Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (7 page)

These Britons were childish fools, decided Vespasian, recalling the demeanour of the tribal leaders that had come before Claudius to pledge their good will following the defeat of Caratacus. Arrogant and stupid, and far too self-indulgent and self-regarding. Already, the emptiness of their words of friendship was becoming obvious, and much more of their blood, and that of the legions, would be shed before this island was conquered.

Such a terrible waste. As always, the worst suffering would be borne by those natives at the very bottom of this barbarian society. Vespasian doubted that they would be unduly concerned if the warrior class that ruled them was swept away and replaced by Rome. All they wanted was a decent harvest to see them through the next winter. That was the limit of their ambition, and while their overlords resisted Rome, their precarious existence would be battered by the tides of war sweeping across the land. Coming from a family only recently elevated to the aristocracy, Vespasian was sensitive to the realities of those who lived beyond the sight of the high and mighty, and readily empathised with their plight. Not that this helped him in any way; he saw it as yet more evidence of his unsuitability for the social position he held. He was quietly envious of the automatic assumption of superiority so evident in the attitude and bearing of those descended from the ancient families of the aristocracy.

Yet it was those very same qualities that had almost resulted in the destruction of Claudius and his army. Rather than take note of the skill with which Caratacus had resisted Rome thus far, the Emperor had dismissed the British commander as little more than a savage, with the most rudimentary grasp of tactics, and none of strategy. Such a woeful underestimation of his enemy had nearly proved fatal. Had Caratacus been in command of a more disciplined army, a different emperor would be ruling in Rome now. Maybe the world would be better off without these perpetually preening aristocrats, mused Vespasian, then quickly dismissed the idea as fanciful.

Having learned the limitations of throwing an untrained army against the disciplined ranks of the legions, Caratacus had reorganised his forces into small flying columns with strict orders to settle for small victories, won as cheaply as possible. In this way Rome might be persuaded that the Britons were too troublesome to bother with and quit the island. But Caratacus had not reckoned on the tenacity of the legions. No matter how long it took, no matter how many men it cost, Britain would be added to the empire — because the Emperor had ordered it. That was the simple truth of things. As long as Claudius lived.

Plautius refilled his cup and stared down into the spiced wine. 'We must still deal with Caratacus. The question is how? He won't want to risk another pitched battle, no matter how many more men he has recruited. And we can't afford to bypass him and move deeper into the heart of this island. He'd bleed us white before the end of the next campaign season. Caratacus must be eliminated before the province can be settled. That is our immediate goal.' Plautius looked up and Vespasian nodded his agreement.

The general reached to the side of the desk for a large vellum roll and carefully spread the map open between himself and the legate. Much of the ink notation was crisp and black, steadily added to over the winter as the cavalry patrols provided more and more information about the lie of the land. Vespasian was impressed by the detail on the map, and said so.

'It's good, isn't it?' responded the general with a smile of satisfaction. 'Copies are being prepared for you and the other legates. I'll expect you to notify my headquarters at once of any additional significant features that you encounter.'

'Yes, sir,' said Vespasian, before he grasped the full implications of the order. 'I take it that the Second will be operating independently of the rest of the army once we've crossed back over the Tamesis?'

'Of course. That's why I'm moving you as soon as possible. I want you and your legion in place to march against Caratacus the moment the campaign season starts.'

'What are the orders?'

General Plautius smiled again. 'I thought you'd appreciate the chance to show me what you and your men can achieve. Very well, it's good to see that you're keen.' He pointed a finger south of the Tamesis estuary. 'Calleva. That's where you'll be based until spring. I've assigned elements of the channel fleet to your command. They'll join you once summer begins. You are to use them to keep you supplied during the campaign, and to sweep the river clear of the enemy. And while you cut Caratacus off from the southern part of the island, I'll be forcing him out of the Tamesis valley to the north of the river. By the end of the year we should have pushed the front forward to a line stretching from the west coast to the fens of the Iceni.

