Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

‘Here we go again.’ Macro leaned on the parapet of the camp’s corner tower and looked down towards the crossing. It was late the following morning, and there had been a further fall of snow during the night. The camp, the artillery platforms, the earthworks on both sides of the river and the decks of the warships and transports lay under a gleaming blanket of white. Down by the water’s edge, the legionaries were formed up again, waiting for the order to advance across the mud to continue removing the obstacles blocking the route. Overhead whirred the bolts unleashed by the Roman artillery – the ‘morning hate’, as the common soldiers referred to the barrage of missiles raining down on the enemy positions. Not that it seemed to have any particular effect on the natives, Macro mused, watching the small puffs of dirt and splinters as the missiles struck the defences. The Deceanglians and their Druid leaders were keeping well under cover, waiting for the bombardment to cease before they took their turn against the legionaries attempting to remove the stakes from the crossing. Macro could see that they had used the cover of darkness to replace many of those obstacles removed the previous day.

‘Looks like it’s going to snow again,’ said Glaber as he stood beside Macro, watching proceedings.

Macro glanced up, then round at the band of dark clouds gathering over the mountains. ‘Just to add to our woes.’

Both officers turned their attention back to the tidal crossing point and watched quietly for a while before the tribune commented, ‘I find it hard to believe there isn’t an alternative way of going about this.’

‘Oh, there are a few alternatives all right, sir,’ Macro responded. ‘But since the storm destroyed almost all the transports and most of the fleet, an assault directly across the channel is off the menu. As is any question of making a landing elsewhere along the coast of Mona to get round their defences. I dare say the Druids have stockpiled plenty of supplies and we’d go hungry long before we could starve them out. If you want my opinion, the best thing the legate can do now is give up and withdraw to Mediolanum and have another crack at Mona in the spring, when he’s had a chance to replace the ships that were lost. But we know he won’t be doing that, thanks to the imminent arrival of the new governor. So that’s why he’ll stick with this approach, blunt as it is.’

‘Blunt is the word.’

They both looked down towards the raised and flattened ground of the artillery battery, where Quintatus was surveying the enemy positions stolidly while his officers clustered round a freshly lit brazier in which flames crackled fiercely and bright sparks flew a short distance into the air before dying away against the grey of the distant landscape of Mona. The legate waited until the tide had ebbed sufficiently to uncover enough ground for the leading century to advance on an eight-man front, then turned and gave an order. The headquarters trumpeters raised their brass instruments, puffed their cheeks and sounded the advance.

Just as had happened the previous day, the leading century tramped across the snow and down on to the stretch of mud leading towards Mona. And just as before, they were pelted with arrows and slingshot as they approached the stakes.

‘Good morning.’

Macro turned to see Cato climbing into the tower. His friend looked drawn and exhausted. Even so, he forced a bleak smile on to his lips as he approached Macro and Glaber.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Macro greeted him evenly, unsure of the tone he should adopt. He had lived with death for so long that it had become almost part of everyday life and there had been comrades he had grieved for, but nothing seemed to have prepared him for the pain he felt for his best friend’s loss. If there had been any way he could have traded his life for Julia’s, he would have freely done so. There was a haunted expression in Cato’s eyes that cut him to the quick, and he looked away towards the channel and cleared his throat as he struggled to find something to say.

‘The legate’s going straight at it again.’

Cato nodded. ‘Third day running, and we’re still not likely to gain the far shore for another three days, at least. It’s too slow.’

Glaber glanced at him. ‘Too slow for what, exactly?’

‘Those wagons you brought in yesterday were the first to reach the army for two days. With this snow, I expect the planned supply convoys are being held up. For that reason, or something more worrying.’

‘Such as?’

Cato hesitated before he replied. ‘What if Macro’s information is right? What if the reason we are not being supplied is because the enemy have cut us off? Either way, we’re going to be on half-rations before we ever get on to the island, and then we’ll have to fight our way across Mona step by step. Who knows how long that will take?’

Glaber considered this briefly. ‘Are you saying the army is in danger?’

Cato gave a short, dry laugh. ‘Tribune, the army is always in danger. The trick of it is to make sure that you are ready to respond to any potential peril that fate throws in your path. As the saying goes: proper planning and preparation prevent piss-poor performance. Our problem is that the legate’s original plan has been scuppered by the storm. That’s why we’re stuck with trying to force a passage across the causeway. Nor are we adequately provisioned to prepare for a siege. So on current form, I’d say that leaves us with the prospect of piss-poor performance. At the very least. My greater worry is that we’re in danger of being caught out on a limb, and Quintatus is refusing to accept that.’

