Britannia

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Where’s the rest of the bloody fleet?’ Quintatus fumed at Cato as he surveyed the bay below the headland. In the choppy grey water a trireme and four smaller, more slender biremes lay at anchor off the thin strip of sand that ran along the shore. The beach, such as it was, was too small and the surf too shallow to beach the vessels safely, and so they rocked, masts swaying, some fifty paces from the shore. A small fort was under construction on the opposite headland, the workforce of marines and sailors being screened by pickets from the Blood Crows. There was no sign of the rest of the warships that had been expected to meet the army on the coast, nor of the shallow-bottomed transports that were needed to ferry the troops across the channel separating the mainland from the island of Mona.

Behind the legate stood his staff officers and the mounted contingent of his bodyguard. The party had ridden ahead of the main column in response to Cato’s report that he had located the first elements of the fleet. Some five miles to the rear, the army was trudging along a coastal track and should reach the bay in good time to construct a marching camp before nightfall. The advance had slowed after they had reached the Deceanglian capital and moved on, leaving a smouldering ruin in their wake. The enemy had harried the column all the way, launching swift attacks the instant it began to string out, and fleeing to cover when the Romans formed up to repulse them. Reports had come in that the follow-up supply convoys were also being attacked. Quintatus had been obliged to keep his army in close formation, slowing its pace, and had detached one of his cavalry cohorts to patrol his lines of communication and attempt to fend off attacks on the convoys.

All of which was gravely concerning to Cato. The legate’s original plan for the campaign had been a swift strike through the heart of the mountains to destroy the Deceanglians before laying waste the Druid stronghold of Mona and then returning to base before the winter set in. But the season was now well advanced, and even though it had not rained for five days, the temperature had dropped to below freezing overnight, so that the water froze in the men’s canteens, and frost had to be swept from their goatskin tents before they were struck down. Any advantage to be gained from easier passage over the hard ground had been offset by the need to slow the advance in the face of the enemy’s harassing attacks. That morning had seen the first fall of snow, a brief flurry descending from heavy clouds before the wind had swept them away to leave a thin patina of white nestling on the boughs of trees and the rock and grass of the higher ground. There would be more, Cato knew, and should it be heavy, then the army would struggle to retreat from the mountains, let alone continue to advance deeper into enemy territory. All hinged on a rapid descent on Mona, a decisive victory, and an untroubled return to winter quarters. None of which seemed likely, especially given the misfortune that had struck the fleet as it had made its way up the coast to join the army.

Cato’s forward patrols had found the handful of ships in the bay the afternoon before and spoken with the shaken trierarchs in command before setting them to work constructing the fort. He had sent a message back to the legate with the briefest details, which had resulted in this encounter on the headland to make his full report.

‘As you know, sir, the fleet was hit by a storm three days ago and scattered. The survivors in the bay say that they witnessed some ships founder before they lost sight of the others and made the best speed they could to find the nearest shelter once they had rounded Mona. I have sent a patrol further along the coast to search for any sign of the rest of the fleet. They will return and report at dusk.’

‘Well, they had better find some more ships for me. We need them, and the transports, if we are going to take Mona.’

‘Yes, sir.’

It was an obvious point, and Cato realised that it had only been proffered out of anxiety. He could see that the legate’s expression was strained, and for an instant he felt a flicker of sympathy for his commander. This campaign was supposed to deal a knockout blow to the native tribes’ willingness to continue their ultimately futile resistance to Rome. It was intended to bring peace, and with that the acclaim that would have been bestowed on Quintatus. Instead the campaign had been beset by misfortune and was now in danger of becoming undone thanks to the onset of winter and the enemy’s stubborn refusal to meet the legions in battle. Then the moment of sympathy passed as Cato reflected that the legate might have allowed his ambitions to overreach his reason. A common failing in the political class of Rome, and a particular hazard when such ambition put at risk the lives of the men who served in the Roman army.

‘In the meantime,’ Quintatus continued, ‘how far are we from the channel?’

‘Less than a day’s march, sir. Nine, maybe ten miles along the coast from the bay.’

‘Good. Then we will make camp on the far headland.’ The legate turned to look for Titus Silanus. ‘I want a double ditch around the ramparts, since we are close to the enemy.’

