Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XV

‘Where the fuck are we?’ Magnus grumbled, peering into the thick fog that had greeted them upon waking an hour before dawn.

Vespasian took a bite from a hunk of bread. ‘The same place as we camped yesterday evening, I would have thought, alongside a trackway about three miles from Cantiacum; unless of course some god of the Britons has swooped down and moved ten thousand men during the night to somewhere inconvenient.’

‘Everywhere on this island’s inconvenient.’

‘Not true. This trackway is very convenient; it will lead us directly to Cantiacum. What is inconvenient is the fog and the fact that Adminios’ emissaries haven’t yet returned and he’s not due back until the second hour of the morning. I need to know the mood of the town before I dare move forward blind in case we’re attacked from the flank; I won’t be able to send out covering patrols because just west of here the trackway passes through very wet land with marshes to either side.’

‘There you go, then, they’re inconvenient.’

‘Not to the Britons they’re not; Adminios warned me about feeling complacent if my flank was protected by marsh; the locals know their way through, even in fog. I wouldn’t like to be taken in the flank with only a swamp to fall back on; remember what happened to Varus.’

‘So we wait, then?’

‘Yes, old friend, we have to wait for the fog to lift but every hour we delay is another hour’s warning for the Britons. Hopefully Adminios’ emissaries will be back soon and we’ll know more. I’ll see you later.’ Vespasian turned and walked back through the marching camp’s gates.

He threaded his way through huddles of cold legionaries taking a miserable breakfast, fires being impossible in the conditions. Grumbling to one another about spending the night under a heavy sky with no more than a blanket each to protect them from the elements, they did not lower their voices as he passed. Vespasian disdained to notice the complaints but resolved to chase up the mule train with their leather tents that had arrived at Rutupiae with the third wave of the landings.

The landing itself had been an anti-climax in that it was unopposed and uneventful; which is exactly what the prayers at the numerous sacrifices made before the fleet sailed at midnight had asked for. Although the livers indicated that the gods seemed to favour their endeavour and the sacred chickens had pecked at their grain in an auspicious manner, there had been a time when every man thought that they may have been deserted by the divine. Mid-voyage the wind had got up and had started to blow them back to Gaul; the light from Caligula’s massive lighthouse at Gesoriacum, made in imitation of the Pharos at Alexandria, had started growing in size again for a couple of hours no matter how hard the rowers strained at the oars. Their minds were eventually put at rest, however, by a dazzling shooting star streaking across the night sky heading west in the direction that they would conquer. The wind had soon died, easing their churning stomachs as they squatted on the vomit-slick decks, and as dawn broke the coast of Britannia was in full view; and it had been empty. Plautius’ hunch had proved correct: the Britons had disbanded their army and there was no dark horde shadowing them north along the coast to oppose their landing.

Plautius had been the first man ashore, keeping the promise he had made to his men once they had finally mastered their mirth the day before. Being unaware of how the politics in Rome were developing, the experience of the Emperor’s wishes being conveyed to them by his freedman had seemed so upside-down to them that when Plautius made a final appeal to their honour they had acquiesced to him with a mighty series of cheers. Vespasian had supposed that this had been mainly because they were pleased to have the established order of things returned in the shape of a general of high birth commanding them — although they had been visibly impressed by the resurrection of the Eagle as well as Plautius’ offer of a bounty of ten denarii per man.

They had struck camp and begun the embarkation immediately — an efficient operation owing to the months of practice — and the first wave had sailed twelve hours later as the tide turned. Vespasian and Sabinus’ wave left an hour after that in the hopes that they would be at the landing area soon after dawn. But the wind had delayed them and it was midday by the time the II Augusta clattered down the ramps onto the beach and formed up on the crunching shingle just as they had done in training, so many times before. Vespasian had allowed his men to eat a cold meal of bread and dried pork whilst remaining in formation as Paetus’ cavalry patrols ranged out. They had returned an hour later to report nothing between the beach and Cantiacum except a few deserted farms with fires still glowing in the hearths; the Britons had pulled back and Plautius ordered the advance.

