General Plautius nodded. ‘It’s true, as far as we know. A few thousand men did cross the river before we brought Caratacus to battle.’
Vespasian’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. There had been no battle, just a pitiless massacre. Then he realised that the general’s description had been for the benefit of the Imperial Secretary, who, no doubt, would write a report to his Emperor the moment he reached his own quarters. A battle would win more plaudits than a massacre.
‘Caratacus,’ Plautius continued, ‘may well be amongst those who escaped across the ford. It is of little consequence. There’s not much he can do with a handful of men.’
Narcissus frowned. ‘I hate to split hairs, General, but to me a handful of men implies a somewhat smaller number than several thousand.’
‘Maybe,’ Plautius conceded with a shrug, ‘but on our scale of operations it will not cause us any concern.’
‘So I can report to the Emperor that the campaign is over?’
Plautius did not answer, and glanced quickly at the legate, a warning look. Before the conversation could continue a slave arrived with the wine and carefully and quietly set the bronze tray down on the table. He poured a honey-coloured liquid from an elegant decanter into the three silver goblets and, setting the decanter down, he turned and backed out through the entrance. Vespasian waited for the others to take their goblets before he reached for the last one. The silver was cool to his touch and when he held it under his nose a rich aroma filled his nostrils.
‘It has been chilled,’ Plautius explained. ‘In the river. I thought that after the heat of the day’s battle some soothing refreshment was well deserved. A toast then.’ He raised his goblet. ‘To victory!’
‘To victory,’ said Vespasian.
‘To victory … when it comes.’
The general and the legate stared at the Imperial Secretary as he slowly downed his drink and set the goblet lightly upon the table.
‘A fine refreshment indeed! I shall have to get the recipe before I return to Rome.’
‘How soon will you go?’ Plautius asked bluntly.
‘When the campaign is over. The moment I can report to the Emperor that we have ended organised resistance to Rome in the heartland of this island. When that is achieved the Emperor will be able to face his enemies in the senate knowing that they know that victory has been achieved. We cannot afford to have any tongues whispering that the war is still unresolved here in Britain. I have spies in your legions, and so do the Emperor’s enemies. It is up to you to make sure they have nothing to report that can be used against Claudius.’
Narcissus looked directly at the general, who nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. Then it’s time we were honest with each other. Tell me, how do things stand after today’s … battle? Assuming Caratacus still lives.’
‘If he has escaped then he will need to retire and lick his wounds. I imagine he’ll head for some fortification we haven’t discovered yet. He’ll let his men recover, pick up any stragglers and rearm his forces. He’ll also try and recruit more men, and send envoys to the other tribes to win more allies.’
‘I see.’ Some of the condensation had run off the bottom of Narcissus’ cup and he arranged it into a pattern with the tip of his finger. ‘Is he likely to win more allies?’
‘I doubt it. The man is quite a shrewd political operator, but the record stands against him. We have beaten him time and again. These native warriors are no match for us.’
‘So what will he do now?’
‘Caratacus will have to adapt his strategy. He can afford only small engagements now, and will limit himself to picking off small garrisons, foraging columns, patrols and so on.’
‘All of which will no doubt be a drain on your manpower, and prolong the campaign indefinitely, I suppose?’
‘There is that possibility.’
‘Not very satisfactory then, my dear General.’
‘No.’ Plautius reached for the decanter and refilled Narcissus’ goblet.
‘So, the question is, how did you come to let him escape? You had led me to believe that this battle would be the end of it all. That Caratacus would be dead, or our prisoner by the end of the day. Instead, it seems that he will continue to plague us for months to come. Nothing has changed. The Emperor will not be pleased, to put it mildly. You both have family in Rome?’
It was not really a question, but a statement, a threat, and both the general and the legate stared at him with naked hatred and fear.
‘What are you suggesting?’ Vespasian asked quietly.
Narcissus leaned back in his chair and interweaved his long elegant fingers. ‘You have failed here today. There is a price for failure and it must be paid. The Emperor expects it and I must report to him that you have taken the appropriate steps. If you fail to do so here then the price will have to be paid back in Rome. It’s not much of a choice really. So, gentlemen, who fouled up today? Who is to blame for the escape of Caratacus?’ The Imperial Secretary looked from man to man. His face was impassive as he waited patiently for a response.
At last the general shrugged. ‘It’s obvious. He escaped across a ford that should have been better guarded. My plan depended on that.’ Plautius looked across the table at his subordinate. ‘The fault is with the Second Legion.’
Vespasian pressed his lips into a thin line and returned the look with contempt. At the same time his mind raced for a response. He realised at once that his reputation, his career, maybe even his life and those of his family were in danger. The same, of course, applied to the general. Yet Vespasian was wise enough to know that in such circumstances the powerful men who ran Rome would always close ranks and pass the blame on to a more junior figure: someone high enough in rank to serve as a salutary reminder of the cost of failure, but junior enough to be expendable. Someone like Vespasian himself.
