The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER FOUR

The centurions of the Second Legion were seated on several rows of stools in the headquarters tent waiting for their legate to give his briefing. They had spent a long day preparing the legion for the rapid advance scheduled for the following morning. Quite where the unit was headed no one knew, except Vespasian, the legate, and he had not divulged any information to his headquarters staff. The sun had only just set and the air was alive with midges. They swarmed around the flickering yellow flares of the oil lamps and every so often there was a pop and crackle as an insect foolishly ventured into a flame. At the head of the tent a large hide map, depicting a section of the Tamesis, was suspended on a wooden frame.

Three rows from the front sat the six centurions of the Third Cohort. Tucked on to the end of the row sat a tall youth, who looked conspicuously out of place amongst the lined and weathered faces of the other centurions seated near him. Indeed, he looked barely old enough to qualify for service with the legions. Beneath a curly mop of dark hair, brown eyes gazed out of a lean-looking face. His thin frame was readily apparent beneath the tunic, chain-mail corselet and harness, and his bare arms and legs were not bulky with muscle, but slender and sinewy. In spite of the uniform and the two sets of untarnished medals fixed to his harness, he still looked like a boy, and the sidelong glances he darted about the tent revealed the self-consciousness he felt about his situation.

'Cato! For fuck's sake, stop fidgeting!' grumbled the centurion sitting next to him.'You're like a flea on a hot plate.'

'Sorry, it's this heat. It's making me feel funny.'

'Well, you'll be the only one laughing. I don't know what's wrong with this bloody island. When it isn't wet and rainy it throws a blinder of a day at you. Wish it would make its mind up. I'm telling you, we should never have come to this dump. Why the hell are we here, anyway?'

'We're here because we're here, Macro.' His companion made a smile.'I seem to remember you telling me that's always the answer.'

Macro spat on the ground between his boots. 'Try to help you out and all I ever get is backchat. Why do I bother?'

Cato smiled again, spontaneously this time. Only a few months earlier he had served as Macro's optio, second in command of the century Macro commanded. Much of what he had come to know of army ways over the last two years had been taught to him by Macro. Since Cato had been given his first legionary command ten days earlier he had felt terribly exposed to the onerous responsibilities of his new rank and had affected a hard and humourless countenance in front of the eighty men of his own century, and prayed that they did not see through the mask to the anxious and tormented soul beneath. Once that happened his authority to command would be lost, and Cato lived in dread of that moment. He had a very limited time to win their loyalty. No easy feat when he had barely come to know the names of the men under his command, still less the peculiarities of their character. He had drilled them hard, harder than most centurions did, but knew that until they had seen him perform in battle they would not fully accept him as their commander.

It was different for Macro, he reflected with a trace of bitterness. Macro had had more than ten years of service before being promoted, and he wore his rank like a second skin. Macro had nothing to prove and the scars that covered his body were testament to his courage in battle. Moreover, the older man was short and solidly built – the physical antithesis of his friend. A legionary only had to take one look at Macro to realise this centurion was not the sort of man you pissed off if you valued your teeth.

'When is this bloody briefing going to start?' Macro muttered, slapping at a mosquito that had landed on his knee.

'On your feet!' The camp prefect bawled out from the front of the tent. 'Legate present!'

The centurions instantly rose up and stood to attention as a side flap was held open by a sentry and the commander of the Second Legion entered the tent. Vespasian was powerfully built, with a broad, heavily lined face. While not handsome, there was, nevertheless, something about his appearance that put men at their ease. No haughty expression of social aloofness that was common amongst the senatorial class. But then his family had only recently been admitted from the equestrian tier of society, and his grandfather had been a centurion in the service of Pompey the Great. Vespasian was not so far removed from the background of the men he commanded. It was a feature that made his men warm to him to the extent that the Second Legion had fought well under his command and had won more than its share of the battle honours in this campaign.

'At ease, gentlemen. Please be seated.'

Vespasian waited until the tent was silent again. When all were still and the only sounds came from the camp beyond the leather walls of the tent, he positioned himself to one side of the map and cleared his throat.

'Gentlemen, we are within a day of concluding this campaign. The army of Caratacus is marching into a trap that will lead to its utter annihilation. With his army destroyed and Caratacus in the bag, the fight will be completely knocked out of those tribes still resisting us.'

'That'll be the day,' Macro whispered. 'How many times have I heard that one?'

'Shhh.' Cato nudged him.

The legate had seized the attention of his audience and raised a cane towards the suspended map.'This is where we are camped, a short distance from the Tamesis. Our Atrebatan scouts tell us the area is called the three fords – for obvious reasons.' The legate raised his cane and indicated the land north of the fords.'Caratacus is retreating in front of General Plautius' army and should have arrived at this point here, just above the fords. So far he has simply given ground every time the general and the other three legions advance on him. As far as Caratacus knows, we expect him to carry out the same manoeuvre again. Which is why he's planning to do something completely different this time. Instead of retreating, Caratacus will take his forces across these three fords and swing round behind us. That way he'll threaten our supply lines, and cut the legions off from the depot at Londinium. Even if he's successful it won't bring him victory, but it will cost us a few months to retrieve the situation.

'However, as the more observant of you will already have realised from the map, he's taking a big risk. The three fords are set in a wide loop of the Tamesis. If the fords are denied him and the general's force covers the open face of the loop he will be trapped with his back to the river. There will be no way out for him. He'll have to surrender or fight.

'At dawn tomorrow the Second Legion will advance to cover these three fords. We'll sow the riverbed with caltrops and wooden stakes and set up defence lines on our side of the fords. The main line of his advance will be towards these two crossings, here and here. They're quite broad and will need to be defended in strength. Accordingly, the First, Second, Fourth and Fifth Cohorts will be under my command at the downriver ford. The Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Cohorts, under the command of Camp Prefect Sextus, will defend the next ford upriver.'

