Below the hill crest, the dense undergrowth dipped down to merge with yet another of the marshes that seemed to comprise rather too much of this landscape. Dotted among the gorse thickets were the crests of helmets and the odd standard as the Batavians, their thirst for blood evidently not yet slaked, pushed their way through the gorse, struggling along narrow paths in pursuit of the hapless Britons. The marsh stretched out, dull and featureless, before it gave way to the wide gleaming expanse of the great Tamesis coiling its way into the heart of the island. The track the Second Legion was marching along went straight down the slope, and on to a crude causeway that ended in a small jetty. A matching jetty lay on the far side of the river.
Vespasian slapped his thigh in frustration at the nature of the task ahead. His battle-trained horse ignored the sound and grazed contentedly at the luscious grass growing alongside the track. Irked by the beast's ignorant complacency, Vespasian yanked on the reins and wheeled the animal round to face back down the line of the legion. The men stood still and silent, waiting for orders to move. A dark writhing mass some miles off revealed the progress of the Fourteenth Legion approaching the Tamesis from a roughly parallel track a few miles upstream.
According to Adminius there should have been a bridge lying before the Fourteenth but Vespasian could see no sign of it. Caratacus must have had it destroyed. If there were no other bridges or crossing points, the legions would have to march upstream in search of an alternative way across, all the while extending the tenuous lines of supply back to the depot on the coast. Alternatively, Plautius might chance an opposed landing. Away to the east where the Tamesis broadened towards the distant horizon the distinct forms of ships were visible as the fleet strove to retain contact with the advancing legions. Even though Adminius claimed that the Britons had no fleet to oppose the Romans, General Plautius was not taking any chances. The sleek silhouettes of triremes shepherded the low broad-beamed transports struggling to keep in formation. Only when these ships had rejoined the army could a river assault begin.
But all these considerations were academic for the moment. The orders in hand were simple enough: the Second was to fan out and clear this stretch of the south bank of any remaining enemy formations. Simple orders. Simple enough to have been written by a man who had not seen the lie of the land for himself. Vespasian knew that the legion would not be able to retain a battle line as it negotiated the gorse thickets. Worse still was the marsh which would suck the men down unless they were fortunate enough to stumble upon the paths used by the natives. By nightfall Vespasian expected to find his legion completely dispersed and bogged down, stuck in the vile marsh until daylight gave them a chance to re-form.
'Give the signal!' he called out to the headquarters trumpeters. A chorus of spitting ensued as the men cleared their mouths and pursed their lips to their instruments. A barely discernible nod from the senior trumpeter was instantly followed by the harsh notes of the execute instruction. With well-trained precision the First Cohort marched past their legate. The senior centurion marked the turn point and barked out the order to change formation and the front ranks marched to the right, perpendicular to the track. Immediately they encountered the first patch of gorse bushes, the cohort broke formation to negotiate the obstacle and the steady marching pace slowed to a stumbling shuffle as the succeeding cohorts tried not to pile into the rear of the cohort in front. Vespasian met the eyes of Sextus, the Second Legion's grey-haired camp prefect, and grimaced. The most senior career soldier in the legion inclined his head in full agreement about the idiocy of most orders emanating from army headquarters.
A manoeuvre that could be executed so efficiently on the parade ground rapidly degenerated into an unsightly tangle of cursing men that struggled across the wild terrain for the best part of an hour before the Second Legion had shifted its facing and was ready to advance down the slope towards the distant Tamesis. Once the cohorts were in position Vespasian gave the order to advance and the line moved forward, overseen by the centurions holding their canes out and cursing at the men to keep the line straight.
