The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  A blinding flash of the sun. Then an instant of glittering spray and the world went dark before Cato's eyes. Water filled his mouth and lungs as he instinctively gasped for the next breath. The Briton was still on top of him, hands frantically fumbling for his throat. Cato had dropped his sword and shield as he fell; he grabbed at his attacker, trying to use the man to haul himself up out of the water, strangely devoid of the sounds of battle. But the Briton had a powerful physique, and firmly held him down. The agonised desire for air and the imminence of his death lent Cato a reserve of desperate strength. His hands groped for the man's face and his fingers thrust into the Briton's eyes. Abruptly the man released his grip on Cato's neck and Cato burst to the surface, spluttering water and gasping for breath. He kept his fingers clamped on the man's face and the Briton shrieked with pain, clawing at Cato's arms before some instinct made him smash a fist down at his opponent. The blow struck Cato's cheek and the world went white an instant before he was back under water with the weight of the man on top of him again.

  This time Cato thought he must surely drown. His head felt as if it would burst, and his frantic writhing achieved nothing. He stared at the silvery surface of the water. The life-giving air, a scant foot away, might just as well have been a mile off, and as his world began to dim, Cato's last thought was of Macro: regret that he had failed to avenge the centurion. Then the water turned red and the sunlight was dimmed by thick blood. The Briton's hands still grasped him by the throat. but now another hand reached down through the water, grabbed his harness and yanked him up into the brilliant sunshine. Cato burst from the surface through a pool of red and filled his burning lungs with air. Then he saw the body of the Briton. The head was almost severed, only some gristle and sinew attaching it to the torso.

  'All right?' asked the legionary holding his harness, and Cato managed to nod as he gulped down more breaths. A small band of men from the century stood guard about them and fended off blows from the nearest Britons.

  'My sword'?'

  'Here you are, sir.' The legionary fished it out. 'Nice blade, that. You ought to look after it.'

  Cato nodded. 'Thanks.'

  'All right, sir. Century can't afford to lose more than one centurion a day.'

  With a final shake to clear his head, Cato retrieved his shield and raised his sword. The pace of the fight had noticeably slackened as exhaustion took its toll. Neither Romans nor Britons seemed as keen for martyrdom as they had a while before, and in places small groups faced each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. Glancing back across the river, Cato saw that the second wave had almost finished embarking on the transports.

  'Not long now, lads!' he called out, coughing with the effort of shouting with water still lodged in his lungs. 'The next wave's on its way!'

  A series of thumping cracks from the trireme drew his attention, and as his eyes followed the arc of the bolts he saw a fresh column of British warriors approaching along the river bank. In the middle of the column was a chariot, ornate even by native standards, upon which stood a tall chief with long, flowing blond hair. He raised his spear and called out, and his men answered with a deep-throated roar. Something about their attire and the confident way they ignored the missiles from the ship was horribly familiar.

  'Are those the bastards that jumped us last night?'

  'Could be.' The legionary squinted. 'I didn't stay around long enough to memorise the details.'

  The Druids had been working themselves up into a frenzy as they tried to drive their reluctant levies back onto the first wave of Romans. As they caught sight of the new column, they shrieked with delight and urged their men on with renewed ferocity.

  'Heads up, lads! New enemy on the left flank!'

  The word was quickly passed down the line and the centurion nearest the new threat swiftly organised his men into a flank guard, closing up on the remainder of the first wave – just in time, as the fresh arrivals didn't even attempt to deploy but just broke into a wild charge and hurled themselves at the Roman line. With a savage cry and sharp ringing of weapons the Britons hacked their way in among the Romans and it was clear to all that the fight was flowing in favour of the natives.

  An anxious glance towards the river showed Cato that the first of the transports had set off, sweeps working furiously to gain the opposite bank. The war cry of the fresh troops and the exhortations of the Druids rekindled the fighting spirit of the levies who once more charged the Roman shields.

  'Hold them back!' Cato cried. 'Just a little longer! Hold them!'