Sabinus had taken his legion south and Vespasian had led the II Augusta, accompanied by Adminios and his fellow exiles, along a well-used trackway west as the third wave of ships had appeared on the horizon beyond the island now occupied by Corvinus and the VIIII Hispana.

After three hours’ marching, Vespasian had, on Adminios’ advice, called a halt on the last dry ground before entering an area of low-lying marshland between two rivers, to give them time to build the huge marching camp, necessary for so many men, before nightfall. Adminios’ emissaries had continued on to Cantiacum to ascertain the mood of the town and, if possible, negotiate its surrender, whilst Adminios himself went to the meeting with his loyal kinsmen to the north close to the estuary. Vespasian had hoped that the emissaries would be back by nightfall, but now, twelve hours later, they had still not returned; it was the only thing of concern in what had been otherwise a remarkably smooth operation, Vespasian thought, as he headed for the praetorium — that and, of course, the fog.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Mucianus greeted him as he entered the praetorium, which was, naturally, just an area marked out on the ground because their baggage was yet to catch up with them; the legion’s Eagle and cohort standards stood at one end guarded by a contubernium of eight men. ‘I’ve just received the verbal reports from all the senior centurions from each cohort both legionary and auxiliary: we are less than a hundred men down from our full strength and the mood of the lads is good apart from being cold, damp and in need of a hot meal.’

‘And a hot woman, no doubt?’

Mucianus grinned. ‘Well, there’s always that, sir; it seems pointless wasting your time reporting it to you.’

‘Thank you for your consideration, tribune, I shall be sure to mention that in my report to Plautius. Tell Maximus to bring Adminios to me as soon as he returns to camp.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As Mucianus left the praetorium, Vespasian sat down on the moist blanket that had been his only shelter during his brief few hours of sleep, pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and chewed on his hunk of bread as he contemplated his options should Adminios’ men not return.

Maximus, the prefect of the camp, approached what would have been the entrance to the tent with Adminios and snapped to attention, bringing Vespasian out of his thoughts. ‘Permission to enter, sir?’

Vespasian beckoned them through, standing. ‘Did your kin submit, Adminios?’

Adminios waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, but they only count for a couple of thousand warriors.’

‘That’s a couple of thousand swords fewer pointing at our backs.’

Adminios grunted a reluctant assent. ‘But it was good to see them after five years of exile.’

‘I’m sure. So, what do you think about your emissaries?’

‘They’ll be back very soon, legate, they would have left shortly after dawn.’

‘What’s taken them so long?’

‘They’ve been drinking.’

‘Drinking?’

‘Yes, they’ve evidently negotiated the town’s surrender with the elders otherwise they would have come back — or been killed; it’s our custom to seal a deal like that with an all-night drinking session.’

‘How do you know they haven’t been murdered?’

‘One would’ve been sent back alive with his tongue cut out if the elders had decided to kill them, to emphasise that negotiations were over.’

‘Then we’re safe to approach the town in column seeing as the marsh prevents us from deploying in battle order?’

The exiled King nodded.

Vespasian’s mind was made up. ‘Maximus, have Paetus send a couple of turmae along the trackway and report back within the hour. The men will strike camp; I want them ready to move as soon as the fog lifts enough to see a hundred paces ahead. We’re already behind schedule; there’s not a moment to lose.’

Maximus turned and barked an order at the bucinator on duty outside the praetorium; he lifted his horn to his lips and blew a call of five notes. The call was taken up by his fellows in each cohort, invisible in the fog, and was then replaced by the shouts of centurions and optiones rousing their men from the remains of their cold breakfast; soon, from all around, Vespasian could hear the fog-dulled sounds of a legion preparing to march. ‘Adminios, come with me back to the gate, I want to talk to your men as soon as they’re here.’

Magnus was still there, chatting with the centurion of the watch, when they arrived. ‘I thought you weren’t going to move until the fog lifts or you knew whether the town was ours or not, sir.’

‘It’s a calculated risk that I have to take; Plautius will tear me apart if I’m not at Cantiacum soon, I’m late enough as it is.’

‘Yeah but that ain’t your fault; we were late landing and couldn’t make it all the way last night, and then this.’ He waved a hand in the swirling air.

Vespasian looked at Magnus with raised eyebrows.

