Britannia

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cato was standing beside his horse on a low mound no more than half a mile from the settlement. It would be at least an hour before the first glimmer of dawn crept along the horizon, but all around he could hear the movement of men and horses. The army had begun the advance from the marching camp at dusk, with each unit following its appointed guide into position so that by daybreak the enemy capital would be surrounded, with little hope of escape for the inhabitants. It was never an easy thing for an army to manoeuvre at night, and even though the preparations had been thorough, Cato’s column had bumped into one of the cohorts of the Twentieth Legion that in turn had been held up. As a result, the Blood Crows and the Fourth Cohort had reached their start line for the dawn attack far later than he had intended, and there would be little chance for the men to rest before they went into action.

It had been a freezing night, but the march had kept the troops warm. The bitter cold had also frozen the ground, and men and horses no longer had to negotiate the quagmire that had hindered their advance into the mountains so far. Mist had pooled in the dips and folds of the valley, and Cato was pleased that it would help to conceal his men as they made their final approach to the main gate of the enemy settlement. The legate had given the vanguard the honour of leading the attack. It was their task to take the main gate and open the way for the follow-up cohorts of the Fourteenth Legion. If the enemy was alert and reacted swiftly, then Cato and his men would suffer heavy casualties. He had therefore made his mind up to launch the assault as quickly and ruthlessly as possible. While the legionaries charged over the open ground towards the bridge crossing the outer ditch, the Blood Crows would race ahead of them with the ladders to scale the ramparts either side of the gatehouse. A small party of legionaries would bring up the rear, carrying the ram to smash through the stout timbers of the gate. As soon as the breach was made, two cohorts of the Fourteenth would burst from cover and storm the settlement. The rest of the army would have the job of rounding up the natives as they fled from their capital. As Petronius Deanus had not returned, there was no knowing precisely how many warriors they faced. Cato’s expression soured as he recalled the smarmy merchant. No doubt he had made a run for it rather than risk his skin by entering the enemy’s lair. He could not escape the legate’s wrath for ever, though, and woe betide him when he was eventually apprehended by the Roman authorities.

If good fortune was on the side of Rome, then the king of the Deceanglians and some of the chiefs of the allied tribes would be killed or captured, and the effective resistance would be at an end in the region. After which it only remained to cross the narrow channel that separated Mona from the mainland and wipe out the Druid cult, then mop up the remnants of the Silurians and Ordovicians, and the west of the province would be secure. Legate Quintatus would win a notable victory, add lustre to his family name and advance his career in Rome. At the palace, the emperor would take the credit for overseeing the triumph of his forces over their barbarian foes and issue a large donative to the army as a reward. No doubt the lion’s share of that would be paid to the Praetorian Guard, whose loyalty Claudius prized far above that of troops fighting at the fringes of the empire. The Praetorians, after all, had already demonstrated that they were not above eliminating an emperor and then forcing his successor on the Senate and people of Rome. These realities were not lost on any person with even a passing familiarity with the political world, and Cato could not help regretting the cynicism such awareness fostered. The same went for the triumph the emperor was sure to proclaim, with the craven support of his lackeys in the Senate. An elaborate procession would wind its way along the main thoroughfares of Rome, passing through the Forum and beneath the tiered magnificence of the imperial palace before culminating at the Temple of Jupiter, where the displays of captured enemy weapons would be dedicated. The centrepiece of the procession would be the emperor, standing tall in an ornate chariot, while the captive leaders would follow in chains to await their fate. If Claudius was feeling magnanimous, he would pardon them as a token of the mercy that Rome often bestowed on the defeated. Otherwise they would be strangled before the roaring mob, who would be primed with free handouts of coin, bread and wine.

There would be more immediate rewards for the men of Quintatus’s army, especially those of the vanguard. As was the custom, the first man to scale the enemy’s ramparts would be decorated and promoted. The same applied to the first soldier into the breach: one of the legionaries manning the ram would end the day an optio, just one step away from becoming a centurion. A fresh battle honour would be added to the standards of both units, and Cato’s stock would rise within military circles. His name would be on the list of those considered for command of the more prestigious units of auxiliary troops.

