The next day it began to drizzle. Gaius snuffled and coughed as they moved forward through the sodden landscape, thinking that it was no wonder they said the tribesmen could dissolve into the heather at will. It seemed to him that the hills were dissolving into the sky, and the woods into the soil, and he and his horse into the mud through which they toiled.
At least, he thought dismally, he was riding. He pitied the legionaries who had to slog along this road weighted by all their weapons and gear. Sometimes they saw sheep on a hillside, or the little black cattle the natives herded, but except for an arrow that flashed by Gaius’s head from the trees as they were fording one of the streams, there was no sign of hostile forces anywhere.
“Good news for us, but maybe bad for the army,” the decurion who led his escort said somberly. “If the warriors aren’t guarding their own hunting runs, it can only mean they really have united at last. No one can deny they’re good enough fighters when their blood is up. If the tribes had been able to join forces when Caesar came, the Empire would still end on the coasts of Gaul.”
Gaius nodded and pulled his brick-colored cloak more tightly around him, wondering what fate had inspired Licinius to send his messages at just the moment when perhaps the most formidable confederation of British tribes ever to assemble was about to attack the army that Agricola had led north . . .
“You have news from Martius Julius Licinius? Tell me, is he well?” The man who emerged from the large leather tent was only of middle height, and without his armor almost slender, but despite the raindrops glittering in his graying hair and the shadows around his eyes, he projected an aura of authority that would have identified him even without the cloak, of scarlet so deep it was almost purple, that he wore.
“Gaius Macellius Severus Siluricus reporting, sir!” He drew himself up and saluted, ignoring the water that dripped from the brim of his helmet. “The Procurator is well, and sends you his dearest greetings. As you may read in his letters, sir —”
“Indeed.” Agricola held out his hand for the packet and smiled. “And best read under cover before they dissolve from damp. You must be wet as well, after your ride. Tacitus here will take you over to the officers’ campfire and see to your billeting.” He indicated a tall, saturnine young man whom Gaius later learned was his son-in-law. “Now that you are here, you had best wait for the conclusion of the fighting so that I can send a report home with you again.”
Gaius blinked as the Governor withdrew into his tent. He had forgotten the man’s charm, or perhaps it had never been directed at him personally when he was just one junior officer among many. Then Tacitus took his arm, and, wincing a little as his stiffening thigh muscles protested, Gaius followed him.
It was very good to sit around a campfire with his brother officers once more, eating hot lentil stew and hard bread and drinking sour wine. Only now did Gaius realize how much he had missed that camaraderie. Once the other tribunes had been reminded of his previous campaign experience and realized he was not just a parade-ground soldier they accepted him, and as the wine jug went round, even the rain that was still beading on his cloak did not seem so cold. The tension he sensed around him was only to be expected, and morale seemed high. The loricas of the men on duty were scoured and shining despite the weather, and new paint gleamed on battered shields. The young staff officers with whom he was sitting seemed serious, but not afraid.
“Do you think the General will be able to bring Calgacus to battle?” he asked.
One of the other men laughed. “More likely to be the other way round. Can’t you hear ’em?” He gestured into the windy darkness. “They’re up there all right, howling and painting themselves blue! The scouts say there’s thirty thousand men up on Graupius -warriors of the Votadini and Selgovae, Novantae and Dobunni and all the other little clans we’ve been chasing these past four years, and Caledonians from northern tribes whose names even they don’t know. Calgacus will give us a battle, no doubt of it; he has to, before they all start remembering old feuds and begin to fight each other instead!”