‘Fucking fat chance of that!’ Maximius snorted.
Cato ignored him, concentrating his attention on Tullius. ‘Sir, you change your mind now and you’re dead. Stick with our plan, and we may live. That’s all the choice there is.’
Tullius bit his lip, caught in an agony of indecision. At last he nodded his assent.
‘Good!’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder, then turned to Antonius. ‘And you? Are you with us?’
‘Yes … but if it comes to a trial I want it understood that I was obeying your orders.’
Macro snorted. ‘Thanks for the loyal support.’
‘Loyalty?’ Antonius arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s in rather short supply at present. I just want to live. If the choice is as Cato has described it, then going along with you is simply the best bet.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Cato. ‘Nepos, take these two through to Maximius’ sleeping quarters and tie them to the bed. Gag them as well. They have to be kept silent.’
‘There’s a better way of keeping ’em quiet,’ Macro added.
‘No, sir. That’s not necessary. Not yet.’
While Nepos dragged the two bound officers away, the rest gathered round the large desk in the centre of the tent. For a moment there was an uneasy silence before Cato cleared his throat and turned to Tullius.
‘Sir, what are your orders?’
‘Orders?’ The veteran looked confused.
‘You’re the senior officer present,’ Cato prompted. ‘We have to make sure the cohort is ready to defend itself. The plan, sir?’
‘The plan? Oh, yes.’ Tullius gathered his thoughts, looked over the desk for the map of the surrounding marsh that Maximius had drafted, based on reports from the patrols, and any information the local villagers had been persuaded to divulge. The sketched marks of small tracks crisscrossed the outline of the marsh. A broader line marked the main route through the marsh, leading north towards the upper reaches of the Tamesis. Tullius placed his finger on the map.
‘If Cato is right, that’s where Caratacus and his force will be coming from. There are a handful of other tracks that could be used to enter the valley, but they’re not suitable for large bodies of men. So, we’re counting on him coming down the main track. That’s where we’ll have to hold him. Build up the existing gateway and hope we can hold it.’
Antonius looked up. ‘Leave the fort? But that’s madness, sir. If he outnumbers us why not fight him from proper defences? It’s our best chance.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Cato interrupted. ‘Centurion Tullius is right. We have to try and hold him back, stop him breaking out of the marsh and into the valley.’
‘Why?’
‘When I escaped from his camp—’
‘His camp?’ Antonius looked astonished. ‘How on earth—’
Cato raised a hand to silence him. ‘I’ll explain it to you later, sir. The thing is, I sent my optio north with a message for Vespasian. He should have reached him by now. So Vespasian will know about the location of Caratacus’ camp. He’ll also know that he intends to attack the Third Cohort and which route he is likely to take. If I know the legate, he’ll see this as an opportunity to finish Caratacus off. If he takes the legion and advances down that track, he’ll be able to fall upon the rear of the enemy force. Caratacus will be caught between Vespasian and the Third Cohort and cut to pieces, provided we can contain him in the marsh. And that means leaving the fort and taking up position across the track. If we stay in the fort, then Caratacus will be able to escape south the moment he spots Vespasian’s forces.’
‘That’s a lot of ifs,’ Antonius remarked quietly. ‘I’ll add a few of my own: what if Figulus doesn’t make it? What if Vespasian doesn’t believe him? What if you’re wrong? What if Vespasian doesn’t act?’
‘It’s true, Figulus might not reach the legion,’ Cato admitted. ‘We have to hope that he did. The fact that he’s risking execution by returning to the legion must carry some weight. We have to count on the legate seeing the opportunity to end this campaign once and for all.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then we’ll hold Caratacus off, for a while at least. If we cause enough damage then maybe they’ll pull back long enough for us to try and get back to the fort. Otherwise,’ Cato shrugged, ‘otherwise they’ll eventually roll over us and cut the cohort to pieces.’
