'This will do nicely,' Vitellius said to the decurion. 'We'll rest here for a moment. You can water the horses.'
The column of prisoners and their mounted guards had reached a point on the track where it dipped into a small copse beside a narrow stream.
'Here, sir'?' The decurion glanced about at the dark undergrowth hemming them in. He continued as tactfully as he could. 'Do you think that's wise, sir'?' Ordinarily no officer in his right mind would ever consider stopping a column of prisoners in surroundings that were so conducive to escape.
'Do you think it's wise to question my order?' Vitellius replied curtly. The decurion quickly turned in his saddle and filled his lungs. 'Column – halt!'
He ordered the prisoners to sit and arranged for the guards to see to their horses in a hurried rota, while Vitellius dismounted and tethered his beast to a tree stump at the head of a trail that ran alongside the stream.
'Decurion!'
'Sir'?' The decurion trotted back towards the stream.
'Get me that chieftain again. I fancy it's time I tried having another quiet word with him.'
'Sir'?'
'You've been warned about questioning my orders, Decurion,' Vitellius said coldly. 'Once more, and you won't forget it. Now get me that man, and tend to your other duties.'
The gaudily attired Briton was hauled to his feet and thrust towards the tribune. He stared at the Roman officer with an arrogant sneer. Vitellius stared back, then suddenly whipped the back of his hand across the Briton's face. The man's head snapped to one side, and when he brought his face forward once again, a dark trickle of blood, black in the moonlight, was dripping from a cut lip.
'Roman,' he muttered in a coarse accent. 'If I ever get rid of these chains… '
'You won't,' sneered Vitellius. 'Consider them an extension of your body, for whatever is left of your life.' He struck the prisoner again, slamming his fist into the man's midriff, causing him to double over and gasp for air.
'I don't think he's going to cause me any trouble now, Decurion. Continue watering the horses until we get back.' 'Back from… Yes, sir.'
Vitellius grasped the leather thongs between Briton's iron wrist collars and roughly hauled him down the trail, dragging him savagely when he stumbled. When they had turned a corner and were out of sight and earshot of the prisoner column, Vitellius stopped and pulled the man upright.
'You can stop the acting now, I didn't hit you that hard.'
'Hard enough, Roman,' the Briton grunted. 'And if we ever meet again, you'll pay for that blow.'
'Then I must make sure we don't meet again,' replied Vitellius, and drew his dagger. He raised the tip so that it was poised barely a finger's breadth from the Briton's throat. The Briton showed no sign of fear, merely a cold contempt for an enemy who would do such an unmanly thing as threaten a bound prisoner. Vitellius sniffed at the other's expression. Then the blade dropped and he sawed briefly at the thongs until they parted. He stepped back from the freed Briton.
'You're sure you remember the message?'
'Yes.'
'Good. I'll send a man to you when I'm ready. Now then.' Vitellius flicked the dagger and caught it by the blade, handle towards the other man. 'Make it look good.'
The Briton took the knife and slowly smiled, then suddenly smashed the tribune in the face with his spare hand. With a grunt the tribune dropped to his knees, only to be hauled up, spun round and have the tip of the blade jabbed into the small of his back.
'Easy there!' he whispered.
'This has to look convincing, remember?'
With one arm locked round the tribune's throat and the other holding the dagger to the back of his erstwhile captor, the Briton pushed him back up the trail towards the column. As soon as the decurion was aware of his superior's plight, he scrambled to his feet.
'To arms!'
'Hold back!' Vitellius managed to choke out. 'Or he'll kill me!'
The decurion waved his arms at the cavalrymen rushing up with spears levelled for action. 'Stop! He's got the tribune.'
'The horse!' shouted the British chieftain. 'Get me his horse. Now! Or he dies,'
Vitellius yelped as the point bit into his flesh. At the sound the decurion hurried across to the horse and untethered it, offering the reins to the Briton.
