‘I don’t know. Still somewhere in the marsh.’
‘What happened?’
Cato tried to explain in a way that left open the question of Macro’s fate, but the clerk shook his head sadly as he regarded the youngster standing before him. ‘Are you his optio?’
Cato nodded.
‘Well, you aren’t any more then. You’re acting centurion until further notice. What’s your strength?’
‘Thirty odd of us left, I think,’ replied Cato.
‘Exactly, please,’ said the clerk. Then he looked up and saw that the young soldier was at the end of his tether, eyes red and head drooping even as he stood there. The clerk continued in a more kindly tone, ‘Sir, I need the exact number, please.’
This gentle reminder of his new responsibility caused Cato to straighten up and focus his mind.
‘Thirty-six. I’ve got thirty-six men left.’
As the clerk took down the details, a flap at the rear of the tent parted, and the legate entered. He handed a small scrap of parchment to a staff officer and was turning to leave when he caught sight of Cato and paused.
‘Optio!’ he called out as he made his way over. ‘How goes it? You just rejoined us?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s been quite a night, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, quite a night.’
Something in the lad’s tone went beyond weariness, and looking more closely Vespasian could see that Cato was struggling to control his emotions. And to bear the pain, Vespasian thought, as he caught sight of the terrible blisters running down the lad’s arm.
‘It’s been a hard day for us all, Optio. But we’re still here.’
‘My centurion isn’t . . .’
‘Macro? Macro’s dead?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Cato replied slowly. ‘I think so.’
‘That’s too bad. Too bad.’ Vespasian shifted uneasily at the news, torn between expressing genuine regret and maintaining the image of imperturbability he was trying so hard to project. ‘He was a good man, a good soldier. Would have been a good senior centurion in time. I’m sorry. You admired him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato felt a lump rise in his throat.
‘See to it that your men get some food and rest. Off you go.’
The young man saluted and was about to turn and leave when Vespasian added quietly, ‘Don’t let grief cloud your judgement, son. We’ve got hard days ahead of us, and I don’t want you throwing your life away on some quest for revenge. Your men will be looking to you now.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
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‘Are you sure about this?’
Vitellius nodded.
‘And you briefed him fully on our condition?’
‘Yes, sir. I told him everything.’
Vespasian read the despatch from Aulus Plautius again, in case he had missed some nuance that would allow him to make a case for rescinding the order. But there was nothing. For once, the clerks at the general’s headquarters had expunged every ambiguity and produced a set of orders with the kind of terse elegance that would have compared favourably with Caesar’s commentaries. In a brief paragraph the Second Legion was ordered to board transports provided by the navy and make a landing on the far side of the Tamesis. One warship was deemed all that was necessary to provide fire support for the operation. The Second Legion was to seize control of the river bank and establish a bridgehead. If successful, Vespasian would be reinforced by elements of the Ninth Legion.
‘Madness!’ Vespasian grumbled and tossed the despatch onto his travel desk. ‘Complete madness. We’re not in any fit condition to carry this out. Some of the men are still out there in the marsh, and those who have returned to the eagle . . . What the hell does Plautius think we’re made of?’
‘Do you want me to ride back and try and change his mind, sir?’
Vespasian looked up sharply. He was about to launch into an attack on the tribune for taking every opportunity to undermine him when he noticed Vitellius’ exhausted stoop. The tribune was worn out and seemed well past exercising his usual guile. The man needed a rest and in any case it would be pointless sending him back to argue the case with the general. The orders had been issued and Vespasian was obliged to carry them out with whatever resources he had available to him. Any attempt to prevaricate or delay would damage his reputation. He could well imagine the senators in Rome tutting if word reached them that he had been reluctant to throw his troops across the river. Those who had experience in the field would exchange knowing looks, and mutter darkly about his lack of resolve; they might even go so far as to quietly attribute it to cowardice. Vespasian flushed angrily at the thought.
