‘What on earth?’ The centurion was startled by the young man’s actions, which were eccentric even by his normal standards of behaviour.
‘Sir! Don’t you see?’
‘I see you’ve finally gone mad.’
‘They’re tree stumps, sir! Tree stumps!’
Cato paused, waiting for his comments to provoke a reaction, a wide grin splitting his mud-spattered face. For all the world, Macro could not help feeling a pang of paternal affection. Cato looked like a little boy – it was impossible to be angry with him.
‘Tree stumps?’ Macro replied instead. ‘Yes, well, I can see that they’re tree stumps. Probably been cut down for use on the track.’
‘Exactly, sir! Exactly. Cut down. How many of them would you say?’
Macro looked around. ‘Ten, twelve or so.’
‘Do you think that ten or twelve trees might be enough to constitute a copse?’
Macro stared at him and a familiar cold tingle traced its way down the back of his neck. ‘Everyone on their feet!’
The legionaries, tired and filthy, could have looked even less excited had they put their minds to it, but rose to their feet nonetheless.
‘The optio thinks we’re at the right spot. Start looking for the remains of the cart off the side of the track.’
The legionaries looked at the dull, gloomy morass surrounding them, and then back to their centurion as if waiting for more helpful directions.
‘Well, get on with it!’ Macro said firmly. ‘It’s not going to bloody well find itself!’
Without waiting for the others, the centurion started attacking the nearest mound of moss at the side of the track, wrenching away handfuls of the moist growth and hurling them to one side. The others reluctantly followed suit and soon the pleasant little hummock of grass was well on the way to utter ruin. Clods of moss and earth flew through the air and yet more filth adhered to the legionaries as they struggled to unearth any sign of the lost wagon. The sun slowly declined from its midday position with little further effect on the mist that clung to the vast expanse of marsh. The legionaries had found nothing and one by one they sat down and surveyed the dark brown debris of peat and rotten wood that was all they had to show for their exertions. Macro let them stop without a word and squatted down on his heels, fixing Cato with an accusing stare.
‘I only said it might be the place we’re looking for,’ Cato said guiltily. ‘I mean, it seemed a reasonable guess, given the way things are going.’
‘Guess?’ Pyrax muttered angrily. ‘You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself earlier on!’
‘Maybe it was a mistake,’ Cato shrugged. ‘But where else can the wagon have gone? From the look of the track up ahead there’s no way it can have gone any further than this, and how many other trees have we passed? None. It has to be close by.’
‘Where then?’ Macro swept his arm round at the excavations. ‘We’ve looked.’
‘Well, we just haven’t found it yet.’
‘Fuck this!’ Pyrax stood up angrily. ‘Look, centurion, the wagon isn’t here. Any fool can see that. Either we’ve missed it earlier on the track, or it was never here in the first place. Why don’t we just get back to the Legion?’
The other legionaries grumbled in support.
Macro looked down between his feet and thought for a moment before he rose stiffly. ‘No, not yet at least. The lad’s right. If it is anywhere then it has to be here. We’ll have a rest and then have another dig. If we find nothing by dusk we’ll head back.’
Pyrax swore and spat at Cato’s feet. His fist clenched.
‘That’s my decision, Pyrax,’ Macro intervened firmly. ‘Now back down and have a rest. That’s an order. Understand me?’
Pyrax remained silent, glaring coldly at the optio. Then he turned towards Macro for a moment and nodded.
‘I asked if you understood me?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Good. Now sit down.’
With a last glare at the optio, Pyrax turned away and slumped down with the other legionaries who all looked angrily at Cato.
It was more than the young optio could bear for the moment and he wandered down to the edge of the swamp to escape the immediate aura of hostility assaulting him from all sides. The remains of a sapling protruded out of the dark surface at the edge of the hummock and hung at an angle towards the track. With a deep sigh of frustration Cato leaned back against the sapling, firmly intending to empty his mind of immediate concerns and take in the view, such as it was. The moment the mass of his weight fetched up against the sapling it gave way with a loud creak and fell down on to the grass bank of the hummock. For a moment Cato felt himself toppling forwards for a second time, but a frantic windmill gesture kept him on his feet.