‘Do you really think the enemy is planning to trap us here?’

‘We’ll know soon enough. I sent those patrols out, like I said. Before dawn so that they didn’t attract too much attention. If the enemy are lurking close by, we’ll find them.’

Macro regarded him with concern. The last he had seen of Cato before finding a billet with the Fourteenth Legion the previous night was his friend breaking down in tears. Now it seemed that Cato had permitted himself only a scant few hours of sorrow before taking up his duties again. It was doubtful that he had slept, and more than likely that he had not eaten, neither of which was advisable if there was a day’s soldiering to be done.

‘You should get some rest, sir, while you wait for the patrols to come back. I’ll wake you myself if there’s any news.’

A slight frown creased Cato’s brow. ‘Certainly not. There’s no need for that. I don’t need any rest, thank you, Centurion Macro.’

Macro was about to reply, wounded by the cutting formality. But then he thought better of it. Cato might be his friend, almost a brother or son to him, but he was also a senior officer and had forcefully reminded him of the fact in a way that brooked no informality. He swallowed before he replied tersely, ‘Yes, sir.’

There was an awkward silence as they all regarded the action taking place towards the shore of Mona. A screen of legionaries was doing its best to block the enemy missiles as their colleagues wrestled with the obstacles driven into the seabed. As the three men watched, one of the soldiers was struck down by an arrow piercing his neck. He stumbled back and then fell to his knees in the mud as blood coursed over his shoulder and down his arm. He swayed a moment, dizzy from loss of blood, and then folded on to his side and lay in the mud, writhing fitfully. The leading century’s optio detailed two men to help him, and they dragged the wounded legionary back to the safety of the dressing station on the near shore before rejoining their comrades.

A voice called out from below. ‘Where’s Prefect Cato?’

‘Up there, sir. In the tower.’

Moments later, boots sounded on the floor below, the ladder creaked and Decurion Miro climbed on to the platform to join the others. He hurried across to Cato and saluted.

‘Sir, beg to report, but we’ve had word from one of the patrols. They’ve sighted an enemy force not far from the camp.’

The other officers exchanged anxious looks before Cato responded. ‘How far from the camp?’

‘No more than five miles away, to the east, right across our supply route. In the vale, there, sir.’ Miro indicated the gap between two hills not far from the camp.

‘What’s their strength?’

‘The optio reported seeing thousands of them, sir.’

Cato turned to Macro and raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems your information was right.’

‘Not that you doubted me, of course.’

‘Have I ever?’ He turned back to Miro. ‘Where is the optio now?’

‘Still with his patrol, sir. He’s keeping tabs on the enemy. He sent one of his men back with the information. He’s waiting below. Shall I send him on to headquarters, sir?’

Cato considered for a moment. ‘I’ll go with him. You have the rest of the cohort called to arms and formed up outside the camp. Dismissed.’

As Miro hurried away, Cato turned to Macro and Glaber. ‘Will you join me? I’d appreciate someone witnessing this.’

Macro was surprised. ‘Why? What difference can it make?’

‘No, he’s right,’ said Glaber. ‘If we get out of this, Quintatus may well cast about for a scapegoat. You think ahead, sir. That’s a good quality.’

‘It’s a survival strategy. I’ve enough experience of the senior ranks to know how this works. Let’s go. You going to be able to keep up, Macro?’

The latter grinned. ‘Just try and stop me, sir.’

They descended the tower and emerged in its shadow, where a trooper stood to attention as he saw them.

‘Phalko, isn’t it?’ said Cato.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Follow us, Phalko.’

They marched out of the gate, across the boarded ditch and made for the headquarters party close to the main artillery battery. Macro walked stiffly, pushing himself to keep up and grimacing with the effort of fighting the shooting pain in his leg. They were passed through the outer cordon and approached Quintatus and his staff officers as they watched the latest attempt to breach the lines of defence blocking the tidal crossing to Mona. Cato brushed aside the camp prefect and made his way towards the legate, turning to address Phalko at his side.

‘Just repeat what the optio told you to say. And if Quintatus asks you any questions, make sure you give him as much detail as you can recall, particularly on the number of the enemy. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Quintatus noticed their approach out of the corner of his eye and half turned towards Cato. ‘Prefect Cato, what is it?’