There would be bitter feeling among the men when they were told about the proposed assault. After the battle on the Mead Way, yesterday’s deadly games of cat and mouse in the marshes, and now this forlorn hope against yet another defended shore, memories of the recent mutiny back in Gesoriacum were bound to be stirred up. If it had not been for Narcissus’ ruthless elimination of the leaders of the mutiny, the invasion of Britain would never have been launched and, worse, the authority of the Emperor would have been fatally undermined. It was bad enough having the likes of the Liberators working against Claudius without his army commanders unwittingly fuelling the dissent of the lower ranks. If the Second Legion refused their orders later this morning, how long would it take for news of it to spread to the other legions? No more than two days at the very most.
And the orders were clear. There was no leeway for interpretation at all. Vespasian would just have to trust the judgement of his superior even as he feared the consequences of doing so. With a bitter sigh of resignation he glanced up at this senior tribune, determined to restore his reputation as the kind of commander who stopped at nothing in the pursuit of his orders.
‘Inform the staff officers first. They’re going to be busy for the next few hours. I’ll speak to the centurions once the plan is ready. I want the men to be well fed – if the landing succeeds, it might be a while before they next get a proper meal. See that the field kitchen issues double rations; any more than that and they’ll sink the transports.’
It was a feeble joke but Vitellius managed a brief smile before he saluted and left the legate’s tent. Vespasian slumped down onto his stool and cursed Plautius with all the vehemence that his frustration and despair could muster. He was well aware how much his mood was determined by his exhausted state: when was the last time he had slept? Two days ago, and then only a brief rest between the attack on the river fortifications and giving the orders for this latest phase of the advance. His body ached, his eyes stung, and it took some force of effort to focus his mind. From some insidious recess of his brain emerged the desire to shut his eyes for just a moment, no more. Just a moment to clear the stinging sensation. The suggestion was no sooner made than his eyelids closed and his body surrendered to the warm wave of relaxation that he permitted it. A few moments, no more, he reminded himself dimly.
‘Sir!’ Someone was shaking his shoulder gently. In an instant Vespasian was fully awake, and aware of what had happened. He silently raged against himself. The orderly who had woken him backed off respectfully before his thunderous expression. How long had he been asleep? He dare not ask the orderly, who would suspect an all too human weakness in his legate. Looking beyond the fellow, Vespasian saw a dull glow rimming the bottom of the tent and filtering through the chinks in the closed tent flaps. Not so long after daybreak then. By that much his shame was assuaged.
‘Are my officers assembled?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re waiting for you in the staff tent. Some still haven’t returned from the marsh, but I’ll send them to you as soon as they reach the legion, sir.’
‘Very good. Now leave me.’
The orderly saluted and silently disappeared between the tent flaps. Vespasian instantly slammed his fist down on his leg and swore at himself in bitter self-reproach. To fall asleep at such
a moment! To have given in to such a weakness when his reputation and that of his legion was to be tested to the utmost. It was unforgivable, and he fervently resolved never to let it happen again. He stood up, straightened his tunic, and crossed to the small pitcher and bronze bowl in the corner. He emptied the contents of the pitcher over his head. The water had been refilled directly from the river during the night and was still refreshing enough to help his senses return to a more conscious state. He straightened up and dried himself, smoothing the wet hair back into place with his hands. A quick glance in the polished bronze mirror revealed a three-day growth of stubble that rasped on his palm as he rubbed his cheek. The stubble, the hollow eyes and his drawn expression combined to make him look like one of the poor wretches that begged from the gutters outside the Circus Maximus in Rome. But there was no time for cosmetic adjustment, and he consoled himself with the thought that his staff officers would look just as unkempt.
Lifting the flap of his tent, Vespasian saw that the sunrise was well advanced; the pale orange disc hung just above the horizon, faintly shrouded by wisping smoke from the dying campfires. Some of the men were already talking and coughing in the cool dawn air, while the centurions and their optios began to rouse the rest. The reluctance of the men to bestir themselves and begin the daily routine of legionary life was palpable, and Vespasian made himself greet the men cheerfully as he passed by.
