Cato slipped Macro’s arm over his shoulder and made his way towards the main entrance, keeping as far from the dogs as possible, while the beasts tore into another victim. Outside the hall Macro could take it no more. He wrenched himself free, staggered a few steps away from his friend and doubled over, vomiting. While Cato waited for Macro to finish, a steady stream of Atrebatan nobles left the great hall, struggling to hide their feelings of horror and disgust as, behind them, fresh screams split the night air.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Sixteen

‘When did this arrive, exactly?’ General Plautius tossed the report on to the desk of his chief clerk. The man turned the scrolled parchment the right way up, and by the light of an oil lamp he ran his finger across the top until he found the index notation.

‘Just a moment, please, sir,’ the clerk said, rising from his chair.

The general nodded, and turned away to stare out through the tent flaps. The sky was overcast and even though the sun had only just set it was already quite dark. Dark and hot. The humid air was oppressively uncomfortable, and threatened a break in the good weather of the last few days. Much as a storm might clear the prickly discomfort in the atmosphere, the general dreaded the effect it would have on his transport vehicles. Of all the places he had fought in his career, this ghastly island had to be one of the worst as far as the weather went. Even though this land never knew the long savage cold of a German winter or the seething heat of the plains of Syria, it had a peculiar discomfort all of its own.

The problem with Britain was that the island was always more or less damp, the general decided. A few hours of rainfall left the ground slick with mud, and any attempt to move even a small force of men and vehicles across it soon churned up a glutinous bog, which sucked the army down and caked everything in filth. And this was on the good ground. Plautius had seen enough of the British marshes to know how impenetrable they could be to his forces. The natives, however, had made good use of their local knowledge and had sited a number of their forward camps on whatever firm ground existed in the vast spread of wetlands west of the upper reaches of the Tamesis. From these bases Caratacus was launching his raiding columns through the thin Roman screen of fortlets. They struck at the legions’ supply convoys, destroyed the farms and settlements of those tribes allied to Rome and, when ambition caused the warlike Celtic blood to rush to their heads, they even took on the odd Roman patrol or minor fortification.