The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  At his side Vitellius sat silently on his mount, staring at the ground before the earthworks. The memory of the harrowing assault across this very ground contrasted sharply with the early morning serenity of the river. The blood that had stained the river red had been washed away, and the bodies that had littered this shore had been carried away for cremation. Little indication of the savage fight remained beyond the memories of those who had fought and survived. With a vague sense of the depressing unreality of it all, Vitellius turned his mount and dug his heels into its flanks, trotting up the incline prepared by the engineers. He passed alongside the men of the Fourth Cohort, unaware of the hostile looks directed at him from the two men marching at the head of the Sixth Century.

  ‘Thought we’d seen the last of that bastard,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Wonder what he’s doing back in the legion.’

  Cato was not unduly bothered by the tribune’s return to the Second Legion. His mind was on other things. The pain from his burns seemed to be worse than ever this morning, and he longed for the inactivity of the previous day. Already the chafing of his equipment had burst some of the blisters and his raw flesh was agony against the rough material of his tunic. He gritted his teeth and concentrated his mind on following the rear of the century ahead.

  He was shocked by the scene that met his eyes as the Sixth Century passed through the remains of the British fortifications. The enclosed area was fire-blackened, and while the bodies of the Romans had been respectfully cremated, no such treatment had been accorded the dead natives who lay heaped in sun-ripened piles of decay. The still air was heavy with the sickly sweet stench of dead men, and their stiff limbs, blank eyes and sagging open mouths filled the young optio with a nauseous disgust. Cato could feel the bile rising up the back of his throat and he quickened his pace, as had all the men passing through the fortifications ahead of him. Scores of prisoners were being kept busy digging burial pits for their fallen comrades, under the watchful gaze of men from the Twentieth Legion detached for prisoner-guarding duties. They must be grateful for the chance to keep out of the coming fight, Cato reflected, momentarily envious of their lot before a fresh waft of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, causing him to retch.

  ‘Easy, lad!’ Macro comforted. ‘It’s just a smell. Try not to think about what’s making it. We’ll be out of this place soon enough.’

  Cato wondered that Macro could be so unmoved by the charnel chaos surrounding them. But then he saw his centurion swallow nervously and realised that even this hardened veteran was not unaffected by the foul consequences of battle. The column hurried through the ruined camp in silence, broken only by the jingle of equipment and the nervous coughs of those most afflicted by the unholy stench. Once over the far ramp and back into the open countryside Cato breathed deeply to expel every last breath of the foetid air from his lungs.

  ‘Better?’ asked Macro.

  Cato nodded. ‘Is it always like that?’

  ‘Pretty much. Unless we fight in winter.’

  The British camp was behind them now and the air was filled with fresh country scents that brushed away the memory of the stench of the dead. Even so, traces of the running fight between the Britons and their pursuers littered the track as far as the eye could see in the direction of the Tamesis. Spent weapons, dead horses, overturned chariots and sprawling bodies lay strewn across the trampled ground. The air hummed with the sound of flies whirling in small speckled clouds over the dead. A dull haze hung above the track, kicked up from the passage of the legions marching to join the auxiliaries and the cavalry in their pursuit of the enemy.

  Cato felt the first of the day’s warmth flow over him. Later, he knew, the growing heat would make conditions intolerable under the load of cumbersome equipment that was designed for efficiency in battle, with little thought to the wearer’s comfort on the march. Already his exposed burns were causing him torment beyond imagination. But he knew the pain would last for some days yet and since there was nothing to be done about it, he would just have to bear it, Cato reflected with a grimace.

  As the sun eased its way high into a clear azure heaven the shadows of the tramping legionaries shortened, as if themselves withering in the growing heat, and the cheerful conversation of dawn dwindled to the odd murmured comment. As noon drew near, the legion approached the crest of a low ridge and the legate ordered a halt. Shields and spears were laid down at the side of the road before each legionary slumped down and gratefully sipped from the leather canteens filled before first light.

  The Sixth Century found itself near a small circle of bodies, some Roman, most Britons, silent testament to a bitter skirmish fought the day before. Today, no sound of fighting disturbed the muted talk of the men of the Second Legion, not even a far-off trumpet or horn. It was as if the battle of the previous two days had withdrawn like some fleeting tide and left the land strewn with its broken and bloody flotsam. Cato felt a sudden desire, tinged with panic, to know more about how things lay between the legions and their enemy. He stilled the urge to ask Macro what was unfolding since the centurion knew as little as he did and could only offer a veteran’s best guess at the situation. As far as Cato could work out, the legion had marched eight or nine miles beyond the Mead Way, and that meant a similar distance lay ahead before they encountered the Tamesis. Then what? Another bloody river assault? Or were the Britons retreating too quickly to form an organised defence this time?

  The grassy downs gave way to dense gorse thickets that crowded the track on both sides and through which little runs twisted out of sight. If this was the nature of the terrain ahead, reflected Cato, then the next battle was going to be a very different affair, a mass of skirmishes as both sides negotiated their way through the tangled undergrowth. The kind of battle that a general could do little to control.

