dangers, and pleasures, and that is a bond that is not lightly broken. Tell me, does Macro still resent my taking Prasutagus for my husband all those years ago? I tried to tell him at the time that I had little choice in the matter.’
‘Macro is Macro. It is not in him to bear those sorts of grudges. He had a strong affection for you, certainly, but you pledged yourself to another man and he felt a passing sorrow and anger, and then put the matter behind him. That is how he chooses to live. So I doubt he harbours any ill will towards you, or Prasutagus.’
‘I wish I could be so philosophical.’
Cato chuckled. ‘I doubt it’s a question of philosophy as far as Macro’s concerned. If you really want to rub him up the wrong way, then call him a philosopher to his face.’
Boudica laughed briefly, then grew reflective. ‘Still, I would like to think that his fondness for me was not cast aside quite so readily as you imply.’
Cato detected the regret in her voice and with a stab of guilt realised that he had never considered the prospect that his friend might inspire such feelings in Boudica. Macro was as fine a soldier as ever lived, and as loyal a friend. But he possessed few other qualities that Cato could imagine being of any attraction to a woman who did not earn her living on her back. He winced at the ignoble thought. Macro was his closest friend. He felt as close to him as a brother, or son.
A flare of light drew his attention towards a low ridge on the horizon where the molten glow of the sun was brilliant against a clear sky.
‘Quite beautiful,’ Boudica muttered.
‘It is.’ He nodded, but his mind was still working. The basis of a close friendship was impossible to define. And the same was true of love, it seemed. There was in Macro some ineffable quality that appealed to Boudica. Perhaps it was true of every person; they all possessed some quality of character that called out to its mate in another being . . .
‘Look!’ Boudica raised her hand and pointed to the west.
Cato thrust his introspection aside and saw a bright flicker in the gloom not far from the ridge behind which the sun had set. Then another appeared, and more until the wavering flames seemed to form a shallow ellipse, with a line leading off to the side. The fires had been seen by one of the garrison’s sentries and he sounded the alarm, clattering the point of his javelin against a small bronze cauldron hanging beside the outpost’s gate. A moment later the optio roused himself and bellowed at his soldiers to man the palisade. The door to the nearest barracks crashed open as Macro raced outside, crested helmet in one hand and mail armour hanging over his other arm. Behind him came the rest of the Romans, the last of them making way for Ostorius, just as Prasutagus and his warriors burst out of their quarters and scrambled up the turf inner wall and on to the boarded walk behind the sharpened stakes of the palisade. The sentry continued sounding the alarm a moment longer before Macro shouted to him.
‘Shut that fucking racket up!’
As the last tuneless note died away, Macro lowered his helmet and struggled into his chain-mail vest. ‘Make your report, man! What did you see?’
Before the sentry could reply, Cato drew a breath and called from the watchtower, ‘Fires to the west!’
As the last of the men lined the palisade, Ostorius struggled on to the walkway, breathing heavily. The fires, scores of them now, were well enough established to be clearly visible and there was a hush before one of the junior tribunes spoke up. ‘What is that? It looks like an army on the move.’
Ostorius coughed to clear his throat. ‘That’s Avibarius, I imagine.’
‘Aye, Roman,’ said Prasutagus, his deep voice carrying clearly. ‘It is.’ He glanced up to the watchtower and frowned as he caught sight of his wife. A moment later the structure swayed slightly as the giant Iceni warrior climbed the ladder and then squeezed on
‘Macro is Macro. It is not in him to bear those sorts of grudges. He had a strong affection for you, certainly, but you pledged yourself to another man and he felt a passing sorrow and anger, and then put the matter behind him. That is how he chooses to live. So I doubt he harbours any ill will towards you, or Prasutagus.’
‘I wish I could be so philosophical.’
Cato chuckled. ‘I doubt it’s a question of philosophy as far as Macro’s concerned. If you really want to rub him up the wrong way, then call him a philosopher to his face.’
Boudica laughed briefly, then grew reflective. ‘Still, I would like to think that his fondness for me was not cast aside quite so readily as you imply.’
Cato detected the regret in her voice and with a stab of guilt realised that he had never considered the prospect that his friend might inspire such feelings in Boudica. Macro was as fine a soldier as ever lived, and as loyal a friend. But he possessed few other qualities that Cato could imagine being of any attraction to a woman who did not earn her living on her back. He winced at the ignoble thought. Macro was his closest friend. He felt as close to him as a brother, or son.
A flare of light drew his attention towards a low ridge on the horizon where the molten glow of the sun was brilliant against a clear sky.
‘Quite beautiful,’ Boudica muttered.
‘It is.’ He nodded, but his mind was still working. The basis of a close friendship was impossible to define. And the same was true of love, it seemed. There was in Macro some ineffable quality that appealed to Boudica. Perhaps it was true of every person; they all possessed some quality of character that called out to its mate in another being . . .
‘Look!’ Boudica raised her hand and pointed to the west.
Cato thrust his introspection aside and saw a bright flicker in the gloom not far from the ridge behind which the sun had set. Then another appeared, and more until the wavering flames seemed to form a shallow ellipse, with a line leading off to the side. The fires had been seen by one of the garrison’s sentries and he sounded the alarm, clattering the point of his javelin against a small bronze cauldron hanging beside the outpost’s gate. A moment later the optio roused himself and bellowed at his soldiers to man the palisade. The door to the nearest barracks crashed open as Macro raced outside, crested helmet in one hand and mail armour hanging over his other arm. Behind him came the rest of the Romans, the last of them making way for Ostorius, just as Prasutagus and his warriors burst out of their quarters and scrambled up the turf inner wall and on to the boarded walk behind the sharpened stakes of the palisade. The sentry continued sounding the alarm a moment longer before Macro shouted to him.
‘Shut that fucking racket up!’
As the last tuneless note died away, Macro lowered his helmet and struggled into his chain-mail vest. ‘Make your report, man! What did you see?’
Before the sentry could reply, Cato drew a breath and called from the watchtower, ‘Fires to the west!’
As the last of the men lined the palisade, Ostorius struggled on to the walkway, breathing heavily. The fires, scores of them now, were well enough established to be clearly visible and there was a hush before one of the junior tribunes spoke up. ‘What is that? It looks like an army on the move.’
Ostorius coughed to clear his throat. ‘That’s Avibarius, I imagine.’
‘Aye, Roman,’ said Prasutagus, his deep voice carrying clearly. ‘It is.’ He glanced up to the watchtower and frowned as he caught sight of his wife. A moment later the structure swayed slightly as the giant Iceni warrior climbed the ladder and then squeezed on
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