Once again, the thick patches of gorse opened up gaps in the line and in very little time the legion disintegrated into clusters of struggling men. Here and there the line halted as men encountered Britons, mostly wounded, and disarmed them before sending them to the rear under guard. Those that were too badly injured to walk were quickly despatched with a sword thrust to the hemi, and the legionaries struggled forward again. Often the Britons would attempt to bolt for it and with excited cries the legionaries would tumble after them to add yet more spoils to the campaign pot. In the partially clear ground before the dense growths of gorse a motley crowd of prisoners grew in size, while off to one side a small group of injured men bore witness to the trickle of casualties returning from the clashes being fought out of sight in the wilderness beyond. These were the only indication of the way the fight was going.
By mid-afternoon, under the despairing eye of the legion's legate and his staff officers, the Second Legion had been reduced to small bands hacking their way through to the marsh with little or no sense of where the rest of their comrades were. Mingled in among them were occasional small knots of Britons also trying to make the river in the hope of escape, and faint war cries and the ringing clash of blades wafted up the slope. Vespasian and his staff had dismounted and sat in the shade of a small copse not far from the track, watching the chaotic melee in silent frustration. By late afternoon most of the men of the legion were lost to view and only the legate's guard century stood formed up in a thin line a hundred paces down the slope. Beyond them sat the pathetic huddle of prisoners, surrounded by gorse briars hacked down and piled up in a circle to form a crude stockade. Beyond the briars a scattered line of legionaries stood watch. Tribune Vitellius rode down to inspect the captives. When he had finished interrogating their leader, he gave a last cuff to the man's head and swung himself up onto his mount and spurred it back up the slope.
'Discover anything useful?' asked Vespasian.
'Only that some of the better educated among these savages have a little Latin, sir.'
'But no fords or bridges nearby?'
'No, sir.'
'It was worth a try, I suppose.' Vespasian's gaze flickered back to the legate's guard century baking in the sun.
'Tell them to sit down,' Vespasian muttered to the camp prefect. 'I doubt the Britons will be springing any surprises on us now. No point in keeping the men on their feet in this heat.'
'Yes sir.'
As Sextus bellowed the order down to the guard century, tribune Vitellius caught the legate's eye and nodded back towards the track. A messenger was galloping up. When he spotted the legate's command party he spurred his horse along the ridge towards them.
'What now?' wondered Vespasian.
Breathless, the messenger slid from his horse and ran to the legate, dispatch already to hand.
'From the general, sir,' he panted as he raised his hand in a salute. Vespasian acknowledged him with a curt nod, took the scroll and broke the seal. His staff officers sat impatiently waiting for their legate to read it. The message was brief enough and Vespasian immediately handed it on to Vitellius.
Vitellius frowned as he read it. 'According to this, it appears we should already be down on the river bank and be preparing for a river assault this evening. The navy will be carrying us across and providing fire support.' He looked up. 'But, sir.' He waved a hand down the slope towards the gorse and the marsh which had swallowed up the Second Legion.
'Quite, Tribune. Now read out the last bit.'
Vitellius did so. 'Further to earlier orders it should be noted that the Batavian cohorts have encountered problems dealing with the marsh terrain and you are advised to limit your advance to established tracks and paths only… '
One of the junior tribunes hooted with derision and the rest laughed bitterly. Vespasian held up his hand to quieten them before he turned back to Vitellius.
'Seems the lads back at army headquarte
rs haven't quite grasped the practical difficulties attached to the orders they are so quick to dish out. But with your recent staff experience I'm sure you'd know all about that. '
The other tribunes struggled to hide their grins and Vitellius blushed. 'Still, we can't carry this order out. By the time the legion reassembles on the river it'll be well into the night. And the navy are still some miles downriver. There's no chance of an assault until tomorrow,' concluded Vespasian. 'The general had better be told. Tribune, you know the ropes at headquarters and you know our situation here. Go back to Aulus Plautius with the messenger and let him know our position and tell him that I will not be able to carry out the assault until tomorrow. You might also describe the terrain in some detail so that he understands our position. Now go.'
'Yes, sir.' Vitellius saluted and strode across to his horse, angry at the prospect of a long hot ride, and bitter at the legate's sarcastic treatment of him in front of the junior tribunes.
