‘What the hell is he doing here?’
Tullius glanced round angrily. ‘Is that question addressed to me?’
Cordus tore his gaze away from Cato and then noticed Macro beyond, as his former centurion began to bellow orders to the legionaries of the Fourth Century. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Cordus turned back to Tullius. ‘What’s going on here? Where’s Centurion Maximius, sir?’
Tullius nodded back in the direction of the fort. ‘He sent us ahead. Said he’d be along directly.’
‘Oh really?’ Cordus looked round at the other officers and caught the eye of Antonius. ‘Where’s Maximius?’
Antonius glanced at Tullius, for reassurance, before he replied. ‘Like he said, back at the fort.’
‘The fort … I see. So while we’re about to take on a force many times our size, the commander of the cohort is attending to a few details back in the fort. Is that about it … sir?’
Cato could see that Antonius would help them no further, and that Tullius could not carry it off for much longer. So he stepped in front of Cordus, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
‘You’ve got your orders, Cordus. Get back to work.’
The acting centurion eyed him with open contempt. ‘I don’t take orders from condemned men, let alone condemned boys.’
Cato stepped closer, drawing his sword at the same time, pressing the point into the armpit of the other man – all of it hidden from the surrounding legionaries by the folds of the two officers’ capes. Cato’s face was no more than a few inches from the pockmarked flesh of Cordus, and he could smell the rank acid smell of cheap wine on the older man’s breath.
‘Never speak that way to a superior officer again,’ Cato said softly through clenched teeth, and prodded with the point of his sword. Cordus flinched and bit down on his pain as the blade pierced his flesh. Cato smiled, and whispered, ‘Next time you give me, or any of the other centurions, one word of insolence, I swear by all the gods, that I will gut you. Do you understand me? Don’t talk, just nod.’
Cordus stared back, eyes burning with cold fury, then he dipped his head, once.
‘Good.’ Cato slowly withdrew his blade and gently pushed the other man back with his spare hand. ‘Now get back to your unit, and carry out your orders.’
Cordus reached under his armpit and winced as he glared at the young centurion. Cato stared back, then nodded his head towards the defences. Cordus took the hint.
‘Very well, sir.’
‘That’s better. Now go.’
Cordus retreated a few paces before he turned and strode quickly towards the men of the Third Century. He did not look back, and Cato watched him long enough to make sure that Cordus did as he was told. Tense and trembling Cato turned towards Tullius and Antonius.
‘Well done, lad.’ A smile flickered across Tullius’ worn features. ‘That’s him dealt with.’
‘Only for now, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on him. He could cause us problems. Which reminds me, where are Maximius’ guards?’
‘By the supply cart.’
Cato glanced over to the cart and saw the six men standing beside it, shields grounded and spears leaning against their shoulders. ‘I’ll take them with me, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘What for?’ Tullius frowned. ‘We need every man here.’
‘They’ve sworn an oath to protect the cohort commander. If Cordus gets close to them, he might persuade them to back him, next time he tries to confront us.’
‘You think he will?’ Antonius asked.
‘If Caratacus doesn’t arrive by the time we’ve finished our defences, then the men will have time on their hands, and they’ll do what they normally do in such circumstances: talk. Given the presence of me and Macro, and the absence of Maximius, I should think we’ve given them plenty to talk about.’
Antonius looked down at his boots. ‘We’re fucked.’
‘Any way you look at it,’ Cato smiled. ‘Now, sir, the guards?’
‘You can’t have them,’ Tullius said. ‘I need them. I’ll put them to work here, and keep Cordus away from them. Now you and your men had better get down that track.’
The Sixth Century trudged through the posts of the gateway. On either side legionaries paused to watch them as they passed, and then hurriedly returned to work as their officers screamed at them for stopping. Macro was standing on top of the rampart and waved briefly to Cato as he directed his men to start pounding in the stakes of wood they had brought from the fort to act as a makeshift palisade. The gateway was set back from the rest of the rampart, which angled in towards it, so that any attackers would be subjected to fire from three sides if they made any attempt to assault the gate. As his century marched out from the lines of defence, the ground on either side of the track gave way to patches of mud, then still expanses of dark water from which the pale yellow stalks of clumps of rushes rose up, their feathered heads hanging motionless in the hot still air.
When they reached the first bend in the track Cato stopped to look back at the rest of the cohort and marked the distance to the gateway. It was essential that he was familiar with the topography. If the enemy came upon them before they were recalled by Tullius, then Cato and his men would be making a fighting withdrawal. The weight of their armour and equipment made it impossible for them to outpace the enemy, who would be thirsting for Roman blood in any case. They would have a short head start on Caratacus and the Britons, and then the Sixth Century would have to fight nearly every step of the way back to the cohort frantically struggling to complete the defences. It would be a close thing – if they made it. But if their sacrifice bought Tullius and the others enough time to complete the defences, the Third Cohort might be able to hold off Caratacus and his force. Long enough, at least, for Vespasian to march across the marsh and close the trap on the enemy and crush them.
