Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (23 page)

'Don't exaggerate.' Plautius placed his cup on a side table and leaned closer to his legate. 'Very well then, Vespasian. I will not order you to do this. I will ask you to do it. Have you not a family of your own? Do you not understand the demons that drive me to this? Please agree to do as I ask.'

'No.' Vespasian shook his head. 'I cannot permit it. What afflicts you, Plautius, is a private tragedy. Do not make it a public tragedy. The empire can only afford so many Varian disasters. You are a general on active service. In the field your family is the army all around you. The men are as sons to you. They trust you to lead them wisely, and not expose them to needless risk.'

'Please spare me the cheap rhetoric, Vespasian. I'm not some fickle pleb in the forum.'

'No, you're not… Let me try another argument. Consider your feelings for your wife and children. As you say, I have a family too, and even imagining what it would be like for them to be in the hands of the Druids is torment enough. But you have it as a reality, and against that my tortured imagination is only a pale imitation. Now, magnify that a thousandfold and more. That is the measure of the suffering you will inflict on the families and friends of the men you would send to their deaths if you order the Second Legion to march tomorrow, without adequate supplies or artillery support.'

Plautius shut his eyes and rubbed his creased brow, as if that might somehow ease his inner suffering. Vespasian watched him closely, searching for any sign that his arguments had hit home. If the general did not change his mind, Vespasian knew he would have to refuse to lead the Second out tomorrow. That would utterly damn his career. But he would have no part in the general's reckless and futile plan. He would challenge Plautius to find another man to appoint as legate. As soon as Vespasian considered this he realised that his replacement would be chosen for his willingness to do the general's bidding, not for his leadership qualities. Such an appointment would only make the inevitable disaster far worse. Vespasian realised he was trapped. To quit his command would be to increase the already terrible risk to his men. To stay in command would at least present him with a chance to limit the damage. Silently he cursed his fortune.

The general opened his eyes and looked up. 'Very well then, Vespasian. How soon can the Second Legion be ready to attack the Durotriges?'

'With supply wagons and artillery?'

Plautius nodded reluctantly, and Vespasian's despair receded. He had won the crucial concession. Foolish though the rest of the plan might be, at least the Second Legion would have a fighting chance. Looking at Plautius, he judged that the general had given as much ground as he was prepared to give.

'I need twenty days.'

'Twenty! That's cutting it too fine.'

'I grant you it gives us twenty days less to find them, but weigh that against the loss of a legion. Besides…' Vespasian's mind raced ahead for a moment.

'Besides what?'

The legate rushed to fit the pieces together in his mind before he continued. 'Well, sir, it might take the legion twenty days to be ready to move, but why wait to start looking for your family until then?'

'I'm not in the mood for cryptic clues. Speak your mind, Legate, and make it good.'

'Why not send a few men out to scout the villages and hill forts while the legion prepares to advance? That man you brought with you — the Druid initiate. You said he knows the Durotriges. He can lead them, and try to discover where your family is being held. Who knows? They might even manage a rescue on their own. It's got to be better than having the Second Legion bludgeoning its way through the countryside; the Druids would have plenty of advance warning and just keep moving your family.' Vespasian paused. 'We'd probably never get them back if we relied on such a blunt strategy. If they're being held in a hill fort and we laid siege to it, the Druids would more than likely kill them before they allowed us a chance to succeed.'

General Plautius considered the proposal for a moment. 'I don't like it. I can't risk any botched rescue attempt by a handful of men in the middle of enemy territory. That's more likely to lead to my family being killed than anything else.'

'No, sir,' Vespasian countered firmly. 'I'd say it's the best chance we have. If your Briton really knows the lie of the land and its people, we stand a good chance of finding the hostages before the enemy is alerted to the Second's advance.'

Plautius frowned. 'Your best chance has just been downgraded to a good chance.'

'Better than little or no chance, sir.'

'Did you have anyone in mind for this mission?'

