A muffled rumble of thunder rolled across the landscape and General Plautius looked out over the undulating lines of tents towards the horizon where a dull flash of light heralded a break in the weather. A cool light breeze suddenly sprang up and filled the folds of the tent flap with a soft rustling. Plautius would have a good view of the approaching storm. His headquarters had been erected on a slight rise at the centre of the camp. The engineers had protested that the site was not suitable, being some distance from the intersection of the two main thoroughfares, but Plautius wanted to be able to see out over his legions and, beyond them, the palisade and, beyond that, the fall of the downs leading away to the west. In the distance a cluster of tiny sparks of light were visible at one end of a heavily wooded hill.
That was the camp of the enemy, under their commander, Caratacus. For days now the two armies had sat several miles apart, their scouts sparring every so often across the ground that separated the two forces. Plautius knew that if he attempted to move in on the enemy the shrewd Caratacus would simply retreat and draw the legions after him again. So it would go on, and all the time Caratacus would be falling back on his supply lines, just as Plautius was stretching his even further. Accordingly Plautius had halted his advance for the moment and was busy consolidating the chain of forts protecting his flanks and rear. When that was done he would push his legions forward and force the Britons to give more ground. Eventually they must run out of land and would have to turn and fight. Then the Romans would crush them utterly.
That had been the plan, at least, Plautius smiled bitterly. But the plan was always the first casualty in any military operation. A few days ago he had received a worrying report from Vespasian about the presence of another British army forming up to the south of the Tamesis. It was possible that Caratacus intended to join the two armies, in which case he might attempt to steal a march on Plautius and rush south and destroy Vespasian. Alternatively, the Briton might feel strong enough to take on the main Roman force. That, Plautius chided himself, was purely wishful thinking, and he must pay more respect to Caratacus, particularly in the light of the document he had thrown down on his chief clerk's desk: another report, this time from that centurion Vespasian had left in command of the tiny garrison at Calleva.
Centurion Macro detailed a recent skirmish he had won with one of the enemy raiding columns. That was fine, and the general had read through the account with some relish. Then he had reached the section where the centurion reported on the situation in Calleva. Despite Macro's attempt to sound reassuring, by the time Plautius had finished the report his anxiety was fully aroused.
'Sir!'
General Plautius turned round as the chief clerk entered through the entrance at the back of the tent.
'Well?'
'Five days ago, sir.'
'Five days?' Plautius said quietly. Behind him lightning flickered over the deserted farmland. Moments later the thunder cracked and the clerk flinched.
'Quintus, would you mind explaining why this took five days to come to my attention?'
'It seemed like a low-priority report, sir.'
'Did you read it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'All of it?'
The clerk was silent for a moment. 'I can't remember, sir.'
'I see. This isn't very satisfactory, is it, Quintus?'
'No, sir.'
The general stared at him a moment, until the clerk could no longer meet his eyes and looked down, shamed.
'Make sure that every report is read in its entirety from now on. I will not tolerate this kind of cock-up again.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now fetch me Tribune Quintillus.'
'Tribune Quintillus, sir?'
'Caius Quintillus. Joined the Ninth a few days ago. You should find him in their mess. I'll speak to him in my private quarters at his earliest convenience. Go.'
The clerk turned and hurried out of the tent, keen to get away from his general as quickly as possible. As Plautius watched him disappear through the tent flaps he wondered at his leniency. A few years ago he'd have broken the man back to the ranks for that kind of error. He must be going soft. Further proof of his failings as a commander in the field.
The storm was right over the camp as Tribune Quintillus read through the report. Lightning flashed white at the gap in the curtains left open at the entrance to the general's tent. For the instant of each burst of brilliant light the raindrops outside were held still like weightless shards of twinkling glass in a lurid white-washed world. Then the lightning was gone. At once thunder cracked and boomed, rattling the goblets resting on the table between the two officers. Then there was just the drumming of the rain on the leather tent and the moan of the wind.
General Plautius studied the man sitting opposite, head bowed over the scroll as the tribune scrutinised the report. Quintillus came from one of the older families that still owned several vast estates south of Rome. The tribune was the latest in a long line of aristocrats with distinguished careers in the senate. His appointment to the Ninth Legion was in return for a large interest-free loan Quintillus' father had made to General Plautius some years earlier. But there was more to the appointment than the settling of an old debt. The tribune had connections to the Imperial Palace and the only reason why any aristocrat would cultivate such connections was because he was driven by ambition. Very well, Plautius reflected, an ambitious man was generally a ruthless man, and that would serve the general's current purpose well.
'Most interesting, I'm sure,' Quintillus said, placing the scroll down on the table and gracefully sweeping up his goblet in the same gesture. 'But might I ask what this has to do with me, sir?'
'Everything. I'm sending you to Calleva at first light.'
'Calleva?' For the briefest instant a look of surprise flashed across the tribune's fine features, and then the mask of supreme indifference dropped back in place. 'Well, why not? It would be nice to take in some of the local culture, before we eradicate it…'
'Quite,' Plautius smiled. 'But do try not to give the impression when you meet the natives that alliance with Rome is necessarily a euphemism for surrender. Tends not to go down very well.'
'I'll do my best…'
'… Or be killed in the attempt.' The general's smile had disappeared and there was no mistaking the serious tenor their conversation had taken on. Quintillus took a sip and lowered his cup, watching his superior intently.
'You have something of a reputation as a smooth operator, Quintillus. That is precisely the skill I need for this task. I hope your reputation has been fully earned.'
The tribune nodded modestly.
'Good. You only arrived a few days ago, I recall.'
'Ten days ago, sir.'
'Ten days. Not much time to familiarise yourself with our operations, then?'
'No, sir,' Quintillus admitted.
'Well, never mind. Narcissus speaks highly of you.'
'That's uncommonly generous of him.'
'Yes… very uncommon. That's why I've chosen you. I need a good pair of eyes and ears on the ground in Calleva. Centurion Macro is understandably reticent in expressing his concern about the firmness of King Verica's grip on his people. He's enjoying his independent command and doesn't want senior officers breathing down his neck. To be fair, he's doing an excellent job. He's raised a scratch force of Atrebatans, and they've already scored a victory over the Durotrigans. Quite an achievement.'