Cato did not hesitate before replying. ‘We’ve been set a trap, sir. Centurion Macro’s information is correct. One of my patrols just reported that they have sighted the enemy.’

‘One of your patrols? What patrols? I never gave any such order.’

‘The men were sent out on my authority, sir.’

‘Your authority?’ Quintatus’s nostrils flared. ‘And unless something has happened that has escaped my notice, have you replaced me as commander of this army, Prefect Cato?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then how is it that you decide to order your men to go looking for the enemy without clearing it with headquarters first?’

Cato knew better than to enter into such an altercation. Besides, there was no time for it. He spoke forcefully, and loud enough for many of the staff officers to hear. ‘Sir, we can deal with the breach of protocol later. The important issue is that the enemy are close at hand and the army is in danger. This man,’ he indicated Phalko, ‘has ridden from the patrol. Tell the legate what you saw, Trooper.’

Phalko stood stiffly as he made his report. ‘We’d ridden perhaps five miles from the camp, sir. We were in this valley and it got a bit misty, like. That’s when the optio orders us up a hill to get an overview of the surrounding terrain. We climbed above the mist but still couldn’t see much, apart from the tops of hills. The sun broke through the clouds for a bit and the mist began to thin out down in the valley. And that’s when we saw ’em, sir. The enemy. Coming out of the mist. A cavalry screen first, then the head of the main column. They was still a few miles off, so the optio says we should wait until we can get a better idea of their strength before we turn back to report. But they kept coming, sir. By the thousand. That’s when the optio sends me back to raise the alarm.’

Quintatus looked doubtful as he considered the man’s report. ‘How many men exactly?’

The trooper hesitated. ‘The optio told me to say at least ten thousand, sir.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I ain’t good at numbers, sir. But I’d say there’s at least as many of the bastards as we’ve got. Maybe more.’

‘Sounds just like Centurion Macro said, sir,’ said Cato. ‘In which case, there is every reason to accept the rest of the intelligence he brought you.’

The legate took a deep breath and gritted his teeth as he considered the situation. Then he let out an explosive sigh and turned to his staff officers. ‘Silanus! Call off the attack. Post a cohort to guard our side of the tidal crossing. Then I want five cohorts of the Fourteenth, together with Iberian archers, up to cover the mouth of that valley. At the double. We could do with some cavalry as well.’

Silanus bowed his head as Cato cleared his throat. ‘I’ve given orders for the Blood Crows to prepare for action, sir.’

Quintatus stared hard at him. ‘It seems you are a step ahead of me, Prefect.’

Cato kept quiet.

‘Very well, send your men ahead to cover the lads of the Fourteenth. But you stay here. I’ll need to hold a full briefing for all unit commanders, once I’ve considered our options.’

‘What about the artillery, sir?’ asked Silanus. ‘Shall I have the carts brought up and the bolt-throwers broken down?’

‘No. If the Druids see that, they’ll know for sure we plan a retreat. Besides, if they try to break out from Mona, then we can cut ’em down the moment they venture out of their earthworks.’ Quintatus took one last, longing look at the far shore and turned away. ‘All senior officers to headquarters at once!’

By the time Cato joined the others in the largest of the headquarters tents, the rest of the patrols had returned with news of more sightings of the enemy. Small mounted bands for the most part, scouting ahead and along the flanks of the main force. The patrols were sent to join the rest of the force sent to block the mouth of the valley. Fortunately, it was narrow, and steep rocky slopes and crags looming up on either side restricted the frontage. The legionaries had carried some field fortifications with them, and baskets of iron caltrops to swiftly scatter before their lines to break up any charges by the rapidly approaching native army. Despite the continued presence of the artillery batteries and the troops along the shore of the mainland, the Druids and their followers had already guessed the significance of the cancellation of the attack and the movement of men towards the mountains. The sound of cheering carried across the waters of the channel, and clusters of figures lined the high ground behind the defences as they looked for the first sign of their allies’ arrival to close the trap on the Roman army.

