The Eagle and the Wolves Page 8

  It had been only two days since the legion had pitched camp a short distance from the outer defensive ditch, and already there were over eighty casualties – the equivalent of one full century. The full butcher’s bill, Vespasian knew, would be waiting for him on the campaign desk in his tent. That was why he was reluctant to turn away from the spectacle of the burning hillfort. If the Durotrigans continued to bleed his forces away at this rate, then before long the legion would be too weak to continue campaigning independently of the main body of General Plautius’ army. That would be a bitter blow for Vespasian, who had counted on this opportunity to make something of a name for himself before his tenure of the legion came to an end. If his political career was to advance when he returned to Rome, then he would need a good military record to trade on. His family was too recently promoted to the senatorial class for him to depend on any help from the old boy network of those with an established aristocratic lineage. It constantly infuriated Vespasian that men less able than he were given greater responsibilities far earlier in their careers. Not only was this not fair, he spurred himself on, it was so obviously inefficient and prone to disaster. For the good of Rome, and her divinely sanctioned destiny, the system had to change. . .

  The hillfort was the seventh settlement his legion had seized and sacked. This had taken only two days to achieve, yet there were certain aspects of the operation that Vespasian was certain could be improved. A handful of the enemy had managed to slip through his picket lines the first night the legion had camped in front of the hillfort. That was quite deplorable, and the optio in charge of the sentries had been broken back to the ranks. Next time, the legate firmly resolved, he would erect a palisade across any likely rat runs.

  Then there had been only a limited supply of ammunition for his artillery engines to lay down a demoralising and destructive barrage upon the defenders. Although they had managed to damage the defences around the main gate, and take down a number of the enemy warriors, the catapults and bolt-throwers had failed to make a large enough breach. When the First Cohort had been thrown into the assault they met a far more determined resistance than they had anticipated. Next time the legion would wait until its artillery was able to lay down the kind of barrage that breaks the enemy’s will to resist, Vespasian decided.

  He felt guilty about rushing the assault, and was honest enough to admit the reason behind the order to attack was based on his ambition to have a high tally of victories to his name. Men had paid for his ambition with their blood. The legate quickly tried to repress the self-criticism by moving his thoughts on to a related problem. The Durotrigans were as fanatical in the final fight as they had been in the preparation of their defences. As a result there had been no survivors when the enraged legionaries had burst through the gateway and swarmed into the hillfort’s interior. Every man, woman and child had been put to the sword.

  That was a terrible waste, Vespasian reflected. Next time he would insist on taking as many of the enemy alive as possible. A good healthy Celt attracted a premium price in Rome at the moment with the latest fad for barbarian chic raging amongst those with more money than taste. Vespasian’s share of the spoils would earn him a small fortune. Just as it would his men, if they could just manage to restrain their bloodlust long enough to realise that the pleasures of rape and pillage were transitory, whereas the profits from slave dealing could provide a nice supplement to their retirement funds. Orders must be given to the centurions to restrain their men when the legion took the next hillfort, Vespasian resolved. There would be no further waste of valuable lives, Roman or Briton.

  Only the sheep, cattle and a few pigs had lived through the Roman assault. These livestock were being driven down the sides of the hill towards the camp. The animals would not survive very much longer than their erstwhile owners, and the delighted legionaries would be consuming fresh roast meat once again. Vespasian was pleased to have thus supplemented his supplies. However, the legion would soon be tackling a chain of much larger forts, and once again Vespasian would be reliant on a steady flow of supplies from the depot at Calleva.

  Therein lay his most pressing difficulty. With Caratacus sending fast-moving columns to raid the legion’s supply lines, Vespasian’s men might be forced to live off the land. Worse, there would be no equipment to replace material lost in battle and losses due to wear and tear. It all depended on King Verica and the Atrebatans keeping to the terms of their alliance with Rome, and guaranteeing the safe passage of supply convoys through their territory. The formation of the two cohorts at Calleva might help ease the burden, and lift some of the weight of anxiety from Vespasian’s shoulders. The legate was sure he could trust Centurion Macro with the task – and Centurion Cato, for that matter.

  Vespasian smiled at the recollection of the moment he had informed the youngster of his promotion a few months earlier. Cato had been laying on a bed in the hospital at the Calleva depot. He had barely been able to blink back the tears of pride. Cato had great promise, and had justified the legate’s estimation of his worth time and again. It would be interesting to see how the young man was coping with the responsibilities of his new rank, Vespasian mused. He was not quite in his twentieth year, and once Cato rejoined the Second Legion he faced one of the most daunting experiences a man could ever have in taking charge of the eighty legionaries of his first command.

  Vespasian could clearly recall the painful self-consciousness with which he addressed the small patrol he had led when appointed a tribune nearly fourteen years ago. The grim veterans had listened to his introduction without comment but made no secret of their disdain for his lack of experience. At least Cato had that to bolster up his self- confidence. In the short time he had served with the Eagles Cato had already seen more combat than many legionaries did in a lifetime. And the youngster had been fortunate enough to be broken into his army life by Centurion Macro. Macro was as tough and reliable as Cato was intelligent and resourceful; the two complemented each other well.

