‘Maybe. But I dare say there’ll be other legates sharing the same fate unless something’s done about these raids on our supply lines.’

Both men fell silent for a moment, pondering the implications of the enemy’s switch in strategy. For Macro it meant the inconvenience of reduced rations and the frustration of losing ground, as the legions would have to retreat and construct more thorough defences of their communication lines before taking the offensive once more. Worse still, General Plautius’ legions would have to set about the ruthless destruction of the tribes one at a time. The conquest would therefore proceed at snail’s pace; he and Cato would have died of old age before the multifarious tribes of this benighted island were finally subdued.

Cato’s thoughts skated over similar ground to his comrade’s, but swiftly moved on to a more strategic level. This particular extension to the Empire might well have been ill-judged. Of course there were short-term benefits for the Emperor in that it had shored up his uncertain popularity back in Rome. But despite Caratacus’ capital, Camulodunum, falling into Roman hands, the enemy had shown no great hurry to negotiate, let alone surrender. Indeed, their resolve seemed to have stiffened: under the single-minded leadership of Caratacus every effort was bent towards frustrating the advance of the Eagles. The whole enterprise was proving to be far costlier than the imperial general staff could ever have anticipated. It was clear to Cato that the logical thing to do was to exact a tribute and a promise of alliance from the British tribes and quit the island.

But that would not happen, not while the Emperor’s credibility was at stake. The legions, and their auxiliary cohorts would never be permitted to withdraw. At the same time reinforcements would be drip-fed into the campaign - just enough to keep up a marginal momentum over the natives. As ever, politics overrode all other imperatives. Cato sighed.

‘Heads up,’ Macro hissed, nodding towards the depot gateway.

In the flickering glow of the braziers each side of the track a small body of men marched out into the street. First came four legionaries, then Vespasian, and then another four legionaries. The small party turned in the direction of Verica’s enclosure and tramped off into the darkness, watched by the two centurions.

‘Wonder what that’s all about,’ muttered Cato.

‘Courtesy call?’

‘I doubt the legate will get a warm reception.’

Macro shrugged with an evident lack of concern about the cordiality of Rome’s relations with one of the very few tribes prepared to ally themselves to Claudius. He concentrated on a far more pressing issue.

‘Another drink? My treat.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Better not. I’m tired. Best get back to the hospital, before some bloody orderly decides to reallocate our beds.’

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Four