Authors: Simon Scarrow
‘If I recall,’ said Cato, ‘Narcissus was one of those who encouraged Claudius to invade Britannia.’
‘So?’
‘So this is as much about the safety of your father’s position, and his finances, as it is about Claudius and the future of Rome.’
‘What of it? It comes to the same thing in the end.’
‘I’m glad we’ve established that. Saves you insulting us any further with appeals to our sense of duty,’ Cato said harshly. ‘What is it that you suspect Pallas is up to?’
Septimus took a deep breath and spoke calmly. ‘It is my father’s belief that Pallas wants nothing less than the collapse of this province. And he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure that end. He has agents on the island who seek to conspire with Caratacus to unite the most powerful tribes against Rome. If there is an alliance between the mountain tribes and the Brigantians or the Iceni, they will be strong enough to overwhelm our forces. Our legions will be driven back into the sea. Our towns and settlements will be burned to the ground and their inhabitants slaughtered. Rome will be utterly humiliated. Claudius will be shamed, and broken. He will be deposed, one way or another, and even if Rome is fortunate enough to escape the disaster of a new civil war, then Pallas will place Nero on the throne, with Agrippina at his side, and Pallas pulling the strings from the shadows.’
‘Instead of Narcissus,’ Macro said pointedly. ‘A new emperor and a new imperial freedman running the show. That’s the only difference.’
‘You’re wrong, Centurion. Even at the height of his powers my father was part of a council of advisers influencing the Emperor. Under Pallas there will be only one man. And his route to power will be paved with the corpses of the army here in Britannia. You, and all your comrades, and all those others who will die defending the empire once our enemies are encouraged to take up arms following our defeat in Britannia. Those are high stakes. Whatever you may think of my father, you cannot deny that Rome will face disaster if Pallas wins the day.’
Macro stood in thought for a moment, weighing up the imperial agent’s explanation. Then he turned to his friend. ‘What do you think, lad?’
‘I think we have no choice.’ Cato smiled weakly. ‘Just for a change. It looks like Narcissus has manoeuvred us into another tight spot. Tell me, Septimus, and speak truthfully, did he know what he was sending us into when we were posted to Britannia? Was this part of his plan all along?’
‘No. You have my word. My father knew that his influence over the Emperor was starting to wane. He wanted you sent here for your own safety.’
‘That’s what I understood, but now you’ll have to forgive me if I am not as convinced as I was before. It’s all a little too coincidental.’
‘Damn right!’ Macro nodded.
‘Think what you like,’ Septimus responded. ‘It’s the truth.’
The tent fell silent as the three men considered the situation. After some time Cato stirred and folded his hands together. ‘The question is, what do we do now? You must have had a plan when you came here.’
‘Of sorts.’ Septimus sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve bribed a Brigantian nobleman to keep an eye on Queen Cartimandua’s consort, Prince Venutius. He’s said to be the one who is putting pressure on the queen to throw her lot in with Caratacus. For now, she’s playing safe. She’s got an alliance with Rome that gives her a ready supply of silver, and the promise of military support if she ever needs it. At the same time she’s keeping the door open to Caratacus. A clever woman, but she’s in a weak position. If she turns on Caratacus then half of her people will go over to the enemy, along with Venutius. If she turns on us then Venutius will lead her people to war, and when it’s over, he’ll want power for himself. Either way, she loses. Everything depends on keeping things as they are. If we lose the Brigantians, we lose the province, and everything else. With luck, my spy at her court will warn me in enough time to alert General Ostorius to the danger.’
‘How do you know you can trust the general?’ asked Cato.
‘Ostorius is an old-fashioned type. He wants glory for the family name. His ambition is to win a great victory and return to Rome and hang up his sword. It’s some of the other officers I’m keeping an eye on.’
‘Oh? Who? Legate Quintatus, for example?’
‘Now you’re fishing, Prefect. Yes, Quintatus is one. His family are followers of Agrippina’s faction. Then there are a small number of senior officers who have arrived in Britannia recently. I know you’ve already met Tribune Otho and Prefect Horatius. What do you make of them?’
Cato considered his impressions of the two officers before he replied. ‘Horatius seems like a reliable officer. Promoted from the ranks, far away from Rome.’
‘Not far enough. He was a centurion in the Praetorian Guard at the time of Claudius’s accession. He was one of the few who backed the Senate’s call for a return to the Republic. Did he tell you that?’
