‘Oh no …’ Cato whispered. Only the man’s head and shoulders were above the surface now, his arms stretched out across the mud towards his comrades. Proculus still held the spear tightly in his right hand. With a gurgle he sank a little further and some of the oily water spilt into his mouth.
‘Oh, shit!’ Proculus gurgled. ‘Save me!’
Cato dropped his knife and took a step towards the branches lying on the mud.
‘No!’ Metellus grabbed his arm. ‘It’s too late …’
Cato shook the arm free and turned back towards Proculus, and saw that the man’s head tipped back, eyes wide with terror as the mud slid remorselessly up the bridge of his nose. Then there was just the top of his head, and his arm raised up, fingers clawing at the air. The head sank out of sight, leaving a dim pool of dark water that bubbled for a few moments and was then still. To one side Proculus’ hand rose above the mud, fingers tightly clenched. Then, slowly, they relaxed and the hand gradually flopped forward from the wrist.
For a moment all was still and silent as the men on the bank gazed at the spot where their comrade’s head had been.
‘Fuck …’ one of the men breathed.
Cato slumped on to the grass, and the others slowly sat down each side of him. As they stared, the mud slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to swallow up the carcass of the deer, and all they could do was watch with a mixture of shocked grief for Proculus, and a gnawing hunger at the sight of the gradually disappearing deer. Eventually it too was swallowed up as the foul water closed over the bloodied hide, and then there was nothing.
At length Cato stood up and tucked his dagger back into his waistband. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Go?’ Metellus frowned as he looked up at his centurion. ‘Go where, sir?’
‘Back to the camp.’
‘What’s the point?’
‘We have to get moving,’ Cato said patiently. ‘The mist has lifted. We might be seen.’
‘Doesn’t matter, sir,’ Metellus replied with a despairing weariness. ‘Sooner or later, this fucking marsh is going to kill us all.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Third Cohort reached the valley two days after leaving the camp by the Tamesis. Maximius gave the order to pitch tents and dig a defensive rampart as the light faded to the west. Before them lay a shallow vale no more than two miles across and perhaps eight miles in length. Beyond a low line of foothills, the marsh stretched out as far as the eye could see — a dismal patchwork of stunted trees and reeds, broken only by dark expanses of water and the occasional copse atop hummocks of ground that rose above the marsh like the backs of great sea creatures.
From the small watch-tower erected over the camp gate Centurion Macro had a good view down the valley and could see dozens of faint trails of smoke rising up above the gentle slopes. Closer to the camp he could pick out the small clusters of round huts, and a dim haze hanging over a small forest halfway down the valley indicated a settlement of some size. All very peaceful, he mused. In the next few days that would change.
There was a rattle of iron studs on wood and a moment later Maximius’ head appeared above the planking of the watch-tower. He hauled himself up and mopped his glistening brow on the back of a forearm.
‘Hot work!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But it was worth pushing the men on so we got here before nightfall.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied, casting a glance at the legionaries still labouring to finish the last section of ditch and rampart on one side of the camp. The men of the picket line stood in a thin screen a hundred paces out from the ditch. Most were leaning on their shields in postures of absolute exhaustion. If the enemy were to attack now, or this night, the men of the cohort would be too weary to mount a good defence of their camp. To be fair to Maximius, it was the kind of decision that plagued most commanders: a trade-off between a good position and the fighting readiness of the men. At least, when the morning came, the Third Cohort would only have a short distance left to march and would be fit and ready to meet any threat that emerged from the marshes.
Centurion Maximius was staring down the valley in the direction of the hidden settlement. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘See that small hill there, to one side of the forest, over that stream?’
Macro followed his direction and nodded.
‘That looks like the best spot to set up a more permanent camp. Good views on all sides and a supply of water to hand. Should suit us well, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro was getting tired of the rhetorical attempts to instigate a conversation. If Maximius wanted to talk then he was better off seeking the company of the ever-eager-to-please Centurion Felix. Besides, Macro was not sure that he trusted himself to speak with Maximius, burdened as he was with the knowledge that he had been the one to free Cato and the others. Maximius was still looking for the one responsible and so Macro was naturally wary of any attempt to trick him into even the smallest admission of complicity or guilt.
The cohort commander turned to face his subordinate and scrutinised his expression silently for a moment. Macro was uncomfortably aware of Maximius’ gaze but was unsure how to respond, and simply kept his mouth shut and stared ahead, as if taking in the lie of the land the cohort would have to march through the next morning.
‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’
Macro had to face the man now and affected a puzzled frown. ‘Sir?’
‘Oh, come now!’ the cohort commander smiled. ‘You’ve made little secret of your disapproval of me since your appointment to the unit.’
Macro was startled. Had he really been that transparent? That was very worrying. What else had Maximius seen in him? For an instant he felt a chill of fear spread across the back of his neck. Maximius must be trying to play some trick on him, to test him, maybe to trap him, and Macro’s mind reeled in panic.
‘Sir, I meant no disrespect! It’s just my way. I’m … I’m not very good with people.’