The mood in the tent was grim, and the only warmth came from a brazier at one end. Constant footfall and the heat of bodies had melted the snow and ice and rendered the ground muddy and slick, and the officers waited for the legate to appear from his private quarters, where he had been conferring with the camp prefect and his closest staff officers. Cato crossed to the tent flap and ducked his head outside. The scattered breaks in the cloud that had flitted across the sea and mountains at noon had given way to an uninterrupted overcast that was the colour of grimy linen. More snow was on the way, then, he mused. It would hinder the enemy as much as the Roman army, but the critical difference was that the legionaries and auxiliaries were a long way from their base and their supply line had been severed, whereas the enemy were on their own soil and could draw on the supplies of grain and meat that had been stockpiled by the natives of these mountains.

‘So what do you think?’

Cato turned to see Glaber standing at his shoulder. ‘I think it’s going to snow again.’

The tribune flashed a smile. ‘Very funny. I mean what do you think he’ll do?’

Cato let the flap slip back into place. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

‘You’re very reticent about offering an opinion all of a sudden.’

‘The legate has as much information as he needs. The decision is his, not mine. I’m not going to second-guess him. Especially not in front of the man who represents his incoming superior.’

Glaber stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not a spy, and I’m not gathering information to dish the dirt on anyone. I’m just an officer like everyone else in this tent, and I’m in the same predicament. I’m just curious to hear your professional opinion on our situation. That’s all.’

‘My professional opinion is that the legate is in command and will take the course of action he decides is most prudent. It is my further opinion that officers below the rank of legate should avoid being embroiled in politics as far as they possibly can, if they know what’s good for them.’ Cato paused, then added, ‘Speaking from personal experience.’

‘Oh?’ Glaber cocked his head to one side. ‘Care to elaborate?’

‘No.’ Cato stepped round the tribune. ‘Excuse me.’

He made his way back over to Macro, stifling a yawn. His eyes ached and the thick atmosphere inside the tent was making him feel tired and a little nauseous. Macro folded his thick arms and ground his teeth.

‘By the time he’s finished conferring with his cronies, it’ll be bloody Saturnalia at this rate.’

Before Cato could reply, Silanus appeared through the flaps leading to the legate’s private tent and stood to one side as he announced, ‘Commanding officer present!’

At once all conversation ceased and the officers stood to attention as Quintatus entered, followed by a handful of tribunes and Legate Valens. Quintatus waited until everyone was still and then nodded to the camp prefect.

‘At ease!’

Allowing a brief pause to gather his officers’ attention, Quintatus began his briefing. ‘As you know, a large enemy force has appeared to our rear. No doubt that’s why none of our supply convoys have reached us in the past few days. And that’ll mean we have to manage the supplies we have in camp very carefully. But the immediate danger is that we are caught between the new force and the enemy opposing us on Mona. At the moment we’ve blocked their advance at the mouth of the valley. But we can be sure they will find a way round during the night, or tomorrow morning. At the same time, we can reckon on the Druids and their friends pulling up their obstacles in preparation for attacking us from Mona.

‘Given the new situation, we have little time to decide on the best course of action. We could try to throw our full weight across the channel and take the island. Then we could easily hold the enemy’s main force off for as long as we needed.’ He smiled. ‘It would be pleasing to see them put up with what our lads have endured the last few days. The trouble is, any attempt to force a crossing would be costly, and if the Druids attempt a scorched-earth policy, then we’d be bottled up on Mona without anything to eat over the winter. Not an appealing prospect, gentlemen. So I’ve decided, very reluctantly, to withdraw to Mediolanum.’

The officers stirred a little uneasily, and Cato could well understand why. The army had suffered hundreds of casualties to get to this point, and just when it seemed that the Druids were about to be eliminated once and for all, they would escape destruction.

‘I have no choice,’ Quintatus continued. ‘And believe me, I know that I will have to face the consequences when word of this reaches Rome. But that can’t be helped. If we tried to take the island we would most likely fail and be crushed between the two enemy forces. If Mona cannot be taken, then it is my duty to try and save the army.’ The legate stepped aside and gestured to one of his tribunes. ‘Livonius, the map, if you please.’

The tribune and his scribe, Hieropates, brought forward a wooden frame upon which hung the map they had been drafting each day since the army had begun the campaign. When it was in place, Livonius stood to one side as the legate continued his briefing, indicating the most recent additions to the map.

