Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (30 page)

Adminius reported that the tribes had now come up with a compromise.

If Camulodunum fell to the legions before the end of the campaigning season they would honour their earlier promise to make peace with Rome. But if Caratacus was still in control of his capital they would feel obliged to join the confederation of tribes sworn to destroy Plautius and his army. Thus reinforced, Caratacus’ army would vastly outnumber Plautius’. Defeat, if not retreat, would be inevitable, and the eagles would be hurled back from British shores.

Once more Vespasian cursed the enforced delay while the army waited for Claudius and his court to appear. Four weeks had already passed and Plautius said that it could be another month before they advanced on Camulodunum. It would be September at the earliest when the eagles arrived before the capital - assuming that Caratacus and his new army could be brushed aside easily. An because the Ernperor insisted on being there for the advance.

The vanity of Claudius might yet kill them all.

Down at the river, the remains of the Sixth Century waited patiently for the loading of the injured to be completed. The legion’s medical orderlies were carefully carrying the severely injured up the boarding ramps of the transports and laying the stretchers down under the awnings stretched across the decks. It was a depressing business to watch. These were the men who would be given medical discharges from the army and sent back to their homes with missing limbs or shattered bones that would never fully mend. These men were comrades, and some were good friends, but the men of Macro’s century kept their silence, uncomfortable with their knowledge of the dismal future awaiting the invalids, many were still in pain and cried out at any jarring movement.

Cato walked down the makeshift jetty looking for Nisus, hoping that it might be possible to renew their friendship in some way. The Carthaginian was easy enough to find. He was standing on top of a pile of grain sacks, bellowing out instructions and curses to his orderlies as they struggled to load the stretchers aboard the transports. As Cato approached, Nisus nodded curtly.

‘Good morning, Optio, What can I do for you?’ Cato had been about to clamber up and join him, but his cold tone warned him off. ‘Well, Optio’?’

‘Nisus, I… I just wanted to say hello.’

‘Well, you’ve said it. Now, is there anything else?’ Cato stared at him, frowning, and then shook his head.

‘Then if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do… You do that again and I’ll kick your bloody Roman arses into the river!’ he bellowed at a pair of orderlies whose struggles with an overweight casualty had caused the raw stump of his leg to knock against the side of the transport. The man was screaming with pain.

Cato waited a moment longer, hoping for some glimmer of change in the Carthaginian’s mood, but Nisus was making it quite clear that he had nothing more to say to him. Cato turned sadly away and returned to the century. He sat down some distance from Macro and just stared at the river. Eventually the last of the wounded were loaded and the transport’s captain beckoned to Macro.

‘Time to move, lads! Let’s be having you!’

The century filed across the boarding plank and dropped heavily onto the deck where they were guided forward. Macro gave the men permission to down packs and remove their armour. The sailors fended the transport away from the river bank, idly watched by some of the legionaries. Most of the century stretched out on the deck and dozed in the warm sun.

As Cato looked across the slowly widening gap between the transport and the shore, he saw Nisus leading his orderlies back up the slope towards the hospital tents. Casually striding down in the opposite direction came Tribune Vitellius. He caught sight of Nisus and with a broad smile raised his hand in greeting.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Although only two months had passed since the Second Legion had landed at Rutupiae, the hurriedly constructed fort guarding the landing beach had been transformed into a vast supply depot. Scores of ships were anchored in the Channel waiting for their turn at the jetty to unload their cargoes. Over a dozen vessels were tied up alongside, and hundreds of auxiliary troops were carrying sacks and amphorae from the deep holds of the broad-beamed cargo ships to stack them on carts for bulk transport into the depot.

Up the short rise from the shore stood a heavily fortified gate, and beyond that the earth ramp and palisade stretched across the landscape. Granary sheds built on low brick piles stretched out in long ranks to one side of the depot. Next to them stood neatly demarcated stacks of stopper amphorae filled with oils, wine and beer. There were other areas set aside for military stores of javelins, swords, boots, tunics and shields.

