Free The White Mare: The Dalraida Trilogy, Book One by Jules Watson Page A

the Roman province of Britannia, was well satisfied.
    The Alban evening was unseasonably fine, and his body slave tied back the flap of his tent so that he could watch the camp going up around him. To an untrained eye, the noisy bustle of soldiers, slaves, carts and mules was chaos. To Agricola, this hive of activity was perfect order.
    Hundreds of leather tents were sprouting up in rows on the plain, and between and about them, thousands of legionaries were unpacking bed rolls, lighting cook fires and digging waste pits. Far off he could see lines of men, as tiny as ants, hoisting baskets of earth on to their shoulders as they carved the ditch to encircle the camp. Rearing above the columns of diggers, the stakes of a half-complete timber palisade cast long shadows across the turf.
    In the falling dusk, Agricola watched his chief engineer correct the position of a newly-erected tent. The soldier he spoke to shrugged and bent down to knock out the errant tent peg with his mallet, and Agricola’s mouth firmed in approval.
    ‘They’re getting better by the day, sir,’ said the engineer, coming over to his commander. ‘We’ve nearly halved our building time.’
    The man was portly, with a thatch of dark hair that never lay flat, a bulbous nose, and a quivering, extra chin. He was a figure of amusement to the other officers, and only his exceptional technical skills kept him under Agricola’s command.
    ‘Thank you, Didius.’ Agricola scanned the ramparts. ‘Your new gate design is working well – the extra time is worth the added security, and the further north we go, the more we’ll need it.’
    Didius swelled with pride, as Agricola reached behind himself and cracked his knuckles, stretching his shoulders. They were stiff after the long ride, although getting looser every day. He was nearly back tocondition. The creeping softness around his waist had been stripped from his lean frame in the first weeks of marching; though not so for Didius. Agricola glanced at the man’s paunch with distaste. It seemed to have a strong tolerance to exercise.
    Now the engineer’s attention was caught by a shout at the camp gate. Some of the mule trains at the rear of the army had bunched up, and were milling around, blocking the entrance. Tutting, Didius hurried away, his scarlet helmet-crest waving in the breeze.
    Agricola closed his eyes and sniffed the heather blanketing the hill-slopes all around. There was something about this land, cold and wet as it often was, that got into the blood, even more than his last posting in Asia Minor.
    And things were progressing better than he’d hoped. The Emperor had just this month sent new orders for Agricola’s push into Alba – an imperative if they were to call the whole island of Britannia their own.
    Ah, and wouldn’t it be fine when it was theirs? It had taken thirty-six long years to subdue the wild British tribes, and with the fall of Wales, the land from east to utter west was Roman. Now it was time for the north. Leaving it to the barbarians would be a thorn in the Emperor’s side; it was not to be borne.
    So in one rapid strike, Agricola had penetrated deep into Alba, the spear thrust of his attack reaching as far as the River Tay, before he pulled back to the friendlier shores of the Forth inlet. Behind this line, the tribes were subdued. Only the Selgovae tribe had resisted, until the ballista bolts did their work on their great hillfort in the south. It fell with few Roman lives lost; a satisfying result.
    For the rest, the ambitious Alban woman who had offered herself to the Roman cause had ensured an easy advance. Under her influence, the eastern tribes surrendered to their new ruler, and opened their lands for his armies to march straight through. Now 5,000 of the best Roman soldiers were camped on this bay, gaining their strength, for the conquest from here on would not be as easy.
    ‘Father!’ came a voice from his tent. It was his son-in-law, Publius Cornelius