  ‘Not the best of battlefields for us Romans, eh?’ Macro had seen his optio glancing anxiously into the gorse thickets.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, Cato. This stuff’s as likely to hamper the Britons as it is us.’

  ‘I suppose so, sir. But I’d have thought they’d know their way about the local tracks. Could cause us problems.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Macro nodded without too much concern. ‘But I doubt it will count for much now they haven’t got a river and a rampart between them and us.’

  Cato wished he could share his superior’s equanimity about the situation, but the tactical claustrophobia of the soldier at the very end of the chain of command preyed upon his imagination.

  A shrill blast on several trumpets abruptly split the air, and Macro was on his feet in an instant. ‘Up! Up, you lazy bastards! Get your kit and form up on the track!’

  The orders echoed down the line and moments later the men of the Second Legion had formed a long, dense column with every shield and javelin held ready for action.

  Where the track rose ahead of the century, Cato could see the command party on the crest of the ridge. A mounted messenger was addressing the legate and waving his arm over the terrain on the other side of the ridge. With a quick salute the messenger wheeled his horse and galloped out of sight, leaving the legate to turn to his staff officers and issue the necessary orders.

  ‘What now?’ grumbled Macro.

  Chapter Twenty

  _______________

  The advance to the Tamesis was rapidly running out of control, Vespasian decided. The pursuit of the Britons had been badly mishandled by the Batavian cohorts. Rather than concentrate on clearing the line of march through to the next river, the auxiliaries had fallen victim to the blood lust so typical of their race. And so the cohorts were dispersed over a wide front, running down every Briton that came in sight, as if the whole thing was just some great stag hunt.

  Below the hill crest, the dense undergrowth dipped down to merge with yet another of the marshes that seemed to comprise rather too much of this landscape. Dotted among the gorse thickets were the crests of helmets and the odd standard as the Batavians, their
thirst for blood evidently not yet slaked, pushed their way through the gorse, struggling along narrow paths in pursuit of the hapless Britons. The marsh stretched out, dull and featureless, before it gave way to the wide gleaming expanse of the great Tamesis coiling its way into the heart of the island. The track the Second Legion was marching along went straight down the slope, and on to a crude causeway that ended in a small jetty. A matching jetty lay on the far side of the river.

  Vespasian slapped his thigh in frustration at the nature of the task ahead. His battle-trained horse ignored the sound and grazed contentedly at the luscious grass growing alongside the track. Irked by the beast’s ignorant complacency, Vespasian yanked on the reins and wheeled the animal round to face back down the line of the legion. The men stood still and silent, waiting for orders to move. A dark writhing mass some miles off revealed the progress of the Fourteenth Legion approaching the Tamesis from a roughly parallel track a few miles upstream.

  According to Adminius there should have been a bridge lying before the Fourteenth but Vespasian could see no sign of it. Caratacus must have had it destroyed. If there were no other bridges or crossing points, the legions would have to march upstream in search of an alternative way across, all the while extending the tenuous lines of supply back to the depot on the coast. Alternatively, Plautius might chance an opposed landing. Away to the east where the Tamesis broadened towards the distant horizon the distinct forms of ships were visible as the fleet strove to retain contact with the advancing legions. Even though Adminius claimed that the Britons had no fleet to oppose the Romans, General Plautius was not taking any chances. The sleek silhouettes of triremes shepherded the low broad-beamed transports struggling to keep in formation. Only when these ships had rejoined the army could a river assault begin.

  But all these considerations were academic for the moment. The orders in hand were simple enough: the Second was to fan out and clear this stretch of the south bank of any remaining enemy formations. Simple orders. Simple enough to have been written by a man who had not seen the lie of the land for himself. Vespasian knew that the legion would not be able to retain a battle line as it negotiated the gorse thickets. Worse still was the marsh which would suck the men down unless they were fortunate enough to stumble upon the paths used by the natives. By nightfall Vespasian expected to find his legion completely dispersed and bogged down, stuck in the vile marsh until daylight gave them a chance to re-form.

  ‘Give the signal!’ he called out to the headquarters trumpeters. A chorus of spitting ensued as the men cleared their mouths and pursed their lips to their instruments. A barely discernible nod from the senior trumpeter was instantly followed by the harsh notes of the execute instruction. With well-trained precision the First Cohort marched past their legate. The senior centurion marked the turn point and barked out the order to change formation and the front ranks marched to the right, perpendicular to the track. Immediately they encountered the first patch of gorse bushes, the cohort broke formation to negotiate the obstacle and the steady marching pace slowed to a stumbling shuffle as the succeeding cohorts tried not to pile into the rear of the cohort in front. Vespasian met the eyes of Sextus, the Second Legion’s grey-haired camp prefect, and grimaced. The most senior career soldier in the legion inclined his head in full agreement about the idiocy of most orders emanating from army headquarters.

  A manoeuvre that could be executed so efficiently on the parade ground rapidly degenerated into an unsightly tangle of cursing men that struggled across the wild terrain for the best part of an hour before the Second Legion had shifted its facing and was ready to advance down the slope towards the distant Tamesis. Once the cohorts were in position Vespasian gave the order to advance and the line moved forward, overseen by the centurions holding their canes out and cursing at the men to keep the line straight.

