'Come on!' said Marco and he trotted towards the far side of the depot, with Cato close behind him.
Soon they merged with the others hurrying towards the Channel. After much jostling and panting they squeezed their way up onto the sentry walk and pushed through to the palisade.
'Make way there!' Macro bellowed. 'Make way! Centurion coming through:'
The men grudgingly deferred to his rank, and moments later Macro was hard up against the wooden stakes, with Cato by his side, both staring out across the Channel at the spectacle serenely making its way in from the sea. A few miles off, caught in the full glare of the afternoon sun, the imperial squadron was making its way towards them. Flanked by four triremes, which it utterly dwarfed, was the Emperor's flagship. It was a massive vessel of great length and breadth, with two towering masts mounted between the elaborately crenellated bow and stern. Two huge purple sails hung from their spars, tightly sheeted home to ensure that the gold eagles emblazoned on them were displayed to best effect. Cato had seen the vessel once before, at Ostia, and had marvelled at its huge dimensions. Great oars rose from the water, swept forward in shimmering unison, and sank back smoothly into the sea. Behind the flagship a line of warships entered the Channel, followed by transports, and then by the navy afterguard, by which time the flagship was drawing close to the shore with all the stately grace that its highly trained crew could muster. The draught of the flagship was such that it would have run aground had it attempted to make for the jetty. Instead, the vessel heaved to a quarter of a mile from the shore, and anchors were run out fore and aft. The triremes swept past and headed for the jetty, decks crowded with the white uniforms of the Praetorian Guard. Once the warships had moored, the Praetorians filed ashore and formed up along the slope outside the depot.
'Can you see the Emperor?' Macro asked. 'Your eyes are younger than mine.'
Cato scanned the deck of the flagship, running his eyes over the milling ranks of the Emperor's entourage. But there was no sign of any obvious deference, and Cato shook his head.
The legionaries waited excitedly for a sign of Claudius. Someone started a chant of 'We want the Emperor! We want Claudius!' that quickly caught on. It rippled along the palisade and echoed out across the Channel to the flagship. But there was still no sign of the Emperor, despite a number of false alarms, and slowly the mood changed from excitement to frustration, and then apathy as the Praetorian cohorts were marched off to the side of the depot furthest from the field abattoir and began making camp for the night.
'Why's the Emperor not landing?' asked Macro.
From his childhood in the imperial palace Cato recalled the lengthy protocols that accompanied the official movements of the Emperor, and could guess at the reason for the delay easily enough. 'I expect he'll land tomorrow, when the full ceremony for welcoming an emperor can be laid on.'
'Oh.' Macro was disappointed. 'Nothing worth seeing tonight then?'
'I doubt it, sir.'
'Right, well, I expect there's some work we can be getting on with. And there's some of that wine that still needs drinking. Coming?'
Cato knew Macro well enough by now to recognise the difference between a genuine choice and a politely worded order.
'No thank you, sir. I'd like to stay and watch for a while.'
'Suit yourself.'
As dusk gathered, the other men on the wall slowly drifted away.
Cato leaned forward, resting his elbow in the notch between two stakes and cupping his chin on one palm as he gazed at the of shipping now filling the Channel around the flagship. Some vessels carried soldiers, some carried the servants of the imperial household, and a few others the expensively dressed members of the Emperor's entourage. Further out some large transports were anchored with curious grey humps showing above the coping of their holds. Once the triremes that had unloaded the Praetorians had moved away from the jetty, the large transports were eased alongside the jetty and Cato had a clearer view of their cargo.
'Elephants!' he exclaimed.
His surprise was shared by the few men remaining along the palisade.
Elephants had not been used in battle for over a hundred years. Though they presented a terrifying spectacle to those facing them on the battlefield, well-trained soldiers could neutralise them very quickly. And, if badly handled, elephants could be as much of a danger to their own side as the enemy. Modern armies had little use for them and the only elephants Cato had ever seen were those in the beast pens behind the Circus Maximus. Quite what they were doing here in Britain was anybody's guess. Surely, he thought, the Emperor can't be intending to use them in battle. They must be here for some ceremonial purpose, or to put the fear of the gods into the hearts of the Britons.
As he watched one of the elephant transports, a section of the vessel's side was removed and a broad gangway was manhandled onto the jetty.
Sailors lowered a heavy treaded ramp into the hold and spread a mix of straw and earth up the ramp and across the gangway, These familiar smells would be badly needed to comfort to the animals after the uncertain motion of the sea journry journey from Gesoriacum. Satisfied that all was in place, the captain gave the order to unload the elephants. A moment later amid anxious trumpeting, an elephant driver urged an elephant up the ramp and onto the deck. Even though Cato had seen them before, the sudden emergence of the vast grey bulk of the beast with its wicked tusks still awed him and he caught his breath before reassuring himself that he was safe enough where he was. The elephant driver tapped his stick against the back of the animal's head and it tentatively lumbered onto the gangway, causing the transport to tip slightly at the shift in weight. The elephant paused and raised its trunk, but the driver whacked the stick down and with clearly visible expressions of relief from the men. the elephant crossed to the jetty.
The last elephant came ashore as the daylight faded, and the ponderous beasts were led away to an enclosure some distance from those of other animals who were afraid of the elephants. As Cato and the remaining legionaries watched them move off with their curious slow, swaying while the transports made way for yet more shipping – this time the smartly painted warships carrying the Emperor's household and entourage. across the gangways spilled the social elite of Rome: patricians in red 'triped togas, their wives in exotic silks and coiffured hair. After them came the lesser nobility, the men in expensive tunics, their wives in respectable stolae. Finally came the baggage, portered across the gangways by scores of slaves carefully supervised by each household's major domo to ensure nothing was broken.
As each household gathered in clusters along the jetty, clerks from the depot's headquarters scunied around searching for names on their lists and escorting their guests to the tented area prepared for them in a fortified enclosure appended to the depot. Few of the new arrivals deigned to look up at the legionaries lining the palisade. For their part the legionaries stared silently, marvelling at the flamboyant wealth of the aristocracy of Rome whose lifestyle depended upon the blood and sweat shed by the men of the legions.
As Cato's eyes drifted over the colourful throng on the jetty, a face in the crowd abruptly turned towards him in a way that instantly drew his attention. He felt his heart thrill inside his chest and was conscious of a rapid quickening of his pulse. His breath stilled as he drank in the long dark hair, held back by combs, the fine dark line of the eyebrows and the heart-shaped face coming to a gentle point at the chin. She was wearing a bright yellow stola that emphasised the slender curves of her body. There was no mistaking her, and he stared dumbstruck, wanting to call out her name but not quite daring to. She turned back to her mistress and continued their conversation.