‘Cato!’ Macro shouted out. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can’t you keep on your bloody feet for a little longer? I swear I have seen completely pissed sailors less clumsy than you.’
‘Sorry, sir. I thought this tree could bear my weight.’
‘Tree?’ Macro asked, then looked down in the grass where Cato indicated. ‘That’s no bloody tree.’
He bent down and examined the long shaft of wood. Under the lichen, grime and scraps of moss the wood was far too smooth and regular for a sapling. At the end of the shaft he wiped away the dirt and exposed an iron cap. A little more work revealed a foot-long iron collar with two handles protruding on opposite sides of the shaft.
‘Well, Cato,’ he began, ‘you may not be the most agile lad to have joined the legion, but your clumsiness has its moments. Do you know what this is?’
Cato shook his head, still a little bemused that his sapling had managed to sprout ironware.
‘It’s a wagon shaft end. And where there’s a wagon shaft end it’s reasonable to suppose that there might be a wagon. Let’s see.’
Macro picked the shaft of wood up and raised it above his head, following its line down to where it disappeared in the marsh. He gave it an experimental tug, but even though the shaft rose up and down it was clearly fixed to something at its base. Macro let it drop back into the grass and turned to face the other legionaries who were watching him with weary curiosity.
‘Last time then, lads! On your feet and get over here. Seems the optio was right after all. Not that I ever seriously doubted him.’
Were it not for the unreasonable fact that assaulting a superior officer was a capital offence, Cato would have hit him.
Chapter Thirty-five
Dusk was fast approaching and there was still no sign of Togodumnus’s force. By now the cavalry scouts of three legions had been joined by two auxiliary cavalry cohorts and the surrounding country was being systematically swept for any trace of the Britons. Until they were found, the Second Legion would be highly vulnerable and Vespasian was loath to quit a fortified position while the location and strength of the enemy were still unknown. His imagination readily visualised the consequences of his men being attacked in force as they were strung out along the line of march. A determined attack, pushed through resolutely, could cripple the Second. That was why he had placed the scouting sweeps under the direct command of Vitellius. Even now, the tribune was somewhere out there in the British countryside with orders not to rest until Togodumnus was located.
Meanwhile, General Plautius was relentlessly pressing the enemy back and had sent messengers racing to the rear to call up the two fresh legions – the Second and the Fourteenth – and have them rush to the front to sustain the offensive’s momentum. A swift crushing blow was required, he told his subordinates. If the four legions could catch the Britons before they managed to place a major river between themselves and the Romans, the resulting battle would surely see the destruction of the Britons’ field army. After that, it would just be a question of picking off the odd hill fort and mopping up the surviving forces. The legate smiled bitterly as he had read that. What the general had not mentioned – perhaps had not anticipated – was the guerrilla war that would inevitably follow for ma
ny years before the new province could be considered pacified.
Vespasian wished that he could share the general’s confidence in the smooth progress of the campaign. But orders were orders and Plautius wanted the Second Legion on the move at daybreak on the morrow. Vespasian could only assume that the general was aware of the risk.
As far as Vespasian could tell from the latest scout reports, the tracks leading west to the front were clear of the enemy and the land to the south had been searched as far as the marsh – which, his British émigrés had told him, was unpassable for a force of any size as the old tracks had been abandoned for many years and were all but swallowed up by the bogs. That left the heavily wooded region to the north of the line of march; a rolling mass of trees and thickets criss-crossed by numerous tracks well known to the natives. If an attack came, it was sure to come from that quarter.