  Once again, the thick patches of gorse opened up gaps in the line and in very little time the legion disintegrated into clusters of struggling men. Here and there the line halted as men encountered Britons, mostly wounded, and disarmed them before sending them to the rear under guard. Those that were too badly injured to walk were quickly despatched with a sword thrust to the heart, and the legionaries struggled forward again. Often the Britons would attempt to bolt for it and with excited cries the legionaries would tumble after them to add yet more spoils to the campaign pot. In the partially clear ground before the dense growths of gorse a motley crowd of prisoners grew in size, while off to one side a small group of injured men bore witness to the trickle of casualties returning from the clashes being fought out of sight in the wilderness beyond. These were the only indication of the way the fight was going.

  By mid-afternoon, under the despairing eye of the legion’s legate and his staff officers, the Second Legion had been reduced to small bands hacking their way through to the marsh with little or no sense of where the rest of their comrades were. Mingled in among them were occasional small knots of Britons also trying to make the river in the hope of escape, and faint war cries and the ringing clash of blades wafted up the slope. Vespasian and his staff had dismounted and sat in the shade of a small copse not far from the track, watching the chaotic mêlée in silent frustration. By late afternoon most of the men of the legion were lost to view and only the legate’s guard century stood formed up in a thin line a hundred paces down the slope. Beyond them sat the pathetic huddle of prisoners, surrounded by gorse briars hacked down and piled up in a circle to form a crude stockade. Beyond the briars a scattered line of legionaries stood watch. Tribune Vitellius rode down to inspect the captives. When he had finished interrogating their leader, he gave a last cuff to the man’s head and swung himself up onto his mount and spurred it back up the slope.

  ‘Discover anything useful?’ asked Vespasian.

  ‘Only that some of the better educated among these savages have a little Latin, sir.’

  ‘But no fords or bridges nearby?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It was worth a try, I suppose.’ Vespasian’s gaze flickered back to the legate’s guard century baking in the sun.

  ‘Tell them to sit down,’ Vespasian muttered to the camp prefect. ‘I doubt the Britons will be springing any surprises on us now. No point in keeping the men on their feet in this heat.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  As Sextus bellowed the order down to the guard century, tribune Vitellius caught the legate’s eye and nodded back towards the track. A messenger was galloping up. When he spotted the legate’s command party he spurred his horse along the ridge towards them.

  ‘What now?’ wondered Vespasian.

  Breathless, the messenger slid from his horse and ran to the legate, dispatch already to hand.

  ‘From the general, sir,’ he panted as he raised his hand in a salute.

  Vespasian acknowledged him with a curt nod, took the scroll and broke the seal. His staff officers sat impatiently waiting for their legate to read it. The message was brief enough and Vespasian immediately handed it on to Vitellius.

  Vitellius frowned as he read it. ‘According to this, it appears we should already be down on the river bank and be preparing for a river assault this evening. The navy will be carrying us across and providing fire support.’ He looked up. ‘But, sir.’ He waved a hand down the slope towards the gorse and the marsh which had swallowed up the Second Legion.

  ‘Quite, Tribune. Now read out the last bit.’

  Vitellius did so. ‘Further to earlier orders it should be noted that the Batavian cohorts have encountered problems dealing with the marsh terrain and you are advised to limit your advance to established tracks and paths only . . .’

  One of the junior tribunes hooted with derision and the rest laughed bitterly. Vespasian held up his hand to quieten them before he turned back to Vitellius.

  ‘Seems the lads back at army headquarters haven’t quite grasped the practical difficulties attached to the orders they are so quick to dish out. But with your recent staff experience I’m sur
e you’d know all about that.’

  The other tribunes struggled to hide their grins and Vitellius blushed.

  ‘Still, we can’t carry this order out. By the time the legion reassembles on the river it’ll be well into the night. And the navy are still some miles downriver. There’s no chance of an assault until tomorrow,’ concluded Vespasian. ‘The general had better be told. Tribune, you know the ropes at headquarters and you know our situation here. Go back to Aulus Plautius with the messenger and let him know our position and tell him that I will not be able to carry out the assault until tomorrow. You might also describe the terrain in some detail so that he understands our position. Now go.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Vitellius saluted and strode across to his horse, angry at the prospect of a long hot ride, and bitter at the legate’s sarcastic treatment of him in front of the junior tribunes.

  Vespasian watched in amusement as the tribune snatched the reins from the hands of a horse holder and threw himself onto his horse’s back. With a savage kick to the animal’s ribs he galloped off in the direction of army headquarters. It had been impossible to resist teasing Vitellius, but any elation he might have derived from deflating the smug tribune quickly evaporated, and he cursed himself for indulging in behaviour that was far below the dignity of his rank. Fortunately, the camp prefect had missed the exchange; as the tough old veteran strode back up the slope from the legate’s guard he frowned at the amused expressions on the faces of the young tribunes.

  ‘Fresh orders, sir?’

  ‘Read it.’ Vespasian held out the scroll.

  Sextus quickly scanned the document. ‘Some young gentleman on Plautius’ staff is going to get a few harsh words when I catch up with him, sir.’