‘My father is a close friend of Senator Sempronius. I heard it from him shortly before I left Rome. It seems that Julia gave birth to a child a while back. It was not an easy delivery by all accounts, and left her weak. She never fully recovered and finally succumbed to a summer chill. Damn shame. At least young Lucius was thriving though. Or was when I left Rome. Always thought Julia was a bright, pretty thing. Bit of a shock to old man Sempronius.’ He paused and continued in a more melancholy tone. ‘So I suppose I shall have to pass the news on to her husband. Poor fellow.’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
Macro swallowed and shook his head in utter sorrow. ‘Cato . . . my poor lad.’
The optio came striding up to them with one of his men and saluted, oblivious to the strained air between his two superiors as he addressed Tribune Glaber. The other man took up the traces of the mules attached to the cart and stood ready to lead the animals on.
‘The wounded have been put in one of the wagons, sir. The dead have been placed on the one we’re leaving behind, together with the supplies we couldn’t carry. The rest of the convoy is formed up and ready to move.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. We had better get going. Centurion?’
Macro shook himself out of his stupor and stiffened his spine as he composed his features and stared at the tribune. ‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Good. I want you and your men to scout ahead of the convoy. No heroics. You see anything, you report back at once and don’t get stuck in. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, then let’s get moving, gentlemen.’
Macro saluted and turned to mount his horse. As he adjusted his position, he looked round. Already a thin wisp of smoke was rising from the cart where several bodies in red tunics had been arranged on top of the sacks of grain and jars of olive oil packed on the bed of the wagon. Mule feed blazed at the tail of the vehicle, and, fanned by the breeze, the bright flames licked at the flammable material above. It was a dramatic and poignant sight, but Macro’s mind was elsewhere. He was recalling the last time he had seen Cato and Julia together, just before leaving Rome. Their mutual affection had been clear to see and had touched even Macro’s hardened heart.
Now Julia was dead.
And Macro dreaded the reaction of his friend when the news reached him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Where’s the rest of the bloody fleet?’ Quintatus fumed at Cato as he surveyed the bay below the headland. In the choppy grey water a trireme and four smaller, more slender biremes lay at anchor off the thin strip of sand that ran along the shore. The beach, such as it was, was too small and the surf too shallow to beach the vessels safely, and so they rocked, masts swaying, some fifty paces from the shore. A small fort was under construction on the opposite headland, the workforce of marines and sailors being screened by pickets from the Blood Crows. There was no sign of the rest of the warships that had been expected to meet the army on the coast, nor of the shallow-bottomed transports that were needed to ferry the troops across the channel separating the mainland from the island of Mona.
Behind the legate stood his staff officers and the mounted contingent of his bodyguard. The party had ridden ahead of the main column in response to Cato’s report that he had located the first elements of the fleet. Some five miles to the rear, the army was trudging along a coastal track and should reach the bay in good time to construct a marching camp before nightfall. The advance had slowed after they had reached the Deceanglian capital and moved on, leaving a smouldering ruin in their wake. The enemy had harried the column all the way, launching swift attacks the instant it began to string out, and fleeing to cover when the Romans formed up to repulse them. Reports had come in that the follow-up supply convoys were also being attacked. Quintatus had been obliged to keep his army in close formation, slowing its pace, and had detached one of his cavalry cohorts to patrol his lines of communication and attempt to fend off attacks on the convoys.
All of which was gravely concerning to Cato. The legate’s original plan for the campaign had been a swift strike through the heart of the mountains to destroy the Deceanglians before laying waste the Druid stronghold of Mona and then returning to base before the winter set in. But the season was now well advanced, and even though it had not rained for five days, the temperature had dropped to below freezing overnight, so that the water froze in the men’s canteens, and frost had to be swept from their goatskin tents before they were struck down. Any advantage to be gained from easier passage over the hard ground had been offset by the need to slow the advance in the face of the enemy’s harassing attacks. That morning had seen the first fall of snow, a brief flurry descending from heavy clouds before the wind had swept them away to leave a thin patina of white nestling on the boughs of trees and the rock and grass of the higher ground. There would be more, Cato knew, and should it be heavy, then the army would struggle to retreat from the mountains, let alone continue to advance deeper into enemy territory. All hinged on a rapid descent on Mona, a decisive victory, and an untroubled return to winter quarters. None of which seemed likely, especially given the misfortune that had struck the fleet as it had made its way up the coast to join the army.
Cato’s forward patrols had found the handful of ships in the bay the afternoon before and spoken with the shaken trierarchs in command before setting them to work constructing the fort. He had sent a message back to the legate with the briefest details, which had resulted in this encounter on the headland to make his full report.
‘As you know, sir, the fleet was hit by a storm three days ago and scattered. The survivors in the bay say that they witnessed some ships founder before they lost sight of the others and made the best speed they could to find the nearest shelter once they had rounded Mona. I have sent a patrol further along the coast to search for any sign of the rest of the fleet. They will return and report at dusk.’
‘Well, they had better find some more ships for me. We need them, and the transports, if we are going to take Mona.’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was an obvious point, and Cato realised that it had only been proffered out of anxiety. He could see that the legate’s expression was strained, and for an instant he felt a flicker of sympathy for his commander. This campaign was supposed to deal a knockout blow to the native tribes’ willingness to continue their ultimately futile resistance to Rome. It was intended to bring peace, and with that the acclaim that would have been bestowed on Quintatus. Instead the campaign had been beset by misfortune and was now in danger of becoming undone thanks to the onset of winter and the enemy’s stubborn refusal to meet the legions in battle. Then the moment of sympathy passed as Cato reflected that the legate might have allowed his ambitions to overreach his reason. A common failing in the political class of Rome, and a particular hazard when such ambition put at risk the lives of the men who served in the Roman army.
‘In the meantime,’ Quintatus continued, ‘how far are we from the channel?’
‘Less than a day’s march, sir. Nine, maybe ten miles along the coast from the bay.’
‘Good. Then we will make camp on the far headland.’ The legate turned to look for Titus Silanus. ‘I want a double ditch around the ramparts, since we are close to the enemy.’
The camp prefect nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it while I ride ahead with the vanguard to see Mona myself. It’ll be quite something to come face to face with the Druid lair.’ He lifted his voice so that the surrounding officers would hear him. ‘Gentlemen, when our mission here is complete, you will be dining out for the rest of your lives on tales of how you defeated the Druids!’