The narrow width of the track meant that only two horses could gallop side by side and the Batavians slowed down as they jostled for position. At once, the more daring amongst the legionaries dodged forward and thrust their blades into the sides of the horses, or aimed at the bare legs between the leather breeches and the boots of the horsemen. A horse, stabbed in the flank, swerved round across the track and blocked the three horses immediately behind it. They crashed into the wounded animal and it stumbled back and rolled on to its side. At the last moment the rider threw himself clear and landed heavily at the feet of a group of legionaries. They hacked him to death at once. The other three desperately regained control of their mounts and tried to pick a path round the injured beast, but it was already too late. Their momentum had gone, and the surrounding legionaries rushed in, plucked them from their saddles and butchered them on the ground.
All this Cato saw in a blur of motion; then his eyes fixed on the two Batavians who had led the charge, and still came on, teeth-bared and eyes wide with desperation as they spurred their mounts forward. Cato saw a cavalry sword on the ground close by and snatched it up, the blade’s weight and balance unfamiliar in a hand used to the feel of a short sword. On either side of him he sensed his men shrinking back from the horses pounding down the track towards them.
‘Hold still! Don’t let them escape!’
A moment before the Batavians were upon him, Cato raised the sword and sighted along its length to the glistening chest of the nearest horse, and braced himself. The horse galloped on to the point, which ripped through its hide, tore through its muscle and pierced the heart. Cato had thrown his weight behind the sword and the shock of the impact now hurled him to one side. He landed heavily in the long grass beside the track, the wind driven from his lungs.
The blinding white that had exploded through his head when he struck the ground faded into a cloud of swirling white sparks. Then it cleared and Cato was staring straight up, the grey sky fringed with dark blades of grass. He couldn’t breathe and his mouth opened, lungs straining for air. There was a ringing sound in his ears, and when Figulus leaned over him, with a concerned expression, Cato could not comprehend what the optio was saying to him at first. Then the words quickly became audible as the ringing died away.
‘Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?’
‘Stop …’ Cato wheezed, and tried to draw another breath.
‘Stop? Stop what, sir?’
‘Stop … bloody shouting … in my face.’
Figulus smiled, then reached an arm round Cato’s shoulders and eased the centurion up into a sitting position. Scattered along the track were bodies and splashes of blood. Several horses were down, some still writhing feebly. The others had run off, riderless. Only one remained on its feet, nuzzling the body of the Batavian commander.
‘The last one?’ Cato turned back to Figulus.
‘He got away. He’ll be heading back to the legion as fast as Mercury himself.’
‘Shit … how many did we lose?’
Figulus’ smile faded. ‘A third, maybe a half of the men. Killed and wounded. Some of the wounded will die, or we’ll have to leave them. Comes to the same thing.’
‘Oh …’ Cato suddenly felt very cold, as the post-battle shock gripped his body, as it always did, and he trembled.
‘Come on, sir,’ said Figulus. ‘On your feet. We’ll sort this lot out and find somewhere safe to rest, until it gets dark.’
‘And then?’ Cato wondered aloud.
Figulus grinned. ‘Then we’ll roast some horse-meat!’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The army of General Plautius broke camp the next day. Vespasian watched the activity from the watch-tower on the Second Legion’s ramparts south of the Tamesis. He had risen early and leaned on the wooden rail, looking on as a multitude of tiny figures packed away their tents in the vast fortified camp that sprawled across the landscape on the far side of the river. Already a haze of disturbed dust had blended with the dispersed smoke of the campfires and hung over the scene, bathed in the diffuse glow of first light. Small detachments were busy removing the palisade and collecting the spiked iron caltrops from the ditch at the foot of the rampart. Once they had finished, other men laid into the rampart with their picks and shovelled the earth into the ditch. In the space of a few hours the marching camp would have been completely dismantled and would leave nothing behind that could serve the interests of the enemy.
Vespasian had seen it all before, on many occasions, but was still filled with satisfaction and pride by the sight. There was something almost miraculous about the way nearly thirty thousand men could build something on the scale of a small city in so short a time, and then level it and move on before the sun had even begun to warm the earth. Of course, he reminded himself, there was no miracle involved, only long years of hard training to ensure the efficiency with which the whole job was carried out. It was the Roman way of war, and upon it rested the future of the greatest empire the world had seen.
On the far side of the camp a dense column of men was marching out through a gap in the ramparts where the gate-house had already been torn down. Vespasian squinted to make out the detail as tiny twinkles of light flickered up and down the column from sunlight reflecting off polished helmets. As the soldiers tramped along, they quickly kicked up a dusty haze that swallowed up the main body of legionaries.
The Ninth Legion, with two regiments of cavalry and four cohorts of auxiliary infantry, turned away from the Tamesis and marched east to crush any last pockets of resistance amongst the Icenians and the Trinovantians. Once that had been achieved Legate Hosidius Geta was tasked with constructing a network of small forts to police the rolling expanse of rich farmland, trailing off into vast impenetrable marshes on the northern fringe of the Icenian kingdom. An army, much larger than the pitiful remnants that still clung to Caratacus, could easily hide themselves away in these marshes and never be discovered by Roman patrols.
