Under The Eagle

Chapter Thirty-five

Dusk was fast approaching and there was still no sign of Togodumnus's force. By now the cavalry scouts of three legions had been joined by two auxiliary cavalry cohorts and the surrounding country was being systematically swept for any trace of the Britons. Until they were found, the Second Legion would be highly vulnerable and Vespasian was loath to quit a fortified position while the location and strength of the enemy were still unknown. His imagination readily visualised the consequences of his men being attacked in force as they were strung out along the line of march. A determined attack, pushed through resolutely, could cripple the Second. That was why he had placed the scouting sweeps under the direct command of Vitellius. Even now, the tribune was somewhere out there in the British countryside with orders not to rest until Togodumnus was located.

Meanwhile, General Plautius was relentlessly pressing the enemy back and had sent messengers racing to the rear to call up the two fresh legions – the Second and the Fourteenth – and have them rush to the front to sustain the offensive's momentum. A swift crushing blow was required, he told his subordinates. If the four legions could catch the Britons before they managed to place a major river between themselves and the Romans, the resulting battle would surely see the destruction of the Britons' field army. After that, it would just be a question of picking off the odd hill fort and mopping up the surviving forces. The legate smiled bitterly as he had read that. What the general had not mentioned – perhaps had not anticipated – was the guerrilla war that would inevitably follow for many years before the new province could be considered pacified.

Vespasian wished that he could share the general's confidence in the smooth progress of the campaign. But orders were orders and Plautius wanted the Second Legion on the move at daybreak on the morrow. Vespasian could only assume that the general was aware of the risk.

As far as Vespasian could tell from the latest scout reports, the tracks leading west to the front were clear of the enemy and the land to the south had been searched as far as the marsh – which, his British йmigrйs had told him, was impassable for a force of any size as the old tracks had been abandoned for many years and were all but swallowed up by the bogs. That left the heavily wooded region to the north of the line of march; a rolling mass of trees and thickets criss-crossed by numerous tracks well known to the natives. If an attack came, it was sure to come from that quarter.

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

The sun was sinking into the rolling banks of mist by the time Macro and his men had cleared away enough of the slimy foul-smelling peat to reveal the bed of the wagon. The men were caked in mud that sucked at them as they struggled, waist deep. Finally they had discovered the chest they had been sent to retrieve. Once it was cleared of mud, Macro excitedly examined the heavy wooden box bound with iron. Aside from the inevitable staining and the dampness of the wood, the chest was in remarkably good condition and still fastened by a heavy lock. The other men, now that they had something to show for all their exertions, shared his excitement and eagerly helped drag the chest to more solid ground. It proved to be far heavier than they expected and nearly sank back into the mud several times before it was heaved on to the grass bank leading up to the track.

'Right, lads, there's no time to waste. We have to load it on to the cart and get back to the Legion.'

Cato looked up at the sky. 'It'll be dark soon. We won't make it back before nightfall, sir.'

'No. But we'll get out of this place at least.' Macro grasped one of the iron handles. 'Come on! Let's get on with it.'

The twelve men struggled around the chest and hauled it up the bank. Then, with a final back-breaking effort, accompanied by loud hisses of strain and exertion, the chest was pushed on to the back of the cart, which creaked under the load. The men leaned against its sides gasping for breath. Cato found himself shivering as his body was overtaken by a degree of tiredness he had never experienced before. His leg and arm muscles ached abominably and the strenuous labour of the previous hours had left him feeling sick. Looking at the faces of the other men he realised that they were all quite done in, and it would be as much as they could manage to haul the cart clear of the marsh by the time night fell.

Macro rested his arms across the top of the chest. He was tired, but elated that he had succeeded in his mission. Once the chest was in the legate's safe keeping, Macro could rest assured that he had at least one friend in high places who might smooth his path to further promotion. He had reached the pinnacle of a career based solely on competence and ability. Further advancement depended on a mix of guile, intelligence and personal connections. Macro knew himself well enough to be aware that he was somewhat lacking in the first two of these qualities; the third he had just taken care of. He patted the chest affectionately.

'Well done, Centurion!' a voice called out of the growing gloom of mist and dusk.

