‘And the enemy?’ the Batavian demanded. ‘He would be foolish not to patrol his flank, and nothing I have heard about this Caratacus tells me he is a fool.’
Adminius’s eyes shone in the torchlight. ‘Not Caratacus. His brother Togodumnus, who is as lazy as he is arrogant. He sulks in his hut because Scarach of the Durotriges stands in the place of honour at Caratacus’s right hand, while the Dobunni skulk like dogs waiting to be fed scraps from their master.’ He laughed. ‘He believes the only honours to be won tomorrow will be in the battle of the three bridges and that is where his attention is drawn. He cares nothing for flanks, only glory.’
‘Then it will be the death of him,’ Frontinus declared.
Adminius bared his teeth. ‘Just so.’
The Batavian commander gave his orders in a firm, deliberate voice. A thousand men would be dispatched to the enemy camp, there to cause havoc among his cavalry lines and his supplies. ‘Hit hard,’ he urged. ‘Hamstring the horses and kill everything you meet. Burn what you can, but don’t get involved in a pitched battle. Hunt like wolves, in packs, but like a wolf be a shadow in the night, appearing, then vanishing, to appear again where they least expect it. Make them believe they have been attacked by a full legion, and when they gather forces to fight you, withdraw and return here, where we will have formed line.’ He pointed to the short stroke Adminius had scored on the ground, the line between the cliffs and the river. ‘They will be drawn after you, eager for vengeance, but instead of vengeance they will meet their deaths.’ He turned to Adminius. ‘How many of these Dobunni do you estimate will face us?’
The Cantiaci chief shrugged, as if such a calculation was beneath him, but one of his warriors spoke quietly in his ear. ‘Perhaps fifteen thousand.’
Frontinus grinned at his officers and they smiled back. ‘So, fifteen thousand against two thousand. Enough, even for my Batavians. Go now, and return before dawn. The watchword for tonight is Claudius and the reply is Victory.’
‘Claudius and Victory,’ the auxiliary commanders chorused in their thick German accents, and the words sent a shiver down Rufus’s spine.
XXVIII
Four miles downstream from where the Batavians were forming their line and a mile beyond the left flank of Caratacus’s position, Ballan’s heart thundered so hard he wondered it didn’t burst from his ribs. He was looking at an army of ghosts.
‘Esus save us,’ he whispered. His eyes told him he was seeing what he was seeing, but the impossibility of it overwhelmed his mind and the thin fabric of his sanity threatened to tear apart inside his head. Every instinct told him to run. To get away from this haunted place to somewhere, anywhere, he would be safe. Most men would have fled — the frightened shouts and the sound of horses charging through the riverside scrub told him his scouts already had — but he was Ballan. Ballan of a hundred battles. Ballan of a dozen secret missions. And some power within that Ballan forced him to face his fears and stay. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he opened them again the only thing that had changed was that the ghost-soldiers were closer to the north bank. He could see now that the spirit-general leading them through the swirling vortexes of the mist wore a plumed helmet and was mounted upon a magnificent white horse. A cloak of scarlet covered his burnished armour. The pale horse pranced and high-stepped as if it was on parade, and, as the mist cleared for a fragmentary second, Ballan could see it was splashing through water that only just reached its fetlocks, water that could only be a few inches in depth, but he knew — knew — was a dozen feet deep at the very least. Behind the phantom general came his phantom legion, only their helmeted heads and the points of their throwing spears showing above the mist. Close-ranked, disciplined sections eighty men strong, each separated by a few feet and kept in position by a centurion. Slowly Ballan’s brain came to terms with what he was witnessing. Surely it was only the setting that filled him with dread? Everything else was familiar, almost comfortingly so. He had watched the Romans for weeks now and the only thing different about these men was that they were doing the impossible. If anything, the ranks were a little tighter. They were marching so close together they were almost getting in each other’s way.
His fear evaporated, the way the mist on the water would evaporate with the first rays of the morning sun, and that same mist drifted slightly once more, allowing him to see the little poles rising out of the water. The poles that showed the Roman legion where to march. The poles that marked the underwater bridge they had constructed beneath the very noses of Caratacus’s army. The singing — that was it! Each night the voices of a thousand men had masked the sound of construction. How had they managed to build a bridge below the water? He didn’t know, but if anyone could do it, the Romans could. He shuddered as he realized the full implications of what he was seeing. This was a full legion, perhaps five thousand strong. Once they completed the crossing they would wheel and take Caratacus’s army in the flank. He concentrated, trying to remember who had the left flank of the British force. Togodumnus was on the right, furthest upriver; Caratacus in the centre with his Catuvellauni and Trinovantes, the Iceni and Scarach’s Durotriges. That meant it would be Epedos and the Atrebates, and Bodvoc and his Regni who faced the flank attack. Could they hold the fighting power of a full legion? Yes, if they had time to prepare for the attack. But not if they were caught by surprise. He hauled on his pony’s reins and dug his heels into her flanks. He had seen enough. He galloped through the sand-blown scrub in the wake of his fleeing men. Caratacus must know.
It was thirty minutes before he was able to round up the rest of the scouts and gather them shamefaced on their blown horses. He didn’t blame them for running. There were some things it was sensible to run from. He had seen exactly what they had and he’d been close to running himself. But there were also some things that had to be said.
‘You think you ran from ghosts?’ he sneered. ‘You didn’t. You ran from a few Romans — the same Romans you’ve been laughing at for the last four weeks because they couldn’t find their cock under a blanket. Who’s laughing now?’ He flayed them one by one until he saw the expressions on their faces turn from shame and defeat to hate. All right, it wasn’t the Romans they hated, but it would do. ‘Those Romans you ran from are the doom of your army, understand that? The death of those sluts you call wives and the worm-ridden brats you call children. They’ll spit your babies on their spears and laugh while they’re doing it. But that doesn’t matter. No, what matters is that if Caratacus doesn’t know about them they’ll defeat him. He’ll die cursing my name, but that doesn’t matter either. What matters is that Caratacus is the hope of Britain. Without Caratacus we’ll all be slaves or we’ll be dead. And that’s why we’re going to get through to him or die trying.’ The heads came up then, and the hatred was replaced by pride and he loved them for it. ‘Every minute we’ve sat here on these spavined wrecks, the Romans have been marching to cut us off from Caratacus. But if we ride as though Taranis is behind us and use every trick we know one of us might just make it. If one man gets through he will restore the honour of us all.’ He saw that the ponies were almost fully recovered, and his words became brisk. ‘We head north and then west. Once we’re sure we’re clear of their patrols we’ll split into pairs. All Caratacus needs to know is that there’s a Roman legion on his left flank. Understand? His left flank.’ Eight heads nodded in unison. ‘Ride!’
How long did he have? Two hours, maybe less, for the Romans to get into position to attack. Riding hard and taking a direct route it would take at least an hour to reach the British camp where Caratacus waited for the enemy, never suspecting that his carefully baited trap was about to turn into an ambush. But there was no question of taking the direct route. They would have to ride in a wide circle away from the river, and they would have to take risks.