‘There you are!’ The captain clapped Macro on the shoulder. ‘Safely delivered across the ocean by yours truly. Hope you enjoyed the voyage.’
‘It was all right,’ Macro replied without enthusiasm. Like most soldiers, he thought that land was the proper place for men, and the sea was for fish and any idiots who cared to traverse it. ‘But thanks.’
‘My pleasure. Just make sure you give the natives a good kicking.’
‘We’ll do our best.’
‘Now I’d be grateful if you’d get your men off my ship. We’re returning to Gaul straight away. Some horses to bring over for a Syrian cohort tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Macro was surprised. ‘I thought you sailors never went to sea at night if you could help it.’
‘Normally, no,’ the captain smiled affably. ‘But we’re being paid by the trip and there’s money to be made. So, if you wouldn’t mind?’
Macro faced forward towards the expectant eyes of his men. ‘Okay, lads, off you get. Make sure you don’t leave anything on board or you won’t see it again.’
In single file the legionaries picked their way down the boarding ramp and, lifting their equipment clear of the sea, they jumped into the waist-deep water and surged on to the beach. By the time Macro and Cato had reached the line of shingle along the high-water mark, the ramp was already being stowed as a team of seamen strained on a long thick pole to push the transport free.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Cato nodded at the ship.
‘Money.’
‘What men won’t do for it!’ Cato laughed. ‘You’d think there was nothing more important in this world.’
‘There isn’t.’
The hard-edged expression on his centurion’s face caught Cato by surprise and, as Macro turned to call the century to order, Cato stared at him. The man was understandably tense, as every officer had been, even after the mutiny slowly crumbled. Word of Narcissus’s extraordinary performance quickly spread through the legions causing great hilarity whenever impromptu renditions of the bureaucrat’s bravado were performed. As the wily freedman had intended, the joke could be shared by one and all and the atmosphere of mistrust and betrayal soon evaporated in the mysterious absence of Tribune Aurelius and his associates. Plautius had further soothed the situation by having the retinue of exiled British chiefs and princes let slip tales of the great wealth to be found in Britain; gold, silver, slaves – and women, just begging to be taken from the arms of a handful of benighted savages who insisted on fighting in the altogether. Their fearful appearance – painted bodies and hair stiffened into wild spikes of white – and the endless shouting all counted for little in the thick of battle. The great warriors of the legions would sweep them aside with ease and seize the fruits of victory. A firm resolve to do what legionaries do best gripped the army in the last few weeks of preparation for the invasion.
It was well after dark when the final tent had been raised and the men of the century settled down to a light supper of barley gruel and coarse loaves of bread prepared in Gaul and already stale. Around the campfires the talk was about the progress of the campaign, based on snatches of information gleaned from messengers and forward-supply orderlies returning from the front. As yet the only contact with the enemy had been a handful of skirmishes between scouts and, from all accounts, the native charioteers had so far bested the Roman cavalry. The old hands of the Legion grumpily told the new recruits that it would be a completely different story once the heavy infantry of the Romans managed to close with the Britons.
Inside the centurion’s tent, Macro quietly addressed the men he had picked for Vespasian’s mission. In addition to Cato, he had selected the best ten legionaries of his century for the task. They sat on the grass as he outlined the special duty they had been selected to perform.
‘As some of you may have observed, our legion has been honoured by the presence of a number of the local royalty, who have been taking advantage of Roman hospitality in recent years due to some misunderstandings with their subjects.’
The men grinned at this description of the Emperor’s clients. It was the same throughout the Empire; the local people threw out their despots, who fled to Rome to plead their cause, only to discover that Rome granted asylum at a high price – perpetual obedience.
‘As it happens,’ continued Macro, ‘one of our friends – Cogidubnus by name – had been a little indiscreet in his earlier years when he first approached Rome to discuss a treaty. Apparently he was so impressed by what he saw that he pledged to completely surrender his nation to the Emperor should the Empire extend to Britain. Well, as you can see, it now has. But Cogidubnus seems to have forgotten his earlier good intentions and is holding out for an improved deal from Rome. Unfortunately for him, when he was thrown out by his people, the wagon carrying his personal papers managed to get lost in a marsh near here. Luckily, the general’s spies have found out where that wagon is and it’s our job to recover his personal document chests and bring them back to the safety of the Legion. Once Plautius has a record of the man’s earlier promises to sell his people out to Rome he will be able to hold Cogidubnus to his word – if he gives us any problems we can threaten to let his people see precisely what he thinks of them. A neat double bind, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Macro paused, quite pleased with himself for making this complete fabrication sound so plausible. ‘But first we have to retrieve those documents. And that’s where we come in. The twelve of us have been detached from the legion to recover the chest.’
‘Sir!’ One of the legionaries raised a hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Is someone really expecting us to go wandering off right in the middle of hostile territory. Twelve men alone?’ The soldier spat contemptuously on to the ground. ‘It’s nothing short of suicide.’
‘Let’s hope it’s something short of that.’ Macro smiled reassuringly. ‘Vespasian said that the scouts have found very little sign of resistance since the first two legions landed. We should be all right if it’s a quick job. No more than a couple of days.’