Macro snapped round, his hand going straight to the pommel of his sword. The other men were on their feet in an instant, alert, some with swords already drawn.

A vague shape slowly emerged from the mist and took the form of a Roman staff officer – Tribune Vitellius. Behind him several more figures materialised, men in Syrian garb leading horses. At sight of them, Cato felt a cold chill of recognition and slowly drew his own sword. And there, holding the bridle of the tribune's horse, stood Pulcher.

Vitellius walked up the track towards them and stopped ten paces from the cart.

'I take it that is the chest you were sent to retrieve?'

Macro was still recovering from the shock of the tribune's sudden appearance. He frowned with suspicion, but made no reply.

'Well, Centurion? Is that the chest?'

'Yes, sir. But what…'

'That's a job well done. I congratulate you and your men.'

'Thank you, sir-'

'And now I'll take charge of things. The chest needs to be returned to the legate as quickly as possible.' Vitellius turned his head back to the waiting horsemen. 'First two men – here!'

Vitellius walked over to the cart and patted the chest with a smile. 'You must be exhausted. I expect you'll be glad to be relieved of this. Get some rest before you follow us back to the Legion.'

Macro nodded while his mind worked quickly to frame his next words as carefully as possible. He could see the credit for his achievement slipping away. 'Sir, our orders were to hand the chest over to the legate in person.'

'I know. But the orders have been changed.'

'The legate was quite specific, sir. To him in person.'

'Are you questioning my authority, Centurion?' Vitellius asked coldly. 'I'm telling you that the orders have been changed. Now you will hand over the cart to my men, understand?'

Macro stared at him, eyes cold with bitter resentment that his superior was about to snatch the prize from his grasp.

'Tell your men to stay away from the cart, sir,' Macro said quietly.

'What?'

'Tell your men to back off. You're not taking the chest.'

'Centurion,' Vitellius tried to sound reasonable, 'there's nothing you or I can do about it. I'm obeying a direct order from Vespasian.'

'My orders come from Aulus Plautius,' Macro bluffed. 'We're not giving up the chest until I get different orders from the general, in person.'

Vitellius stared at him silently, and his men – sensing a confrontation unresolved – stopped short of the cart. Then Vitellius smiled and backed away a few paces as he spoke.

'Very well, Centurion. You keep the chest for the moment, but this isn't the last you'll hear of the matter – I swear it.'

He turned and beckoned his two men to follow as he retreated from the cart back towards the waiting horsemen. As he watched, Cato saw the tribune move to one side of the track, casually moving out of the line of sight between his men and the cart. A sudden movement from the figures in the mist caught Cato's attention and his eyes returned to the tribune. Vitellius had flicked the cape off his sword arm and was looking back towards the cart. Cato's eyes widened in sudden realisation of the danger.

'Down! Get down!'

He hurled himself at his centurion and they rolled on to the muddy track behind the cart. The other legionaries followed suit as a flight of arrows whistled through the air. One man reacted too slowly and, with a sickening thud, a dark feathered arrow buried itself in his throat. The legionary slumped to his knees, gurgling blood, as he desperately struggled to wrench the barb free from his neck. Two arrows from the second volley caught him in the face and chest and, with a cry he went down.

'Behind the cart!' Macro shouted. 'Get behind the cart!'

The legionaries crouched down in the filth behind the cart as further arrows landed around them. Two men were wounded and gasped in pain as they tried to wrestle the arrows free.

'Leave them!' Macro shouted, only too aware of the damage barbed arrows caused on extraction. If they lived, the arrow heads would have to be cut out by a surgeon.

If they lived.

The Syrians were already fanning out on either side of the track, as far as the marsh would allow, in order to minimise the effective shelter of the cart. The legionaries huddled tightly together. Most had left their shields down on the grass bank and only a couple had leaned them against the cart. Now these were hurriedly passed to the side to protect the men's flanks and deflect the arrows with a harsh clatter. Even so, arrows were finding their mark and another man had been wounded in the leg.

'What the hell are they doing?' Pyrax asked. 'They're on our fucking side.'

