‘Here.’ Vespasian leaned forward and tapped his finger on an area to one side of the sprawling, virtually unmapped marsh.
‘Yes … and that is?’
‘It’s a valley, sir. A small valley. A trader, one of our agents, came across it and sent a report back. I’ve had the scouts check on it, and the valley’s there all right. There’s a small village, scores of farms, and a track that leads through it before cutting right across the heart of the marsh.’
‘All very interesting,’ Plautius mused. ‘But of what use is this to me? And what bearing does it have on the disposal of your Third Cohort?’
The legate paused. It all seemed quite obvious to him, but clearly the opportunity that had struck him so clearly had been missed by the general. His plan would have to be set out very tactfully so as not to cause any offence to Plautius.
‘We’re still after Caratacus, I presume, sir.’
‘Of course.’
‘And he’s hiding out in that marsh. Probably has some kind of forward base concealed there.’
‘Yes, we know all that, Vespasian. What of it?’
‘Well, sir, we’re not going to find that base very easily, if at all. Look at the mess we got into in the marshes by the Tamesis last summer, sir.’
Plautius frowned at the memory. The legions had been forced to break formation and enter the marshes in small units. Unfamiliar with the tracework of paths that weaved through the tangled and boggy undergrowth, several detachments had been roughly handled by the enemy, losing scores of men. It was an experience no one was keen to repeat.
‘Nevertheless, we must dig Caratacus out of there,’ said the general. ‘He must not be given the time or space to regroup.’
‘Precisely, sir. That’s why we must send forces into the marsh to root him out.’ Vespasian paused to allow his small audience of staff officers to exchange despairing looks. He could hardly contain a smile as they played into his hands. ‘Or, we tempt Caratacus out of the marsh.’
‘And how do we do that?’
‘We use some bait.’
‘Bait? You mean the Third Cohort?’
‘Yes, sir. You implied that they were expendable.’
‘And they are. How do you intend to use them?’
Vespasian leaned back over the map and indicated the valley once again. ‘We send them into the valley to establish a fort a short distance from the marsh. Maximius is ordered to beat the place up, treat the locals as harshly as possible. Pretty soon they’ll be making advances to Caratacus to come and save them from their Roman oppressors. He won’t be able to resist their call for two very good reasons.
‘First, it will be a chance to win over more allies. If he comes to the rescue of the people of this valley, he’ll be sure to milk it for all its worth. This kind of minor success always breeds a renewed desire for resistance in the natives. The example might be contagious. Secondly, our scout was able to add one very useful piece of information to the picture.’ Vespasian’s eyes swept round the faces before him and came to rest on that of Plautius. The legate smiled openly and ignored the growing sense of frustration etched into the face of his superior.
‘Well, bloody well get on with it,’ said Plautius.
‘Yes, sir. It turns out that the nobleman who owns this valley is distantly related to Caratacus. I doubt that he would stand by and watch his kin put to the sword. Chances are that he’ll try and strike back at us. Anything to destabilise our control of the area. When he does strike we’ll be ready for him. If we can tempt him out of his lair then there’s a good chance my legion can finish him off.’
Plautius shook his head. ‘You make it sound easy. What if Caratacus refuses to take the bait?’
‘Then let’s make sure he comes out to fight us, sir.’
‘How?’
‘He can’t have more than two or three thousand men left – and there’ll be a steady flow of deserters until he can give them another victory. Caratacus will need to pick a fight; the sooner the better as far as he’s concerned. So let’s make things even more difficult for him. See how the marsh curves round on its northern edge?’
Plautius examined the map and nodded.
‘I should be able to cover it, sir. If you permit me to post some blocking forces on every track and trail leading into the marsh from the north, with the Third Cohort blocking the south we should be able to strangle Caratacus’ supply lines eventually. With no food coming in, and no foraging parties able to get out, Caratacus and his men are soon going to get hungry. Then, either they starve, or they fight. They’ll fight, of course. And when they come out and face us, we’ll be ready. Assuming they take the bait.’
