office, he sat down and took out a blank waxed tablet. Picking up a stylus, he composed a letter to his mother. The sentiments he offered were simple and honest; regret for the events of the past, and hope that she would be proud that he had died with honour. It was a short farwell, and when he had finished the handful of lines pressed into the wax, Macro read them over, then shut the tablet and bound it together. He took it down to the underground strongroom and placed it carefully under one of the chests of records. As he emerged from headquarters, he felt a calmness in his heart, a sense that all but one of his duties had been carried out.
The fires burned on through the hours of night, the flames peaking and then slowly beginning to subside. Just after midnight the tower groaned and slowly lurched out towards the slope before crashing across the causeway and into the ditch, provoking a cheer from the enemy beyond. After a while the cheering faded and the only sound was the crackle of the flames, steadily diminishing. For a while a few of the timber frames of the gatehouse still stood to remind Macro of its outline. Then they, too, collapsed on to the shrinking mass beneath the flames. As the first smear of grey light spread along the eastern horizon, Macro donned his helmet, took up his shield and climbed the rampart to join one of the legionaries tasked with keeping watch on the enemy. Glancing warily over the parapet, Macro could see the wicker shelters and a handful of the enemy looking on from behind.
‘Rest of ’em fell back a while ago, sir,’ the sentry reported. ‘Resting up while the fires burned out.’
Macro nodded. ‘They’ll be back soon enough.’
The sentry was quiet for a moment before he responded. ‘Better that it’s over with quickly.’
‘Just as long as you take a few of the bastards with you, eh?’
They exchanged a weary smile before continuing to watch for any sign of the enemy stirring to make their final assault on the fort. Little by little dawn stole across the horizon and the darkness began to withdraw, revealing the slope below the fort, and then the parade ground, and the valley beyond. A landscape almost devoid of life and movement. Only a handful of figures were visible, picking over the ground before hurrying away towards the far end of the valley. At length even those behind the wicker shelters fell back, formed a small column and marched off.
‘What the fuck are they playing at?’ Macro growled suspiciously, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.
‘Sir!’ The sentry stood up and pointed to the east, towards the head of the valley. Macro turned and saw the head of a column of horsemen cresting the pass and descending the track that led to the fort. For a moment he dared not give in to hope. He uttered no word, not even as the other sentries strung out along those sections of the wall still standing started to shout in excited voices, calling the other men up on to the wall to see for themselves. Centurion Petillius ran up to join Macro, squinting towards the column edging towards them like a giant centipede.
‘Ours?’
‘Ours?’ Macro laughed harshly. ‘Of course they’re fucking ours.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Legate Quintatus surveyed the bodies scattered across the ground and in the ditch before turning his gaze towards the gaping ruins where the gatehouse and several sections of the wall had burned down. His nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of charred timber as he turned to face Macro.
‘Must have been quite a fight, Centurion.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied flatly.
‘This is the kind of action that makes heroes out of the men who fought it,’ the legate continued. ‘I’m sure there will be something in it for you when my report reaches Governor Ostorius, and he sends it on to Rome. The garrison at Bruccium has distinguished itself and there will be awards to fix to the standards of your cohort, and your Thracians as well.’ He turned and flashed a smile at Cato. ‘The Blood Crows have won themselves something of a fierce reputation. Of course much of that was down to the efforts of Centurion Quertus. It is a shame he did not live to see this day.’
‘Yes, sir. It is a shame.’
‘Never mind. I’m sure his name will live on.’
Cato nodded. ‘I’m certain of it.’
Quintatus turned his attention back to Macro. ‘You have your orders. Make sure that the fort is completely destroyed. I don’t want any of the enemy occupying this position after we leave the valley. That will be all, Centurion.’
Macro saluted and turned away to make his way back through the breach and into the fort. The legate stared after him for a moment and shrugged.
‘A hard fighter, that man, but something of a surly character.’
Cato stifled his anger at this description of his friend. ‘The centurion is exhausted, sir. He can hardly be expected to provide stimulating conversation in his state.’
Quintatus rounded on him sharply. ‘By all means defend your officers, but I’ll thank you not to express yourself in such an insubordinate manner. You, and the centurion, may have come out of this heroes but I advise you not to test my good will too far. Do we understand each other?’
‘Yes, sir. Clearly.’
‘Very well. Once your men have completed the destruction of Bruccium, have them join the rearguard. There’ll be no time to rest them, I’m afraid. We have to march fast if we are to keep up with Caratacus. We can’t afford to lose contact and let him give us the slip again. Ostorius would not be very forgiving.’ Quintatus smiled. ‘Even though it was the governor who lost track of him the first time. It would be gratifying to put an end to Caratacus before Ostorius reached the scene. Most gratifying indeed.’
Cato felt a stab of irritation. The commanders of armies had no right to pursue their political rivalries in the field. Men’s lives were at stake, and a general owed it to those whose fates he controlled to focus his thoughts on the successful outcome of the campaign. The defeat of the enemy was all that mattered. Who claimed the credit for it was irrelevant. Or at least it should be. But there were times when it seemed that war was only ever a continuation of politics, Cato mused. No more so than in Rome where the two fields so frequently overlapped in the careers of those at the highest levels of society.
Legate Quintatus was surveying the column of his army marching past the ruined fort, thousands of men, mules, horses and wagons heavily laden with the accoutrements of war.
‘We have wasted too many years trying to bring peace to this province. There has been little chance to win glory thanks to the Emperor claiming that the place was conquered a few months after we first landed. But there’s a world of difference between the official view and the reality on the ground, eh? I’ll be glad to be posted to a frontier where a reputation can be made. But I am getting ahead of myself.’ Quintatus made a self-deprecating gesture with his hand. ‘First we must complete the destruction of the enemy. With Caratacus beaten we can finally put an end to native resistance on this miserable island.’
‘I hope so, sir.’
The legate turned to frown at Cato. ‘You doubt it?’
Cato framed his reply carefully. ‘We have to defeat Caratacus first, sir. We’ll only know if it is all over after that has happened. Even then, he has proved to be a resourceful enemy. Who knows? He may still have plenty of surprises up his sleeve. There are other tribes who haven’t paid homage to Rome. And then there’s the Druids, always ready to stir up hatred towards us.’ He shrugged. ‘I fear that it will be a while yet before Britannia knows peace.’
Quintatus let out an impatient sigh. ‘Your spirit of optimism is somewhat less than awe-inspiring, Prefect Cato. I am sure you are a delight to have around when the morale of the men needs a lift.’
‘Optimism is a commendable enough quality, sir, but the hard realities of a situation seldom pay heed to good humour, in my experience.’
‘In your experience?’ The legate’s lips curled slightly in amusement. ‘I trust that you will live long enough to do justice to the term.’
Cato met his gaze steadily. ‘So do I, sir.’
