From no more than a few feet away someone coughed, and before a startled Cato could react, a man stood up on the other side of the tree trunk, facing away from him and pulling up his coarse woollen breeches.
‘Oh shit!’ Cato went to raise his spear.
The man spun round, eyes glaring, teeth bared under a red moustache. His lime-washed hair bristled in matted spikes beneath a bronze helmet. For an instant both men were still, staring at each other in numbed surprise. The Briton reacted first. He grabbed Cato by the shoulder straps, and with one powerful heave dragged him bodily across the trunk and threw him down on the loose shingle of the river bank. The impact drove the air from Cato’s lungs. Suddenly a fist smashed into his mouth, and the world went blinding white. There were shouts, vision returned and he saw the Briton standing over him, sword half drawn, glaring back across the tree trunk. Then the man was gone, shingle rattling in his wake as friendly hands hauled Cato up.
‘You all right?’
‘Don’t let him get away!’ gasped Cato. ‘Stop him!’
Pyrax abruptly dropped his optio and ran off in pursuit, followed by the rest of the section as they scrambled across the tree trunk.
By the time Cato had recovered enough to stand up, it was all over. The Briton lay face down at the river’s edge ten feet from his horse, a pair of javelins protruding from his back. The horse had jerked its reins free of the tether, and backed off. Now it was eyeing the newcomers uncertainly as it waited in vain for the reassurance of its master’s return.
‘Someone get the horse,’ ordered Cato. The last thing he needed now was for the animal to run off and be discovered by some other British scouts. One of the men unstrapped his shield and helmet and moved quietly towards the horse.
‘Make a noise like a carrot,’ Pyrax suggested unhelpfully before he took his optio’s arm. ‘All right, Cato?’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Nearly dropped yourself right in it!’ Pyrax nodded at the trunk.
‘Not funny.’ Cato felt his jaw, throbbing from the blow, and saw blood on his hand from a split lip. ‘Bastard!’
‘Be grateful it wasn’t worse. He had you bang to rights there.’
‘I couldn’t see him.’ Cato began to blush.
‘No shame, Optio. I’m just glad you were leading from the front.’
‘Thanks,’ Cato grumbled. He sent one man on to the next bend in the river to keep watch while he considered the situation. The body and horse had to be disposed of. The body was simple enough, and the patrol quickly bundled it under the trunk and piled up loose shingle and branches to hide it from view. The horse would be more of a challenge. With the beast securely tied to a stump, Cato drew the ivory-handled sword Bestia had left to him and gingerly approached. He was not looking forward to the task and the job was made no easier by the bright gleaming eyes and twitching muzzle that were raised towards him.
‘Come on, horsey,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s make this nice and quick.’
Raising the blade, he stepped to the side of the horse and looked for a point to strike.
‘Optio!’
Cato glanced round and saw Pyrax gesturing downriver. The man on point was crouched down and waving frantically to get their attention. Cato waved back and the man dropped to the ground.
‘Wait here. Keep the horse quiet.’
Cato hurried forward, crouching low for the last few paces before he lay down beside the point man. Round the bend of the river was a small weir, part natural obstacles and part manmade to act as a crossing point. The sound of the water tumbling down the far side in a muffled roar reached their ears. But what had attracted the point man’s attention was the group of horsemen well beyond the weir. As they watched, one of the Britons detached himself from the group and headed upriver directly towards them, hands cupped as he shouted something barely audible above the din of the weir.
‘They’re looking for our man,’ Cato decided. ‘Checking if he’s seen anything.’
‘And if they don’t find him?’
‘Then they’ll get suspicious and start searching. We can’t let that happen.’
The point man glanced towards the Britons. ‘We can’t take that lot on. Too many.’
‘Of course we can’t take them on. In any case, I doubt they’d fight. They’re doing the same job as us. Find the enemy and report in, nothing more. But we mustn’t let them start worrying about one of their scouts.’ Cato watched as the Briton slowly walked his horse nearer, still calling out. ‘Wait here, and stay out of sight.’
