Cato told him, and Macro whistled.
‘Well, young Cato, you’ve still got a lot to learn about fighting men, it seems.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Never mind, lad. It’ll come in time.’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s see if anyone’s got any decent wine to sell. After that we’ve got work to do.’
As he watched his men leave the dell from the dappled shadows of a large oak tree, the commander of the Second Legion silently cursed the swordsman. The men badly needed something to take their minds off the coming campaign, and the spectacle of British prisoners taking it out on each other should have been entertaining. Indeed, it had been entertaining, until the end of the last fight. The men had been in high spirits. Then that damn Briton had picked his moment for that pointless gesture of defiance. Or not so pointless, reflected the legate grimly. Maybe the Briton’s sacrifice had been deliberately aimed at undermining the morale-boosting diversion.
Hands clenched behind his back, Vespasian slowly walked out of the shadows into the sunlight. Certainly these Britons did not lack spirit. Like most warrior cultures, they clung to an honour code which ensured that they embraced warfare with a reckless arrogance and a terrible ferocity. More worrying was the fact that the loose coalition of British tribes was being led by a man who knew how to use his forces well. Vespasian felt a grudging respect for the Britons’ leader, Caratacus, chief of the Catuvellauni. That man had more tricks up his sleeve yet, and the Roman army of General Aulus Plautius had better treat the enemy with more respect than had been the case so far. The death of the swordsman illustrated all too well the merciless nature of this campaign.
Pushing thoughts of the future aside for the moment, Vespasian made his way over to the hospital tent. There was an unfortunate matter he could put off no longer. The chief centurion of the Second Legion had been mortally wounded in a recent ambush, and had wanted to speak to him before he died. Bestia had been a model soldier, earning men’s praise, admiration and fear throughout his military career. He had fought in many wars across the empire, and had the scars on his body to prove it. And now he had fallen to a British sword in a minor skirmish that no historian would ever record. Such was army life, Vespasian reflected bitterly. How many more unsung heroes were out there waiting to be snuffed out while vain politicians and imperial lackeys grabbed the credit?
Vespasian thought of his brother, Sabinus, who had raced up from Rome to serve on General Plautius’ staff while there was still some glory to be won. Sabinus, like most of his political peers, saw the army only in terms of the next rung on their career ladder. The cynicism of high politics filled Vespasian with a cold fury. It was more than likely that Emperor Claudius was using the invasion to strengthen his hold on the throne. Should the legions succeed in subduing Britain, there would be plenty of spoils and sinecures to oil the wheels of state. Some men would make fortunes, while others would be granted high office, and money would flow into the thirsty imperial coffers. The glory of Rome would be reaffirmed and its citizens be given further proof that the gods blessed Rome’s destiny, yet there were men to whom such great achievements meant little, for they viewed events only in terms of the opportunities they presented for personal advancement.
This savage island, with its restless, feuding warrior tribes, might one day be afforded all the benefits of order and prosperity conferred by Roman rule. Such an extension of civilisation was a cause worth fighting for, and it was in pursuit of this vision that Vespasian served Rome, and tolerated those Rome placed over him – for now at least. Before that, the present campaign must be won. Two major rivers must be crossed, in the teeth of fierce resistance by the natives. Beyond the rivers lay the capital of the Catuvellauni – the most powerful of the British tribes opposing Rome. Thanks to their ruthless expansion in recent years, the Catuvellauni had swallowed up the Trinovantes and their prosperous trading city of Camulodunum. Now many of the other tribes viewed Caratacus with almost as much dread as they viewed the Romans. So, Camulodunum must fall before autumn to demonstrate to those tribes still wavering that resistance to Rome was futile. Even then, there would be more campaigns, more years of conquest, before every corner of this large island was incorporated into the empire. Should the legions fail to take Camulodunum then Caratacus might well win the allegiance of the uncommitted tribes, and raise enough men to overwhelm the Roman army.