The other Britons had risen to their feet at the sight of the confrontation and were surging forward for a better view, some shouting encouragement.
'Get them back on the ground!' bellowed the decurion and after a moment of hesitation the cavalrymen herded their prisoners back.
The chieftain didn't waste the chance, With a kick and a thrust he hurled Vitellius on top of the decurion, grabbed the reins and leaped onto the horse. He folded low on the animal's back and with a savage kick spurred it back down the trail. By the time the decurion had returned to his feet, the Briton had rounded the corner and was gone, only the fading sound of the horse's hoof beats lingering. The other Britons cheered.
'Shut that lot up!' roared the decurion, before turning to help Vitellius back to his feet. He seemed shaken and scared, but unharmed beyond that.
'Close escape, sir.'
'For him or for me?' Vitellius responded bitterly. The decurion was just smart enough not to reply.
'Want me to go after him, sir?'
'No. No point. He probably knows his way in the dark better than us.
Besides, we can't afford to send any of the guards off on some wild chase. No, I'm afraid he's got clean away.'
'Perhaps he'll run into some of our men,' the decurion said hopefully. 'I doubt it.'
'Shame about your horse, sir.'
'Yes, one of my better mounts. Still, there's no need to worry about me, Decurion. I'll have your horse until we reach the camp.'
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cato had been trying to avoid all thought of the centurion's fate. Macro was probably dead. Pyrax was dead. Many of his comrades in the Sixth Century were dead. But the thought of Macro lying cold and still out there in the marshes was impossible to accept. Although a cold, logical part of his mind reiterated that Macro could not have escaped death, Cato found himself imagining all kinds of ways in which he could have survived. He might be out there now, injured or unconscious, helpless, waiting for his comrades to come and find him. He might even have been taken prisoner. But then, the image of the slaughtered Batavians flashed before Cato's mind. There would be no prisoners, no sparing of the wounded.
The optio sat up and rested his arms on his knees. He gazed at the remains of the century sleeping around him. Of the eighty men who had disembarked from the invasion fleet, only thirty-six remained. Another dozen were injured and might be expected to return to duty over the next weeks. That meant the century had lost over thirty dead in the last ten days.
Cato was acting centurion for the moment – until the headquarters staff merged the century with another, or received replacements to bring it back up to strength. Either way Cato would not be in command for more than a few days. For that he was thankful, even as he despised himself for feeling relieved by the prospect of surrendering his authority. Though he felt he had grown into manhood over this last year, there was still a residual anxiety that he had not developed the special qualities that qualified a man for command. He would be a poor replacement for Macro, and he knew that the men would share that view. Until he reverted to the status of optio he would try his best to lead them as well as he could, following in the bold striding footsteps of Macro.
Earlier that night, when Cato and his small flotilla had emerged from the river, they had alarmed the sentries who had not been expecting any Romans to arrive from that direction. Anticipating such a reaction, Cato had responded quickly and loudly to the sentry's challenge. After the bedraggled soldiers had clambered from the muddy shoreline into the camp, safe at last, Cato had been escorted to the headquarters tent to make his report.
A mass of lamps and small fires marked the location o
f the Second Legion's headquarters, while all around stretched the long dark lines of the resting soldiers. Cato was shown into a large tent within which clerks pored over their paperwork on long trestle tables. One of them beckoned to him and Cato stepped forward.
'Unit?' The clerk looked up from his scroll, pen poised above the inkwell.
'Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.'
'Ah! Macro's lot.' The clerk dipped his pen and started to write. 'Where is he?'
'I don't know. Still somewhere in the marsh.'
'What happened?'
Cato tried to explain in a way that left open the question of Macro's fate, but the clerk shook his head sadly as he regarded the youngster standing before him. 'Are you his optio?'
Cato nodded.
'Well, you aren't any more then. You're acting centurion until further notice. What's your strength?'
'Thirty odd of us left, I think,' replied Cato.