‘Thanks.’ Antonius clicked his tongue. ‘Most inspiring briefing I’ve ever had.’
‘The thing is,’ Cato continued. ‘We have to get into position as fast as we can, and prepare the defences. Sir?’ He turned to Tullius. ‘We’re ready for your orders.’
‘Just a moment,’ Antonius interrupted and jabbed his thumb towards the cohort commander’s sleeping quarters. ‘But what are we going to do about those two?’
‘I suggest we leave them here, sir.’
‘And how are we going to explain Maximius’ absence to the men? Him and Felix?’
‘We’re not. Tullius can give all the orders as if they’re from Maximius. He’s the adjutant. Who would question him?’
‘If Maximius fails to put in an appearance, they might.’
Cato smiled. ‘By then, they’ll have other things on their minds.’
Then he heard the rhythmic tramp of marching boots, approaching the tent. He glanced at Tullius.
‘Someone’s coming.’
The older centurion hurried to the tent flap, looked outside briefly, then turned to the others.
‘It’s Cordus, and he’s got Maximius’ guards with him.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Macro grabbed Tullius by the shoulder. ‘Get out there and deal with him.’
‘What shall I say?’
‘Anything. Just don’t let him get inside the tent. If he does, it’s all over for us.’
Tullius swallowed nervously, then steadied himself for an instant and ducked outside.
‘Cordus! There you are. What the hell kept you?’
‘I-I was in the village, sir.’ The tone was aggrieved, verging on insolent. ‘Like you ordered. The natives have started on the ditch, sir.’
‘Good job. Well done. Now we’ve got work to do. The cohort’s on the move. Your orders are to pass the word for all units to assemble, fully equipped.’
‘All the men, sir?’
‘That’s what Maximius said.’
‘Who’s going to oversee the natives?’
‘Send them back to the village, and release all the hostages.’
‘Release the—’ Cordus’ voice started to rise, before he took control of his frustration. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.’
‘Good. Once that’s done, take your century down to the track that leads into the marsh. Start work on strengthening the existing gateway. We need to prepare it for an attack in strength. I want the rampart higher and the ditch dug deeper, and wider. We have to be able to defend it.’
‘Defend it from who, sir?’
‘The enemy. Who else? It seems that Caratacus plans to attack after all. Now carry out your orders.’
‘Yes, sir … But first, I must report to Centurion Maximius. Excuse me, sir.’
Inside the tent Macro and Cato exchanged anxious glances, and Cato tightened his grip on the cohort commander’s sword.
‘Make your report later!’ Tullius snapped. ‘Carry out your orders, or I’ll have you on a bloody charge.’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ Cordus replied quietly. ‘We’ll see what Maximius has to say about this.’
‘On whose authority do you think I give these orders?’ Tullius shouted back. ‘Get out of my sight, you jumped-up little prick! Go, before I have you for gross insubordination.’
There was a pause, during which Cato and Macro stood quite still, tense and strained. Then Cordus gave way.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And take these guards with you. Maximius wants every man at work on the defences as soon as they’re kitted up. Better find a cart and take all the entrenching tools you ca
n carry with you.’
‘Yes, sir … as Centurion Maximius commands.’
‘That’s right. Now get moving.’
Cordus called the guards to attention, ordered them to turn about, and then marched towards the main gate. The leather flaps were swept aside and Centurion Tullius walked unsteadily into the headquarters tent. He slumped down in a chair to one side of the desk.
‘Well done, sir,’ Cato said with a smile. ‘A fine performance. He’ll be out of the way when we make our move. Are there any other officers who might give us problems?’
‘No.’ Tullius puffed out his cheeks. ‘Maximius has really pissed most of them off. He’s been playing up to the men for weeks now, and undermining our authority over them. The officers would be glad to see the back of him. But they’d never support a mutiny.’
‘Then we won’t give them one, sir,’ Cato smiled encouragingly. ‘If we can keep them busy, it’ll all be over, one way or another, before they ever know the cohort is under a new commander.’
