Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (22 page)

Cato flushed angrily. ‘I am, sir.’

Vespasian smiled grimly at the youngster’s determination to avenge his centurion. There was no doubting his courage, but leaders needed to be above personal motivation in the heat of battle. Could this boy be relied upon to put duty before revenge’? Or would he just hurl himself upon the enemy and fight like a fury until he was killed, heedless of his responsibility to the men under his command? Vespasian weighed up the situation and came to a quick decision. The first wave would have little time to co-ordinate a defence of the landing point and he might as well make best use of whatever battle frenzy came his way.

‘Very well, acting Centurion. And good luck. Any others ready to join him’?’

Cato’s instant response had shamed the veterans, and almost to a man they raised their arms.

‘Good,’ said the legate. ‘Your final orders will be with you after the legion has been fed. Now you’d best rouse your men and let them know what Rome wants for its money today.’

As the officers filed out of the tent, Vespasian caught Cato’s eye and raised a finger to beckon him over.

‘Sir?’

‘Are you sure about this?’

When Cato nodded, Vespasian leaned closer so that his words would not be overheard by the men leaving the tent. ‘It’s not necessary for you to lead the attack. You and your men must be exhausted, and you’re injured.’

‘I’ll live,’ Cato muttered. ‘We are tired, sir. And there aren’t many of us left in the century. But that’s no different to any other century, sir. The difference is we’ve got more reason to fight than most. I think I can speak for Macro’s men on this.’

‘They’re your men now, son.’

‘Yes sir.’ Cato stiffened and raised his chin.

‘Good man!’ Vespasian said approvingly. ‘And make sure you look after yourself, young Cato. There’s the promise of great things in you. Survive this and you can survive anything.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now go. I’ll see you later, on the other side of the river.’ Cato saluted and followed the other officers out of the tent.

As he watched the young man leave, Vespasian felt a pang of guilt. It was true the lad showed promise, and the cheap rhetoric he had offered had worked, as he knew it would. The optio - the acting centurion, Vespasian corrected himself - would feel fired by his superior’s confidence in him. But it would probably get him killed that much more quickly. It was too bad. The lad was likeable and had performed well enough in the short time he had served with the eagles. But that was the nature of command. Regardless of one’s feelings, the battle had to be won, the enemy defeated, and both had their price - measured in the blood of the men in his legion.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The sun beat down on the men packed into the wide-beamed transport. The wool tunics under the heavy armour made the men sweat and the damp material clung uncomfortably to their skin. The resulting odour, combined with the residue of the marsh, made the air aboard the transport foetid to the point of nausea. The heat, the fear and nervous exhaustion had worked to make one or two men throw up, adding the stink of their vomit to the other odours.

Over the side, the Tamesis drifted glassily by, disturbed only by the monotonous splash and gurgling churn from the long sweeps at the bow and stern of the transport as the crew strained to keep the vessel in line with the warship directly ahead. In perfect unison the great oars of the trireme rose from the surface of the river, shedding glistening cascades of water, then swept forward before plunging back into the river to lever the beaked prow on towards the far bank.

From the small foredeck of the transport Cato scanned the massed ranks of the enemy waiting to receive them. All morning the Britons had been gathering in response to the assault being prepared in their full view on the Roman side of the Tamesis. The assembling of the transports and the warship, and the dense mass of legionaries preparing to embark made the latest plans of General Plautius obvious for all to see. And so the handful of British cavalry scouts had hurried off to spread word of the impending river assault. The dispersed ranks of Caratacus’ army quickly re-formed and made their way down towards the river bank opposite the Roman ships.

The assault had already been delayed by the need to unload the supplies carried by the transports, and the legionaries had fumed as they manhandled the unwieldy cargo onto the crude jetty and hauled it out of the way. While they laboured, more and more Britons arrived to reinforce the far bank. For those in the first wave the prospect of facing ever greater odds caused them to fret and swear at their comrades engaged in unloading the transports, urging them to finish the job more quickly.

The first transport was still some way from the bank when the Britons gave voice to their war cry, a note that rose to a crescendo and then dipped, then rose again. To Cato’s unpractised eye the enemy seemed to number several thousand but any exact estimation was obvious was that the enemy greatlyoutnumbered the men in the first wave of the Second Legion and the rising volume of their challenge was unnerving. Turning his back to them, Cato forced himself to shake his head and smile.

‘Musical lot, aren’t they?’ he said to the nearest men of his century and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Be a different tune a little later.’

One or two men smiled back but most just looked resigned, or were struggling to conceal the fear that caused them to exhibit all manner of telltale nervous gestures. A few hours earlier these same men had seemed keen enough to avenge their centurion, but the aspirations produced by rage, Cato realised, tended to be greatly moderated by the imminent prospect of putting them into effect. As he stood above them, Cato could see that most of the men were looking at him, and the sudden sensation of being judged weighed heavily upon him. He knew that even now some of them still resented his appointment as their optio.

This was the moment when Macro would have offered them some last words of encouragement before they went into action. A number of quotable phrases rushed into his mind from all the histories he had read, but none seemed appropriate and, worse, none seemed to be the kind of thing that a seventeen year old could say without sounding hopelessly pretentious.

For a moment the legionaries and their acting centurion faced each other in a silence that grew steadily more awkward. Cato glanced over his shoulder and could clearly make out the features of individual Britons now. Whatever he said, he had to say it quickly. He cleared his voice.

‘I-I know the centurion would have something good to say to you right now. Truth is, I wish he was here to say it. But Macro’s gone, and I know I can’t fill his boots. We’ve got this chance to make them pay for taking him from us, and I aim to see that plenty of them get to keep him company in Hell.’

