'Stand up!'
The officer rose to his feet, amidst the astonished murmurs of the others.
'Are you volunteering for the first wave?' Vespasian asked, barely keeping the surprise from his voice.
'Yes, sir, First vessel of the first wave.'
'And you think your men are up to it'?'
'Yes, sir. They're ready, and they want revenge.'
'Then they shall have it, acting Centurion. But do you think you are the man to lead them on this assault'?'
Cato flushed angrily. 'I am, sir.'
Vespasian smiled grimly at the youngster's determination to avenge his centurion. There was no doubting his courage, but leaders needed to be above personal motivation in the heat of battle. Could this boy be relied upon to put duty before revenge'? Or would he just hurl himself upon the enemy and fight like a fury until he was killed, heedless of his responsibility to the men under his command? Vespasian weighed up the situation and came to a quick decision. The first wave would have little time to co-ordinate a defence of the landing point and he might as well make best use of whatever battle frenzy came his way.
'Very well, acting Centurion. And good luck. Any others ready to join him'?'
Cato's instant response had shamed the veterans, and almost to a man they raised their arms.
'Good,' said the legate. 'Your final orders will be with you after the legion has been fed. Now you'd best rouse your men and let them know what Rome wants for its money today.'
As the officers filed out of the tent, Vespasian caught Cato's eye and raised a finger to beckon him over.
'Sir?'
'Are you sure about this?'
When Cato nodded, Vespasian leaned closer so that his words would not be overheard by the men leaving the tent. 'It's not necessary for you to lead the attack. You and your men must be exhausted, and you're injured.'
'I'll live,' Cato muttered. 'We are tired, sir. And there aren't many of us left in the century. But that's no different to any other century, sir. The difference is we've got more reason to fight than most. I think I can speak for Macro's men on this.'
'They're your men now, son.'
'Yes sir.' Cato stiffened and raised his chin.
'Good man!' Vespasian said approvingly. 'And make sure you look after yourself, young Cato. There's the promise of great things in you. Survive this and you can survive anything.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Now go. I'll see you later, on the other side of the river.' Cato saluted and followed the other officers out of the tent.
As he watched the young man leave, Vespasian felt a pang of guilt. It was true the lad showed promise, and the cheap rhetoric he had offered had worked, as he knew it would. The optio – the acting centurion, Vespasian corrected himself – would feel fired by his superior's confidence in him. But it would probably get him killed that much more quickly. It was too bad. The lad was likeable and had performed well enough in the short time he had served with the eagles. But that was the nature of command. Regardless of one's feelings, the battle had to be won, the enemy defeated, and both had their price – measured in the blood of the men in his legion.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Twenty-Six
The sun beat down on the men packed into the wide-beamed transport. The wool tunics under the heavy armour made the men sweat and the damp material clung uncomfortably to their skin. The resulting odour, combined with the residue of the marsh, made the air aboard the transport foetid to the point of nausea. The heat, the fear and nervous exhaustion had worked to make one or two men throw up, adding the stink of their vomit to the other odours.
Over the side, the Tamesis drifted glassily by, disturbed only by the monotonous splash and gurgling churn from the long sweeps at the bow and stern of the transport as the crew strained to keep the vessel in line with the warship directly ahead. In perfect unison the great oars of the trireme rose from the surface of the river, shedding glistening cascades of water, then swept forward before plunging back into the river to lever the beaked prow on towards the far bank.
From the small foredeck of the transport Cato scanned the massed ranks of the enemy waiting to receive them. All morning the Britons had been gathering in response to the assault being prepared in their full view on the Roman side of the Tamesis. The assembling of the transports and the warship, and the dense mass of legionaries preparing to embark made the latest plans of General Plautius obvious for all to see. And so the handful of British cavalry scouts had hurried off to spread word of the impending river assault. The dispersed ranks of Caratacus' army quickly re-formed and made their way down towards the river bank opposite the Roman ships.
The assault had already been delayed by the need to unload the supplies carried by the transports, and the legionaries had fumed as they manhandled the unwieldy cargo onto the crude jetty and hauled it out of the way. While they laboured, more and more Britons arrived to reinforce the far bank. For those in the first wave the prospect of facing ever greater odds caused them to fret and swear at their comrades engaged in unloading the transports, urging them to finish the job more quickly.
The first transport was still some way from the bank when the Britons gave voice to their war cry, a note that rose to a crescendo and then dipped, then rose again. To Cato's unpractised eye the enemy seemed to number several thousand but any exact estimation was obvious was that the enemy greatlyoutnumbered the men in the first wave of the Second Legion and the rising volume of their challenge was unnerving. Turning his back to them, Cato forced himself to shake his head and smile.
'Musical lot, aren't they?' he said to the nearest men of his century and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'Be a different tune a little later.'
One or two men smiled back but most just looked resigned, or were struggling to conceal the fear that caused them to exhibit all manner of telltale nervous gestures. A few hours earlier these same men had seemed keen enough to avenge their centurion, but the aspirations produced by rage, Cato realised, tended to be greatly moderated by the imminent prospect of putting them into effect. As he stood above them, Cato could see that most of the men were looking at him, and the sudden sensation of being judged weighed heavily upon him. He knew that even now some of them still resented his appointment as their optio.
This was the moment when Macro would have offered them some last words of encouragement before they went into action. A number of quotable phrases rushed into his mind from all the histories he had read, but none seemed appropriate and, worse, none seemed to be the kind of thing that a seventeen year old could say without sounding hopelessly pretentious.