  The legate was sure that they would do a fine job of training Verica’s men. Yet he longed to have them back with the Second Legion. When the two officers had fully recovered from their injuries, and the supply lines were safe, he would send for them straight away. A legion was only ever as good as the centurions who led it into battle. Vespasian wanted the Second to be good – as good as he could make it – and that meant making the most of men of Macro and Cato’s calibre.

  A trickle of sweat traced its way down his side under his linen tunic.

  ‘Shit, it’s hot!’ he muttered.

  One of the staff tribunes raised his head and looked towards the legate, but Vespasian dismissed him with a wave of a hand, as if swatting some annoying fly or gnat. ‘It’s nothing. . . Might have a swim later.’

  Both men gazed longingly across the slope of the hill towards the river, a quarter of a mile away. The white forms of naked men lay stretched out on the grassy banks, while others waded and swam in the glistening water. Here and there the surface of the river burst into glittering spray where the more exuberant men were indulging in horseplay.

  ‘I’d kill for a swim, sir,’ the tribune said quietly as he wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of one hand.

  ‘Some of them already have. Let them have their fun. But there’s work to be done.’ Vespasian nodded up at the remains of the hillfort. ‘Keep ‘em at it. I want nothing left by nightfall. Nothing that can be easily fortified.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was blazing down on the legionaries toiling on the hill. The few native buildings that had escaped the incendiary bolts of the Second Legion’s artillery battery had been set alight. Now the centurions were organising teams of men to tear up the palisade and hurl the timber down into the defence ditch. Soon the hillfort would be no more than a few black smouldering wooden frames and rings of ruined earthworks scarring the natural landscape. And after that, merely a fading memory in the minds of the legionaries who had des
troyed the settlement and those natives who had ever passed this way.

  Vespasian nodded his satisfaction at the progress in dismantling what fortifications remained, then turned away, striding back into the camp towards his headquarters. There were few men around, since most of those who were off duty were sheltering from the blazing sunshine in the shade of the leather tents that stretched out in neat rows on either side of the main thoroughfare. Even with both flaps open Vespasian knew that the interiors of the goatskin section tents would be stifling. That was why he had given permission for the cohorts that were stood down to swim in the river – they might as well be comfortable. Certainly they would be cleaner. To one who was raised in the Roman custom of frequent baths, the acrid stench of dirty sweating men was quite abhorrent. So the chance for the men to wash their clothes, and at the same time themselves, was to be seized with relish. Besides, the legion’s chief surgeon was constantly urging his legate to force the men to adopt more hygienic practices. The men should wash as often as possible. Aesclepus claimed that it reduced the sick list. But then he would, being a follower of the more fancy eastern medical practices. Not that Vespasian lacked faith in Eastern medicine, it was just that he, like most Romans, believed that the East was a corrupt stew of soft, self-indulgent effeminacy.

  The men of the headquarters guard stood rigidly at their posts in full armour. Vespasian wondered how they could stand the heat, and saw the glistening trickles of sweat running down their faces as he strode by them into his tent. Inside, the shade offered no respite from the hot, still air; indeed, it was actually far hotter inside the tent than outside. Vespasian beckoned to his steward.

  ‘1 want water. From the river. Make sure it’s drawn upstream from the camp. I want a light tunic, my silk one. Then have someone take my desk outside and have an awning rigged over it. As fast as you can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When the man was gone, Vespasian stood still as his body slave unfastened the buckles of his armour and then lifted the breastplate away. Beneath, the thick military tunic was drenched with perspiration and clung awkwardly to his body as Vespasian impatiently lifted the hem and pulled it over his head. Outside the tent he could hear the commotion as men struggled to set up his campaign desk and the awning. There was too much to do and he shook his head when the body slave asked if he required a wash.

  ‘Just get me the tunic.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  The silk felt good against his skin – soft and smooth, and scented with dabs of the citron oil his wife had sent him from Rome. After he had briskly rubbed his matted hair in a linen cloth Vespasian made his way out of the tent and sat down at the desk. A clerk sat at one end, ready to take notes, and a neat pile of scrolls and wax tablets was waiting for the legate at the other end, beside the plain Samian jug and goblet. Vespasian poured himself some water and downed it in one go, relishing the cool and refreshing sensation. He poured another goblet and, with a deep breath, began to tackle the day’s paperwork.

  First he dealt with the casualty lists and unit strength returns. The numbers on the sick list for the Third Cohort looked excessive and he made a note on a wax tablet to call the cohort’s commander in for a little chat. It was unlikely that Centurion Flortensius would sanction such a large number of men unfit for duty out of leniency. Vespasian well knew the man’s reputation for driving his men on savagely, and while the legate approved of firm discipline, he would not countenance unnecessary harshness and cruelty. He sighed. It would not be an easy meeting. Most legates only served for a few years and it might seem presumptuous for Vespasian to lecture the vastly more experienced centurion on matters of discipline. Yet he could not afford to let the centurion abuse the men under his command, if that was what was causing the inflated sick list. If not that, then what? Either way, Vespasian had to know, and then deal with the problem.