As he waited in the bitter-cold darkness, Cato allowed himself a moment of private reverie as he contemplated such a pinnacle to his career. He would be an influential and wealthy man, with a fine house in the capital and perhaps a substantial villa in Campania, on the shores of the bay that stretched out beneath the looming mass of Mount Vesuvius. There could be no more tranquil and comfortable place to retire and live out the remainder of his days with Julia and their family. He felt a surge of affection and longing in his heart, and for a moment wished that he could be far from these grim mountains and their barbaric inhabitants. Far from the hardships and dangers of army life. He imagined himself sitting beside a gently crackling fire, playing with their son, with more children perhaps, while Julia looked on with the same loving smile that had won his heart.

‘Sir.’

The image faded in an instant as Cato turned towards a barely visible figure who had approached from the mound. He could just make out the transverse helmet crest against the greater darkness beyond, and recognised the voice.

‘Festinus. Are the men ready?’

‘All but the lads with the ram, sir. But the optio’s sent word that they’re close. They’ll be in place in good time.’

‘Very well. And how are the men’s spirits?’

The centurion chuckled. ‘You know the lads well enough, sir. They’re grumbling like short-changed whores about the cold and the delay, but they’re raring to get stuck in. Especially as there’s rewards and promotions to be had. No need to worry on their account. It’s the poor bloody sods over there I’d feel sorry for.’

Both men glanced towards the settlement. Behind the gatehouse and the rampart, rosy hues bloomed from several locations as small fires burned within. Figures were visible along the line of defences, outlined by the loom of the flames, but they showed no sign of alarm as they kept watch over the darkened landscape.

‘Do you really think it’ll go as easily as the legate believes it will, sir?’

Cato recalled the briefing they had attended the previous morning when Quintatus had outlined his plan. His staff had appeared to cover every contingency, and yet . . .

‘Have you ever known a plan that did?’

They shared a brief laugh before Cato softly cleared his throat and spat. ‘Just as long as we play our part, Festinus. That’s all that need concern us. As long as the Blood Crows can get up on the rampart before the enemy have sufficient men in place, then your legionaries should be able to breach the gate without too much difficulty. There will be some losses, but let’s do what we can to keep them small. Best to go in hard, make as much noise as we can and put the shits up those native bastards.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

There was a brief silence before Festinus blew into his hands and rubbed them together. ‘It’s a crying shame that Macro isn’t here with us. If anyone could do the job well, it’s him.’

Cato felt moved to agree. His old friend would be in his element in such an assault, and his example would inspire his men to fight like furies. But Macro was far to the rear, watching over the lacklustre garrison of the fort as he recuperated from his wound. The burden fell on Festinus, and Cato did not want the centurion hampered by comparison with the man he privately considered to be the best soldier he had ever known.

‘You can tell him all about it when the campaign is over and we return to the fort. But until then, you are in command of the cohort, Festinus. The men will look to you. So will I. And I know you will do your duty, and do it well.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

Cato turned to his horse and unhitched a small wine skin from the rear saddle horn. He offered it to Festinus. ‘Here. It’s a little brew that Thraxis has prepared to help keep the cold out. Wine and a few spices.’

Festinus nodded his thanks and raised the wine skin carefully. He took the spout in his lips and squeezed gently a few times before handing it back to Cato. ‘Ahhh! Good stuff-’ Abruptly he coughed and gasped. ‘A few spices . . . What the fuck did he use, sir? Pepper?’

‘Amongst other ingredients.’ Cato took a few quick sips, swallowing cautiously as he knew what to expect. The liquid felt fiery as it slipped down his throat into his stomach and gave him a cheery warmth inside. ‘Helps keep the cold out at least . . . Better rejoin your men. I want them primed and ready to run for the gate the instant the signal is given. The gods be with you, Festinus.’

‘And with you, sir.’

They exchanged a dimly visible salute and the centurion strode off into the darkness, leaving Cato alone with his horse. Hannibal had lowered his head and was grazing lightly on the frost-fringed blades of grass with a contented champing, oblivious to the concerns of his master and the other men waiting quietly in the night. Cato took up the reins and led the animal down into the hollow behind the mound. The air suddenly felt colder, and damp, and the gathering mist made it seem as if he had plunged under water. He instinctively snatched a quick breath before he took control over his senses again.

Handing his reins to a trooper, Cato went to find Decurion Miro. He was standing with the other decurions of the Blood Crows, who were talking in subdued voices. Cato paused to overhear the exchange.

