Cato climbed the rough wooden steps to the sentry walk and made his way along the fort's straight sides, ensuring that every man was alert and had not forgotten the challenge and password. Words were quietly exchanged as each man made his report and as usual there were no signs of enemy activity. Finally Cato climbed the watchtower with its wicker side and front guards. Forty feet above the ground he pulled himself through the opening at the back and saluted the man watching the northern approaches.
'All quiet?'
'Nothing to report, Optio.'
Cato nodded, and leaned against the broad timber post at the rear of the tower, looking back down the slope to the main camp delineated by a mass of brilliant orange pinpricks from torches and fires. Beyond lay the narrow lines of torches that marked out the bridge stretching across the silver-grey loom of the Tamesis, tailing off into the night in a broad sweep. On the far bank glittered the outline of the camp where the Emperor, his followers and reinforcements now slept. And somewhere amongst them slept Lavinia. His heart lifted at the thought of her. 'Bet those bastards over there are living it up.'
'I suppose so,' Cato replied, sharing every sentry's innate suspicion that the fun only ever began once they were on watch. The thought of Lavinia enjoying the high life of the imperial court a scant two miles away filled him with anxiety and jealousy. While his duty kept him from her in this benighted little outpost, others could be wooing her. An image of the flashy young aristocrats of the imperial court filled him with dread, and with an impulsive thump of the wicker side guard he tore his mind away from Lavinia and forced himself to think about more immediate concerns. Some hours had passed since he had last left the fort to check on the picket line. That would keep him occupied, and keep Lavinia from preying on his thoughts.
'Carry on,' he muttered at the sentry and swung himself back onto the ladder to descend into the gloom of the fort. No time had been wasted on constructing permanent shelters, and the off-duty men slumbered and snored on the ground, preferring to risk the irritation of insect bites rather than suffer the stifling air inside their leather tents. Cato picked his way along the inside of the turf wall until he reached the fort's only gate. A quick order to the section leader responsible for the eight men on standby had the bar removed and one of the panels swung inwards. He headed off into the night, keeping in line with the dark mass of Macro's fort. Behind him the gate clattered back into place.
Outside the reassuring turf walls, the night was alive with a sense of imminent danger and Cato felt a cold thrill of tension tickle its way up his spine. Looking back he could see the dim outline of the palisade already too far off for comfort and his hand slid down to the pommel of his sword as he strode quietly through the tall grass. A hundred paces on, Cato slowed down in anticipation of the first challenge and sure enough a voice hissed out of the darkness from close at hand and a dark shape rose from the grass.
'Stand and be recognised!'
'Blues triumphant,' Cato replied quietly. Using his favourite chariot team for a password was not perhaps very original, but it was easy to recall.
'Pass, friend,' the sentry responded sourly, slinking back into cover.
Clearly a devotee of a rival team, Cato realised as he crept on. At least the man was alert. This post was the most dangerous on the sentry roster and any man who fell asleep out here was asking to have his throat cut by a British scout. And the scouts were out there all right. Caratacus may have pulled his main force back, but the British commander knew the value of good intelligence and kept probing the Roman lines under the cover of darkness. There had been more than one vicious skirmish fought in the dead of night over recent weeks.
A hundred paces further on Cato began looking for the next sentry.
Crouching low he slowed to a creeping step and picked his way forward to where the man should be. No challenge greeted him and Cato quickly looked up to check that he was still in line with the ramparts of his fort and those of Macro. He was, near enough, and there was the crushed grass where the sentry had been squatting. But no sign of the man. Cato wondered if he should call out. Just as he was about to, the terrible thought that something had happened to the sentry jumped into his mind. Supposing the man had been discovered by a British scout and killed? Supposing the scout was still close by? Cato went for the handle of his sword and slowly drew it from its scabbard, wincing at the metallic rasp of its passage.
'Keep still, Optio,' a voice whispered so softly he might have mistaken it for a breeze rustling the grass, had the air not been so still. Cato's blood froze at the sound and then he felt anger rising up inside him. This wasn't a proper challenge. What the bloody hell was the man playing at?
'Over here, Optio. Stay low.'
'What's going on?' Cato whispered back.
'We've got company.'
Cato slipped down onto his hands and knees and eased his way through the grass in the direction of the sentry's voice. The sentry, Scaurus, was one of the replacements, a man with a good record, Cato recalled. There he was, dark form squatting on his haunches, javelin held down out of sight. No shield to burden him if he needed to sprint back to the fort. Cato crept to his side.
'What is it?'
Scaurus didn't reply for a moment, and remained quite still, head fixed in one direction, down the slope towards enemy territory. He raised his arm and pointed into the shadows of some tall shrubs growing halfway up the slope. 'There!'
Cato followed his direction but saw only stillness. He shook his head.
'Can't see anything.'
'Don't look, listen.'
The optio tilted an ear towards the shrubs and tried to distinguish any noise that ought not to be there. A single bird whose call he could not recognise sang a melancholy refrain over and over again, and a hunting owl briefly added its mellow hooting before it abruptly fell silent.
Cato gave up. Whatever was out there had either gone or more likely, had 'Imply been the product of Scaurus' imagination. He made a mental note to ensure that Scaurus was given only tower duties from now on. At that moment something snorted down in the shrubs. A horse.
'Hear that?' said Scaurus.
'Yes.'
'Want me to go down and look?'
'No. We wait here. See who it is.'
It might be a Roman scout, lost on patrol and unaware how near he had wandered to his own lines. So they waited, stiftly poised, heightened,cnses straining for further sign of the intruder. The owl called out again, louder this time, and Cato was about to curse it when there was a disturbance down the slope, and a dark shape detached itself from the shrubs: a man leading a horse. He drew the animal up the slope, almost in line with Cato and Scaurus, so that he must pass within ten feet of them. The horseman came on, carefully picking his way in case the ground,'ontained any obstacles that might trip him up and attract unwanted attention. The footfall of the horse was much more obvious, a dull scuffing clomp as it followed its rider, oblivious of the need for secrecy. When the rider was no more than twenty feet away, Cato nudged Scaurus and whispered, 'Now.'
The sentry leaped to his feet, javelin arm raised and moving smoothly back into the throwing position as he called out his challenge. Cato moved out to one side, sword drawn, ready to fight.