The sun was sinking into the rolling banks of mist by the time Macro and his men had cleared away enough of the slimy foul-smelling peat to reveal the bed of the wagon. The men were caked in mud that sucked at them as they struggled, waist deep. Finally they had discovered the chest they had been sent to retrieve. Once it was cleared of mud, Macro excitedly examined the heavy wooden box bound with iron. Aside from the inevitable staining and the dampness of the wood, the chest was in remarkably good condition and still fastened by a heavy lock. The other men, now that they had something to show for all their exertions, shared his excitement and eagerly helped drag the chest to more solid ground. It proved to be far heavier than they expected and nearly sank back into the mud several times before it was heaved on to the grass bank leading up to the track.
‘Right, lads, there’s no time to waste. We have to load it on to the cart and get back to the Legion.’
Cato looked up at the sky. ‘It’ll be dark soon. We won’t make it back before nightfall, sir.’
‘No. But we’ll get out of this place at least.’ Macro grasped one of the iron handles. ‘Come on! Let’s get on with it.’
The twelve men struggled around the chest and hauled it up the bank. Then with a final back-breaking effort, accompanied by loud hisses of strain and exertion, the chest was pushed on to the back of the cart, which creaked under the load. The men leaned against its sides gasping for breath. Cato found himself shivering as his body was overtaken by a degree of tiredness he had never experienced before. His leg and arm muscles ached abominably and the strenuous labour of the previous hours had left him feeling sick. Looking at the faces of the other men he realised that they were all quite done in, and it would be as much as they could manage to haul the cart clear of the marsh by the time night fell.
Macro rested his arms across the top of the chest. He was tired, but elated that he had succeeded in his mission. Once the chest was in the legate’s safe keeping, Macro could rest assured that he had at least one friend in high places who might smooth his path to further promotion. He had reached the pinnacle of a career based solely on competence and ability. Further advancement depended on a mix of guile, intelligence and personal connections. Macro knew himself well enough to be aware that he was somewhat lacking in the first two of these qualities; the third he had just taken care of. He patted the chest affectionately.
‘Well done, centurion!’ a voice called out of the growing gloom of mist and dusk.
Macro snapped round, his hand going straight to the pommel of his sword. The other men were on their feet in an instant, alert, some with swords already drawn.
A vague shape slowly emerged from the mist and took the form of a Roman staff officer – Tribune Vitellius. Behind him several more figures materialised, men in Syrian garb leading horses. At sight of them, Cato felt a cold chill of recognition and slowly drew his own sword. And there, holding the bridle of the tribune’s horse, stood Pulcher.
Vitellius walked up the track towards them and stopped ten paces from the cart.
‘I take it that is the chest you were sent to retrieve?’
Macro was still recovering from the shock of the tribune’s sudden appearance. He frowned with suspicion, but made no reply.
‘Well, centurion? Is that the chest?’
‘Yes, sir. But what . . .’
‘That’s a job well done. I congratulate you and your men.’
‘Thank you, sir—’
‘And now I’ll take charge of things. The chest needs to be returned to the legate as quickly as possible.’ Vitellius turned his head back to the waiting horsemen. ‘First two men – here!’
Vitellius walked over to the cart and patted the chest with a smile. ‘You must be exhausted. I expect you’ll be glad to be relieved of this. Get some rest before you follow us back to the Legion.’
Macro nodded while his mind worked quickly to frame his next words as carefully as possible. He could see the credit for his achievement slipping away. ‘Sir, our orders were to hand the chest over to the legate in person.’
‘I know. But the orders have been changed.’
‘The legate was quite specific, sir. To him in person.’
‘Are you questioning my authority, centurion?’ Vitellius asked coldly. ‘I’m telling you that the orders have been changed. Now you will hand over the cart to my men, understand?’
Macro stared at him, eyes cold with bitter resentment that his superior was about to snatch the prize from his grasp.
‘Tell your men to stay away from the cart, sir,’ Macro said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Tell your men to back off. You’re not taking the chest.’
‘Centurion,’ Vitellius tried to sound reasonable, ‘there’s nothing you or I can do about it. I’m obeying a direct order from Vespasian.’