Trumpets began to sound the assembly across the fort and from outside the tent came the muffled sounds of the men gathering their equipment and bundling out of their tents to run to the assembly point just inside the main gate.
Cato leaned towards Tullius. ‘You’d better go and take charge, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Antonius, come with me.’ The old centurion looked up at Cato. ‘I’ll send for you and Macro as soon as Cordus has left the fort.’
Macro shifted uneasily. ‘If anyone asks, and they will, then you’d better have a good reason for reinstating us. At least, you’d better be able to convince the men that it was Maximius’ idea.’
‘Tell them the truth, sir,’ Cato added. ‘Tell them that Caratacus is coming and that the cohort requires every available man under arms to fight the enemy. And that’s the only reason Maximius has agreed to release us, temporarily.’
‘Right …’ Tullius looked doubtful. ‘Come on, Antonius.’
Macro waited until the two centurions had left the tent before he turned to Cato. ‘Doesn’t exactly make you feel hopeful, does it?’
Cato shrugged. ‘With the odds that I’ve faced in recent days, right now I feel like I’m well ahead of the game.’
‘Ever the bloody optimist,’ Macro grunted.
‘All the same, there’s one last thing I need to sort out before Tullius sends for us.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We need Nepos to stay here and keep an eye on Maximius and Felix. If you keep watch for a moment, sir, I’ll give him his orders.’
‘All right.’ Macro crept over to the tent flap and peered cautiously outside. There was no one close at hand, just distant figures visible through the gaps in the lines of tents. They were forming up, making ready to march out of the fort. Macro glanced back towards Cato and saw his young friend talking earnestly with Nepos, speaking quietly. Macro could not catch what was being said. The legionary seemed to be listening intently and shook his head.
‘You have to!’ Cato snapped at him, then glanced quickly at Macro. He turned back to the legionary and dropped his voice as he continued. Eventually Nepos nodded slowly when Cato had finished issuing his orders. The centurion patted Nepos on the arm and gave him a few last words of encouragement before he turned and made his way quietly across the tent to join Macro.
‘Nepos doesn’t look happy.’
Cato shot him a searching glance and then shrugged. ‘He’s not keen on staying behind.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ Cato smiled. ‘Being left alone when the rest of the cohort is leaving the fort.
‘Frankly,’ Macro muttered, ‘I’m not sure who’s going to have the better deal. Any possibility that Nepos might want to swap duties?’
Cato gave a dry laugh as he glanced back towards Nepos, ducking quietly back into the cohort commander’s sleeping quarters. ‘Oh, I should think there’s every possibility of that.’
Once the cohort had formed up behind the main gate, Centurion Tullius passed on the orders from the cohort commander and told the men that Centurion Felix had volunteered to find the legate and inform him of the Third Cohort’s situation. Tullius explained that since the cohort was well under strength, Maximius had decided that every available man should be readied for the coming fight. Accordingly, Macro had been given command of the Fourth Century, Felix’s unit, and Cato would be once again marching at the head of the Sixth Century. On cue, the two officers emerged from between the lines of tents behind Tullius and were presented to the men of the cohort. The astonishment of the legionaries was short-lived as Tullius gave the order to march at once and, century by century, the men of the cohort tramped out of the fort and headed towards the track leading into the marsh.
Optio Septimus, who Maximius had appointed to replace Figulus, kept pace alongside Cato. From time to time he glanced at his centurion with a surly and hostile expression that Cato could well understand. He had been enjoying his first taste of command, and had relinquished it with a barely tolerable show of bad feeling. Cato decided that the best way of dealing with the resentment was to keep the man occupied.
‘The men are straggling, Septimus! Close ’em up!’
