Chapter Twenty-Three
_______________
The legion slowly re-formed during the night as men responded to the trumpet calls. They arrived in small groups, centuries and even complete cohorts led by the few senior centurions who had grasped in time the danger the terrain had posed to unit cohesion. Most of the legionaries were dog-tired and covered in mud. They slumped down and rested in the areas marked out for them by the command party. Vespasian had arrived at the crudely built jetty just after sunset, and his small body of officers and guards had waited anxiously beside a large signal fire. At regular intervals through the night the legion’s trumpeters had been blasting out the recall and the strain to lungs and lips told in the signal’s gradual deterioration.
Separated from the rest of the army and without any auxiliary support, Vespasian felt terribly exposed. Any sizeable enemy force that emerged from the marsh could easily wipe out the command party and his guard century. Every sound from the skirmishes being fought out in the darkness caused him to dread the worst. Even when the men began to trickle back to the legion, the fear that they might be British warriors ratcheted up the tension until the moment that the official challenge was responded to with the correct password. Slowly the bedraggled legionaries emerged from the night and, having found their harbouring area, dropped where they stood and fell asleep.
There was no question of asking the men to erect a marching camp in their present state of exhaustion, and Vespasian had to satisfy himself with a screen of sentries drawn from the legate’s guard. The men had to be permitted to rest if the Second was to go back into action on the morrow. Moreover, they must have food, and be re-armed with javelins and other items lost in bitter fighting in the marsh. The baggage train had been sent for, and a detachment of the legion’s cavalry was escorting it along the track. Heading back the other way was a column of prisoners guarded by another cavalry squadron. Vespasian had handed this task to Vitellius with orders to proceed directly from the encampment on the far side of the Mead Way to the headquarters of Aulus Plautius. The general needed to be clearly informed of the situation so that he might rethink the attack planned for the following morning. It was an onerous duty for the tribune and not without danger, but Vitellius had, surprisingly, seemed willing enough when the legate had given him his orders. It crossed Vespasian’s mind that his senior tribune might well be pleased to be as far from the front line as possible, whatever discomfort that entailed.
As the moon emerged from a low cloud bank, the landscape was bathed in its baleful glow, revealing to the legate the full extent of the legion’s poor condition. The exhausted soldiers asleep on all sides gave the appearance of a vast casualty clearing station rather than a legion. Vespasian was momentarily shocked to recall that this was the same unit that so recently had a sparkling parade ground gleam to all its equipment, and an eagerness to get stuck into the enemy radiating from every single man. Though they still numbered in their thousands, it was painful to see how far the ranks of each resting century had been whittled down over the last few weeks of campaigning.
The grinding passage of wagon wheels eventually heralded the arrival of the baggage train, and the headquarters staff moved swiftly into action. The tents of the field hospital were quickly rigged, and the field kitchen set up to make sure that warm food was in the belly of every man as soon as possible. Around Vespasian the clerks hurriedly assembled a headquarters tent, lit numerous oil lamps mounted on great bronze stands, and erected the campaign desks. All the centuries that arrived were ordered to submit strength reports and requests for replacements of expended weapons and lost equipment, before being led to their assigned assembly areas. From his campaign desk the legate watched as the dark files of men slowly passed by. No one saluted, no one looked up. The legion was spent as an offensive formation for the immediate future. The only compensating factor was that the enemy were in no state to counterattack, having been thrown back from the last river and forced to scramble into defensive positions on the other side of the Tamesis. However, the time needed by the legionaries to recover their momentum would be well spent by the Britons in preparing for the next bloody phase of the campaign.
These were factors the legate had no influence over, and the best he could do under the present circumstances was to get the Second rested, fed and re-equipped as soon as possible. The men deserved better from the general after their spectacular performance two days ago. Two days? Vespasian frowned. Was that all? Even the time seemed to have been sucked down into this infernal marsh stretching out around him in the dark . . .
Vespasian’s eyes flickered open just in time as he started to slip from his stool, and he recovered his balance with a cold shock of surprise. Instantly he reproached himself, then glanced about to see if anyone had noticed this all too human failing in their commander. The clerks were bent to their work in the glow of their oil lamps, and his bodyguards stood rigidly to attention. Another instant’s slumber and he would have fallen from his stool and ended up sprawled on the ground. The image made him burn with shame, and he forced himself to stand.
‘Bring me some food!’ he snapped to an orderly. ‘And quick about it.’
The orderly saluted and ran off towards the field kitchen. Vespasian turned his mind to another worrying detail of the campaign. One of the centurions emerging from the marsh had presented him with a short sword. Nothing remarkable in that, but the centurion had encountered a large formation of Britons armed with identical swords.
‘See there, sir.’ The centurion held the blade up so that it was more clearly visible in the moonlight. Vespasian looked closely and saw the manufacturer’s stamp.
‘Gnaeus Albinus,’ he muttered. ‘That’s a firm in Gaul, I believe. This sword’s a long way from home.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’ The centurion nodded politely. ‘But that’s not all, sir. The Albinus forge is one of the main suppliers to the Rhine legions.’
‘And the arms contracts are exclusive. So what is this doing here?’