With a weary sigh Vespasian ducked under the hospital tent’s flap and nodded a greeting to the legion’s senior surgeon.
Chapter Two
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‘Bestia’s dead.’
Cato looked up from his paperwork as Centurion Macro entered the tent. The summer shower thudding down on the canvas had drowned out Macro’s announcement.
‘Sir?’
‘I said Bestia’s dead,’ Macro shouted. ‘Died this afternoon.’
Cato nodded. The news was expected. The old chief centurion’s face had been laid open right down to the bone. The legion’s surgeons had done all they could to make his final days as comfortable as possible, but loss of blood, the shattered jaw and a subsequent infection had made death inevitable. Cato’s first instinct was to welcome the news. Bestia had made his life a grinding misery throughout the months he had spent in training. Indeed, the chief centurion had seemed to positively enjoy picking on him and a smouldering hatred had grown in Cato in response.
Macro undid the clasp of his wet cloak and threw it across the back of a camp stool which he pulled up in front of the brazier. The steam from a variety of garments drying on other stools rose in orange wisps, and added to the muggy atmosphere of the tent. If the rain outside was the best weather that the British summer could offer, Macro wondered if the island was worth fighting for. The British exiles accompanying the legions claimed that the island had vast resources of precious metals and rich agricultural lands. Macro shrugged. The exiles might be telling the truth but they had their own reasons for wanting Rome to triumph over their own people. Most had lost land and title at the hands of the Catuvellauni and hoped to regain both as a reward for aiding Rome.
‘Wonder who’ll get Bestia’s job?’ Macro mused. ‘Be interesting to see who Vespasian will pick.’
‘Any chance of you, sir?’
‘Hardly, my lad!’ Macro snorted. His young optio had not long been a member of the Second Legion and was not wise to the promotion procedures of the army. ‘I’m out of the running for that job. Vespasian has to choose from the surviving centurions of the First Cohort. They’re the best officers in the legion. You must have several years of excellent service behind you before you get considered for promotion to the First Cohort. I’ll be in command of the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort for a while yet, I think. Bet there are some pretty anxious men in the First Cohort’s mess tonight. You don’t get a chance to make chief centurion every day.’
‘Won’t they be grieving, sir? I mean, Bestia was one of their own.’
‘I guess so.’ Macro shrugged. ‘But that’s the fortune of war. Any one of us could have been for the Styx crossing. Just happened to be Bestia’s turn. Anyway, he had had his time in this world. Two years from now he’d only have been going quietly mad in some dull veterans’ colony. Better him than someone with something to look forward to, like most of the other poor sods who’ve copped it so far. And now, as it happens, there are quite a few vacancies to be filled in the centurionate.’ Macro smiled at the prospect. He had been a centurion for only a few weeks longer than Cato had been a legionary and had been the most junior centurion in the legion. But the Britons had killed two of the centurions in the Fourth Cohort, which meant that he was now officially fourth in seniority, with the happy prospect of having two newly appointed centurions to lord it over. He looked up and grinned at his optio.
‘If this campaign goes on for a few more years, even you might make centurion!’
Cato smiled at the back-handed compliment. Chances were that the island would be conquered well before a
nyone credited him with enough experience and maturity to be promoted to the centurionate. At the tender age of seventeen that prospect was years away. He sighed and held out the wax tablet he had been working on.
‘The effective strength report, sir.’
Macro ignored the tablet. Barely able to read and write, he was of the opinion that attempting either was best avoided if at all possible; he depended heavily on his optio to ensure that the Sixth Century’s records were kept in order. ‘Well?’
‘We’ve got six in the field hospital – two of those aren’t likely to survive. The senior surgeon told me that three of the others will have to be discharged from the army. They’re to be conveyed to the coast this afternoon. Should be back in Rome by the end of the year.’
‘And then what?’ Macro shook his head sadly. ‘A pro-rata retirement gratuity and the rest of their lives spent begging on the streets. Some life to look forward to.’