‘And what if they do take the bait and you’re too late to save the Third Cohort?’
Vespasian shrugged. ‘Then let’s hope they’ll have served their purpose.’
And, he thought, buried the shame that would otherwise have attached itself to the Second Legion, and its commander. Vespasian was stabbed by a shard of guilt at this casual reflection that implied the deaths of nearly four hundred men. But they might survive, and win back some honour for themselves. There was a slight chance that most of the damage Maximius had caused might be repaired by a hard-fought battle and a glorious conclusion to the campaign.
One of the general’s staff officers raised a hand.
‘What is it, Tribune?’
‘Even if Caratacus does emerge from the swamp to attack the Third Cohort, we’ll probably fail to catch him. He’ll simply throw a rearguard at us, to buy time for the rest of his men to slip back into hiding. Then we’re back where we started, minus one cohort, of course.’
‘Yes, that’s a possibility,’ Vespasian nodded thoughtfully. ‘If that’s the case, we’ll just have to starve him out. Either way, if we act now, he’s had it. The virtue of forcing him into a battle is that we can finish him off as soon as possible, and stop him trying to whip up any more support from the tribes who are still outside of our control.’ Vespasian turned back to the general. ‘And it gives Maximius and his men something useful to do, while they’re being punished.’
The general frowned. ‘Punished?’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t expect they will survive when Caratacus comes for them. Not after what they will have done to his people.’
‘I see.’ General Plautius scratched his cheek as he weighed up the legate’s plan. ‘Make sure he understands the need to be as cruel as possible.’
Vespasian smiled. ‘Given the mood he and his men are in, I doubt I’ll have much persuading to do. I should think he’ll be only too keen to take it out on the natives.’
‘Very well then.’ Plautius stood back from the table and stretched his back. ‘I’ll have my staff draft the orders immediately.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘Batavians?’ Figulus looked towards the crest of the ridge, as if expecting their pursuers to ride into sight at any moment. He turned back to his breathless centurion. ‘How many of them did you see, sir?’
Cato gulped for air before he could reply. ‘No more … no more than a squadron … less … coming this way. Get the men under cover.’
Figulus took a last glance back up the track and then turned to issue the orders, calling out to the legionaries in a low voice, as if the Batavians might hear him even now. The men hurried from the track, scattering a small distance into the long grass and stunted bushes that grew on either side. Crouching down, they drew their swords and daggers and held them in clenched fists. On the track only Cato and Figulus remained, the centurion bent over as he fought to catch his breath.
‘Are we going to take them on?’ asked Figulus.
Cato glanced up at the optio as if the man were mad. ‘No! Not unless we have to. It’s not worth the risk.’
‘We outnumber them, sir.’
‘They’re better armed, and they’re mounted. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’
Figulus shrugged. ‘We might, if we caught them on this track. And we could use those
horses to carry some of the men.’
‘They’d be more trouble than they’re worth in these marshes.’
‘In that case, sir,’ Figulus smiled, ‘we could always eat them.’
Cato shook his head in despair. Here they were, on the verge of being found and hunted down, and his optio was thinking about food. He drew a last deep breath and straightened up.
‘We’ll avoid a fight if we can. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll go with the men on this side of the track. You’re on the other. You keep ’em down and keep ‘em silent until you hear from me.’
‘And if we’re spotted, sir?’
‘You do nothing unless I give the order. Nothing at all.’
Figulus nodded, turned away and ran over to his men, rustling through the long blades of grass and scattering drops of beaded rainwater in his wake. Cato glanced quickly after him, and saw that his men had trampled some of the undergrowth down in their bid to find a hiding place. It was too late to do anything about that now and Cato ran to join the men on the other side of the track. Only the shaking of a tall clump of bulrushes showed where some men were still adjusting their positions.
‘Keep still, damn you!’ Cato called out.
The brown heads of the bulrushes quickly ceased moving as Cato found himself a spot between two of his men and dropped down on one knee. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Figulus!’
A head popped up thirty paces away on the opposite side of the track. ‘Sir?’
