Caledonia by William Kelso

Author:William Kelso [Kelso, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Feedaread

Chapter Thirty Three - A grey friend

It was still dark when Corbulo slipped out of the labour camp. There was no moon and the sentries strolling along the ramparts did not see him go. Corbulo crouched in the field beyond the fortress and turned to listen. Nothing. The night was silent yet he felt uneasy as if some instinct, born from a lifetimes soldiering was trying to tell him something. He rose and set off eastwards skirting the second labour camp until he came to the river. The water gurgled and splashed against unseen rocks and somewhere close by he heard an owl. Quietly he waded into the river. The water came up to his waist and he gasped at the cold. He was clad in his tough leather torso armour over which he wore an old Palla, an army overcoat, with a hood. From his belt hung his Gladius. He used the Pilum, the spear that Quintus had given him as a support as he struggled across the river. His old friend had been as good as his word. The Centurion had managed to get him two weeks grain rations, which he carried in a bag slung over his back.

“I shall ask the patrols to keep an eye open for you,” Quintus had said putting a hand on Corbulo’s shoulder. There had been a touching concern in his old friend’s voice. “Try and return before winter. Without shelter you won’t survive up in those hills. You have no idea how cold, wet and dark it can get."

Corbulo struggled onto the southern bank and leaned against a tree catching his breath. He was not yet fully recovered from his fever but he didn't dare waste any more time. Marcus needed him. He glanced towards the silent Roman fortress and suddenly he felt very alone. He was leaving his friends and the Twentieth behind. He could expect no help from them. He had deliberately crossed the river in order to confuse anyone who was maybe watching or waiting for him. With a bit of luck Vellocatus and his men would think he'd gone south. He would indeed go south for a while before turning and doubling back north again. From then onwards his path would take him north from Roman outpost to outpost into a war zone. Quintus had made him memorise the Roman forts from a map he'd shown him and he'd worked out the distance and time it would take to move from one to the next. His mastery of the Briton language was good for he had spent twenty five years learning it but his accent would give him away. There was no way he could pass himself off as a local. He had planned for this moment ever since he'd left Rome. He'd been intending to pass himself off as a wandering merchant selling the wood carvings he'd made during the long lonely nights on the road but all the carvings had been in his pack and he'd lost his pack in the river when the auxiliary soldier had tried to kill him.

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