'Did they capture them from our men?'
'Hardly. We've won every fight so far, they've not had any pickings from the battlefield. Someone must be supplying them.'
'Someone? Who do you mean?'
'I have no idea, my lady. All I know is that the legate is investigating the matter and said he'd report it to the general.'
'I see.' Flavia nodded thoughtfully, and twitched the hem of her gown.
Without looking up she continued, 'Now then, I expect you two might want to catch up on a few matters. It's a lovely night for a walk. A long walk, I should think.'
Lavinia grasped his hand as she quickly stood up, and gave him a sharp tug. Cato rose, and dipped his head in a bow to Flavia. 'It's good to see you again, my lady.'
'And you, Cato.'
Lavinia led the way to the tent fiap. Just before they disappeared outside, Flavia called out after them, 'Enjoy yourselves, while you can.'
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was just before dawn and a milky grey mist had risen from the Channel. It hung about the depot gate like a clammy shroud, illuminated by the close glow of dying torches on the sentry walk. The men were quiet, shuffling in their assigned unit columns, their subdued conversation punctuated by occasional coughs in lungs unaccustomed to the damp air of the island. A long day's march lay ahead of them. They had been fed on quickly heated porridge that felt like a stone inside them now.
For nearly all of them a new life awaited in a legion they might have only heard of before, whose men would regard them with no more than grudging acceptance for the next few months, until they had proved themselves better than their reserve legion status implied. For some the transition to a combat unit would be smooth enough, having been sent to the Eighth from one of the frontier legions. In preparation for the invasion of Britain, the imperial general staff had pulled veteran cohorts out of those legions facing quiescent barbarians, and marched them to Gaul for temporary attachment to the Eighth.
The older men who had hoped for a peaceful end to their career under the eagles were naturally resentful to find themselves drawn into the decisive phase of this year's campaign. They were no longer as fit and quick as they had once been, and so the odds of surviving the coming battles were not encouraging.
Then there were the young men, recent recruits, fresh out of training and more afraid of their officers than any enemy. In brightly polished segmented armour, the cost of which would be subtracted from their meagre pay for many years yet, wearing tunics whose red dye had not yet begun to fade, and with sword grips not yet worn smooth from frequent handling, they were keen to get stuck in, and develop the easyygoing swagger of the veterans.
'All present?' asked Macro as he strode up to Cato, fastening the strap of his helmet.
'Yes, sir.'
'Then let's get going.' Macro turned to the head of the dimly visible column and shouted, 'Fall in!'
The ranks quickly formed up into marching order, four abreast. 'Column ready!… Forward march!'
Even the rawest recruit amongst them had undergone enough drilling to respond instantly to the word of command and the column moved as one into the standard marching step. The noise of boots crunching on the chalky soil was softened by the damp air. With Cato at his side, Macro waited for the advance guard to pass before taking his place at the head of the main body. As they passed out of the depot gate, Cato twisted his head round and gazed up at the sentry walk, running his eyes along the dark outline of the palisade until he saw Lavinia. He quickly raised a hand so that she could pick him out, and his heart lifted when her arm rose in reply.
'I take it you didn't get much sleep then?'
'No, sir.' Cato turned back. 'None at all.'
'Good for you, lad!' Macro nudged him, but Cato was past being offended by his centurion's bluntness. 'Feel better for it? I find a quick roll in the hay leaves me feeling fresh as a daisy.'
'It wasn't that quick, sir.' Cato yawned before he could stop himself. 'I see. Well, you'd better not drop off on the march. Do that and I'll leave you to the tender mercies of the Britons.'
The march back to the legion took them along the route by which the army had advanced only a few weeks before. The engineers had been very busy in the meantime. The land on each side of the track had been cleared of undergrowth and any possible concealment for enemy forces, and the brow of every hill and every ford was now protected by a small fort manned by auxiliaries. The column of replacements overtook heavy supply wagons hauling food and equipment up to the legions. In the opposite direction trundled empty wagons returning from the front, heading for the depot to load up for the next round trip. It was part of the relentless Roman efficiency that would ensure that the advance on Camulodunum would take place with its legions properly armed and well-fed.
When they next took to the field, the legions would be led by the Emperor in person, accompanied by his elite Praetorian cohorts and the vast lumbering elephants that would be driven into the enemy ranks and trample huge swathes through their lines. Cato could almost bring himself to feel sorry for the natives. But not quite. Not after the dread and despair of the recent battles. What he wanted now was a swift end to the campaign. A single crushing blow that would utterly break the will of the Britons to resist the inevitable. If Caratacus and his army could be comprehensively crushed, surely the other tribes would realise there was no point in any further resistance. The island would become a province one day, there was no doubt of that. Not now the Emperor was here. No matter hmv many legions, or elephants, it took, the Britons would be forced to their knees. Cato promised himself, when it was all over, he would find a way to be with Lavinia again.
Each evening, when the last light of day had all but gone, Macro halted his column in the temporary marching camps attached to the forts. Before first light he roused his men and the column marched on well before the sun had raised its head above the distant horizon. The hard pace was as much a test of his new men as it was a result of his desire to get back to his legion. It was gratifying to him that not one of the men he had chosen for his century fell out of line and joined the ragged column of stragglers destined for the other legions. Only a handful of those picked for the Second failed to keep the pace he set. Vespasian would be pleased with his replacements. With such men in his legion the Second would win a fine reputation in the rest of the campaign. And Vespasian, Macro knew, was not a man who forgot those who served him well.
It felt strange to retrace a route so recently taken at such a cost in lives. Here was the forest track where the Second had been ambushed by Togodumnus and would have been crushed, had it not been for the timely intervention of the Fourteenth Legion. Macro could even see the oak tree on the distant hill where he had killed Togodumnus in single combat as the British chieftain fled towards the marshes with his men.
The following day they marched across a pontoon bridge over the Mead Way where, only weeks before, their comrades had withered under such a hail of arrow and slingshot that the smooth flowing water was stained red. The route then turned north and passed over a gentle ridge and down towards the Tamesis, through the gorse-choked marsh to the fortress on the south bank, where they waited for transports to feITy them across to the main body of the army. The bridge was nearly finished and the engineers were being driven hard to complete it in time for the Emperor to lead the eagle standards and his reinforcements over into enemy territory.