Vespasian watched in amusement as the tribune snatched the reins from the hands of a horse holder and threw himself onto his horse's back. With a savage kick to the animal's ribs he galloped off in the direction of army headquarters. It had been impossible to resist teasing Vitellius, but any elation he might have derived from deflating the smug tribune quickly evaporated, and he cursed himself for indulging in behaviour that was far below the dignity of his rank. Fortunately, the camp prefect had missed the exchange; as the tough old veteran strode back up the slope from the legate's guard he frowned at the amused expressions on the faces of the young tribunes.
'Fresh orders, sir?'
'Read it.' Vespasian held out the scroll.
Sextus quickly scanned the document. 'Some young gentleman on Plautius' staff is going to get a few harsh words when I catch up with him, sir.'
'Glad to hear it. In the meantime we need to reassemble the legion. There's no point in sounding the recall. They're far enough into the marshes by now to make it easier to continue forward than march back.' 'True enough,' muttered Sextus, stroking his chin.
'I'll take the command party and the guard century down the causeway to that jetty.' Vespasian pointed down the slope. 'Once we get there I'll start sounding the recall. Meanwhile, you and the junior tribunes mount up and find as many of our men as possible and let them know what's going on. We need the main body of the legion gathered on that rise by the jetty before nightfall if we're going to have enough men for the assault in the morning.'
'Fair enough, sir,' said Sextus. He turned to the junior tribunes who had all heard the legate's orders and were not looking forward to the discomfort of their task. 'You heard the legate! Off your arses and on your horses, gentlemen. Quickly now!'
With a barely tolerable display of reluctance the young tribunes dragged themselves to their horses, trotted down the slope and separated along the myriad paths and ways that crisscrossed the dense mass of gorse and marsh. Vespasian watched them disappear from sight. Then he turned to his own mount and led the legate's guard and the rest of the command party towards the track leading down to the causeway.
This was no way to fight a battle, he reflected angrily. No sooner had the Second Legion won back its self-respect than some bloody careless order plunged the men into an unholy mess, dispersed and leaderless across the wretched wilderness of this wretched bloody island. By the time he managed to regroup the legion they would be exhausted, filthy, and hungry, their flesh and clothing torn to shreds by the gorse bushes. It would be a wonder if he managed to get them even to contemplate anything half so dangerous as the general's order for an amphibious assault on the opposite river bank.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Twenty-One
'This is a complete fucking nightmare!' Centurion Macro growled as he slapped at a large mosquito feeding on his forearm. No sooner had it become a smear of red and black amid the dark hairs below the hem of his sleeve than several more insects from the swirling cloud hovering above him decided to take their chance, and landed on the nearest patch of exposed skin. Macro slapped away at them with one hand and swiped at their airborne comrades with the other. 'If I ever get my hands on the man responsible for this fucking fiasco he'll never draw another breath.'
'I suspect the order came from the general, sir,' Cato responded as mildly as he could.
'Well then, I'll take up the issue in Hell, where we'll be on a more equal footing.'
'By then the general will be well past drawing another breath, sir.' The centurion paused in his war against the native auxiliaries and rounded on his optio. 'Then I might just satisfy myself with someone else right now. Someone a little lower on the pecking order. Unless that's the very last of your helpful comments.'
'Sorry, sir,' replied Cato meekly. The situation was intolerable, and levity did nothing to ease the situation.
For the last hour the Sixth Century had been following a twisting path through the clumps of gorse bushes, clinging to the more solid patches of ground in the marsh that stretched out all round. The path was wide enough for one man and had, in all likelihood, been made by wild beasts. Contact had been lost with the rest of the cohort, and the only other indications of human presence were far-off shouts and sounds of small-scale skirmishes from elsewhere in the marsh. The only Britons they had encountered had been a bedraggled handful of light infantry armed with wicker shields and hunting spears. Outnumbered and outclassed by the legionaries, they had given in without a fight, and were escorted to the rear by eight men Macro could ill afford to release from his shrinking command. Once the escort had left, the century struggled on.
