Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (35 page)

Cato peered into the night, straining his eyes towards the direction of the voice. Then, it came again, closer and clearer - and now he was certain.

‘It’s Tincommius.’

‘Tincommius?’ Macro shook his head. ‘Bollocks! It’s a trick.’

‘It’s Tincommius, I tell you . . . Look there!’

In the red wavering light from the dying flames of the last faggot to be hurled over the wall, a figure emerged from the darkness. He paused a moment, indistinct and shimmering beyond the heated night air.

‘Cato! Macro!’ he called again.

‘Step into the light where we can see you,’ Macro bellowed. ‘Slowly now! Any tricks and you’ll be dead before you can even turn round!’

‘All right! No tricks!’ the man called back. ‘I’m coming closer.’

He picked his way round the faggot and slowly approached the gate, one arm raised to show that he carried no weapon. In the other hand he carried an auxiliary shield, one of those issued to the Wolves and the Boars. He stopped thirty paces from the gate.

‘Macro . . . It’s me, Tincommius.’

‘Fuck me!’ whispered Macro. ‘So it is!’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

General Plautius was growing tired of the game being played by Caratacus. For some weeks now the legions had steadily advanced along the north bank of the Tamesis, trying to close with the Britons. But as soon as the Roman army moved forward, Caratacus simply withdrew, abandoning one defensive position after another and leaving the Romans nothing but the warm ashes of his campfires. And all the time the gap between Plautius’ army and the smaller force commanded by Vespasian grew dangerously wider, almost inviting a sudden thrust by the enemy should he ever guess at the truth. Plautius had tried to force Caratacus to give battle by ordering his troops to burn every farm and settlement they came across. Every farm animal was to be likewise destroyed. Only a handful of the people would be spared so that their lamentations would ring in the ears of their chiefs, who in turn must beg Caratacus to put an end to Roman despoiling of their lands by turning round and falling upon the legions.

Finally it seemed to have worked.

Plautius stared across the shallow valley towards the fortifications Caratacus had prepared on the far ridge: a shallow ditch and, beyond, a small earth rampart with a crude wooden palisade. It would not present much of a challenge to the first wave of assault troops forming up on the slope in front of the Roman camp. Behind them were arranged several small batteries of bolt-throwers, preparing to lay down a terrible barrage of heavy iron shafts that would smash the flimsy palisade and kill any man standing directly behind it.

‘Should be over long before the day’s finished!’ grinned the weathered prefect of the Fourteenth Legion, the unit Plautius had chosen to lead the assault.

‘I hope so, Praxus. Go in hard. I want them finished once and for all.’

‘Don’t worry about my lads, sir. They know the score. But there won’t be many prisoners . . .’

There was no mistaking the disapproving tone and Plautius had to bite back on his irritation. There was far more at stake here than enhancing the retirement fund of a legionary prefect.

That bloody man Narcissus had announced to all and sundry in Rome that Britain was as good as conquered when the Emperor had returned from his sixteen-day visit at the end of the last campaigning season. A triumph had been held to celebrate the conquest of the island and Claudius had made an offering of spoils from his victories in the temple of peace.

Yet here the army was, nearly a year later, facing the same enemy. An enemy who was quite oblivious to the fact that they had already been defeated, according to the official history. And now the imperial general staff in Rome were getting a little uncomfortable about the discrepancy between the official account and conditions on the ground. Elsewhere in Rome, the families of young officers serving in Plautius’s legions were increasingly perplexed by letters they received that recounted the endless raids of the enemy, the daily attrition of the army’s strength and the failure to bring Caratacus to battle. Veterans and invalids returning from the distant front only confirmed the details in the letters, and the talk on the streets of Rome was starting to turn quite ugly. The dispatches General Plautius was receiving from Rome were getting increasingly impatient. Finally, Narcissus had written a terse and brutally frank note. Either Plautius finish the job by the end of the summer, or his career was over, and more besides.

The Fourteenth had finished assembling and the ten cohorts of heavy infantry stood in two lines, ready for the command to advance. Across the valley there was little sign of activity from Caratacus, no skirmishers or scouts out in front of the main body of his army, only the massed ranks of his warriors lining the palisade, waiting for the Roman attack. Here and there a standard waved slowly to and fro, and the shrill bray of war horns echoed across the valley to General Plautius, who smiled with satisfaction.

Very well, he decided, if Caratacus wants us to come and get him, then come and get him we shall. Plautius was further gratified by the knowledge that even now, two cohorts of auxiliary cavalry and the Twentieth Legion were completing their sweeping march round the flank of the enemy to seal off his line of retreat. A trusted local chief had offered to guide them through the wetlands that Caratacus had assumed was guarding his left flank. The guide had not volunteered to do this out of any loyalty to Rome, but for the promise of great reward, and the sparing of his family who were being held hostage in Plautius’ camp. That, the general thought confidently, was enough to guarantee the man’s good faith.

‘Permission to start the bombardment, sir?’ asked Praxus.

Plautius nodded, and the signalman raised a red banner. He paused, until the artillery signallers had raised their banners to show that they were ready to carry out the order. Then he dropped the banner. At once the air was filled with the sharp cracks of the torsion arms flying forward as they launched their heavy iron shafts over the heads of the Fourteenth Legion and into the Britons’ defences. Holes suddenly appeared in the palisade as the barrage tore through, taking out files of soldiers behind.

‘Damn! They’re good!’ Praxus shook his head. ‘Just sitting there and soaking it up. Never seen discipline like it.’

‘Maybe,’ Plautius said grudgingly. ‘But they’ll still be no match for our lads. You’d better get in position. Your legate is going to need the benefit of your experience today.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Praxus gave him a wry smile. Not all legates were up to the job and those that weren’t had to be carried by their senior professional officers until their tour of duty was complete. To be fair, Plautius reflected, the imperial general staff soon realised if a man did not measure up to the job and quickly reappointed him to a less vital government post back in Rome.