'Apparently not,' replied Cato. 'Whatever's in that chest must be bloody priceless.'

'How many of them are there?' Macro asked. 'Did anyone see?'

'I counted eight,' Cato replied. 'Vitellius, Pulcher and six Syrians.'

'Then we're even. If we try and rush them.'

'Rush them?' Pyrax repeated shocked, as he pressed himself into the ground. 'Sir, they'd cut us down before we could get near them.'

'Only while their arrows last.'

'If we live that long.'

A sudden piercing shriek caused Cato to jump. One of the mules had been hit in the flank and now it bellowed with pain and reared and wrenched in its traces. For a moment it looked as if the animal might panic enough to drag the cart clear of the sheltering legionaries but the other animal had frozen and gazed at its comrade with wide-eyed terror, and the cart stayed still.

'Careful, you fools!' Vitellius screamed out a short way off. 'You're hitting the mules. Pick your targets – only the men!'

'Thank you, Tribune,' Macro said bitterly as the arrows struck the cart and shields with splintering thuds. He caught Cato's eye and gestured towards their attackers with his thumb. 'I'm getting a bit sick of those Syrians. About time we did something about them.'

'But not right now, sir,' Cato implored him. 'Please wait until the odds are a little more even.'

The arrows continued to fall, but at a diminishing rate as the Syrians conserved ammunition. Individually they had closed the distance and were now taking pot shots whenever a target made itself available. But the narrow strip of the hummock made it impossible for the archers to enfilade the legionaries. So, after a little while, it became apparent that a stand-off had been reached. The legionaries, stripped of armour and with only two shields between them, dared not rush the archers; and the archers, lightly armed and a poor match for well-trained heavy infantry, dared not take the legionaries on hand-to-hand. The Syrians only hope was to incapacitate enough of Macro's force to make their numbers decisive.

The arrow fire ceased, but the legionaries remained under cover in case it was a ruse.

'Macro!' Vitellius called out. 'Macro! Still with us?'

'Yes, sir!' the centurion shouted out, automatically responding to his superior.

'That's good. Now look here, Macro, I will have that chest in the long run. You're trapped where you are and I've sent for more men. It'll take them a while to arrive. We can spend that time sitting here staring at each other or you can give me the chest and I'll let you and your men go.'

'Fuck off, sir!' Macro shouted back. 'If you want it, you'll have to fight for it!'

'Hear me out, Centurion! If you make me wait then there will be no mercy. We will over-run you and you'll be killed. Give me the chest now and you'll live. You have my word on it.'

'His word?' Cato raised his eyebrows. 'What kind of idiots does he take us for?'

'My thinking exactly, Optio,' replied Macro.

'Macro!' the tribune called out again. 'I'll give you a few moments to talk it over with your men. Then you choose; delay the inevitable and it's death for all of you, or give me the chest and walk out of here.'

Macro turned back to his men. 'Well?'

'There's no way he's going to let us live,' Pyrax said firmly. 'No matter what we decide.'

'You're right.' Macro nodded. 'So what do we do? A charge is out of the question.'

'Unless we can hit them from two sides,' Cato suggested.

'And how do we achieve that?'

Cato rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow so he could point out directions as he talked.

'Some of us go back down the track. The grass is long on either side, so if you keep low enough you should be screened. Then, where it dips into the marsh, you swim round in a wide arc until you come back on to the trail behind them. Then we charge from both sides – hopefully the surprise should be enough to put them off their aim for just long enough.'

Cato finished, but saw that the others were still looking at him expectantly. 'Sorry, that's it.'

'That's a plan?'

Cato nodded.

'Fair enough. It's that or die, I suppose,' Macro said. He looked around the surviving members of his squad. 'Right then, you take Pyrax, Lentulus and Piso. When you get round behind them you charge and make as much noise as you can.'

Cato shifted with embarrassment. 'Sorry sir, but someone else has to lead the other party.'

'Why?'

'I can't swim.'

'You told Vespasian you could. That night you joined the Legion.'

'I'm afraid I was exaggerating, sir. Sorry.'

'Lying, you mean.'

'Yes.'

Macro glared at him. 'Well, that's just terrific, Optio. Now I'll have to bloody do it.'