‘Bollocks. That’s not what I’ve been told. You’re a natural leader. Anyone can see that.’ Maximius’ eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe that’s it. You think you’re better than me.’
Macro shook his head.
‘What’s this? Too afraid to speak?’
Macro was furious and snapped back his reply. ‘I’m not afraid, sir! What do you really want? What do you want me to say, sir?’
‘Easy, Centurion! Easy …’ Maximius gave a light laugh. ‘Just wondered what you were thinking, that’s all. No harm intended.’
No harm … Macro felt a bitter contempt for his superior. Good soldiers never played these kinds of games. Only madmen and politicians, and he wasn’t sure there was much difference between the two.
‘Anyway, I wanted a little talk with you. You’ve known Cato for a while, haven’t you?’
‘Ever since he joined the Second, sir.’
‘I know. I’ve looked at the records. So then, you would be the best person to consult about his plans.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir.’
Maximius nodded thoughtfully. ‘But you knew the man. I’d value your thoughts on the matter. What do you think Cato will do? He may be dead already. But let’s suppose he’s still alive. What would he do now? Well?’
‘I … I really have no idea, sir.’
‘Come on, Macro! Think about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to cover for him.’
Macro almost forced himself to laugh, then knew at once that the laughter would sound hollow and fool no one, least of all his nervous commander. ‘Sir, you must know my record. You must know that I play by the rules and have no sympathy for any man who breaks them, let alone one who dumps me and the rest of my comrades in the shit. In my book, Cato’s got it coming to him. As for what he might do now, I can only guess. I never got to know him well enough to anticipate his actions.’ Macro knew that was true enough, and he resisted the urge to smile as he continued. ‘He could do anything. Cato might
try and make a play for Caratacus himself.’
‘That’s absurd. He’d never stand a chance.’
‘He knows that, sir. But the army is the only family Cato has got. Without us, he’s nothing. He’d do anything to earn his place back in the legion. That’s why I’m sure he’s out there in the marsh somewhere, biding his time and waiting for the right opportunity. Why, he’s probably watching us right now … And he wouldn’t be the only one, sir. Look there!’
Macro nodded down towards the nearest farmstead. A small number of figures were looking towards the fort from behind some low hayricks barely a quarter of a mile away. The distant figures just watched and made no movement.
‘Want me to send out a patrol to scare ’em off, sir?’
‘No.’ Maximius stared hard at the farmers. ‘That can wait until tomorrow. In the meantime let the locals spread word of our arrival, and let them sweat. We want to generate all the fear and anxiety we can.’
The next morning the cohort broke camp and marched down the valley. Macro was aware of being watched every step of the way. Occasionally he would glance round and catch sight of a face disappearing behind a tree, or dropping out of sight amid one of the fields of crops they passed by. His long years of experience had given him a good eye for the ground and he scrutinised any good sites for an ambush as they marched along. But there was no ambush, not one act of defiant hostility as the legionaries tramped along through the peaceful valley.
After an hour’s steady marching the column followed the track around the forest and turned up the slope of the small hillock Maximius had chosen for their camp. To their left, across the stream, on a gentle rise, sprawled a large village comprised of the usual round huts, together with smaller structures for stables and storage. Smoke eddied gently from the vents of a number of the huts. A few figures moved on the palisade that surrounded the village and Macro noted that the gates were closed.
‘Officers on me!’ Maximius bellowed.
When all his centurions and optios had gathered the cohort commander removed his helmet, mopped his brow with the felt liner and began his briefing. The rest of the men began work on the area marked out for the camp by the surveyors. A screen of sentries spread out around the crown of the hill, while their comrades began to swing their pickaxes, breaking up the ground for the ditch and rampart.
‘Tullius!’
‘Sir?’
‘I want an extra ditch dug around the camp. Make sure that the ground between the ditches is sown with caltrops. Have some Lilies dug into the ground as well.’
Tullius nodded approvingly. The small pits with sharpened stakes at their centre would be a useful additional defence.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word to the surveyor.’
‘No. You’ll see to it yourself. I want it done properly. I also want a fortified gateway thrown across the main track where it comes out of that marsh. See that it’s taken care of the moment our camp is erected.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now then,’ Maximius cleared his throat, and focused his attention on the optios. ‘You know why we’re here. The general and the legate want those men brought back. They’re out there in the marsh, as far as we know. You optios will be running regular patrols into the marsh. We don’t know the tracks and paths through the marsh, but,’ Maximius smiled, ‘we should be able to persuade some of the locals to act as guides a little bit later. In the meantime, despite the fact it looks quiet round here, we should be prepared at all times for an attack in strength.’
Some of the officers exchanged looks of surprise. There had been no indication of trouble as they marched down the valley, and the farmers that lived here probably wielded nothing more deadly than a scythe.
Maximius smirked at their expressions. ‘I can see that some of you think I’m being over cautious. Maybe, but don’t forget that Caratacus still has a few men left, wherever he is …’
Quite enough men, thought Macro. At least enough to wipe out the cohort.
