Brothers in Blood (8 page)

Otho stared back. ‘There are some deaths from which a man should be spared, even an enemy.’

Not to be put off by his disappointment over the fate of the prisoner, the general gave orders for the boar hunt to begin. The horses were brought forward and the officers took up their hunting spears and mounted. There were only four boars that had survived the funnel earlier in the day and they were released one at a time to eke out the entertainment. Nervous and worn out, the beasts put on a poor show and were quickly run down and piked, with no injuries to any of the horses or riders.

By mid-afternoon the panels had been packed up, the victims of the day’s hunt piled on to the bed of a wagon and the column left the vale and made its way back to the army. As they came in sight of the nearest gate Cato saw the rear of a column of legionaries entering the camp, their kit hanging from the marching yokes resting on their shoulders.

‘Looks like the boys from the Ninth,’ said Macro and at Cato’s side the young tribune straightened up in his saddle, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘So it is!’

Without further ado, Otho grasped his reins tightly and swerved his horse out of the column, spurring it into a gallop.

‘Bit keen, isn’t he?’ said Macro.

‘Yes, and I dare say it’s not to rejoin his first independent command so much as his first dependent.’

Macro gave him a long-suffering look. ‘The boy’s not thinking,’ he commented. ‘The general’s not going to like this.’

Sure enough, at the sound of pounding hoofs Ostorius had turned in his saddle, just in time to see the tribune galloping past.

‘TRIBUNE OTHO!’ Ostorius roared.

For a moment Cato was sure that the tribune would keep going, but sense prevailed and he reined in and turned his horse.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ the general demanded.

‘If you please, sir. Those are my men, and my wife is with them.’

‘That’s no reason to behave like an excited schoolboy! I will not have my officers tearing around like dogs. What kind of impression does that give the men? Get back in line, Tribune Otho. I warn you. Do not give me any further cause to upbraid you or there will be severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?’

Otho bowed his head and muttered an apology. With a last look towards the rear of the column entering the camp he trotted his horse back along the column and rejoined Cato and Macro. No one spoke until they reached the camp and passed through the gate. The reinforcements from the Ninth Legion were resting on either side of the main route stretching through the camp to headquarters. They had downed their yokes and stood stretching their backs, or sat where the ground had not been too badly churned up. The four centurions in command of the cohorts were waiting beside a covered wagon halfway along the column and saluted Ostorius as he rode up to them. The general waved the rest of the hunting party on, and gestured to Otho to join him before he turned his attention back to the nearest of the centurions.

‘I was expecting you to reach camp earlier than this.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we had to keep pace with the wagon.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Cato saw there were two vehicles besides the standard supply wagons. One had a large wine jar painted on its cover, together with the legend, ‘Hipparchus, wine supplier to the gods!’ The other was a carriage covered with goatskin, with a laced flap over the opening at the rear. As he watched he could make out a delicate-looking hand unplucking the laces.

Ostorius sucked in a deep breath and addressed the centurions. ‘Has the camp prefect assigned you tent lines yet?’

‘Just doing it, sir. He’s shifting some of the camp followers.’

Cato shared a weary glance with Macro and sighed. There would be complaints from the civilians to deal with later on.

‘Very well. Tribune Otho!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take command of your men. Get the tents up and then report to headquarters to draw rations from the quartermaster.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.

‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.

A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.

‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’

Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.

‘Officers! On me!’

Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.

‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.

Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’

‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’

The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.

‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.

Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’

Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’

‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro maintained. ‘Which means there must be a way to outflank his defences.’

‘You think so? Look again.’

Macro surveyed the landscape before him. The hill extended at least a mile and a half before dropping away sharply at each end, and the river followed the contours, providing a natural moat for the makeshift fortress. ‘What’s on the far side of the hill?’

Cato shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ He indicated the squadron of auxiliary horsemen picking their way along the bank of the river. They were being shadowed on the far bank by a party of lightly armed natives who easily kept pace with the Romans. ‘We won’t know until the scouts report to the general.’

Tribune Otho had been standing a short distance away, scrutinising the enemy position, and came to join Cato and the others. He was wearing a silvered breastplate with an elaborate design of rearing horses etched into the surface. The polished strips of his leather jerkin gleamed in the sunshine and his cloak was clean and showed none of the fraying or small tears that marred the cloaks of the other officers. The rest of his armour and equipment was equally new and to cap it all he wore closed leather boots dyed red that laced up to the top of his shins.

‘As bright as a newly minted denarius,’ Macro muttered with a disapproving shake of his head. ‘He’s going to stand out like a swinging dick at a eunuch massage parlour. Every Silurian warrior worth his salt is going to be after his head.’