‘Ah, stupid of me. This is the army. Of course it’s your-’

A challenge shouted by one of the sentries cut him off. Twenty paces away along the trackway silhouettes slowly materialised.

‘Is that your men, Adminios?’ Vespasian asked, feeling a deep relief.

‘Yes, legate; I’ll speak to them.’

Adminios walked forward to greet his followers as two turmae of Paetus’ Batavians, led by Ansigar, rode out of the gate; the decurion saluted Vespasian and gave Magnus a cheery wave before disappearing into the fog.

Adminios’ men dismounted and, after a few words with their King, they approached Vespasian with bloodshot eyes and reeking of alcohol.

‘We may walk into the town, legate,’ Adminios informed him, ‘the elders will open the gates.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘There’s just one problem.’

Vespasian’s face fell. ‘What?’

‘Yes, a lot of the young warriors didn’t like the elders’ decision. About a thousand slipped away during the night in the fog to join Caratacus in the Atrebates’ main township southwest of the Afon Cantiacii. By tonight he’ll know that we’re here.’

Vespasian closed his eyes. ‘Plautius will crucify me.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you stop them and kill them, legate?’ Plautius exploded as Vespasian reported the embarrassing news to his general upon the latter’s arrival at Cantiacum, two days later.

Vespasian winced at the ferocity of the question. ‘We didn’t have time to get to the town on the first day, sir. With two hours until sundown I had a choice between making camp or leading my men through three miles of marsh that the tail of the column wouldn’t have cleared until well after dark.’

‘But you would have been on schedule! And you could’ve had the town surrounded and killed any long-hairs that decided they didn’t like us. But instead you do the worst possible combination of things: you leave the town open but send a delegation to announce that we’ll be arriving tomorrow and get the elders to declare for us, leaving time for all the young fire-eaters to piss off west to fill the ranks of Caratacus’ army. Idiot!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vespasian admitted, burning with shame inside, due as much to realising now the magnitude of his mistake as to the amused looks on the faces of Corvinus and Geta as he received this very public dressing-down. Only Sabinus remained neutral as Plautius paced up and down his tent. Rain drummed on the roof, increasing and decreasing in intensity with each gust of wind. The musty smell of damp woollen clothing pervaded the atmosphere.

‘In war delay can be fatal, legate,’ Plautius continued once he had collected himself somewhat. ‘Just read Caesar again if you want to understand the importance of seizing the initiative with quick action.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why didn’t you send cavalry out after them as soon as you were told?’

‘The fog was-’

‘The fog! We all had fog; you’re going to have to get used to the fucking fog in this damp arsehole of the world. If you’d sent cavalry immediately they could have at least been closer to the bastards by the time the fog lifted; they were on foot, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Yes, sir; I’m sorry, sir.’

Plautius glared at Vespasian for a few moments before letting out a huge sigh. ‘Well, it’s done now and a thousand men is not such a great number in the scheme of things. But let that be a lesson to you, Vespasian: next time I order you to do something, you do it unless you can show me the evidence that Jupiter himself came down and personally gelded you and put out your eyes in order to stop you; because if you can’t, that’s what I’ll do to you. Do you understand me?’

Vespasian winced again. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Sit down.’

Vespasian sat back down next to Sabinus as Geta and Corvinus exchanged an amused glance.

‘Stop smirking,’ Plautius growled at them as he sat at his desk. ‘I expect it’s not the last mistake that will happen on this trip but I’m sure it’s the last that Vespasian will make. Now, to business, gentlemen.’ He unravelled a scroll and perused it for a few moments before looking back up at his subordinates. ‘So far it’s gone reasonably smoothly. To sum up: Sabinus found no one to the south worth mentioning, we’ve seized the harbour by the white cliffs and the navy has started work on it. We have a large squadron in the Tamesis estuary to our north and Rutupiae is secure and work has started on the port. The Ninth has occupied Geta’s camp and has already laid two miles of temporary road from there towards us. Adminios is in place as our puppet and has received the loyalty of the local sub-tribes and a civil administration favourable to us is being created under the watchful eye of Sentius. Our cavalry patrols report that there is no large enemy force between us and the Afon Cantiacii and the bridge is still standing. So with our rear and flanks secure we start our push west immediately. I want your legions ready to march two hours after this briefing ends; is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’ all four legates replied simultaneously.

