and then backed out quietly and joined the clerks in the main part of the tent. He took a last look and saw the prefect lean forward and press his face into his hands, his fingers clenched like claws into his hairline. There was a soft groan, and Cato’s shoulders convulsed.
Then Macro pulled the leather section dividers together and closed the gap to afford his closest friend in the world a little privacy to grieve for his lost love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Here we go again.’ Macro leaned on the parapet of the camp’s corner tower and looked down towards the crossing. It was late the following morning, and there had been a further fall of snow during the night. The camp, the artillery platforms, the earthworks on both sides of the river and the decks of the warships and transports lay under a gleaming blanket of white. Down by the water’s edge, the legionaries were formed up again, waiting for the order to advance across the mud to continue removing the obstacles blocking the route. Overhead whirred the bolts unleashed by the Roman artillery – the ‘morning hate’, as the common soldiers referred to the barrage of missiles raining down on the enemy positions. Not that it seemed to have any particular effect on the natives, Macro mused, watching the small puffs of dirt and splinters as the missiles struck the defences. The Deceanglians and their Druid leaders were keeping well under cover, waiting for the bombardment to cease before they took their turn against the legionaries attempting to remove the stakes from the crossing. Macro could see that they had used the cover of darkness to replace many of those obstacles removed the previous day.
‘Looks like it’s going to snow again,’ said Glaber as he stood beside Macro, watching proceedings.
Macro glanced up, then round at the band of dark clouds gathering over the mountains. ‘Just to add to our woes.’
Both officers turned their attention back to the tidal crossing point and watched quietly for a while before the tribune commented, ‘I find it hard to believe there isn’t an alternative way of going about this.’
‘Oh, there are a few alternatives all right, sir,’ Macro responded. ‘But since the storm destroyed almost all the transports and most of the fleet, an assault directly across the channel is off the menu. As is any question of making a landing elsewhere along the coast of Mona to get round their defences. I dare say the Druids have stockpiled plenty of supplies and we’d go hungry long before we could starve them out. If you want my opinion, the best thing the legate can do now is give up and withdraw to Mediolanum and have another crack at Mona in the spring, when he’s had a chance to replace the ships that were lost. But we know he won’t be doing that, thanks to the imminent arrival of the new governor. So that’s why he’ll stick with this approach, blunt as it is.’
‘Blunt is the word.’
They both looked down towards the raised and flattened ground of the artillery battery, where Quintatus was surveying the enemy positions stolidly while his officers clustered round a freshly lit brazier in which flames crackled fiercely and bright sparks flew a short distance into the air before dying away against the grey of the distant landscape of Mona. The legate waited until the tide had ebbed sufficiently to uncover enough ground for the leading century to advance on an eight-man front, then turned and gave an order. The headquarters trumpeters raised their brass instruments, puffed their cheeks and sounded the advance.
Just as had happened the previous day, the leading century tramped across the snow and down on to the stretch of mud leading towards Mona. And just as before, they were pelted with arrows and slingshot as they approached the stakes.
‘Good morning.’
Macro turned to see Cato climbing into the tower. His friend looked drawn and exhausted. Even so, he forced a bleak smile on to his lips as he approached Macro and Glaber.
‘Good morning, sir.’ Macro greeted him evenly, unsure of the tone he should adopt. He had lived with death for so long that it had become almost part of everyday life and there had been comrades he had grieved for, but nothing seemed to have prepared him for the pain he felt for his best friend’s loss. If there had been any way he could have traded his life for Julia’s, he would have freely done so. There was a haunted expression in Cato’s eyes that cut him to the quick, and he looked away towards the channel and cleared his throat as he struggled to find something to say.
‘The legate’s going straight at it again.’
Cato nodded. ‘Third day running, and we’re still not likely to gain the far shore for another three days, at least. It’s too slow.’
Glaber glanced at him. ‘Too slow for what, exactly?’