‘That’s where we are, gentlemen. Over a hundred miles from Mediolanum by the route we took. Now that the enemy has chosen to deny that to us, we face a choice. Our first option is that we attempt to batter our way through them and retrace our steps. Man for man we are better soldiers than they are, but we can expect heavy losses. They outnumber us – substantially once their garrison on Mona tips the scales. If, and more likely when, that happens, they’ll be able to attack us from the front and rear at the same time. Not a happy prospect. Even if we do break through their main army, we’ll have to fight every inch of the way along the route back to Mediolanum, with this snow only making matters worse. We’ll struggle with the baggage train, that’s for certain.’

He paused to let his words sink in and then indicated the coastline. ‘The alternative, which I prefer, is to take this route, towards the fortress at Deva. Not so direct as far as returning to Mediolanum is concerned, but easier going for our wagons. It presents one clear danger, namely that if the enemy hit us from the front, flank and rear, then we’ll have our backs to the shore, and if we are forced to fight a major engagement and lose, we’ll be driven into the sea. In that case, the entire army will be lost.’

Cato knew that the loss of the army would have far-reaching consequences. The destruction of the best part of two legions and their attached auxiliary units would greatly enhance the authority of the Druids and inspire every Celtic warrior who hated Rome to rise up in revolt. There would be too few soldiers left in Britannia to put them down and the stark possibility that the new governor would land on the island with no province left to rule.

‘The trick of it,’ Quintatus continued, ‘is to keep moving as fast as we can along the coast. If we can hold off their army for long enough to get our men on the move, the enemy will not be able to block our line of march and will be forced to follow us, even if their two forces combine. They’ll be snapping at our heels, to be sure, and the rearguard will have its work cut out, but we’ll be able to cover our retreat until we’re clear of the mountains in seven or eight days’ time. As long as we keep the column closed up and maintain the pace, we should be able to withdraw without too much difficulty. Any comments or questions?’

There was a brief pause as the officers reflected on what they had been told. Then Legate Valens raised a hand and Quintatus nodded at him.

‘Whichever route we choose, sir, the men and horses will need feeding. We haven’t been resupplied for some days already. How well provisioned is the army at the moment?’

‘The camp prefect can tell you the answer to that.’

Silanus cleared his throat and glanced round the tent. ‘We have two days’ full rations left for the men and three days’ feed for horses and mules.’

There was some anxious muttering amongst the officers before Quintatus called for silence and addressed them steadily. ‘That is why I have given orders that the men are to go on half-rations as of this moment. You will inform your quartermasters accordingly. There will be some units that carry more than three days’ stock of barley and meat. They will report their excess to Silanus. The same applies to those units with less than two days’ rations. What we have will be shared fairly. That goes for the officers too. Each one of us must accept the same as the men. Any private stocks of food and wine will be surrendered to headquarters. If anyone is caught hoarding, I will treat it the same way I would treat theft – the individual concerned will be beaten by his comrades and denied food or shelter until we reach Mediolanum.’

Given the situation, and the arrival of bitterly cold winter weather, such a punishment was as good as a death sentence, and every man in the tent knew it. There was silence, except for the low moan of the rising wind outside.

‘Very well, I think we can all appreciate the need to move as swiftly as possible. The army will start leaving the camp as soon as darkness falls. Our wounded will be transferred to the surviving warships and transports to make their way along the coast ahead of us. At least they will be spared the discomfort and danger of the march. The artillery will be broken down under cover of darkness and loaded on to their carts. The camp will be abandoned. We can’t afford to waste time demolishing it. We’ll leave a few of our dead set up on the rampart to look like we’re still here. It won’t fool the enemy for long, but it may buy us a few hours at least. The force blocking the mouth of the valley will be relieved at dusk by the remaining cohorts from the Fourteenth, and Prefect Cato’s Thracians and the archers can remain in place. They will light campfires and arrange more of our dead around them before pulling back to join the column on the march. With a bit of luck we will be several miles away before the enemy are aware that we have gone. After that, gentlemen, the race is on.’

Cato quietly sucked in a breath. Some race, he reflected. The army, hungry and cold, would have to march through ice and snow without let-up. Those too slow to keep their place in the line of march would lag behind and be at the mercy of the Druids and their allies. The only prize offered in this race was survival, at a terrible cost in suffering and danger. The price of losing would be that every man standing there in the tent, every man in the camp beyond, would die. For himself he cared little. What did life mean to him now that Julia was no longer there? He felt an awful abyss filled with grief opening up before him and forced himself to step back. He had to be strong, for the sake of his men, for Macro, and for his son. Until the campaign was over. Only then could he afford the luxury of grief.