Cato had to agree. Soon after first setting foot on British soil he had discovered the natives’ fondness for collecting the heads of those they defeated in battle. The head of a Roman officer was a most desirable trophy to display in their crude wattle and daub huts. With his good looks and his gleaming helmet with its bright red crest, Otho would draw the attention of every Silurian warrior that caught sight of him.

‘Hello, chaps!’ Otho waved a greeting as he strode up to them. ‘Must say, those natives have a good eye for ground. But they’ll be no match for the men of the Ninth, or even the other legions, I’ll wager. Soon as the general gives the order we’ll clear Caratacus and his mob off that hill.’

‘Is that so?’ Horatius sucked a breath in through his teeth. Cato saw the look of irritation flash across his expression before he smiled coolly at the tribune. ‘Well, I’d be more than happy for you and your men to show us all how the job’s done. Why don’t you ask the general for the honour of leading the attack? I’m sure he would be impressed.’

Otho considered the idea briefly. ‘Why not? About time I had a chance to do my duty.’

‘Why not?’ Macro frowned. ‘Because you don’t just go ploughing into the enemy, sir. There’s a right way to go about this. And a wrong way.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Ain’t that right, sir?’

Cato quickly understood the implied meaning of his comrade’s remark. He nodded and addressed the prefect in a gentle tone. ‘This is your first battle, I take it.’

‘Well, yes. As it happens.’

‘Then take the chance to watch and learn. You can prove yourself another time. Good soldiers learn from experience. Or they pay the price.’

Otho stared at him earnestly and turned back to scrutinise the enemy position. ‘I understand.’

A moment later General Ostorius decided he had seen enough. He issued curt orders for pickets to be posted along the riverbank before mounting his horse and riding back into the camp. His staff officers scrambled to follow him and the others were left to ponder the formidable obstacles before them a while longer before they, too, turned away and returned to their units. The men toiled to construct the ditch and rampart that surrounded the vast area required for the two legions, the detachment from the Ninth, eight cohorts of auxiliary troops, the baggage train and the camp followers. It was more like a modest town than a camp, Cato mused as he approached the site of the main gate. The tower supports had already been driven into the earth and men were busy easing the crosspieces into position. As they reached the tent lines of the cohorts from the Ninth, Otho waved a hand and spurred his horse into a trot as he made for his headquarters tent, the first to be erected by the men before they turned to their own, far more modest section tents where eight men slept cheek by jowl.

‘The boy’s keen to get back to his wife,’ Macro chuckled. ‘Not that I’m the marrying kind, but I can see the advantages of having your wife with you on campaign. Saves a fortune,’ he added with a sly wink.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cato. ‘She looks like the kind of woman who is expensive to keep.’

‘Your good lady excepted, name one artistocratic bit who isn’t.’

Cato smiled. ‘And that, my friend, is just one reason why I married her. As for the other reasons – don’t ask.’

‘As if.’ Macro rode a short distance in silence before he added, ‘Had any news lately?’

‘Not since we landed.’

‘That was nearly five months ago.’

Cato shrugged. ‘We’re fighting a war on the very fringes of the known world. It could take several months for a letter to reach me from Rome.’

‘True. But I’m sure she’s fine. Julia’s a healthy girl. And loyal as veteran. Not that I’m suggesting there’s any question . . .’

‘Well, yes. Quite,’ Cato responded tersely. ‘But I can’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not until we’ve defeated Caratacus.’

Macro nodded but glanced sidelong at his friend, not fooled for an instant by Cato’s dismissive response. The lad had found his love, and it was typical of life in the army that he should be forced to leave her behind a mere month or so after their marriage. It was likely to be some years before Cato saw her again. Anything could happen in that time, Macro mused sadly as they reached the tent lines of the baggage escort detachment.

As the light faded in the evening and there was no sign of any imminent assault, most of the enemy warriors began to filter away from their barricades, climbing the slope to their encampment at the top of the hill. Fires were lit as the sun set and the glow of the flames lined the ridge. The Roman soldiers along the riverbank could just make out their opposite numbers on the far side. While most held their tongues, every now and then insults were traded across the water until an optio, without any irony, bellowed to his men to keep watch in silence. Faint snatches of singing and laughter carried down the slope as Caratacus and his warriors worked themselves up into drunken fervour ahead of the battle they expected the next day.

