‘I think he really meant it,’ Vespasian continued. ‘I really do. I dread to reflect on what might have happened if they’d been killed. The whole invasion would have degenerated into a massive effort to wreak vengeance on the Druids. Not that he’d ever admit it. And while he might not have provided you with a reward, he did authorise me to arrange a decoration, and organise a little adjustment in rank.’

Vespasian laid the bundle he was holding on the end of Macro’s bed and carefully unwrapped the folds. First out came two phalerae, ebony inlaid with gold and silver, one each for Macro and Cato.

While Cato reverently handled the medallion, his legate continued unwrapping the bundle.

‘One last thing, for you, Optio.’ The legate suddenly drew up, smiling to himself.

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing. I just realised that’s the last time I can call you that.’

Cato frowned, not yet understanding. Vespasian flicked back the last fold of wool to reveal a helmet, with a transverse crest, and a vine stick.

‘Got them from the supplies this morning,’ Vespasian explained. ‘As soon as Plautius confirmed the promotion. I’ll put them over in the corner with the rest of your kit, if that’s all right.’

‘No, sir,’ replied Cato. ‘Pass them to me, please, sir. I’d like to see them.’

The legate smiled as he handed them over. ‘Of course you would.’

Cato raised the helmet up in both hands and stared at it, swelling with pride and emotion. So much so that he had to cuff away a tear that was moistening in the corner of his eye.

‘Hope it fits,’ said Vespasian. ‘But if it doesn’t, take it back to stores and demand one that does. I doubt those officious clerks will be giving you much grief from now on, Centurion Cato.’

Author’s Note

One of the most enduring symbols of pre-Roman Britain is the huge complex of earthworks at Maiden Castle in Dorset. It impresses the eye of any visitor and stirs an imaginative empathy towards those who would have had to assault such apparently daunting defences. Yet Maiden Castle, and many other hill forts, were no match for the legions and were stormed and reduced within a short space of time. One wonders why the Durotriges continued to cling to their belief in the defensive properties of hill forts even as they were being systematically destroyed by the Romans. It was not as if they lacked the example of a more effective method of defying the legions. Caratacus was enjoying far more success with his guerrilla tactics. Despite such evidence, the Durotriges remained bottled up in their hill forts when the Second Legion was unleashed upon them. Perhaps blind faith in the promise of ultimate salvation given by their spiritual leaders kept them there.