‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.
Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’
‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’
The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.
‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.
Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’
Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’
‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro maintained. ‘Which means there must be a way to outflank his defences.’
‘You think so? Look again.’
Macro surveyed the landscape before him. The hill extended at least a mile and a half before dropping away sharply at each end, and the river followed the contours, providing a natural moat for the makeshift fortress. ‘What’s on the far side of the hill?’
Cato shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ He indicated the squadron of auxiliary horsemen picking their way along the bank of the river. They were being shadowed on the far bank by a party of lightly armed natives who easily kept pace with the Romans. ‘We won’t know until the scouts report to the general.’
Tribune Otho had been standing a short distance away, scrutinising the enemy position, and came to join Cato and the others. He was wearing a silvered breastplate with an elaborate design of rearing horses etched into the surface. The polished strips of his leather jerkin gleamed in the sunshine and his cloak was clean and showed none of the fraying or small tears that marred the cloaks of the other officers. The rest of his armour and equipment was equally new and to cap it all he wore closed leather boots dyed red that laced up to the top of his shins.
‘As bright as a newly minted denarius,’ Macro muttered with a disapproving shake of his head. ‘He’s going to stand out like a swinging dick at a eunuch massage parlour. Every Silurian warrior worth his salt is going to be after his head.’
Cato had to agree. Soon after first setting foot on British soil he had discovered the natives’ fondness for collecting the heads of those they defeated in battle. The head of a Roman officer was a most desirable trophy to display in their crude wattle and daub huts. With his good looks and his gleaming helmet with its bright red crest, Otho would draw the attention of every Silurian warrior that caught sight of him.
‘Hello, chaps!’ Otho waved a greeting as he strode up to them. ‘Must say, those natives have a good eye for ground. But they’ll be no match for the men of the Ninth, or even the other legions, I’ll wager. Soon as the general gives the order we’ll clear Caratacus and his mob off that hill.’
‘Is that so?’ Horatius sucked a breath in through his teeth. Cato saw the look of irritation flash across his expression before he smiled coolly at the tribune. ‘Well, I’d be more than happy for you and your men to show us all how the job’s done. Why don’t you ask the general for the honour of leading the attack? I’m sure he would be impressed.’
Otho considered the idea briefly. ‘Why not? About time I had a chance to do my duty.’
‘Why not?’ Macro frowned. ‘Because you don’t just go ploughing into the enemy, sir. There’s a right way to go about this. And a wrong way.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Ain’t that right, sir?’
Cato quickly understood the implied meaning of his comrade’s remark. He nodded and addressed the prefect in a gentle tone. ‘This is your first battle, I take it.’
‘Well, yes. As it happens.’
‘Then take the chance to watch and learn. You can prove yourself another time. Good soldiers learn from experience. Or they pay the price.’
Otho stared at him earnestly and turned back to scrutinise the enemy position. ‘I understand.’
A moment later General Ostorius decided he had seen enough. He issued curt orders for pickets to be posted along the riverbank before mounting his horse and riding back into the camp. His staff officers scrambled to follow him and the others were left to ponder the formidable obstacles before them a while longer before they, too, turned away and returned to their units. The men toiled to construct the ditch and rampart that surrounded the vast area required for the two legions, the detachment from the Ninth, eight cohorts of auxiliary troops, the baggage train and the camp followers. It was more like a modest town than a camp, Cato mused as he approached the site of the main gate. The tower supports had already been driven into the earth and men were busy easing the crosspieces into position. As they reached the tent lines of the cohorts from the Ninth, Otho waved a hand and spurred his horse into a trot as he made for his headquarters tent, the first to be erected by the men before they turned to their own, far more modest section tents where eight men slept cheek by jowl.
‘The boy’s keen to get back to his wife,’ Macro chuckled. ‘Not that I’m the marrying kind, but I can see the advantages of having your wife with you on campaign. Saves a fortune,’ he added with a sly wink.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cato. ‘She looks like the kind of woman who is expensive to keep.’
‘Your good lady excepted, name one artistocratic bit who isn’t.’
Cato smiled. ‘And that, my friend, is just one reason why I married her. As for the other reasons – don’t ask.’
‘As if.’ Macro rode a short distance in silence before he added, ‘Had any news lately?’
‘Not since we landed.’
‘That was nearly five months ago.’
Cato shrugged. ‘We’re fighting a war on the very fringes of the known world. It could take several months for a letter to reach me from Rome.’
‘True. But I’m sure she’s fine. Julia’s a healthy girl. And loyal as veteran. Not that I’m suggesting there’s any question . . .’
