Although there was no wind and the sea was calm, the leaden sky threatened more snow, and many of the Roman soldiers had chosen to wear their cloaks into action, knowing that they might have to wait a while before the order to advance was given. Those in the cohorts that had already formed up on the slope leading down to the enemy’s defences were stamping their feet and rubbing their hands in an attempt to stave off the cold. Their comrades in the Twentieth Legion and the remaining auxiliary cohorts were being held in reserve in the marching camp sprawling across the crest of the hill that overlooked the narrowest point of the channel. They still had the comfort of the fires burning inside the ramparts of the camp as they stood ready in case they were called on to fight.
It had been two days since the storm had passed, the following morning revealing the extent of the damage wreaked on the hapless fleet that had been sent to join Quintatus and his column. The shore had been strewn with wreckage and corpses for miles either side of the bay, and fully two thirds of the vessels and their crews had been lost. The bodies had been gathered up and cremated on pyres constructed from the shattered timbers of the ships before the army made its final advance to the hill overlooking the enemy’s positions either side of the channel. In that time Cato had recovered from the effects of the cold and exhaustion caused by his rescue of the sailors. They at least had been saved from the savage storm, and that was some small comfort to the prefect. Now he turned his attention to the pending assault and the wider situation as he continued the conversation he had been having with Legate Valens.
‘We’ll deal with their position on this side of the channel easily enough, sir, but getting across the water and taking the island itself is going to be a much tougher proposition. Either we try crossing at low tide through those obstacles, or we go straight across the water. Not easy given how few transports made it through the storm.’
Both men glanced at the vessels edging into the mouth of the channel, keeping as close to the mainland as they dared in case the enemy attempted anything with the scores of small craft they had beached along the shore of the island. Besides the warships, there were eight transports, each capable of carrying no more than fifty men.
‘With only four hundred in each wave, it’s going to be difficult,’ Cato commented. ‘The first men across are going to have the fight of their lives.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ Valens conceded. ‘But I’d bet on the boys in the Fourteenth against that screaming mob of barbarians any day. They just have to get ashore and hold on long enough for the follow-up troops. Once we’ve numbers on the ground, nothing can stop us. We’ll crush those Druids like eggs. That’ll knock the stuffing out of any other tribes thinking of taking a pop at us, eh?’
Cato made himself smile reassuringly. ‘Yes, I imagine so.’
Valens had a point. Without the Druids to unite the tribes against Rome, the standard policy of divide and rule would work its usual magic. That was what made it possible for the tiny city state that Rome had once been to hold sway over a vast expanse of the known world. And it would be no different here in Britannia. The entire population would be held down by three or four legions and several cohort units, with the aid of those native rulers whose loyalty had been bought with Roman silver. That would be the price of peace for the natives of Britannia.
As they had been talking, the ballista crews had been given permission to fire at will, and as each loaded at its own speed, the distinct volleys that had opened the barrage blurred into a continuous, rhythmless series of cracks. The enemy, who had been using the initial intervals to show their defiance, now hunkered down behind their palisade to ride it out, ready to spring forward again the moment the Romans ceased shooting. The concentrated impact of the heavy bolts was already shattering the timbers of the palisade, and there was a cry of triumph from the watching soldiers when a section of the rampart fell into the outer ditch, carrying away some of the earth from beneath it.
‘Officers to your units!’ Quintatus called out from his station a short distance in front of his command post. The camp prefect repeated the order with a loud bellow to ensure that it was heard by all, and then the commanders of the units about to go into action moved off to join their men. Cato strode part of the way with Valens and noted the man’s irrepressible confidence as he greeted his subordinates and took his place close to the standard-bearers on the right of the line.
‘Good fortune go with you, sir,’ said Cato as he bowed his head briefly.
‘And with you, Prefect Cato!’ Valens nodded. ‘Stick it to ’em, Blood Crows!’
The legate turned to give a final address to his senior centurions, the time-honoured tradition of commanders before a battle. Cato had sometimes favoured the men under his command with similar treatment, but he doubted its necessity now. They would fight come what may, and a few hackneyed boasts and appeals to duty would not be likely to boost their chances of winning a battle. Better, he thought, to show them a calm professionalism and let them trust to their training and experience. So he affected a diffident manner as he approached the colour party of the Blood Crows and undid the clasp fastening his cloak, handing the garment to Thraxis before taking the shield held out for him by his servant.
Out of habit, he hefted the shield and tested its weight, then rolled his shoulders to loosen them before he nodded to Thraxis.
‘All ready . . .’ He paused and fixed his servant with a brief appraising look. He had made a decision about the Thracian’s future earlier that morning, and it seemed an appropriate moment to break the news. ‘You can leave the cloak with the dressing party and then take your place beside the standard-bearer, as his second.’
Thraxis could not help showing his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘You’ve served me well. Though not always with good humour, eh?’ Cato chuckled as he remembered the many occasions when Thraxis had seen to his needs like a man nursing a perpetual hangover. He was rewarded with a fresh scowl, but the expression swiftly disappeared as Thraxis smiled at his good fortune. To be the second to the standard-bearer made him responsible for the man’s safety in battle, and if the standard-bearer was killed or badly wounded, it would fall to Thraxis to take the Blood Crows’ standard and keep it raised high. The post came with a pay increase to one and a half times his previous rate, as well as being excused-duties status. There would be no more of the drudgery of cleaning latrines, fetching firewood and cleaning his superior’s kit. It would also mean that Thraxis was well placed to rise to the rank of optio, and after that decurion. As his mind raced through the opportunities extended to him, he paused and looked at Cato.
‘Who will replace me as your servant, sir?’
‘I’ll trust you to find the right man for the job once we return to Mediolanum. There’s no hurry. All I ask is that you make sure he has a sunnier disposition than the current post-holder.’
‘That crack ain’t funny, sir.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m replacing you.’
Thraxis grinned and nodded appreciatively. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful.’
‘No need for that. It’s clear enough to me that you have the potential to make a decent junior officer. Congratulations.’
Thraxis hurried off with Cato’s cloak and left it with the auxiliaries who were busy preparing their dressings and splints in readiness for the flow of casualties when the attack went in. He returned a moment later with his own shield and took his place alongside the standard-bearer. Around them the Blood Crows stood formed up in their squadrons with their decurions posted on the right flank, puffs of steam swirling from the men’s lips each time they exhaled into the bitterly cold morning air. The snow on the ground muffled the sounds of voices and the chink of loose equipment and lent an unnatural quiet to the scene. On Cato’s orders they had left their spears in camp. The close-quarters fighting that lay ahead favoured the use of swords.