'To that end I'll take the Fourteenth, Ninth and Twentieth Legions north of the Tamesis and advance up the valley. Most of the native raiding columns have come from that direction. Meanwhile, you'll take the Second Legion back across the river and move up along the south bank. You are to fortify any bridges or fords you come across. It will mean crossing into the territory of the Durotriges, but we were going to have to tackle them at some point anyway. Intelligence reports say that they're in possession of quite a few hill forts, some of which you will need to take, and take quickly. Think you can manage that?'

Vespasian considered the prospect. 'Shouldn't present too much of a problem, provided I have enough artillery. More than I have now'

Plautius smiled. 'That's what all my legates say.'

'Maybe, sir. But if you want me to take those forts, and guard the crossing places on the Tamesis, then I need artillery.'

Plautius nodded. 'Very well. Your request is noted. I'll see what can be done. Now then, back to the plan. The aim is to close Caratacus in bit by bit, so that he must come to battle, or continually fall back — away from our supply lines, and the territory we already occupy. Eventually he'll run out of land and be forced to fight us, or surrender. Any questions?'

Vespasian looked over the map, projecting onto it the movements the general had just described. Strategically the plan looked sound, albeit ambitious, but the prospect of dividing the army was worrying, especially as they no longer had any accurate intelligence about the size of Caratacus's re-formed army. There was no guarantee that Caratacus would not switch back to more conventional operations to take on an isolated legion. If Caratacus was to be prevented from slipping across the Tamesis, there had to be a force ready to deny him any crossing points, and that role had fallen to the Second. Vespasian looked up from the map.

'Why us, sir? Why the Second?'

General Plautius stared at him for a moment before replying. 'I don't have to give you my reasons, Legate. Just my orders.'

'Yes, sir.'

'But you would rather I did?'

Vespasian said nothing, wishing to give the correct impression of soldierly imperturbability, even as his curiosity demanded an answer. He shrugged.

'I see. Well then, Legate, your written orders will be delivered to your headquarters tomorrow morning. If the weather's clear I expect you'll be wanting to make an early start.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Now then, let's finish this wine.' Plautius filled both goblets and raised his for a toast. 'Here's to a quick end to the campaign, and a well-deserved leave in Rome!'

They sipped the lukewarm wine. Plautius grinned at his subordinate. 'I expect you're keen to get back to that wife of yours.'

'I can't wait,' Vespasian replied quietly, conscious of the emotion any mention of his wife caused him. He tried to shift the general's attention away from himself. 'I expect you want to get back to your family just as much.'

'Ah! There I have the advantage over you.' Plautius's eyes glinted mischievously.

'Sir?'

'I don't have to return to Rome to see them. They're travelling out to join me. As a matter of fact, they should be arriving here any day now…'

Chapter Five

A hard frost covered the ground as the Second Legion marched out of the gates of the sprawling camp. The sea of churned mud that had formed beyond the turf ramparts during the wet months of early winter had frozen as hard as rock, and was now covered with a thick blanket of snow that had compacted into ice under the feet of the legionaries. The stumps of felled trees glinted under their sparkling coat of frost, and lined the route leading from the camp towards the west and the distant Tamesis. Above the sharply defined horizon at the legion's back, the sun shone in a sky of intense blue that only the clearest winter day can produce.

So cold was the air that a deep breath caused some of the men to cough as they stepped out with their full loads of equipment. Snow crunched and ice cracked under their nailed boots. The less footsure at the rear of the column slithered and struggled to retain their balance as they followed the dense mass of the legion. Far to the front, cavalry scouts fanned out and trotted across the rolling white landscape, kicking up small showers of glistening snow in their wake. The horses, invigorated by the sharp air and the prospect of exercise, champed at their bits and were frisky. Little clouds of steamy breath rippled into nothingness up and down the columns of men and beasts as they followed the sharply defined shadows slanting across the snow ahead of them.