‘Good. That was the easy part; from now on we’ve lost all elements of surprise and the Britons know the land far better than we do. We shall move forward on a broad front, quickly, but taking care not to damage too much of the farmland; I want a good harvest growing behind us as I don’t intend that either our lads or the tribes that surrender to us should go hungry this winter. Sabinus’ Fourteenth will be my centre; it’s mainly undulating ground between here and the river so there’s no need to deviate unless the enemy appear. Your auxiliaries will act as the army’s forward scouts.

‘Geta, your Twentieth will take the right flank. You will keep to within two miles of Sabinus. Your task is twofold: firstly to stop anything getting around that flank, and secondly to keep in contact with the squadron in the estuary who will be supplying us. Your auxiliaries will be busy.

‘Vespasian, your Second will be our left flank. You will advance along the north side of these downs with your auxiliaries taking the high ground. I want regular reports from the south side; it wouldn’t do to have an army sneak past us that way.

‘Corvinus, the Ninth will guard our rear. Two of your auxiliary cohorts will stay in Rutupiae making the camp a permanent structure. Another two will carry on constructing the road; I want nothing fancy, we’ll build a proper one when we have the time and slaves to do it. Just make it so that it can take wheeled transport. I want your cavalry alae patrolling the south making our presence felt amongst the locals so that they get used to us. The legion and the rest of your cohorts will follow half a day’s march behind us just in case something slips behind our backs.

‘You will all take your own baggage with you now that it’s caught up; the siege train and other heavy stuff will advance with the Ninth. Any questions, gentlemen?’

‘Will the Ninth always have to tag along in the rear?’ Corvinus asked with more than a hint of derision in his voice.

‘You will address me as sir or general, legate!’ Plautius snapped, slamming his fist down on the desk top. ‘Being the Empress’ brother does not put you above me here. This is an army in a war zone not a dinner party on the Palatine; do you understand me, lad?’

Corvinus all but recoiled at the vehemence of the put-down and the insult. The muscles in his cheeks tensed and re-tensed. ‘Yes, general,’ he answered eventually.

‘That’s the second time you’ve questioned my orders recently; there’ll not be a third. The Ninth will do as it’s told; it will be our rearguard for this river but it’ll be the freshest legion when we come to the Tamesis and then it’ll see hard fighting. Once we’ve secured the Tamesis crossing and whilst we’re waiting for Claudius, your legion will head south and place Verica on his throne and then take Vectis in preparation for the push west next season; so you’ll have plenty to do. I know from our time in Pannonia together that you’re up to it, Corvinus; that’s why I didn’t object when you were made a part of this army.’ Plautius pointed his finger threateningly at Corvinus’ face. ‘Don’t give me cause to regret it.’ He rolled up his scroll and then stood and addressed the other three legates. ‘We march in two hours; that gives you four hours before you’ll need to build camps for the night. By then I want Vespasian and Geta’s legions in the positions I’ve given you either side of Sabinus ready for a hard day’s march tomorrow. I intend to be at the Afon Cantiacii by dusk the following day; let’s hope that we don’t find it held against us. Dismiss, gentlemen.’

The sun warmed Vespasian’s face for the first time since arriving in Britannia as he and Magnus, accompanied by a turma of the II Augusta’s legionary cavalry, rode up the grass-covered northern slope of the hills on the left flank of the army’s advance. With the sun out, the landscape took on a completely different aspect. Gone was the gloom of dripping vegetation and rain-spattered puddles on mud-churned ground, all pressed down upon by a heavy, grey sky that seemed so low as to be touchable. In its stead was a lush, green countryside of pasture, woods and freshly sprouting wheat fields; the air was clear and fresh, and with the warmth returning to his body Vespasian felt that it might not be such a miserable land after all.

It had been two days since Plautius’ briefing and the advance had been as fast as it had been uneventful; the only obstacles to their progress had been the weather and the occasional enemy cow or sheep, which invariably found its way to the cooking fires of whichever century claimed the honour of tackling such a fearsome foe.