‘Remember what I said. Remember!’
‘Right!’ Figulus ducked back down, leaving Cato to run a last glance over his band of fugitives. Nearby he could see a handful of his men, lying flat, clearly straining to hear the first sounds of the approaching Batavians. Cato too cocked his head and waited, and found himself praying that the horsemen had lost their tracks and were even now starting to search in a new direction. As he waited his heart beat as fast as ever, and the rhythmic pounding in his ears made it hard to listen. As the drizzle continued to patter down softly on the surrounding foliage everything remained still in the gloomy haze that hid the sky from view. Time passed slowly and the tension increased.
Then, just when Cato had begun to believe that the Batavians had passed them by, he heard the faint chink of riding tackle and loose equipment. Then, the dull thump and thud of hoofs on the track. Glancing round at his men, Cato was furious to see that a handful had raised their heads to look for the source of the sound.
‘Down!’ he whispered furiously, and they dropped out of sight. Cato was the last to go to ground, and he pressed himself into the soft, peaty earth and waited, sword gripped tightly, head turned towards the track, and heart beating with renewed anxiety. So great was the tension in his muscles that Cato felt a tremor shaking his leg and there was nothing he could do to still the limb. Muffled, but harsh, guttural voices drifted through the damp air until a sharp word of command stilled the Batavians’ tongues. Then there was quiet, broken only by the faint champing of the horses, and Cato realised that the commander of the squadron had paused to listen for any signs of his prey.
For a while there were only the sounds of nature in the clammy air and Cato, who would have normally relished the gentle rhythm of the rain, felt strained beyond all endurance. He was horribly tempted to jump to his feet and give the order to charge, rather than endure any more waiting, but instead he gritted his teeth and clenched his hand into a fist, letting the nails bite painfully into his palms. He hoped that Figulus was made of stronger stuff and would not be so badly tempted. It was in the nature of the optio to fight, and Cato was not sure how far he could trust Figulus to control his fierce Celtic blood.
At last the Batavian commander barked an order and his patrol trotted forward along the track, no more than ten paces from where Cato lay motionless, breathing as softly as he could. From the sound of the hoofs it was clear that two or three men had been sent ahead to scout the trail, then the main body entered the marsh at a steady pace. If the goddess Fortuna smiled kindly on them today, the Batavians might march right through them and be none the wiser. Cato offered a quick prayer to the goddess and promised her a votive javelin if he ever survived this nightmare.
The rumble of hoofs slowly passed by. There was a chorus of shouts. Cato tensed every muscle, ready to spring up and throw himself upon the Batavians at the first sign their ruse had been discovered. Then it dawned on him that of course their pathetic attempt at evasion had been detected. The same tracks that had led the horsemen here would have disappeared further down the track and that could only mean one thing to the Batavians.
Any moment now …
Cato glimpsed a shadowy presence to his left and turned his head. One of the horsemen was walking a short distance off the track, his back angled towards Cato, no more than six feet away, as he lifted his tunic and slackened the cord that held his leggings up. The man grunted and a deeper spatter could be heard above the gentle rain. Suddenly the noise stopped. Cato saw the man quickly lean forward and then he spun round, a cry of alarm already on his lips.
‘Get ’em!’ Cato screamed as he jumped up. ‘Get up and get ’em!’
The man nearest him continued to turn, one hand wrenching at the handle of his sword, the other still holding his penis. Cato threw himself into the man, his blade thrusting into his stomach an instant before Cato crashed into him and sent the Batavian sprawling back into the long grass. All around, the grimy forms of the legionaries rose up and sprinted towards the wheeling confusion of men and horses. Beyond them Cato glimpsed Figulus and his men racing in from the far side of the track. The commander of the Batavians recovered from the surprise like a true professional and had his sword in his hand even as he bellowed his orders. But there was no time for orders; all was chaos, a seething mêlée of mud-stained furies, and the large-framed bodies of the horsemen struggling to control their panicked horses while they fought for their lives. Even though they had the advantage of numbers and surprise the legionaries carried only an assortment of blades, while their foes had shields, helmets and chain-mail vests. They also had long-bladed cavalry swords, which they now swept through the air in swooshing deadly arcs at the unprotected bodies of the men rushing amongst them.
