A damp clinging mist rose from the ground during the night and, by the time the second watch was sounded, a thin veil of white cloaked the ground. The watery red smudges of campfires silhouetted the forms of Vitellius and his bodyguard, Pulcher. The tribune handed Macro a small tablet.
'There's your authorisation. It's countersigned by the general so you won't have any trouble with our pickets, though I doubt this will hold much sway over any Britons you may encounter.'
Macro did not smile as he tucked the tablet inside his knapsack. Bloody typical of a staff officer to make fun of men he might well be sending to their deaths.
'Well then, Centurion, I trust you will succeed in your mission – whatever it may be.'
Macro nodded.
'Good luck.'
Macro saluted and turned back to the still shapes of his men waiting like shadows in the ghostly mist. The rearmost man was hissing abuse at the pair of mules detailed to pull the cart. Disturbed from a well-deserved rest after a traumatic day at sea, the mules were not on their best behaviour and their long ears twitched nervously as steamy breath plumed from their nostrils. Macro gave the signal to move off and the driver tapped the lead mule on the rump with a javelin butt. With a grunt, both beasts strained against their harnesses. The cart had been stripped bare of any loose attachments and the axles thoroughly greased so that the only sound came from the soft crunching of the ground under the wheels. The mist further deadened the sounds of the night and to the men of the detachment the swishing of their footsteps through long wet grass seemed abnormally loud. Behind them, the fires of the Second Legion faded into nothingness and before long theirs were the only man-made sounds to break the night.
For Cato, born and raised in the world's greatest city, the quiet was dreadfully oppressive: his keen imagination magnified every owl hoot or faint rustle of grass into a deadly Briton silently stalking the Romans until the moment was ripe for the kill. He marched behind his centurion and, not for the first time, envied the way Macro strode about his business with a confident air of invulnerability – which was ironic, given the number of scars that he bore.
Macro's little column marched on, quietly calling out the required password when they were challenged by a sentry on the picket lines who looked curiously at the looming bulk of the cart gently rumbling along behind. Then the strange patrol was abruptly lost in the clammy fog, and very quickly even the sounds of the cart were swallowed up.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
It was only when the picket came to be relieved that word of the strange detachment filtered back to headquarters. Vespasian was confronted by a puzzled senior watch officer who wanted confirmation that Macro was acting under orders.
'Twelve men and a cart, you say?' Vespasian asked irritably – since there was a more pressing matter that needed immediate attention.
'Yes, sir.'
'That's very strange. Doesn't sound like a reconnaissance patrol to me.'
'No, sir. That's what I thought.' The watch officer nodded. 'Want me to send a cavalry patrol after them?'
'No point. Anyway we can't spare the men right now. The scouts have lost contact with one of the British columns – we need every cavalryman we've got to track them down.'
'I see. So what should I do, sir?'
'Enter them in the watch log, of course. Until we know otherwise, I think it's best that we regard them as deserters.'
'Deserters?' The watch officer almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. 'But they'll be cut down by the very first Britons they come across, sir.'
The cold eyes of the legate warned him against uttering another word.
'Deserters is what I said. And if they're caught then I want them brought straight to me. They're not to be seen or spoken to by anyone.'
'Yes, sir.'
Once the watch officer had left, Vespasian frowned. He felt guilty about branding Macro and his men as deserters. But if they failed to complete their mission they would have to be silenced to prevent any word of the wagon's existence reaching other ears. The legate tried not to give the centurion and his mission any further thought. At present, the movements of the British were a source of considerably more worry. As soon as the invasion force had landed Plautius had sent out his cavalry scouts to locate the natives' army and keep him supplied with precise information on its size and movements. But the dense fog of last night and the lingering mist at dawn had allowed a large British force of chariots and infantry, some nine or ten thousand, to slip away from the Roman scouts and the army's cavalry commander had been desperately struggling to reestablish contact throughout the night. Word had just come to Vespasian that the missing column was believed to be under Togodumnus – brother of Caratacus, the leader of the British forces, and no fool, if the British йmigrйs accompanying the Roman army were to be believed.