Cato scrambled back to the rest of the patrol. He examined the dead Briton and then looked round at his men. ‘Pyrax! Can you ride a horse?’
‘Yes, Optio.’
‘Right then, get this man’s cloak and helmet on, quick as you can.’
Pyrax looked puzzled.
‘Don’t think, just do it!’
Pulling the javelins out of the corpse, the patrol hastily stripped off his cloak and leggings and passed them to Pyrax. With grim distaste the veteran pulled on the Briton’s crude garments and tied the straps of the bronze helmet. Then he climbed onto the horse. The animal shied about a bit at first, but a firm hand on the reins and a steadying pressure to its flanks somewhat reassured the beast.
‘Now get down to the river bend and wait there.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you do exactly as I say.’
The patrol followed as Pyrax walked the horse downriver, and then they ducked into the undergrowth along the bank. From his vantage point Pyrax could see the Briton approaching, calling out for his comrade no more than a hundred and fifty paces away, almost level with the weir.
‘What do I do?’ he asked quietly.
‘Just wave your arm and make out that you haven’t seen anything.’
‘How do I do that?’ Pyrax asked.
‘How should I know? I’m not a bloody theatre director! Improvise.’
‘And if that doesn’t satisfy him?’
‘Then the legion gets into battle a bit earlier than we bargained for.’
‘He’s seen me!’ Pyrax stiffened nervously, before he remembered to raise an arm in greeting.
Cato eased himself forward until he could glimpse the approaching Briton through the sun-dappled ferns and stinging nettles. The man had reached the weir and reined in his horse. He called out again, the words still indistinct above the faint roar of tumbling water. Pyrax waved his hand again, and followed it with a slow, elaborate shake of the head. The Briton turned downriver and shouted something to his comrades, a short distance beyond. After a brief exchange the Briton dug his heels into his horse and continued approaching the river bend.
‘What now?’ Pyrax asked softly.
‘When I say “now” you beckon him and steer the horse back round the bend until you are out of sight of the others. We’ll jump him.’
‘Great. And then?’
‘One thing at a time.’
As Cato continued to watch from cover, the horseman walked his mount closer, his demeanour casual and unconcerned as he enjoyed the early summer morning. Cato wriggled back a short way and gently drew his sword. Taking his cue, the other men braced themselves to spring once the Briton had passed beyond them. Then when the man was no more than a hundred feet away, close enough for Cato to see beneath his helmet he was just a youngster, the shrill cry of a Celtic war horn carried up the river. The Briton checked his horse and turned back towards the band of horsemen. They were wheeling round, arms waving frantically, gesturing for him to come at once. With a final shout towards Pyrax, the young Briton turned his horse and kicked it into a trot towards his comrades who were already surging up the slope in the direction of the fortified river crossing.
‘What shall I do?’ asked Pyrax.
‘Nothing. Stay still until they’re out of sight.’
As Cato had expected, the Britons were in too much of a hurry to spare their lone scout any attention and the horsemen disappeared without a backward gla
nce at Pyrax. When the youngster had disappeared into the trees, Pyrax relaxed his grip on the reins and slumped forward.
‘Shit! That was close.’
‘Nice work!’ Cato smiled as he rose up and patted the horse on the side of its head.
‘What was all that about? That blast on a horn.’
‘I guess they’ve discovered the Batavians. You’d better get back to Vespasian at once and let him know what’s happened. We’ll continue down the river but I doubt we’ll encounter any more of their scouts now. You get going.’
‘Right!’ Pyrax yanked the reins round and kicked in his heels.
‘Pyrax!’ Cato called after him. ‘You’d better lose the helmet and cloak before you go if you want to survive long enough to make the report!’