‘Mark my words,’ Miro was saying. ‘This ain’t going to end well. We’re supposed to charge over open ground to the walls, weighed down with ladders and grappling hooks? No chance of using our shields, and fair targets for any barbarian bastard on the ramparts with a good eye.’

‘You fret too much,’ replied another voice, which Cato recognised as belonging to Corvinus. ‘That bunch of hairy-arsed barbarian scum are going to run the instant they realise the game is up. Just like they did back at the gorge.’

‘That wasn’t because they were afraid . . . Listen, Corvinus. No offence or anything, but you’ve only been in Britannia a few months. What the fuck do you know about the enemy? When you’ve faced ’em in battle as often as I have, then tell me about it, eh? As it is, I ain’t happy about the prefect volunteering us for this. He’s a bloody glory-chaser.’

Cato resumed his progress and one of the other decurions quickly coughed and spoke up. ‘Commanding officer present!’

The decurions turned towards Cato and stood to attention.

‘At ease. And keep your voices down. We’re trying to launch a surprise attack, we’re not on the drill ground.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

Cato looked round at his subordinates. Already he thought he could make out more detail in their faces. The dawn was not so far off. ‘All set?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Miro answered. ‘Me and the lads are ready for anything.’

Cato suppressed a smile. ‘Delighted to hear it. I’ll expect to see you at the head of the charge when the time comes. Show Corvinus here how the Blood Crows go at the enemy, eh?’

There was a brief hesitation before Miro cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir. Of course. You can rely on me. All the way, sir.’

‘Just as far as the heart of the enemy camp will suffice for now, Miro. That’ll win us more than enough glory.’

Cato let the decurion suffer his embarrassment for a moment longer before he glanced up at the sky and tried to discern if there really was a faint band of lighter sky along the horizon or whether he was imagining it. No, he was certain. Dawn would be breaking soon.

‘Better rejoin your squadrons, gentlemen. Get them into the saddle and ready for the signal. When it’s sounded, you know what to do. Let’s teach those barbarians a lesson they’ll never get the chance to learn from.’

There was a pause before Miro responded uncertainly, ‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Just do your job and I’ll see you all inside the ramparts. Miro, I will join you and your men for the attack.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The small group separated, the decurions striding away towards their squadrons and Cato seeking out Hannibal before leading his mount to the standard of Miro’s troopers. Around him in the mist he could just make out the outlines of men and horses and hear the muffled thumps of hooves and the jingle of bits and equipment. Miro stood beside his horse and called out as loudly as he dared, ‘First Squadron . . . prepare to mount.’

At the instruction, the men reached their hands up to their saddle horns and braced their feet.

‘First squadron . . . mount.’

There was a series of grunts as the men drew themselves up and on to the saddles before swinging their right legs over and sitting up straight and steadying their horses.

‘Form a line on me.’

The standard-bearer moved alongside the decurion, and the rest of the men took up position to his side, stretching away into the mist. Their shields hung across their backs but their spears had been left in camp, as they would be encumbered by their scaling equipment. Several had ladders, some twelve feet in height, tucked under their sword arms. Cato edged Hannibal into place beside Miro, and then all was still along the line, save for the occasional snorts of the horses, the flicker of tails and the twitching of their dagger-like ears.

The darkness began to recede from the horizon and a thin smear of pale light edged into the sky, the details of the surrounding landscape gradually emerging from the gloom. Cato could see the rest of the cohort and the dismounted men behind them, shields grounded, spear shafts resting on shoulders as they worked their hands together to keep their fingers from going numb. Some stamped their feet, and warm breath flickered briefly, like grey feathers, and vanished. Twisting in his saddle, he saw Festinus at the head of his cohort, heavily armoured men standing in silent formations beside their large rectangular shields. He felt his heart begin to beat quicker as his ears strained, waiting for the first strident note that would sound the attack. Despite the cold, his palms felt clammy and his throat was parched. There was no sound of life from the enemy settlement, but it was hard to tell above the tiny ripple of noises along the Roman line and the steady thud of blood pulsing through his skull. He felt an urge to edge his mount forward to the edge of the dip in which the vanguard was concealed, just to be certain that nothing was amiss. But he forced himself to resist. It was too late now. The plan was made, and the signal would be given at any moment. All that remained was to brace himself to charge, and hurl himself on the enemy.