Now that the Britons had been defeated on the battlefield, Plautius was free to disperse his forces and begin the process of turning the warravaged south of the island into a new province. There were colonies to be established, towns to build and a network of roads to be laid down to link them all. Then there was the need to build up a parallel network of administrators and clerks to run the province and make sure that it began to pay its way at the earliest possible date.
Even now, with Caratacus defeated scant days before, the general had received instructions to appoint local officials to prepare the groundwork for the tax farmers who had won the contracts for the new province. A full inventory was to be taken of the kingdoms of the tribes who had already passed completely into Roman rule. A number of client kingdoms were also to be approached to determine the appropriate level of tribute that they would be expected to pay into the imperial treasury.
This was a delicate task, since some client kingdoms were more important, strategically, than others. While there was no chance of the Cantians affecting the outcome of the current campaign, the Icenians – a large and war-like tribe – bordered the right flank of the Roman advance, and needed to be treated with careful respect, until sufficient force could be brought to bear on them and put them in their place. Further north, much further north, lay the kingdom of the Brigantians, ruled by Cartimandua, a young queen of formidable will, who had decided that there was more to be gained from appeasing rather than opposing Rome. For now at least. But in time, these client kingdoms would be remorselessly drawn into the Empire and subjected to its rule. The presence of a legion camped on their doorstep was usually enough to quell any temptation to rebel against the new order. And if they did resist then they would be taught a swift and bloody lesson in the realities of the new order. The dispatching of Hosidius Geta’s column to the east was merely the first step in adding the lands of the Icenians to the new province.
Meanwhile General Plautius would take the Twentieth and the Fourteenth legions, and most of the auxiliary cohorts
and push forward north of the Tamesis to establish the other end of the new province’s frontier, and begin the task of constructing military roads to link up the forces dispersing across the width of the island.
The third column, under Vespasian, consisted of his legion, the Second, four cohorts of Batavian horse, two cohorts of Batavian infantry and two large mixed units of Illyrians. General Plautius had also promised his legate use of the British fleet based at Gesoriacum in Gaul, as soon as Vespasian had finished off Caratacus and could move on to subdue the remaining southern tribes still intent on defying Rome. But Caratacus had gone to ground and Vespasian was consumed with frustration at the prospect of digging the wily British commander out of his hole. It was already late summer and soon the leaves would begin to brown and fall. There would be plenty of rain and the native tracks would turn into glutinous rivers of mud that would slow down the heavy wagons of the baggage train to an exhausting and filthy crawl. Removing the threat of Caratacus might be the last operation Vespasian would be able to carry out before the campaigning season came to an end.
He had been in command of the legion for nearly three years already, and he doubted whether he had distinguished himself enough for his tenure of command to be extended much longer. The cordial relationship he had established with his general over the last two years was dead. Both men regarded each other with open hostility now, and Vespasian was convinced that Aulus Plautius would have him replaced at the earliest opportunity. Under normal circumstances legates were left to command a legion for three to five years, before returning to Rome to further their political careers. But Vespasian had little taste for such ambitions any more. What was the point of high political office in the senate when the real power in Rome was wielded from the imperial palace? Worse still, promotion to any position of real significance depended on currying favour with the Emperor’s Imperial Secretary, Narcissus. The thought of toadying up to a freedman, a decadent Greek at that, made Vespasian feel sick. But he was realist enough to know that the old Republican values his grandfather had set so much faith in were largely irrelevant in the modern world. Where before hundreds of senators had once debated the destiny of Rome, now one emperor ruled. That was the reality he must live with.
From the moment of taking up his appointment to command the Second Legion Vespasian had felt at home. Army life was free of the endless deception and obsequious grovelling that characterised political life in the capital. Serving with the Eagles a man was largely in charge of his own destiny and most men rose through the ranks on merit. There was no intricate weaving of self-interested schemes, and schemes within schemes. Instead, a soldier was given a clear-cut task and left to improvise the best method of carrying out his orders. To be sure, there was a distressing amount of paperwork involved, and Vespasian had never had so little time for rest before in his life. Yet, after the few hours of sleep he managed to snatch, he awoke with a fresh sense of purpose, and a feeling that he was doing something with real value, something that genuinely furthered the destiny of his people, and of Rome itself.
Flavia would be delighted when the time came for him to quit the legion, he reflected guiltily. His wife had always regarded the post of legate as an unfortunate formality, to be undergone before her husband rose to high office. The discomforts of life in the fortress on the Rhine had put her off the army for ever, and now she waited impatiently at the family home in Rome. Not alone though, Vespasian smiled. She had little Titus to keep her company, and that boy had become quite a handful, if the tactful sentences in her letters was anything to go by. The lad should keep his wife busy. Too busy for her to be occupied by anything else.