‘Well, yes. Quite,’ Cato responded tersely. ‘But I can’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not until we’ve defeated Caratacus.’
Macro nodded but glanced sidelong at his friend, not fooled for an instant by Cato’s dismissive response. The lad had found his love, and it was typical of life in the army that he should be forced to leave her behind a mere month or so after their marriage. It was likely to be
some years before Cato saw her again. Anything could happen in that time, Macro mused sadly as they reached the tent lines of the baggage escort detachment.
As the light faded in the evening and there was no sign of any imminent assault, most of the enemy warriors began to filter away from their barricades, climbing the slope to their encampment at the top of the hill. Fires were lit as the sun set and the glow of the flames lined the ridge. The Roman soldiers along the riverbank could just make out their opposite numbers on the far side. While most held their tongues, every now and then insults were traded across the water until an optio, without any irony, bellowed to his men to keep watch in silence. Faint snatches of singing and laughter carried down the slope as Caratacus and his warriors worked themselves up into drunken fervour ahead of the battle they expected the next day.
In the Roman camp the mood was more subdued, more purposeful, as the soldiers went through the daily routines of military life. Once the tents were erected, they prepared their simple evening meals before those assigned to the first watch put on armour, took up weapons and marched to their posts. Their comrades sat around cooking fires, cleaning kit and sharpening weapons for the coming fight. In the main they talked quietly and those soldiers who had not yet put their hard training into bloody practice sat in silence, nurturing their courage and trying to put aside their fears: fear of death, fear of a crippling wound, fear of the terrible cold thrust of an enemy spear, sword or arrow, or the crushing blow of slingshot; and worst of all, fear of not being able to hide their terror in front of their comrades. Others sat with the veterans, earnestly seeking advice and guidance about how best to face what was to come. The advice was always the same. To trust their training, put their faith in the gods and kill every living thing that stood in their path.
In the headquarters tent the mood was equally sombre as General Ostorius and his senior officers also contemplated the morrow’s events. His subordinates were sitting on stools and benches around the edge of the tent. The pale light of oil lamps added to the sense of gloom as the general addressed them.
‘The cavalry patrols followed the river for ten miles in either direction. There seem to be no viable crossing places for the army. If we break camp and follow the river until we can turn Caratacus’s position then he will of course be forced to abandon the hill and continue retreating. However, while he is retreating on his lines of supply into Ordovician territory we are extending ours, so the logistical advantage now belongs to the enemy. We’ve already seen how easily he has managed to elude us in previous campaigns.’ Ostorius paused, before continuing with feeling, ‘I do not want to spend another year in these wretched mountains chasing shadows. I do not want to see our legions and auxiliary cohorts slowly bleed to death in endless skirmishes and raids. The gods have placed Caratacus in front of us and we will fight him here. I will not give him any excuse to break contact and escape. He has offered us battle on his terms, and like it or not, that is what we must accept, gentlemen.’
He looked round the tent to make sure that his intent was understood. ‘Since that is the situation, we are obliged to make a frontal attack across the river. I have decided that the first wave will go forward at noon tomorrow. That will give us time to site our artillery to bombard their barricades. Once we have opened some breaches we will be able to break through and take the hill . . . Any questions?’
‘Plenty,’ Macro whispered to Cato. ‘But I know better than to ask.’
‘Then I’ll have to,’ Cato said quietly. He leaned forward on his stool and raised a hand to draw the general’s attention.
Ostorius faced him and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Prefect Cato, what do you have to say?’
‘Sir, the first line of barricades are just about in range of our artillery. But not the second line. We will not be able to batter those down.’
‘I realise that. Our men will have to fight their way over the defences.’
‘But in order to do that, they are going to have to cross the river, find a way through the stakes in the river bed, climb on to the far bank, and up the hill in full armour. Then fight their way through the breaches in the first line and climb the rest of the way up the slope to the second line. No doubt they will be subjected to the enemy’s missiles as they climb. Sir, I’d wager that by the time they reach the second line they will be too exhausted to fight.’
‘Nevertheless, they will fight. And they will break through and win the day.’
‘But the casualties are bound to be heavy, sir. Very heavy.’
‘That may be so. If that is the price of finally defeating Caratacus then it is a price worth paying. But that need not concern you unduly, Prefect Cato. After all, you and your men will be guarding the baggage train and will not be playing any part in the battle. You will come to no harm.’