‘No. Why should he?’
‘Then I guess you wouldn’t know that he was reassigned to the Eleventh Legion soon afterwards.’
‘Those arse-kissers?’ Macro sneered. ‘All ready to rise up against the new Emperor, until your father turns up with a hatful of gold and buys ’em off. What’s the new title he’s given them?’ He concentrated for a moment and then clicked his fingers. ‘Claudius’s Faithful and Patriotic Eleventh Legion . . . Until they are paid off by the next man. Anyway, why send Horatius there if his loyalty is questionable?’
‘Best to keep all your potential troublemakers in one spot.’
Macro pursed his lips. ‘I see your point.’
‘I’m not convinced he’s our man,’ Septimus resumed. ‘But he’s worth keeping an eye on. The more interesting character is Tribune Otho. His father was promoted to the Senate by Claudius, and has proved himself trustworthy. The son, however, has become a close friend of Prince Nero.’
‘Sounds like our man,’ said Macro.
Cato cleared his throat. ‘Are you forgetting that I saved Nero’s life? He said he would repay the debt one day. Perhaps I am not in so much danger as you imply, Septimus.’
‘That was when you were serving undercover in the Praetorian Guard. Nero had no idea you were spying on behalf of Narcissus. I doubt he would even remember you now, Prefect. Besides, Nero is merely a figurehead. Pallas is the real danger. I doubt he will let some small obligation like that stand in the way of having you killed.’
They heard movement in Cato’s tent as Thraxis returned with the firewood and started to build it up in the brazier. Septimus stood up.
‘I have to go. I’ve a report to write to my father. I’ll let him know I’ve appraised you of the situation. And that you’re prepared to work with me to foil Pallas.’
‘Now wait a minute!’ Macro started.
‘He’s right,’ Cato interrupted. ‘We have to, Macro. For all our sakes.’
Macro opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut and shook his head.
‘If you need to contact me,’ Septimus spoke quietly, ‘ask for Hipparchus the wine merchant. That’s my cover. I’ll be remaining with the army for a few days, and will send word to Rome of Caratacus’s defeat. If he is taken, or killed, then Pallas’s scheme will be dealt a grievous blow.’
‘I hope you have the chance to report a defeat,’ said Cato. ‘Caratacus may defy us yet.’
‘I shall pray for victory,’ Septimus said simply. Then he clicked his fingers as if recalling something. ‘One final thing I meant to ask. Senator Vespasian. You know him well?’
The two officers exchanged a glance.
‘We have served under him,’ said Cato.
‘A damn fine officer,’ Macro added. ‘One of the best legates there is.’
Septimus smiled. ‘So I gather. There’s no doubting his soldierly qualities. I was more curious about the scale of his ambitions. Did he ever mention his plans for the future in front of you?’
‘No,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘And he would be mad to. Why do you ask?’
The imperial agent pursed his lips. ‘It’s as well to keep an eye on the more promising military commanders. And their families in some cases. Take his wife, Flavia, for example.’
‘What about her?’ asked Macro.
‘Your paths may have crossed at some point.’ He turned to Cato ‘And you certainly knew her in your youth, both at the palace and when you encountered her again when you joined Vespasian’s legion in Germany.’
Cato nodded casually. ‘That’s right.’
‘What do you make of her?’
‘I’ve never given it any thought. She was the wife of the legate. That’s all.’
Septimus stared at him and then shrugged. ‘Fair enough. Just wondered. I’ll leave you in peace now.’ Bowing his head and speaking loudly he backed towards the tent flaps. ‘A thousand apologies, Prefect! It was my mistake. I should never have accused your servant. I will send you a jar of my best wine to make amends. I bid you a good night and may your fortunes prosper in tomorrow’s battle!’
He passed out between the tent flaps and disappeared. Macro looked at Cato in despair. ‘You cannot be serious about working with—’
‘Shh!’ Cato warned him. A moment later the flap to his private quarters rustled aside and Thraxis poked his head through.
‘Prefect, the fire is lit.’
‘Thank you.’
Thraxis remained where he was and cleared his throat.
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Cato.
‘I, er, overheard the wine merchant as he left, Prefect. I take it you have resolved the matter.’
‘I did. A simple misunderstanding. He had mixed up your coins with those of another customer. You have nothing to be concerned about, Thraxis.’
The servant sighed with relief before he asked, ‘Do you wish me to bring you anything to eat or drink, Prefect?’