A small stockade held a dense mass of British prisoners who had been squatting in the glare of the sun for days. In due course they would be herded into the hold of a ship returning to Gaul, and after a long journey they would end up at the great slave market in Rome.

A short distance beyond the walls of the great depot stood the field abattoir, where skilled butchers slaughtered pigs and oxen. To one side of the facility stood a vast mound of intestines, organs and other unusable parts of the butchered animals. The mound glistened in the bright sunlight, and a swarm of seagulls and other carrion gorged themselves amid a frenzy of flapping wings and shrill cries. The sound carried clearly across the Channel, borne on a light breeze that unfortunately carried the stench of the mound with it.

The foul odour strengthened as the transport approached the jetty, and more than one of Macro’ s men felt their stomachs turn. But a hundred feet or so from the jetty the ship was no longer directly downwind of the offal mound and the air became more breathable. Cato gripped the wooden rail and gulped down some deep breaths to flush his lungs. With a well practised hand the steersman twisted the broad steering paddle suspended over the quarter, and the transport glided round to present its beam to the jetty.

‘Ship oars!’ the captain roared through cupped hands and the crewmen quickly pulled the sweeps in hand over hand and stowed them on the deck. Fore and aft stood men with coils of mooring ropes, and as the transport slowly approached the jetty, they cast the lines to men waiting by the mooring posts. They heaved and drew the transport up against the timber piles with a gentle bump before tying the mooring lines off.

Immediately a hinged gangway was placed over the side and a junior tribune ran across from the slope beyond the jetty where scores of men were lying on litters and stretchers. Some Spanish auxiliaries squatted nearby. The tribune looked around the deck, caught sight of Macro and hurried over.

‘Centurion! What cargo do you have?’

‘My century and some medical discharges, sir.’ Macro saluted and took out a folded wax board from the forage bag hanging on his belt. ‘There’s my orders, sir. We’re to pick up replacements for the Second Legion and march them up to the Tamesis.’

The tribune glanced over the tablet and nodded at the imprint of the Second Legion’s seal in the wax.

‘Very well, get your men landed and go up to headquarters. They’ll sort you out with some tents and rations for the night. Right, off you go.’ He waved impatiently and stood at the side of the gangway, drumming his fingers on the rail, until the last of Macro’s century had tramped ashore. Cato watched as the tribune shouted out an order, and the auxiliaries began carrying the long line of stretchers aboard the transport. Many had bandaged stumps where arms and legs should have been, while one man, his head wrapped in stained cloth, ranted at the top of his voice, meaningless words hurled at all those around him. Cato stared at the man and shuddered.

‘There’ll be more like him before this campaign’s over,’ said Macro quietly.

‘I think I’d rather die.’

Macro watched as the man suddenly thrashed about violently, threatening to topple himself and his stretcher bearers off the gangway and into the water between the transport and the jetty. ‘Me too, lad.’

Picking up his yoke, Macro shouted out the order to march, and the men marched up the hill and through the main gate of the depot. At the headquarters a smarmy civilian clerk grudgingly accepted the requests for replacement equipment Macro had been given by the Second’s quartermaster

The clerk did a quick head count of the century and assigned them some tents in the furthest corner.

‘And rations?’

You can draw some hard tack from the Eighth’s stores.’

Hard tack! I don’t want hard tack! My men and I want some fresh meat and bread. You see to it’

The clerk laid down his pen, leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘Fresh meat and bread aren’t available. They’re for the men at the front. Now then, Centurion, if you don’t mind I’ve got some real work to be getting on with.’

‘That fucking does it!’ Macro exploded, dropping his yoke and reaching across to grab the clerk’s tunic, with one powerful tug he jerked the clerk across his table, scattering his paperwork and knocking his over.

