The Eagles Prey

While there was a pause Cato crossed the interior of the formation to find Macro. The veteran centurion was holding out an arm to his optio. Blood welled up from a slash across the bulk of muscle on his forearm and dripped steadily on to the ground.

'Not too serious,' the optio was saying. He reached into his haversack, pulled out a roll of linen and began binding the wound as Macro looked up.

'Ah, Cato!' he grinned.'Seems I have another scar to tell tall tales about in retirement.'

'Should you get so old.' Cato grasped Macro's spare hand. 'Good to see you. I was afraid you'd be overwhelmed back at the crossing.'

'We were,' Macro said quietly. 'If there'd been more of us there, we'd have held on.'

Cato glanced round, but Maximius had his back to them and was out of earshot. 'Quite,' he muttered, with a brief nod towards the cohort commander.

Macro leaned closer. 'There's going to be trouble over this. Watch yourself.'

'Officers to me!' Maximius called out.

They came walking over to Maximius, too weary to run. Besides Macro, Tullius and Felix were also wounded, the latter with a deep wound to the face. He was stanching the flow of blood with a bundle of linen that was already drenched. Cato saw the strained look on the cohort commander's face and could guess at the inner turmoil that tormented the man. He had failed in his duty, and further down the slope the proof of his failure was marching right by him. Nothing short of a miracle could save his career from abject ruin now. Maximius cleared his throat

'We're safe for the moment. Suggestions?' His voice was harsh and grating.

There was an embarrassed silence and only Macro was prepared to meet his eye.

'Centurion?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Anything you want to say to me?'

'No, sir.' Macro shrugged. 'It can wait.'

Cato looked down towards the ford.'We shouldn't let them get away, sir.'

Maximius rounded on him angrily. 'What do you propose? We charge down there and get stuck into them? Look at the state we're in. How long do you think we'd last?'

'Maybe long enough to make a difference, sir.' Cato stiffened.

'Whatever the cost?' Maximius sneered, but Cato saw a trace of desperation in his expression.

'That's for others to say, afterwards, sir.'

'And easy for you to say now!'

Cato refused to respond. Instead he stared past the cohort commander and watched Caratacus' men march across the ford. His eye travelled back over the enemy forces to the far bank and the dark masses waiting beyond. The sun was low in the sky and the distorted shadows of the enemy made them seem more numerous and frightening. As he watched, the flat blasts of war horns carried across the river and all eyes turned towards the far bank. Men were streaming away from the ford and forming up into a line across a low ridge a third of a mile beyond. Several thousand infantry, with cavalry and chariots on each wing.

'Sir!' Centurion Antonius raised his arm and pointed downstream. 'Look there!'

The officers turned their heads and followed his direction. On the far bank, a mile to the right the head of a dense column of men had appeared.

Macro squinted. 'Ours?'

'Who else?' Cato replied. 'And there's the Second on our side of the river.'

The officers looked back along the track. Sure enough another column of Roman infantry was marching towards them, disappearing from view behind the hill on the far bank. For an instant Cato felt the blood burn in his veins and he faced the cohort commander.

'Sir, there's still time for us to do something. All you have to do is give the order.'

'No.' Maximius shook his head sadly. 'It's too late for that now. We stay here.'

Cato opened his mouth to protest but the cohort commander raised his hand to stop him. 'That's my decision, Centurion. There's no more to be said.'

That was it then, Cato realised. The matter was decided. The failure of the Third Cohort was complete and its men and officers humiliated. If they were very fortunate, humiliation would be the least of their worries.

The forces of General Plautius arrived at the ford in three columns and immediately deployed and attacked the enemy. From the far side of the river the men of the Third Cohort watched as the Britons on the ridge charged forward, disappearing from view. All that could be heard were the muffled calls of war horns and trumpets and the faint sounds of battle. Then a scattering of figures appeared over the ridge, running towards the ford. More men followed them, and then it was clear that the Britons had broken as the slope was covered with the tiny figures of men.

A flash drew Cato's eyes to the crest of the ridge and in the warm orange glow of the sun, low on the horizon, Roman cavalry burst upon the fleeing enemy, cutting them down as they raced towards the river. The ford could take no more than fifteen men across its width, and in a short time there was a huge tangle of men, horses and chariots desperately trying to cross the river and get away from the merciless pursuit of the Roman cavalry. Some of the Britons threw down their weapons and swam for it; scores of them splashing across the wide expanse of the Tamesis. Some, too weak or too weighed down by their clothes and equipment, began to struggle, thrashed the water briefly and then drowned.

The first of the Roman legionaries crested the ridge and marched down the slope in well ordered lines. As the men of the Third Cohort watched by the glow of the setting sun a great groan of despair swept through the packed mass of enemy warriors. Some still had enough wits about them to realise that even though they were dead men they could still take some Romans with them, and maybe win some time for the men still crossing the river. But they were too few to make a difference and were cut down as the glittering red ranks closed in around the ford.

The sun had disappeared over the horizon and the light began to fail so that it was impossible to tell the sides apart on the far bank. Only the din of thousands of men screaming in agony and shrieking for mercy told of the massacre taking place, and Cato felt relieved of the burden of seeing the terrible slaughter.

Down the slope, on the near side of the ford, the numbers of the enemy slipping past began to diminish, and they scattered in every direction, trusting to the coming night to conceal their escape. There were Roman voices from the direction of the ford, and out of the gloom behind the men of the Third Cohort came the sound of hoofs pounding along the track.

'Cohort stand to!' Maximius yelled, and the legionaries, still in box formation, hurriedly snatched up their shields and closed ranks as the centurions ran back to their units. A column of horsemen emerged from the dusk and drew up a short distance away, horses champing at their bits and pawing the ground as their riders sat silently.

'Who goes there?' Maximius bellowed.'Give the password!'

'Pollux!'

'Approach friend.'

An order was given and a large body of mounted men trotted past the cohort, heading down towards the ford to hunt down any enemy stragglers. Out of the shadows a small party of horsemen made for the Third Cohort.

'It's the bloody legate himself!' someone close to Cato muttered.

'Silence there!' Cato shouted.

The horsemen stopped a short distance from the legionaries and dismounted. Vespasian strode forward and the men moved aside to let him past. As he passed Cato the centurion could see the dark look of fury in his clenched features. Maximius went to meet him and saluted. Vespasian stared at him silently for a moment.

'Centurion…' he began in a cold, barely controlled voice. 'I don't exactly know what happened here today, but if it reflects badly on me and the rest of the Second Legion I swear that I will break you, and every man in this cohort.'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The inside of the general's tent was stifling after the cool wash of the moonlit air. Vespasian felt the clammy prickle of sweat on his brow and cuffed it away quickly. He had no desire to let the general think he was nervous. That would imply he had something to be nervous about; like carrying the blame for the failure of the general's plan. It might be the fault of his subordinates that Caratacus and a large number of his men had managed to escape the trap, but that would not matter a great deal to Aulus Plautius. Vespasian was responsible for the performance of the men under his command – that was the way it was in the army – and he must suffer the consequences. How he subsequently disciplined his men was his own affair.