Cato nodded. As a boy he had seen the disabled veterans scrabbling for a pittance in the filthy alcoves of the forum. Having lost a limb or suffered a disabling wound, such a lifestyle was all that was open to most of them. Death might well have been a more merciful outcome for such men. A sudden image of himself mutilated, condemned to poverty, and an object of pity and ridicule caused Cato to shudder. He had no family to fall back on. The only person who cared for him outside the army was Lavinia. She was far from him now, on the road to Rome with the other slaves in the household of Lady Flavia, wife of the Second Legion’s commander. Cato could not hope that, if the worst happened, Lavinia would be able to love a cripple. He knew he could not bear her pity, or her staying with him out of any misguided sense of duty.
Macro sensed a change in the young man’s attitude. It was strange, he considered, how much he had become aware of the lad’s moods. Every optio he had ever known had been just a legionary on the make, but Cato was different. Quite different. Intelligent, well-read, and a proven soldier, yet perversely critical of himself. If he lived long enough, Cato would surely make a name for himself someday. Macro could not understand why the optio did not seem aware of this, and tended to regard Cato with a mixture of guarded amusement and admiration.
‘Don’t worry, lad. You’ll live through this lot. If you were going to cop it, you’d have done so by now. You’ve survived the worst army life can throw at you. You’ll be around for a while yet, so cheer up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied quietly. Macro’s words were false comfort, as the death of even the finest soldiers – like Bestia – had shown.
‘Now then, where were we?’
Cato looked down at the wax tablet. ‘The last man in the hospital is making a good recovery. Sword slash to the thigh. Should be back on his feet in a few more days. Then there’s four walking wounded. They’ll be back on our fighting strength soon. Leaves us with fifty-eight effectives, sir.’
‘Fifty-eight.’ Macro frowned. The Sixth Century had suffered badly at the hands of the Britons. They had landed on the island with eighty men. Now, only days later, they had lost eighteen for good.
‘Any news on the replacements, sir?’
‘We won’t be getting any until the staff can organise a shipment from the reserve pool back in Gaul. Take them a week or more at least before they can ship them over the Channel from Gesoriacum. Won’t join us until after the next battle.’
‘Next battle?’ Cato sat up eagerly. ‘What battle, sir?’
‘Easy, lad.’ Macro smiled. ‘The legate told us at the briefing. Vespasian has had word from the general. It seems the army is facing a river. A nice big, wide river. And on the far side Caratacus is waiting for us with his army – chariots and all.’
‘How far from here, sir?’
‘Day’s march. The Second should arrive at the river tomorrow. Aulus Plautius doesn’t intend to hang around, apparently. He’ll launch the attack the following morning, as soon as we’re in position.’
‘How do we get at them?’ Cato asked. ‘I mean, how do we get across the river? Is there a bridge?’
‘You really think the Britons would leave one standing? Just for us to use?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘No, the general still has to figure that one out.’
‘Do you think he will order us in first?’
‘Doubt it. We’ve been pretty roughly handled by the Britons. The men are still feeling very shaken. You must have sensed it.’
Cato nodded. The low morale of the legion had been palpable in the last few days. Worse still, he had overheard men openly criticising the legate, holding Vespasian responsible for the heavy casualties they had suffered since landing on British soil. That Vespasian had fought the enemy in the front rank alongside his men was of little account to most legionaries who had not witnessed his valour in person. As things stood, there was considerable resentment and mistrust of the legion’s senior officers, and that did not bode well for the next engagement with the Britons.
‘We’d better win this one,’ Macro said quietly.
‘Yes, sir.’
Both men were silent a moment as they gazed at the flickering tongues of flames in the brazier. Then a loud rumble from the centurion’s stomach abruptly shifted his thinking to more pressing issues.
‘I’m bloody hungry. Anything to eat?’
‘There on the desk, sir.’ Cato gestured towards a dark loaf of bread and a hunk of salted pork in a mess tin. A small jug of watered wine stood beside a battered silver cup, a memento of one of Macro’s earlier campaigns. The centurion frowned as he looked at the pork.