‘Now listen, you little shit,’ Macro hissed through clenched teeth. ‘See these men? They’re all that’s left of my century. The rest died at the front. You got that? And where the fuck were you when they were killed?’ He breathed heavily, then slowly untwisted his fists from the clerk’s tunic. ‘Now, I’ll only say this once, I want fresh meat and bread for my men. I want it taken to our tents. If it’s not there by the time the evening watch is called, I’ll come back here and gut you personally. Got that?’

The clerk nodded his head, eyes wide with terror. ‘Can’t hear you, Speak up, and make it loud.’ ‘Yes, Centurion.’

‘Yes what?’

‘Yes, I’ll see to your men’s food and would you like some wine?’ Behind Macro, the men shouted their approval. Macro allowed himself a thin-lipped smile and nodded. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. I think we might just get along after all.’

He turned back to his men and they gave a ragged cheer before he led them off to the tents. Cato smiled triumphantly at the clerk then turned and joined his centurion.

While he took some pleasure in the cheers of his men, Macro knew he should watch his temper. Assaulting a mere clerk in no way enhanced his authority. Weariness and the remains of his hangover were responsible, and he made a mental note to be careful how much wine he drank that evening. Then he recalled that the wine was free; it would be both churlish and foolish to pass by such an opportunity. He’d compensate by drinking less wine another night, he decided.

It was not long before Macro was chewing contentedly on a tender piece of beef, grilled rare over the glowing embers of a fire. Opposite him sat Cato. He carefully dabbed away meat juices from around his lips and tucked the rag back into his belt.

‘These replacements we’re going to get tomorrow, sir.’

‘What about ‘em?’

‘How do we go about it?’

‘Old army custom.’ Macro swallowed before he continued. ‘We get first pick. The very best we keep for our century. Once we’re up to strength, the next best go to the other centuries of the cohort, then the other cohorts, and what’s left we give to the other legions.’

‘That’s not very fair, sir.’

‘No it isn’t,’ agreed Macro. ‘Not fair at all, but right now that’s bloody wonderful. About time our century got a break, and this is it. So let’s just cheer up and make the most of it, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The thought of making good the losses of his sadly depleted century was most gratifying, and Macro downed the dregs of wine in his battered cup, poured himself another and downed that. Then he paused to let out a gut-wrenching belch that turned heads from the men nearby, and lay back on the ground, arms crossed under his head. He smiled, yawned and closed his eyes.

Moments later, familiar deep snores rumbled from the shadows beyond the glow of the cooking fire, and Cato cursed his fate at not being able to get to sleep first. The rest of the century had also eaten their fill, and drunk more wine than was good for them since there would be no sentry duties for them tonight at least. Nearly all were asleep, and for a while Cato sat hugging his knees, close to the fire. In its wavering heart the orange glow curled and flowed in a hypnotic fashion and he found his wine-befuddled mind drifting off to Elysian reveries. A vision of Lavinia effortlessly interposed itself before the flames, and he allowed himself to contemplate the loveliness of the image before he laid his head down on his folded cape and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Five

‘Name?’ Macro barked at the legionary standing in front of the desk. ‘Gaius Valerius Maximus, sir.’

‘Tribe?’

‘Vitellius.’

‘How long have you served with the eagles?’

‘Eight years, sir. Seven with the Twenty-Third, before it was disbanded and I was sent to the Eighth.’

‘I see.’ Macro nodded gravely. The Twenty-Third had been heavily implicated in the Scribonianus mutiny and had paid the ultimate price for their tardy loyalty to the new Emperor. Be that as it may, the man standing before him was a veteran and looked tough enough. More tellingly, his kit was in perfect condition; belts and buckles gleamed in the sunlight, and he had invested in a set of the new segmented armour that was becoming popular in the army.

‘Let’s see your sword, Maximus,’ Macro growled.

The legionary reached to his side and smartly withdrew the sword from its sheath, turned it round and held the handle towards the centurion. Macro respectfully closed his fist round the handle and lifted the blade up for close inspection. The standard of care with which it had been maintained was immediately evident, and a light touch to the edge revealed a pleasing sharpness.