Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (29 page)

Vespasian bowed his head a fraction. Plautius was being unfair. It had been a dark and rainy night and the sentries of his camp might well have missed movement from the rampart of the Third Cohort’s camp. That would sound like an excuse and Vespasian could well imagine the quiet sneers and sidelong glances that would greet such an explanation. He kept his mouth shut and met his general’s gaze steadily.

‘If my men are to be held to account, then since I am their commander, any fault is mine as much as theirs . . . sir.’

The general nodded. ‘That’s right, Legate. The question is, what am I to do about it? What would be a suitable punishment for you and your legion?’

Vespasian flushed with anger. He could see the direction Plautius was taking this and needed to act swiftly if he was to limit the damage to his legion. If the general wanted more blood then the morale of the Second would receive yet another blow. The disgrace of decimation already weighed heavily on their minds, but the fact that the punishment had been levied on the Third Cohort alone had allowed the rest of the legion to escape any significant damage to their hard-won reputation. A reputation that had been bought with the blood of their comrades, and a reputation that had been built on some spectacular feats of arms.

As their commander, it was natural that Vespasian should bask in the reflected glow of his men’s achievements. Yet his first thought was for his men - for how shamed they would feel to be the target of the general’s wrath yet again. All thanks to the failures of Maximius and the Third Cohort. If Vespasian was to preserve what remained of his men’s battle spirit then he would need to make a sacrifice.

‘My legion does not deserve to be held accountable for the deeds of a disgraced cohort, sir. The Second has put in an outstanding performance on this campaign. They have fought like lions. You said it yourself, sir, only a few months back. Like lions. If any unit is to be punished, then let it be the cohort who permitted the prisoners to escape. Let the Third be held to blame, sir.’

General Plautius did not reply immediately, as he weighed up the legate’s offer. At length the general nodded. ‘Very well then, those who permitted their comrades to escape punishment will have to provide a replacement for each condemned man.’

Vespasian felt his heart begin to race as he listened. Surely he did not mean another round of decimation? What would the enemy make of that, Vespasian wondered. Leave the Romans alone long enough and they would surely decimate themselves into oblivion and save everyone else the job.

‘Sir,’ Vespasian spoke as calmly as he could manage,’we dare not decimate the Third Cohort again. They’d be finished as a fighting unit.’

‘Maybe they should be finished,’ Plautius replied. ‘In which case a ruthless execution might encourage the others to fight on when the time comes, and not just turn and run away, like those scum. Perhaps after we’ve executed the next batch they might just provide the example I wanted for the rest of the army. Legate, this cohort has cost us the final victory over Caratacus. Their failure will cost us dear in coming months.

Now this? How much more damage will they do to my army, and the reputation of your legion? Another decimation is the least they deserve.’

‘Maybe not.’ Vespasian’s mind was racing ahead. It would be inhuman to subject these men to further punishment. Besides, they might yet serve some useful function. But they had to be seen to be punished, and punished harshly. He looked at his general with a sharp glint in his eyes. ‘Maybe we can use them to lure the Britons out of that marsh. Use them as bait. It’s dangerous, but then, as you said yourself, sir, they must be punished.’

‘Bait?’ General Plautius looked sceptical.

‘Yes, sir.’ Vespasian nodded eagerly, then realised that he would need to do more than enthusiastically offer up the obliteration of his Third Cohort in order to persuade Plautius to agree to the scheme he was only just starting to sketch out in his mind.

‘Sir, will you come back to my headquarters so that we can discuss my plan in detail? I’ll need to show you a map.’

‘Plan?’ Plautius replied suspiciously.’If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were in on this escape. Better not be one of your hare-brained ideas, Legate.’

‘No, sir. Not at all. I think you’ll find it’ll serve all our needs.’

Plautius thought for a moment, and Vespasian stood waiting, trying hard not to show any signs of the excitement and frustration that filled every muscle of his body with an unbearable tension.

‘There you are, sir,’ said Vespasian as he unrolled the sheepskin map across his campaign desk.

‘Very nice,’ Plautius replied coolly as he glanced down, and then looked up at the legate. ‘Now would you explain what is so very interesting about this map?’

‘Here.’ Vespasian leaned forward and tapped his finger on an area to one side of the sprawling, virtually unmapped marsh.

‘Yes . . . and that is?’

‘It’s a valley, sir. A small valley. A trader, one of our agents, came across it and sent a report back. I’ve had the scouts check on it, and the valley’s there all right. There’s a small village, scores of farms, and a track that leads through it before cutting right across the heart of the marsh.’

‘All very interesting,’ Plautius mused.’But of what use is this to me? And what bearing does it have on the disposal of your Third Cohort?’

The legate paused. It all seemed quite obvious to him, but clearly the opportunity that had struck him so clearly had been missed by the general. His plan would have to be set out very tactfully so as not to cause any offence to Plautius.

‘We’re still after Caratacus, I presume, sir.’

‘Of course.’

‘And he’s hiding out in that marsh. Probably has some kind of forward base concealed there.’

‘Yes, we know all that, Vespasian. What of it?’

‘Well, sir, we’re not going to find that base very easily, if at all. Look at the mess we got into in the marshes by the Tamesis last summer, sir.’

Plautius frowned at the memory. The legions had been forced to break formation and enter the marshes in small units. Unfamiliar with the tracework of paths that weaved through the tangled and boggy undergrowth, several detachments had been roughly handled by the enemy, losing scores of men. It was an experience no one was keen to repeat.

‘Nevertheless, we must dig Caratacus out of there,’ said the general. ‘He must not be given the time or space to regroup.’

