CHAPTER NINETEEN
W
hen
the day came, it came without warning. A Roman spy had demanded audience with Madoc the day before, to tell him, with a strong threat against his life and the lives of all his household if he divulged the secret, that the garrison at Viroconium was in battle order and would march without delay—in fact, just as soon as The Second, from Gloucester, was within striking distance, should the Belgae prove too obstinate. Some sort of pincers movement was projected, with Caradoc between the jaws. And Madoc was reminded of his promise to abstain from making any move in any direction.
He gravely thanked the spy and repeated his promises to Rome. Then, when the man had gone, he gave the gist of the Roman’s message to an old stableman, in passing, as it were, and so went abo
