Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (21 page)

General Plautius looked up and waited for one of the centurions to respond. Macro’s jaw was clenched with bitter anger as he took in his betrayal by Centurion Maximius. He could not trust himself to speak, nor to turn to his right and look past Tullius to the man who had lied so completely to his officers in an effort to escape the blame for his failure to do his duty. Even more unforgivable was his attempt to spread the blame even further by accusing the cohort as a whole of cowardice.

‘Sir, if I may?’

Every pair of eyes turned towards Vespasian.

‘You may speak, Legate. As long as you keep it brief, and to the point.’

‘Yes, sir, I will. I wish to have it entered on the record that I oppose all the charges specified.’

Plautius’ eyes widened in surprise at this show of open revolt against his judgement. He swallowed nervously before he responded. ‘On what grounds?’

Vespasian weighed his words with care. ‘On the grounds that the charges are too narrow in scope. While I do not deny that the Third Cohort failed to act with sufficient speed or valour in carrying out their duties, the fact is that they were only ever required to defend the crossing against fugitives of the main battle. A battle that should have been fought in front of either of the other two fords. It was never anticipated that Maximius and his men would face the entire enemy army.’ Vespasian paused and took a deep breath before getting to the meat of his accusation. ‘The question I would like entered on the official record is, what reason can be given for the failure of the army of General Plautius to force the enemy to give battle before the two major crossings, as the general had planned?’

This time the shock and surprise of those in the tent was so profound that there was a long silence while the men glanced from general to legate, and back to their general as they waited for his response to Vespasian’s open attack. Cato could sense the tension in the tent like the air that precedes a violent storm. Plautius stared at the legate for a moment and then glanced at Narcissus. The Imperial Secretary gave a slight shake of the head. Plautius turned back to the other men arranged around the tent.

‘That question is outside the scope of this inquiry, and therefore irrelevant.’ He glanced towards the clerks.’It will not be entered into the official record.’

‘That’s not acceptable, sir.’

‘It is acceptable, Legate. On my authority.’

‘Sir, you cannot condemn men on the basis that they failed to hold the line in the face of vastly superior forces.’

Plautius smiled. ‘There is a precedent for heroic sacrifice in every army.’

‘It happens,’ Vespasian conceded.’But when such a situation was forced upon the Third Cohort by the failure of others to press home their attack, surely a double standard is being applied? You would condemn these men and their legionaries on the basis that they failed in their duty. Yet you would not condemn those men, under your direct command, who failed to attack swiftly enough to close the trap you originally conceived. It is by their failure to carry out their orders that the enemy managed to evade the trap, and fall upon the Third Cohort in overwhelming numbers.’

The legate had overdone it, thought Cato, glancing around the room. The shock on the faces of the officers in the tent was eloquent expression of just how far Vespasian had breached the accepted protocols for such an inquiry. The general glared at his subordinate, so consumed with anger and surprise that he did not know how to proceed for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and turned to the clerks.

‘Make a note for the records. The legate has registered an objection to the conduct of the inquiry. At a future date, to be determined, a subsequent inquiry will be held to investigate his claims of impropriety. Now, we must deal with the matter of the present inquiry. Charge by charge. Centurion Maximius.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Do you deny disobeying your orders?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yes?’

‘We marched towards the ford as quickly as we could, sir. On reaching the fort I decided that it would be dangerous to proceed while an enemy column threatened our flank. We closed with and destroyed the raiders and then continued to the ford, sir. In accordance with our orders.’

‘Was your decision to destroy the raiders immediately determined by tactical considerations alone?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Maximius replied without the slightest hesitation.

‘And did any of your officers try to dissuade you?’

‘I recall that there was some disagreement, sir. There was too little time to explain the situation to the individual concerned. Besides, when a senior centurion gives an order, that should be the end of the discussion.’

‘Quite so.’ Plautius nodded and then turned his gaze on Macro.’On the matter of the second charge, Centurion Macro, why was the ford not adequately defended before the enemy arrived?’

Macro tore his eyes away from Maximius, recomposed his livid expression and cleared his throat noisily. ‘Because there weren’t as many men there as there should have been, sir. That, and the fact that we found only a handful of usable trenching tools at the depot. The raiders had burned the rest. When I reached the ford, we didn’t have enough tools, nor enough time to prepare a ditch and rampart. The best defence I could make was to erect a barrier on the island and place some sharpened stakes into the crossing. We had only a handful of axes and most had to cut wood with their swords.’

‘Fair enough. I accept there was little chance to prepare anything better. But why did you fall back before the rest of the cohort could reach the ford? Had you received many casualties?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Were you outflanked?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why break off contact and retreat? I assume you had a good reason.’

Macro looked surprised. ‘Why, of course, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘The enemy’s second attack had cleared away a section of our defences and they were preparing a fresh assault on our line. They were using heavy infantry, formed into a testudo, sir. Soon as I saw that I knew we’d have to give ground, link up with Centurion Maximius and try to hold the bank on our side of the river.’

‘A testudo?’ Plautius smiled faintly. ‘You claim they formed a testudo?’

‘Yes, sir. Made quite a decent job of it too.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they did, Centurion. Decent enough to send you running.’

‘I didn’t run, sir,’ Macro growled. ‘Never have and never will.’

‘What did you do, then?’

‘I think you’ll find it referred to as a fighting withdrawal in the manuals, sir.’

‘We’ll see about that . . .’ General Plautius looked down at his notes. ‘On to the last charge. Centurion Maximius, would you say that your men prosecuted the defence of the ford as effectively as they might have done?’