‘Still no fresh meat?’
‘No, sir. Caratacus is doing a thorough job of clearing the land ahead of our line of march. The scouts say that nearly every crop and farm has been fired as far as the banks of the Tamesis, and they’ve driven their livestock away with them. We’re stuck with what comes up to us from the victualling depot at Rutupiae.’
‘I’m sick of bloody salted pork. Can’t you get anything else? Piso would have got us something better than this.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied with resentment. Piso, the century’s clerk, was a veteran who had known every dodge and scam in the book, and the men of the century had done very well by him. Only days before, Piso, a mere year off his honourable discharge, had been cut down by the very first Briton he encountered. Cato had learned much from the clerk, but the more arcane secrets of working the military bureaucracy had died with him, and Cato was on his own now.
‘I’ll see what I can do about the rations, sir.’
‘Good!’ Macro nodded as he bit into the pork with a grimace and started the long process of chewing the tough meat into a consistency soft enough to swallow. As he chewed he continued to grumble. ‘Much more of this stuff and I’ll quit the legion and take up the Jewish faith. Anything’s got to be better than putting up with this. I don’t know what the fuck those bastards in the commissariat do to the pigs. You’d have thought it would be almost impossible to screw up something as simple as salted pork.’
Cato had heard it all before and got on with his paperwork. Most of the dead men had left wills bequeathing their camp property to their friends. But some of those named as beneficiaries had died as well, and Cato had to trace the order of bequests through the documents to ensure that the accumulated possessions reached the right recipients. The families of those who had died intestate would require notification in order to claim the man’s savings from the legion’s treasury. For Cato, the execution of wills was a new experience, and since the responsibility was his, he dared not risk any errors that might lead to a lawsuit being brought against him. So he carefully read through the documentation, and checked and rechecked each man’s accounts in turn, before dipping his stylus in a small ceramic inkpot and writing up the final statement of possessions and their destinations.
The tent flap swished open and a headquarters clerk hurriedly stepped inside, his sodden army cloak dripping all over the place.
‘Here, keep that off my work!’ Cato shouted as he cov
ered the scrolls piled on his desk.
‘Sorry.’ The headquarters clerk stood back against the flap.
‘And what the fuck do you want?’ Macro asked as he bit off a piece of brown bread.
‘Message from the legate, sir. He wants to see you and the optio in his tent, at your earliest convenience.’
Cato smiled. A senior officer’s use of that phrase meant at once, preferably sooner. Quickly ordering the documents into a pile, and ensuring that none of the leaks in the tent were dripping anywhere near his campaign desk, Cato stood up and retrieved his cloak from its position in front of the brazier. It was still heavy with moisture and felt clammy as he pulled it round his shoulders and fixed the clasp. But the warmth in the folds of greased wool was comforting.
Macro, still chewing, pulled on his cloak and then waved impatiently at the headquarters clerk. ‘You can piss off now. We know the way, thank you.’
With a longing look at the brazier, the clerk pulled his hood up and backed out of the tent. Macro crammed in a last mouthful of pork, crooked his finger at Cato and mumbled, ‘Come on!’
The rain hissed down on the glistening ranks of the legion’s tents and formed disturbed puddles on the uneven ground. Macro looked up at the dark clouds in the night sky. Away to the south occasional flashes of sheet lightning marked the passage of a summer storm. The rain streamed down his face and he flicked his head to clear a loose strand of drenched hair from his forehead. ‘What crap weather this island has.’
Cato laughed. ‘I doubt it’ll get much better, sir. If Strabo is anything to go by.’
The literary allusion caused Macro to grimace at the boy. ‘You couldn’t just agree with me, could you? Had to bring some bloody academic into it.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Never mind. Let’s go and see what Vespasian wants.’
Chapter Three
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‘At ease,’ ordered Vespasian.
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