The assembled centurions and tribunes of the legion rose stiffly to their feet as Vespasian entered the headquarters tent. He waved them back to their stools. It was then that he noticed Vitellius, clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp new tunic. Although the man looked tired, the contrast with the other officers and himself was striking and the old antagonism for Vitellius bloomed in his heart.
‘No time for ceremony, I’m afraid, gentlemen,’ Vespasian said as he leaned across the map table, resting on spread fingers. ‘The general’s decided to keep the battle rolling forward, and we get to play the leading part once again.’
Although the tribunes had suspected bad news they still could not help groaning with dismay at the prospect of further action.
‘Before anyone asks, the general is aware of our condition, and the order to attack stands.’
‘Why us, sir?’ asked Tribune Plinius.
‘Because we’re here, Plinius. Simple as that.’
‘But the Twentieth have hardly been scratched,’ Plinius persisted with a bitter tone that evidently reflected the mood of the other officers, many of whom nodded and muttered in agreement. Vespasian heartily shared their grievance, especially after what the Second Legion had been through recently, and everything they had achieved. But his rank demanded a stoic acceptance of orders.
‘The Twentieth are being held in reserve. Plautius wants to keep one unit intact to meet any counterattacks, and to spearhead any advance we might make.’ That was true enough, Vespasian reflected: he did not mention that the Second was being used to wear the enemy down. Attrition was a hard tactic to stomach when the numbers being whittled down were your own men.
Tribune Plinius was not yet mollified. ‘If there is an advance,’ he said angrily. ‘At this rate, sir, we’ll all be dead before the Twentieth loses a man.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But the orders will be obeyed, Tribune,’ Vespasian replied firmly. ‘If there’s any man here who wants no part in this I’ll willingly accept his resignation . . . after the assault.’
Subdued laughter rippled round the tent, and the tribune blushed.
‘Right then, gentlemen. Down to details.’
The light mood quickly died away and the centurions and tribunes focused their attention on Vespasian.
‘We should be joined by the navy early this morning. The general has supplied a trireme to provide covering fire for the landing, and ten transports to convey the legion across the Tamesis. As the sharper ones among you will have calculated, it’s going to take us three journeys to get what’s left of the legion across. And that means the first wave must hold the landing ground until the other waves can be fed into the fight. There will be no chance of retreat if things go bad – the transports will be heading back for the next wave.’ Vespasian paused to let the point sink in. ‘As you gentlemen will appreciate, the first wave might well be a suicide mission. Now, I don’t want to order anyone into the first transports to cross, so I’ll ask for volunteers.’ He looked up and quickly glanced round the room. Some officers avoided his gaze while others shuffled nervously. Vespasian’s eyes came to rest on an arm raised at the rear of the tent, held straight in the air. The light inside the tent was still dim and the legate’s tired eyes could not make out the identity of the officer.
‘Stand up!’
The officer rose to his feet, amidst the astonished murmurs of the others.
‘Are you volunteering for the first wave?’ Vespasian asked, barely keeping the surprise from his voice.
‘Yes, sir. First vessel of the first wave.’
‘And you think your men are up to it?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re ready, and they want revenge.’
‘Then they shall have it, acting Centurion. But do you think you are the man to lead them on this assault?’
Cato flushed angrily. ‘I am, sir.’
Vespasian smiled grimly at the youngster’s determination to avenge his centurion. There was no doubting his courage, but leaders needed to be above personal motivation in the heat of battle. Could this boy be relied upon to put duty before revenge? Or would he just hurl himself upon the enemy and fight like a fury until he was killed, heedless of his responsibility to the men under his command? Vespasian weighed up the situation and came to a quick decision. The first wave would have little time to co-ordinate a defence of the landing point and he might as well make best use of whatever battle frenzy came his way.