The camp prefect nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it while I ride ahead with the vanguard to see Mona myself. It’ll be quite something to come face to face with the Druid lair.’ He lifted his voice so that the surrounding officers would hear him. ‘Gentlemen, when our mission here is complete, you will be dining out for the rest of your lives on tales of how you defeated the Druids!’

Some smiled at the prospect but most merely nodded dutifully, too cold and tired to make much effort to please their commander. Quintatus turned back to Cato. ‘Let’s go, then.’

For many days now, the most that the men of the Blood Crows had seen of the enemy was the distant clusters of horsemen who had tracked the Roman advance, never coming close enough to engage Cato’s outriders, always slipping away the moment the auxiliary cavalry drew uncomfortably close. Wary of having his men fall into a trap, Cato had issued standing orders that there would be no attempt to pursue, and so the two sides had kept watch on each other from afar as the column penetrated ever deeper into the mountains.

Now, as they crested the ridge that overlooked the channel separating Mona from the mainland, they caught sight of the enemy army for the first time since the campaign had begun. In the fading light no more than half a mile away, ranged along the shore of the channel, lay hundreds of shelters, and the smoke from fires swirled over the roofs of thatch and moss. The camp was protected on its landward side by a crude turf rampart and a shallow ditch that would not have passed muster in the poorest of auxiliary cohorts. Scores of wide-beamed boats were beached on the shore and three more were ferrying men across the channel, quarter of a mile wide at the narrowest point, Cato calculated. The tide was coming in, but had not yet submerged rows of sharpened stakes extending from a point on the far shore, revealing the presence of a possible route across to Mona at low tide. On the far side he could make out a further line of defences running along the shore and many more huts clustered on the sloping ground beyond. On both sides of the channel thousands of figures were visible.

‘We’ve got them!’ Quintatus made a fist. ‘We’ve finally got the bastards where we want them. Once we force them back on to the island, there’ll be no escape. They’ll be caught in a trap like the rats they are.’

The flat blast of a horn sounded from below, and a moment later the alarm was taken up by others and the noise swelled like a defiant challenge. At once the enemy warriors streamed through their shelters to line the ramparts, while those who had been foraging for firewood outside raced back to the gateways. Cato was impressed by the speed at which the Deceanglians had reacted. Moreover, they were well organised. Small parties of men formed up a short distance to the rear of the rampart to act as reserves, while mounted men raced out in front of the defences to form a picket line to investigate the intruders.

‘Sloppy watch-keeping,’ Quintatus mused. ‘We were almost on them before the alarm was raised. It is astonishing how long these savages have been able to defy us, given their dismal attempts at soldiering. Well, now they’re going to be taught a lesson they’ll not live to profit from.’

Cato made a quick estimate of the enemy’s strength, on both shores. ‘Several thousand, but no more than ten thousand, at the most, I’d say, sir. And many of them will be tribal levies.We have the edge in quality of men and equipment.’

‘Indeed. Nothing can keep victory from us now.’

‘I hope not, sir.’ Cato replied as he scrutinised the enemy positions. A boat was setting out from the island, with several figures in dark robes clustered in the bow observing the Romans in turn.

‘I say!’ One of the junior tribunes pointed. ‘Are those fellows in black Druids? I had dearly wished to see some in the flesh.’

The more experienced officers gave him pitying glances before turning their attention back to the scene below. As the Druids reached the shore, they dispersed along the length of the rampart, save one, who mounted a black horse and galloped out of the nearest gate towards a small cluster of horsemen beneath a long-tailed standard that writhed, serpent-like, in the strengthening breeze. Another signal blared out, and hundreds of riders began to concentrate around the standard.

‘I think it’s time we returned to the camp, sir,’ Cato suggested. ‘It looks like the locals are starting to resent our intrusion.’

The horsemen immediately around the serpent standard surged forward, and the rest followed, coming on at a fast pace directly towards the legate, his officers and the Blood Crows who were escorting them.

‘Fair point, Prefect. Let’s go.’

Quintatus took a last look at the enemy army and then pulled on his reins and turned his horse back down the narrow track leading along the coast towards the Roman marching camp. It was not long before a rider came up from the rear of the cavalry cohort to announce that the enemy were pursuing them. Cato looked back and saw that they had reached the ridge and were already streaming down the near side, half a mile behind the Blood Crows. He gave the order to increase the pace to a canter to keep some distance between them and the natives. There was no need to go any faster. Their pursuers had already ridden at full pelt up to the ridge and their mounts would soon be blown.