Praxus saluted and strode down the slope to join the colour party of the Fourteenth, casually tying the straps of his helmet as he went along. Plautius watched him go, then turned to see the standards of the Ninth Legion emerging from the camp as the second assault wave moved forward to its starting positions. The general bowed his head as the Emperor’s image was carried by. A rather too flattering portrait of Claudius, he decided, and one whose noble features bore comparatively little resemblance to the twitching fool who had been catapulted on to the throne only three years before. The ranks of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion filed by, and the general briefly acknowledged their salute before focusing his attention back on the enemy defences.

As soon as the palisade was badly torn up Plautius gave the order for the batteries to stop the barrage. After the last bolt-thrower discharged its missile, there was a brief pause and then the headquarters trumpets sounded the advance. The two lines of the Fourteenth Legion rippled forward, the sun glinting off the bronze and tin helmets of nearly five thousand men as they marched down the slope, crossed the narrow floor of the valley and started to ascend the far slope.

‘Any moment now . . .’ Plautius muttered to himself. But there was no response from the defenders. No volley of arrows, no rattle of slingshot. The enemy’s discipline must have drastically improved, the general mused. In the earlier battles he had fought, the Britons had let loose their first volley the moment they thought the Romans were within range, thereby wasting a great quantity of their ranged munitions, as well as the devastating impact of a closely co-ordinated volley launched at short range.

The front ranks of the first wave of legionaries dipped down as they reached the defence ditch. On the far side, on the rampart, the Britons waited impassively for the Romans to reach them, and Plautius found himself tensing as he waited for the two sides to close in a deadly mêlée. Out of the ditch came the front rank of legionaries, struggling up the earth rampart and then hurling themselves on the enemy through the gaps in the shattered palisade. Such was the savagery of the final charge that the first five cohorts swept through the defences and into the enemy camp without stopping.

Then there was silence. No war cries. No enemy war horns. No din of battle. Nothing.

‘My horse!’ Plautius called out, the first dreadful doubt forming in his mind. What if Caratacus knew about the trap the Romans had prepared for him and refused to be taken captive? What if he persuaded his men that Rome would show them no mercy? After all, no mercy had been shown to those whose lands they had laid waste throughout the summer. Plautius felt sick. Had he gone too far? Had he convinced Caratacus that the only way left to defy Rome was suicide?

‘Where’s my bloody horse?’

A slave came running over, leading a beautifully groomed black stallion. The general snatched the reins and placed his boot on to the interlaced fingers of the slave. With a quick heave he swung his leg over and dropped on to his saddle. Plautius wheeled the horse towards the enemy fortifications and galloped down the slope. Some of the rear ranks of the men in the Ninth saw him coming and shouted a warning to their comrades. A path quickly opened up through the dense mass of legionaries and the general swept by, his sense of dread deepening with every beat of his heart. He urged his horse on, steering a path through the rear cohorts of the Fourteenth as he rode up the far slope. Plautius reined in at the ditch and swung himself down to the torn-up earth. He ran down the ditch and scrambled up the far side, then up on to the rampart.

‘Out of my way!’ he shouted at a group of his men standing quietly in a breach in the palisade. ‘Move!’

They hurriedly stepped aside and revealed the Britons’ camp beyond. Scores of dead campfires smouldered in the space behind the ram-part. But there was no sign of the enemy. Plautius looked along the ruined palisade and saw hundreds of crude straw figures knocked flat by the artillery barrage, or trampled down by the first assault wave.

‘Where are they?’ he asked out loud. But none of his men would meet his eye. They no more knew the answer than did their general.

There was a sudden commotion and Praxus emerged on to the ramparts dragging a Briton with him. The man, obviously roaring drunk, slumped down at the general’s feet.

‘This is the only one I could find, sir. When we got into the camp I saw a small band of them riding off towards the river, that direction.’ Praxus nodded towards a serpent standard propped up against the palisade. ‘They must have been the ones blowing the horns and waving the standards.’

‘Yes,’ Plautius replied quietly, ‘that makes sense . . . That makes sense. Question is, where are they now? Where’s Caratacus and his army?’

For a moment there was silence, as Plautius looked south towards the river. Then the drunken Briton started singing, and the spell was broken.

‘Shall I send the scouts out, sir?’ asked Praxus.

‘Yes. Get back to headquarters and give the orders at once. I want every direction covered. I want them found as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir. What about this one? Want him interrogated?’

General Plautius looked down at the man, and the Briton met his gaze with a glazed expression, and then wagged a mocking finger at the Roman. In that gesture Plautius felt struck by a wave of ridicule, and sensed in himself the first inkling of a deep self-loathing and rage. Caratacus had tricked him; made him look a fool in front of his own legions, and as soon as word got back to Rome they would laugh at him there as well.

‘Him?’ he replied coldly. ‘We’ll get nothing useful out of this scum. Impale him.’

As Praxus detailed some men to carry the prisoner away General Plautius gazed south again, this time across the river, to the grey haze of the horizon beyond. Somewhere over there, in the distance, was Vespasian and the Second Legion. If Caratacus had turned south then Vespasian would be completely unaware of the enemy army bearing down on him.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

‘Open the gate!’ Cato shouted.

‘No!’ Macro grabbed his arm, and leaned over the parapet to call down to the men below. ‘Keep the gate closed!’

Cato shook off his friend’s arm. ‘What the hell are you doing, sir? You trying to get Tincommius killed?’

‘No! Something’s wrong. Cato, think about it! How’d he get through their lines?’

‘I did.’

‘And only just made it to the gate. Look at him! Full armour. Just walking up to us. They let him through.’