  The remains of the Sixth Century closed up with a handful of other legionaries and grimly held on to the patch of ground they had won on the bank of the Tamesis. One by one they fell, and the shield wall closed up into an ever tighter knot of men until it seemed that their destruction was moments away. The left flank, if the battered groupings of defiant Romans could be said to constitute a line, slowly caved in under the ferocious attack from the elite British warriors. Since there was no chance of surrender or escape, the Romans fought until they died where they stood.

  Of the thousand or so men who had made the first assault no more than half held on, and Cato was horrified to see that the transports were being carried downriver by the current. They grounded two hundred paces beyond the desperate struggle of their comrades and the second wave landed without opposition, so intent were the Britons on destroying the remnants of the first wave. Cato glimpsed the scarlet crest of the legate and beside him the eagle standard as the new arrivals hurriedly formed a battle line and marched swiftly upriver. The Britons saw the danger and turned to face them. Cato watched in desperation as Vespasian's advance slowed and then halted to deal with the fierce resistance fifty paces from the battered first wave.

  From the left the Romans had been pushed back into a compact arc with its base on the river, and the Britons scented imminent victory. Their war cries now sounded with a new frenzied pitch as they hacked and slashed at the legionaries. In a moment it would an be over and they would trample the last men of the first wave and grind them into the mud.

  But the end did not come. A British war horn sounded a series of notes above the cacophony of battle, and to Cato's astonishment the Britons began to disengage. With a last exchange of blows the warrior he was fighting stepped back carefully until he was well beyond the reach of Cato's weapon. Then he turned and trotted up the river bank, and on all sides the bright colours of the Britons flowed back from the Roman shields, back towards the Druids clustered about the chief mounted on his chariot. Then in good defensive order the enemy marched over the slight rise of the river bank and out of sight, under renewed fire from the trireme.

  Cato stared out across the battlefield, strewn with the hacked bodies of the dead and the screams of the wounded, hardly able to believe that he was still alive. About him the remains of his century stared at each other in wonder.

  'Why the fuck did they leave?' someone muttered.

  Cato just shook his head wearily, and sheathed his sword. Vespasian's new arrivals altered the direction of their advance and formed a screen between the retreating Britons and the pitifully small number of survivors from the first wave.

  'Did we beat them off? Couldn't they take it?'

  'Use your brain!' Cato snapped. 'It must have been something else. Must have been. '

  'Look there! To the left.'

  Cato looked and saw tiny dark shapes rise up round the bend in the river: cavalry. 'Ours or theirs? I suppose it has to be ours.'

  Sure enough a Roman cavalry pennant was visible at the front of the column. Plautius' deployment of forces upriver in search of a ford had not been in vain. Some of the Batavian cohorts had arrived on the British flank in time to save the vanguard of the Second Legion. But the new arrivals were not greeted with any cries of triumph. The men were simply relieved to have survived, and were too tired to do anything more than slump down on the river bank and rest their exhausted limbs. But Cato realised he could not do that just ye
t. His sense of duty would not permit it. First he must do a roll call of his century, check their fitness to continue fighting and then make his report to the legate. He knew he must do this, yet his mind was stupid with fatigue now that the immediate danger had passed. He yearned more than anything for a rest. Even the thought of it seemed to add vastly to the physical need to sleep. His eyelids slowly dropped before he was aware of it; he started to slip forward and would have fallen to the ground had not a strong pair of arms caught him by the shoulders and held him in place.

  'Cato!'

  'What? What?' he managed to reply, eyes struggling to open.

  The hands shook him, trying to break him out of his exhausted stupor. 'Cato! What the fuck have you done to my century'?'

  The question might have sounded bitter but beneath it was the familiar grudging tone he had grown used to over recent months. He forced himself to look up, to open his stinging eyes and face his questioner.

  'Macro?'

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  'Glad to see you still recognise me under all this crap!' Macro smiled and clapped his optio on the shoulder, carefully avoiding his injured side.