‘And not just this one sword. I saw scores of them back in the marsh, sir. And since we’re the first Roman army on these shores since Caesar’s day, they can hardly have been captured.’
‘So, what are you suggesting, Centurion? That the Albini are moonlighting on an imperial arms contract?’
‘Doubt it, sir.’ The grievous penalties for such an act made this very unlikely. The centurion shrugged, then continued in a meaningful tone, ‘But if not the manufacturers, then it has to be someone further down the line.’
‘You mean someone in the army, or in the civil service?’
‘Maybe.’
Vespasian looked at him. ‘That’s as far as you want to pursue the matter, I presume.’
‘I’m a soldier, sir,’ the centurion replied firmly. ‘I do what I’m ordered to do, and I’ll fight who I have to. This is nothing to do with soldiering. It stinks of politics and plots, sir.’
‘Meaning you think I should be the one to look into it.’
‘Goes with the rank, sir.’
The reference to rank implied social class as well as military title, and Vespasian had to bite back the bitter retort that had been his first response. The centurion was speaking no more than the truth. The man had served for most of his life under the eagles and no doubt had a healthy disdain for the deviousness of the political class from which the legions’ legates were drawn. Vespasian, peculiarly driven to win the acceptance and admiration of those under his command, was wounded by the professional soldier’s slight. He had hoped to have won their trust by now, but some of the men clearly still had their misgivings. Today’s fiasco in the marsh had been the result of orders received from the general, but it would be the legate the soldiers blamed first.
There was nothing to be done about this. It would be an unconscionable display of personal weakness to explain to any of his subordinates the limits of his authority, that he was compelled to obey orders, just as they were. High command placed a man
at the heart of an irresolvable dilemma. To his general he was responsible for the actions of his men. To the men he was responsible for the orders he was compelled to pass on to them. No excuses would be tolerated by either side, and any attempt at self-justification would arouse only humiliating contempt and disgust from superiors and subordinates alike.
‘I’ll see to it then, Centurion. You’re dismissed.’
The centurion nodded his satisfaction, saluted and strode off back to his men. Vespasian watched him disappear into the gloom, reproaching himself for letting the man witness his distraction. He must be stoical about such things. Besides, there was a far more important issue to be considered. Far more important than the self-pity of a legate, he chided himself. The presence of these swords and the earlier discovery of army issue slingshot amongst the ammunition used by the Britons formed a disturbing pattern. The odd weapon might be accounted for by the looting of dead Romans but what the centurion had told him indicated something more. Someone was supplying the enemy with arms that had been destined for the legions. Someone with money, and a network of agents to handle the movement of substantial cargoes. But who?
‘This will do nicely,’ Vitellius said to the decurion. ‘We’ll rest here for a moment. You can water the horses.’
The column of prisoners and their mounted guards had reached a point on the track where it dipped into a small copse beside a narrow stream.
‘Here, sir?’ The decurion glanced about at the dark undergrowth hemming them in. He continued as tactfully as he could. ‘Do you think that’s wise, sir?’ Ordinarily no officer in his right mind would ever consider stopping a column of prisoners in surroundings that were so conducive to escape.
‘Do you think it’s wise to question my order?’ Vitellius replied curtly.
The decurion quickly turned in his saddle and filled his lungs. ‘Column – halt!’
He ordered the prisoners to sit and arranged for the guards to see to their horses in a hurried rota, while Vitellius dismounted and tethered his beast to a tree stump at the head of a trail that ran alongside the stream.
‘Decurion!’
‘Sir?’ The decurion trotted back towards the stream.
‘Get me that chieftain again. I fancy it’s time I tried having another quiet word with him.’
‘Sir?’
‘You’ve been warned about questioning my orders, Decurion,’ Vitellius said coldly. ‘Once more, and you won’t forget it. Now get me that man, and tend to your other duties.’
The gaudily attired Briton was hauled to his feet and thrust towards the tribune. He stared at the Roman officer with an arrogant sneer. Vitellius stared back, then suddenly whipped the back of his hand across the Briton’s face. The man’s head snapped to one side, and when he brought his face forward once again, a dark trickle of blood, black in the moonlight, was dripping from a cut lip.
‘Roman,’ he muttered in a coarse accent. ‘If I ever get rid of these chains . . .’
‘You won’t,’ sneered Vitellius. ‘Consider them an extension of your body, for whatever is left of your life.’ He struck the prisoner again, slamming his fist into the man’s midriff, causing him to double over and gasp for air.
‘I don’t think he’s going to cause me any trouble now, Decurion. Continue watering the horses until we get back.’
‘Back from . . . Yes, sir.’
Vitellius grasped the leather thongs between Briton’s iron wrist collars and roughly hauled him down the trail, dragging him savagely when he stumbled. When they had turned a corner and were out of sight and earshot of the prisoner column, Vitellius stopped and pulled the man upright.
‘You can stop the acting now, I didn’t hit you that hard.’
‘Hard enough, Roman,’ the Briton grunted. ‘And if we ever meet again, you’ll pay for that blow.’
