There would be bitter feeling among the men when they were told about the proposed assault. After the battle on the Mead Way, yesterday's deadly games of cat and mouse in the marshes, and now this forlorn hope against yet another defended shore, memories of the recent mutiny back in Gesoriacum were bound to be stirred up. If it had not been for Narcissus' ruthless elimination of the leaders of the mutiny, the invasion of Britain would never have been launched and, worse, the authority of the Emperor would have been fatally undermined. It was bad enough having the likes of the Liberators working against Claudius without his army commanders unwittingly fuelling the dissent of the lower ranks. If the Second Legion refused their orders later this morning, how long would it take for news of it to spread to the other legions? No more than two days at the very most.
And the orders were clear. There was no leeway for interpretation at all. Vespasian would just have to trust the judgement of his superior even as he feared the consequences of doing so. With a bitter sigh of resignation he glanced up at this senior tribune, determined to restore his reputation as the kind of commander who stopped at nothing in the pursuit of his orders.
'Inform the staff officers first. They're going to be busy for the next few hours. I'll speak to the centurions once the plan is ready. I want the men to be well fed – if the landing succeeds, it might be a while before they next get a proper meal. See that the field kitchen issues double rations; any more than that and they'll sink the transports.'
It was a feeble joke but Vitellius managed a brief smile before he saluted and left the legate's tent. Vespasian slumped down onto his stool and cursed Plautius with all the vehemence that his frustration and despair could muster. He was well aware how much his mood was determined by his exhausted state: when was the last time he had slept? Two days ago, and then only a brief rest between the attack on the river fortifications and giving the orders for this latest phase of the advance. His body ached, his eyes stung, and it took some force of effort to focus his mind. From some insidious recess of his brain emerged the desire to shut his eyes for just a moment, no more. Just a moment to clear the stinging sensation. The suggestion was no sooner made than his eyelids closed and his body surrendered to the warm wave of relaxation that he permitted it. A few moments, no more, he reminded himself dimly.
'Sir!' Someone was shaking his shoulder gently. In an instant Vespasian was fully awake, and aware of what had happened. He silently raged against himself. The orderly who had woken him backed off respectfully before his thunderous expression. How long had he been asleep? He dare not ask the orderly, who would suspect an all too human weakness in his legate. Looking beyond the fellow, Vespasian saw a dull glow rimming the bottom of the tent and filtering through the chinks in the closed tent flaps. Not so long after daybreak then. By that much his shame was assuaged.
'Are my officers assembled?'
'Yes, sir. They're waiting for you in the staff tent. Some still haven't returned from the marsh, but I'll send them to you as soon as they reach the legion, sir.'
'Very good. Now leave me.'
The orderly saluted and silently disappeared between the tent flaps.
Vespasian instantly slammed his fist down on his leg and swore at himself in bitter self-reproach. To fall asleep at such a moment! To have given in to such a weakness when his reputation and that of his legion was to be tested to the utmost. It was unforgivable, and he fervently resolved never to let it happen again. He stood up, straightened his tunic, and crossed to the small pitcher and bronze bowl in the corner. He emptied the contents of the pitcher over his head. The water had been refilled directly from the river during the night and was still refreshing enough to help his senses return to a more conscious state. He straightened up and dried himself, smoothing the wet hair back into place with his hands. A quick glance in the polished bronze minor revealed a three-day growth of stubble that rasped on his palm as he rubbed his cheek. The stubble, the hollow eyes and his drawn expression combined to make him look like one of the poor wretches that begged from the gutters outside the Circus Maximus in Rome. But there was no time for cosmetic adjustment, and he consoled himself with the thought that his staff officers would look just as unkempt.
Lifting the flap of his tent, Vespasian saw that the sunrise was well advanced; the pale orange disc hung just above the horizon, faintly shrouded by wisping smoke from the dying campfires. Some of the men were already talking and coughing in the cool dawn air, while the centurions and their optios began to rouse the rest. The reluctance of the men to bestir themselves and begin the daily routine of legionary life was palpable, and Vespasian made himself greet the men cheerfully as he passed by.
The assembled centurions and tribunes of the legion rose stiffly to their feet as Vespasian entered the headquarters tent. He waved them back to their stools. It was then that he noticed Vitellius, clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp new tunic. Although the man looked tired, the contrast with the other officers and himself was striking and the old antagonism for Vitellius bloomed in his heart.
'No time for ceremony, I'm afraid, gentlemen,' Vespasian said as he leaned across the map table, resting on spread fingers. 'The general's decided to keep the battle rolling forward, and we get to play the leading part once again.'
Although the tribunes had suspected bad news they still could not help groaning with dismay at the prospect of further action.
'Before anyone asks, the general is aware of our condition, and the order to attack stands.'
'Why us, sir?' asked Tribune Plinius.
'Because we're here, Plinius. Simple as that.'
'But the Twentieth have hardly been scratched,' Plinius persisted with a bitter tone that evidently reflected the mood of the other officers, many of whom nodded and muttered in agreement. Vespasian heartily shared their grievance, especially after what the Second Legion had been through recently, and everything they had achieved. But his rank demanded a stoic acceptance of orders.
'The Twentieth are being held in reserve. Plautius wants to keep one unit intact to meet any counterattacks, and to spearhead any advance we might make.' That was true enough, Vespasian reflected: he did not mention that the Second was being used to wear the enemy down. Attrition was a hard tactic to stomach when the numbers being whittled down were your own men.
Tribune Plinius was not yet mollified. 'If there is an advance,' he said angrily. 'At this rate, sir, we'll all be dead before the Twentieth loses a man.'
'Maybe. Maybe not. But the orders will be obeyed, Tribune,' Vespasian replied firmly. 'If there's any man here who wants no part in this I'll willingly accept his resignation… after the assault.'
Subdued laughter rippled round the tent, and the tribune blushed. 'Right then, gentlemen. Down to details.'
The light mood quickly died away and the centurions and tribunes focused their attention on Vespasian.
'We should be joined by the navy early this morning. The general has supplied a trireme to provide covering fire for the landing, and ten transports to convey the legion across the Tamesis. As the sharper ones among you will have calculated, it's going to take us three journeys to get what's left of the legion across. And that means the first wave must hold the landing ground until the other waves can be fed into the fight. There will be no chance of retreat if things go bad – the transports will be heading back for the next wave.' Vespasian paused to let the point sink in. 'As you gentlemen will appreciate, the first wave might well be a suicide mission. Now, I don't want to order anyone into the first transports to cross, so I'll ask for volunteers.' He looked up and quickly glanced round the room. Some officers avoided his gaze while others shuffled nervously. Vespasian's eyes came to rest on an arm raised at the rear of the tent, held straight in the air. The light inside the tent was still dim and the legate's tired eyes could not make out the identity of the officer.