The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  'I wouldn't drink too much of that,' Lavinia said with a cheeky smile, and nudged Cato gently in the ribs.

  'To you, my lady.' Cato raised his cup. 'To you, and your husband.' Flavia nodded graciously, and then leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the young optio. 'And is the legate enjoying a successful campaign?'

  Cato paused before he replied. The campaign was undoubtedly a success as things stood, but he was still too close to the experience of how it had been won by the rank and file of the legions to feel much sense of triumph. Any success that future historians might lightly allude to when writing about the invasion of this island would never acknowledge the pain, blood, filth and soul-numbing exhaustion it had cost. A vivid image of Pyrax being cut down as he struggled to free himself from the mud flashed into Cato's mind. He knew that historians would regard the death of Pyrax as a pitifully insignificant detail unworthy of a place in history.

  'Yes, my lady,' Cato said carefully. 'The legate has won his share of the glory. The Second has acquitted itself well enough.'

  'Maybe. But I'm afraid the plebs want heroism, not competency.' Cato smiled bitterly. His newly acquired status as a Roman citizen technically ranked him as one of the plebeians that Flavia spoke of with such contempt. Yet the accusation was valid enough.

  'The Second has proved itself in every battle it has fought in. You can be proud of your husband. And it's not as if the Britons aren't being helped.'

  'No?'

  'No, my lady. Time and again we've found that the Britons are using Roman slingshot and swords.'

  'Did they capture them from our men?'

  'Hardly. We've won every fight so far, they've not had any pickings from the battlefield. Someone must be supplying them.'

  'Someone? Who do you mean?'

  'I have no idea, my lady. All I know is that the legate is investigating the matter and said he'd report it to the general.'

  'I see.' Flavia nodded thoughtfully, and twitched the hem of her gown.

  Without looking up she continued, 'Now then, I expect you two might want to catch up on a few matters. It's a lovely night for a walk. A long walk, I should think.'

  Lavinia grasped his hand as she quickly stood up, and gave him a sharp tug. Cato rose, and dipped his head in a bow to Flavia. 'It's good to see you again, my lady.'

  'And you, Cato.'

  Lavinia led the way to the tent fiap. Just before they disappeared outside, Flavia called out after them, 'Enjoy yourselves, while you can.'

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  It was just before dawn and a milky grey mist had risen from the Channel. It hung about the depot gate like a clammy shroud, illuminated by the close glow of dying torches on the sentry walk. The men were quiet, shuffling in their assigned unit columns, their subdued conversation punctuated by occasional coughs in lungs unaccustomed to the damp air of the island. A long day's march lay ahead of them. They had been fed on quickly heated porridge that felt like a stone inside them now.

  For nearly all of them a new life awaited in a legion they might have only heard of before, whose men would regard them with no more than grudging acceptance for the next few months, until they had proved themselves better than their reserve legion status implied. For some the transition to a combat unit would be smooth enough, having been sent to the Eighth from one of the frontier legions. In preparation for the invasion of Britain, the imperial general staff had pulled veteran cohorts out of those legions facing quiescent barbarians, and marched them to Gaul for temporary attachment to the Eighth.

  The older men who had hoped for a peaceful end to their career under the eagles were naturally resentful to find themselves drawn into the decisive phase of this year's campaign. They were no longer as fit and quick as they had once been, and so the odds of surviving the coming battles were not encouraging.

  Then there were the young men, recent recruits, fresh out of training and more afraid of their officers than any enemy. In brightly polished segmented armour, the cost of which would be subtracted from their meagre pay for many years yet, wearing tunics whose red dye had not yet begun to fade, and with sword grips not yet worn smooth from frequent handling, they were keen to get stuck in, and develop the easyygoing swagger of the veterans.

  'All present?' asked Macro as he strode up to Cato, fastening the strap of his helmet.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then let's get going.' Macro turned to the head of the dimly visible column and shouted, 'Fall in!'