Cato glimpsed a glint of light to his side and ducked down just as a blade cut through the air where his head had been a moment before and he felt the rush of air through the top of his scalp as the sword flashed over him. The sharp musty stench of horses filled his nostrils as he glanced up at the man who had tried to kill him. The momentum of the blade had twisted him round in his saddle. Before he could reverse the swing Cato hacked at his elbow, shattering the joint with a dull crack. The Batavian screamed and his nerveless fingers released the sword. Hands grabbed at his cloak and he was dragged down into the mud and killed under a hail of sword-blows and the stamping hoofs of his own horse.
‘Kill them!’ Figulus roared above the din of clashing weapons, the harsh cries of fighting men and the shrill whinnying of the horses. ‘Kill ’em all!’
One of the legionaries, just in front of Cato, could not get round his comrades to reach the rider and was thrusting his dagger into the neck of the rider’s mount instead. Jets of blood sprayed out from the glossy black flesh below the bedraggled mane. There was a roar of anguish and rage as the rider saw what was being done to his horse and his sword slashed forward, cutting through the legionary’s throat and spine in an instant and sending the head leaping from the man’s shoulders in a hot explosion of blood.
‘Don’t let any get away!’ Cato called out, as he quickly glanced round to find a new target. Several of the Batavians were down, one pinned beneath his horse as its hoofs lashed at the air. It tried to fight its way back on to its feet, oblivious to the screams of agony that were coming from beneath it. Cato worked his way round the animal, and then, to one side, the black-crested helmet of the Batavian commander rose up in front of him. The man’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Cato and
he threw back his arm to cut the centurion down. As the blade began to slash down the Batavian’s horse stumbled to one side and the blow missed. The Batavian shouted at his animal and yanked the reins to bring it round towards Cato. For an instant his back was to the Roman, and Cato jumped forward, grabbed the hem of the man’s tunic and tried to wrench him from the saddle. For a moment the Batavian commander held his balance, clenching his thighs against the high saddle horns. Then another Roman grabbed his left arm and pulled him away from Cato. The instant he had recovered his balance, the Batavian hacked through the legionary’s arm. As his comrade screamed Cato gritted his teeth and slammed his sword low into the Batavian’s back, cutting through the chain mail and into his spine. Instantly, his legs spasmed and went limp, and he slid helplessly off his horse, arms flailing, as he thudded down on to the track. Cato stepped forward and cut the man’s throat, then crouching low he forced a way along the track, towards the edge of the marsh.
‘You!’ He grabbed a man by the arm, and turned to look for some more. ‘And you two! With me.’
The small party backed out of the fight and Cato led them round the fringe until they reached the track leading out of the marsh.
‘Spread across the track. Don’t let any of them get past!’
The men nodded, and held their blades ready. Further down the track the fight was coming to an end, and the legionaries had had the better of it. Only six of the Batavians still lived, clustered together, and still mounted as they warded off the lightly armed men who danced warily around them, short blades thrusting at any horse or human flesh that came within reach. Cato could see the danger at once. As soon as these men realised that their only chance lay in flight, they would pack together and charge the legionaries, trusting to the weight and impetus of their mounts to carry them through.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ he shouted. ‘Figulus! Get stuck in!’
An instant later one of the Batavians screamed out his battle cry, and it was taken up at once by the other five. They raised their swords high, kicked in their heels and their mounts surged forward. The legionaries nearest to them scattered, diving for safety rather than risk being trampled. Those further back moved aside more deliberately and poised for a strike as the horsemen galloped past. The Batavians ignored the men who posed no danger. They were intent on escape, not going down in a desperate fight in some far-flung marsh at the ends of the earth. So they covered their bodies with their large oval shields, hunched down and spurred their horses on.
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