The Eagles Conquest

'Shut that lot up!' roared the decurion, before turning to help Vitellius back to his feet. He seemed shaken and scared, but unharmed beyond that.

'Close escape, sir.'

'For him or for me?' Vitellius responded bitterly. The decurion was just smart enough not to reply.

'Want me to go after him, sir?'

'No. No point. He probably knows his way in the dark better than us.

Besides, we can't afford to send any of the guards off on some wild chase. No, I'm afraid he's got clean away.'

'Perhaps he'll run into some of our men,' the decurion said hopefully. 'I doubt it.'

'Shame about your horse, sir.'

'Yes, one of my better mounts. Still, there's no need to worry about me, Decurion. I'll have your horse until we reach the camp.'

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cato had been trying to avoid all thought of the centurion's fate. Macro was probably dead. Pyrax was dead. Many of his comrades in the Sixth Century were dead. But the thought of Macro lying cold and still out there in the marshes was impossible to accept. Although a cold, logical part of his mind reiterated that Macro could not have escaped death, Cato found himself imagining all kinds of ways in which he could have survived. He might be out there now, injured or unconscious, helpless, waiting for his comrades to come and find him. He might even have been taken prisoner. But then, the image of the slaughtered Batavians flashed before Cato's mind. There would be no prisoners, no sparing of the wounded.

The optio sat up and rested his arms on his knees. He gazed at the remains of the century sleeping around him. Of the eighty men who had disembarked from the invasion fleet, only thirty-six remained. Another dozen were injured and might be expected to return to duty over the next weeks. That meant the century had lost over thirty dead in the last ten days.

Cato was acting centurion for the moment – until the headquarters staff merged the century with another, or received replacements to bring it back up to strength. Either way Cato would not be in command for more than a few days. For that he was thankful, even as he despised himself for feeling relieved by the prospect of surrendering his authority. Though he felt he had grown into manhood over this last year, there was still a residual anxiety that he had not developed the special qualities that qualified a man for command. He would be a poor replacement for Macro, and he knew that the men would share that view. Until he reverted to the status of optio he would try his best to lead them as well as he could, following in the bold striding footsteps of Macro.

Earlier that night, when Cato and his small flotilla had emerged from the river, they had alarmed the sentries who had not been expecting any Romans to arrive from that direction. Anticipating such a reaction, Cato had responded quickly and loudly to the sentry's challenge. After the bedraggled soldiers had clambered from the muddy shoreline into the camp, safe at last, Cato had been escorted to the headquarters tent to make his report.

A mass of lamps and small fires marked the location of the Second Legion's headquarters, while all around stretched the long dark lines of the resting soldiers. Cato was shown into a large tent within which clerks pored over their paperwork on long trestle tables. One of them beckoned to him and Cato stepped forward.

'Unit?' The clerk looked up from his scroll, pen poised above the inkwell.

'Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.'

'Ah! Macro's lot.' The clerk dipped his pen and started to write. 'Where is he?'

'I don't know. Still somewhere in the marsh.'

'What happened?'

Cato tried to explain in a way that left open the question of Macro's fate, but the clerk shook his head sadly as he regarded the youngster standing before him. 'Are you his optio?'

Cato nodded.

'Well, you aren't any more then. You're acting centurion until further notice. What's your strength?'

'Thirty odd of us left, I think,' replied Cato.

'Exactly, please,' said the clerk. Then he looked up and saw that the young soldier was at the end of his tether, eyes red and head drooping even as he stood there. The clerk continued in a more kindly tone, 'Sir, I need the exact number, please.'

This gentle reminder of his new responsibility caused Cato to straighten up and focus his mind.

'Thirty-six. I've got thirty-six men left.'

As the clerk took down the details, a flap at the rear of the tent parted, and the legate entered. He handed a small scrap of parchment to a staff officer and was turning to leave when he caught sight of Cato and paused. 'Optio!' he called out as he made his way over. 'How goes it? You just rejoined us?'

'Yes, sir.'

'It's been quite a night, hasn't it?'

'Yes, sir, quite a night.'

Something in the lad's tone went beyond weariness, and looking more closely Vespasian could see that Cato was struggling to control his emotions. And to bear the pain, Vespasian thought, as he caught sight of the terrible blisters running down the lad's arm.

'It's been a hard day for us all, Optio. But we're still here.'

'My centurion isn't… '

'Macro? Macro's dead?'

'I don't know, sir,' Cato replied slowly. 'I think so.'

'That's too bad. Too bad.' Vespasian shifted uneasily at the news, torn between expressing genuine regret and maintaining the image of imperturbability he was trying so hard to project. 'He was a good man, a good soldier. Would have been a good senior centurion in time. I'm sorry. You admired him, didn't you?'

'Yes, sir.' Cato felt a lump rise in his throat.

'See to it that your men get some food and rest. Off you go.'

The young man saluted and was about to turn and leave when Vespasian added quietly, 'Don't let grief cloud your judgement, son. We've got hard days ahead of us, and I don't want you throwing your life away on some quest for revenge. Your men will be looking to you now.'

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Twenty-Five

'Are you sure about this'?' Vitellius nodded.

'And you briefed him fully on our condition?'

'Yes, sir. I told him everything:

'Vespasian read the despatch from Aulus Plautius again, in case he had missed some nuance that would allow him to make a case for rescinding the order. But there was nothing. For once, the clerks at the general's headquarters had expunged every ambiguity and produced a set of orders with the kind of terse elegance that would brave compared favourably with Caesar's commentaries. In a brief paragraph the Second Legion was ordered to board transports provided by the navy and make a landing on the far side of the Tamesis. One warship was deemed all that was necessary to provide fire support for the operation. The Second Legion was to seize control of the river bank and establish a bridgehead. If successful, Vespasian would be reinforced by elements of the Ninth Legion.

'Madness!' Vespasian grumbled and tossed the despatch onto his travel desk. 'Complete madness. 'We're not in any fit condition to carry this out. Some of the men are still out there in the marsh, and those who have returned to the eagle… What the hell does Plautius think we're made of?'

'Do you want me to ride hack and try and change his mind, sir?' Vespasian looked up sharply. He was about to launch into an attack on the tribune for taking every opportunity to undermine him when he noticed Vitellius' exhausted stoop. The tribune was worn out and seemed well past exercising his usual guile. The man needed a rest and in any case it would be pointless sending him back to argue the case with the general. The orders had been issued and Vespasian was obliged to carry them out with whatever resources he had available to him. Any attempt to prevaricate or delay would damage his reputation. He could well imagine the senators in Rome tutting if word reached them that he had been reluctant to throw his troops across the river. Those who had experience in the field would exchange knowing looks, and mutter darkly about his lack of resolve; they might even go so far as to quietly attribute it to cowardice. Vespasian flushed angrily at the thought.