All the quiet joy of the morning faded away as the prospect of a return to the snakepit of politics in Rome loomed in Vespasian’s mind. Even here, on the fringe of the known world, surrounded by his soldiers, he felt the tentacles of treachery and peril reaching out from the heart of the Empire to entangle and crush him. There would be no simple life of a soldier for him, Vespasian reflected bitterly. He was a fool to think otherwise. Politics was part of the air that his class breathed and there was nothing he could do to alter that fact.
A movement on the periphery of his vision drew his attention. Vespasian turned and gazed beyond the rampart below, to where the Third Cohort of his legion had finished demolishing their temporary camp and was forming up into a marching column. The vanguard century followed by the colour party, four more centuries, then a small baggage column, and then the rearguard. Less than four hundred men. The cohort looked small after the vast formations he had watched on the other side of the river, and Vespasian regarded it with a peculiar mixture of intense dislike and hope. They had stained the reputation of his legion and only their obliteration would remove the shame. Obliteration, or some great deed that would redeem them in the eyes of their comrades, and the rest of the army. Therein lay the hope. Either way the problem of the uncomfortable presence of the Third Cohort would be solved.
If his plan worked and Caratacus emerged from his hiding place to take the bait, Vespasian knew that it was almost certain that Maximius and his men would be crushed without mercy long before their comrades could close the trap on the enemy.
The legate continued to watch as the centurions called their men to order and then fell into place at the head of each century. The cohort commander made one last inspection of the column and then strode up to the colour party and cupped a hand to his mouth. An instant later the faint sound of the bellowed order to advance carried up to Vespasian, as the column rippled forward.
‘Easy does it, sir,’ the optio said quietly to Macro, and nodded towards the camp. ‘We’re being given the once-over by the legate.’
Macro turned to look and saw the distant figure in the watch-tower, taking in the gilded tunic, burnished by the sun’s rays, and the red cloak clasped across his shoulders. Even at that distance the broadness of the head and thickness of neck were unmistakable.
‘What’s he want then?’ the optio muttered.
Macro gave a soft, bitter laugh. ‘Just making sure he’s seen the back of us.’
‘Eh?’ The optio turned sharply to face Macro and at once the centurion regretted the careless remark. He glanced towards his optio.
‘What do you think, Sentius? The old man’s so fond of us that he’s come to wave goodbye?’
The optio blushed and then shot a look over his shoulder. ‘Straighten that front rank! You’re bloody legionaries, not a bunch of auxiliary arseholes!’
Macro was not fooled by this attempt by Sentius to cover his embarrassment, but continued to let his optio take it out on the men. There was no harm in keeping the men on their toes. Disgraced they may be, but they were still legionaries, and Macro was determined not to let them forget that for a moment. Still, he was deeply troubled by what lay ahead, and not just because the cohort would be inviting danger. That was part of the job. Maximius had seemed more than a little cold-blooded when he had briefed them the night before. Almost as if this was a chance to wreak a terrible revenge on the distant relatives of those native warriors whom the cohort commander blamed for ruining his reputation.
There would be a terrible reckoning for the natives when the Third Cohort arrived in the peaceful little valley that stretched alongside the marsh. And not just for the men of the cohort, Macro reflected. If Cato and his comrades fell into the hands of the Britons once the cohort had begun its bloody work then the native warriors would be sure to make every Roman captive die a horrible and lingering death.
As the cohort marched stolidly along the native track that led away to the west, Macro glanced back at the fortified camp. He could not help wondering if this was the last time he would ever see the rest of the Second Legion.
He was already certain that he would never see Cato alive again. Pursued by his own side and hiding out from the enemy, the youngster would eventually be found. Cato would then die with a sword in his hand, in the heat of a short bloody skirmish, or be executed in cold blood.
He was probably already dead, Macro decided. In which case Macro would soon be joining him in the shadows on the far bank of the Styx.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Honorius died during the night,’ Figulus muttered as he squatted down beside the smouldering remains of the campfire. Opposite him Cato was sitting on an ancient tree trunk, covered with lichen and bright yellow growths of fungi. Cato clutched one of the Batavian cloaks around his shoulders and tried not to shiver.
‘That’s the last of them, then.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Figulus nodded, and then stretched his hands over the grey ashes, smiling faintly as the warmth flowed over his fingers.
‘Twenty-eight of us left.’ Cato raised his head and looked round the clearing at the huddled forms of his men. A few were already stirring as the thin light shafted through the boughs of the stunted trees. Some coughed and two men talked in low tones, that dropped even further when they noticed the centurion glancing in their direction. The clearing stood in a leafy dell that was surrounded by low hummocks of land on every side. Beyond that lay the marsh, wreathed with mist that rose every night. The fugitives had been lucky enough to stumble on this place the day after their skirmish with the Batavian horsemen. They had left six of their dead with the other bodies and carried the seriously wounded with them, picking their way along meandering trails deep into the marsh. Cato helped his injured as best he could, but one by one they had weakened and died. Honorius had taken a spear deep in the guts. He was strong and had fought grimly to hang on to life, gritting his teeth against the agony of his mortal wound, face glistening with sweat. Now he was still, and Cato could see his body lying stretched out, arms by his sides, as Figulus had left him.
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