The optio dropped out of line and started to scream abuse at the men marching past him, striking out with his staff at any legionary who permitted a gap to open up between himself and the man ahead of him. The blows were unnecessarily savage, but Cato forced himself not to intervene. The last thing the century needed now was a confrontation between its officers. He would have to let Septimus vent his frustration and anger on the men for now. As long as they hated Septimus, they might be inclined towards a better relationship with their newly reappointed centurion.
It felt strange to Cato to be once again commanding the men he had led into battle at the crossing on the Tamesis. Last time they had failed to hold the enemy back and Cato had suffered decimation as a result. This time failure would lead to the death of them all. And if they survived the coming hours? Cato smiled grimly to himself. However things turned out, he was still a condemned man and faced execution, or, if he was spared, it was most likely that he would still be disgraced and dismissed from the army. With a stab of anger he cast thought of the future aside. He must keep his mind on the present.
The men’s surprise at Cato’s temporary reprieve was all the more heightened because it had been on the orders of the cohort commander, so ruthless and fanatic in his hunt for the condemned men in recent days. As Cato had appeared at the assembly area, most had looked at him in wonder, but a few faces conveyed resentment and – worse – suspicion. Certainly, his grimy visage, matted hair and straggly beard sat poorly upon the face of a man with the rank of centurion. He had recovered his scaled armour and harness from the cohort’s quartermaster, a source of yet more resentment, since the man had been hoping to sell the equipment for a tidy sum. But the ill feeling of others was no more than a faint shadow cast across the sense of contentment that Cato felt. To be back in his armour, with a good sword at his side and a stout shield on his arm felt natural and comforting. Almost as if the previous weeks of misery, hardship and peril had been washed away like a layer of dust in a summer shower.
Almost.
‘Sir!’
Cato looked up and saw a runner approaching from the head of the column, which had just started to cross the crest of a small hill. The centurion stepped out to one side as the runner drew up by the Sixth Century.
‘Sir, Centurion Tullius sends his compliments, and says that Cordus and his men are in sight.’
Cato could not help smiling at the thinly veiled warning, and then he nodded to the messenger. ‘Thank him for me, and let Tullius know I am aware of the situation.’
The messenger frowned at the oddness of Cato’s reply. ‘Sir?’
‘Just tell him exactly what I said.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary saluted and turned away, running alongside the cohort back towards Centurio
n Tullius at the head of the column. Cato felt a stab of anxiety over the need to leave the cohort in the hands of the old officer. There had been no other way of handling things. It was risky enough removing Maximius from the scene. Any attempt by Macro or Cato to take charge of the cohort was doomed to failure, so Tullius it must be, if the men were not to have their credulity stretched too far.
As the tail end of the cohort crossed the brow of the hill Cato glanced ahead and saw the distant figures of Cordus and his men toiling away as they widened the ditch across the path that led right through the heart of the marsh. The acting centurion was wearing a red cloak to distinguish himself from his men, and Cato idly wondered if he had pilfered it from Macro’s stores, slipping into the centurion’s clothes as readily as he had assumed Macro’s command. It was an unworthy thought and Cato was angry at himself for giving it expression. Cordus was merely obeying orders. The fact that he took great satisfaction in obeying the cohort commander was immaterial, Cato told himself.
The newly arrived centuries were deployed either side of the track before they were ordered to down shields and javelins and head over to the cart to be issued with picks and shovels. Their officers set them to work at once on the ditch and rampart.
‘Not your men, Cato,’ Tullius called out as the Sixth Century marched up. ‘I want you to advance ahead of the cohort. Take up position half a mile along the track. You may need to buy us time to finish the defences. As soon as you see the enemy, send a runner back to let me know.’
‘Yes, sir. How long should we hold them for?’
‘As long as you can. If we complete the work before Caratacus arrives I’ll send a runner to recall you. Then just leave a small picket and fall back here with the rest of your men. No heroics, understand?’
Cato nodded. Behind Tullius’ shoulder he saw Cordus striding over towards them. As soon as the acting centurion recognised Cato he faltered for an instant.
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