A shaft of orange light fell across the papers in front of him and Vespasian looked up to see that the rising sun had found a chink in the tent. It was going to be a difficult day but, once he found time, someone was going to answer for the shoddy way the tent had been erected.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
As the distant skyline lightened with the coming of dawn, Macro softly ordered a halt and the men slumped down along the side of the track. The night march had taken a heavy toll on their nerves and the men were glad to see the darkness beginning to dissolve into the glow of the coming sunrise. After leaving the pickets behind, they had twice had to hurry from the track at the sound of approaching horses, but none could tell whether it had been Roman or British scouts passing as the hooves thundered by in the darkness. For the rest of the night they had marched along the track as quietly as they might, fully expecting to be attacked at any moment. The first shafts of orange light fell upon Cato's worn expression as he chewed on a strip of dried pork. He turned to Macro.
'Much further to go, sir?'
'Should be there by nightfall. See there.' He pointed out across the rolling countryside into the distance where a low, flat expanse still lay underneath a blanket of fog, save for the odd hummock of land that rose like an island from a sea of milk. 'That's where the marsh begins.'
'And how are we supposed to find the wagon amongst that lot, sir?'
'We follow this track, until we find a depression in the track where it enters a small copse. The wagon's hidden in the marsh by a burned-out oak stump. Shouldn't be too difficult to locate.'
Looking down the track to the point where it finally disappeared into the bank of fog, Cato somehow doubted that the search would be as easily resolved as that. The distant marsh waited for them with a cold, sleepy inertia that filled Cato with sudden superstitious fear. This was the vision of the underworld that he heard of as a child on his father's knee. Wraith-like shadows curled about the darker shapes of dimly seen trees as the thinning mist shifted on the lightest of airs.
Macro stared intently down the track and then quickly scanned the surrounding countryside for any signs of movement. To the left, the land rolled gently away and in the distance the sea shimmered, off to the right the sparsely cleared farmland gave way to a distant forest. Nothing moved. The Britons had made sure that all farm animals had been swept from the invader's path and every store of grain had been torched. Well then, Macro decided, it was safe to move. He stood up.
'On your feet, you idle buggers. There's work to do.'
Rising wearily from the grass the men formed up. The centurion strode off down the track and his men followed, tired and tense. The track sloped down towards the marsh and the mules had to be tightly reined in to prevent the cart from gathering speed. At the edge of the marsh, the track narrowed so that the cart's wheels crushed the grass on either side. The ground beneath was soft and Cato could feel it give slightly under his boots as the little column moved into the mist. In a short space of time the vistas of the British countryside had vanished and an indefinite white horizon hemmed them in on all sides. At their backs, the sun struggled to make itself felt through the dense haze and the air was cold and clammy on their skin. No-one spoke and the only sounds were the snorts of the mules as they hauled their burden through the soft peat sucking at the cart's wheels.
The narrow track wound its way through the marsh. Where the ground was too soft for vehicles to negotiate, a thin corduroy road of logs had been laid down and covered with shingle. With annoying regularity, first one wheel of the cart, and then the other, stuck in the black oozing muck on each side of the path. The legionaries had to down spears and shields to lay their shoulders to the thick wooden spokes and strain every sinew to break the cart free and roll it back astride the track. Soon the men were covered in foul-smelling mud and desperately tired. Macro allowed them a short break and they hunched down miserably on a small mossy hummock surrounded by a dank expanse of shallow water. From the angle of the pale yellow disc hovering over the mist Macro realised that it was nearly midday, yet looking at the exhausted men slumped around him he knew that he could not march them much further and still expect them to dig out the wagon once it had been found. It should be near now, if the directions he had been given were accurate.