  Cato silently beheld the spectacle standing before him. The centurion's head and chest were covered in dried blood and soiled with mud; he looked like a walking corpse. Indeed, for Cato, whose recent ferocity had been driven by grief at his centurion's death, the vision of Macro alive and grinning into his face was too shocking to accept. Stupid with exhaustion and disbelief, he just stared blankly, mouth open.

  'Cato?' Macro's face creased with concern. The optio swayed, head drooping, sword arm hanging limply by his side. All around them stretched the twisted bodies of Romans and Britons. The bloodstained river lapped gently along the shore, its surface broken by the glistening hummocks of corpses. Overhead the sun beat down on the scene. There was an overwhelming sense of calm that was really a slow adjustment from the terrible din of conflict. Even the birdsong sounded strange to the ears of men just emerging from the intensity of battle. Cato was suddenly aware that he was covered in filth and the blood of other men, and a wave of nausea swept up from the pit of his stomach. He could not stop himself and threw up, splashing vomit down Macro's front before the centurion could step back. Macro grimaced but quickly reached out to grab the lad's shoulders as Cato's legs buckled. He slowly lowered the optio onto his knees.

  'Easy, boy,' he said gently. 'Easy there.'

  Cato threw up again, and again, until there was nothing left inside him and then he retched, stomach, chest and throat in spasm, mouth agape, until at last it passed and he could gasp for air. A thin trail of drool curved down through the acid stench between his spread hands. All the weariness and strain of the previous days had found its release and his body could cope with no more. Macro patted his back and watched with awkward concern, wanting to comfort the boy, but too self-conscious to do so in front of the other soldiers. Eventually Cato sat back and rested his head between his hands, the grime on his face spattered with blood. His thin body trembled with the coldness of total exhaustion, and yet some final reserve of mental strength kept him awake.

  Macro nodded with full understanding. All soldiers reached this moment at some point in their lives. He knew that the boy had finally passed the limit of physical and emotional endurance. He was past any exhortation to duty.

  'Rest, boy. I'll take care of the lads. But you must rest now.'

  For a brief moment it looked as if the optio would try to protest. In the end he nodded and slowly lowered himself onto the grassy river bank and closed his eyes, asleep almost at once. Macro watched him for a moment and then unclasped the cloak from a Briton's body and gently laid it over Cato.

  'Centurion Macro!' Vespasian's voice boomed out. 'I'd heard you were dead.'

  Macro rose to his feet and saluted. 'You were misinformed, sir.'

  'Evidently. Explain yourself.'

  'Nothing much to explain, sir. I was knocked to the ground, took one of them with me, and they left us both for dead. Soon as I could, I made my way back to the legion. Arrived just in time to hop on one of the boats in the second wave. Thought Cato and the lads might need some help, sir.'

  Vespasian glanced down at the huddled form of the optio. 'Is the boy all right?'

  Macro nodded. 'He's fine, sir. Just exhausted.'

  Over the legate's shoulder the fresh-faced tribunes and other staff officers mingled with the weary legionaries who had survived the river assault. The legate's presence suddenly caused Macro to frown with concern.

  'The lad's finished for the moment, sir. There's nothing more he can do until he has rested.'

  'Easy there!' The legate chuckled. 'I wasn't looking to use him for another duty. I just wanted to make sure he was all right. The boy's done quite enough for his Emperor this morning.'

  'Yes, sir. He has.'

  'Make sure that he gets all the rest he needs. And see to your century. They've performed magnificently. Let' em rest. The legion will just have to manage without them for the remainder of the day.' Vespasian exchanged a smile with his centurion. 'Carry on, Macro. It's good to have you back!'

  'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

  Vespasian saluted and then turned and marched off to organise the defence of the hard-won bridgehead. The staff officers parted to let him through and then scrambled along behind.

  With a final glance to check that his optio was still resting peacefully, Macro went off to see to the comforts of his surviving men. He carefully picked his way over the sprawled bodies and shouted out the order for the Sixth Century to assemble.

