Miro hesitated and Cato smiled patiently. ‘I need someone I can rely on to take over if anything happens to me. Do you understand?’
The decurion nodded and then saluted. ‘Yes, sir. You can count on me.’
‘Very well.’ Cato returned the salute.
Miro turned and briskly made his way to where the rest of the cohort was waiting for the column to set off. Cato turned his attention back to the men of the vanguard.
‘You all know why you were picked for this duty! You are the best men in the cohort. And that marks you out from every other cavalry unit in the army. There is no finer cohort than the Second Thracian — the Blood Crows. But that honour comes with a price. Our reputation has been hard won over the years that the cohort has been campaigning in Britannia. And like all reputations, what takes years to build can be torn down in a single moment of disgrace. .’ Cato paused to look sternly at his men. ‘That I will not allow. Today we may face a stern test of our self-discipline and courage. I want every man here to understand what I require of him. And that is, absolute obedience. Whatever happens, however you are goaded or provoked, you will ignore it. You will not react. You will do nothing unless I explicitly order it. I do not care if some stinking, hairy Brigantian goatherd leaps up into your saddle and fucks you in the arse. If it happens, it happens, and if you so much as wince, then I’ll have you shovelling the shit from the latrine of Centurion Macro’s cohort for the rest of your days!’
There was a smattering of laughter at the comment, and Cato blessed the rivalry between the two units that had served together for the best part of a year. Although he had made a joke of it, he knew his men would heed his stricture all the more avidly for fear of being shamed in front of their comrades.
‘Blood Crows!’ His smile faded. ‘Mount!’
The horsemen turned towards their saddles, paused for the standard silent count of one-two-three and then swung themselves up into their saddles and took up their reins to steady their mounts and dress their ranks. When they were ready, Cato turned his horse towards the front of the column and swept his arm forward.
‘In column of fours, advance!’
They walked past the infantry of Horatius’s cohort and then began to pass the men of Macro’s cohort who would back them up in the event of a fight. Macro was waiting at the head of the First Century and saluted as his friend approached.
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘And you, Centurion.’
A formal exchange, and yet both men were conscious of the deep bond they shared. How many times over the years had they faced such moments? Cato wondered. And yet this was different. A new kind of courage was required to hold back all the training that had taught them to strike first at an enemy. Training and an instinct for self-preservation, thought Cato.
‘If anything goes wrong, I want you to be the one who tells Julia.’
‘Perish the thought, sir.’
‘Interesting choice of words.’ Cato smiled and continued forward on to the track until the rearmost rank of the vanguard was ten paces ahead of Macro’s cohort.
‘Blood Crows! Halt!’
The horsemen drew up and their mounts stood ready, ears twitching, and the occasional thud or scrape of a hoof on the packed earth of the track. There was nothing to do now until the command was given for the column to advance. The sun had already risen and was washing the landscape with warm glow. The tribesmen waiting ahead of them were bathed in the same light, which somehow made them seem larger than life to Cato’s eyes. He wondered if it was simply the tension gnawing at his stomach. Even though he could not quite believe that Belmatus and his handful of men would really sacrifice themselves so willingly to start a war, he could not still his nerves. Something was not quite right about the situation, and he could not pin the doubt down.
There was only a brief delay before the last element of the column was in position and then a horn sounded through the morning air, a clear, carrying note that echoed back off the slopes of the closest hills.
Cato filled his lungs and called over his shoulder, ‘Blood Crows! Advance!’
With a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels he urged his mount to walk forward, eyes fixed on the tribesmen blocking his path no more than half a mile ahead. The air filled with the clop of hoofs, the dull pounding of nailed boots and the rumble of the baggage train. Above, flights of swifts whipped through the air in search of their first meal of the day, some soaring above while others flashed between the shrubs and longer clumps of grass, speckled with yellow and white flowers. All of which imposed themselves on Cato’s heightened senses as he steadily climbed the gentle rise to the crest of the hill where Belmatus and his men were waiting.
He could already pick their leader out. The warrior sat on his stallion in the middle of the track, hand on hip in a haughty pose that Cato had come to recognise as typical of the men who led the tribes of the island. For a moment he wished he had Vellocatus at hand to translate if there was any exchange of words. But Vellocatus had been ordered to travel in Poppaea’s carriage where he would be out of sight. The tribune had been right to do that, Cato reflected. The sight of one of their own, riding with the Romans, could well stir the passions of the natives into an act of violence that all would regret. And, Cato reasoned, there was no need for a translator. He knew exactly what he must do and words would be superfluous, and possibly dangerous in such a situation. At the root of it all Cato recognised that he was only wishing for the man’s presence because he felt exposed riding at the front of the column alone. His heart was beating quickly and he felt the blood racing through his veins as he maintained a composed air and stared straight ahead.
Then, when he was no more than a hundred paces from the crest, a great roar filled the air, startling birds into flight. Beyond the small party of waiting horsemen, the ground was suddenly alive with more men, hundreds of them, surging forward to swell the ranks of the riders. A cold stab of fear thrust up inside Cato’s chest but he clenched his jaw and continued advancing, true to his orders. He looked back quickly and noted with pride that none of his men had faltered, even though they had readied their spears and raised their shields to cover their bodies. Cato did the same with his own shield and shifted his reins to the right hand to remove the temptation to rest it on the pommel of his sword.
The tribesmen made no attempt to move forward but stood and jeered, brandishing fists and weapons. As Cato closed on them, a thin young warrior darted forward and turned his back to the oncoming Romans. Grasping the hem of his tunic, he hauled it up to reveal his buttocks and then bent forward to thrust the pale cheeks towards Cato. He stifled a smirk at the youngster’s hubris and pretended to ignore the gesture. The youth darted aside at the last moment and left Cato face to face with Belmatus.
The Brigantian nobleman stood his ground and Cato subtly tweaked his reins so as to pass just to the side of the man. No words were spoken, only their eyes clashed, a steely, unbending exchange of glares, and then Cato passed by him. Beyond lay a mass of shouting, gesticulating tribesmen, and Cato looked over their heads as he walked his horse on. Like all cavalry mounts it had long since been battle-trained and was inured to the sounds of shouting, the blasts of horns and the clash of weapons. Even so, the beast snorted and jerked its neck as it raised its head away from the men in its path.
Cato felt a man brush past his leg and tried not to flinch. No attempt was made to stop his horse, nor to lay a hand on it, or him. Then there was a flicker of movement to his right and some muck landed on his chest, splattering his chin. The smell of shit assaulted his nostrils, but he forced himself not to react. Not even to brush it off. Then he was through the line of tribesmen and emerged, unscathed, on to the crest of the hill. Before him the track continued into the hills of Brigantia. He rode on a short distance before looking back and saw that his men were holding their discipline, ignoring the abuse and filth thrown at them. Then he caught sight of Belmatus, who had shifted to the side of the track. The nobleman turned and saw Cato at the same time and Cato could see the frustration in his expression.