A sudden lightness in the air caused him to look up and he saw that the sun was at last making an impact on the mist. Patches of brightness began to break up the white swirls, and here and there the air cleared for two or three hundred paces.
'Cato!'
'Sir?'
'Get up on that mound over there. See if you can spot that tree trunk.' He indicated a mossy lump beside the track and Cato rose reluctantly. Tentatively placing a foot on the soft green surface, he tested it to make sure it would bear his weight.
'Don't fuck about lad!' Macro said irritably. 'Get up.'
With arms stretched out to break his fall Cato tensed his knees and slowly straightened up. The surface beneath the moss was surprisingly firm and he stood erect and stared at the haunting landscape about them. Ahead the track wound down a small slope and all but disappeared into a particularly foul black morass. Even at first glance it was clear that the cart had come as far as it could along the track. Macro wasn't going to like that.
'See anything that looks like our trunk?'
'No, sir.'
'What about that, over there?' Macro pointed to where a gap had opened in the mist to reveal several dead trees, starkly black and crooked against the thick white backdrop.
'I'm not sure, sir.'
'Well look bloody harder then!'
Cato squinted his tired eyes, but it was difficult to make out much detail and the mist was closing in around the dead trees once again. Instinctively he leaned forwards to try and see better. With a muffled crunch the moss suddenly gave way beneath him and Cato pitched headlong on to the track, arms outstretched. He came down hard and the breath was momentarily knocked out of him.
'All right?' Macro leaned over to help him back on to his feet.
'Yes, sir.'
'You know, Cato,' Macro smiled, 'I've met some clumsy soldiers in my time, but you…'
'It wasn't me, sir! Bloody ground just gave way.'
'I see.' Macro turned to look at the place Cato had fallen from. A large section of moss had collapsed to reveal a crumbling round mass of decayed vegetation.
'There, sir. See?' a piqued Cato protested. 'The whole thing's rotten.'
He fell silent for a second, and then curiously pulled a clump of moss away, and then another, tossing them excitedly to one side.
Macro smiled. 'No need to take it so personally.'
Cato ignored him and continued to clear the moss away until, a few moments later, the rotten remains of a tree stump became visible. He stood up and quickly glanced around; there were several other similar mounds covered in moss on either side of the track. He hurried over to the nearest and kicked the moss away to reveal the remains of another ancient tree stump, then looked up at Macro with a grin.
'What on earth?' The centurion was startled by the young man's actions, which were eccentric even by his normal standards of behaviour.
'Sir! Don't you see?'
'I see you've finally gone mad.'
'They're tree stumps, sir! Tree stumps!'
Cato paused, waiting for his comments to provoke a reaction, a wide grin splitting his mud-spattered face. For all the world, Macro could not help feeling a pang of paternal affection. Cato looked like a little boy – it was impossible to be angry with him.
'Tree stumps?' Macro replied instead. 'Yes, well, I can see that they're tree stumps. Probably been cut down for use on the track.'
'Exactly, sir! Exactly. Cut down. How many of them would you say?'
Macro looked around. 'Ten, twelve or so.'
'Do you think that ten or twelve trees might be enough to constitute a copse?'
Macro stared at him and a familiar cold tingle traced its way down the back of his neck. 'Everyone on their feet!'
The legionaries, tired and filthy, could have looked even less excited had they put their minds to it, but rose to their feet nonetheless.
'The optio thinks we're at the right spot. Start looking for the remains of the cart off the side of the track.'
The legionaries looked at the dull, gloomy morass surrounding them, and then back to their centurion as if waiting for more helpful directions.
'Well, get on with it!' Macro said firmly. 'It's not going to bloody well find itself!'