‘My orders come from Aulus Plautius,’ Macro bluffed. ‘We’re not giving up the chest until I get different orders from the general, in person.’
Vitellius stared at him silently, and his men – sensing a confrontation unresolved – stopped short of the cart. Then Vitellius smiled and backed away a few paces as he spoke.
‘Very well, centurion. You keep the chest for the moment, but this isn’t the last you’ll hear of the matter – I swear it.’
He turned and beckoned his two men to follow as he retreated from the cart back towards the waiting horsemen. As he watched, Cato saw the tribune move to one side of the track, casually moving out of the line of sight between his men and the cart. A sudden movement from the figures in the mist caught Cato’s attention and his eyes returned to the tribune. Vitellius had flicked the cape off his sword arm and was looking back towards the cart. Cato’s eyes widened in sudden realisation of the danger.
‘Down! Get down!’
He hurled himself at his centurion and they rolled on to the muddy track behind the cart. The other legionaries followed suit as a flight of arrows whistled through the air. One man reacted too slowly and, with a sickening thud, a dark feathered arrow buried itself in his throat. The legionary slumped to his knees, gurgling blood, as he desperately struggled to wrench the barb free from his neck. Two arrows from the second volley caught him in the face and chest and, with a cry he went down.
‘Behind the cart!’ Macro shouted. ‘Get behind the cart!’
The legionaries crouched down in the filth behind the cart as further arrows landed around them. Two men were wounded and gasped in pain as they tried to wrestle the arrows free.
‘Leave them!’ Macro shouted, only too aware of the damage barbed arrows caused on extraction. If they lived, the arrow heads would have to be cut out by a surgeon.
If they lived.
The Syrians were already fanning out on either side of the track, as far as the marsh would allow, in order to minimise the effective shelter of the cart. The legionaries huddled tightly together. Most had left their shields down on the grass bank and only a couple had leaned them against the cart. Now these were hurriedly passed to the side to protect the men’s flanks and deflect the arrows with a harsh clatter. Even so, arrows were finding their mark and another man h
ad been wounded in the leg.
‘What the hell are they doing?’ Pyrax asked. They’re on our fucking side.’
‘Apparently not,’ replied Cato. ‘Whatever’s in that chest must be bloody priceless.’
‘How many of them are there?’ Macro asked. ‘Did anyone see?’
‘I counted eight,’ Cato replied. ‘Vitellius, Pulcher and six Syrians.’
‘Then we’re even. If we try and rush them.’
‘Rush them?’ Pyrax repeated shocked, as he pressed himself into the ground. ‘Sir, they’d cut us down before we could get near them.’
‘Only while their arrows last.’
‘If we live that long.’
A sudden piercing shriek caused Cato to jump. One of the mules had been hit in the flank and now it bellowed with pain and reared and wrenched in its traces. For a moment it looked as if the animal might panic enough to drag the cart clear of the sheltering legionaries but the other animal had frozen and gazed at its comrade with wide-eyed terror, and the cart stayed still.
‘Careful, you fools!’ Vitellius screamed out a short way off. ‘You’re hitting the mules. Pick your targets – only the men!’
‘Thank you, tribune,’ Macro said bitterly as the arrows struck the cart and shields with splintering thuds. He caught Cato’s eye and gestured towards their attackers with his thumb. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of those Syrians. About time we did something about them.’
‘But not right now, sir,’ Cato implored him. ‘Please wait until the odds are a little more even.’
The arrows continued to fall, but at a diminishing rate as the Syrians conserved ammunition. Individually they had closed the distance and were now taking pot shots whenever a target made itself available. But the narrow strip of the hummock made it impossible for the archers to enfilade the legionaries. So, after a little while, it became apparent that a stand-off had been reached. The legionaries, stripped of armour and with only two shields between them, dared not rush the archers; and the archers, lightly armed and a poor match for well-trained heavy infantry, dared not take the legionaries on hand-to-hand. The Syrians only hope was to incapacitate enough of Macro’s force to make their numbers decisive.
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