‘No. We’re turning in. I shall wear my new mail vest in the morning. Be sure that it is laid out with the rest of my kit.’
‘Yes, Prefect.’
‘Then you may go.’
Thraxis saluted and ducked away. They waited a moment before Macro spoke in an undertone. ‘As I was saying, we’d be mad to let ourselves get lured back into working for Narcissus.’
‘Macro, we have little choice. Just because we don’t want to be involved in the struggle between Narcissus and Pallas doesn’t mean that they won’t involve us. Now it seems they have. If Pallas is a threat to us we can’t just ignore it. And if Septimus is telling the truth about the wider situation then we’re in even bigger danger, and everyone else in the army along with us.’
‘If he’s telling the truth.’
‘Can we take the risk that he isn’t?’
Macro gritted his teeth. ‘Fuck . . . Fucking Narcissus. The bastard sticks to you like a dose of the clap. We ain’t ever going to be free of him, are we?’ he added miserably. ‘Nor, it seems, is that poor sod Vespasian. Nor his wife. What was all that about Flavia?’
‘I have no idea.’ Cato shrugged. ‘Chin up. We might finally get shot of Narcissus, depending on how tomorrow works out.’
‘Oh great. Thank you for being such a cheery sod,’ Macro grumbled as he turned towards the entrance to the tent. ‘Just what I needed before I hit the sack.’
Cato watched him until he was out of sight. Then he stood up, closed his eyes and stretched out his arms and cracked his shoulders. Macro was right, there was much to think about. Much to worry about. But before that, there was a battle to fight.
CHAPTER NINE
‘T
here we go,’ Macro said as the headquarters’ trumpets sounded, the flat notes echoing back off the cliffs on the opposite side of the river. Before the sound had died away they saw the men of the artillery batteries throw their weight against the locking levers. An instant later the arms of the ballistas snapped forward, releasing their deadly heavy bolts in a shallow arc towards the enemy defences. Behind the ballistas were ranged the catapults, throwing their rounded stones in a much higher trajectory. The artillery had been set up on a platform constructed by engineers during the night, high enough to prevent any stray missiles ploughing through the ranks of the legionaries formed up a short distance from the river.
General Ostorius had placed the Twentieth Legion, his strongest, in the front line. The second line comprised the Fourteenth and the detachment from the Ninth. For the first time since the garrison of Bruccium had joined the army, Cato was able to see the legions arrayed for battle. Many cohorts were clearly under-strength, some fielded less than half the men they should have. He estimated that there were no more than seven thousand in all. From what he had seen of the enemy forces, it was clear that the legionaries were outnumbered. Worse still, the enemy had the considerable advantage of defending the high ground. The legionaries had been ordered to leave their javelins in the camp as they were poor weapons to use against enemy on steep ground. The hill would be taken with the sword, the general had decided. One cavalry cohort, besides the Blood Crows, was all that was present of the auxiliary troops, the rest were spread around the far side of the hill, to block any retreat by Caratacus’s army.
Or at least Cato hoped they were. He had heard no reports about their progress during the morning as the rest of the army marched out of the camp and took up their positions. Only the beggage train escort remained, lining the palisade as they watched their comrades prepare for battle. Overhead the clear sky that had greeted them at dawn was starting to cloud over ominously and the air stirred in flukey breaths of wind. A large number of camp followers had climbed on to a nearby knoll overlooking the section of the river where the legions would cross. Some had taken food and wine to consume as they watched the fighting.
‘They’re going to get a soaking,’ Cato remarked.
Children chased each other up and down the gentle slope or sat and made daisy chains. It was little different to the crowds that went to see the gladiator games, Cato mused. Only on a vastly different scale. There was one other crucial difference. If the battle went against the Romans, the spectators would be put to the sword alongside the legionaries. He looked at the children again. Many of them would be the offspring of soldiers and he wondered how many would end the day as orphans.
The crack of the catapults drew Cato’s attention back to the river and he watched as the shot flew up in an angled trajectory before seeming to hang motionless for an instant, then plunging down on to the enemy’s defences. It was hard to gauge the impact on the native warriors as they had all gone to ground the moment the Roman artillery went into action. Before that they had lined their defences shouting insults at the legions, waving fists, brandishing weapons, and a handful even baring their buttocks in a crude display of defiance. As soon as the first bolts shot across the river they dived down and the steep slope which had been alive with cavorting warriors suddenly seemed quite lifeless and still. Those behind the second line of defences soon realised they were out of range and safe for the moment and slowly reappeared and gazed down on the scene below. The iron heads of the bolts clattered against the rocks in the barricades and buried themselves in the soil of the hillside. Most of the rocks thrown by the catapults seemed to do just as little damage as they thudded to the ground. A few landed close behind the barricades where the enemy were taking shelter and Cato could well imagine the carnage that would result: skulls and bodies crushed into a bloody pulp by the impact.