‘Very well, acting Centurion. And good luck. Any others ready to join him?’
Cato’s instant response had shamed the veterans, and almost to a man they raised their arms.
‘Good,’ said the legate. ‘Your final orders will be with you after the legion has been fed. Now you’d best rouse your men and let them know what Rome wants for its money today.’
As the officers filed out of the tent, Vespasian caught Cato’s eye and raised a finger to beckon him over.
‘Sir?’
‘Are you sure about this?’
When Cato nodded, Vespasian leaned closer so that his words would not be overheard by the men leaving the tent. ‘It’s not necessary for you to lead the attack. You and your men must be exhausted, and you’re injured.’
‘I’ll live,’ Cato muttered. ‘We are tired, sir. And there aren’t many of us left in the century. But that’s no different to any other century, sir. The difference is we’ve got more reason to fight than most. I think I can speak for Macro’s men on this.’
‘They’re your men now, son.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato stiffened and raised his chin.
‘Good man!’ Vespasian said approvingly. ‘And make sure you look after yourself, young Cato. There’s the promise of great things in you. Survive this and you can survive anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now go. I’ll see you later, on the other side of the river.’
Cato saluted and followed the other officers out of the tent.
As he watched the young man leave, Vespasian felt a pang of guilt. It was true the lad showed promise, and the cheap rhetoric he had offered had worked, as he knew it would. The optio – the acting centurion, Vespasian corrected himself – would feel fired by his superior’s confidence in him. But it would probably get him killed that much more quickly. It was too bad. The lad was likeable and had performed well enough in the short time he had served with the eagles. But that was the nature of command. Regardless of one’s feelings, the battle had to be won, the enemy defeated, and both had their price – measured in the blood of the men in his legion.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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The sun beat down on the men packed into the wide-beamed transport. The wool tunics under the heavy armour made the men sweat and the damp material clung uncomfortably to their skin. The resulting odour, combined with the residue of the marsh, made the air aboard the transport foetid to the point of nausea. The heat, the fear and nervous exhaustion had worked to make one or two men throw up, adding the stink of their vomit to the other odours.
Over the side, the Tamesis drifted glassily by, disturbed only by the monotonous splash and gurgling churn from the long sweeps at the bow and stern of the transport as the crew strained to keep the vessel in line with the warship directly ahead. In perfect unison the great oars of the trireme rose from the surface of the river, shedding glistening cascades of water, then swept forward before plunging back into the river to lever the beaked prow on towards the far bank.
From the small foredeck of the transport Cato scanned the massed ranks of the enemy waiting to receive them. All morning the Britons had been gathering in response to the assault being prepared in their full view on the Roman side of the Tamesis. The assembling of the transports and the warship, and the dense mass of legionaries preparing to embark made the latest plans of General Plautius obvious for all to see. And so the handful of British cavalry scouts had hurried off to spread word of the impending river assault. The dispersed ranks of Caratacus’ army quickly re-formed and made their way down towards the river bank opposite the Roman ships.
The assault had already been delayed by the need to unload the supplies carried by the transports, and the legionaries had fumed as they manhandled the unwieldy cargo onto the crude jetty and hauled it out of the way. While they laboured, more and more Britons arrived to reinforce the far bank. For those in the first wave the prospect of facing ever greater odds caused them to fret and swear at their comrades engaged in unloading the transports, urging them to finish the job more quickly.
The first transport was still some way from the bank when the Britons gave voice to their war cry, a note that rose to a crescendo and then dipped, then rose again. To Cato’s unpractised eye the enemy seemed to number several thousand but any exact estimation of the seething mass was impossible. What was obvious was that the enemy greatly outnumbered the men in the first wave of the Second Legion and the rising volume of their challenge was unnerving. Turning his back to them, Cato forced himself to shake his head and smile.
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