Without waiting for the others, the centurion started attacking the nearest mound of moss at the side of the track, wrenching away handfuls of the moist growth and hurling them to one side. The others reluctantly followed suit and soon the pleasant little hummock of grass was well on the way to utter ruin. Clods of moss and earth flew through the air and yet more filth adhered to the legionaries as they struggled to unearth any sign of the lost wagon. The sun slowly declined from its midday position with little further effect on the mist that clung to the vast expanse of marsh. The legionaries had found nothing and one by one they sat down and surveyed the dark brown debris of peat and rotten wood that was all they had to show for their exertions. Macro let them stop without a word and squatted down on his heels, fixing Cato with an accusing stare.
'I only said it might be the place we're looking for,' Cato said guiltily. 'I mean, it seemed a reasonable guess, given the way things are going.'
'Guess?' Pyrax muttered angrily. 'You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself earlier on!'
'Maybe it was a mistake.' Cato shrugged. 'But where else can the wagon have gone? From the look of the track up ahead there's no way it can have gone any further than this, and how many other trees have we passed? None. It has to be close by.'
'Where then?' Macro swept his arm round at the excavations. 'We've looked.'
'Well, we just haven't found it yet.'
'Fuck this!' Pyrax stood up angrily. 'Look, Centurion, the wagon isn't here. Any fool can see that. Either we've missed it earlier on the track, or it was never here in the first place. Why don't we just get back to the Legion?'
The other legionaries grumbled in support.
Macro looked down between his feet and thought for a moment before he rose stiffly. 'No, not yet at least. The lad's right. If it is anywhere then it has to be here. We'll have a rest and then have another dig. If we find nothing by dusk we'll head back.'
Pyrax swore and spat at Cato's feet. His fist clenched.
'That's my decision, Pyrax,' Macro intervened firmly. 'Now back down and have a rest. That's an order. Understand me?'
Pyrax remained silent, glaring coldly at the optio. Then he turned towards Macro for a moment and nodded.
'I asked if you understood me?'
'Yes, sir!'
'Good. Now sit down.'
With a last glare at the optio, Pyrax turned away and slumped down with the other legionaries who all looked angrily at Cato.
It was more than the young optio could bear for the moment and he wandered down to the edge of the swamp to escape the immediate aura of hostility assaulting him from all sides. The remains of a sapling protruded out of the dark surface at the edge of the hummock and hung at an angle towards the track. With a deep sigh of frustration Cato leaned back against the sapling, firmly intending to empty his mind of immediate concerns and take in the view, such as it was. The moment the mass of his weight fetched up against the sapling it gave way with a loud creak and fell down on to the grass bank of the hummock. For a moment Cato felt himself toppling forwards for a second time, but a frantic windmill gesture kept him on his feet.
'Cato!' Macro shouted out. 'Oh, for fuck's sake! Can't you keep on your bloody feet for a little longer? I swear I have seen completely pissed sailors less clumsy than you.'
'Sorry, sir. I thought this tree could bear my weight.'
'Tree?' Macro asked, then looked down in the grass where Cato indicated. 'That's no bloody tree.'
He bent down and examined the long shaft of wood. Under the lichen, grime and scraps of moss the wood was far too smooth and regular for a sapling. At the end of the shaft he wiped away the dirt and exposed an iron cap. A little more work revealed a foot-long iron collar with two handles protruding on opposite sides of the shaft.
'Well, Cato,' he began, 'you may not be the most agile lad to have joined the legion, but your clumsiness has its moments. Do you know what this is?'
Cato shook his head, still a little bemused that his sapling had managed to sprout ironware.
'It's a wagon shaft end. And where there's a wagon shaft end it's reasonable to suppose that there might be a wagon. Let's see.'
Macro picked the shaft of wood up and raised it above his head, following its line down to where it disappeared in the marsh. He gave it an experimental tug, but even though the shaft rose up and down it was clearly fixed to something at its base. Macro let it drop back into the grass and turned to face the other legionaries who were watching him with weary curiosity.
'Last time then, lads! On your feet and get over here. Seems the optio was right after all. Not that I ever seriously doubted him.'
Were it not for the unreasonable fact that assaulting a superior officer was a capital offence, Cato would have hit him.