‘When do we leave, sir?’
‘Tonight. As soon as the moon rises.’
Chapter Thirty-four
A damp clinging mist rose from the ground during the night and, by the time the second watch was sounded, a thin veil of white cloaked the ground. The watery red smudges of campfires silhouetted the forms of Vitellius and his bodyguard, Pulcher. The tribune handed Macro a small tablet.
‘There’s your authorisation. It’s countersigned by the general so you won’t have any trouble with our pickets, though I doubt this will hold much sway over any Britons you may encounter.’
Macro did not smile as he tucked the tablet inside his knapsack. Bloody typical of a staff officer to make fun of men he might well be sending to their deaths.
‘Well then, centurion, I trust you will succeed in your mission – whatever it may be.’
Macro nodded.
‘Good luck.’
Macro saluted and turned back to the still shapes of his men waiting like shadows in the ghostly mist. The rearmost man was hissing abuse at the pair of mules detailed to pull the cart. Disturbed from a well-deserved rest after a traumatic day at sea, the mules were not on their best behaviour and their long ears twitched nervously as steamy breath plumed from their nostrils. Macro gave the signal to move off and the driver tapped the lead mule on the rump with a javelin butt. With a grunt, both beasts strained against their harnesses. The cart had been stripped bare of any loose attachments and the axles thoroughly greased so that the only sound came from the soft crunching of the ground under the wheels. The mist further deadened the sounds of the night and to the men of the detachment the swishing of their footsteps through long wet grass seemed abnormally loud. Behind them, the fires of the Second Legion faded into nothingness and before long theirs were the only man-made sounds to break the night.
For Cato, born and raised in the world’s greatest city, the quiet was dreadfully oppressive:
his keen imagination magnified every owl hoot or faint rustle of grass into a deadly Briton silently stalking the Romans until the moment was ripe for the kill. He marched behind his centurion and, not for the first time, envied the way Macro strode about his business with a confident air of invulnerability – which was ironic, given the number of scars that he bore.
Macro’s little column marched on, quietly calling out the required password when they were challenged by a sentry on the picket lines who looked curiously at the looming bulk of the cart gently rumbling along behind. Then the strange patrol was abruptly lost in the clammy fog, and very quickly even the sounds of the cart were swallowed up.
It was only when the picket came to be relieved that word of the strange detachment filtered back to headquarters. Vespasian was confronted by a puzzled senior watch officer who wanted confirmation that Macro was acting under orders.
‘Twelve men and a cart, you say?’ Vespasian asked irritably – since there was a more pressing matter that needed immediate attention.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s very strange. Doesn’t sound like a reconnaissance patrol to me.’
‘No, sir. That’s what I thought.’ The watch officer nodded. ‘Want me to send a cavalry patrol after them?’
‘No point. Anyway we can’t spare the men right now. The scouts have lost contact with one of the British columns – we need every cavalryman we’ve got to track them down.’
‘I see. So what should I do, sir?’
‘Enter them in the watch log, of course. Until we know otherwise, I think it’s best that we regard them as deserters.’
‘Deserters?’ The watch officer almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. ‘But they’ll be cut down by the very first Britons they come across, sir.’
The cold eyes of the legate warned him against uttering another word.
‘Deserters is what I said. And if they’re caught then I want them brought straight to me. They’re not to be seen or spoken to by anyone.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once the watch officer had left, Vespasian frowned. He felt guilty about branding Macro and his men as deserters. But if they failed to complete their mission they would have to be silenced to prevent any word of the wagon’s existence reaching other ears. The legate tried not to give the centurion and his mission any further thought. At present, the movements of the British were a source of considerably more worry. As soon as the invasion force had landed Plautius had sent out his cavalry scouts to locate the natives’ army and keep him supplied with precise information on its size and movements. But the dense fog of last night and the lingering mist at dawn had allowed a large British force of chariots and infantry, some nine or ten thousand, to slip away from the Roman scouts and the army’s cavalry commander had been desperately struggling to re-establish contact throughout the night. Word had just come to Vespasian that the missing column was believed to be under Togodumnus – brother of Caratacus, the leader of the British forces, and no fool, if the British émigrés accompanying the Roman army were to be believed.
A shaft of orange light fell across the papers in front of him and Vespasian looked up to see that the rising sun had found a chink in the tent. It was going to be a difficult day but, once he found time, someone was going to answer for the shoddy way the tent had been erected.
As the distant skyline lightened with the coming of dawn, Macro softly ordered a halt and the men slumped down along the side of the track. The night march had taken a heavy toll on their nerves and the men were glad to see the darkness beginning to dissolve into the glow of the coming sunrise. After leaving the pickets behind, they had twice had to hurry from the track at the sound of approaching horses, but none could tell whether it had been Roman or British scouts passing as the hooves thundered by in the darkness. For the rest of the night they had marched along the track as quietly as they might, fully expecting to be attacked at any moment. The first shafts of orange light fell upon Cato’s worn expression as he chewed on a strip of dried pork. He turned to Macro.
‘Much further to go, sir?’
