Cato shared a weary glance with Macro and sighed. There would be complaints from the civilians to deal with later on.
‘Very well. Tribune Otho!’
‘Sir?’
‘Take command of your men. Get the tents up and then report to headquarters to draw rations from the quartermaster.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.
‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.
A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.
‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’
Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.
‘Officers! On me!’
Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.
‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.
Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’
‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’
The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.
‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.
Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’
Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’
‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro maintained. ‘Which means there must be a way to outflank his defences.’
‘You think so? Look again.’
Macro surveyed the landscape before him. The hill extended at least a mile and a half before dropping away sharply at each end, and the river followed the contours, providing a natural moat for the makeshift fortress. ‘What’s on the far side of the hill?’
Cato shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ He indicated the squadron of auxiliary horsemen picking their way along the bank of the river. They were being shadowed on the far bank by a party of lightly armed natives who easily kept pace with the Romans. ‘We won’t know until the scouts report to the general.’
Tribune Otho had been standing a short distance away, scrutinising the enemy position, and came to join Cato and the others. He was wearing a silvered breastplate with an elaborate design of rearing horses etched into the surface. The polished strips of his leather jerkin gleamed in the sunshine and his cloak was clean and showed none of the fraying or small tears that marred the cloaks of the other officers. The rest of his armour and equipment was equally new and to cap it all he wore closed leather boots dyed red that laced up to the top of his shins.
‘As bright as a newly minted denarius,’ Macro muttered with a disapproving shake of his head. ‘He’s going to stand out like a swinging dick at a eunuch massage parlour. Every Silurian warrior worth his salt is going to be after his head.’
Cato had to agree. Soon after first setting foot on British soil he had discovered the natives’ fondness for collecting the heads of those they defeated in battle. The head of a Roman officer was a most desirable trophy to display in their crude wattle and daub huts. With his good looks and his gleaming helmet with its bright red crest, Otho would draw the attention of every Silurian warrior that caught sight of him.
‘Hello, chaps!’ Otho waved a greeting as he strode up to them. ‘Must say, those natives have a good eye for ground. But they’ll be no match for the men of the Ninth, or even the other legions, I’ll wager. Soon as the general gives the order we’ll clear Caratacus and his mob off that hill.’
‘Is that so?’ Horatius sucked a breath in through his teeth. Cato saw the look of irritation flash across his expression before he smiled coolly at the tribune. ‘Well, I’d be more than happy for you and your men to show us all how the job’s done. Why don’t you ask the general for the honour of leading the attack? I’m sure he would be impressed.’
Otho considered the idea briefly. ‘Why not? About time I had a chance to do my duty.’
‘Why not?’ Macro frowned. ‘Because you don’t just go ploughing into the enemy, sir. There’s a right way to go about this. And a wrong way.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Ain’t that right, sir?’
Cato quickly understood the implied meaning of his comrade’s remark. He nodded and addressed the prefect in a gentle tone. ‘This is your first battle, I take it.’
‘Well, yes. As it happens.’
‘Then take the chance to watch and learn. You can prove yourself another time. Good soldiers learn from experience. Or they pay the price.’
Otho stared at him earnestly and turned back to scrutinise the enemy position. ‘I understand.’
A moment later General Ostorius decided he had seen enough. He issued curt orders for pickets to be posted along the riverbank before mounting his horse and riding back into the camp. His staff officers scrambled to follow him and the others were left to ponder the formidable obstacles before them a while longer before they, too, turned away and returned to their units. The men toiled to construct the ditch and rampart that surrounded the vast area required for the two legions, the detachment from the Ninth, eight cohorts of auxiliary troops, the baggage train and the camp followers. It was more like a modest town than a camp, Cato mused as he approached the site of the main gate. The tower supports had already been driven into the earth and men were busy easing the crosspieces into position. As they reached the tent lines of the cohorts from the Ninth, Otho waved a hand and spurred his horse into a trot as he made for his headquarters tent, the first to be erected by the men before they turned to their own, far more modest section tents where eight men slept cheek by jowl.