Some of the men nodded.
'I can't fucking hear you!' Macro shouted.
'YES, SIR!'
'That's better. Now form up facing the river!'
His men turned round and shuffled forward until they lined the makeshift defences facing the north bank of the Tamesis. Macro ran his eyes over his small command in their tarnished armour and dusty and stained red tunics. The men were formed up in three lines that stretched along the length of the small island. Eighty men against twenty, maybe thirty thousand barbarians. Macro, like most soldiers, was a gambler, but never had he known such unfavourable odds. Despite his attempt to bolster the confidence of his men he knew that they were as good as dead. If only Maximius had arrived at the ford in time to defend it properly, things might have been different.
The afternoon dragged on. Macro allowed his men to sit on the ground. Now that all activity had ceased across the ford the scene looked quite idyllic. Macro smiled. Cato would have loved this; it would have touched the lad's poetic sensibility. To Macro's left the sun was long past its zenith and bathed the scene in an angled glare that intensified the colours of the landscape and flashed brilliantly off the surface of the river. But despite the serenity of nature, a tension stretched through the air like the torsion ropes of a catapult, and Macro was aware that his senses were straining to catch any sight or sound of the enemy.
Perhaps half an hour had passed when a small figure came pelting down the track towards the ford. Before Lentulus had reached the river's edge a party of horsemen burst over the crest of the hill behind and charged down the near slope. Lentulus looked over his shoulder as he ran into the shallows.
'Keep to your left!' Macro shouted. 'Keep to the left!'
If Lentulus heard him, he gave no sign of it, and plunged into the river. He charged headlong, kicking up sheets of spray, and then suddenly pitched forward with a shrill cry. A groan rippled through the men on the island as Lentulus struggled to his feet, blood gushing from his thigh. The legionary looked down at his injury in horror. Then the splashing of the enemy horsemen behind him made him glance back as he staggered towards his comrades. The Britons picked their way forward towards the legionary thrashing through the waist-deep water. Lentulus' wound must have cut a major blood vessel, Macro realised, for he seemed quickly to become faint. Then slowly he collapsed to his knees, head bowed forward so that only his torso was above the water. The horsemen hung back, watching the Roman for a moment. Then they turned round carefully and returned to the far bank.
For a while both sides watched Lentulus in silence as his head rolled from side to side. A thin red slick flowed downstream from his body. At last he collapsed sideways, and disappeared, his body dragged down by the weight of his armour.
'Poor sod,' someone muttered.
'Silence in the ranks!' Macro shouted. 'Silence!'
The awful tension became evermore taut and strained for the legionaries as they waited for the main body of the enemy to arrive, though they did not have to wait long. At first there was the sound of a faint rumbling that grew steadily louder and more distinct. Then a haze thickened over the crest of the hill where the track disappeared from sight. At last the silhouettes of standards, spears, then helmets and the bodies of men came into sight, all along the top of the hill.
Macro's eyes ran along the vanguard of Caratacus' army, taking in the sight of thousands of men pouring down the slope towards the ford. Then he turned to the opposite bank and looked for any sign of Maximius and the rest of the cohort. But across the placid surface of the Tamesis all was quite still.
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER ELEVEN
' re you certain Macro said it was the main enemy force?' 'A 'Yes, sir,' the runner replied.
'Right, get over to the decurion.' Maximius pointed out the column of mounted men out to their left flank. 'Tell him to send word of the enemy column to Vespasian, at once. Go!'
As the runner saluted and made off towards the scouts Maximius summoned his centurions. Immediately they came trotting up along the halted column and he waited until Cato, who had furthest to run, had joined them before he told them the news.
'Caratacus is making for our ford. He's got a head start. Look over there.' The cohort commander pointed to the far side of the river. A faint haze that Cato had not noticed before stretched out low over the far bank of the Tamesis.
'Where's Macro?' asked Tullius.
'He's at the ford, preparing his defences.'
'Defences? He's going to make a stand?' Tullius raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
'Those were the orders given to the cohort.'
'Yes, but, sir, it's suicide.'
'Let's hope not, since we're going to join him.'
Antonius and Felix exchanged a look of surprise.
Cato edged forward. 'We'd better get moving, sir.'
'Indeed, Cato. All of you, get back to your units. We'll move at double time. No stopping for stragglers.'
The centurions were running back to their men as Maximius bellowed the order for the cohort to advance at quick pace. The column rolled forward with a fast, rumbling rhythm of tramping boots. Glancing to his side Maximius saw the runner Macro had sent him trotting back from the mounted scouts. Beyond him was a small plume of dust swirling round the figure of a man bent low over his horse. As the runner fell into step beside him to wait for orders Maximius glanced round, appraising his condition.
'You ready to run back to Macro?'
'Of course, sir,' the runner replied, his chest heaving as he strained for breath.
The cohort commander lowered his voice.'If he's still there when you get back to the ford tell him we're on our way as fast we can go. And, if he's not there, you come straight back and warn us. Understand?'
'Not there?' the runner said softly. 'Sir, do you mean-'
'You know what I mean,' Maximius snapped. 'Now go!'
The runner saluted and ran off along the track towards the ford. Maximius glanced over his shoulder and saw that the five centuries had all gathered speed and were moving steadily. He filled his lungs and then shouted the order to increase the pace to a slow run. The men had drilled for this many times and could keep it up for an hour at a time. By then they should have reached Macro. If there was time Maximius must let them catch their breath before throwing them into the fight if they were to perform well enough to make a difference.
Towards the rear of the column, Centurion Cato and his men followed the pace set by the century in front. Their equipment jingled and chinked as they ran along the track, accompanied by the laboured breathing of men who were heavily weighed down by their weapons and equipment. Now and then a centurion or an optio somewhere along the column barked out an order for their men to keep up, and followed it with a stream of abuse and threats of dire punishment to spur the men on. Cato swerved out to the side and slowed down until he was level with the middle of his century.
'Keep it up, lads! Macro's depending on us. Keep going!'
As he resumed running alongside, Cato kept glancing towards the far bank of the river. The dust cloud from Caratacus' army was more pronounced now, and although the barbarian host that had kicked it up was out of sight Cato realised the cohort would be facing odds of fifty to one. If Macro had to face them alone then the odds were more like three hundred to one, and as his mind did the calculations Cato knew they were doomed the instant the enemy gained the south bank of the river. And that would surely happen.
The heat and the effort of carrying his chain-mail vest, shield, helmet and weapons soon caused Cato's blood to pound in his ears. His breathing became fast and laboured. His lungs felt as if someone had fastened an iron strap around his chest, which was slowly being tightened. Soon every sinew of his body was screaming in torment. The desire to stop, to stop and vomit and gasp for breath, was almost impossible to resist. Had it not been for fear of the shame of being seen as weak in front of the men, and the fact that Macro was in danger, Cato would have dropped to the ground. As it was, he forced himself through the pain, one step at a time, with the same iron determination to fight on that had thrust him through every challenge he had faced since he had joined the legion.