'No, sir,' Vespasian admitted. 'Haven't thought that far ahead. But we'd need some men with plenty of initiative. They'd have to be resourceful, good in a fight — if it came down to it…'

Plautius looked up. 'What about that centurion you sent to retrieve Caesar's pay chest, just after we landed? Him and that optio of his. Did a pretty good job, as I recall.'

'Yes, they did,' mused Vespasian. 'A very good job indeed…'

Chapter Nineteen

'Come on, you dozy beauties!' roared Centurion Hortensius as he stuck his head into Macro's tent. Macro was fast asleep on his camp bed, snoring with a deep bass rumble. To one side Cato slumped over a desk where he had been compiling the Sixth Century's strength return when the irresistible need for rest had finally overwhelmed him. Outside, in the century's line of tents, the men were also fast asleep, and so it was with the rest of the Fourth Cohort. Except Senior Centurion Hortensius. After seeing to the injured and giving orders that a hot meal be prepared for the cohort, he had gone to make his report.

To find himself in the presence of not only the legate but also the commander of all the Roman forces in Britain was something of a surprise. Tired as Hortensius was, he stood to attention and stared rigidly ahead as he outlined the short history of the Fourth Cohort's patrol. Giving the bare details, without embellishment, Hortensius delivered his report with the formal tonelessness of a long-serving professional. He answered their questions in the same style. As the debriefing proceeded, Hortensius became aware that the general seemed to want far more from his answers than he could possibly provide. The man seemed to be obsessive about even the smallest details concerning the Druids, and was horrified when told of Diomedes's slaughter of the Druid prisoners.

'He killed all of them?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What did you do with the bodies?' asked Vespasian.

'Dumped them in the well, sir, then filled it in. Didn't want to give their mates any further excuse to give us a hard time.'

'No, I suppose not,' Vespasian replied, with a quick glance at the general. The questions continued for a little while before the general relented and curtly waved him towards the door. Vespasian was angered by the general's casual dismissal of the veteran centurion.

'One final thing, Centurion,' Vespasian called out.

Hortensius halted and turned round. 'Sir?'

'You did an excellent job. I doubt many men could have led the cohort as you did.'

The centurion inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the praise. But Vespasian was unwilling to let the matter rest there. He placed heavy emphasis on his next words. 'I imagine there will be some kind of commendation or award for your performance…'

General Plautius looked up. 'Er, yes… yes, of course. Some kind of award.'

'Kind of you, sir.' Hortensius addressed his reply to his legate.

'Not at all. It's well-deserved,' Vespasian said crisply. 'Now, one last thing. Would you be kind enough to send Centurion Macro and his optio to see us? At once, if you please.'

Cato had dipped his head into an icy butt of water in an attempt to be more wakeful in front of his legate, and he looked a sorry state as he and Macro entered the headquarters tent. His dark hair was plastered across his forehead and beads of water trickled down either side of his nose and dropped in dark spatters on his tunic. Macro looked sidelong at him and frowned, largely oblivious of his own appearance. Since returning to the camp they had removed only their belts and armour, and still wore the soiled, bloodstained and torn tunics of the last three days of marching and fighting. Nor were their shallow cuts and scratches dressed in any way; dried blood still crusted their arms and legs. The legate's chief clerk curled his lip at the sight of them as they approached his desk outside the general's day tent; these two were hardly likely to do the legion's reputation much good in the eyes of the general. The clerk added a wrinkled nose to his expression of distaste as the two men came to a halt in front of him.

'Centurion Macro? Couldn't you have presented yourself in a more respectable condition, sir?'

'We were told to be here as soon as possible.'

'Yes, but even so…' The chief clerk looked disapprovingly at Cato, dripping perilously close to his paperwork. 'You might have let the optio dry out first.'

'We're here,' said Macro, too tired to be angry with the clerk. 'Better tell the legate.'

The clerk rose from his stool. 'Wait.' He slipped through the tent flap and pulled it to behind him.

'Any idea what this is about, sir?' Cato rubbed his eyes — the refreshing shock of the cold water had already worn off.