  The ranks quickly formed up into marching order, four abreast. 'Column ready!… Forward march!'

  Even the rawest recruit amongst them had undergone enough drilling to respond instantly to the word of command and the column moved as one into the standard marching step. The noise of boots crunching on the chalky soil was softened by the damp air. With Cato at his side, Macro waited for the advance guard to pass before taking his place at the head of the main body. As they passed out of the depot gate, Cato twisted his head round and gazed up at the sentry walk, running his eyes along the dark outline of the palisade until he saw Lavinia. He quickly raised a hand so that she could pick him out, and his heart lifted when her arm rose in reply.

  'I take it you didn't get much sleep then?'

  'No, sir.' Cato turned back. 'None at all.'

  'Good for you, lad!' Macro nudged him, but Cato was past being offended by his centurion's bluntness. 'Feel better for it? I find a quick roll in the hay leaves me feeling fresh as a daisy.'

  'It wasn't that quick, sir.' Cato yawned before he could stop himself. 'I see. Well, you'd better not drop off on the march. Do that and I'll leave you to the tender mercies of the Britons.'

  The march back to the legion took them along the route by which the army had advanced only a few weeks before. The engineers had been very busy in the meantime. The land on each side of the track had been cleared of undergrowth and any possible concealment for enemy forces, and the brow of every hill and every ford was now protected by a small fort manned by auxiliaries. The column of replacements overtook heavy supply wagons hauling food and equipment up to the legions. In the opposite direction trundled empty wagons returning from the front, heading for the depot to load up for the next round trip. It was part of the relentless Roman efficiency that would ensure that the advance on Camulodunum would take place with its legions properly armed and well-fed.

  When they next took to the field, the legions would be led by the Emperor in person, accompanied by his elite Praetorian cohorts and the vast lumbering elephants that would be driven into the enemy ranks and trample huge swathes through their lines. Cato could almost bring himself to feel sorry for the natives. But not quite. Not after the dread and despair of the recent battles. What he wanted now was a swift end to the campaign. A single crushing blow that would utterly break the will of the Britons to resist the inevitable. If Caratacus and his army could be comprehensively crushed, surely the other tribes would realise there was no point in any further resistance. The island would become a province one day, there was no doubt of that. Not now the Emperor was here. No matter hmv many legions, or elephants, it took, the Britons would be forced to their knees. Cato promised himself, when it was all over, he would find a way to be with Lavinia again.

  Each evening, when the last light of day had all but gone, Macro halted his column in the temporary marching camps attached to the forts. Before first light he roused his men and the column marched on well before the sun had raised its head above the distant horizon. The hard pace was as much a test of his new men as it was a result of his desire to get back to his legion. It was gratifying to him that not one of the men he had chosen for his century fell out of line and joined the ragged column of stragglers destined for the other legions. Only a handful of those picked for the Second failed to keep the pace he set. Vespasian would be pleased with his replacements. With such men in his legion the Second would win a fine reputation in the rest of the campaign. And Vespasian, Macro knew, was not a man who forgot those who served him well.<
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  It felt strange to retrace a route so recently taken at such a cost in lives. Here was the forest track where the Second had been ambushed by Togodumnus and would have been crushed, had it not been for the timely intervention of the Fourteenth Legion. Macro could even see the oak tree on the distant hill where he had killed Togodumnus in single combat as the British chieftain fled towards the marshes with his men.

  The following day they marched across a pontoon bridge over the Mead Way where, only weeks before, their comrades had withered under such a hail of arrow and slingshot that the smooth flowing water was stained red. The route then turned north and passed over a gentle ridge and down towards the Tamesis, through the gorse-choked marsh to the fortress on the south bank, where they waited for transports to feITy them across to the main body of the army. The bridge was nearly finished and the engineers were being driven hard to complete it in time for the Emperor to lead the eagle standards and his reinforcements over into enemy territory.

