Claudius gave up berating the gods and made his way across the track towards the mounted officers.
‘Where’s my b-bloody litter?’
‘Coming, Caesar,’ replied Narcissus, pointing back down the bridge to where a dozen slaves were jogging across with a large gilded two-seater. By the time the litter reached the near bank, the track was running with rivulets and the dry, hard surface of moments before had become slippery underfoot. The litter-bearers struggled to keep their footing as they made their way towards the Emperor who was waiting with furious impatience. Once on level ground, they increased their pace and quickly lowered the litter by the Emperor’s side.
‘About time!’ Claudius was drenched, his thinning white hair lay plastered to his head in messy strands and his once bright purple cloak was dark and hung in wet folds about his shoulders. With a last angry look at the skies he dived inside the litter. Through the curtains he called out to General Plautius.
‘Yes, Caesar?’
‘Get things moving! This army’s g-going on the offensive, come rain or sunshine. S-s-see to it!’
‘Caesar!’
With a quick wave Plautius signalled to his assembled officers, who turned their horses and in a rough column headed back to their units to prepare for the advance. Sabinus continued to ride alongside his younger brother, head tucked down into the folds of his cloak. The ceremonial crest of his helmet was soaked and drooped sadly from its holding bracket. Around them the rain thrashed down, accompanied by frequent brilliant flashes followed by darkness and ear-splitting thunder that made the very earth tremble. It was hard not to see the fact that the storm had broken just as the army was breaking camp as a sign from the gods that they disapproved of the advance on Camulodunum. However, the army’s priests had read the entrails at first light, and the ground had freely yielded the standards when the legion’s colour parties had collected them from the standards’ sanctuary. Despite these conflicting signs of divine favour, Claudius had nevertheless ordered the army to advance according to the strategy he had outlined to his senior officers. Sabinus was apprehensive.
‘I mean, even I know that we should be scouting ahead of the line of advance. It’s enemy territory and who knows what traps Caratacus has set for us. The Emperor is no soldier. All he knows about war is what he’s learned from books, not from being in the field. If we just plough blindly into the enemy we’re asking for trouble.’
‘Yes.’
‘Someone has to try and reason with him, set him right. Plautius is too weak to object and the Emperor thinks Hosidius Geta is a fool. It has to be someone else.’
‘Like me, I suppose.’
‘Why not? He seems to like you well enough, and you’ve got Narcissus’ respect. You could try and get him to adopt a safer strategy.’
‘No,’ Vespasian replied firmly. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘Why, brother?’
‘If the Emperor isn’t going to listen to Plautius, then he’s hardly going to listen to me. Plautius commands the army. It’s up to him to approach the Emperor. Let’s talk no more about it.’
Sabinus opened his mouth to make another attempt to persuade his brother but the fixed expression on Vespasian’s face, familiar from childhood, stopped him. Once Vespasian decided a subject was closed, there was no shifting him; it would be a waste of time to try. Over the years Sabinus had grown used to being frustrated by his younger brother; moreover, he had come to realise that Vespasian was a more able man than he was. Not that Sabinus would ever admit it, and he continued to act the part of the older, wiser brother as best as he could. Those who came to know the brothers well could not help but draw a telling comparison between the quiet competence and steely determination of the younger Flavian, and the nervous, edgy, too-willing-to-please superficiality of Sabinus.
Vespasian directed his horse to follow the other officers up the slope towards the main gate. He was glad his brother had fallen silent. It was true that Plautius and his legates had been deeply concerned by the over-bold strategy outlined to them by an excited Emperor. Claudius had run on and on, his stammer worsening as he delivered a long rambling lecture on military history and the genius of the bold, direct offensive. After a while Vespasian had ceased to listen, and brooded on more personal matters instead. As he continued to do now.
Despite Flavia’s protestations, he still could not shake himself free of the suspicion that she was involved with the Liberators. There had been too many coincidences and opportunities for conspiracy in recent months for him simply to dismiss them on the word of his wife. And that made him feel even worse about the whole matter. They had exchanged a private vow of fidelity in all things when they had married, and her word should be good enough. Trust was the root of any relationship and it must thrive for a relationship to grow and mature. But his doubts ate away at this root, insidiously gnawing their way through the bond between man and wife. Before long he knew he must confront her over the threat to the Emperor that Adminius had stumbled upon. Thus it would be again and again between himself and Flavia, until he had driven out every shred of his doubt and uncertainty – or discovered proof of her guilt.
‘I must get back to my legion,’ Vespasian announced. ‘Take care.’
‘May the gods preserve us, brother.’
‘I’d rather we didn’t have to count on them,’ said Vespasian, and gave a thin smile. ‘We’re in the hands of mortals now, Sabinus. Fate is just an onlooker.’
He kicked his heels into his mount and urged it to a trot, passing along the huddled lines of legionaries squelching towards Camulodunum. Somewhere ahead of them Caratacus would be waiting with a fresh army he had amassed in the month and a half of grace that Claudius had given him. This time the British warrior chief would be fighting in front of his tribal capital, and both armies would be locked in the most bitter and terrible battle of the campaign.