‘Should be there by nightfall. See there.’ He pointed out across the rolling countryside into the distance where a low, flat expanse still lay underneath a blanket of fog, save for the odd hummock of land that rose like an island from a sea of milk. ‘That’s where the marsh begins.’
‘And how are we supposed to find the wagon amongst that lot, sir?’
‘We follow this track, until we find a depression in the track where it enters a small copse. The wagon’s hidden in the marsh by a burned-out oak stump. Shouldn’t be too difficult to locate.’
Looking down the track to the point where it finally disappeared into the bank of fog, Cato somehow doubted that the search would be as easily resolved as that. The distant marsh waited for them with a cold, sleepy inertia that filled Cato with sudden superstitious fear. This was the vision of the underworld that he heard of as a child on his father’s knee. Wraith-like shadows curled about the darker shapes of dimly seen trees as the thinning mist shifted on the lightest of airs.
Macro stared intently down the track and then quickly scanned the surrounding countryside for any signs of movement. To the left, the land rolled gently away and in the distance the sea shimmered, off to the right the sparsely cleared farmland gave way to a distant forest. Nothing moved. The Britons had made sure that all farm animals had been swept from the invader’s path and every store of grain had been torched. Well then, Macro decided, it was safe to move. He stood up.
‘On your feet, you idle buggers. There’s work to do.’
Rising wearily from the grass the men formed up. The centurion strode off down the track and his men followed, tired and tense. The track sloped down towards the marsh and the mules had to be tightly reined in to prevent the cart from gathering speed. At the edge of the marsh, the track narrowed so that the cart’s wheels crushed the grass on either side. The ground beneath was soft and Cato could feel it give slightly under his boots as the little column moved into the mist. In a short space of time the vistas of the British countryside had vanished and an indefinite white horizon hemmed them in on all sides. At their backs, the sun struggled to make itself felt through the dense haze and the air was cold and clammy on their skin. No-one spoke and the only sounds were the snorts of the mules as they hauled their burden through the soft peat sucking at the cart’s wheels.
The narrow track wound its way through the marsh. Where the ground was too soft for vehicles to negotiate, a thin corduroy road of logs had been laid down and covered with shingle. With annoying regularity, first one wheel of the cart, and then the other, stuck in the black oozing muck on each side of the path. The legionaries had to down spears and shields to lay their shoulders to the thick wooden spokes and strain every sinew to break the cart free and roll it back astride the track. Soon the men were covered in foul-smelling mud and desperately tired. Macro allowed them a short break and they hunched down miserably on a small mossy hummock surrounded by a dank expanse of shallow water. From the angle of the pale yellow disc hovering over the mist Macro realised that it was nearly midday, yet looking at the exhausted men slumped around him he knew that he could not march them much further and still expect them to dig out the wagon once it had been found. It should be near now, if the directions he had been given were accurate.
A sudden lightness in the air caused him to look up and he saw that the sun was at last making an impact on the mist. Patches of brightness began to break up the white swirls, and here and there the air cleared for two or three hundred paces.
‘Cato!’
‘Sir?’
‘Get up on that mound over there. See if you can spot that tree trunk.’ He indicated a mossy lump beside the track and Cato rose reluctantly. Tentatively placing a foot on the soft green surface, he tested it to make sure it would bear his weight.
‘Don’t fuck about lad!’ Macro said irritably. ‘Get up.’
With arms stretche
d out to break his fall Cato tensed his knees and slowly straightened up. The surface beneath the moss was surprisingly firm and he stood erect and stared at the haunting landscape about them. Ahead the track wound down a small slope and all but disappeared into a particularly foul black morass. Even at first glance it was clear that the cart had come as far as it could along the track. Macro wasn’t going to like that.
‘See anything that looks like our trunk?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What about that, over there?’ Macro pointed to where a gap had opened in the mist to reveal several dead trees, starkly black and crooked against the thick white backdrop.
‘I’m not sure, sir.’
‘Well look bloody harder then!’
Cato squinted his tired eyes, but it was difficult to make out much detail and the mist was closing in around the dead trees once again. Instinctively he leaned forwards to try and see better. With a muffled crunch the moss suddenly gave way beneath him and Cato pitched headlong on to the track, arms outstretched. He came down hard and the breath was momentarily knocked out of him.
‘All right?’ Macro leaned over to help him back on to his feet.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know, Cato,’ Macro smiled. ‘I’ve met some clumsy soldiers in my time, but you . . .’
‘It wasn’t me, sir! Bloody ground just gave way.’
‘I see.’ Macro turned to look at the place Cato had fallen from. A large section of moss had collapsed to reveal a crumbling round mass of decayed vegetation.
‘There, sir. See?’ A piqued Cato protested. ‘The whole thing’s rotten.’
He fell silent for a second, and then curiously pulled a clump of moss away, and then another, tossing them excitedly to one side.
Macro smiled. ‘No need to take it so personally.’
Cato ignored him and continued to clear the moss away until, a few moments later, the rotten remains of a tree stump became visible. He stood up and quickly glanced around; there were several other similar mounds covered in moss on either side of the track. He hurried over to the nearest and kicked the moss away to reveal the remains of another ancient tree stump, then looked up at Macro with a grin.
Under the Eagle Page 27