'Exactly, please,' said the clerk. Then he looked up and saw that the young soldier was at the end of his tether, eyes red and head drooping even as he stood there. The clerk continued in a more kindly tone, 'Sir, I need the exact number, please.'
This gentle reminder of his new responsibility caused Cato to straighten up and focus his mind.
'Thirty-six. I've got thirty-six men left.'
As the clerk took down the details, a flap at the rear of the tent parted, and the legate entered. He handed a small scrap of parchment to a staff officer and was turning to leave when he caught sight of Cato and paused. 'Optio!' he called out as he made his way over. 'How goes it? You just rejoined us?'
'Yes, sir.'
'It's been quite a night, hasn't it?'
'Yes, sir, quite a night.'
Something in the lad's tone went beyond weariness, and looking more closely Vespasian could see that Cato was struggling to control his emotions. And to bear the pain, Vespasian thought, as he caught sight of the terrible blisters running down the lad's arm.
'It's been a hard day for us all, Optio. But we're still here.'
'My centurion isn't… '
'Macro? Macro's dead?'
'I don't know, sir,' Cato replied slowly. 'I think so.'
'That's too bad. Too bad.' Vespasian shifted uneasily at the news, torn between expressing genuine regret and maintaining the image of imperturbability he was trying so hard to project. 'He was a good man, a good soldier. Would have been a good senior centurion in time. I'm sorry. You admired him, didn't you?'
'Yes, sir.' Cato felt a lump rise in his throat.
'See to it that your men get some food and rest. Off you go.'
The young man saluted and was about to turn and leave when Vespasian added quietly, 'Don't let grief cloud your judgement, son. We've got hard days ahead of us, and I don't want you throwing your life away on some quest for revenge. Your men will be looking to you now.'
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Twenty-Five
'Are you sure about this'?' Vitellius nodded.
'And you briefed him fully on our condition?'
'Yes, sir. I told him everything:
'Vespasian read the despatch from Aulus Plautius again, in case he had missed some nuance that would allow him to make a case for rescinding the order. But there was nothing. For once, the clerks at the general's headquarters had expunged every ambiguity and produced a set of orders with the kind of terse elegance that would brave compared favourably with Caesar's commentaries. In a brief paragraph the Second Legion was ordered to board transports provided by the navy and make a landing on the far side of the Tamesis. One warship was deemed all that was necessary to provide fire support for the operation. The Second Legion was to seize control of the river bank and establish a bridgehead. If successful, Vespasian would be reinforced by elements of the Ninth Legion.
'Madness!' Vespasian grumbled and tossed the despatch onto his travel desk. 'Complete madness. 'We're not in any fit condition to carry this out. Some of the men are still out there in the marsh, and those who have returned to the eagle… What the hell does Plautius think we're made of?'
'Do you want me to ride hack and try and change his mind, sir?' Vespasian looked up sharply. He was about to launch into an attack on the tribune for taking every opportunity to undermine him when he noticed Vitellius' exhausted stoop. The tribune was worn out and seemed well past exercising his usual guile. The man needed a rest and in any case it would be pointless sending him back to argue the case with the general. The orders had been issued and Vespasian was obliged to carry them out with whatever resources he had available to him. Any attempt to prevaricate or delay would damage his reputation. He could well imagine the senators in Rome tutting if word reached them that he had been reluctant to throw his troops across the river. Those who had experience in the field would exchange knowing looks, and mutter darkly about his lack of resolve; they might even go so far as to quietly attribute it to cowardice. Vespasian flushed angrily at the thought.
There would be bitter feeling among the men when they were told about the proposed assault. After the battle on the Mead Way, yesterday's deadly games of cat and mouse in the marshes, and now this forlorn hope against yet another defended shore, memories of the recent mutiny back in Gesoriacum were bound to be stirred up. If it had not been for Narcissus' ruthless elimination of the leaders of the mutiny, the invasion of Britain would never have been launched and, worse, the authority of the Emperor would have been fatally undermined. It was bad enough having the likes of the Liberators working against Claudius without his army commanders unwittingly fuelling the dissent of the lower ranks. If the Second Legion refused their orders later this morning, how long would it take for news of it to spread to the other legions? No more than two days at the very most.
