quartermaster.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.
‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.
A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.
‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’
Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.
‘Officers! On me!’
Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.
‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.
Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’
‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’
The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.
‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.
Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’
Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’
‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro
‘Yes, sir.’
Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.
‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.
A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.
‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’
Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.
‘Officers! On me!’
Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.
‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
T he general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.
Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’
‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’
The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.
‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.
Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’
Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’
‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro
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