General Ostorius considered the notion for a moment and pursed his lips. ‘Putting himself at the mercy of the Brigantes is a huge risk. I don’t know. I’m not convinced. After the defeat we’ve inflicted on him, I think he’s going to play safe. Retreat and lick his wounds while he considers what to do next.’
‘I beg to disagree, sir. Caratacus is not the kind to lie low. He’ll want to avenge his defeat at the first opportunity. He can only do that if he can raise fresh forces. And the only place he can do that now is in Brigantia.’
‘Thank you for your opinion, Prefect Cato,’ Ostorius said dismissively. ‘I will take it under consideration. But for now we must concentrate on trying to track down and capture Caratacus while there is still a chance. We’ll be breaking camp once the auxiliary units have returned and marching back to Viroconium. I shall want to know what the wine merchant has to say before then. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you’re dismissed.’
Cato and Macro saluted and turned smartly to stride out of the tent.
When they were beyond earshot of the general’s bodyguards they stopped and Macro let out a deep breath.
‘It ain’t right that he’s trying to pin this one on us. It’s not our fault some bastard sprang Caratacus. He’s the general, it’s his lookout.’
Cato smiled wearily. ‘That’s how the blame game plays out, Macro. This isn’t about the army, this is about politics. Ostorius is thinking about what happens after he gives up command of the army. If there’s any way of pinning the blame on a subordinate then he will. It’s just our bad luck that we happen to be Junius-on-the-spot.’
Macro ground his teeth in frustration. ‘Fucking politics.’
‘Quite.’
They looked out over the camp, which was a scene of devastation. Most of the tents appeared to have been swept away by the previous night’s storm and soldiers were picking their way through the churned mud and debris to retrieve their kit. Some were building fires, but Macro knew that it would take a while for the wood to dry out enough to be combustible. A mood of sullen misery stretched across the camp, despite the clear blue sky, the warm sunshine and the swifts darting through the air.
Macro sniffed. ‘Anyone would think it was our side that lost the battle.’
‘We won the battle but not the war. Not quite yet, at least. As long as Caratacus is at large we won’t know any peace.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Cato placed his palms against the small of his back and stretched. ‘We have a word with Septimus, if he’s up for it. Right now he’s the only one who might be able to help us find the traitor in the camp.’
‘Thought we were supposed to be looking for Caratacus.’
Cato shook his head. ‘If I’m any judge of things, he’s long gone. It’ll be a miracle if the cavalry patrols pick him up. That’s why we need to find the man who helped him escape. With the right inducement he may tell us where Caratacus is headed and what his plans are.’
‘I suppose.’
Cato turned to his friend. ‘If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.’
Macro concentrated a moment and then shrugged. ‘Septimus it is.’
The surgeon looked strained as he sat at his camp desk at the entrance to the infirmary tent, one of the first to be erected again after the storm. The dim interior was filled with men lying on their sleeping mats. Some lay on the bare ground. Others sat up. The less seriously injured talked in mute tones or passed the time playing dice. The air was filled with the groans and cries of the wounded. Several orderlies moved through the tent tending to their patients. The surgeon was wearing a bloodstained apron over his black tunic and his face and arms were smeared with streaks of mud and blood.
‘Who is it you want?’
‘Hipparchus.’
‘What unit?’
‘He’s a civilian. We brought him in first thing this morning with a head injury.’
‘Oh, him. I remember. Fine, just a light tap. He’s awake now.’ The surgeon stood up and pointed to the far end of the tent. ‘Last man on the right.’
Cato nodded his thanks and he and Macro made their way down the aisle running the length of the tent. As they passed through the densely packed rows of human suffering, Cato felt his anger towards the general rising up again. Most of these men would not be here but for Ostorius’s decision to make a frontal attack on a strongly defended position. He could not help feeling that Legate Vespasian would not have made the same mistake had he been in charge. He recalled his first commander with admiration and a loyalty bordering on affection. If there was any justice in this world Vespasian would eventually achieve rank and position worthy of his talents, Cato thought. There was a man he would willingly follow into battle.
As they neared the end of the tent he saw Septimus sitting up, a fresh dressing wrapped neatly about his head. A small red stain showed where the blood had soaked through over the wound on his scalp. The agent glanced up as he became aware of their approach and smiled weakly.
‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro!’ He forced a smile. ‘The two favourite customers of Hipparchus, purveyor of the finest wines in the camp!’
The wounded men immediately around him stirred and one shouted at him to shut his mouth and not disturb their rest. Septimus ignored them and propped himself up on his elbows.
‘How’s the head?’ asked Cato as he and Macro hunkered down either side of the imperial agent.
‘Not bad. Still feel a bit dizzy, but I’ll be out of here before the end of the day. Don’t think I could stand the company of these louts any longer than that.’
‘Hey,’ Macro growled. ‘These louts are my comrades in arms.’
Septimus cocked an eyebrow. ‘That explains a lot.’
He glanced round to make sure that none of his neigbours seemed to be listening and then lowered his voice as he continued. ‘Have they caught Caratacus yet? There’s been little talk of anything else in here.’
Cato shook his head. ‘He escaped from the camp in your cart. Drove it out of the east gate and now he’s disappeared into the mountains.’
Septimus grimaced. ‘Oh shit. .’
‘What do you remember of last night?’
Septimus’s brow creased as he tried to recall the details. ‘I had caught my slave with one of my wine jars. I was going to give him a hiding but he was too drunk to notice, so I was going to save it until the morning. Then I went to find you, while there was still some light in the sky. I couldn’t find my purse and I thought it might have slipped from my belt when we spoke earlier. I saw Thraxis leave your tent to go and help your men secure the rest, so I slipped inside. You weren’t there so I thought I’d wait until you got back and ask about the purse. That was when I heard some commotion close by. I went out to have a look and saw that the door to the stockade was open.’ He looked directly at Cato. ‘That’s when someone came up behind me and knocked me to the ground. Before I could react he was on my back, pressing my head down and holding a knife to my throat. He asked me who I was. I told him my cover story. I heard a brief exchange and then I was hauled up on my feet. I glimpsed the man who had knocked me down. Big, hairy brute.’
‘Caratacus?’
‘It had to be.’
‘And the other one?’
‘Couldn’t see. He hung back and kept out of my line of sight.’
Cato thought a moment. ‘When they spoke, was it in Latin?’
‘Yes.’
Cato nodded. ‘So what happened next?’
‘Caratacus steered me ahead of him, and kept the point of his knife in my ribs. He told me to lead them to my wagon and not to try and run, raise the alarm or look back if I wanted to live.’
‘And no one saw the three of you?’ asked Macro. ‘No one seemed suspicious?’
Septimus shook his head. ‘Everyone had other things on their minds. Who was going to bother with three men making their way through the camp followers’ canton when they were trying to save their livelihoods from the storm? So I led them back to my pitch and I was standing by the back of the wagon. . That’s the last thing I remember before I came round in here.’