The next morning the legionaries were rousted into activity by a rumour that swept through the camp like a brush fire: the enemy army had been sighted. A day's march to the east an advance guard of auxiJiary cavalry had come up against a series of defensive fortifications and redoubts. The auxiliaries had been showered with arrows and light spears and had backed away as quickly as possible, leaving several of their number wounded or dead before the British lines. Even as the auxiliaries made their report to the Emperor, word of their encounter spread through the army. The prospect of battle excited the legionaries, and they were relieved that the enemy had decided to fight a set-piece battle rather than a prolonged guerrilla war that could drag on for years.
The discomfort of the day before was forgotten as the men dressed and armed hurriedly. The cold morning meal was eaten under leaden skies, across which dark clouds scudded in the strong breeze. Macro looked up anxiously.
'Wonder if it'll rain.'
'Looks like it might, sir. But if Claudius moves quickly then we might beat the rain and reach the Britons before nightfall.'
'And if we don't then it's another day of marching in wet clothes,' grumbled Macro. 'Wet clothes, shitty mud and cold food. Anyway, who's to say those bloody natives won't just do a runner?'
Cato shrugged.
'Better get the lads fallen in, Optio. It'll be a long day one way or another.'
The centurion's fears about the weather proved to be groundless. As the morning wore on, the clouds cleared, the wind died away completely and by noon the sun blazed down upon the army. A thin haze of vapour wafted up from drying clothes, hanging over the legionaries as they trudged along in the muddy wake of the Praetorian vanguard.
Late in the afternoon the Second Legion rounded a small hill and came in sight of the enemy lines. Ahead, some two miles distant, lay a low ridge, bristling with defences. In front lay an extensive system of ramps and ditches designed to deflect a direct assault and expose the attackers to missile fire for as long as possible before they reached the defenders. To the right of the enemy line the ridge tumbled down into a vast expanse of marsh through which a wide river curved behind the ridge in a long, grey sweep. To the left of the enemy line the ridge disappeared into a dense forest that covered the undulating ground as far as Cato could see. The position was well chosen; any attacker would be forced to make a frontal assault up the slope between the forest and the marsh.
The Fourteenth Legion had arrived ahead of the Second and was well advanced in preparing the army's fortifications for the night. A screen of auxiliaries stood at the bottom of the slope and beyond them small groups of cavalry scouts were making a close inspection of the enemy's defences. A staff officer directed Macro's century to the row of pegs that marked their tent line and the centurion barked out the order to down packs. There was no suppressing the excitement of the men as they hastily erected their tents and then sat down on the slope to gaze across the shallow dip in the land at the enemy fortifications opposite. The sun twinkled on the helmets and weapons of the Britons massing behind their defences. The tension in the still air was heightened by the growing humidity as clouds thickened along the southern horizon once again. But this time there was not a breath of wind, and the myriad sounds of an army preparing to bed down for the night hung strangely in the still air.
At dusk fires were lit and in the gathering gloom twin carpets of sparkling orange confronted each other across the shallow vale, and smoke from the flames smudged the air above each army. Vespasian had given orders that his men be given an extra issue of meat to fill their bellies for the coming battle, and the legionaries gratefully settled to eat the salt beef and barley stew as night fell. Cato was mopping up the dregs of his stew with a biscuit when he became aware of a strange sound carried faintly on the air. It was a rising chant that ended in a roar, accompanied by a muffled clatter. He turned to Macro who had already finished his meal with voracious efficiency, and now lay on his back picking shreds of meat from between his teeth with a small twig.
'What's happening over there, sir?'
'Well, sounds to me like they're trying to whip up a bit of battle fever.'
'Battle fever?'
'Of course. They know the odds are against them. We've given them a good kicking in every fight so far. Morale won't be high so Caratacus will be doing everything he can to make them fight hard.'
A fresh roar burst out from the enemy camp, and another rhythmic clatter.
'What's that noise, sir?'
'That? It's the same trick we use. A sword beating on a shield. You get everyone to beat to the same rhythm and that's the sound you get. Supposed to scare the shit out of the enemy. That's the idea, at least. Personally, I find it just gives me a headache.'
Cato finished his stew and set the mess tin down beside him. The contrast between the two camps disturbed him. While the enemy seemed to be having some kind of wild celebration, the legions were settling down for a night's sleep, as if tomorrow was merely another day.
'Shouldn't we be doing something about that lot?'
'Like what?'
'I don't know. Just something to break up their party. Something to unsettle them.'
'Why bother?' Macro yawned. 'Let them have their fun. It won't make any difference when our lads get stuck into them tomorrow. They'll just be more tired than us.'
'I suppose so.' Cato licked the last drips of stew from his fingers. He picked up some grass and wiped his mess tin clean. 'Sir?'
'What is it?' Macro replied sleepily.
'Do you think the baggage train would have been able to catch up with us today?'
"Don't see why not. No rain today. Why do you ask?'
'Er, just wondered if we'd be getting artillery support tomorrow.'
'If Claudius is sensible, we'll be getting all the fire support we can manage against those fortifications. ' Cato rose to his feet.
'Going somewhere?'
'Latrine. And maybe a quick stroll before I turn in, sir.'
'Quick stroll?' Macro rolled his head to one side and looked at Cato.
'Haven't you had enough of walking over the last two days?'
'Just need to clear my head, sir.'
'All right then. But you'll need a good night's sleep for tomorrow.'
'Yes, sir.'
Cato strolled off towards the centre of the camp. If the baggage train had caught up with the army then he might see Lavinia. This time there would be no enclosure to keep him out. A few guards maybe, but they could easily be avoided in the dark. And then he would hold Lavinia in his arms again and smell the scent of her hair. The prospect filled him with a keen sense of anticipation and he quickened his pace as he walked up the via Praetoria in the direction of the legate's tents. The jaunty spring in his stride carried him forward with such momentum that he nearly floored a figure who suddenly emerged from a tent flap and stepped directly in his path. As it was they collided and Cato's chin was badly knocked when it struck the other person's head.
'Ow! You stupid bloody… Lavinia!'
Rubbing her head, Lavinia stared at him, wide-eyed. 'Cato!'
'But… why…' he mumbled as surprise overcame loquacity. 'What are you doing here? How did you get here?' he added, remembering the muddy tracks that had sucked down the baggage wagons.
'With the artillery train. As soon as they could move, Lady Flavia left her wagon to follow on with the rest and we hitched a ride with a catapult crew. What happened to your face?'
'Someone ran into me, quite a few times. But that's not important now.' Cato wanted to fold his arms about her, but there was a strange, distant expression in her eyes that discouraged him. 'Lavinia? What's the matter?'