The Eagle's Conquest Page 4

  The far bank sloped up to a low ridge that ran alongside the river. The crest had been crudely fortified, and even as they watched, the tiny figures of the Britons toiled furiously to improve their initial efforts. Already a substantial ditch had been dug around the crossing point, with the spoil being added to the rampart behind. A crude palisade was being erected on top of the ramp, with the redoubt at each end, beyond which the ground became marsh.

  ‘You may have noticed that this stretch of the river is tidal,’ Plautius continued. ‘And if you look close to the far bank you can see that Caratacus has been laying submerged obstacles on the river bed. Is the tide flooding or ebbing, Tribune Vitellius?’

  The general’s latest staff officer was caught on the hop and Vespasian couldn’t help smiling with satisfaction as Vitellius’ usual smug expression fell prey to doubt and then embarrassment. The tribune was on secondment from the Second Legion as a reward for his recent heroics. This experience on the general’s staff was an opportunity to make a name for himself, and ease the way for any future military career. For a moment it looked as if the tribune would try and bluff it, but then honesty won the day although, in perfect keeping with his character, Vitellius could not resist an attempt at damage limitation through evasion.

  ‘I’ll find out, sir.’

  ‘Is that “I’ll find out, sir” as in “I don’t know, sir”?’ Plautius asked drily.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then see to it immediately,’ ordered Plautius. ‘And from now on remember that it’s your job to know these things. There’ll be no excuses in future. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Vitellius snapped as he saluted and fled the scene.

  ‘You just can’t get the staff these days,’ Plautius muttered.

  The other officers present exchanged knowing smiles. It was unfair to expect a staff officer to be aware of the tidal conditions of a river he had only just encountered. But unless staff officers could be made to worry about each and every possible factor influencing the execution of a campaign, they were useless. A staff advancement might be worth seeking, but the individuals concerned had all manner of crosses to bear.

  Straining his eyes, Vespasian could just make out a series of ominous black tips protruding from the water’s surface. Sharpened wooden stakes, driven into the river bed, and quite capable of impaling an infantryman or disembowelling a horse. The attackers would be forced to negotiate the crossing cautiously under volleys of slingshot and arrows from the enemy even before they emerged from the river and encountered the ditch and rampart.

  ‘We could cover the assault with artillery, sir,’ Vespasian suggested. ‘The bolt-throwers would force them to keep their heads down, while the catapults took down the palisade.’

  Plautius nodded. ‘I have considered that. The prefect of engineers reckons that the range is too great – we’d have to use the smallest calibre of missile, not enough to do the required damage. I think we have to discount the possibility of a direct assault on its own. By the time any heavy infantry could cross the river and form up we’d have too many casualties. Furthermore, the front itself is too narrow for sheer force to carry the day. Our men would be exposed to fire from three sides as they approached the ditch. No, I’m afraid we must be a little more sophisticated.’

  ‘Do we have to cross here, sir?’ asked Sabinus. ‘Can’t we just march upriver until we find an easier crossing?’

  ‘No,’ the general replied patiently. ‘If we march upriver, Caratacus can shadow us every step of the way and oppose any crossing we attempt. It might be days, weeks even, before we get across. Then he simply falls back to the Tamesis and we repeat the whole process all over again. And time is on his side, not ours. Every day more men will be joining his army. Every day we give him makes our chances of taking Camulodunum before autumn less likely. And unless Camulodunum falls, we won’t be able to secure the alliance of those tribes still neutral. We must fight Caratacus here, and now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus muttered, striving to hide his embarrassment at being lectured to as if he was no more than a green tribune.

  Plautius turned to address his assembled officers. ‘So, gentlemen, I’m open to suggestions.’

  The legate of the Ninth Legion looked thoughtfully across the river. Hosidius Geta was a patrician who had opted to continue his army service rather than pursue a political career, and he had considerable experience of waterborne operations with his legion on the Danube. He turned to his general.

  ‘Sir, if I may?’

  ‘Be my guest, Geta.’

  ‘This calls for a flanking movement, two flanking movements in fact.’ Geta turned back towards the river. ‘While the main army demonstrates here, we could throw a force across the river further downstream, under covering fire from some warships – provided the water’s deep enough at that point.’

  ‘We could use the Batavian auxiliaries for that, sir,’ Vespasian suggested, and drew an irritated glance from Geta for his pains.

  ‘I was going to suggest that,’ Geta replied coldly. ‘They’ve trained for this sort of duty. They can swim across rivers fully armed. If we can get them across without any significant opposition, we can launch a flank attack on the British positions over there.’

  ‘You mentioned a second flanking attack,’ Plautius said.

  ‘Yes, sir. While the Batavians are crossing, a second force can move upriver until they find a ford and then turn the enemy’s other flank.’

  Plautius nodded. ‘And if we get the timing right, we should hit them from three directions in a staggered attack. Should be over fairly quickly.’

  ‘That’s my belief, sir,’ Geta replied. ‘The second force need not require too many men, their chief role is to be the final surprise Caratacus cannot deal with. Catch him off balance, and we’ll win the day. He’ll never be able to cope with all three attacks. You know what these native irregulars are like. Of course, if either of our flanking forces is caught in isolation, then losses will be severe.’