Macro shook his head. 'Sorry, lad.' He tried to think of any misdemeanour he or his men might have unwittingly committed. One of the recruits had probably been caught taking a dump in the tribunes' latrine again, he mused. 'I doubt we're in any kind of serious trouble, so take it easy.'

'Yes, sir.'

The clerk reappeared. He stood to one side of the tent flap and held it open for them.

'Anyway, we'll find out soon enough,' mumbled Macro as he led the way. Inside, he raised his eyebrows at the sight of the general, just as Hortensius had done before him. Then he marched up to the senior officers and stood to attention. Cato, younger and lacking the toughness of the veteran centurion, shambled to his side and stiffened into the appropriate posture as best he could. Macro saluted his legate.

'Centurion Macro and Optio Cato reporting as ordered, sir.'

'At ease,' ordered Plautius. The general cast a disapproving eye over them before he turned to Vespasian. 'These are the men we were talking about?'

'Yes, sir. They're just back from that patrol. You haven't caught them at their best.'

'So it seems. But are they as reliable as you say?'

Vespasian nodded, uncomfortable at discussing the two men as if they were not present. He had noticed that those of aristocratic descent, like Aulus Plautius, were inclined to regard the lower orders as part of the scenery without a moment's consideration of how crushing it was to be treated that way. Vespasian's grandfather had been a centurion, like this man standing before them, and it was only due to the social reforms of Emperor Augustus that men from more humble lineages could now rise to the highest offices in Rome. In due course Vespasian, and his elder brother Sabinus, might become consuls, the highest post a senator could achieve. But those senators from the oldest families would still look down their fine noses at the Flavians and mutter snide remarks to each other about the arrivistes' lack of refinement.

'You're sure of them?' Plautius persisted.

'Yes, sir. Definitely. If anyone can do the job, it's these two.'

Despite his exhaustion, Cato's curiosity was aroused and it sharpened his concentration. He barely managed to restrain a glance towards his centurion. Whatever this 'job' was, it came right from the top and had to be a chance to distinguish himself and prove to the other men of the legion, and more importantly to himself, that he was worthy of the optio's white strap he wore on his shoulder.

'Very well,' said the general. 'You'd better brief them.'

'Yes, sir.' Vespasian quickly collected his thoughts. As things stood, the Second was to redirect its thrust into the heart of the Durotriges' territory rather than support the main campaign north of the Tamesis. Vespasian's troubled mind was plagued by the perils this posed for himself and his men, two of whom he must now send to an almost certain death. A death, moreover, at the hands of the Druids, who would be sure to extract every last measure of torment in the process.

'Centurion, you will recall the death of the fleet prefect, Valerius Maxentius, some days back.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You may remember the demands he was forced to make before he was murdered.'

'Yes, sir,' Macro repeated, and Cato nodded, vividly recalling the scene.

'The hostages he mentioned, the ones who were offered in exchange for the Druids we took at Camulodunum, they're the wife and children of General Plautius.'

Both Cato and Macro were astonished and could not help shifting their gaze to the general. He sat staring into his lap, quite motionless. Cato saw the weary stoop of the man's shoulders and his troubled expression. For a moment Cato felt pity for the general, until the shamefulness of that emotion embarrassed him. When Aulus Plautius looked up and caught his eye, it was as if he sensed that he had revealed more of himself than he should have. The general straightened his shoulders and concentrated on the legate's briefing with a stern and alert expression.

'General Plautius has authorised me to send a small party out into the territory of the Durotriges to search for and, if the opportunity presents itself, to rescue his family, Lady Pomponia and the two children, Julia and Aelius. He recalls the discreet manner with which you two retrieved that pay chest of Caesar's last year and I agree with his choice for the job.' Vespasian allowed a moment for his words to sink in. 'Centurion, I know your worth, and the optio here has no more need to prove himself to me. I won't deceive you; this task is more dangerous than anything you've ever been asked to do before. I will not order you to go, but I can think of no two men in the legion more likely to succeed in this mission. The decision is yours. But, if you do succeed, the general and I will be sure to reward you generously. Isn't that right, sir?'