‘Are you sure?’
‘We’ve been watching it; the dust cloud is definitely coming this way.’ His men nodded their heads and voiced their agreement.
‘Silence!’ Corbulo cried, raising a hand. ‘Dismissed, and thank you, you’ve done well.’ He turned to Mauricius. ‘Prefect, get hold of one of the light cavalry patrols and send them out there; I want to know just what we’re up against.’
‘Sir!’ Mauricius saluted and rode off to carry out his orders.
Corbulo beckoned to Vespasian. ‘Tribune, the midday break is curtailed. Slaughter the oxen and get the carcases loaded on to carts. Have the men draw five days’ rations before forming up; we may need to abandon the baggage. If it is a rebel war band we need to get across that river before they catch up with us.’
The marching pace had increased to quick time, a speed at which the mules of the baggage train could just keep up; it was imperative to keep the column together. Corbulo had given orders that any animals going lame or carts breaking down should be immediately abandoned with their loads. Vespasian calculated that at this rate they should reach the river in three hours, giving them just three hours of daylight to cross. It would be a close-run thing, especially if the Thracian commander sent his cavalry forward to skirmish without infantry support, forcing the column to mount a fighting withdrawal.
After an hour the foothills were behind them and they had started to cross the lush pastures of the plain that would lead them down to the river. Behind, clearly visible now from their lower altitude, they could see the dust cloud above the Thracian advance.
The fertile plain was dotted with farmsteads and small villages; horse breeding and sheep farming were the mainstays of this comparatively wealthy part of the country. Speed being essential, Corbulo steered a straight course towards the river, not bothering to avoid larger settlements; instead he sent units of his Gallic cavalry through them in advance as a precaution, hoping that his instinct was correct and the Caeletae were still loyal.
Vespasian could feel the tension of the men as he rode at the head of the first cohort. He wanted to ride up and down the centuries, encouraging them, but, lacking the innate aristocratic self-confidence of many of his rank, he felt inadequate to the task. He had done nothing as yet to win the men’s trust and respect, and felt that he would seem to them to be just some callow youth, much younger than many of them. He contemplated the ludicrousness of the system that put a man as young as him, with no military experience, nominally in command of 480 men just because he came from a wealthy family. But that had been the way of Rome from the beginning, it was how the Senate kept its position in society, and the size of the Empire seemed to indicate that it was a system that worked. He decided to leave the morale-boosting to the men who were really in charge: the centurions. It was a great comfort to him that Faustus marched just behind him. He could hear him calling out to the men, praising their efforts, keeping them in formation, and reprimanding slackers. Vespasian knew that when it came to their first combat, whether it was to be here or at the river or further north, it was men like Faustus who would determine whether they lived or died.
Some anxious shouts from amongst the men caused him to look to his right.
‘Silence in the ranks,’ Faustus bellowed. ‘Keep your heads forward and concentrate on not tripping over the man in front.’
Across the plain, about two miles away, a small group of horsemen could be seen galloping, hell for leather, towards them.
‘Looks like trouble,’ Magnus muttered. ‘Good news doesn’t tend to travel that fast.’
The cornu sounded out once more, its deep call carrying clearly over the noise of the marching column.
‘That’s “Senior officers to report to commander” again,’ Magnus said. ‘Let’s hope the arsehole keeps his cool.’
‘An arsehole he may be,’ Vespasian said, swinging his horse out of the column, ‘but it seems to me that so far he’s made all the right decisions.’
‘There are still five miles to go and a river to cross; plenty of time to fuck it up.’
At the head of the column Vespasian pulled up beside Corbulo and Mauricius; Gallus and Quintus Caepio, prefect of the rearguard Gallic cavalry, were soon assembled.
‘News of the Thracians’ advance, I expect,’ Corbulo said, grimfaced. ‘Our scouts must have sighted them by now.’
They rode on in silence watching the small party of light cavalry closing in. Vespasian counted six of them and two riderless horses, and felt a chill go down his spine and start to gnaw away at him deep within his bowels: men had started to die. He steeled himself for what he knew would be the most testing day of his short life so far, more so than ambushing runaway slaves or rescuing Caenis, for this time he was on the defending side: all the initiative lay with the Thracians.
The scouts drew level and, with prodigious skill, wheeled their exhausted horses around, bringing them to the trot next to the group of officers.
‘Sir!’ Their leader, a powerful-looking man with a sunburnt face in his mid-thirties, saluted Corbulo. ‘Alkaios, Thessalian auxiliary light cavalry.’
‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’ Corbulo was anxious to get to the point.
‘We sighted the main body of Thracians half an hour ago about ten miles east. They’re mainly infantry, about three thousand of them. They’re moving quickly and with purpose; they’ve stopped burning as they go. We ran into one of their cavalry patrols but fought them off at the cost of two of my men, one of whom was only wounded and taken prisoner. May the gods ease his suffering.’
‘Indeed.’ Corbulo could guess as well as anyone else what was in store for the unfortunate man. ‘You say you saw no large amount of cavalry?’
‘No, sir, just patrols.’
‘Minerva’s tits, they must have guessed that we’re heading for the river and have sent their cavalry around us to the north to hold it against us. Mauricius, take your four turmae and delay them; they must not be allowed to prevent our crossing. We should reach the river in just over an hour.’
‘Yes, sir, we shall do all that is necessary.’ The cavalry prefect barked an order at his decurion and the 120 Gauls peeled away from the column and raced towards the river.
Corbulo turned to Quintus Caepio. ‘Caepio, take your turmae and keep pace with us half a mile out to the east to shield us from any cavalry threatening our flank.’
Caepio saluted and raced back down the column.
‘Gallus, get some horses for the engineers, I want them to get as many ropes as possible secured across that river. If they don’t have enough men who can swim get volunteers from the ranks.’ Gallus looked pleased with the task allotted him and galloped off to find his temporary command.
Vespasian was impressed at the calm forward thinking of his young superior; it steadied his nerves, feeling that all eventualities were being accounted for. Corbulo turned to him.
‘Vespasian, get the baggage and bring it level with the head of the column fifty paces to the west. With the rearguard gone we can’t leave it unprotected. Tell the handlers to do whatever they must to speed those mules up. I don’t want to abandon it unless absolutely necessary.’
Vespasian smiled inwardly as he saluted and made his way back down the column; it seemed that he was destined to always be around mules, one way or another.
There were less than two miles to go to the river. The baggage train had drawn level with the two cohorts, the mules having been beaten into more speed; very few had refused or bolted. Vespasian took his place next to Corbulo, who was now at the head of the first cohort; Magnus retreated a respectful distance to the left of the column.
‘The men are getting tired, Vespasian,’ Corbulo said quietly, glancing nervously at the Thracian dust cloud, now considerably closer. ‘They’ll be in sight soon. We won’t be able to stop after we’ve crossed the river, we’ll need to keep going and hope that the crossing delays the savages longer than it delays us. But what then? They will always move faster than us; they’ll catch us in a day.’