Cato smiled at the thought. That would be the end of any meaningful resistance to Roman rule, and both sides could get on with the task of turning this barbaric backwater into a civilised province. He had had his fill of killing the native warriors, who had far more courage than sense. They were good men and, given the right kind of leadership, they would become firm and valuable allies of Rome. All this was possible once Caratacus was defeated … Then the smile faded from Cato’s lips.
The enemy would only be defeated if Vespasian arrived in time to crush them against the Third Cohort’s defences. It was possible that Vespasian would not arrive in time. Indeed it was possible that the legate was not even marching towards them. It was even possible that Figulus might not have reached the Second Legion, let alone managed to persuade Vespasian to lead his men along a narrow track through the heart of an enemy-controlled marsh.
Cato realised that all along he had been counting on the legate’s willingness to take calculated risks to achieve significant results. Then Cato wished he had gone north to find the legate himself, not trusting his optio to make the case for him. But that would have meant sending Figulus back to the cohort and the much harder task of persuading Maximius to take on the enemy, or finding a way of replacing the cohort commander, if he proved obdurate. Cato could not be in two places at once and did not trust anyone else to do either job for him. It was just the kind of intractable problem that made being an officer such a nightmare. Indecision was bad enough, but endless hypothesising after the event was pure torture. If only he could accept the consequences of his decisions, thought Cato, and just get on with it. Like Macro.
He tried to push further thought aside. He trotted to the front of his century, and continued a hundred paces beyond, to scan the route ahead. The track followed the high ground, such as it was, and skirted round the dismal pools and mires that stretched out on both sides. Where the land was dry, stunted trees and clumps of gorse clustered together. Beyond that, sweeping expanses of rushes restricted the view, so that there would be little warning of the enemy’s approach. Cato irritably slapped his thigh with a clenched fist. Th
e tense frustration simmered in his breast as he led his men deeper into the marsh, all the while expecting the next turn of the track to bring them face to face with Caratacus and his warriors.
As soon as Cato estimated they had marched half a mile, he ordered the Sixth Century to halt. The unit changed from column to line, six deep with a front of twelve men across the width of the track, their flanks covered by dense growths of prickly gorse that would tear the skin off any man who tried to force his way through. Two men were sent two hundred paces further along the track to keep watch.
Cato turned to his men, briefly recalling the first time he had stood before them as their newly appointed centurion. He remembered many of the hard-bitten faces before him and felt a new sense of confidence that they would acquit themselves well when they confronted the enemy.
‘Stand down!’ he ordered. ‘But stay in place.’
Cato squinted up at the bright sky and felt the sweat pricking out under his heavy military tunic, which in turn was weighed down by his scale armour. His throat felt thick and his lips were dry and rough to the tip of his tongue.
‘You can take a good drink from your canteens. Chances are we’ll be too busy later on for you to use them.’
Some of the men chuckled at that, but most stared ahead steadfast until Septimus had bellowed the order to fall out. The men laid down their shields and javelins and squatted down on the hard dry earth of the track. Some reached for their canteens at once, while others undid their neck cloths and wiped away the sweat that was streaming down their faces.
Septimus approached Cato. ‘Can the lads take their helmets off, sir?’ Cato glanced up the track. All seemed quiet enough and there was no sign of any alarm from the two lookouts.
‘Very well.’
Septimus saluted and turned back to the resting men. ‘Right lads, the centurion says you can remove helmets. Just keep ’em handy.’
There were groans of relief all round as the men fumbled with the leather ties and lifted the heavy, cumbersome helmets from their heads. The felt linings were so soaked with perspiration that they stuck to the heads of the legionaries and had to be peeled off separately. Underneath, drenched hair stuck to their scalps as if they had just emerged from a steam room at the baths.
Cato took a last look towards the lookouts and then slumped down on the track a short distance in front of his men. His fingers worked at the straps of his helmet and then he lifted it off and lowered it into his lap, brushing his fingers over the thin layer of dust that coated the top of the helmet. He set it down beside him and reached for the canteen slung from his sword belt. Cato had just eased the stopper out of the neck of the canteen and had raised it halfway to his lips when there was a distant shout. At once he turned to stare up the track, along with several of his men. One of the lookouts was running down the track towards them. Cato could see that the other man was still watching something further off. A moment later, he turned and sprinted hard after his companion.
The nearest lookout jabbed his javelin back over his shoulder as he ran and now his warning was clearly audible to every man in the Sixth Century. ‘They’re coming!’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cato dropped his canteen and scrambled to his feet, shouting out orders. ‘To arms! To arms! Move yourselves!’
All around him legionaries heaved themselves up and grabbed at their liners and helmets, jamming them on and fumbling desperately with the straps they had untied just moments earlier. All the discomforts of heat and thirst fled from their thoughts as the men rushed to arm themselves. From the track came the continual cries of the lookout as he raced back to join his comrades: ‘They’re coming!’
Shields and spears were snatched up from the dusty track and held ready as the legionaries shuffled into position. Cato drew his sword and punched it into the air to gain his men’s attention.
‘Sixth Century! Sixth Century, prepare javelins!’