‘Then I must make sure we don’t meet again,’ replied Vitellius, and drew his dagger. He raised the tip so that it was poised barely a finger’s breadth from the Briton’s throat. The Briton showed no sign of fear, merely a cold contempt for an enemy who would do such an unmanly thing as threaten a bound prisoner. Vitellius sniffed at the other’s expression. Then the blade dropped and he sawed briefly at the thongs until they parted. He stepped back from the freed Briton.
‘You’re sure you remember the message?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’ll send a man to you when I’m ready. Now then.’ Vitellius flicked the dagger and caught it by the blade, handle towards the other man. ‘Make it look good.’
The Briton took the knife and slowly smiled, then suddenly smashed the tribune in the face with his spare hand. With a grunt the tribune dropped to his knees, only to be hauled up, spun round and have the tip of the blade jabbed into the small of his back.
‘Easy there!’ he whispered.
‘This has to look convincing, remember?’
With one arm locked round the tribune’s throat and the other holding the dagger to the back of his erstwhile captor, the Briton pushed him back up the trail towards the column. As soon as the decurion was aware of his superior’s plight, he scrambled to his feet.
‘To arms!’
‘Hold back!’ Vitellius managed to choke out. ‘Or he’ll kill me!’
The decurion waved his arms at the cavalrymen rushing up with spears levelled for action. ‘Stop! He’s got the tribune.’
‘The horse!’ shouted the British chieftain. ‘Get me his horse. Now! Or he dies.’
Vitellius yelped as the point bit into his flesh. At the sound the decurion hurried across to the horse and untethered it, offering the reins to the Briton.
The other Britons had risen to their feet at the sight of the confrontation and were surging forward for a better view, some shouting encouragement.
‘Get them back on the ground!’ bellowed the decurion and after a moment of hesitation the cavalrymen herded their prisoners back.
The chieftain didn’t waste the chance. With a kick and a thrust he hurled Vitellius on top of the decurion, grabbed the reins and leaped onto the horse. He folded low on the animal’s back and with a savage kick spurred it back down the trail. By the time the decurion had returned to his feet, the Briton had rounded the corner and was gone, only the fading sound of the horse’s hoofbeats lingering. The other Britons cheered.
‘Shut that lot up!’ roared the decurion, before turning to help Vitellius back to his feet. He seemed shaken and scared, but unharmed beyond that.
‘Close escape, sir.’
‘For him or for me?’ Vitellius responded bitterly. The decurion was just smart enough not to reply.
‘Want me to go after him, sir?’
‘No. No point. He probably knows his way in the dark better than us. Besides, we can’t afford to send any of the guards off on some wild chase. No, I’m afraid he’s got clean away.’
‘Perhaps he’ll run into some of our men,’ the decurion said hopefully.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Shame about your horse, sir.’
‘Yes, one of my better mounts. Still, there’s no need to worry about me, Decurion. I’ll have your horse until we reach the camp.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
_______________
Macro . . .
Cato had been trying to avoid all thought of the centurion’s fate. Macro was probably dead. Pyrax was dead. Many of his comrades in the Sixth Century were dead. But the thought of Macro lying cold and still out there in the marshes was impossible to accept. Although a cold, logical part of his mind reiterated that Macro could not have escaped death, Cato found himself imagining all kinds of ways in which he could have survived. He might be out there now, injured or unconscious, helpless, waiting for his comrades to come and find him. He might even have been taken prisoner. But then, the image of the slaughtered Batavians flashed before Cato’s mind. There would be no prisoners, no sparing of the wounded.
The optio sat up and rested his arms on his knees. He gazed at the remains of the
century sleeping around him. Of the eighty men who had disembarked from the invasion fleet, only thirty-six remained. Another dozen were injured and might be expected to return to duty over the next weeks. That meant the century had lost over thirty dead in the last ten days.
Cato was acting centurion for the moment – until the headquarters staff merged the century with another, or received replacements to bring it back up to strength. Either way Cato would not be in command for more than a few days. For that he was thankful, even as he despised himself for feeling relieved by the prospect of surrendering his authority. Though he felt he had grown into manhood over this last year, there was still a residual anxiety that he had not developed the special qualities that qualified a man for command. He would be a poor replacement for Macro, and he knew that the men would share that view. Until he reverted to the status of optio he would try his best to lead them as well as he could, following in the bold striding footsteps of Macro.
Earlier that night, when Cato and his small flotilla had emerged from the river, they had alarmed the sentries who had not been expecting any Romans to arrive from that direction. Anticipating such a reaction, Cato had responded quickly and loudly to the sentry’s challenge. After the bedraggled soldiers had clambered from the muddy shoreline into the camp, safe at last, Cato had been escorted to the headquarters tent to make his report.
A mass of lamps and small fires marked the location of the Second Legion’s headquarters, while all around stretched the long dark lines of the resting soldiers. Cato was shown into a large tent within which clerks pored over their paperwork on long trestle tables. One of them beckoned to him and Cato stepped forward.
‘Unit?’ The clerk looked up from his scroll, pen poised above the inkwell.
‘Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.’
‘Ah! Macro’s lot.’ The clerk dipped his pen and started to write. ‘Where is he?’
The Eagle's Conquest Page 15