As the sun declined towards the horizon, the still, hot air closed in on the century like a smothering blanket and sweat trickled from every pore. Macro had called a halt to try to get some sense of where they were in relation to the river and the rest of the legion. If the sun lay to their left then the river had to be more or less straight ahead, but the track seemed to be taking them to the west. The river ought to be near by now. It would be easier to go on and find it rather than face the prospect of retracing their steps for several hours through the coming night.
As he considered his options, the men sat in sullen, sweaty silence, plagued by the thousands of insects gathering over them. At length Cato could stand the insects no more, and crept further along the path to spy out the way ahead. A warning glance from Macro ensured that he remained in sight as he moved stealthily along the path. A short distance on, it dog-legged to the right. Cato squatted down and peered round the corner. He had hoped to see further along the track but almost immediately it swung back to the left out of sight. Mindful of the centurion's expression, Cato stayed where he was and strained his ears for any sound of movement. A distant skirmish was just audible above a dull background buzzing from what sounded like a large swarm of flies and their kin. The immediate vicinity seemed to be clear of the enemy, but Cato felt little sense of relief. The discomfort caused by the heat and the insects was such that any diversion would have been welcome, even the enemy.
That buzzing from the insects was unusually loud, and Cato's natural curiosity was aroused by the sound.
'Pssst!'
He turned and looked back down the track to where the centurion was trying to attract his attention. Macro raised his thumb with a questioning expression. Cato shrugged his shoulders and pointed his javelin round the corner. Moments later Macro squatted quietly at his side.
'What is it?'
'Listen, sir.'
Macro cocked his head. He frowned. 'Can't hear a thing. Not from nearby, at least.'
'Sir, that buzzing – the insects.'
'Yes, I hear it. So?'
'So, it's a bit too loud, wouldn't you say, sir?'
'Too loud?'
'Too many of them. Too many, too close together, sir.'
Macro listened again, and had to admit that the lad had a point. 'Stay here, Cato. If I call for you, get the century up here double quick.'
'Yes, sir.'
The s
un was low enough to throw much of the track into shadow, dark against the burnished halo rimming the tops of the gorse thickets. Crouching low, Macro padded softly down the track, round the corner and out of sight, while Cato squatted, tense and ready to spring to his centurion's aid the instant he called out. But there was no call, no noise of any kind above the droning of insects. The suspense was dreadful and, in his effort to remain quite still, the prickling heat and sweat on his body became almost unbearably uncomfortable on top of the pain of his bums.
Suddenly Macro strode back into view, no sign of the previous caution in his posture, merely a resigned grimness in his features. 'What is it, sir?'
'I've found some of the Batavian auxiliaries.'
Cato smiled. 'Good. Maybe they can tell us where we are, sir.'
'I think not,' replied Macro quietly. 'They're past caring.'
In a flat voice Macro ordered the Sixth Century to rise, and led them down the track, past the double bend and into a clear area formed by a slight rise in the ground. The path and trampled grass were littered with the remains of auxiliary troops from one of the Batavian cohorts. Most had been killed as they fought, but a good number had had their throats cut and lay in a heap to one side of the track. The bodies were swarming with flies and the sickeningly sweet stench of blood filled the still air. A handful of British warriors had been laid in a straight line, shields across their bodies and a spear resting at their sides. These men were helmeted and wore chainmail corselets.
Macro paused by one of the Batavian bodies which had a cut throat, and nudged it with his toe. Then he spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by all his men.
'This is what you can expect if ever you feel the temptation to surrender to the natives. Make sure you all take a good long look, and thank the gods that it isn't you. Then swear you'll never die the same way. These Batavians were fools, and if I catch any of you being as foolish, I'll have my revenge in this life or the next. Count on it.' He glared round at the century, determined that they should be more afraid of their centurion than the enemy. 'Right, let's get this lot cleared up then! Cato, have our lads lined up alongside the Britons. Help yourself to anything you find on them.'
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