Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (6 page)

Plautius turned to him in alarm. ‘What is it, Tribune?’

Vitellius stood to attention, gulped in some air and made his report. ‘The tide is flooding, sir. I got that from our scouts down there by the river.’

General Aulus Plautius stared at him a moment. ‘Well, thank you, Tribune. That’s very interesting. Very interesting indeed.’

Then he turned away to view the enemy’s defences again and to hide his amused expression from view.

Chapter Six

The shadows were lengthening as Cato leaned unmoving against the trunk of a tree, his drab brown cloak cushioning him from the rough bark. In his left hand rested the hunting bow he had drawn from stores, a heavy barbed arrow notched to the drawstring. He had discovered a meandering trail where it crossed a rough track and had followed it down to this clearing. The track snaked across the low ferns and into the trees on the far side of the clearing. Beyond, the river glistened through the leaves and branches, sparkling with the reflection of the sinking sun. City boy as he was he had had the sense to ask for some advice from Pyrax, a veteran long used to foraging, before setting off into the woods. The area had been cleared of the enemy, and was ringed by the marching camps of Plautius’ army, so the young optio felt that it was safe enough to try his hand at hunting. With luck, the men of the Sixth Century would not be dining on salted pork tonight, and would go into battle with a good meal in their bellies.

When news of the impending attack had been announced to the Sixth Century, Macro had cursed his luck. Some dangerous flanking manoeuvre was the last thing they needed when their numbers were so depleted. Back in his tent, he and Cato had made preparations for the next morning’s attack.

‘Take a note,’ Macro instructed his optio. ‘Each man is to leave all non-essential kit here. If we have to swim for it, we don’t want to be carrying more than we need to. And we’ll need some rope. Get three hundred feet of light cable from stores. Should be enough to reach across the river if we find a ford.’

Cato looked up from his wax note tablet. ‘What if there isn’t a ford? What will the legate do then?’

‘That’s the best bit of it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘If we don’t find a ford by noon, we’ve been ordered to swim across. We’ll have to strip down to our tunics and float the equipment across on inflated bladders. Make a note to indent a bladder for each man. ‘

He paused when Cato did not respond. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I forgot about your aversion to water. If it comes to swimming across, stick with me and I’ll see you get over safely.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Just make sure you get some proper bloody swimming lessons in at the first available opportunity.’

Cato nodded, head lowered in shame. ‘So where were we?’

‘Bladders, sir.’

‘Ah, yes. Let’s hope we don’t need them. If we can’t find a ford I don’t fancy tackling the Britons with just a woollen tunic between them and my vitals.’

Cato had wholeheartedly agreed.

The sun was now low over the western horizon and Cato again looked towards the river, which seemed wider than ever. He shuddered at the thought of having to actually swim across it; his swimming technique barely did justice to the words.

The sun was shining directly through the trees, casting a tangle of shadows with orange-hued edges across the clearing. A sudden flash of movement caught Cato’s eye. Keeping his body still, he turned his head to follow the movement. A hare had cautiously hopped out onto the track from a patch of stinging nettles not twenty feet from where he stood. It rose up on its hind legs, cautiously sniffing the air. With its upper body and head haloed by the glow of the distant sun, the hare looked like a tempting target, and Cato slowly made to lift the hunting bow. One hare was not going to feed the men of the Sixth Century, but it would do until something larger came down the track.

Cato steadied the bow and was about to release the drawstring when he became aware of another presence in the clearing. The hare turned and scurried back into the undergrowth.

A deer ambled out of the shadows into the clearing, heading for the point at which the trail entered the trees on the far side. A much bigger target, even at twenty paces, and without hesitation, Cato adjusted his aim, allowing for drop and a tendency to shoot up and to the right. The drawstring hummed, the deer froze, and a streak of darkness hurtled through the air and landed in the back of the deer’s neck with a loud whack.

The animal crashed down, thrashing its long neck as blood flecked the undergrowth. Cato hurriedly notched another arrow to the bow, and sprinted across the clearing. Sensing the danger, and maddened by the barbed arrowhead buried deep in its neck, the deer struggled up and leaped along the track towards the river. Heedless of the tangled vegetation straddling the track, Cato pursued his quarry down the slope, falling behind, then catching up again each time the deer stumbled. The injured animal burst onto the river bank and plunged into the river. The smoothly flowing surface exploded into a multitude of sparkling droplets as they caught the evening sun.

Cato was close behind, and drew up at the edge of the river. It seemed much wider and more dangerous than when viewed from the clearing above. The deer splashed on and Cato raised his bow, furious that the animal might yet escape or be dragged off by the current.

The deer floundered on, fully thirty paces away now. The second arrow caught it right in the middle of the back and its rear legs crashed down senseless. Dropping the bow on the river bank, Cato plunged in. The bed of the river was firmly pebbled and less than a foot deep. Water sprayed up around him as he made for the deer with drawn dagger. The second arrow had shattered the deer’s spine and it writhed in terror, desperately trying to use its front legs to drag itself on, and staining the water with its blood.

Cato stopped short, fearful of the flailing hooves, and worked his way round to the front. As his shadow fell across its face, the deer froze in tenor, and seizing the opportunity Cato thrust his dagger into the animal’s throat and ripped it clear. The end was mercifully quick, and after a brief final struggle the deer lay still, eyes staring lifelessly. Cato was trembling, partly from the nervous energy released by the frantic pursuit and kill, and partly through a peculiar sense of distaste and shame at having killed the animal. It was different to killing a man. Quite different. Yet why should it feel any worse? Then Cato realised he had never killed an animal like this before. Sure, he had wrung the neck of the odd chicken, but this felt unsettling and the swirls of blood eddying about his feet made him feel queasy.