Chapter Forty-Six
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The storm continued for the rest of the day. The tracks and trails along which the army advanced quickly turned into greasy morasses of mud that sucked at the boots of the legionaries as they struggled forward under back-breaking loads. Further back the baggage train quickly bogged down and was left behind under the guard of an auxiliary cohort. By the evening the army had covered no more than ten miles and defensive earthworks were still being dug as the exhausted rearguard trudged into their tent lines.
Just before the sun set, the storm abated, and through a gap in the clouds a brilliant shaft of orange light lit up the sodden army, gleaming on its wet equipment and glistening on the churned-up mud and puddles. The hot tension in the stormy air had gone, and it now felt cool and fresh. The legionaries quickly set up their tents and removed all their wet clothing. Cloaks and tunics were slung over each section’s tent ridge and the men began to prepare their evening meal, grouching at the lack of any dry firewood. From their packs the soldiers ate their issue of biscuit and strips of dried beef, cursing as they worked sinewy shreds loose and chewed them over and over before they could be swallowed.
The sun went down with a final glittering display of light along the horizon and then the clouds closed in again, thicker and more gloomy, sweeping along as the breeze returned and steadily strengthened. As night drew on, the wind whined shrilly through the guy ropes and the tent canvas boomed and flapped with the strongest gusts. Inside the tents, the legionaries shivered in wet cloaks wound tightly about them, trying to get warm enough to sleep.
Under the mood of sullen depression hanging over the tents of the Sixth Century, Cato was even more miserable than most. His ribs still throbbed from the kicking he had received from the Praetorian Guard centurion after being caught spying on the imperial entourage’s encampment. His eyes were puffed up and purple with bruises. It could have been a lot worse, but there was a limit to the summary punishment that could be meted out before questions were asked.
Now, a night later, sleep was denied to him. He sat hunched up, staring blankly
out through the slit between the tent flaps. His thoughts were not filled with nervous apprehension about the coming battle. He was not even considering the ultimate prospects of glorious victory or ignoble defeat, or even death. He was consumed with bitter thoughts of jealousy, and fear that Lavinia, in whose arms he had rested only a few days before, might even now be lying with Vitellius.
Eventually the bitter poison of his despair became too much for him. He just wanted to blot it out, to cease enduring this relentless misery. His hand groped for his dagger belt and his fingers closed round the polished wooden handle, tensing as he prepared to draw the blade.
Then he relaxed his grip and took a deep breath. This was absurd. He must force himself to think of something else, anything that might distract him from thoughts of Lavinia.
Still tucked against his breast was the bloodless bandage that Nisus had worn round his knee. Cato pressed a hand to it and made himself think about the strange markings on the inside of the bandage. They must be significant, he reasoned, if only because of the suspicious circumstances under which the bandage had been obtained. And if the markings were some kind of coded message, who was it from and to whom had Nisus been trying to deliver it?
In answer to the latter question Cato already suspected Tribune Vitellius. And since the only people beyond the Roman lines were the natives then it followed that the message was from them. It stank of treason, but Cato dared not move against the tribune without incontestable evidence. As yet, all he had was his own bad opinion of Vitellius and strange black lines on a bandage, hardly enough to build a case on. It was too vexing, and as Cato tried to think his way round the problem, his tired mind embraced the subtle coming of sleep. Heavy eyelids drooped and slowly shut and before long Cato was snoring along with the rest of the century’s veterans.
The next morning the legionaries were rousted into activity by a rumour that swept through the camp like a brush fire: the enemy army had been sighted. A day’s march to the east an advance guard of auxiliary cavalry had come up against a series of defensive fortifications and redoubts. The auxiliaries had been showered with arrows and light spears and had backed away as quickly as possible, leaving several of their number wounded or dead before the British lines. Even as the auxiliaries made their report to the Emperor, word of their encounter spread through the army. The prospect of battle excited the legionaries, and they were relieved that the enemy had decided to fight a set-piece battle rather than a prolonged guerrilla war that could drag on for years.
The discomfort of the day before was forgotten as the men dressed and armed hurriedly. The cold morning meal was eaten under leaden skies, across which dark clouds scudded in the strong breeze. Macro looked up anxiously.
‘Wonder if it’ll rain.’
‘Looks like it might, sir. But if Claudius moves quickly then we might beat the rain and reach the Britons before nightfall.’
‘And if we don’t then it’s another day of marching in wet clothes,’ grumbled Macro. ‘Wet clothes, shitty mud and cold food. Anyway, who’s to say those bloody natives won’t just do a runner?’
Cato shrugged.
‘Better get the lads fallen in, Optio. It’ll be a long day one way or another.’
The centurion’s fears about the weather proved to be groundless. As the morning wore on, the clouds cleared, the wind died away completely and by noon the sun blazed down upon the army. A thin haze of vapour wafted up from drying clothes, hanging over the legionaries as they trudged along in the muddy wake of the Praetorian vanguard.
