In single file the legionaries picked their way down the boarding ramp and, lifting their equipment clear of the sea, they jumped into the waist-deep water and surged on to the beach. By the time Macro and Cato had reached the line of shingle along the high-water mark, the ramp was already being stowed as a team of seamen strained on a long thick pole to push the transport free.
'What's the hurry?' Cato nodded at the ship.
'Money.'
'What men won't do for it!' Cato laughed. 'You'd think there was nothing more important in this world.'
'There isn't.'
The hard-edged expression on his centurion's face caught Cato by surprise and, as Macro turned to call the century to order, Cato stared at him. The man was understandably tense, as every officer had been, even after the mutiny slowly crumbled. Word of Narcissus's extraordinary performance quickly spread through the legions causing great hilarity whenever impromptu renditions of the bureaucrat's bravado were performed. As the wily freedman had intended, the joke could be shared by one and all and the atmosphere of mistrust and betrayal soon evaporated in the mysterious absence of Tribune Aurelius and his associates. Plautius had further soothed the situation by having the retinue of exiled British chiefs and princes let slip tales of the great wealth to be found in Britain; gold, silver, slaves – and women, just begging to be taken from the arms of a handful of benighted savages who insisted on fighting in the altogether. Their fearful appearance – painted bodies and hair stiffened into wild spikes of white – and the endless shouting all counted for little in the thick of battle. The great warriors of the legions would sweep them aside with ease and seize the fruits of victory. A firm resolve to do what legionaries do best gripped the army in the last few weeks of preparation for the invasion.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
It was well after dark when the final tent had been raised and the men of the century settled down to a light supper of barley gruel and coarse loaves of bread prepared in Gaul and already stale. Around the campfires the talk was about the progress of the campaign, based on snatches of information gleaned from messengers and forward-supply orderlies returning from the front. As yet the only contact with the enemy had been a handful of skirmishes between scouts and, from all accounts, the native charioteers had so far bested the Roman cavalry. The old hands of the Legion grumpily told the new recruits that it would be a completely different story once the heavy infantry of the Romans managed to close with the Britons.
Inside the centurion's tent, Macro quietly addressed the men he had picked for Vespasian's mission. In addition to Cato, he had selected the best ten legionaries of his century for the task. They sat on the grass as he outlined the special duty they had been selected to perform.
'As some of you may have observed, our legion has been honoured by the presence of a number of the local royalty, who have been taking advantage of Roman hospitality in recent years due to some misunderstandings with their subjects.'
The men grinned at this description of the Emperor's clients. It was the same throughout the Empire; the local people threw out their despots, who fled to Rome to plead their cause, only to discover that Rome granted asylum at a high price – perpetual obedience.
'As it happens,' continued Macro, 'one of our friends – Cogidubnus by name – had been a little indiscreet in his earlier years when he first approached Rome to discuss a treaty. Apparently he was so impressed by what he saw that he pledged to completely surrender his nation to the Emperor should the Empire extend to Britain. Well, as you can see, it now has. But Cogidubnus seems to have forgotten his earlier good intentions and is holding out for an improved deal from Rome. Unfortunately for him, when he was thrown out by his people, the wagon carrying his personal papers managed to get lost in a marsh near here. Luckily, the general's spies have found out where that wagon is and it's our job to recover his personal document chests and bring them back to the safety of the Legion. Once Plautius has a record of the man's earlier promises to sell his people out to Rome he will be able to hold Cogidubnus to his word – if he gives us any problems we can threaten to let his people see precisely what he thinks of them. A neat double bind, I'm sure you'll agree.'
Macro paused, quite pleased with himself for making this complete fabrication sound so plausible. 'But first we have to retrieve those documents. And that's where we come in. The twelve of us have been detached from the legion to recover the chest.'
'Sir!' One of the legionaries raised a hand.
'Yes?'
'Is someone really expecting us to go wandering off right in the middle of hostile territory. Twelve men alone?' The soldier spat contemptuously on to the ground. 'It's nothing short of suicide.'
'Let's hope it's something short of that.' Macro smiled reassuringly. 'Vespasian said that the scouts have found very little sign of resistance since the first two legions landed. We should be all right if it's a quick job. No more than a couple of days.'
'When do we leave, sir?'
'Tonight. As soon as the moon rises.'
Chapter Thirty-four
A damp clinging mist rose from the ground during the night and, by the time the second watch was sounded, a thin veil of white cloaked the ground. The watery red smudges of campfires silhouetted the forms of Vitellius and his bodyguard, Pulcher. The tribune handed Macro a small tablet.
'There's your authorisation. It's countersigned by the general so you won't have any trouble with our pickets, though I doubt this will hold much sway over any Britons you may encounter.'
Macro did not smile as he tucked the tablet inside his knapsack. Bloody typical of a staff officer to make fun of men he might well be sending to their deaths.
'Well then, Centurion, I trust you will succeed in your mission – whatever it may be.'
Macro nodded.
'Good luck.'
Macro saluted and turned back to the still shapes of his men waiting like shadows in the ghostly mist. The rearmost man was hissing abuse at the pair of mules detailed to pull the cart. Disturbed from a well-deserved rest after a traumatic day at sea, the mules were not on their best behaviour and their long ears twitched nervously as steamy breath plumed from their nostrils. Macro gave the signal to move off and the driver tapped the lead mule on the rump with a javelin butt. With a grunt, both beasts strained against their harnesses. The cart had been stripped bare of any loose attachments and the axles thoroughly greased so that the only sound came from the soft crunching of the ground under the wheels. The mist further deadened the sounds of the night and to the men of the detachment the swishing of their footsteps through long wet grass seemed abnormally loud. Behind them, the fires of the Second Legion faded into nothingness and before long theirs were the only man-made sounds to break the night.
For Cato, born and raised in the world's greatest city, the quiet was dreadfully oppressive: his keen imagination magnified every owl hoot or faint rustle of grass into a deadly Briton silently stalking the Romans until the moment was ripe for the kill. He marched behind his centurion and, not for the first time, envied the way Macro strode about his business with a confident air of invulnerability – which was ironic, given the number of scars that he bore.
Macro's little column marched on, quietly calling out the required password when they were challenged by a sentry on the picket lines who looked curiously at the looming bulk of the cart gently rumbling along behind. Then the strange patrol was abruptly lost in the clammy fog, and very quickly even the sounds of the cart were swallowed up.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
It was only when the picket came to be relieved that word of the strange detachment filtered back to headquarters. Vespasian was confronted by a puzzled senior watch officer who wanted confirmation that Macro was acting under orders.