'Horsemen approaching from the north-east!'
'Now what?' muttered Vespasian, angrily slapping his hand against his thigh. Through the gate he saw the three cohorts waiting to go to the aid of their comrades. But he could hardly leave the legion until he had ascertained whether the camp was being threatened on another front. Equally, any delay in sending help to the Fourth Cohort would cost lives. The relief column had to set off at once. And since he had to investigate the sighting to the northeast, it would need a new commander. He looked up at the watchtower.
'Camp Prefect!'
A face, dark against the sky, appeared above the palisade. 'Yes, sir?'
'Take charge here.'
By the time Vespasian had run across the camp and climbed the watchtower on the northern gate, he was desperately out of breath again. Clutching the sentry rail and taking great gulps of air, he took a last glance at the relief column snaking its way across the rolling countryside towards the dark mass of tiny figures that represented the Fourth Cohort. Sextus could be trusted to see that the rescue operation was carried out with as little loss of life as possible. Camp prefects, as a rule, had long outgrown the distasteful – and dangerous – thirst for glory that some of the junior officers espoused. If he was honest, the men of the relief column were probably safer with Sextus in charge rather than himself. That thought did little to relieve the frustration he felt at having to pass the command over to the camp prefect.
As soon as he was breathing more easily, Vespasian turned and walked over to the sentry keeping watch to the north.
'So where are these bloody horsemen?'
'Can't see them right now, sir,' the sentry replied nervously, not wanting his legate to suspect that it might be a false alarm. He continued hurriedly, 'They rode down into that dip there, sir. Just a moment ago. Should be coming back into view any time now, sir.'
Vespasian looked in the direction indicated, a shallow valley running parallel to the camp barely a mile away. But the only sign of life was a thin trail of smoke rising from a small group of thatched huts. They waited in silence, the sentry growing ever more twitchy as he willed the horsemen to reappear.
'How many of them did you see?'
'Thirty or so, sir.'
'Ours?'
'Too far off for me to be sure, sir. They might have had red cloaks.'
'Might have?' Vespasian turned to look at the sentry, an older man who must have served quite a few years with the eagles. Certainly long enough to know that a sentry should only ever report details they were sure of. The legionary stiffened under the legate's gaze and was astute enough to refrain from any further comment. Vespasian seethed internally at having been diverted to the watchtower. If he'd known the number of the approaching horsemen earlier he could have left Sextus to deal with the matter. Well, it was too late now, he reflected, and it would be bad form to take it out on this nervous sentry. Better to keep an air of imperturbability, and enhance the image of the unflappable commander he presented to the men of his legion.
'Look, sir!' The sentry jabbed his hand over the palisade.
A line of plumed helmets bobbed up over the side of the valley. Above them flapped a purple pennant.
'The general himself!' The sentry whistled.
Vespasian's heart felt heavy. The general had got his message, then. He now knew of the terrible danger his family was in. Reminded of his own pregnant wife and young son, Vespasian could sympathise with his general. But sympathy did not allay his apprehension about the general's state of mind.
Vespasian was suddenly aware that the sentry was watching him.
'What's the matter, soldier? Never seen a general before?'
The sentry coloured, but before he could respond, Vespasian sent him down the ladder to alert the duty centurion of General Plautius's approach. The usual formalities due to a commanding general would have to be organised quickly. Vespasian stayed in the watchtower until the sentry returned, watching the approaching column canter towards the northern gate. The general's mounted guard came first, followed by Plautius himself and a handful of staff officers. With them rode two hooded figures, and then came the rearguard section, riding either side of five Druids who were tied to their mounts. As they neared, Vespasian could see the foam on the flanks of the horses; the beasts had obviously been driven to the limits of their endurance in the general's bid to reach the Second Legion as swiftly as possible.
Vespasian quickly descended from the tower and took position at the end of the honour guard formed up on either side of the gateway. It would create a good impression if he greeted the general in person. The pounding of hooves was clearly audible now, and Vespasian gave a nod to the centurion in command of the honour guard.
'Open the gates!' shouted the centurion. The locking bar was lifted and carried to one side and then with a deep groan the gates were hauled open as widely as possible. It was neatly timed, as moments later the first of the general's personal guard reined in to one side of the gateway and waited for Plautius to enter the camp first. The general, followed by his staff, slowed to a walk as the guard centurion bellowed his orders.
'Honour guard… present!'
The grounded javelins of the legionaries were thrust forward at an angle, and the general responded with a salute in the direction of the headquarters tents where the Second Legion's standards were housed in a temporary shrine. Plautius came to a halt beside Vespasian and dismounted.
'Good to see you, General!' Vespasian smiled.
'Vespasian.' Plautius nodded curtly. 'We need to talk, at once.'
'Yes, sir.'
'But first, please see to it that my escort… and my companions,' he indicated the staff officers and the two cowled figures, 'see to it that they're made comfortable, somewhere quiet. The Druids can be tied up with the horses.'
'Yes, sir.' The legate waved the duty centurion over and passed on the instructions. The horses, badly blown by the effort they had been put to, bellowed with deep breaths from their flared nostrils.
The general's escort led the horses off in the direction of the stables and the duty centurion conducted the mud-stained staff officers towards the tribunes' mess tent. The two cloaked and hooded figures silently followed the others. Vespasian watched them curiously, and Plautius gave a thin smile.
'I'll explain about them later. Right now we need to talk about my wife and children.'
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as the exhausted men of the Fourth Cohort came in sight of the camp of the Second Legion a spontaneous cheer burst from their lips. The Durotriges, and their Druid leaders, might yet be frustrated in their efforts to wipe out the cohort. A scant hour's march away lay the security of the ramparts and an end to the nightmare of endurance that Centurion Hortensius had driven them through. But if the Romans' spirits were raised by the sight of the camp, then so was the determination of the enemy to obliterate the men of the cohort before any of their comrades came to their aid. With a savage howl the Durotriges fell upon the tightly packed ranks of the Roman formation.
Cato's shield and sword had long since become intolerable burdens and the muscles in his arms burned with the agony of bearing their weight. Even though he had shared the cheer of the other men at sight of the camp, the distance that lay between filled him with despair. The same despair that a drowning man feels when he views a distant shore in a rough sea. The thought was no sooner with him than a great roar of rage swelled up on either side and to the rear of the square as the Durotriges charged. The rippling thud of shields and metallic ring of weapons sounded with greater intensity than ever. The Roman formation faltered, and then halted under the impact of the charge and took a moment to firm up their shield wall once again.