Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (40 page)

Under the mood of sullen depression hanging over the tents of the Sixth Century, Cato was even more miserable than most. His ribs still throbbed from the kicking he had received from the Praetorian Guard centurion after being caught spying on the imperial entourage’s encampment. His eyes were puffed up and purple with bruises. It could have been a lot worse, but there was a limit to the summary punishment that could be meted out before questions were asked.

Now, a night later, sleep was denied to him. He sat hunched up, staring blankly out through the slit between the tent flaps. His thoughts were not filled with nervous apprehension about the coming battle. He was not even considering the ultimate prospects of glorious victory or ignoble defeat, or even death. He was consumed with bitter thoughts of jealousy, and fear that Lavinia, in whose arms he had rested only a few days before, might even now be lying with Vitellius.

Eventually the bitter poison of his despair became too much for him.

He just wanted to blot it out, to cease enduring this relentless misery. His hand groped for his dagger belt and his fingers closed round the polished wooden handle, tensing as he prepared to draw the blade.

Then he relaxed his grip and took a deep breath. This was absurd. He must force himself to think of something else, anything that might distract him from thoughts of Lavinia.

Still tucked against his breast was the bloodless bandage that Nisus had worn round his knee. Cato pressed a hand to it and made himself think about the strange markings on the inside of the bandage. They must be significant, he reasoned, if only because of the suspicious circumstances under which the bandage had been obtained. And if the markings were some kind of coded message, who was it from and to whom had Nisus been trying to deliver it?

In answer to the latter question Cato already suspected Tribune Vitellius. And since the only people beyond the Roman lines were the natives then it followed that the message was from them. It stank of treason, but Cato dared not move against the tribune without incontestable evidence. As yet, all he had was his own bad opinion of Vitellius and strange black lines on a bandage, hardly enough to build a case on. It was too vexing, and as Cato tried to think his way round the problem, his tired mind embraced the subtle coming of sleep. Heavy eyelids drooped and slowly shut and before long Cato was snoring along with the rest of the century’s veterans.

The next morning the legionaries were rousted into activity by a rumour that swept through the camp like a brush fire: the enemy army had been sighted. A day’s march to the east an advance guard of auxiJiary cavalry had come up against a series of defensive fortifications and redoubts. The auxiliaries had been showered with arrows and light spears and had backed away as quickly as possible, leaving several of their number wounded or dead before the British lines. Even as the auxiliaries made their report to the Emperor, word of their encounter spread through the army. The prospect of battle excited the legionaries, and they were relieved that the enemy had decided to fight a set-piece battle rather than a prolonged guerrilla war that could drag on for years.

The discomfort of the day before was forgotten as the men dressed and armed hurriedly. The cold morning meal was eaten under leaden skies, across which dark clouds scudded in the strong breeze. Macro looked up anxiously.

‘Wonder if it’ll rain.’

‘Looks like it might, sir. But if Claudius moves quickly then we might beat the rain and reach the Britons before nightfall.’

‘And if we don’t then it’s another day of marching in wet clothes,’ grumbled Macro. ‘Wet clothes, shitty mud and cold food. Anyway, who’s to say those bloody natives won’t just do a runner?’

Cato shrugged.

‘Better get the lads fallen in, Optio. It’ll be a long day one way or another.’

The centurion’s fears about the weather proved to be groundless. As the morning wore on, the clouds cleared, the wind died away completely and by noon the sun blazed down upon the army. A thin haze of vapour wafted up from drying clothes, hanging over the legionaries as they trudged along in the muddy wake of the Praetorian vanguard.

Late in the afternoon the Second Legion rounded a small hill and came in sight of the enemy lines. Ahead, some two miles distant, lay a low ridge, bristling with defences. In front lay an extensive system of ramps and ditches designed to deflect a direct assault and expose the attackers to missile fire for as long as possible before they reached the defenders. To the right of the enemy line the ridge tumbled down into a vast expanse of marsh through which a wide river curved behind the ridge in a long, grey sweep. To the left of the enemy line the ridge disappeared into a dense forest that covered the undulating ground as far as Cato could see. The position was well chosen; any attacker would be forced to make a frontal assault up the slope between the forest and the marsh.