Chapter Ten
_______________
A distant mass of infantry and cavalry was forming up behind the British fortifications as Vitellius looked anxiously towards the north-east. It was almost midday, the sky was a deep blue and the sun beat down on the two armies facing each other across the river. From where he stood he had a glorious view across the gently rolling landscape, much of it cleared for the cultivation of cereal crops, gently rippling like sheets of green silk in the light breeze. This land would make an excellent province for the empire, he decided, once its inhabitants had submitted to Rome and adapted to civilised ways. But that submission was not forthcoming. Indeed these people were proving to be a somewhat tougher nut to crack than the army had been led to believe. Their technical knowledge of modern warfare was sadly lacking but they fought with an élan that was most impressive.
As soon as the Roman warships had expended their incendiary ammunition, the Britons had scurried out from behind their earthworks and thrown up a screen of rubble-filled wicker baskets to protect them from the bolt-throwers as they repaired the fire damage. Many more men had been cut down in the process, but the Britons had simply heaved the corpses up onto the earthworks. One particular warrior had proved extremely aggravating for the Roman artillery crews. He was a huge man, with a winged helmet over his blond hair, and he stood naked at the water’s edge, shouting abuse at the Roman warships as he defiantly waved a double-headed axe. Every so often he would turn round and thrust his backside towards the enemy, defying them to do their worst. The navy were piqued by this haughty challenge, and the bolt-throwers on the nearest trireme had swung round towards the British warrior. He was proving to be remarkably agile and so far he had managed to avoid the bolts being fired at him. Indeed, the more insulting he got, the worse the crews’ aim became in their desperation to nail him.
‘Fools!’ muttered General Plautius. ‘Can’t those idiots see what he’s doing?’
‘Sir?’
‘Look, Vitellius.’ The general pointed. The ship that was concentrating its fire on the blond warrior was also shielding the Britons from the other triremes, and their repair work continued apace. ‘Bloody navy! Letting pride come before brains, as usual.’
‘Shall I send a man to the fleet prefect, sir?’
‘No point. By the time we reach him, and he gets a message to the captain of that ship, the bloody Britons will have finished their work and be settling down for an afternoon nap. All because some touchy naval officer can’t cope with a barbarian waving his bloody arse in his face.’
Vitellius picked up the strained note in the general’s voice and realised that the previous evening’s plan was beginning to unravel. Not only had the navy failed to destroy the defences, they had failed even to damage them enough to clear the way for the subsequent infantry assault. And far from demoralising the Britons the navy had made the Romans look foolish by turning their wrath on one naked warrior. When the Ninth crossed the ford they would be facing an emboldened enemy fighting from behind fortifications. The success of the attack was no longer a foregone conclusion. To add to this problem, there had been no report on the progress of the Second Legion since it had crossed the river at first light. If Vespasian was manoeuvring according to plan, he would almost be in position now, ready to launch an attack on the Britons’ right flank.
At the other end of the battlefield word had come back from the prefect in charge of the Batavian cohorts that the river crossing had been successful. The enemy had been caught on the hop, and all the men had formed up on the far bank before any serious counterattack could be launched by the Britons. Better still, the Batavians had run into a large unit of chariots. Undaunted by these impressive but outdated weapons, the Batavians had ploughed into them, attacking the horses first, as General Plautius had ordered. Without horses the chariots were useless, and all that remained to be done was the mopping up of the unmounted spearmen and their drivers.
So far so good.
But now Caratacus was wise to the weakness of the Roman force on his left flank and was rapidly moving to surround the Batavians and throw them back against the river. If that could be done quickly enough he would be able to redeploy his forces to meet the next attack Plautius had prepared. Now was the time for the Ninth Legion to make their move, to take the pressure off the Batavians and suck more Britons into the defence of the fortifications around the ford. And when Caratacus’ last reserves had been committed then the Second Legion would emerge from the woods to the south-west and crush the enemy in an iron vice.
‘Oh, sir!’ Vitellius suddenly laughed. ‘Look there!’