  The column of replacements waited wearily while the transports shuttled back and forth across the Tamesis. At last it was the turn of the Second's replacements to cross. On landing, Macro dismissed his century and led the rest of his column up to the Second's headquarters to parade them on the wide avenue opposite the main entrance. Inside the clerical tent he handed over the roster, after having marked off the names of those men he had chosen for his century.

  'Looks like you've picked only the best for us, Centurion.'

  Macro turned and quickly stood to attention at the sight of his legate. 'Yes, sir. The best.'

  'Well done.' Vespasian pulled on his helmet with its bright red crest 'Now I'll introduce myself to them officially.'

  Cato, meanwhile, took his kit to the section tent and then went in search of Nisus, detennined to get to the bottom of the surgeon's cold formality towards him. Cato had not yet reached the age where the opinion of others was no longer the critical issue of his social relations. More than anything he strove to be worthy of respect, and at the least he wanted an explanation from Nisus for the sudden withdrawal of his friendship.

  But Nisus was not in the field hospital, not in his tent, not sitting down by the jetty. Eventually Cato went back to the field hospital and asked one of the orderlies where Nisus might be found.

  'Nisus?' The orderly's eyebrows rose.

  Cato nodded and a flash of recognition lightened the orderly's face. 'You're that mate of his, aren't you? I'm surprised you don't know.'

  'Don't know?' Cato felt his blood run cold. 'I've been out of the camp. What's happened?'

  'Nisus has gone.'

  'Gone?'

  'Disappeared. Two days ago. Just walked out of the camp to go fishing, and never came back.'

  'Who saw him last?'

  'Don't know.' The orderly shrugged. 'He was supposed to meet someone by the river and never showed up. That's how it got reported.'

  'Who was he supposed to meet?'

  'A tribune. The resident broad-striper.' Vitellius. Cato nodded slowly.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  It was noon before Vespasian reached the last of the fortified outposts ringing the main camp. He had not given any warning of the inspection, wanting to catch each garrison at its habitual level of operational readiness rather than presenting a show for the visit of a high-ranking officer. Vespasian was gratified to see that he was challenged as he rode up towards each fort, and that admission was steadfastly refused unless the correct password was given. Beyond the gates most of the fortlets were well ordered, with infantry weapons close to hand and an adequate supply of ammunition on the bolt-thrower platforms.

  The last fort was no exception, and as Vespasian and his mounted escort trotted through the gate he was immediately confronted with a line of legionaries standing to across the entrance. Their optio gave the order for the gate to be closed the moment the last of the legate's escorts had passed inside.

  'What's this, Cato?' Vespasian waved his hand at the legionaries as he dismounted. 'An honour guard?'

  'A precaution, sir.' Cato saluted. 'The gate is always the weakest point of a defence. ' 'Archimedes?'

  'Yes, sir. From his treatise on siege warfare.'

  'Well, he's right, and you do well to pay heed to him. What's your strength?'

  'Forty men, sir. And forty in the other half of the century in the next outpost with Centurion Macro.'

  'So, you're up to full strength once again, with the cream of the crop. I'll be expecting nothing but the best from the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort from now on. See to it that I'm not disappointed.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right then, let's have a look round.'

  Vespasian strode off to begin his inspection, with the anxious optio following in his wake. The tents were scrutinised for any signs of slack guy ropes, leaking seams and untidy stowage of bedding. The latrine was examined to ensure that it had not reached the level where it must be filled in and a new one dug. Then Vespasian climbed up onto the turf ramp and began a tour of the palisade. At the artillery platform he carefully examined the winding mechanisms to ensure that they were adequately greased, and nodded approvingly at the scent of linseed oil on the torsion springs. He was experimenting with the elevating gear when there was a shout from the watchtower.

  'Enemy in sight!'

  'Come on!' Vespasian led the way up the rough wooden ladder of the watchtower. He emerged through the opening on the platform and stepped over to the side of the sentry as Cato scrambled up behind him.