The Fourteenth Legion had arrived ahead of the Second and was well advanced in preparing the army’s fortifications for the night. A screen of auxiliaries stood at the bottom of the slope and beyond them small groups of cavalry scouts were making a close inspection of the enemy’s defences. A staff officer directed Macro’s century to the row of pegs that marked their tent line and the centurion barked out the order to down packs. There was no suppressing the excitement of the men as they hastily erected their tents and then sat down on the slope to gaze across the shallow dip in the land at the enemy fortifications opposite. The sun twinkled on the helmets and weapons of the Britons massing behind their defences. The tension in the still air was heightened by the growing humidity as clouds thickened along the southern horizon once again. But this time there was not a breath of wind, and the myriad sounds of an army preparing to bed down for the night hung strangely in the still air.

At dusk fires were lit and in the gathering gloom twin carpets of sparkling orange confronted each other across the shallow vale, and smoke from the flames smudged the air above each army. Vespasian had given orders that his men be given an extra issue of meat to fill their bellies for the coming battle, and the legionaries gratefully settled to eat the salt beef and barley stew as night fell. Cato was mopping up the dregs of his stew with a biscuit when he became aware of a strange sound carried faintly on the air. It was a rising chant that ended in a roar, accompanied by a muffled clatter. He turned to Macro who had already finished his meal with voracious efficiency, and now lay on his back picking shreds of meat from between his teeth with a small twig.

‘What’s happening over there, sir?’

‘Well, sounds to me like they’re trying to whip up a bit of battle fever.’

‘Battle fever?’

‘Of course. They know the odds are against them. We’ve given them a good kicking in every fight so far. Morale won’t be high so Caratacus will be doing everything he can to make them fight hard.’

A fresh roar burst out from the enemy camp, and another rhythmic clatter.

‘What’s that noise, sir?’

‘That? It’s the same trick we use. A sword beating on a shield. You get everyone to beat to the same rhythm and that’s the sound you get. Supposed to scare the shit out of the enemy. That’s the idea, at least. Personally, I find it just gives me a headache.’

Cato finished his stew and set the mess tin down beside him. The contrast between the two camps disturbed him. While the enemy seemed to be having some kind of wild celebration, the legions were settling down for a night’s sleep, as if tomorrow was merely another day.

‘Shouldn’t we be doing something about that lot?’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Just something to break up their party. Something to unsettle them.’

‘Why bother?’ Macro yawned. ‘Let them have their fun. It won’t make any difference when our lads get stuck into them tomorrow. They’ll just be more tired than us.’

‘I suppose so.’ Cato licked the last drips of stew from his fingers. He picked up some grass and wiped his mess tin clean. ‘Sir?’

‘What is it?’ Macro replied sleepily.

‘Do you think the baggage train would have been able to catch up with us today?’

“Don’t see why not. No rain today. Why do you ask?’

‘Er, just wondered if we’d be getting artillery support tomorrow.’

‘If Claudius is sensible, we’ll be getting all the fire support we can manage against those fortifications. ‘ Cato rose to his feet.

‘Going somewhere?’

‘Latrine. And maybe a quick stroll before I turn in, sir.’

‘Quick stroll?’ Macro rolled his head to one side and looked at Cato.

‘Haven’t you had enough of walking over the last two days?’

‘Just need to clear my head, sir.’

‘All right then. But you’ll need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato strolled off towards the centre of the camp. If the baggage train had caught up with the army then he might see Lavinia. This time there would be no enclosure to keep him out. A few guards maybe, but they could easily be avoided in the dark. And then he would hold Lavinia in his arms again and smell the scent of her hair. The prospect filled him with a keen sense of anticipation and he quickened his pace as he walked up the via Praetoria in the direction of the legate’s tents. The jaunty spring in his stride carried him forward with such momentum that he nearly floored a figure who suddenly emerged from a tent flap and stepped directly in his path. As it was they collided and Cato’s chin was badly knocked when it struck the other person’s head.

