Vespasian noticed that the optio was giving him a bitter look, and to emphasise the point the boy gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the slope. The insubordinate gesture was quite deliberate, but it was understandable and Vespasian forced himself to let it pass.
'Keen to get stuck in then, young Cato?'
'Yes, sir. As soon as we can, sir.'
'Good lad!' Vespasian clapped him on the shoulder before turning to the centurion. 'The command post is just inside the woods there.' He pointed to where the legion's colour party was failing to look inconspicuous at the edge of the trees. 'If anything develops down by the river, send a runner to me immediately.'
As the legate scrambled back down the slope, he felt the eyes of the entire Sixth Century follow him with the resentment all common soldiers feel for senior officers who seem to sacrifice their men needlessly. Of course it was unfair – Vespasian was under orders and could not do anything about the situation. He shared Cato's angry helplessness and would dearly have liked to explain the general's battle plan and demonstrate why the men of the Second had to sit and watch while their comrades died. But to share such confidences with a mere optio was unthinkable.
The colour party moved even more indiscreetly towards the edge of the trees as their legate approached.
'What the bloody hell are you doing?' he shouted angrily. 'Get back out of sight.' When they were once more among the trees, the legate called the senior officers of the legion over to him.
'I want the legion moved up to within twenty paces of the ridge there.
They're to be formed up ready for battle, and to move forward the instant I give the order. Colour party with me.'
As the tribunes and senior centurions dispersed to pass the word to the rest of the legion, Vespasian led the colour party up to the spot indicated and a battle line was quickly marked out with the small red pegs designed for the task. Leaving the staff officers to their duties, the legate rejoined the Sixth Century and was horrified to see the new mounds of Roman bodies littering the wrong side of the ford's defences. On the far bank of the river another legion, the Fourteenth, was quickly marching down towards the shallows to support the Ninth. As its First Cohort plunged into the slack current, passing the column of wounded streaming back to the Roman lines, Cato stirred in the long grass beside the legate, craning his neck to see better.
'Down, you fool!'
Cato instantly obeyed, and then timed to his legate. 'Sir! Did you see? The river's getting deeper.'
'Deeper? Nonsense! Unless the tide… '
The legate quickly looked up and stared hard at the river. The optio was right, it was deeper. Vespasian could see that the incoming tide was threatening to make the ford impassable. By the time the Fourteenth had crossed, the water would be too deep to permit a retreat. With cold dread he realised that this was something no one had considered the previous night when the general had gone over his plan. Surely he must see it now. Surely he must order the recall before two Roman legions were caught in the killing ground on the British-held side of the river. But there was no trumpet call, no shrill blaring of the bucinas to save the men of the Fourteenth from sharing the fate of the Ninth, Instead, the legion waded on, chest-high in the quickening current.
'Poor bastards!' muttered Macro. 'They'll be crucified.'
The uneven ranks of the Fourteenth struggled across the river. Men were almost up to their necks in the churning water now, and the watchers on the hill could well imagine the fear of the men crossing, And still no recall.
Behind the enemy line word had been passed of the new threat approaching their fortifications and the tribes surged forward to the crest of the ridge to watch the approach of another legion. Any sense of order their chiefs had struggled to maintain quickly dissolved as the Britons poured through the crude gateways, making for their comrades defending the palisade.
Vespasian watched as dense columns of his men emerged from the forest and moved into position. A few more moments and all would be ready. His ears strained for the first sound of the trumpets ordering the Second into action. But the air remained thick with the sounds of the battle below, unbroken by any trumpet call By the time the Second Legion was formed up and ready to advance, the defenders on the palisade had been swelled by thousands more screaming to get their share of the promised bloodbath. And still no trumpets.
'Something's wrong.'
'Sir?' Macro turned to him.
'We should have heard the headquarters trumpets by now.'
Then a dreadful thought occurred to Vespasian. Maybe he had missed the signal. Maybe the order had been given already and the men down by the river were desperately searching the ridge for any sign of relief. 'Did either of you hear anything while I was back at the command post? Any signal?'
'No, sir,' Macro replied. 'Nothing.'
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Twelve
'Where the hell is the Second?' Vitellius asked bitterly, not for the first time. Legate Geta exchanged a look with his chief centurion and briefly raised his eyes before drawing closer to the tribune crouching beneath his shield.
'A quiet word of advice: officers should always consider how their demeanour affects the men around them. If you want to make a career out of the army you must set a good example. So let's have no more of this nonsense about the Second, all right? Now get off your belly and stand up.'
At first Vitellius was incredulous. Here they were, right in the middle of a first-class military disaster, and Geta was more concerned about etiquette. But the contemptuous looks he was getting from the veterans who made up the command party shamed him. He nodded, swallowed, and rose to his feet, taking his place with the rest or the officers and standard bearers. The fire they had at first attracted from the British slingers had slackened as soon as the cohorts charged the palisade and now only the occasional quick shot could be spared in their direction.
Even so, two of the Ninth's tribunes had been downed. One lay dead at the foot of the eagle standard, his face shattered by the impact of a lead shot. The other had just been struck on the shin. The bone was smashed. The young officer was white-faced with the effort not to let out a cry as he looked at the bone protruding from his skin. Vitellius was relieved when a burly legionary heaved the tribune up onto his shoulders and headed back across the river.
And there, surging down the slope and into the water came the Fourteenth Legion. For an instant Vitellius' spirits soared at the prospect of reinforcements, a reeling shared by the rest or the colour party, until they saw how the tide was slowly covering the ford. Vitellius turned back to the legate, unable to conceal his alarm.
'What's the general up to?'
'It's all in the plan,' Geta replied calmly. 'You should know, you were at the briefing.'
'But the river! We won't be able to get back across unless we withdraw now, sir.' Vitellius looked round the colour party despairingly. Surely someone would agree with him, but the contempt in their expressions only deepened. 'We can't just sit here, sir. We must do something.. Before it's too late.'
Geta regarded him silently for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. 'You are right, of course, Vitellius. We must do something.' Turning to the colour party, he drew his sword. 'Raise the eagle. We're going to advance.'
'What?' Vitellius stared at him in disbelief, and shook his head, desperately trying to think of a way to talk the legate out of the crazy decision. 'But, sir. The eagle – what if it's lost?'
'It won't be, once the men see it right at the front. Then they'll fight to the last drop of blood to follow it to victory, or die in its defence.' 'But it'd be safer where it is, sir,' Vitellius countered.