'Yes, sir. I'll make sure I learn as soon as we get back to the Legion.'

'Fine.' Macro unfastened the clasp on his cloak and nodded to the others to do the same. The small party checked that their swords and daggers were firmly attached to their belts, then Macro led them down the track away from the Syrians, closely hugging the ground and slithering along the muddy surface. Once they had eased themselves into the water and swum off into the gloomy mist, Cato risked a quick glance round the side of the cart. The Syrians stood as before and, to one side, the unmistakable shadow of Vitellius sat atop a small mound close to where Pulcher tended their mounts. There was a sudden blur as an arrow flew close by and Cato ducked back down. The three other men, still unwounded, held their draw swords tight in their hands and crouched expectantly.

For a while it seemed nothing was happening, all was still and quiet as before. As the light failed Cato began to wonder what had become of his centurion. Then Vitellius stood up and called out impatiently.

'Time's up, Centurion. Surrender the chest now or die. What's it to be?'

Cato looked round at the other legionaries.

'Well, Centurion?'

'Say something!' one of the men hissed.

'What? Say what?' Cato asked helplessly.

'Anything, you fool!'

'That's it, then,' Vitellius concluded angrily. 'You'll bloody well die and like it.'

With a roar of fighting rage, Macro and his four men rose up from the shadows immediately behind the line of archers and raced down the track. The noise momentarily surprised Cato as well, but he recovered in an instant and was up on his feet running for the nearest Syrian, shouting at his party to follow. As he saw Cato running towards him, teeth bared in a feral war face, the Syrian dropped his bow and reached for the cleaver at his side. He fumbled as he unsheathed the blade and it fell to the ground. Cato shouted as loud as he could and the man ran for it leaving his weapon lying in the mud. Cato thrust his sword at the Syrian's back but the point barely penetrated the cloak and caught him in the buttock instead. The man yelped and sprinted down the track as fast as his feet could carry him, frantically weaving round Macro and the others who were mercilessly despatching his comrades.

Frustrated by the enemy's escape, Cato turned wildly about to look for another foe and saw Pulcher heaving Vitellius up into the saddle.

'Over here!' Cato cried out. 'Don't let him get away! Quick!'

Without waiting for the others, Cato dashed towards Pulcher, sword raised high above his head. At the last moment, Pulcher turned and drew his weapon, faster than Cato would have believed possible.

Firmly standing his ground, the stocky legionary aimed the tip of the blade squarely at Cato's throat. Cato instinctively tried to dodge the blade and, to his horror, found his feet losing their grip on the slimy peat. He went down on his knees, sliding in under Pulcher's blade and thrusting up into his guts as hard as he could. His momentum slammed him into Pulcher's legs and both went down in a sprawling heap. Cato pulled himself clear with unbloodied sword still in hand. The thrust had not penetrated Pulcher's armour, only winded him badly, and now he rolled away fighting for breath. Before Cato could finish him off, a sudden swish through the air, close to his ear, caused him to duck. Vitellius loomed above him, raising his sword arm. When it came, Cato had just enough time to raise his sword to parry a jarring blow.

'Here! Quickly!' he cried out.

Vitellius was about to move in for the kill when several shouts close at hand alerted him. Swearing bitterly, he charged his horse at Cato. The optio dived to one side, but not fast enough to avoid being sent sprawling by a blow from the animal's flank as it swept past, and he crumpled to the ground.

With hooves sliding and slithering in the mud, the horse weaved through the loose line of legionaries and pounded down the track, past the cart where the wounded mule still bellowed its pain, and on into the gathering gloom.

Macro hurried over to Cato and hauled him on to his feet.

'You all right?'

'Will be… once I get my breath back. Did we get them?'

'Near enough. Five down and three did a runner.

Shame we didn't get that bastard Vitellius.'

Cato quickly looked about but there was no sign of Pulcher either.

'Yes, sir.' Cato drew in a deep lungful of air and felt his chest. Aside from bruises all seemed in order. 'What are we going to do?'

'There's no point in going after him, if that's what you mean. We have to get the chest back to Vespasian as soon as possible. Before the tribune comes after us with more men.'