In the Roman camp the mood was more subdued, more purposeful, as the soldiers went through the daily routines of military life. Once the tents were erected, they prepared their simple evening meals before those assigned to the first watch put on armour, took up weapons and marched to their posts. Their comrades sat around cooking fires, cleaning kit and sharpening weapons for the coming fight. In the main they talked quietly and those soldiers who had not yet put their hard training into bloody practice sat in silence, nurturing their courage and trying to put aside their fears: fear of death, fear of a crippling wound, fear of the terrible cold thrust of an enemy spear, sword or arrow, or the crushing blow of slingshot; and worst of all, fear of not being able to hide their terror in front of their comrades. Others sat with the veterans, earnestly seeking advice and guidance about how best to face what was to come. The advice was always the same. To trust their training, put their faith in the gods and kill every living thing that stood in their path.

In the headquarters tent the mood was equally sombre as General Ostorius and his senior officers also contemplated the morrow’s events. His subordinates were sitting on stools and benches around the edge of the tent. The pale light of oil lamps added to the sense of gloom as the general addressed them.

‘The cavalry patrols followed the river for ten miles in either direction. There seem to be no viable crossing places for the army. If we break camp and follow the river until we can turn Caratacus’s position then he will of course be forced to abandon the hill and continue retreating. However, while he is retreating on his lines of supply into Ordovician territory we are extending ours, so the logistical advantage now belongs to the enemy. We’ve already seen how easily he has managed to elude us in previous campaigns.’ Ostorius paused, before continuing with feeling, ‘I do not want to spend another year in these wretched mountains chasing shadows. I do not want to see our legions and auxiliary cohorts slowly bleed to death in endless skirmishes and raids. The gods have placed Caratacus in front of us and we will fight him here. I will not give him any excuse to break contact and escape. He has offered us battle on his terms, and like it or not, that is what we must accept, gentlemen.’

He looked round the tent to make sure that his intent was understood. ‘Since that is the situation, we are obliged to make a frontal attack across the river. I have decided that the first wave will go forward at noon tomorrow. That will give us time to site our artillery to bombard their barricades. Once we have opened some breaches we will be able to break through and take the hill . . . Any questions?’

‘Plenty,’ Macro whispered to Cato. ‘But I know better than to ask.’

‘Then I’ll have to,’ Cato said quietly. He leaned forward on his stool and raised a hand to draw the general’s attention.

Ostorius faced him and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Prefect Cato, what do you have to say?’

‘Sir, the first line of barricades are just about in range of our artillery. But not the second line. We will not be able to batter those down.’

‘I realise that. Our men will have to fight their way over the defences.’

‘But in order to do that, they are going to have to cross the river, find a way through the stakes in the river bed, climb on to the far bank, and up the hill in full armour. Then fight their way through the breaches in the first line and climb the rest of the way up the slope to the second line. No doubt they will be subjected to the enemy’s missiles as they climb. Sir, I’d wager that by the time they reach the second line they will be too exhausted to fight.’

‘Nevertheless, they will fight. And they will break through and win the day.’

‘But the casualties are bound to be heavy, sir. Very heavy.’

‘That may be so. If that is the price of finally defeating Caratacus then it is a price worth paying. But that need not concern you unduly, Prefect Cato. After all, you and your men will be guarding the baggage train and will not be playing any part in the battle. You will come to no harm.’

Some of the officers could not help smiling at the comment and Cato felt a surge of anger pulse through his veins. They might take offence at his swift promotion through the ranks but they had no right to sneer at his courage. He had to force himself to speak calmly. ‘In view of the challenge facing the army tomorrow, I respectfully submit that my men join in the attack, sir. They have already proved themselves against the enemy.’

‘That will not be necessary. I think you overestimate the difficulties we face. Besides, your men are needed here. It would put my mind at rest knowing that the camp is being protected by men who are used to facing their enemy with a wall and rampart between them, as you proved so adeptly at Bruccium.’

This time the general had gone too far and for all his good judgement Cato’s pride would not let the slur pass unanswered. He made to reply but Macro nudged him sharply and hissed under his breath, ‘Leave it, Cato.’

For an instant Cato was on the verge of open confrontation with his commanding officer. Then he bit down on his injured pride and anger and eased himself back on to his stool. Ostorius regarded him haughtily, then shifted his gaze round the tent. ‘Anyone else?’

It was a challenge as much as a question and every man in the tent understood that and did not wish to share in the dismissive scorn directed at Cato. There was silence. Ostorius nodded.

‘Very well. Then the attack will be carried out by our legionaries. It’s too tough a job for auxiliary cohorts. Instead, the auxiliaries will be leaving the camp under cover of darkness and marching round the hill to cut off the enemy’s retreat.’