Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (5 page)

‘We owe the old boy that at least.’ ‘Do we?’ Cato replied bleakly.

‘Of course we do. Old army tradition. That’s how we mourn our dead.’ ‘A tradition?’

‘Well, it is now.’ Macro smiled woozily. ‘Come on, let’s go.’ Holding tightly to his new sword in its scabbard, Cato relinquished control of the amphora and the pair of them steered an uncertain course back through the neat lines of tents to those of their own century.

At dawn the next morning, when Bestia’s pyre was ignited, the centurion and optio of the Sixth Century in the Fourth Cohort gazed on with bleary eyes. The entire Second Legion was formed up to witness the event, and faced the pyre on three sides while the legate, the camp prefect, tribunes and other senior officers stood at attention on the fourth side. Vespasian had chosen his position well, upwind from the pyre in the light airs wafting across the British landscape. Directly opposite, the first tendrils of thick oily smoke, laden with the odour of burning fat, wafted across the legionaries standing at attention. A chorus of coughing broke out around Macro and his optio, and a moment later Cato’s rather too delicate stomach clenched like a fist, and he doubled over and vomited the disturbed contents of his guts all over the grass at his feet.

Macro sighed. Even from beyond the shadows of death Bestia had the capacity to make his men suffer.

Chapter Five

‘The problem, gentlemen, is that hillock over there.’ The general pointed across the river with his baton, and the eyes of his senior officers followed the direction indicated. In addition to the commanders of the four legions, amongst the cluster of scarlet cloaks were Plautius’ staff officers. Vespasian was finding it hard not to be amused by the amount of dazzling gilt that was adorning the burnished breastplate of his brother Sabinus, who was enjoying the honorific rank of prefect of horse. Almost as garish was the amount of gold being worn by the British exile accompanying Plautius. Adminius had been forced to flee his kingdom by his brother, Caratacus, and had joined the Roman army to act as a guide and negotiator. If Rome triumphed, his title and lands would be restored to him, although he would rule as a client king of Rome, with all the obligations that entailed: a poor reward for betraying his people. Vespasian shifted his scornful gaze from the Briton back to the river.

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 shroud 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 clear cut 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 at 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 horse line when Vitellius came running up the slope, panting heavily.

‘Sir! Sir!’