However, the main purpose of the barrage was not to batter the enemy defences; a siege train would be required for that. Rather, it was intended to force the warriors to keep their heads down while the legions crossed the river and climbed towards the barricade. Only as they approached the first line of defences would the barrage cease, then a deadly hand-to-hand engagement would follow. Cato raised his gaze and saw the standard of Caratacus flying above the second line of defences and there, standing on a boulder, hands on hips, was a tall warrior with fair hair and beard flowing from beneath his gleaming helmet. Cato pointed him out.
‘Shame we haven’t got the range. One lucky shot and it’d all be over.’
‘You think?’ Macro said doubtfully. ‘Most of the barbarians on this island seem to hate our guts. One more or less isn’t going to make a difference.’
‘That particular Briton is the man who has been fighting us for the best part of a decade. He’s inspired tens of thousands to follow him, even though we have defeated him time and again and driven him back into these mountains. Even here, he has talked the Silurians and Ordovicians into becoming allies under his leadership. If there had been no Caratacus then our problems here would have been over long ago.’
Macro glanced at Cato. ‘There was a time you admired him.’
‘I used to. That was before he came between me and my wife, and the child she is carrying. Now, all I want is for this to be over so I can return to Rome. To the first home of my own.’
‘You’d miss the army. And you’d make a lousy civilian.’
‘You once said I’d never make a decent soldier.’
‘I did?’
Cato nodded.
‘Hmmm.’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems I can be wrong about some things.’
A shrill note sounded and the signal was taken up by the horns of the Twentieth Legion. Cato and Macro unconsciously leaned forward slightly as the gleaming helmets and armour of the leading ranks rippled forward, marching towards the fast-racing waters of the ford. The eagle standard and the staff bearing the image of the Emperor advanced side by side above the tips of the javelins. It was a stirring sight, as Cato always found, but he could not put aside his growing sense of anxiety over the wisdom of a frontal attack.
A light pinging noise distracted him, and the breeze suddenly strengthened. He glanced up and blinked as the first drops of rain struck his face and glanced off his helmet and armour. The clouds that had come up from the east now hung over the hill and edged towards the Roman camp, blotting out the sun. A vast shadow crept over the ground before the camp and then engulfed Cato and Macro on the gate tower as the rain started to fall in earnest.
‘It’s a wonder this bloody island manages to stay afloat,’ said Macro as he pulled his cloak about his shoulders.
Cato made no comment as he watched the first wave of legionaries wade out into the river. The pace of the advance slowed to a crawl as the heavily armoured soldiers lifted their shields clear of the water and began to struggle to keep their footing. On the far bank Cato could see the faces of the enemy peering over the barricade as they watched the progress of the Romans. All the while the artillery continued hurling their missiles across the river, pinning the warriors down. The surface of the river was churned into white spray as the legionaries edged towards the far bank. At length, they reached the line of sharpened stakes and slowed down still further as they started to thread their way through the obstacles.
It was then that Caratacus sprang his first trap. The deep blast of a Celtic war horn echoed from the slopes of the hill and figures sprang up from the grass along the bank of the river. At first they seemed poorly armed, half naked with no helmets, shields or spears. Then Cato saw one of them raise his hand and twist it rapidly above his head.
‘Slingers.’
The range was no more that thirty paces and the targets floundering amid the stakes would be impossible to miss. The first shots struck home with a sharp rattle that could be heard even from the gate tower of the camp and Cato and Macro saw the first men go down, crashing into the shallows. Those who had been knocked senseless disappeared beneath the surface of the water, dragged down by the weight of their armour, and creating a fresh obstacle for their comrades. The men of the Twentieth raised their shields to protect themselves and struggled on into the hail of stone and lead shot hurled in their faces.
‘A nasty surprise, that,’ Macro commented. ‘But it won’t hold the lads back for long.’
‘No, but it will shake them. First round to Caratacus, I think.’