He looked down at his feet again. Then up at the river bank he had come running down. Then across to the far bank.

‘I wonder.’

Cato turned away from the deer and headed for the far bank where the trees were starkly black against a deep orange sky. Squinting, he tried to make out the depth of the water ahead of him. It was too dark, and he nervously felt his way through the water, testing each step as he went. The river’s depth gradually increased, and the current quickened, but by the time he reached midstream it had risen only as far as his hips. Thereafter the depth diminished again and he was soon standing on the other side of the river gazing back at the bank held by the legions.

He crouched down in the shadows and waited until the sun had fully set and stars were pricking the early evening sky, but there was no sign of anyone. No men on watch, no patrols, just the sound of wood pigeons and soft cracks as woodland creatures moved in the darkness about him. Satisfied that he was quite alone, Cato returned to the river, waded to the body of the deer and dragged it to where he had left the hunting bow.

The optio smiled happily. The men of the Sixth Century were going to eat well tonight, and tomorrow the rest of the legion were going to have something else to thank him for.

Chapter Seven

‘Are you sure this is the place, Optio?’ ‘Yes, sir.’

Vespasian looked out across the river towards the far bank. Dawn had not yet broken, and the outline of trees was barely distinguishable from the night sky. The far bank was invisible, and the only sound that carried across the water was the hooting of an owl Behind the legate the trail was packed with a silent mass of legionaries, tense and alert for the first sign of danger. Night marches were the bugbear of army life: no idea of how far one had progressed, frequent halts as columns bottlenecked or simply ran into one another, and the ever-lurking fear of ambush. They were a nightmare to co-ordinate as well, which was why army commanders rarely moved troops between dusk and dawn. But the plan of attack developed by Plautius and his staff officers required that the Second Legion be across the river and in position as quickly as possible, and preferably under cover of darkness.

Vespasian had not quite believed his good fortune when news was brought to him of the discovery of a ford not two miles from the legion’s marching camp. It was almost too convenient, suspiciously so, and he had questioned the optio closely. Cato, he knew from previous experience of the lad’s abilities, was intelligent and cautious - two qualities the legate particularly admired - and could be relied upon to report accurately. Nevertheless, if the optio had discovered the crossing so easily then surely the Britons were aware of its existence as well. It might well be a trap. There would be little time to test this hypothesis he realised as he looked back over his shoulder to where the darkness was thinning out against the horizon. A small scouting force had to be pushed across at once. If the Britons were guarding the ford after all, the legion would be forced to march further upstream in search of another. But the more time it took to get across, the less chance the general had of co-ordinating all three attacks on the British fortifications.

‘Centurion!’

‘Yes, sir!’ Macro snapped back from nearby.

‘Take your men across the river and scout half a mile in each direction from the far edge of the ford. If you don’t encounter the enemy and you’re satisfied that we can cross unobserved, send a runner back to me. Best use Cato here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If you have any doubts about the situation, fall back across the river. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And do it quickly. We haven’t got much darkness left to hide beneath.’ As the Sixth Century filed down the track and into the river, Vespasian passed the word down the column for the men to sit down and rest. They would need all their strength for the day ahead. Turning back to the river, he watched the straggling black mass wading across, seeming to make an inhuman din as they splashed through the gentle current. The tension only eased once the sound faded as Macro and his men reached the far side.

When the men had assembled on the river bank, Macro quietly issued their orders. He split them into sections and each one was assigned an axis of advance. Then section by section the men carefully picked their ways into the trees.

‘Cato, you’re with me,’ Macro whispered. ‘Let’s go.’

With a last glance at the other river bank, silent and dark against the greying horizon, Cato turned and carefully made his way into the woods. The passage of the other sections was clearly audible at first - the cracking of twigs, the rustling of undergrowth and snagging of equipment. But the sounds gradually died away as the men grew used to the unaccustomed movement, and the sections drew away from each other. Cato did his best to keep up with his centurion without stumbling or making too much noise. He counted off each pace against the half mile Vespasian had ordered. The woods seemed to go on for ever, gently sloping upwards. Suddenly the treacherous undergrowth gave way to much more solid ground, and the trees opened out into a clearing. Macro paused and crouched down, his eyes straining to make out their surroundings.

By the faint light breaking through the tree tops Cato was able to see dim details of the ancient grove they were in. The grove was ringed by ancient gnarled oak trees, upon which had been nailed hundreds of skulls, empty eye sockets and death’s-head grins surrounding him on all sides. At the centre of the clearing stood a crude altar made out of monumental slabs of stone, down the sides of which ran dark stains. A grim atmosphere wreathed the grove in its coils and both men shivered, not entirely due to the coolness of the air.

‘Shit!’ Macro whispered. ‘What in Hell is this place?’

‘I don’t know… ‘ Cato replied quietly. The grove seemed almost supernaturally silent, even the first notes of the dawn chorus seemed muted somehow. Despite his adherence to a rational view of the world, Cato could not help being frightened by the oppressive atmosphere of the grove. He felt a compulsion to get away from this dreadful scene as soon as possible. This was no place for Romans, or any civilised man. ‘Must be something to do with one of their cults. Druids or something. ‘

‘Druids!’ Macro’s tone betrayed his alarm. ‘We’d better get out of here, fast.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Keeping to the fringes of the clearing, Macro and Cato crept past the trees with their grisly trophies, and continued through the woods. A palpable wave of relief washed over them as they left the grove behind. Ever since the Romans had first encountered the Druids, dark tales of their dread magic and bloodthirsty rituals had been handed down the generations. Both Macro and Cato felt an icy tension bristle beneath the hairs on the back of their necks as they trod softly through the shadows. For a while they progressed through the undergrowth in silence until, at last, Cato was sure that he could see lighter shades in the trees ahead.