'You think he will?' Antonius asked.
'If Caratacus doesn't arrive by the time we've finished our defences, then the men will have time on their hands, and they'll do what they normally do in such circumstances: talk. Given the presence of me and Macro, and the absence of Maximius, I should think we've given them plenty to talk about.'
Antonius looked down at his boots. 'We're fucked.'
'Any way you look at it,' Cato smiled. 'Now, sir, the guards?'
'You take them,' Tullius said. 'I don't need them. Now you and your men had better get down that track.'
The Sixth Century trudged through the posts of the gateway. On either side legionaries paused to watch them as they passed, and then hurriedly returned to work as their officers screamed at them for stopping. Macro was standing on top of the rampart and waved briefly to Cato as he directed his men to start pounding in the stakes of wood they had brought from the fort to act as a makeshift palisade. The gateway was set back from the rest of the rampart, which angled in towards it, so that any attackers would be subjected to fire from three sides if they made any attempt to assault the gate. As his century marched out from the lines of defence, the ground on either side of the track gave way to patches of mud, then still expanses of dark water from which the pale yellow stalks of clumps of rushes rose up, their feathered heads hanging motionless in the hot still air.
When they reached the first bend in the track Cato stopped to look back at the rest of the cohort and marked the distance to the gateway. It was essential that he was familiar with the topography. If the enemy came upon them before they were recalled by Tullius, then Cato and his men would be making a fighting withdrawal. The weight of their armour and equipment made it impossible for them to outpace the enemy, who would be thirsting for Roman blood in any case. They would have a short head start on Caratacus and the Britons, and then the Sixth Century would have to fight nearly every step of the way back to the cohort frantically struggling to complete the defences. It would be a close thing – if they made it. But if their sacrifice bought Tullius and the others enough time to complete the defences, the Third Cohort might be able to hold off Caratacus and his force. Long enough, at least, for Vespasian to march across the marsh and close the trap on the enemy and crush them.
Cato smiled at the thought. That would be the end of any meaningful resistance to Roman rule, and both sides could get on with the task of turning this barbaric backwater into a civilised province. He had had his fill of killing the native warriors, who had far more courage than sense. They were good men and, given the right kind of leadership, they would become firm and valuable allies of Rome. All this was possible once Caratacus was defeated… Then the smile faded from Cato's lips.
The enemy would only be defeated if Vespasian arrived in time to crush them against the Third Cohort's defences. As Antonius had suggested, it was possible that Vespasian would not arrive in time. Indeed it was possible that the legate was not even marching towards them. It was even possible that Figulus might not have reached the Second Legion, let alone managed to persuade Vespasian to lead his men along a narrow track through the heart of an enemy-controlled marsh.
Cato realised that all along he had been counting on the legate's willingness to take calculated risks to achieve significant results. Then Cato wished he had gone north to find the legate himself, not trusting his optio to make the case for him. But that would have meant sending Figulus back to the cohort and the much harder task of persuading Maximius to take on the enemy, or finding a way of replacing the cohort commander, if he proved obdurate. Cato could not be in two places at once and did not trust anyone else to do either job for him. It was just the kind of intractable problem that made being an officer such a nightmare. Indecision was bad enough, but endless hypothesising after the event was pure torture. If only he could accept the consequences of his decisions, thought Cato, and just get on with it. Like Macro.
He tried to push further thought aside. He trotted to the front of his century, and continued a hundred paces beyond, to scan the route ahead. The track followed the high ground, such as it was, and skirted round the dismal pools and mires that stretched out on both sides. Where the land was dry, stunted trees and clumps of gorse clustered together. Beyond that, sweeping expanses of rushes restricted the view, so that there would be little warning of the enemy's approach. Cato irritably slapped his thigh with a clenched fist. The tense frustration simmered in his breast as he led his men deeper into the marsh, all the while expecting the next turn of the track to bring them face to face with Caratacus and his warriors.
As soon as Cato estimated they had marched half a mile, he ordered the Sixth Century to halt. The unit changed from column to line, six deep with a front of twelve men across the width of the track, their flanks covered by dense growths of prickly gorse that would tear the skin off any man who tried to force his way through. Two men were sent two hundred paces further along the track to keep watch.
Cato turned to his men, briefly recalling the first time he had stood before them as their newly appointed centurion. He remembered many of the hard-bitten faces before him and felt a new sense of confidence that they would acquit themselves well when they confronted the enemy.
'Stand down!' he ordered. 'But stay in place.'
Cato squinted up at the bright sky and felt the sweat pricking out under his heavy military tunic, which in turn was weighed down by his scale armour. His throat felt thick and his lips were dry and rough to the tip of his tongue.
'You can take a good drink from your canteens. Chances are we'll be too busy later on for you to use them.'
Some of the men chuckled at that, but most stared ahead steadfast until Septimus had bellowed the order to fall out. The men laid down their shields and javelins and squatted down on the hard dry earth of the track. Some reached for their canteens at once, while others undid their neck cloths and wiped away the sweat that was streaming down their faces.
Septimus approached Cato.'Can the lads take their helmets off, sir?'
Cato glanced up the track. All seemed quiet enough and there was no sign of any alarm from the two lookouts.
'Very well.'
Septimus saluted and turned back to the resting men.'Right lads, the centurion says you can remove helmets. Just keep 'em handy.'
There were groans of relief all round as the men fumbled with the leather ties and lifted the heavy, cumbersome helmets from their heads. The felt linings were so soaked with perspiration that they stuck to the heads of the legionaries and had to be peeled off separately. Underneath, drenched hair stuck to their scalps as if they had just emerged from a steam room at the baths.
Cato took a last look towards the lookouts and then slumped down on the track a short distance in front of his men. His fingers worked at the straps of his helmet and then he lifted it off and lowered it into his lap, brushing his fingers over the thin layer of dust that coated the top of the helmet. He set it down beside him and reached for the canteen slung from his sword belt. Cato had just eased the stopper out of the neck of the canteen and had raised it halfway to his lips when there was a distant shout. At once he turned to stare up the track, along with several of his men. One of the lookouts was running down the track towards them. Cato could see that the other man was still watching something further off. A moment later, he turned and sprinted hard after his companion.