A number of men cheered the sentiment, and Cato felt some sort of connection was being established between himself and these hardened veterans.

‘That said, Charon doesn’t give a discount for job lots, so save your money and stay alive!’

A poor joke, but for men in danger of losing their lives even the slightest light relief is prized.

Something splashed into the water close by the transport and Cato turned towards the sound just as a scattered volley of slingshot rattled off the prow and chopped up the smooth surface of the river.

‘Helmets on!’ Cato shouted and quickly fastened his chin strap, ducking down below the bulwark on the foredeck. Ahead, the trireme turned upriver and let the way pay off before dropping anchor. The first transport slipped under its stern and made for the river bank a hundred paces beyond. The slingshot continued to strike the vessel, but the boat crew and the legionaries crouched low enough to render the volley harmless.

‘Easy on the oars!’ the transport’s captain bellowed and the men on the sweeps rested on their handles, waiting for the other transports to close up and form a line so that they would all reach the bank at the same time and not land their troops in a piecemeal fashion. Under fire from slingers and archers, the clumsy transports manoeuvred into position and waited for the trireme to commence bombarding the enemy massed on the river bank.

A sudden series of loud cracks split the air as the torsion arms of the bolt-throwers were released, and the heavy bolts shot towards the Britons on the bank. Swirls in their ranks marked the passage of the bolts, and the screams and shrieks of the wounded were added to the sound of their war cry. Moments later the auxiliary archers on the trireme began to add their volleys to the bombardment, and the scantily armoured among the Britons fell like leaves. As the support fire began to clear gaps on the bank, the captain of the lead transport gave the signal for the assault to begin and the crewmen bent themselves to their sweeps. The transports moved forward and the legionaries aboard raised their shields overhead against a hail of slings hot and arrows. The crew were afforded no protection, and as the lead transport neared the bank the port-side sweep dropped into the river as both of the crewmen went down; one hit by two arrows lay howling on the deck, while his comrade lay still, killed by a slingshot bursting through an eye into his brain. At once the drag on the port sweep began to pull the bows round. Seeing the danger, Cato dropped his shield and javelin and grabbed at the loose handle, dragging the oar blade from the river. Unused to the unwieldy sweep, he struggled to keep the prow of the transport in line with the bank, as slingshot rattled off the bow and arrows struck the deck with a splintering thwack.

He risked a look over the side and saw that the bank was close by; any moment the transport would ground and the assault would begin. A sudden dragging sensation indicated that the keel had made contact with the shallows of the river bed. The transport stopped moving forward and the captain ordered the crew to take cover. Cato dropped the handle and retrieved his shield and javelin, conscious that all eyes of the century were directed at him.

‘Remember, lads,’ he shouted, ‘this one’s for Macro… Ready javelins!’

The men rose to their feet and the first few moved up to the foredeck, ready to hurl their javelins.

‘Release at will!’

The rest of the century fed their javelins forward to those on the foredeck and a steady fire brought down more of the enemy until the supply was exhausted. Cato looked round and saw that the trireme had ceased fire.

Now was the moment.

For an instant his mind began to weigh up the terrible risks and absurdity of what he was about to do, and he knew that if he delayed any longer his courage would fail him. He tensed and sprang over the transport’s side, screaming for the others to follow him. The water was chest deep and his boots slipped into the soft silt of the river bottom. Around him the rest of the century splashed down and then they surged forward towards the bank.

‘Come on! Come on!’ Cato shouted above the din.

The Britons knew that this fight must be won before the Romans could secure a foothold on the bank, and plunged into the river to meet the attack. The two sides crashed headlong into each other, close to the transports. A huge man surged through the water making straight for Cato, spear raised high above his head, ready to strike. Cato threw his shield forward when the blow came, and knocked the spear to one side. The counterstroke was executed with a precision that would have made Centurion Bestia proud, and the dead centurion’s ivory-handled sword plunged deep into the Briton’s side. Cato ripped it free just in time to slash at the head of the next enemy. He fought his way to the shore foot by foot, teeth locked tight as an inhuman howl in his throat challenged all who stood in his way. The churned-up water flashed white and silver in the bright sunlight, and specks of crimson splashed up and sparkled like rubies before spattering down on the combatants.

The water about Cato’s legs turned a muddy red as more Romans struggled through the shallows and attempted to link with legionaries who had landed moments before. Already the transports were being pushed back into the river and were making for the second assault wave as fast as the sweeps could be worked. Cato and the others were on their own until the next wave could join the battle, and the only thing that mattered was to live until that moment. He was only ankle-deep in the water now, and had to take care not to slip in the mud. He blocked with his shield and thrust with his sword in a steady rhythm, gritting his teeth against the pain from his burns. The rest of the century fought close by, forming a shield wall automatically as years of relentless training bore fruit. The initial mad scramble was over and the fight began to take a form more familiar to the Romans.

‘Move left, with me!’ Cato called out as he spied the nearest men from one of the other transports. Slowly, his century edged forward, onto the flattened grass of the river bank and began to sidestep towards their comrades. All the while the Britons hacked at their shields with sword, axe and spear. With a sharp cry the man next to Cato went down as the bloody tip of a wickedly barbed spear burst through his calf. With a vicious wrench the Briton at the end of the spear pulled it back and the legionary fell onto his back, screaming. The century closed up and moved on, their comrade’s cries cut short as the Britons quickly butchered him. Little by little the small clusters of legionaries fell in with each other until they were able to form a solid line of four or five hundred men. And yet the Britons still swarmed around them in their thousands, desperately trying to push them back into the river.