For a moment he considered taking the blame and showing that he had more pride and dignity than this general, with his long noble lineage. There was satisfaction to be gained in that. A highly selfish satisfaction, he reflected. In any case, the only real achievement of his sacrifice would be the saving of Plautius’ reputation. When it came down to it Vespasian felt that he had more to offer Rome in the long run than this aged and worn out general. Then, in a moment of clarity he was aware that, however one dressed it up, the real issue was self-preservation. It always was. He’d be damned before he let a bunch of smug aristocrats throw him to the dogs to preserve one of their own. He cleared his throat and made sure that his tone was free of any emotion that would betray his bitterness, or fear.
‘The enemy was never supposed to have reached this ford. The plan — the general’s plan, as I understood it – was that the other three legions and auxiliary cohorts were to close with the enemy quickly enough to force Caratacus against the main crossings, where I would be waiting with the main strength of my legion. The third ford was an afterthought. It was only supposed to be defended against those of the enemy who escaped the battle in front of the first two crossings. It was never expected that they would bear the full weight of Caratacus and his army.’
‘It was always a marginal possibility,’ Plautius cut in. ‘The orders were clear enough. Your men were told to hold the crossings in all circumstances.’
‘That was in my orders?’ Vespasian raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m sure it will be,’ Narcissus muttered. ‘Legate, I take it that you are inferring that the general failed to move with sufficient speed to close the trap?’
‘Yes.’
Plautius leaned forward angrily. ‘We marched as fast as we could, damn it! Our heavy infantry cannot be expected to outpace native troops. The speed of our troops is not the issue. We had them in a trap and if the Second Legion had done its job properly the trap would have worked perfectly. Vespasian should have made sure that the ford was adequately protected. One cohort was not enough. Any fool could see that.’
‘One cohort was ample, for the
job it was actually given,’ Vespasian snapped back.’
For a moment the two senior officers glared at each other, eyes glinting with the wavering reflection of the lamp flames. Then the general eased himself back in his seat and turned to Narcissus.
‘I want this man out of my army. He is not competent to command a legion in the field and his insubordination cannot be tolerated.’ He turned back towards the legate. ‘Vespasian, I want your resignation. I want you out of here, on the first ship back to Gaul.’
‘I bet you do,’ Vespasian replied coldly. ‘If I’m not around to defend myself against any charges you bring, it doesn’t take a genius to work out the consequences. I refuse to resign my command, and I’ll put that in writing.’
Before Plautius could respond Narcissus coughed. ‘Gentlemen! That’s enough of this. I’m sure the fault is not wholly on one side or the other.’
Both officers turned on him angrily to protest but the Imperial Secretary quickly raised a hand and continued speaking before they could interrupt him. ‘Since you are both adamant that the blame lies with the other I fear your testimonies in front of the senate would only serve to destroy you both. Therefore, it seems to me that the best solution is to have an immediate inquiry and find some culpable character lower down the chain of command. If you can make a swift decision and deliver a suitably draconian punishment then I’m sure we can satisfy those back in Rome who demand action in response to your failure.’
Plautius visibly winced at the last word but immediately accepted the lifeline being handed to him and the legate.
‘Very well.’ Plautius nodded. ‘A court of inquiry, then. The legate and I will act as presiding magistrates. At least you’ll agree to that, Vespasian?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I’ll issue the orders at first light. Statements will be taken by all the relevant officers at once. If we move quickly the matter can be solved in a few days. Will that satisfy the Emperor?’
‘It will,’ Narcissus smiled. ‘Trust me. Now, I think we have settled the issue satisfactorily. Neither of you need lose any sleep over this matter. The blame will rest on other shoulders, in place of their heads.’ He chuckled at the quip. ‘Have your inquiry. Find some plausible men to blame and as soon as judgement has been made I can return to Rome and make my report. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?’
Plautius nodded, and a moment later, his stomach twisted by cold, bitter contempt for the other men, but mostly for himself, Vespasian lowered his head, stared at the silver decanter on the tray, and nodded slowly.
Chapter Fourteen
The men of the Second Legion had spent the night in the open, curled up by their equipment. They slept deeply, exhausted by the rapid marching of the day before, and by the construction of the marching camp. Since their trenching equipment had been left with the baggage train the men had dug the ditches with their swords and piled up the inner rampart by hand. Roughly cut wooden stakes projected from the outer face of the rampart, and sentries patrolled along each side of the camp.
The men of the Third Cohort were the most exhausted of them all, having had to fight a battle on top of everything else. Yet a handful of them were denied sleep and tossed restlessly on the flattened grass. Some because they could not forget the terrible sights and sensations that had been etched into their minds, others mourned the loss of close friends, cut down in front of their eyes. But for Cato the cause of sleeplessness was anxiety about the days to come, rather than the eventful day that had passed.
The escape of a significant number of the enemy practically guaranteed that the exhausting struggle would continue. Even if Caratacus was not amongst them, then one of his lieutenants was bound to swear the survivors to further resistance to Rome, spurred on by the need to exact revenge for the loss of so many of their comrades. They would ensure that more blood was spilled, and Cato wondered how much more the soil of this land could absorb before it sank into a sea of gore. The image was fanciful and he smiled mirthlessly and turned over, pulling his cloak round his shoulders and resting his head on his greaves.