And the orders were clear. There was no leeway for interpretation at all. Vespasian would just have to trust the judgement of his superior even as he feared the consequences of doing so. With a bitter sigh of resignation he glanced up at this senior tribune, determined to restore his reputation as the kind of commander who stopped at nothing in the pursuit of his orders.
'Inform the staff officers first. They're going to be busy for the next few hours. I'll speak to the centurions once the plan is ready. I want the men to be well fed – if the landing succeeds, it might be a while before they next get a proper meal. See that the field kitchen issues double rations; any more than that and they'll sink the transports.'
It was a feeble joke but Vitellius managed a brief smile before he saluted and left the legate's tent. Vespasian slumped down onto his stool and cursed Plautius with all the vehemence that his frustration and despair could muster. He was well aware how much his mood was determined by his exhausted state: when was the last time he had slept? Two days ago, and then only a brief rest between the attack on the river fortifications and giving the orders for this latest phase of the advance. His body ached, his eyes stung, and it took some force of effort to focus his mind. From some insidious recess of his brain emerged the desire to shut his eyes for just a moment, no more. Just a moment to clear the stinging sensation. The suggestion was no sooner made than his eyelids closed and his body surrendered to the warm wave of relaxation that he permitted it. A few moments, no more, he reminded himself dimly.
'Sir!' Someone was shaking his shoulder gently. In an instant Vespasian was fully awake, and aware of what had happened. He silently raged against himself. The orderly who had woken him backed off respectfully before his thunderous expression. How long had he been asleep? He dare not ask the orderly, who would suspect an all too human weakness in his legate. Looking beyond the fellow, Vespasian saw a dull glow rimming the bottom of the tent and filtering through the chinks in the closed tent flaps. Not so long after daybreak then. By that much his shame was assuaged.
'Are my officers assembled?'
'Yes, sir. They're waiting for you in the staff tent. Some still haven't returned from the marsh, but I'll send them to you as soon as they reach the legion, sir.'
The orderly saluted and silently disappeared between the tent flaps.
Vespasian instantly slammed his fist down on his leg and swore at himself in bitter self-reproach. To fall asleep at such a moment! To have given in to such a weakness when his reputation and that of his legion was to be tested to the utmost. It was unforgivable, and he fervently resolved never to let it happen again. He stood up, straightened his tunic, and crossed to the small pitcher and bronze bowl in the corner. He emptied the contents of the pitcher over his head. The water had been refilled directly from the river during the night and was still refreshing enough to help his senses return to a more conscious state. He straightened up and dried himself, smoothing the wet hair back into place with his hands. A quick glance in the polished bronze minor revealed a three-day growth of stubble that rasped on his palm as he rubbed his cheek. The stubble, the hollow eyes and his drawn expression combined to make him look like one of the poor wretches that begged from the gutters outside the Circus Maximus in Rome. But there was no time for cosmetic adjustment, and he consoled himself with the thought that his staff officers would look just as unkempt.
Lifting the flap of his tent, Vespasian saw that the sunrise was well advanced; the pale orange disc hung just above the horizon, faintly shrouded by wisping smoke from the dying campfires. Some of the men were already talking and coughing in the cool dawn air, while the centurions and their optios began to rouse the rest. The reluctance of the men to bestir themselves and begin the daily routine of legionary life was palpable, and Vespasian made himself greet the men cheerfully as he passed by.
The assembled centurions and tribunes of the legion rose stiffly to their feet as Vespasian entered the headquarters tent. He waved them back to their stools. It was then that he noticed Vitellius, clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp new tunic. Although the man looked tired, the contrast with the other officers and himself was striking and the old antagonism for Vitellius bloomed in his heart.
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