  'Over there, sir.' The sentry pointed again and beyond the tip of the javelin lay a distant hill. Vespasian could make out the tiny shapes of horses galloping ahead of a thin smudge of brown from the dust kicked up by their hooves. The land stretching out from the fortlet was mostly grass, mixed with random copses of oak, but the horsemen made no attempt to conceal their approach and pounded directly towards the fortlet.

  'I hardly think they mean to attack us,' muttered Vespasian. 'Nevertheless, sir, I think we should stand the men to,' said Cato. 'Very well.'

  Cato bellowed the order and the half-century snatched up their weapons and manned the wall. The legate continued to watch the approaching horsemen. They were closing rapidly and he could see now that there were two groups. A cluster of three was leading the way, and from the frequent glances back over their shoulders it was evident that they were being pursued by the others. The shrill cries of the pursuers were faintly audible now.

  'Load the bolt-thrower!' Cato called down to the palisade. The artillery crew strained on the winch sheers, and the clank of the ratchet competed with the excited hubbub of the soldiers watching the chase. The men's mood was understandable, but not tolerable and Vespasian raised an eyebrow at the optio. Cato leaned over the rail.

  'Silence there! Next man who opens his mouth is on a charge!'

  The horsemen were barely a quarter of a mile away now and Vespasian could make out the purple cloaks and long hair whipping out behind the three being pursued. The gap between the two groups had narrowed to a few score yards and the men behind howled their triumph as they chased down their prey, swooping for the kill with their narrow-bladed cavalry spears. The man nearest the fortlet suddenly looked up and waved at the Romans.

  Vespasian started. 'It's Adminius! Open the gate, Optio! Quickly, man!'

  The section on the gate removed the bar and pulled the gate inwards.

  Cato ordered the bolt-thrower crew to make ready to fire.

  'Aim for the second group, and fire the instant the first lot are clear!' As the horsemen galloped up towards the fortlet, barely fifty feet separated the two groups. Adminius and his bodyguards slewed round in an arc and approached the open gate from the side, clearing the way for the artillery crew. A legionaire flipped the firing lever and the bolt-thrower discharged its missile with a loud crack. There was a sharp thwack as the bolt struck one of the British cavalrymen just below the throat, passed clean through him, and buried itself in the shaggy forehead of the hor
se immediately behind. Beast and rider fell in a sprawling, kicking mass, right in the path of the horsemen behind. Only a handful managed to ride on and keep up with their quarry. As they caught sight of the gateway, the leading Briton realised he had lost the race, and hurled his spear after Adminius and his men. The dark shape curved through the air and struck the rearmost man squarely between the shoulders and he toppled to one side as Adminius spurred his beast inside the fortlet.

  The section on the gate ran into the opening and presented their shields and javelins to the Britons chasing Adminius. At sight of the legionaries, the horsemen drew up, savage expressions of rage and frustration etched on their features.

  'Get 'em!' Cato shouted from the watchtower. 'Use your javelins!' The section responded at once and moments later two more men and their horses were down, thrashing about in the dirt track in front of the gate. The others turned and galloped off, leaning low across the necks of their beasts in case any more javelins came after them.

  Cato followed the legate down the ladder and the two of them ran over to the gate where Adminius had dropped from his mount and lay on his back, gasping for breath, eyes clenched shut in pain. There was a large tear in the side of his tunic, which was drenched with blood.

  'He's wounded.' Vespasian turned towards his escort to shout an order for a surgeon to be brought up from the main camp immediately. Adminius' eyes snapped open at the sound of the legate's voice and he struggled to raise himself up on one elbow.

  'Easy there! Rest yourself. I've sent for a surgeon.' Vespasian knelt down beside Adminius. 'I see the negotiations with the tribes didn't go so well this time.'

  Adminius grinned weakly, his face white from loss of blood. He reached up and clenched his fist on the clasp holding the legate's cloak. Cato started forward but was waved back.

  'S-something I have to tell you!' Adminius whispered anxiously. 'A warning.'

  'Warning?'