Vespasian shifted along in front of the map and tapped it with his cane.'The last ford is not likely to be used by Caratacus. It's too narrow and the current is quite swift at that point. Even so, he may try to push some of his lighter units across the river and we must prevent that. That's the job of the Third Cohort. Think your lads can handle it, Maximius?'

Heads turned towards the other end of the row Cato was sitting on, and the thin-faced centurion with a long nose, commanding Cato and Macro's cohort, pursed his lips and nodded.

'You can rely on the Third, sir. We won't let you down.'

'I'm counting on that,' Vespasian smiled. 'That's why you were picked for the job. It's nothing a former officer of the Praetorian Guard can't handle. Remember, not one of them must be permitted to cross the river. We must annihilate them utterly if we are to bring this campaign to a swift end…Now then, are there any questions?'

Cato looked round in the hope that someone else had raised an arm. When he saw that the rest of the centurions were sitting impassively, he swallowed nervously and raised his hand.

'Sir?'

'Yes, Centurion Cato.'

'What if the enemy force their way across one of the fords, sir? How will the other detachments know?'

'I've assigned two of our mounted squadrons to my command, and one each to Sextus and Maximius. If anything goes wrong we can alert the others and, if need be, the legion can fall back towards this position under cover of darkness. Let's just make sure it doesn't come to that. See to your defences and make sure your men give of their best. The advantage will be ours. We'll have the element of surprise and for the first time their confounded speed over the ground will work in our favour as they hurry towards these fords. If we do our job well the new province is as good as won, and all that remains is to clear up a few last nests of resistance. Then we can concentrate on dividing up the spoils.'

There was a murmur of approval at this last comment, and Cato saw the eyes of the men seated alongside him light up at the prospect of receiving their share of the booty. As centurions, they stood to make a tidy sum out of the money raised from the sale into slavery of the men they had taken prisoner over the last year. All the land seized fell into the hands of the imperial secretariat, whose agents stood to make vast fortunes from sales commissions. The system for the division of booty was a source of bitter contention amongst the men of the legions when they were drinking, and the unequal shares of legionaries and centurions ensured that the far greater inequality of fortunes between centurions and imperial land agents was generally overlooked.

'Any further questions?' asked Vespasian. There was a moment's stillness before the legate turned to his camp prefect. 'Very well. Sextus, you may dismiss them.'

The officers rose from their stools and snapped to attention. Once the legate had left the tent Sextus stood them down. The camp prefect reminded them to collect their written orders from the general's secretaries as they left headquarters. As the centurions of the Third Cohort stood up, Maximius raised a hand.

'Not so fast, lads. I want a word with you in my tent, soon as you've set the evening watch.'

Macro and Cato exchanged looks, which was instantly detected by Maximius. 'I'm sure my new centurions will be relieved to know that I won't be keeping them too long, and wasting their precious time.'

Cato coloured.

Maximius regarded the youth coldly for a moment before his face creased into a smile. 'Just make sure you're both in my tent before the first change of watch is sounded.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Cato and Macro.

Maximius gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel and strode stiffly from the briefing tent.

Macro's eyes followed their commander.'Now what was all that about?'

The nearest of the centurions drew back, glancing warily at Maximius until the cohort commander had disappeared through the tent flaps. Then he spoke quietly to Macro and Cato.

'I'd play it carefully, if I were you two.'

'Carefully?' Macro frowned. 'What are you talking about, Tullius?'

Caius Tullius was the most senior of the Third Cohort's centurions after Maximius; a veteran of over twenty years and several campaigns. Although he was reserved in manner, he had been the first to greet Macro and Cato when they had been appointed to the Third Cohort. The other two centurions, Caius Pollius Felix and Tiberius Antonius, had said no more than necessary to Cato as yet, and he sensed hostility in their attitude. Macro was more fortunate. They already knew him from the time before his promotion, and treated him in a cordial manner, as they must, given that Macro's appointment to the centurionate predated their own.

'Tullius?' Macro prompted.

For a moment Tullius hesitated, mouth open as he seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Then he just shook his head. 'It's nothing. Just try not to get on the wrong side of Maximius. Especially you, young 'un.'

Cato's lips compressed into a tight line, and Macro couldn't help laughing.

'Don't be so touchy, Cato. Centurion you may be, but you'll have to forgive people if they mistake you for a boy sometimes.'

'Boys don't get to wear these,' Cato snapped back, and tapped his medallions, instantly regretting the immature need to prove himself.

Macro raised both his hands with a placating smirk. 'All right! I'm sorry. But look around, Cato. See anyone else here that's within five years of your age? I think you'll find that you're a bit of an exception.'

'Exception he may be,' Tullius added quietly, 'but he'd do well not to stand out, if he knows what's good for him.'

The veteran turned away and followed Felix and Antonius towards the entrance to the tent. Macro watched him go and scratched his chin.

'Wonder what he meant?'

'Can't you guess?' Cato muttered bitterly.'Seems our cohort commander thinks I'm not up to the job.'

'Rubbish!' Macro punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'Everyone in the legion knows about you. You've got nothing to prove to anyone.'

'Tell Maximius that.'

'I might. One day. If he doesn't recognise it himself first.'

Cato shook his head. 'Maximius only joined the legion a few months back, in that batch of replacements that arrived while we were in hospital in Calleva. Chances are he knows next to nothing about me.'

Macro prodded one of Cato's medallions.'These should tell him all he needs to know. Now come on, we've got to post our watches. Wouldn't want to be late for Maximius' briefing, would we?'

05 The Eagles Prey