But worse than the escape of the enemy was the failure of the cohort to do its duty. Centurion Maximius had fouled up badly. He should never have diverted from his mission to chase down the small band that had sacked the supply fort and slaughtered its garrison. He should have made straight for the ford.
Maximius well knew that he would be called to account for this costly error in judgement, and before the cohort had bedded down for the night he had summoned his officers for a quiet meeting, out of earshot of the men.
‘There’ll be questions asked about today’s events,’ he had begun, staring intently into the moonlit faces of his centurions. ‘I’m counting on you to stick together on this. I’ll speak for us, and take whatever blame the legate tries to pin on the Third Cohort.’
His expression had been sincere and Cato had felt a simultaneous wave of relief that the blame would not attach to him, and then a shameful sense of empathy for the cohort commander who could expect to be harshly disciplined. Maximius’ career was over. He would be lucky if he was only broken back to the ranks. That in itself was a bad fall from grace. His pay, pension and the privileges due to his present post would all be lost and the men who had suffered punishment at his hands would be seeking to exact a painful revenge when he became their equal.
‘I’m sorry I led you to this,’ Maximius had continued. ‘You’re fine men, and you lead fine men. You deserved better.’
There’d been a painful silence before Felix leaned forward and clasped the cohort commander’s arm. ‘It’s been an honour to serve with you, sir.’
‘Thank you, lad. I knew I could count on your loyalty. And the loyalty of the rest of you, eh?’
The centurions had murmured their agreement, all except Macro, who stood stiffly and refused to make a sound. If Maximius noticed, he’d made no mention of it as he clasped the arms of his officers and bid them good night.
‘Remember, I’ll speak for us all …’
Before sunrise the trumpets sounded and all across the marching camp men stirred, muscles stiff. Those with injuries winced at the aching and throbbing from under their dressings. Cato, who had finally fallen asleep only a few hours earlier, did not stir with the others and his men let him sleep on, partly out of kindness but mostly because the longer he slept the longer it would be before his orders stirred them into the daily routine. So it was that Macro came to find him after the sun had risen, tutting as he discovered his lanky friend still asleep under his cape, mouth hanging open and an arm stretched out above the shock of dark curls on his head. Macro shoved his boot into Cato’s side and rolled him over.
‘Come on! Wakey, wakey! Sun’s burning your eyes out.’
‘Ohhh …’ Cato groaned, squinting up at the clear sky. His gaze drifted across to the grizzled features of his friend and he sat up with a guilty start. ‘Shit!’
‘You fully awake now?’ Macro asked quietly as he glanced around.
Cato nodded, and stretched his shoulders. ‘What’s up?’
‘Plenty. There’s a rumour going round that the general has ordered an inquiry into yesterday’s cock-up.’
‘An inquiry?’
‘Shhh! Not so loud. There’s also talk that they’re going to make an example of whoever is held responsible.’
Cato looked up at him. ‘Where’d you hear all this?’
‘One of the legate’s clerks told me. He had it from someone on the general’s staff.’
‘Oh, it must be true then,’ Cato muttered.
Macro ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘Sounds plausible enough to me. They’re going to need someone to blame, and it happened on our patch. So watch your back.’
‘Maximius went through that last night. He’s carrying the responsibility.’
‘That’s what he said …’
‘You don’t believe him?’
Macro shrugged. ‘I don’t trust him.’
‘There’s a diff
erence?’
‘For now. Come on, you’d better get up.’
‘The legion’s on the march again?’ Cato hoped not. His muscles ached terribly, and the prospect of another day’s tramping across the land under a blistering hot sun was almost unbearable.
‘No. General’s sent some mounted cohorts after the enemy. We’re to rest here and wait for the baggage trains to come up.’
‘Good.’ Cato threw back his cape, struggled to his feet and stretched his neck.
Macro nodded over his shoulder. ‘Maximius’ slave has got breakfast on the go. He’s brought some provisions with him. See you over there.’
The centurions of the Third Cohort sat around a small fire over which the slave was frying several thick sausages in olive oil. A jar of warmed mulsum rested close to the fire and a honeyed scent curled up from the spout. The slave had arrived at sunrise and set straight to work, having walked through the night to catch up with his master. The air was filled with the aroma of meat as the pan sizzled and spat. The nearest legionaries looked over with twitching nostrils, knowing that they had several hours to wait before the baggage train arrived with their food.
‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Centurion Tullius growled. ‘Will you hurry up with those sausages? I’ll start chewing my bloody boot leather if I have to wait much longer.’
‘It’s nearly ready, master,’ the slave replied quietly, well used to the impatience of centurions.
While they waited Cato looked across the river. The far bank was covered with bodies, washed in the rosy glow of sunrise. Above them wheeled a swirling cloud of carrion birds, drawn to the ripe stench of death. Scores of them had already settled to plucking shreds of flesh from the bodies. But even that failed to ruin Cato’s appetite when the slave handed him his mess tin, filled with steaming sliced sausage and hunks of bread. The centurions set to the meal and soon the warm food in their bellies had revived their spirits and, mouths full, they began to talk about the battle.
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