The column of replacements waited wearily while the transports shuttled back and forth across the Tamesis. At last it was the turn of the Second's replacements to cross. On landing, Macro dismissed his century and led the rest of his column up to the Second's headquarters to parade them on the wide avenue opposite the main entrance. Inside the clerical tent he handed over the roster, after having marked off the names of those men he had chosen for his century.
'Looks like you've picked only the best for us, Centurion.'
Macro turned and quickly stood to attention at the sight of his legate. 'Yes, sir. The best.'
'Well done.' Vespasian pulled on his helmet with its bright red crest 'Now I'll introduce myself to them officially.'
Cato, meanwhile, took his kit to the section tent and then went in search of Nisus, detennined to get to the bottom of the surgeon's cold formality towards him. Cato had not yet reached the age where the opinion of others was no longer the critical issue of his social relations. More than anything he strove to be worthy of respect, and at the least he wanted an explanation from Nisus for the sudden withdrawal of his friendship.
But Nisus was not in the field hospital, not in his tent, not sitting down by the jetty. Eventually Cato went back to the field hospital and asked one of the orderlies where Nisus might be found.
'Nisus?' The orderly's eyebrows rose.
Cato nodded and a flash of recognition lightened the orderly's face. 'You're that mate of his, aren't you? I'm surprised you don't know.'
'Don't know?' Cato felt his blood run cold. 'I've been out of the camp. What's happened?'
'Nisus has gone.'
'Gone?'
'Disappeared. Two days ago. Just walked out of the camp to go fishing, and never came back.'
'Who saw him last?'
'Don't know.' The orderly shrugged. 'He was supposed to meet someone by the river and never showed up. That's how it got reported.'
'Who was he supposed to meet?'
'A tribune. The resident broad-striper.' Vitellius. Cato nodded slowly.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It was noon before Vespasian reached the last of the fortified outposts ringing the main camp. He had not given any warning of the inspection, wanting to catch each garrison at its habitual level of operational readiness rather than presenting a show for the visit of a high-ranking officer. Vespasian was gratified to see that he was challenged as he rode up towards each fort, and that admission was steadfastly refused unless the correct password was given. Beyond the gates most of the fortlets were well ordered, with infantry weapons close to hand and an adequate supply of ammunition on the bolt-thrower platforms.
The last fort was no exception, and as Vespasian and his mounted escort trotted through the gate he was immediately confronted with a line of legionaries standing to across the entrance. Their optio gave the order for the gate to be closed the moment the last of the legate's escorts had passed inside.
'What's this, Cato?' Vespasian waved his hand at the legionaries as he dismounted. 'An honour guard?'
'A precaution, sir.' Cato saluted. 'The gate is always the weakest point of a defence. ' 'Archimedes?'
'Yes, sir. From his treatise on siege warfare.'
'Well, he's right, and you do well to pay heed to him. What's your strength?'
'Forty men, sir. And forty in the other half of the century in the next outpost with Centurion Macro.'
'So, you're up to full strength once again, with the cream of the crop. I'll be expecting nothing but the best from the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort from now on. See to it that I'm not disappointed.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right then, let's have a look round.'
Vespasian strode off to begin his inspection, with the anxious optio following in his wake. The tents were scrutinised for any signs of slack guy ropes, leaking seams and untidy stowage of bedding. The latrine was examined to ensure that it had not reached the level where it must be filled in and a new one dug. Then Vespasian climbed up onto the turf ramp and began a tour of the palisade. At the artillery platform he carefully examined the winding mechanisms to ensure that they were adequately greased, and nodded approvingly at the scent of linseed oil on the torsion springs. He was experimenting with the elevating gear when there was a shout from the watchtower.
'Enemy in sight!'
'Come on!' Vespasian led the way up the rough wooden ladder of the watchtower. He emerged through the opening on the platform and stepped over to the side of the sentry as Cato scrambled up behind him.
'Over there, sir.' The sentry pointed again and beyond the tip of the javelin lay a distant hill. Vespasian could make out the tiny shapes of horses galloping ahead of a thin smudge of brown from the dust kicked up by their hooves. The land stretching out from the fortlet was mostly grass, mixed with random copses of oak, but the horsemen made no attempt to conceal their approach and pounded directly towards the fortlet.
'I hardly think they mean to attack us,' muttered Vespasian. 'Nevertheless, sir, I think we should stand the men to,' said Cato. 'Very well.'
Cato bellowed the order and the half-century snatched up their weapons and manned the wall. The legate continued to watch the approaching horsemen. They were closing rapidly and he could see now that there were two groups. A cluster of three was leading the way, and from the frequent glances back over their shoulders it was evident that they were being pursued by the others. The shrill cries of the pursuers were faintly audible now.
'Load the bolt-thrower!' Cato called down to the palisade. The artillery crew strained on the winch sheers, and the clank of the ratchet competed with the excited hubbub of the soldiers watching the chase. The men's mood was understandable, but not tolerable and Vespasian raised an eyebrow at the optio. Cato leaned over the rail.
'Silence there! Next man who opens his mouth is on a charge!'
The horsemen were barely a quarter of a mile away now and Vespasian could make out the purple cloaks and long hair whipping out behind the three being pursued. The gap between the two groups had narrowed to a few score yards and the men behind howled their triumph as they chased down their prey, swooping for the kill with their narrow-bladed cavalry spears. The man nearest the fortlet suddenly looked up and waved at the Romans.
Vespasian started. 'It's Adminius! Open the gate, Optio! Quickly, man!'
The section on the gate removed the bar and pulled the gate inwards.
Cato ordered the bolt-thrower crew to make ready to fire.
'Aim for the second group, and fire the instant the first lot are clear!' As the horsemen galloped up towards the fortlet, barely fifty feet separated the two groups. Adminius and his bodyguards slewed round in an arc and approached the open gate from the side, clearing the way for the artillery crew. A legionaire flipped the firing lever and the bolt-thrower discharged its missile with a loud crack. There was a sharp thwack as the bolt struck one of the British cavalrymen just below the throat, passed clean through him, and buried itself in the shaggy forehead of the horse immediately behind. Beast and rider fell in a sprawling, kicking mass, right in the path of the horsemen behind. Only a handful managed to ride on and keep up with their quarry. As they caught sight of the gateway, the leading Briton realised he had lost the race, and hurled his spear after Adminius and his men. The dark shape curved through the air and struck the rearmost man squarely between the shoulders and he toppled to one side as Adminius spurred his beast inside the fortlet.
The section on the gate ran into the opening and presented their shields and javelins to the Britons chasing Adminius. At sight of the legionaries, the horsemen drew up, savage expressions of rage and frustration etched on their features.