Macro had seen the brief exchange. ‘What’s he want with us?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Cato replied and then glanced round to see that Macro’s men had all stopped to scrutinise the distant natives.
‘Macro. .’ Cato nodded towards the work detail.
The flesh around his friend’s eyes puckered into an angry glare and he drew a breath. ‘What is this? A fucking public holiday?’ he roared at his men, brandishing his vine cane. ‘Lift those picks and put your bloody backs into it!’
At once the legionaries returned to their work and the air filled with the sound of iron points thudding into the earth, accompanied by the grunts of the men wielding them. Macro paced down the line to make sure none of them was slacking, just as the orderly drew up in front of Cato, short of breath after his quick dash.
‘Tribune Otho sends his respects, sir, and requires that you lead one of your squadrons out to confront those horsemen.’
‘Confront? Does he wish me to chase them off?’
‘No, sir. Just discourage them from coming any closer.’
Cato stared hard at the orderly for an instant, wondering just what discouraging the native warriors might entail if they did decide to approach. ‘Very well. Tell the tribune I’ll not be the first to strike a blow if I can avoid it.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly saluted and turned to trot back to his commander.
Cato sought out Decurion Miro who had just unfastened the girth of his saddle and was lowering his heavy leather burden to the ground.
‘Miro! On me!’
A short while later Cato led the first squadron of the Blood Crows out towards the horsemen watching over the camp. He kept the pace to a steady walk in order not to alarm the natives. The dull clink of the picks was drowned out by the easy rumble of horses’ hoofs. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and bathing the countryside in a warm golden hue. The shadows of the Roman riders stretched out across the grass to their side as a faint haze of dust rose gently in their wake. Decurion Miro was clenching his free hand over and over again as he rode beside Cato.
‘We should have brought the whole cohort with us, sir.’
‘The tribune just wants us to keep an eye on them,’ Cato responded calmly.
‘We could have done that from the camp.’
‘But that might have encouraged them to venture a little closer. It’s better we keep them at a distance for now. We have our orders, Decurion,’ he concluded firmly, disapproving of the way his subordinate allowed his anxiety to interfere with his duty.
They advanced in silence until they reached the foot of the hill where the native horsemen waited, unmoving. Cato raised his arm and ordered his men to halt and form line, and the Blood Crows fanned out on either side and turned to face the slope. The Thracians were tense and held their spears and shields at the ready. Cato could understand their nervousness. The unit had been campaigning for two years against the hill tribes and every native they had seen in that time had been an enemy. Why should the men at the top of the hill be any different? Nevertheless, Cato was determined that his men should not inadvertently cause any hostilities.
As the shadows lengthened and the grass and heather were tinged with the flare of the fading sun, the work of constructing the marching camp continued. Every so often Cato would turn and look back and see that the rampart had risen a little higher, while below, the men toiling in the ditch seemed to sink lower into the ground. Eventually only their heads showed above ground, and later all that was visible was the flicker of picks and clods of earth thrown up to add to the rampart. Beyond, other men had started to erect the tents, long, neat lines of brown leather held taut by pegged ropes. The duty cohort formed a cordon round the camp and watched for the approach of any enemy. Once the defences were complete, they were called in and the first watch manned the rampart while their comrades removed their armour and began to prepare the evening meal.
‘How much longer are we going to be kept out here?’ Miro fretted to himself but just loud enough to provoke a response from his superior.
‘Until we hear the recall, that’s how long.’
Miro made ready to reply, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut.
‘Sir!’ A trooper raised his spear and gestured up the slope.
Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that one of the horsemen had left the rest of the group and had started down the slope at a nonchalant pace, his horse flicking its tail lazily from side to side. At once the Blood Crows began to stir, tightening their grips on reins and spears.
‘Easy there!’ Cato called out. ‘No one is to do anything without my express order! Hold your ground and wait for my order. I’ll have the skin off the back of the first man who acts out of turn!’
The line steadied and waited in tense silence as the rider slowly descended from the crest of the hill. As he approached, Cato could see that he sat tall in the saddle of his finely groomed chestnut stallion whose coat gleamed in the fiery light. He wore a patterned tunic and blue leggings bound with leather straps. An oval shield hung from his saddle and he held a long lance in his right hand. His arms were thickly muscled and his dark hair hung in plaits on his broad shoulders. There was no trace of fear in his expression as he walked his horse towards Cato’s squadron and halted a mere ten paces from its commander. He stared at Cato a moment and then wheeled his horse to the right and rode towards the flank, glaring at the Blood Crows. At the end of the line he turned round and walked back until he stopped in front of Cato again and jabbed the tip of his spear at the Roman officer. Miro instinctively made to draw his sword.
‘Don’t!’ Cato growled. ‘Do nothing until I say so.’
Miro hesitated a moment and then forced himself to release his grip and eased his hand up on to his saddle horn.
The rider began to speak in a deep voice, tinged with pride and anger as he addressed Cato in his native tongue, pointing his spear at the Romans to emphasise his words. It took a moment before Cato realised that he was indicating the camp as much as the line of horsemen he was confronting.
‘What’s he on about, sir?’ Miro asked in an undertone.
‘I imagine he’s demanding to know what we’re doing here. And it’s a fair enough question. We may be allies but we might look like an invading column.’
‘What we need is that translator the tribune’s brought along. Shall I fetch him, sir?’
‘No. Stand firm, and keep your mouth shut.’
The rider continued his tirade and his eyes glittered from time to time as they caught the glare of the setting sun so that he seemed the very embodiment of outrage, on the cusp of spurring his horse forward to try and impale Cato on the tip of his spear. Then Cato became aware of the thrumming of hoofs and risked a look over his shoulder to see a horseman racing towards them from the fort. He swiftly recognised him as Vellocatus and smiled thinly as he addressed the decurion.
‘Seems like the tribune has second-guessed you.’
The shouting stopped as the rider craned his neck to look past Cato. A moment later Vellocatus reined in and eased himself into a space beside Cato. The other man’s expression creased into a contemptuous sneer and he spat into the grass in front of the new arrival.