  Cato woke with a start and sat up, bathed in a cold sweat. He had been dreaming about drowning, held down by an enemy warrior in a river of blood. The mental image slowly dissipated and was replaced with the colour blue which dissolved into orange. His ears filled with the crackle and clatter of campfire cooking. A pungent odour of stew filled his nostrils.

  'Better now?' Macro leaned over him. Macro above.

  Cato struggled up into a reclining position. It was dusk, the sun had just set and in the faint light he could see the legion camped along the river bank. The bodies had been removed and neat lines of tents stretched out on all sides. The silhouette of the distant rampart and palisade marked the fortifications that had been thrown up around the encampment.

  'Want some food?'

  Cato looked round and saw that he was lying close to a small fire over which a large bronze pot hung from a tripod. A faint sound of bubbling accompanied the steam gently wafting over the brim and the aroma instantly made him feel ravenous.

  'What is it?'

  'Hare,' replied Macro. He ladled some into Cato's mess tin. 'The place is thick with them. Never seen so many in my life. Lads have been taking pot shots at them all afternoon. Here you go.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Cato put the mess tin down on the grass beside him.

  He took the spoon Macro handed him and began to stir the steaming food, impatient to begin eating. At the same time, there was a question he needed answering. 'Sir, how did you do it?'

  Macro sat back and hugged his knees with a smile. The blood and filth that had made him such a grim spectacle earlier in the day had been washed away and the centurion sat barefoot in his tunic. 'I wondered when you'd ask. Luck, I guess. Fortuna must have taken a shine to me. I really thought it was all over. Just wanted to kill as many of the bastards as I could before I was taken down. We did manage to hold them for a while. Then some of them got between the shields and caught one of the lads. Once he went down, they were all over us in an instant. One of 'em leaped at me, knocked my sword to one side, and we went down into them bushes beside the path. I managed to get my dagger out and stuck him in the throat. Bugger's blood nearly drowned me!

  'Anyway I lay still as the rest of them piled by. They must have thought I was done for, and they were keen as mustard to see to you and the rest of the lads. Once I was sure they were gone, I heaved the Briton off an
d slid into the marsh. I kept off the tracks and made for the river, and then headed downstream. Had to be careful, though, there were still plenty of them about. I finally hooked up with some of the lads from the Seventh Cohort, and we got back to the legion just in time to see you lot piling into the Britons on the far side of the river. You really have no respect for another man's century, do you? No sooner are you made acting centurion than you throw the lads back into the grinder.'

  Cato stopped blowing on the spoonful of stew and looked up. 'The lads wanted to do it, sir.'

  'So they say. But I think we've had enough heroics for now. One more fight like that and there won't be a century any more.'

  'Did we lose many?' Cato asked guiltily.

  'A few. The burial club funds are going to be badly hit,' the centurion added. 'Just hope we can make up the shortfall once the replacements arrive.'

  'Replacements?'

  'Yes. I had word from one of the clerks on the staff. A column is on its way over from Gaul. If we're lucky we'll get some men from the Eighth. But most of em are new recruits sent up from the legion training depots.' He shook his head. 'Bunch of bloody recruits to nursemaid in the middle of a campaign. Can you believe it?'

  Cato said nothing. He looked down into his mess tin and continued eating. When he had joined the Second Legion the last thing he expected was that less than a year later he would be with the eagles fighting for his life in barbarian lands. Technically, he was still a recruit; his basic training was over but he had yet to reach the first anniversary of the date he had been signed into the Second Legion. His embarrassed silence did not go unnoticed.

  'Oh, you're all right, Cato! You might not be much at drill, and you've still got to learn how to swim, but you're a good hand in a fight. You'll do.'

  'Thanks,' he muttered, not quite certain how best to handle being damned by such faint praise. Not that he minded, being cursed with a temperament that was always suspicious of any praise aimed at him.