Once the legionaries had harnessed four of the horses up to the cart, the others were tethered to the back, along with the remaining mule. Concerned that the other mule might attract unwelcome attention with its hoarse bellowing, Macro had led the animal down to the side of the marsh, cut its throat and tipped it into the mire. With the wounded loaded aboard the cart, the small party began to retrace its steps along the track towards the edge of the marsh. Night closed in around them as they drove the horses onwards, grateful that they no longer had to labour at hauling the cart out of every muddy rut along the way.

As they neared the edge of the marsh and could see the dark swell of land rising up above the mist, Macro heard the sound of a horse approaching behind them.

'Halt,' he called out softly. 'Grab your shields and spears and follow me.'

He led them back down the track a small distance and detailed four men to hide each side in an extended line to be sure of providing the approaching rider with no means of escape. Cato lay down close to the ground, too tired by the day's action to be anxious any more. Moments later the dark shape of a rider and horse loomed out of the mist and cantered into the middle of the trap.

'Now!' Macro shouted, and eight shadows detached themselves from the grass on either side of the track and converged on the horseman. Startled by the sudden movement, the horse reared, whinnying in terror, and the rider struggled to regain control of his mount before tumbling to the ground. Macro pounced on him, slamming a punch into his face before hauling the man to his feet.

'Well now!' He laughed. 'What a fucking surprise it is to see you again, sir.'

Vitellius wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand. 'Get your hands off me, Centurion!'

'Get my hands off you?'

'You have to let me go. I've got to get back to the Legion.'

'Listen, you bastard, if you think-'

'There's no time for this!' Vitellius shouted. 'There's a bloody army coming down the track. Nearly rode right into them. I don't think they saw me, but they'll be here soon. I have to tell Vespasian!'

'He's lying, sir,' Pyrax growled. 'Kill him, and let's go.'

'Wait!' Cato interceded. 'We don't even know what he was after yet.'

Pyrax raised his sword. 'Who needs to know?'

'Lower that sword legionary!' Macro ordered. 'Now!'

'Please!' Vitellius begged. 'You have to let me go. I have to warn Vespasian. We've found Togodumnus! If that column surprises the Legion we'll lose thousands. Thousands of our comrades.'

'Comrades!' Pyrax spat at him. 'Comrades don't fucking kill each other.'

For a moment they stood in silence, a tableau of crisis and indecision, Vitellius on his knees, Macro with his fist twisted into the tribune's cloak, a look of bitter contempt etched on his face.

'If there is a column,' Cato said softly, 'the legate has to be warned.'

'There's no fucking enemy column!' Pyrax thumped the butt of his spear down. 'He's just trying to save his skin.'

'Then why ride back towards us?'

'He got lost. Why are we even wasting time on this?' Pyrax turned to Macro. 'Kill him, sir!'

Macro glared down at the tribune for a moment, face hardening into a look of pure disgust and resentment at the predicament the tribune's reappearance had placed him in. Then he thrust his fist hard against Vitellius's chest and the tribune went down flat on his back in the mud.

'Go and warn the Legion. But, make no mistake, when this is all over I'll see to it that the general himself knows what you did here. I'm sure he'll be most keen to find out why a senior officer should want to kill his own men to get hold of that chest. Now go! Go, you bastard, before I change my mind.'

Vitellius scrambled to his feet, jumped on to his horse's back and snatched the reins back from the legionary who stood at the beast's side. Without any delay he kicked his heels in and raced up the track, past the cart, and disappeared into the night.

'Right then! Let's move. If he's told us the truth, there's no time to waste. Let's go!'

'Of course he's not telling the truth!' Pyrax snorted.

'You questioning my decision?' Macro asked coldly.

'I'm telling you, we should have killed him.'

'You call me sir when you address me, legionary!'

'Quiet!' Cato raised his hand. 'Listen!'

The small party froze, every ear straining in the direction Cato pointed. For a moment there was nothing to disturb the soft sounds of the night. Then came a distant whinny, then another, accompanied by the unmistakable crack of a whip as someone shouted a Celtic curse.

From somewhere on the track not far behind them.