The Eagles Conquest

'That's my belief, sir,' Geta replied. 'The second force need not require too many men, their chief role is to be the final surprise Caratacus cannot deal with. Catch him off balance, and we'll win the day. He'll never be able to cope with all three attacks. You know what these native irregulars are like. Of course, if either of our flanking forces is caught in isolation, then losses will be severe.'

Vespasian felt a cold chill at the nape of his neck as he recognised the chance he had been looking for. The chance to redeem himself and his legion. If the Second could play the decisive role in the coming battle, it would go a long way towards restoring the unit's spirits. Although Togodumnus' recent ambush of the Second Legion had failed, the unit had suffered grievous losses in men and morale was low. A successful attack, pressed home ruthlessly, might yet save the reputation of the Second and its commander. But would the men be up for it?

Plautius was nodding as he went over Geta's proposal. 'There is a risk in a divided assault, as you say, but there's a risk any way we cut it. Right then, we'll go with that plan. All that remains is the allocation of forces. Clearly, the right flank attack across the river will require the Batavians,' he said, with a faint nod towards Vespasian. 'The frontal assault will be carried out by the Ninth.'

This was it, Vespasian realised. Time to reclaim the Second's honour.

He took a step forward and cleared his throat.

'Yes, Vespasian?' Plautius looked towards him. 'You have something to add?'

'Sir, I request the privilege of leading the left flank attack.'

Plautius folded his arms and cocked his head to one side as he considered Vespasian's request. 'Do you really think the Second can handle it? You're under-strength, and I imagine your men wouldn't be too pleased to find themselves in the thick of battle quite so soon after their recent experience.'

Vespasian coloured. 'I beg to differ, sir. I believe I speak for my men as much as for myself.'

'Frankly, Vespasian, a moment ago I had no intention of even considering the Second for this duty. I was going to hold you in reserve, and let a fresh unit do the job. And I don't see any reason why I should change my mind. Do you?'

Unless Vespasian could quickly find reasons to justify the Second Legion's position on the left flank, he would be doomed to live the rest of his tenure as a legate under a shroud of suspicion about his suitability for command. And if the men sensed that they were being denied an equal part in the campaign, and hence an equal share in the spoils, the Second's morale and reputation would never recover. Their reputation had been bought over the years with the blood of thousands of comrades, under an eagle that had led them into battle for decades. If that was to end, then it would be over his dead body. Vespasian needed to be firm with his general.

'Yes I do, sir. You seem to have been misinformed about the fighting spirit of my legion.' And Vespasian guessed that Vitellius was the source of that misinformation. 'The men are ready for it, sir. They're more than ready, they're thirsty for it. We need to avenge the men we've lost.' 'Enough!' Plautius cut in. 'You think that rhetoric will win out over reason? This is the front line, not the forum in Rome. I asked you to give me a good reason why I should give way.'

'All right then, sir. I'll speak straight to the point.' 'Please do.'

'The Second is under-strength. But you don't need a full legion for the attack. If it falls through, then you've only lost a unit that's already been pretty badly cut up rather than a fresh legion.' Vespasian looked at his general shrewdly. 'I dare say that you want to keep as many fresh units to hand as possible, in case you have to fight Caratacus again. You can't afford to face him with under-strength and tired forces across your battle line. Better to risk a more expendable unit now.'

Plautius nodded as he listened approvingly to this altogether more cynical reasoning. It neatly reflected the hard realities of command and, in the same hard way, made the most sense.

'Very well, Vespasian. A reprieve for you and your men then.' Vespasian inclined his head in thanks. His heart jumped with excitement at having won his commander round, and then in anxiety at the dangerous duty for which he had just volunteered his men. He had been less than honest in his request to the general. He had no doubt that many of the men would curse him for it, but then soldiers complained about everything. They needed to fight. They needed a clear cut victory to boast about. To let the men continue in their present state of doubt about themselves would ruin the legion, and blight his career. Now that he had committed them to the attack he felt confident that the majority would share his desire to fight.

'Your orders,' Plautius stated formally, 'are to proceed upriver at dawn. Locate the nearest ford and cross to the far bank. From there you will march downriver, avoiding contact with the Britons. You will wait in hiding until the headquarters trumpets blow your legion's recognition signal, at which point you will join the assault on that hill. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir. Perfectly.'

'Hit them hard, Vespasian. As hard as you can.' 'Yes, sir.'

'Your written orders will be with you later today. You'd best be on your way. I want you moving before daybreak. Now go.'

Vespasian saluted the general, nodded a farewell to Sabinus, and was making his way through the throng of officers back towards the horse line when Vitellius came running up the slope, panting heavily.

'Sir! Sir!'

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.

The Eagles Conquest

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. '