‘I’m beginning to think that a plague has wiped out almost every living thing west of Cantiacum,’ Magnus commented as they passed yet another deserted farmstead. ‘And judging by the freshness of the sheep shit it must have been very recent.’

‘But where are the bodies?’ Vespasian asked, smiling at his friend’s hypothesis. ‘Perhaps Paetus can tell us; we should come across him soon.’

‘I don’t understand why you didn’t send a message ordering him to come to you instead of traipsing all the way up here.’

Vespasian pulled up his horse and turned it around. ‘That’s why,’ he said, extending his arm to the view.

Below them the country was speckled with marching columns, eight men abreast, arranged in an almost straight line north; the three legions in the middle were advancing in a broader formation, each forty men abreast in two long columns of five cohorts and trailed by endless pack-mules and wagons. Between Vespasian and his II Augusta, just three miles distant, tramped his seven infantry auxiliary cohorts, the closest one, the archers of I Cohort Hamiorum, was a hundred paces just down the slope from them. In front of the three legions the XIIII Gemina’s eight cohorts of Batavian infantry scouted ahead to spring any ambushes set, in order to protect the more valuable lives of the Roman citizens in the legions. A cavalry turma galloped past them returning from a patrol to the west. The low, booming sound of cornua floated up from the army as it advanced with the sun reflecting off countless helmets.

In the distance, ten miles away to the north, the supporting squadron of triremes and supply vessels appeared like small dots on the glittering Tamesis estuary. Then to the east, bringing up the rear five miles behind the last of the columns, was the dark shadow of the siege train and heavy baggage followed by the almost square formation of the VIIII Hispana flanked by auxiliary cohorts.

‘What a sight that is,’ Vespasian said after a few moments of admiration. ‘That is a very big army.’

Magnus was unimpressed. ‘I’ve seen bigger.’

Vespasian was disappointed at his friend’s reaction but hid it; he had forgotten momentarily that Magnus had served with Germanicus in Germania with armies almost twice the size. ‘I suppose you must have,’ he mumbled, turning his horse and kicking it on up the hill towards the woods that crowned it. ‘Anyway, the main reason is to see for myself the lie of the land ahead of us.’

‘Of course, very sensible.’

‘And to see what Paetus’ situation is at first hand.’

‘Indeed.’

Paetus’ situation was similar to every other commander’s in the army: quiet. ‘We’ve seen hardly anyone,’ he told Vespasian and Magnus once they had caught up with him amongst the trees. ‘Occasionally we come across small family groups, without any men of fighting age, hiding in the woods with their livestock. I don’t let the chaps touch them, not even take something for the pot. All my patrols from the south have come back in with nothing to report apart from the occasional hostile deer that demonstrates its martial prowess with a consummate display of running away. Nothing’s here, and no one is moving.’

‘I’ve a feeling that we’ll find them soon, Paetus.’ Vespasian looked out over the thickly forested country to the south. ‘How deep have you sent patrols into there?’

‘Ten miles in, sir. We’ve found nothing but a few charcoal burners. It’s thick forest; you could hide an army in there but it wouldn’t be able to move very fast.’

‘Thank you, Paetus, keep your lads at it.’ Vespasian turned to leave.

‘You know of course where they all are?’ Magnus said as they rode out of the trees.

‘Where?’

‘All together.’

‘I’ve worked that out. The question is: are they waiting for us at the river, or are they trying to get around behind us, or are they going to do something that we just don’t expect?’

Magnus’ face fell. ‘I think it’s the latter, sir, look.’ He pointed west to a hill just beyond the advance of the Batavian infantry.

Vespasian followed his gaze; over the hill came a dark smudge, blurred by the dust rising from it. Then came the distant roar of massed voices raised in hatred. ‘They must be mad! They can’t take us head on.’

Thousands of warriors, led by hundreds of two-horse chariots careering over the grass, were swarming for the XIIII Gemina and the II Augusta. The Batavians had evidently had warning from advance scouts and the eight cohorts had formed into line and closed up forming a protective shield for the legions as they too manoeuvred into battle order.

‘I think it’s time you got back to the legion, sir.’