‘Frankly, sir, no. No, I don’t. The lads were tired, sir. We’d run the last mile or so to the ford and gone straight into the fight with no time to recover. The men were exhausted and, well, as soon as they saw how many of the enemy there were on the far side waiting to come across and fight us . . .’

‘Yes?’

Maximius looked down at his boots.’I think they got scared, sir. Fight went right out of them. So we pulled back and waited for support. I had no choice. No sense in throwing the cohort away if it wasn’t prepared to fight.’ He looked up defiantly.’On any other day-’

‘Centurion!’ Plautius snapped. ‘There’s never another day. Just the one you’re in. You, and your men, have failed to live up to the standards required of legionaries.’

The general paused before passing his judgement. He intended more than a cheap theatrical effect. The men must have some moments to anticipate their fate with a growing sense of dread.

‘The Third Cohort will be denied shelter for six months. They will be denied the shelter of barracks. Their standards will be stripped of any decorations. Pay will be suspended and their rations restricted to barley and water. Sentence effective immediately.’

Despite the prospect of half a year of unremitting discomfort, Cato felt more shame than anything else. Every unit in the army would know that he, and the other officers and men of the cohort, had failed in their duty. Their bare standards would be badges of dishonour everywhere they marched. He knew that the shadow of this evening’s judgement would linger over him longer than six months; men’s memory of the crime always outlived the duration of the punishment.

The general slapped his slate notebook closed and was about to rise when the Imperial Secretary leaned towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘A moment, if you please, General.’

‘What is it?’

Narcissus leaned closer and spoke in a low voice so that only Plautius would hear. The silence in the tent was unnatural as everyone else kept quite still and strained to catch any of the words passing between the two men. Plautius listened a moment, before a look of horror flitted over his face, and he shook his head. Narcissus spoke intently, stabbing his finger in the general’s direction to emphasise his points. At length the general appeared to give way, and nodded solemnly. He turned to Vespasian and whispered something. Vespasian stared ahead, at the officers of his Third Cohort, lips compressed tightly.

General Plautius leaned back and folded his hands together before he addressed the other men in the tent. ‘In view of the seriousness of the Third Cohort’s dereliction of duty, and in order to set an example to the rest of the army serving in this province and beyond, the sentence has been revised to include decimation. Lots to be drawn by centuries immediately. Executions will take place at dawn, the day after next, before an assembly of units representing each of the legions. Tribune! Take the officers out to join their men.’

As the centurions filed out of the headquarters tent Cato watched their expressions as they passed. Maximius looked down, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. Tullius looked ashen-faced. Macro was still angry and communicated his bitter resentment to Cato with a slight shake of the head as he marched stiffly by. Felix and Antonius appeared stunned. Then Cato turned and joined the end of the line as the escort marched them outside. He felt numb, and the hard reality of the world around him seemed somehow distant and vague.

Decimation. He’d only ever read of it: the most dreadful of the field punishments that could be imposed upon the men of the legions. One man in ten, selected by lot, would be beaten to death by his comrades. The odds made him feel sick with fear.

The centurions were returned to their places in front of their centuries and then all were made to wait in silence, in the wavering glare of the reed torches, until six clerks emerged from the headquarters tent. Each carried a plain Samian ware jar. They spread out, one heading towards each of the centuries of the Third Cohort. When they were in position, Tribune Plinius stepped forward.

‘Every man in each century is to draw a corn tally from the jar in front of them. If you draw a white tally you will return to your unit. Any man who draws a black tally will be escorted to one side.’

A groan of despair welled up from the Third Cohort as they realised the nature of their punishment.

‘Silence!’ screamed the senior tribune. ‘You will be silent when a senior officer addresses you!’

He glowered at the terrified men on parade in front of him. ‘Begin!’

The legionaries approached the clerks by sections to draw their lots. Beside each clerk stood two men from the First Cohort, one holding a torch above the jar to ensure that each man’s tally was clearly visible when it emerged and the other to escort the unlucky ones away. Cato turned towards his men.

‘First section! To the front!’

The eight men marched up to the clerk. He raised the pot above eye-level so that the men could not see inside, and then the first man reached in. There was a dull rattling noise as his fingers probed the tallies.

‘Draw it quickly!’ the legionary holding the torch growled.

The man withdrew his hand and showed the tally to the clerk - a wooden disc, the size of a denarius.

‘White!’ the clerk called out and the first man turned round and walked quickly away, hurrying back towards the rest of the century, hands trembling with relief.

‘White!’ cried the clerk for the next man.

‘Black!’

The third man stared into the palm of his hand, frozen in place, staring as if at any moment the disc would turn white in front of his eyes.

‘Come on, you!’ The legionary grabbed him by the arm and thrust him towards the squad of guards waiting behind the senior tribune. ‘Over there. Let’s go!’

The man stumbled as he was half dragged away from his comrades. He glanced back over his shoulder and caught Cato’s eye. The appeal for help was as clear as it could be, but there was nothing Cato could do, and he shook his head helplessly, and looked away.

So it continued, and a steady trickle of victims was separated from the rest of the cohort. Cato saw Maximius take his turn, draw a white tally and turn away, clutching it like a lucky talisman. Maybe that was an omen for him too, he decided, and he turned to his optio.

‘Come on, Figulus. We’ll draw ours with the next section.’

Two of the eight men ahead of them drew black tallies, and Cato quickly calculated that only one could still be in the jar. One black and twenty-six white. Good odds. Even as his spirits rose at the thought he felt ashamed that those odds had been improved at the cost of the lives of some of the men whom he had let go ahead of him.