As they pounded along over the hard ground, he felt a brief sting on his face and blinked as something caught in his eye. Then he realised that snow was falling; small scattered flakes swirling through the wind that was blowing from the sea to their left. The leaden swell rolled in and spray exploded over the rocky shoreline, and it occurred to Cato that what was left of the fleet would be struggling to gain the safety of the bay where the first ships to arrive were anchored. The flurry did not last long, and as the clouds began to part, angled rays of golden sunlight spilled across the sea, illuminating the western faces of the hills and mountains and casting long shadows behind them. But it would not last, Cato realised, as he looked over his shoulder and saw a thick band of cloud swelling up. Beneath, the sea was blotted out by a grey veil of more snow as it swept in over Mona, heading for the mainland. The blizzard would strike soon.

The track crested a low rise, close to the sea. Cato looked back and was relieved to see that the enemy had called off the pursuit and reined in some distance behind the Blood Crows, sitting in their saddles as they shook their spears defiantly. Pausing to detach one squadron to keep an eye on the tribesmen, Cato ordered the column to slow to a walk as the legate and his staff led the way back to the camp, just beyond the headland.

Decurion Miro abruptly halted his mount and looked out to sea, then thrust out his hand. ‘Sir! Look there!’

Cato edged his horse over to the side of the track and stopped beside the decurion. Miro’s cry had been picked up by the legate and his staff, and they too halted, their gaze following the direction indicated.

‘What is it?’ Cato demanded.

‘A warship, sir. There!’

The heaving grey of the winter sea, flecked with whitecaps and brief sheets of spray, made it hard to pick out much detail. Then, two miles or so out at sea, Cato discerned the outline of an oared vessel as its sharp prow rose on the crest of a swell before plunging into a trough.

‘There’s more of them!’ one of the tribunes called. Straining his eyes Cato saw that there were indeed other vessels out there, running before the wind towards the coast. As they drew closer, he counted six warships, biremes, and several of the smaller, unwieldy, wide-beamed transports. Some had closely reefed sails while others were proceeding under jury rigs and oars as they strove to reach the safety of the bay before darkness fell. It would be a close thing, Cato decided. And the coming of night was not the only danger. Some miles behind the ships, the sky was almost black beneath the heavy pall of storm clouds racing across the grey swell of the sea. The Romans watched from their saddles a moment longer before Quintatus voiced what most of the others were already fearing.

‘They’re not going to make it.’

One of the junior tribunes turned towards him. ‘They’re not so far away, sir.’

‘Quiet, you fool. Can’t you see? The storm will be on them before they reach the bay. They haven’t got a chance.’

‘Poor devils,’ Cato muttered to himself. He could see that the legate was right, and watched the crews desperately drive their vessels on as the sea began to broil around them. White-capped waves rose and fell, and clouds of spray burst across their decks.

The full wrath of the storm struck home as the leading ships were no more than half a mile from the comparative safety of the bay. Even though the earlier arrivals were in the shelter of the headland, their commanders had laid out additional stern anchors to secure them in the rough waters, and the ships fetched up with sharp jerks against their cables as they were battered by the waves. But the men anxiously watching for any signs of the anchors dragging were in far less danger than their comrades battling the storm raging across the open sea a short distance away.

A collective gasp amongst the officers drew Cato’s attention back to the other ships just in time to see one of the transports struck side on by a large wave. She lurched drunkenly, men tumbling down the canted deck, before rolling over completely. For a moment there was no sign of the transport, or the men she had carried, as if the sea had swallowed them whole. Then the keel and the bottom of the hull broke the surface, glistening like the back of some large creature. Cato could just make out a handful of figures splashing in the sea nearby. One of them found the stern strake and climbed on to the hull, where he lay at full stretch, desperately holding on for his life as the icy waters burst over him. There was no hope of rescue by the other ships, whose crews were fighting for their own lives.

The wind and rain suddenly blasted over the headland, driving stinging sleet into the faces of the horsemen watching the disaster unfold. Cato’s cloak whipped about him, and his horse turned away from the wind and needed a firm hand to force it back into position.