  Vespasian felt a cold chill at the nape of his neck as he recognised the chance he had been looking for. The chance to redeem himself and his legion. If the Second could play the decisive role in the coming battle, it would go a long way towards restoring the unit’s spirits. Although Togodumnus’ recent ambush of the Second Legion had failed, the unit had suffered grievous losses in men and morale was low. A successful attack, pressed home ruthlessly, might yet save the reputation of the Second and its commander. But would the men be up for it?

  Plautius was nodding as he went over Geta’s proposal. ‘There is a risk in a divided assault, as you say, but there’s a risk any way we cut it. Right then, we’ll go with that plan. All that remains is the allocation of forces. Clearly, the right flank attack across the river will require the Batavians,’ he said, with a faint nod towards Vespasian. ‘The frontal assault will be carried out by the Ninth.’

  This was it, Vespasian realised. Time to reclaim the Second’s honour. He took a step forward and cleared his throat.

  ‘Yes, Vespasian?’ Plautius looked towards him. ‘You have something to add?’

  ‘Sir, I request the privilege of leading the left flank attack.’

  Plautius folded his arms and cocked his head to one side as he considered Vespasian’s request. ‘Do you really think the Second can handle it? You’re under-strength, and I imagine your men wouldn’t be too pleased to find themselves in the thick of battle quite so soon after their recent experience.’

  Vespasian coloured. ‘I beg to differ, sir. I believe I speak for my men as much as for myself.’

  ‘Frankly, Vespasian, a moment ago I had no intention of even considering the Second for this duty. I was going to hold you in reserve, and let a fresh unit do the job. And I don’t see any reason why I should change my mind. Do you?’

  Unless Vespasian could quickly find reasons to justify the Second Legion’s position on the left flank, he would be doomed to live the rest of his tenure as a legate under a s
hroud of suspicion about his suitability for command. And if the men sensed that they were being denied an equal part in the campaign, and hence an equal share in the spoils, the Second’s morale and reputation would never recover. Their reputation had been bought over the years with the blood of thousands of comrades, under an eagle that had led them into battle for decades. If that was to end, then it would be over his dead body. Vespasian needed to be firm with his general.

  ‘Yes I do, sir. You seem to have been misinformed about the fighting spirit of my legion.’ And Vespasian guessed that Vitellius was the source of that misinformation. ‘The men are ready for it, sir. They’re more than ready, they’re thirsty for it. We need to avenge the men we’ve lost.’

  ‘Enough!’ Plautius cut in. ‘You think that rhetoric will win out over reason? This is the front line, not the forum in Rome. I asked you to give me a good reason why I should give way.’

  ‘All right then, sir. I’ll speak straight to the point.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘The Second is under-strength. But you don’t need a full legion for the attack. If it falls through, then you’ve only lost a unit that’s already been pretty badly cut up rather than a fresh legion.’ Vespasian looked at his general shrewdly. ‘I dare say that you want to keep as many fresh units to hand as possible, in case you have to fight Caratacus again. You can’t afford to face him with under-strength and tired forces across your battle line. Better to risk a more expendable unit now.’

  Plautius nodded as he listened approvingly to this altogether more cynical reasoning. It neatly reflected the hard realities of command and, in the same hard way, made the most sense.

  ‘Very well, Vespasian. A reprieve for you and your men then.’

  Vespasian inclined his head in thanks. His heart jumped with excitement at having won his commander round, and then in anxiety at the dangerous duty for which he had just volunteered his men. He had been less than honest in his request to the general. He had no doubt that many of the men would curse him for it, but then soldiers complained about everything. They needed to fight. They needed a clearcut victory to boast about. To let the men continue in their present state of doubt about themselves would ruin the legion, and blight his career. Now that he had committed them to the attack he felt confident that the majority would share his desire to fight.

  ‘Your orders,’ Plautius stated formally, ‘are to proceed upriver and dawn. Locate the nearest ford and cross to the far bank. From there you will march downriver, avoiding contact with the Britons. You will wait in hiding until the headquarters trumpets blow your legion’s recognition signal, at which point you will join the assault on that hill. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’

  ‘Hit them hard, Vespasian. As hard as you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your written orders will be with you later today. You’d best be on your way. I want you moving before daybreak. Now go.’

  Vespasian saluted the general, nodded a farewell to Sabinus, and was making his way through the throng of officers back towards the horseline when Vitellius came running up the slope, panting heavily.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’

  Plautius turned to him in alarm. ‘What is it, Tribune?’

  Vitellius stood to attention, gulped in some air and made his report. ‘The tide is flooding, sir. I got that from our scouts down there by the river.’

  General Aulus Plautius stared at him a moment. ‘Well, thank you, Tribune. That’s very interesting. Very interesting indeed.’

  Then he turned away to view the enemy’s defences again and to hide his amused expression from view.