Some of the officers could not help smiling at the comment and Cato felt a surge of anger pulse through his veins. They might take offence at his swift promotion through the ranks but they had no right to sneer at his courage. He had to force himself to speak calmly. ‘In view of the challenge facing the army tomorrow, I respectfully submit that my men join in the attack, sir. They have already proved themselves against the enemy.’
‘That will not be necessary. I think you overestimate the difficulties we face. Besides, your men are needed here. It would put my mind at rest knowing that the camp is being protected by men who are used to facing their enemy with a wall and rampart between them, as you proved so adeptly at Bruccium.’
This time the general had gone too far and for all his good judgement Cato’s pride would not let the slur pass unanswered. He made to reply but Macro nudged him sharply and hissed under his breath, ‘Leave it, Cato.’
For an instant Cato was on the verge of open confrontation with his commanding officer. Then he bit down on his injured pride and anger and eased himself back on to his stool. Ostorius regarded him haughtily, then shifted his gaze round the tent. ‘Anyone else?’
It was a challenge as much as a question and every man in the tent understood that and did not wish to share in the dismissive scorn directed at Cato. There was silence. Ostorius nodded.
‘Very well. Then the attack will be carried out by our legionaries. It’s too tough a job for auxiliary cohorts. Instead, the auxiliaries will be leaving the camp under cover of darkness and marching round the hill to cut off the enemy’s retreat.’
That caused murmurs to ripple amongst the officers seated around the tent. Night manoeuvres were difficult to carry out at the best of times. The Romans knew little of the ground they had to cover and would be vulnerable to any ambush that the enemy might have set. Equally, units might lose their way and not reach their assigned positions on time. It was a risky enterprise.
‘I understand your concerns,’ said Ostorius. ‘But I will not give Caratacus and his men any excuse to abandon their position and escape. If that happens due to the negligence of any officer then be sure that they will be answerable to me, and to the Emperor. Every man will do his duty. You will be given your orders as soon as my clerks have them ready for distribution. You are dismissed, gentlemen.’
He returned to his desk at the far end of the tent and sat heavily on his cushioned chair. His officers rose and shuffled towards the open tent flaps. Cato hung back, even now ready to try and dissuade his superior, until Macro muttered, ‘Don’t do it, sir.’
Cato rounded on him and spoke quietly. ‘Why did you stop me?’
‘Jupiter have mercy . . . He was goading you. Surely you can see that? If you had answered back, you would only have been playing into his hands and made yourself look foolish in front of the others.’
Cato thought briefly and nodded. ‘You’re right . . . Thank you, Macro.’
As they left the tent, one of the general’s clerks saw them and respectfully eased his way through the officers. ‘Prefect Cato, sir.’
&
nbsp; ‘What is it?’
‘A package of letters arrived with the reinforcements from the Ninth, sir. This one is for you.’
He held out a slim, folded leather case, fastened by the wax seal of the Sempronius family. Cato’s name, rank and the provincial headquarters of Camulodonum were written in a neat hand beside the seal. He recognised the writing at once as that of his wife, Julia, and he felt his heart give a lurch.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled at the clerk, who bowed and turned to find the next recipient of letters from the package.
‘From Julia?’ asked Macro.
Cato nodded.
‘Then I’ll leave you to read it. I’ll be in the officers’ mess.’
Outside the general’s tent was an open area bounded by the other tents that made up the army’s headquarters. The area was lit by the flames rising from iron braziers. It was a warm night and the only clouds in the sky were away to the west, leaving the stars to shine down unobstructed. It felt peaceful, and Cato was reminded of the last night he had spent with Julia in Rome, up on the roof terrace of her father’s house. Even though it was winter, they too had been warmed by a fire, and each other, as they lay and gazed up at the heavens. He smiled fondly at the memory, before the familiar ache for her returned.
Moving close to the glow of the nearest brazier, Cato held the letter up and touched the smooth wax around the impression of the Sempronius motif, a dolphin. Then he tugged the leather cover and broke the seal, carefully opening the cover to expose the sheets of papyrus inside. He angled them towards the flames and began to read. The letter was dated barely two months after he had left Rome and had taken another two months to reach him.
My dearest husband, Cato,
I take this chance to write to you as an acquaintance of my father who is leaving for Britannia and knows of you has asked if he might carry a message from me to you. Time is short so I fear I cannot express the emptiness in my heart that your absence causes. You are my all, Cato. So I pray daily for your safety and your swift return to me once you have completed your service in the army of Ostorius Scapula. I know that it may be years before we can be in each other’s arms again, and I know I must be strong and constant in my affections, and I will be. And I would have you know that, with all my heart.
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