  Vespasian cast a quick glance over the latest set of supply and equipment inventories, approved them with a quick scratch of the stylus and thrust them towards his clerk.

  ‘File them. We’re low on javelin heads – add that to our next supply requisition.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Next, Vespasian read the latest dispatch from Calleva. Centurion Macro reported that he had raised enough good men to fill out the ranks of two cohorts. Training had begun and, despite the language difficul ties, the Roman instructors were making pleasing progress in training King Verica’s men. Vespasian had received a copy of a message sent to Calleva, authorising Centurion Macro to arm his native cohorts, and was still surprised that the general had agreed to this quite so readily. While Plautius might be desperate for reinforcements to safeguard the supply lines south of the Tamesis, it was not accepted practice to raise units to serve in the province of their origin. There had been occasions in the past when loyal tribal allies had treacherously turned on their Roman friends. Despite Verica’s obvious affection, and affectation, for all things Roman, he had not quite shaken off the taint of barbarian ways. Vespasian quickly drafted a reply to Macro, commending him for his efforts and requiring that the centurion report to him at once on any sign of disloyalty amongst the Atrebatans.

  ‘Copy for our files and then get that off to Calleva at first light.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Finally, the legate moved on to the intelligence reports. The small complement of mounted men that accompanied the legion served as scouts as well as messengers and last-ditch cavalry reserve. They had been patrolling the countryside around the hillfort, and the squadron commanders’ reports provided detailed information about the surrounding geography, which was carefully added to the maps being prepared by Vespasian’s clerks. The scouts also reported the presence of native settlements they encountered. The locals were then bribed or beaten into supplying information on any enemy troop movements they had observed.

  Vespasian leaned over the desk to read the latest reports most carefully. He returned to an earlier report that seemed to confirm his growing suspicions. There was little doubt about it. The enemy was massing forces to the north, just this side of the Tamesis. Worse still, some natives claimed to have seen Caratacus himself amongst the enemy columns arriving in the area. Yet the latest dispatch from the general informed Vespasian that the main body of the enemy forces lay before Plautius and his three legions.

  Vespasian stroked his chin and frowned. What was the wily Caratacus up to now?

  Chapter Ten

  The depot was filled with excited chatter as the Atrebatans examined their equipment. All morning Macro and Cato had sat with the quartermaster at his desk in the headquarters building, carefully noting the identification stamps on the equipment leaving stores to be issued to the natives. Silva had achieved his rank by virtue of an orderly mind, and by documenting everything; in another life he would have been an equally competent lawyer. Each of the Atrebatans was provided with sword, scabbard, belt, boots, tunic, helmet and shield from the vast stores of equipment in the depot. There was no spare armour, and the shields were the oval auxiliary issue, not the rectangular variant used by the legions. They would have been given javelins, but some bungling clerk at Rutupiae had not sent the fixing pins along with the iron heads and the wooden shafts.

  ‘Wait till I find the twat responsible for this!’ Macro growled. ‘I swear I’ll nail his balls to the floor the moment I find those pins.’

  Cato winced in empathy.

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’ Silva shrugged with all the confidence of one who knows he could prove it. ‘Must be a clerical error at army headquarters. The pins are probably in the depot somewhere, shipped under the wrong label. I’ll have some of my lot hunt them down.’

  Macro nodded his satisfaction. ‘Still, I suppose we can cut the javelin training out for the moment, concentrate on the basics. Are those standards ready?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘What did you use?’

  ‘Tincommius got hold of some wood carvings, from gable ends.’

  ‘Gable en
ds? Whose?’

  ‘He said Verica wouldn’t miss them.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got the head of a wolf and head of a boar. Well, pig actually. I fixed a couple of tent pegs in for tusks, and had the heads gilded. They look fine. I mounted them on a couple of spare vexillation standards and painted I and II Atrebatans on the leather drops.’

  Macro eyed him coldly. ‘You used vexillation standards?’

  ‘I was in a hurry.’

  ‘But they’ve been touched by the Emperor’s own hand.’ Macro was scandalised. ‘Shit! If word of this gets back. . .’

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  Macro struggled to control his temper. ‘Cato, I swear, if you weren’t still recovering from that bloody wound, I’d kick your fucking head in. . . Come on,’ he continued in a resigned tone, ‘let’s go and see them.’

  Cato locked the paperwork away in a chest and followed his superior outside on to the parade ground. The scene was chaotic, with the instructors hurrying round their charges to tighten straps, show which was the correct side to wear the sword and generally ignoring those who were trying to complain about their boots.

  Macro gave them a brief moment to complete the arming, and then drew in a deep breath.

  ‘FORM UP!’

  The tribesmen were well used to the routine by now; the coloured pegs were no longer needed. They hurried into position and took their station from each section leader, automatically dressing their lines to ensure correct spacing between each man. Each century was made up of ten sections, and commanded by a legionary chosen by Macro. Six centuries made up each cohort.

  ‘Who are those clowns?’ Macro pointed to small groups of warriors on either wing of the parade ground.