‘Precisely, sir. That’s why we must send forces into the marsh to root him out.’ Vespasian paused to allow his small audience of staff officers to exchange despairing looks. He could hardly contain a smile as they played into his hands. ‘Or, we tempt Caratacus out of the marsh.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘We use some bait.’

‘Bait? You mean the Third Cohort?’

‘Yes, sir. You implied that they were expendable.’

‘And they are. How do you intend to use them?’

Vespasian leaned back over the map and indicated the valley once again. ‘We send them into the valley to establish a fort a short distance from the marsh. Maximius is ordered to beat the place up, treat the locals as harshly as possible. Pretty soon they’ll be making advances to Caratacus to come and save them from their Roman oppressors. He won’t be able to resist their call for two very good reasons.

‘First, it will be a chance to win over more allies. If he comes to the rescue of the people of this valley, he’ll be sure to milk it for all its worth. This kind of minor success always breeds a renewed desire for resistance in the natives. The example might be contagious. Secondly, our scout was able to add one very useful piece of information to the picture.’ Vespasian’s eyes swept round the faces before him and came to rest on that of Plautius. The legate smiled openly and ignored the growing sense of frustration etched into the face of his superior.

‘Well, bloody well get on with it,’ said Plautius.

‘Yes, sir. It turns out that the nobleman who owns this valley is distantly related to Caratacus. I doubt that he would stand by and watch his kin put to the sword. Chances are that he’ll try and strike back at us. Anything to destabilise our control of the area. When he does strike we’ll be ready for him. If we can tempt him out of his lair then there’s a good chance my legion can finish him off.’

Plautius shook his head. ‘You make it sound easy. What if Caratacus refuses to take the bait?’

‘Then let’s make sure he comes out to fight us, sir.’

‘How?’

‘He can’t have more than two or three thousand men left - and there’ll be a steady flow of deserters until he can give them another victory. Caratacus will need to pick a fight; the sooner the better as far as he’s concerned. So let’s make things even more difficult for him. See how the marsh curves round on its northern edge?’

Plautius examined the map and nodded.

‘I should be able to cover it, sir. If you permit me to post some blocking forces on every track and trail leading into the marsh from the north, with the Third Cohort blocking the south we should be able to strangle Caratacus’ supply lines eventually. With no food coming in, and no foraging parties able to get out, Caratacus and his men are soon going to get hungry. Then, either they starve, or they fight. They’ll fight, of course. And when they come out and face us, we’ll be ready. Assuming they take the bait.’

‘And what if they do take the bait and you’re too late to save the Third Cohort?’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘Then let’s hope they’ll have served their purpose.’

And, he thought, buried the shame that would otherwise have attached itself to the Second Legion, and its commander. Vespasian was stabbed by a shard of guilt at this casual reflection that implied the deaths of nearly four hundred men. But they might survive, and win back some honour for themselves. There was a slight chance that most of the damage Maximius had caused might be repaired by a hard-fought battle and a glorious conclusion to the campaign.

One of the general’s staff officers raised a hand.

‘What is it, Tribune?’

‘Even if Caratacus does emerge from the swamp to attack the Third Cohort, we’ll probably fail to catch him. He’ll simply throw a rearguard at us, to buy time for the rest of his men to slip back into hiding. Then we’re back where we started, minus one cohort, of course.’

‘Yes, that’s a possibility,’ Vespasian nodded thoughtfully. ‘If that’s the case, we’ll just have to starve him out. Either way, if we act now, he’s had it. The virtue of forcing him into a battle is that we can finish him off as soon as possible, and stop him trying to whip up any more support from the tribes who are still outside of our control.’ Vespasian turned back to the general. ‘And it gives Maximius and his men something useful to do, while they’re being punished.’

The general frowned.’With luck, they’ll be taken care of by Caratacus.’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t expect they will survive when Caratacus comes for them. Not after what they will have done to his people.’

‘I see.’ General Plautius scratched his cheek as he weighed up the legate’s plan. ‘Make sure he understands the need to be as cruel as possible.’

Vespasian smiled. ‘Given the mood he and his men are in, I doubt I’ll have much persuading to do. I should think he’ll be only too keen to take it out on the natives.’

‘Very well then.’ Plautius stood back from the table and stretched his back. ‘I’ll have my staff draft the orders immediately.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

‘Batavians?’ Figulus looked towards the crest of the ridge, as if expecting their pursuers to ride into sight at any moment. He turned back to his breathless centurion. ‘How many of them did you see, sir?’

Cato gulped for air before he could reply. ‘No more . . . no more than a squadron . . . less . . . coming this way. Get the men under cover.’

Figulus took a last glance back up the track and then turned to issue the orders, calling out to the legionaries in a low voice, as if the Batavians might hear him even now. The men hurried from the track, scattering a small distance into the long grass and stunted bushes that grew on either side. Crouching down, they drew their swords and daggers and held them in clenched fists. On the track only Cato and Figulus remained, the centurion bent over as he fought to catch his breath.

‘Are we going to take them on?’ asked Figulus.

Cato glanced up at the optio as if the man were mad. ‘No! Not unless we have to. It’s not worth the risk.’

‘We outnumber them, sir.’

‘They’re better armed, and they’re mounted. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

Figulus shrugged. ‘We might, if we caught them on this track. And we could use those horses to carry some of the men.’

‘They’d be more trouble than they’re worth in these marshes.’

‘In that case, sir,’ Figulus smiled, ‘we could always eat them.’

Cato shook his head in despair. Here they were, on the verge of being found and hunted down, and his optio was thinking about food. He drew a last deep breath and straightened up.

‘We’ll avoid a fight if we can. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll go with the men on this side of the track. You’re on the other. You keep ‘em down and keep ‘em silent until you hear from me.’