Late in the afternoon the Second Legion rounded a small hill and came in sight of the enemy lines. Ahead, some two miles distant, lay a low ridge, bristling with defences. In front lay an extensive system of ramps and ditches designed to deflect a direct assault and expose the attackers to missile fire for as long as possible before they reached the defenders. To the right of the enemy line the ridge tumbled down into a vast expanse of marsh through which a wide river curved behind the ridge in a long, grey sweep. To the left of the enemy line the ridge disappeared into a dense forest that covered the undulating ground as far as Cato could see. The position was well chosen; any attacker would be forced to make a frontal assault up the slope between the forest and the marsh.
The Fourteenth Legion had arrived ahead of the Second and was well advanced in preparing the army’s fortifications for the night. A screen of auxiliaries stood at the bottom of the slope and beyond them small groups of cavalry scouts were making a close inspection of the enemy’s defences. A staff officer directed Macro’s century to the row of pegs that marked their tent line and the centurion barked out the order to down packs. There was no suppressing the excitement of the men as they hastily erected their tents and then sat down on the slope to gaze across the shallow dip in the land at the enemy fortifications opposite. The sun twinkled on the helmets and weapons of the Britons massing behind their defences. The tension in the still air was heightened by the growing humidity as clouds thickened along the southern horizon once again. But this time there was not a breath of wind, and the myriad sounds of an army preparing to bed down for the night hung strangely in the still air.
At dusk fires were lit and in the gathering gloom twin carpets of sparkling orange confronted each other across the shallow vale, and smoke from the flames smudged the air above each army. Vespasian had given orders that his men be given an extra issue of meat to fill their bellies for the coming battle, and the legionaries gratefully settled to eat the salt beef and barley stew as night fell. Cato was mopping up the dregs of his stew with a biscuit when he became aware of a strange sound carried faintly on the air. It was a rising chant that ended in a roar, accompanied by a muffled clatter. He turned to Macro who had already finished his meal with voracious efficiency, and now lay on his back picking shreds of meat from between his teeth with a small twig.
‘What’s happening over there, sir?’
‘Well, sounds to me like they’re trying to whip up a bit of battle fever.’
‘Battle fever?’
‘Of course. They know the odds are against them. We’ve given them a good kicking in every fight so far. Morale won’t be high so Caratacus will be doing everything he can to make them fight hard.’
A fresh roar burst out from the enemy camp, and another rhythmic clatter.
‘What’s that noise, sir?’
‘That? It’s the same trick we use. A sword beating on a shield. You get everyone to beat to the same rhythm and that’s the sound you get. Supposed to scare the shit out of the enemy. That’s the idea, at least. Personally, I find it just gives me a headache.’
Cato finished his stew and set the mess tin down beside him. The contrast between the two camps disturbed him. While the enemy seemed to be having some kind of wild celebration, the legions were settling down for a night’s sleep, as if tomorrow was merely another day.
‘Shouldn’t we be doing something about that lot?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Just something to break up their party. Something to unsettle them.’
‘Why bother?’ Macro yawned. ‘Let them have their fun. It won’t make any difference when our lads get stuck into them tomorrow. They’ll just be more tired than us.’
‘I suppose so.’ Cato licked the last drips of stew from his fingers. He tore up some grass and wiped his mess tin clean. ‘Sir?’
‘What is it?’ Macro replied sleepily.
‘Do you think the baggage train would have been able to catch up with us today?’
‘Don’t see why not. No rain today. Why do you ask?’
‘Er, just wondered if we’d be getting artillery support tomorrow.’
‘If Claudius is sensible, we’ll be getting all the fire support we can manage against those fortifications.’
Cato rose to his feet.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Latrine. And maybe a quick stroll before I turn in, sir.’
‘Quick stroll?’ Macro rolled his h
ead to one side and looked at Cato. ‘Haven’t you had enough of walking over the last two days?’
‘Just need to clear my head, sir.’
‘All right then. But you’ll need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato strolled off towards the centre of the camp. If the baggage train had caught up with the army then he might see Lavinia. This time there would be no enclosure to keep him out. A few guards maybe, but they could easily be avoided in the dark. And then he would hold Lavinia in his arms again and smell the scent of her hair. The prospect filled him with a keen sense of anticipation and he quickened his pace as he walked up the via Praetoria in the direction of the legate’s tents. The jaunty spring in his stride carried him forward with such momentum that he nearly floored a figure who suddenly emerged from a tent flap and stepped directly in his path. As it was they collided and Cato’s chin was badly knocked when it struck the other person’s head.
‘Oi! You stupid bloody . . . Lavinia!’
Rubbing her head, Lavinia stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Cato!’
‘But . . . why . . .’ he mumbled as surprise overcame loquacity. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get here?’ he added, remembering the muddy tracks that had sucked down the baggage wagons.
‘With the artillery train. As soon as they could move, Lady Flavia left her wagon to follow on with the rest and we hitched a ride with a catapult crew. What happened to your face?’
‘Someone ran into me, quite a few times. But that’s not important now.’ Cato wanted to fold his arms about her, but there was a strange, distant expression in her eyes that discouraged him. ‘Lavinia? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘You seem different.’
‘Different!’ She laughed nervously. ‘Nonsense. I’m just busy. I’ve got an errand to run for my mistress.’
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