‘Ah, will you look at that crackling! Mmmm!’
Only Cato remained stern and silent, unable to shake off the shroud of misgivings he had over the dangers presented by the mission that lay ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘What’s he doing here?’ asked Centurion Acer as he gestured towards the wine merchant easing his wagon into position at the end of the small column of carts and wagons that carried the supplies and artillery.
Horatius looked round. ‘The tribune gave him permission to join our happy throng. His name’s Hipparchus. Just another Greek latching on to the cloak tails of the Roman army and trying to make his fortune.’
The other officers laughed and Cato and Macro joined in half-heartedly.
‘Seriously, though,’ Acer continued, ‘I thought we were supposed to leave anything that might slow us down behind. No unnecessary clutter was what the tribune’s orders said.’
‘That was just for us, lad,’ said Macro. ‘The tribune clearly thinks that his wife and a ready supply of wine are necessary to ensure the success of his mission.’
The others laughed again.
‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Horatius. ‘The merchant’s here to trade with the Brigantes. There’s nothing the natives like more than our wine. By the gods, they’d sell their own mothers for a jar of decent Falernian. And they once did, according to my father who served at Gesoriacum, many years before the invasion. A steady flow of wine shipped out to Britannia, with the ships coming back with furs and slaves. The tribune hopes that a supply of wine to the natives might help to grease the wheels and make the natives a little more open to persuasion. Besides, you know how these Greek merchants are. If there’s any useful gossip to pick up on, it reaches their ears first.’
The sun had just risen over the sprawl of the forts and civilian settlement at Viroconium. The first trails of rekindled fires trickled into the rosy hue of a clear sky. The men of Otho’s column were standing in loose formation on the parade ground waiting for the order to march. The horses of the two auxiliary cohorts were saddled and laden with the kit of their riders and nets stuffed with feed. They sensed the expectant mood of the men around them, and pointed ears and delicate muzzles twitched this way and that, accompanied by the light chinking of their metal bits. The mules harnessed to the carts and wagons seemed, by contrast, utterly uncurious and stood still in their harnesses as their drivers walked the lines of their beasts, making slight adjustments to straps and yokes as necessary. The wagon of Poppaea Sabina was the largest vehicle in the column and had been positioned at the front where she would not be troubled by the dust stirred from the wheels and hoofs of the others.
‘Here they come,’ Macro announced quietly and the officers saw the tribune, arm in arm with his wife, stroll up from the direction of their rented villa. ‘No rush then.’
When they reached the wagon, Otho handed his wife up the steps at the rear and then rose on his toes to take one last kiss before he stretched his shoulders and strode past the legionaries and the contingent of auxiliary infantry from Horatius’s mixed cohort. He rubbed his hands together as he approached his officers.
‘Brisk morning, nay?’
Macro whispered to Cato out of the corner of his mouth, ‘What’s with this naying?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Some fad from Rome, I expect.’
‘Well, it’s annoying the shit out of me. Every time, I feel like I should throw ’em a handful of oats.’
‘What’s that, Centurion?’ Otho asked cheerfully.
‘Just saying, sir. It’s good to see a man who dotes. On his wife, I mean.’
‘Poor effort,’ Cato muttered, barely moving his lips.
The tribune nodded happily. ‘I give thanks to the gods every day that Poppaea is my wife. Now, to business, gentlemen. All is ready, I take it?’
Horatius nodded. ‘Just waiting for the order, sir.’
‘Then let’s be off. We have the small matter of a conquest to complete.’
Horatius hesitated, unhappy at the casual manner of his superior. Then he sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Officers! To your units.’
The centurions turned and quickly paced to their positions while the prefect strode towards the head of the column. Cato and Macro exchanged a brief nod before the latter made for the cohort formed up behind the wagons. Cato strode towards the trooper holding his horse and swung himself up into the saddle and adjusted his seat before he gave the nod to Decurion Miro. The latter drew a deep breath and cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘Second Thracian! Mount!’
With some scuffling of hoofs and grunts from the men and whinnies from the horses the troopers quickly mounted their beasts and steadied them.
Across the parade ground Cato saw a slave lead the tribune’s horse to him, a finely groomed white stallion whose coat gleamed where it was not covered by the red and gold saddle blanket and tassels hanging from the leather tackle. The slave bent down and cupped his hands to provide a leg up. Once Otho had finished fastening the straps of his helmet he climbed into his saddle and sat stiffly as he surveyed his small force. In his flowing red cape, trimmed with gold lace, shining breastplate and helmet topped with an elaborate red plume he looked impressive, thought Cato. The kind of appearance that he could imagine Pompey the Great affecting in his younger days. Certainly the young officer’s accoutrements outshone those of General Ostorius himself, let alone the legionary legates whose rank far exceeded that of Otho. Cato smiled as he thought of the Brigantian queen being dazzled by this display when the Romans reached her capital at Isurium.
The tribune lightly spurred his horse into motion and trotted to the head of the column where Horatius was waiting, along with the native translator, Vellocatus. A short distance beyond stood Horatius’s mounted contingent which formed the vanguard of the column and would scout ahead the moment they moved beyond the official frontier of the new province. Otho nodded to his second-in-command and Horatius’s voice carried clearly down the line of men, vehicles and beasts behind him.
‘Column! Advance!’
Behind the two officers the standards of the units attached to the column moved forward, then the leading ranks of the first legionary cohort, commanded by Centurion Statillius, then Acer’s men, followed by the baggage train and Macro’s cohort. The Blood Crows were assigned to the rearguard from where they could easily advance to protect the flanks of the column if the need arose.
The column marched out of the parade ground and joined the road leading north from Viroconium. A handful of women from the vicus had gathered to watch them leave, a few of them unable to contain the tears at being parted from their men. Due to the need to reach Isurium swiftly, Otho had given strict orders that no camp followers would be permitted to join the column, where they might become stragglers. His wife would be the only woman permitted to accompany the soldiers, and the wine merchant the only other civilian.
A small party of officers from the fortress stood outside the main gate to bid farewell to the tribune and his men. Quintatus stepped forward as the head of the column passed by.
‘Good fortune go with you, Tribune Otho, and good hunting.’
The young man smiled back. ‘I’ll bring back Caratacus, dead or alive, sir. You have my word.’
‘And I will see you again within a month. One way or another.’
They exchanged a brief salute and then the tribune edged his horse forward again and led his column towards the land of the Brigantes. Whether they were still an ally of Rome or had become a bitter enemy would soon be discovered.