Some of the men had instinctively reached for their short swords and now released the handles and hefted the shafts of their javelins, staring anxiously down the track. Cato turned to watch with them, willing the lookouts to run faster. The first of them came jogging up, blown by the effort of sprinting back to the century under the weight of armour and weapons. He stopped in front of Cato and bent forward, gasping for breath.
‘Make your report, man!’ Cato snapped.
‘Yes … sir.’ The lookout forced himself to stand erect and swallowed to clear his mouth of phlegm. ‘Beg to report … the enemy’s approaching, sir. A quarter, perhaps a third of a mile down the track.’
‘What’s their composition?’
‘Cavalry and infantry, sir. There’s eight or ten scouts out front. They saw us and rode back to the main force.’
‘They’ll make their report,’ Cato mused. ‘Then Caratacus will send them back in strength to beat us up while the main body deploys.’
Septimus gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Then they’re wasting their time. There’s nowhere they can deploy here. They’ll have to fight us on a narrow front. It’s going to hurt them more than it’s going to hurt us.’
Cato smiled faintly as he turned to look down the track. There was no point in reminding the optio that even a few thousand Britons might have an outside chance of besting a few score of legionaries.
‘I want you to run back to Centurion Tullius. My compliments to him, and tell him the enemy is in sight. We’ll fall back slowly and delay Caratacus for as long as we can. Got that?’
The legionary nodded. Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes as he stared down the track. ‘Where’s the other lookout?’
The legionary turned to follow the centurion’s gaze. ‘Decimus was trying to estimate their strength before he followed on. Look, sir, here he comes.’
A distant figure came scurrying round the bend, head down and heavy shield bobbing as he ran. His comrades began to shout encouragement as Decimus sprinted for all he was worth. Every so often his helmet glinted as he turned to glance back. The first of the enemy horsemen appeared round the bend when Decimus was still a hundred and fifty paces from the rest of the century. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth, shouting alongside the rest of his men as the optio looked on disapprovingly. Cato guessed that a veteran like Septimus thoroughly disapproved of officers who refused to comport themselves with a cool detachment. Sod him, thought Cato. There was a time and a place for a stiff and unyielding demeanour, and this was not it.
‘Run, man! Run! The bastards are right on you!’
Decimus threw down his javelin, but kept hold of his shield and ran on. Behind him the enemy warriors, more than thirty of them, urged their mounts on, determined to ride the Roman down before he could reach the safety of the tight line of red shields that stretched across the track. The tips of their lances glittered as they dipped and were lined up on the back of the man fleeing from them.
‘He’s not going to make it,’ Septimus decided. ‘They’ll have him.’
‘No,’ Cato replied instantly. ‘Come on, Decimus! Run!’
There was not much further for the legionary to cover, but there was even less between him and his pursuers.
‘I told you …’ There was no mistaking the trace of smugness in the optio’s voice, and Cato burned with cold fury at the man’s callousness. The horsemen would not have Decimus if there was anything he could do about it. The centurion turned away from the desperate spectacle, towards the rest of his men.
‘Front rank! Ready javelins!’
It took a moment for the men to respond, so rapt were they in the fate of their comrade.
‘Ready your bloody javelins!’ Cato roared at them.
This time his men hefted their weapons, stepped forward two paces and swung their throwing arms back. Decimus saw the movement and faltered briefly before he hurled himself towards the line of shields. Right behind him the Britons whooped with cruel glee as they realised that there was no chance now that their prey would escape them, still thirty paces from his
comrades.
‘Decimus!’ Cato shouted to him. ‘Drop down!’
Realisation of the centurion’s intention suddenly dawned in the legionary’s terrified expression and he threw himself forward on to the track, rolled a short distance to one side and covered his body with his shield as best he could as Cato shouted an order to the front rank.
‘Javelins … loose!’
There was a chorus of explosive grunts and ten dark shafts curved through the air, passing over Decimus and striking the horsemen immediately behind him with a series of dull thuds as the sharp points punched into the flesh of men and beasts alike. At once the air was split by the agonised whinnies of two mounts and the snorts from the others as they tried to swerve away from the stricken horses. One man was down, pierced clean through his breast, and he crashed down on top of Decimus, splintering the javelin shaft with a loud crack. He quivered for an instant, then died.
The impetus of the charge had been broken, and the enemy milled round the stricken tangle of the writhing, wounded horses. Decimus saw his chance at once, heaved the body off his shield, scrambled to his feet and threw himself towards the front rank of the century, abandoning his shield.
‘Come on!’ Cato desperately beckoned to him. ‘Make a gap!’
Two of the men shuffled aside and Decimus made for the space that had appeared between their shields. Just as he reached his comrades, Cato glimpsed something blur through the air behind Decimus and then the legionary tumbled forward into the Roman ranks with a cry of pain. Cato pushed his way over to Decimus and kneeled down. The shaft of a light javelin pierced through the back of his leg, just above the top of his boot, and blood welled up where the thin iron head had entered the flesh.
‘Shit! That hurts!’ Decimus hissed through clenched teeth.
Glancing up, Cato saw that the horsemen had withdrawn a short distance down the track and were re-forming, ready to charge again.
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