  Chapter Six

  _______________

  The shadows were lengthening as Cato leaned unmoving against the trunk of a tree, his drab brown cloak cushioning him from the rough bark. In his left hand rested the hunting bow he had drawn from stores, a heavy barbed arrow notched to the drawstring. He had discovered a meandering trail where it crossed a rough track and had followed it down to this clearing. The track snaked across the low ferns and into the trees on the far side of the clearing. Beyond, the river glistened through the leaves and branches, sparkling with the reflection of the sinking sun. City boy as he was he had had the sense to ask for some advice from Pyrax, a veteran long used to foraging, before setting off into the woods. The area had been cleared of the enemy, and was ringed by the marching camps of Plautius’ army, so the young optio felt that it was safe enough to try his hand at hunting. With luck, the men of the Sixth Century would not be dining on salted pork tonight, and would go into battle with a good meal in their bellies.

  When news of the impending attack had been announced to the Sixth Century, Macro had cursed his luck. Some dangerous flanking manoeuvre was the last thing they needed when their numbers were so depleted. Back in his tent, he and Cato had made preparations for the next morning’s attack.

  ‘Take a note,’ Macro instructed his optio. ‘Each man is to leave all non-essential kit here. If we have to swim for it, we don’t want to be carrying more than we need to. And we’ll need some rope. Get three hundred feet of light cable from stores. Should be enough to reach across the river if we find a ford.’

  Cato looked up from his wax note tablet. ‘What if there isn’t a ford? What will the legate do then?’

  ‘That’s the best bit of it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘If we don’t find a ford by noon, we’ve been ordered to swim across. We’ll have to strip down to our tunics and float the equipment across on inflated bladders. Make a note to indent a bladder for each man.’

  He paused when Cato did not respond. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I forgot about your aversion to water. If it comes to swimming across, stick with me and I’ll see you get over safely.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Just make sure you get some proper bloody swimming lessons in at the first available opportunity.’

  Cato nodded, head lowered in shame.

  ‘So where were we?’

  ‘Bladders, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Let’s hope we don’t need them. If we can’t find a ford I don’t fancy tackling the Britons with just a woollen tunic between them and my vitals.’

  Cato had wholeheartedly agreed.

  The sun was now low over the western horizon and Cato again looked towards the river, which seemed wider than ever. He shuddered at the thought of having to actually swim across it; his swimming technique barely did justice to the words.

  The sun was shining directly through the trees, casting a tangle of shadows with orange-hued edges across the clearing. A sudden flash of movement caught Cato’s eye. Keeping his body still, he turned his head to follow the movement. A hare had cautiously hopped out onto the track from a patch of stinging nettles not twenty feet from where he stood. It rose up on its hind legs, cautiously sniffing the air. With its upper body and head haloed by the glow of the distant sun, the hare looked like a tempting target, and Cato slowly made to lift the hunting bow. One hare was not going to feed the men of the Sixth Century, but it would do until something larger came down the track.

  Cato steadied the bow and was about to release the drawstring when he became aware of another presence in the clearing. The hare turned and scurried back into the undergrowth.

  A deer ambled out of the shadows into the clearing, heading for the point at which the trail entered the trees on the far side. A much bigger target, even at twenty paces, and without hesitation, Cato adjusted his aim, allowing for drop and a tendency to shoot up and to the right. The drawstring hummed, the deer froze, and a streak of darkness hurtled through the air and landed in the back of the deer’s neck with a loud whack.

  The animal crashed down, thrashing its long neck as blood flecked the undergrowth. Cato hurriedly notched another arrow to the bow, and sprinted across the clearing. Sensing the danger, and maddened by the barbed arrowhead buried deep in its neck, the deer struggled up and leaped along the track towards the river. Heedless of the tangled vegetation str
addling the track, Cato pursued his quarry down the slope, falling behind, then catching up again each time the deer stumbled. The injured animal burst onto the river bank and plunged into the river. The smoothly flowing surface exploded into a multitude of sparkling droplets as they caught the evening sun.

  Cato was close behind, and drew up at the edge of the river. It seemed much wider and more dangerous than when viewed from the clearing above. The deer splashed on and Cato raised his bow, furious that the animal might yet escape or be dragged off by the current.

  The deer floundered on, fully thirty paces away now. The second arrow caught it right in the middle of the back and its rear legs crashed down senseless. Dropping the bow on the river bank, Cato plunged in. The bed of the river was firmly pebbled and less than a foot deep. Water sprayed up around him as he made for the deer with drawn dagger. The second arrow had shattered the deer’s spine and it writhed in terror, desperately trying to use its front legs to drag itself on, and staining the water with its blood.

  Cato stopped short, fearful of the flailing hooves, and worked his way round to the front. As his shadow fell across its face, the deer froze in terror, and seizing the opportunity Cato thrust his dagger into the animal’s throat and ripped it clear. The end was mercifully quick, and after a brief final struggle the deer lay still, eyes staring lifelessly. Cato was trembling, partly from the nervous energy released by the frantic pursuit and kill, and partly through a peculiar sense of distaste and shame at having killed the animal. It was different to killing a man. Quite different. Yet why should it feel any worse? Then Cato realised he had never killed an animal like this before. Sure, he had wrung the neck of the odd chicken, but this felt unsettling and the swirls of blood eddying about his feet made him feel queasy.