‘Prefect Cato!’

He turned to see Quintatus beckoning to him, head hunched down into the folds of sodden cloth covering his shoulders. ‘Sir?’

‘There’s nothing we can do here. I’m returning to camp. You and your men are to stay and keep watch for the enemy. If there’s no further sign of them by nightfall, then post one of your squadrons on picket duty. The rest can return to camp.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted.

The legate urged his mount forward and trotted back on to the track leading towards the camp being constructed above the shore. His officers followed, icy sleet sweeping over them in the rising wind.

Beside Cato, Decurion Miro snorted bitterly. ‘Well thank you, Legate Quintatus. Just go and warm yourself by a fire while the rest of us freeze our arses off, why don’t you?’

‘That’s quite enough,’ Cato cut in. He looked round and saw a small copse a few hundred paces away. ‘Get the rest of the men over there and into what shelter you can find.’

Miro saluted and turned to give the order to the column of men huddled into their cloaks. As they moved off, Cato spared a glance for the men still on picket duty, keeping watch in the direction of Mona. There was at least an hour of daylight left that they would have to endure. But their suffering was as nothing compared to the fate of the crews on the ships making for the bay. The first of the warships was passing the rocks below the end of the headland, a line of dark jagged shapes amid the swirl of waves and bursts of spray. The trierarch wisely held his course for another quarter of a mile before steering into the bay. From his elevated position Cato could see the ranks of men at the oars straining to drive the ship on, and could imagine their dread and terror at being at the mercy of Neptune’s wrath. One by one the other warships and the first of the transports edged past the rocks and made for shelter.

But they were not safe yet. Cato felt his heart clench as he saw a transport’s mast snap and plunge over the side, the reefed sail acting as a drag that slewed the ship’s bow round to point towards the headland. At once the crew set to work, hacking desperately at the rigging to free the sail as the waves carried them in towards the rocks. Their work was hampered by the sea crashing over them and sweeping across the deck, and Cato could clearly see that they were doomed. Even if they cut themselves free, they would then have to rely on the long sweep oars, which were designed to manoeuvre such vessels over short distances. It would not be enough to keep them away from the rocks.

The last strand was cut and the broken mast and sail abruptly plunged into the sea and were swept past the stern of the transport. The oars, two on either side, were slid out and the first clumsy strokes heaved the ponderous ship round parallel to the line of rocks, a scant hundred paces away. Then, out of the storm, a huge wave rolled in, the steely grey mass lifting the ship and swinging the bows back towards the coast before dumping it much closer in so that it was obscured by the cloud of spray that burst over the rocks as the wave struck the shore. The crew strained at the oars, forcing the vessel back on its original course and driving it forwards through the tempest. Cato felt a surge of hope that they might be saved after all. Then another monstrous wave rolled in from the sleet-streaked gloom, gathering up the ship and carrying it high on its shoulders before it broke on the rocks.

As the water swirled away, Cato saw that the transport was wedged at an angle on top of the glistening black rocks, its back broken, the keel shattered on impact. There were still men on the deck, clinging on, doomed to live a little longer yet before the waves pounded the ship to pieces, and them along with it. Cato watched in horror, his stomach knotted with pity at their fate. Then he looked again at the rocks, the distance from them to the pebbled beach off which the three warships lay at anchor, and reached a decision.

Snatching at his reins, he spurred his horse into a gallop and caught up with Miro and the Blood Crows as they plodded through the sleet towards the trees.

‘Halt!’

The men stopped in their tracks. Cato reined in hard as he reached the waiting decurion, the blood pounding in his ears as he caught his breath and began.

‘Your squadron is to come with me. The rest can wait in those trees. Tell Aristophanes to take over and keep an eye on the enemy before you come after me.’

Miro frowned. ‘What exactly are you intending to do, sir?’

Cato quickly explained about the transport and the peril faced by its crew. ‘They can still be saved.’

‘Sounds like they’re already dead men, sir.’

Cato frowned. ‘Not while there’s still a chance. Not while we can do something. You have your orders, Decurion. Move!’

Leaving Miro to organise his men, Cato turned and spurred his horse down the slope towards the storm-lashed shore. In all probability the decurion was right. But he’d be damned if he would abandon any man to such a terrible fate while there was still the slimmest chance of saving him.