‘Ow! You stupid bloody… Lavinia!’

Rubbing her head, Lavinia stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘Cato!’

‘But… why…’ he mumbled as surprise overcame loquacity. ‘What are you doing here? How did you get here?’ he added, remembering the muddy tracks that had sucked down the baggage wagons.

‘With the artillery train. As soon as they could move, Lady Flavia left her wagon to follow on with the rest and we hitched a ride with a catapult crew. What happened to your face?’

‘Someone ran into me, quite a few times. But that’s not important now.’ Cato wanted to fold his arms about her, but there was a strange, distant expression in her eyes that discouraged him. ‘Lavinia? What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘You seem different.’

‘Different!’ She laughed nervously. ‘Nonsense. I’m just busy. I’ve got an errand to run for my mistress.’

‘When can I see you?’ Cato risked taking her hand in his. ‘I don’t know. I’ll find you. Where are your tents?’

‘Over there.’ Cato pointed. ‘Just ask for the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort.’ The sudden image of Lavinia wandering through the darkened tents surrounded by thousands of males made him worry for her safety. ‘It’d be better if I waited for you here.’

‘No! I’ll come and find you, if I get time. But you must go now.’ Lavinia leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek before pressing her hand firmly against his chest. ‘Go on!’

Confused, Cato backed off slowly. Lavinia smiled nervously and waved him away, as if joking, but there was an intensity in her eyes that made Cato feel cold and afraid. He nodded, turned and walked away, round the corner of a line of tents and out of her sight.

As soon as the tents blocked her view of him, Lavinia turned and hurried down the via Praetoria along the line of torches leading away from the legate’s tents.

Had she waited a moment she might have seen Cato peep cautiously round the tent line. He watched her almost run in the opposite direction, and once he was sure that he could remain out of sight in the shadows on this side of the via Praetoria he followed her, padding softly from tent to tent, keeping her in view. She didn’t go very far. Just to the first of the six big tents of the Second Legion’s tribunes. The cold anxiety he had felt a moment earlier turned to a sickening, icy dread as he watched Lavinia boldly pull open the fIap of Vitellius’ tent and step inside.

Chapter Forty-Seven

With a grand flourish Claudius whipped back the silk sheet covering the table. Underneath, illuminated by the glow of dozens of hanging oil lamps lay a contoured reproduction of the surrounding landscape, as detailed as the staff officers could make it in the time available, based on reports from the scouts. The legions’ officers crowded round the table and examined the landscape intently. For those who had arrived after sunset this was the first opportunity to see what lay ahead of them the next day. The Emperor allowed his officers a brief moment to familiarise themselves with the model before he began the briefing.

‘Gentlemen, tomorrow m-m-morning we begin the end of the conquest of this land. Once Caratacus is beaten and his army wiped out, there will be n-nothing between us and the capital of the Catuvellauni. With the f-fall of Camulodunum the other British tribes will bow to the inevitable a year from now, I th-think we can safely say, this island will be as peaceful a p-p-province as any in the empire.’

Vespasian listened in silent contempt, and judging by the arch glances being subtly exchanged by other officers, they shared his doubts. How could there be a complete conquest in just one year? No one even knew the extent of this island; some explorers claimed that it was just the tip of a vast landmass. If so, and if tales of the savage tribes of the far north were true, it would take many more years before the province was pacified. But by then Claudius would have had his triumph in Rome and the mob would have long forgotten distant Britain, distracted by an endless orgy of gladiatorial contests, beast hunts and chariot races at the Circus Maximus. The last page of the official history of Claudius’ conquest of Britain would have been written then copied onto scrolls to be placed in every major public library across the empire.