The naked warrior had finally paid the price for his bravery, and was sitting down, legs open and stretched out before him as he struggled with a bolt that had smashed into his hip. From the amount of blood that was flowing into the churned mud around him, a major artery must have been severed by the bolt. Even as they watched he was struck in the face by another bolt, and helmet and head burst into bloody fragments as the torso was hurled back by the impact.
‘Good!’ The general nodded. ‘That should please the navy. Tribune, it’s time for the main assault. Better get yourself a shield from someone.’
‘Sir?’
‘I need a good pair of eyes on the ground, Vitellius. Go in with the first wave and make a note of all the defences you encounter, the nature of the ground you pass over, and any terrain we might be able to exploit if we have to go through it all over again. I’ll have your report when you get back.’
If I get back, Vitellius reflected bitterly as he sized up the task facing the Ninth Legion. It would be dangerous down there, far too dangerous. Even if he survived, there was always the chance of suffering an injury so disfiguring that it would cause people to avert their gaze. Vitellius was vain enough to want affection and admiration as well as power. He wondered if the general might be persuaded to send a more expendable officer instead, and looked up. Plautius was watching him closely.
‘There’s no reason to delay, Tribune. Off you go.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Vitellius saluted and immediately commandeered a shield from one of the general’s bodyguards, before making his way down to the two cohorts of the Ninth Legion earmarked for the first assault. The other eight cohorts were sitting down in the trampled grass that sloped towards the river. They would be afforded a spectacular view of the attack and would cheer their comrades on at the top of their voices when the time came – mostly out of a sense of self-preservation, for if the first wave failed, it would be their turn to face the Britons soon enough. Vitellius picked his way through the unit and made for the even lines of the First Cohort – every legion’s teeth arm, a double-strength unit trusted with the most dangerous tasks on any battlefield. Over nine hundred men stood to attention, spears grounded, silently surveying the dangers ahead of them.
The legate of the Ninth, Hosidius Geta, was standing immediately behind the First Century. At his side stood the legion’s chief centurion and behind them the colour party surrounding the eagle standard.
‘Afternoon, Vitellius,’ Geta greeted him. ‘You joining us?’
‘Yes, sir. The general wants someone to analyse the ground as the attack goes in.’
&
nbsp; ‘Good idea. We’ll do our best to see you get to make your report.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Heads turned at the heavy irony lacing the tribune’s reply but the legate was gentleman enough to let it pass.
Just then the headquarters trumpets blasted out a unit signal, followed by a short pause and then the call for advance.
‘That’s us.’ The legate nodded to the chief centurion. Geta tightened the strap on his gaudily decorated helmet and drew in a deep breath to bellow out his orders.
‘The First Cohort will prepare to advance!’ A beat of three, and then, ‘Advance!’
With the chief centurion calling out the pace, the cohort moved off in a rippling mass of bronze helmets, chinking links of mail and gleaming javelin tips, line after line of men marching straight down to the edge of the river where the water ran over a bank of shingle and weed.
Vitellius took his position just behind the legate, concentrating on keeping in step with the colour party. Then he was in the river, splashing into the brown churned-up water swirling in the wake of the First Century. To his right the nearest trireme seemed to be a vast floating fortress, towering up only fifty paces away. The faces of the crewmen were clearly visible on deck as they stepped up the bombardment of the far bank, softening up the defenders as much as possible before their army comrades struck home. The whack of the catapults and sharper cracks of the bolt-thrower arms carried clearly across the water, and were audible even above the infantry thrashing through the river.
The water quickly rose to his hips, and Vitellius glanced up in alarm to see that they were less than a third of the way across. The increase in depth slowed the advance and already the foremost lines were beginning to bunch up. The centurions in the following units slowed the pace and the cohort floundered on, water rising steadily until it was halfway up their chests. Vitellius saw that they were approaching the far bank, fifty paces away, and beyond that the looming mass of the British earthworks guarding the ford.
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