‘You don’t have to worry about the locals. And you don’t have to worry about creating any good relations with them. In fact,’ Maximius paused to lend weight to his next words, ‘I want you to treat them in a way that makes it painfully clear that Rome is here to stay, and that they are absolutely beholden to our will and at our mercy. You will punish any sign of resistance as harshly as you can … Do you understand?’
Heads nodded, and there was a murmur of assent.
‘Good. Because if I see any of you going soft on the natives, or showing one shred of compassion or sympathy, then that man will have me to answer to, directly. And I will personally kick his balls through the top of his skull. Clear? Now then, all we need to do is set the tone …’
Half an hour later the First Century set off down the slope with Maximius at the head of the column, accompanied by all the optios and Centurions Macro, Antonius and Felix. Tullius, the most senior officer after Maximius, was left to oversee the construction of the camp, and watched anxiously as the small column tramped towards the native village on the far side of the stream. A trampled and churned funnel of earth on each side of the gentle current indicated the presence of a crossing point, and Maximius and his men splashed through the shallows with a loud churning of spray before they emerged dripping on the far bank and started up a worn track towards the flimsy palisade that surrounded the village.
As they approached Macro could see several faces peering at them either side of the gate, and for a moment he wondered if the villagers would make any attempt at resisting the heavily armed Roman column. He raised his hand and let it rest on the pommel of his short sword, ready to draw the weapon the instant there was any sign of trouble. Around him, Macro sensed the growing tension amongst the other officers, and as they came within slingshot range of the gate Maximius gave the order to halt. For a moment he glanced over the defences, then turned to Macro.
‘What do you think?’
Macro saw that there was still only a handful of natives watching them, and none of them appeared to be armed.
‘Seems safe enough, sir.’
Maximius scratched his neck. ‘Then why’s the gate still shut, I wonder?’ He turned towards the front rank of the column. ‘I’ll send some men forward, just in case …’
‘No need, sir.’ Macro nodded past him. ‘Look.’
The gates were swinging inwards, and a short distance inside the village stood a group of men. At their head stood a tall, thin figure with flowing white hair. He leaned on a staff and remained quite still.
Centurion Felix leaned closer to Macro. ‘Welcoming committee, do you think?’
‘If it is, then it won’t be for long,’ Macro replied quietly.
Satisfied that there was no sign of danger Maximius gave the order for the column to approach. As he fell under the shadow of the palisade the man with the staff finally moved, striding purposefully forward to meet his visitors at the threshold of his village. He started to make a speech in a rich deep voice.
‘Stop!’ Maximius raised a hand and called back over his shoulder. ‘Interpreter! On me!’
A legionary doubled forward, one of the recent replacements from Gaul. Macro saw that he had the same Celtic features as the villagers he was about to question. The legionary stood to attention between Centurion Maximius and the elderly native.
‘Find out what he wants to say, and tell him to keep it brief,’ Maximius snapped.
As the legionary translated the terse request the village chief looked confused at first, and then frowned. When he replied, there was no mistaking the bitter tone of his words.
‘Sir,’ the legionary turned to Maximius, ‘he merely wanted to welcome you to the valley and assure you that he, and his people, will offer you no harm. He had wanted to offer you the hospitality of his hut, and a chance to buy supplies from his farmers. But he says he is surprised. He had heard that Rome was a great civilisation, yet her representatives are so lacking in civility …’
‘He said that
, did he?’
‘Yes, sir. Exactly that.’
‘Right then.’ Maximius pressed his lips together for a moment as he fixed the native with a look of utter contempt. ‘That’s enough of this bollocks. Tell him that if I want his bloody hospitality then I’ll take it, as and when I like. Tell him he and the rest of his people will do exactly what I say, if they want to live.’
Once the legionary had finished, the locals looked at each other in shock.
Then the cohort commander pointed at the small crowd behind the chief.
‘That woman, and those brats. They his family?’
The chief nodded after the translation.
‘Macro, seize them! Take five sections and prepare to escort ’em back to our camp. There’ll be a few more in a moment.’
‘Seize them?’ Macro was almost as shocked as the villagers. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Hostages. I want these savages to co-operate.’
Macro felt torn between his distaste for what Maximius was doing and his duty to obey orders. ‘Surely … surely there’s other ways we can win them round, sir?’
‘Win them round?’ Maximius snorted. ‘I don’t give a steaming shit about them. Got that? Now carry out your orders, Centurion!’
‘Yes … sir.’ Macro summoned forty men from the head of the column and strode briskly up to the chief’s family. He hesitated a moment and then pulled a woman and her three children out from the rest and firmly steered them in between the two lines of legionaries. At once there was a chorus of angry shouts from the villagers. The woman twisted in Macro’s grip and looked back at the chief. The old man took a pace forward, stopped and clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly, and as she cried something to him, he grimaced and shook his head. Once there was a screen of legionaries between the woman and the rest of the villagers Macro released her arm, looked her in the eyes and pointed to the ground. ‘Stay!’
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