For Cato, there was an inexpressible joy at being alive at such a moment. After the long months immured in the vast camp with the other legions, with only short patrols, mindless drill and weapons training to dispel the boredom of the daily routine, today's march was a liberation. His eyes swept the landscape, drinking in the stark beauty of the British countryside in late winter. With his cloak wrapped tightly round him, and woven mittens on his hands, the steady pace of the march soon warmed him. Even his feet, which had ached bitterly while the legion assembled at first light, felt comfortable after the first mile on the track. The light-heartedness of his mood was only slightly tempered by the sullen expression on the face of his centurion marching beside him at the head of the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort. Macro was already missing the drinking houses and fleshpots of Camulodunum.

The feeling was mutual. At a stroke, nearly a quarter of the customers who had patronised those establishments were now gone. The entrepreneurs who had flooded into the town from the ports of Gaul would soon drift back to the continent once the rest of the army began its preparations to renew the war against Caratacus and his allies. Macro's depression was not wholly caused by the denial of the pleasures offered by purveyors of drink and women. He had not parted from Boudica on very good terms.

After the night when Boudica and Nessa had evaded Prasutagus, her relatives had been determined to restrict any further encounters with Roman soldiers. Only once had Boudica and Macro been able to meet again, and then only very briefly. A quick clinch in the back of a stable while curious ponies and cattle gazed on, munching their winter feed. Macro had attempted to make the most of it — too much so, for the taste of the Iceni maiden. When she sensed his fingers being rather more intimate than she would have preferred, Boudica wriggled from his passionate embrace, leaned back on the straw and slapped him.

'What the fuck was that for?' asked a startled Macro.

'What kind of a girl do you think I am?' she spat back. 'I'm not some cheap tart!'

'Never said you were. Just making the most of the situation. Thought you were up for it.'

'Up for it? What kind of invitation is that?'

Macro shrugged. 'Best I can manage.'

'I see.' Boudica glared at him for a moment, and Macro shifted away from her, sulking and moody. Boudica relented, reached over and stroked his cheek. 'I'm sorry, Macro. I just don't fancy it with all these animals looking on. Bit too public for my taste. It's not that I don't want to, but I'd envisaged something a little more romantic'

'What's so bloody unromantic about a barn?' grumbled Macro.

And that was where things cooled off rather suddenly. Without another word, Boudica quickly rearranged her tunic and cloak, tucking her breasts back out of sight. With a last angry look at Macro, she rose to her feet and stormed out of the barn. He had been furious to be left in such a manner, and refused, on principle, to run after her. Now he regretted it bitterly. Before Camulodunum dipped out of sight, as the track passed down the far side of a low ridge, Macro glanced back ruefully. She was there, somewhere amongst the snow-covered thatch roofs that lay under the long, low smudge of woodsmoke. He had developed such deep feelings for the feisty native woman that his blood burned with desire at the merest recollection of her physical closeness. He cursed himself for being a romantic fool, and shifted his gaze away from the town and across the glinting helmets of his century, coming to rest on his optio.

'What are you bloody grinning at?'

'Grinning, sir? Not me, sir.'

The ranks of the Second Legion were rife with speculation about their mission. Some men even wondered if the legion was being withdrawn from the island now that Caratacus had been soundly beaten. The more experienced legionaries grunted their contempt at such rumours; the small-scale raids with which the Britons had been plaguing the Roman forces since autumn proved that the natives were not yet defeated. The veterans well knew the nature of the campaign that lay ahead: a vicious and exhausting period of advance and consolidation in the face of a wily foe who knew the lie of the land intimately and who would only emerge from cover to fight when the advantage was fully theirs. The threat of attack would never leave them. As likely as not, those legionaries doomed to die in the campaign would never hear the arrow that killed them, never see the spear thrown, or the dagger thrust from behind as they patrolled their picket lines. The enemy would be no more than shadows skirting round the ponderous legions, rarely seen, but with a presence that was always felt. This kind of warfare was far more difficult than a hard march and a desperate battle. It required a tenacity that only the legions could provide. The prospect of several years of campaigning across the misty wilderness of Britain soured the minds of the veterans as the Second Legion marched towards its new base of operations.