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bitterness.
    ‘What else?’
    ‘The grain supplies are running low. Four days of full ration left. Also the armourer has complained about the leather he’s been having to use for repairs to the men’s segmented armour.’
    ‘What’s wrong?’
    ‘Damp’s got to it. Most of our stock is useless. Replacement straps keep breaking.’
    ‘Then have him draw more from stores.’
    Macro clicked his tongue. ‘That’s just it. He can’t draw them from the Fourteenth’s stores because the quartermaster refuses to let him.’
    Cato closed his eyes. ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he reckons my cohort is on detached duty, in which case we are to draw on the escort column’s stores.’
    ‘But we don’t have any leather.’
    ‘That’s not his problem, he says.’
    Cato hissed and opened his eyes. ‘You spoke to him then?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Nothing doing. He suggested I take it up with my commanding officer, and so here I am.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Macro grinned. ‘Goes with the rank, sir.’
    ‘I’ll see what can be done about it at headquarters, after the general’s briefing is over.’ Cato folded his arms. ‘Is that all?’
    ‘For now, sir.’
    ‘Then we’re done. Thank you, Centurion.’
    Macro saluted and left the tent, leaving Cato to give vent to his frustrations. He raised his eyes and briefly prayed to Jupiter, best and greatest, that he would not be burdened with escorting the baggage train for much longer. It was bad enough that his two units were woefully under-strength, low on supplies and their needs were largely ignored. What was worse was the nature of the duty itself, constantly having to cajole and bully the contracted mule drivers to get the supply wagons moving, herding the merchants, wine sellers, prostitutes and slave dealers along in the wake of the main body of the army. Frequently having to resolve disputes between them and cracking a few heads together whenever any arguments broke out that threatened to stop their advance along the muddy track churned up the boots of the legionaries marching at the head of the column.
    Cato stepped out of the tent and surveyed the scene before him. Dusk was closing in over the Silurian mountains, painting the sky with a faint lilac hue. The army had halted during the afternoon to make camp and now that the last defences had been prepared, it was settling down for the night. Due to the narrowness of the valley floor the soldiers had been obliged to construct a long thin rampart rather than the usual regular rectangle. As a result, the baggage train and the haphazard sprawl of tents and shelters of the camp followers stretched out on either side, beyond the regular lines of the tents belonging to the men of the escort detachment. The horses of the Thracians were contentedly chewing on their evening feed in a roped-off enclosure.
    To his right, two hundred paces away, were more ordered lines of tents where the two cohorts of the rearguard were camped. A similar distance to the left were the long rows of tents belonging to the main body of the army, as neatly ordered as the ground allowed, and arranged about their commanding officer’s tent. The largest tent that Cato could see was on a small rise, over half a mile away: the headquarters of General Ostorius. Scores of fires had been lit, and the glow of the flames pricked out of the gathering veil of darkness. Looking up, beyond the staked parapet running along the rampart, Cato could see small parties of horsemen from another cavalry unit on the slopes surrounding the camp, some starkly outlined against the fading glow of the setting sun. And beyond them, out there in the wilderness of these mountains, lay the army of Caratacus that the Romans were pursuing – for the moment anyway, Cato thought. He had fought the Catuvellaunian king before and had learned to respect him. Caratacus might yet spring a surprise on them. Cato smiled grimly. In fact, it would be a surprise if he didn’t.
    The thin brassy notes of a cornu cut