As the first legionaries struggled out of the water on to the bank, the slingers began to back off, keeping a safe distance as they continued to pelt their foes. One of the Romans, enraged, surged forward, clambering up the slope a short distance before his centurion bellowed at him and waved him back. But it was too late. His shield could only offer protection to the front and at once he was caught from the sides, the first shot smashing his knee so that he stumbled and fell. Unable to get up, he was struck again and fell, senseless, into the grass.
Macro hissed, ‘Stupid, bloody fool.’
The centurions and optios steadily formed men into their units as they emerged from the stake-strewn shallows and as soon as the three leading cohorts were in line, they began to advance up the slope. The slingers retreated before them, keeping their distance. All at once Cato saw one of them fly backwards a short distance, pinned to the ground by a wooden shaft.
‘They’ve been forced back into the artillery’s killing zone.’
‘Good!’ Macro thumped his right hand into the palm of the other. ‘Let’s see how the bastards like a taste of their own medicine!’
More of the slingers were struck down, some by the catapult shot falling short of the first line of barricades. It was if they had been smashed into the ground by an invisible giant fist, Cato thought; like the wrath of Jupiter, best and greatest.
It couldn’t go on, however, for risk of shot falling amongst the leading ranks of the Twentieth, and a horn sounded to cease the bombardment. The last of the catapults and ballistas cracked and the crews stood by their weapons to wait for further orders. On the far bank the slingers scurried over the barricades, passing between the ranks of the warriors who had risen from cover now the danger from the Roman artillery had passed. At first Caratacus’s warriors hurled insults and challenges at the approaching wall of shields, then they followed up with rocks, a renewed hail of slingshot and arrows from archers who fired high over the heads of their comrades so that the arrows plunged down on the follow-up cohorts still crossing the river.
Cato felt a cold chill clench his heart as he saw the bodies littering the shallows and the far bank of the river. Some of the wounded who could walk were limping back across the current to seek treatment for their wounds. Well over a hundred had been lost so far, Cato estimated, and the fight for the first line of defences was only just beginning amid the dull gleam of the rain.
A blast of lightning dazzled the mountainous landscape, an image in stark white with dark shadows so that for an instant the scene looked like a monumental relief sculpture, scratched by the rain. Then the illusion passed and Cato beheld thousands of figures in combat as the men of the Twentieth closed with the enemy, swords and spears flickering in the gloom. A shattering crash and boom of thunder followed close on the heels of the lightning and then the hiss of the rain continued, pinging off Cato’s helmet so loudly that he found it hard to hear above the din. Over on the knoll the camp followers were huddled in their cloaks. Already some had given up and were scurrying down the slope and back to the camp to find shelter from the downpour.
Macro was saying something, and Cato shook his head and leaned closer. Macro cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘The general could have picked a better day for it. What do you think he’ll do? Call it off until the rain has passed?’
‘No. Not him. He intends to see this through whatever happens.’
‘Then it’s going to be tough on our lads.’
‘Very tough.’
They turned their attention back to the fight along the nearest rock barricades, barely visible through the dense sheen of the rain. The enemy appeared to be holding their own and the legionaries could not break through. A steady stream of walking wounded were clambering out of the river, soaked through. They passed between the cohorts of the second line and slumped on to the ground to wait for the medical orderlies to treat them. Some of the green recruits glanced anxiously at the wounded until their optios bellowed at them to face front.
For a while the rain continued, then stopped as suddenly as it had started and sunlight broke through a jagged rent in the clouds, bathing the battlefield in a glow that revealed the terrible struggle in startling clarity. The legionaries had managed to force their way over in several places and were pressing their slender advantage to create space for their comrades to feed into the fight. Then, at one of the points where the enemy had seemed to build the barricade particularly high, it began to move. Cato strained his eyes and could see men on the far side heaving on beams of wood and instantly grasped the danger. But he could only watch helplessly as the rocks began to tumble down on to the legionaries below. The small avalanche swept through their ranks, knocking men over and carrying them away in a tangle of bodies, flailing limbs, shields, earth and mud. The enemy unleashed more rockslides, sweeping great gaps through the tightly packed Roman formations. Then the war horns sounded once more, and the defenders abruptly abandoned their first position and began to clamber up to the second line of defences.
‘We’ve broken through,’ Macro said with grim satisfaction. ‘One last push.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ Cato replied. ‘Look at the incline. Our boys are going to be exhausted by the climb. In full kit, heavier now thanks to that rain and the river crossing. And the ground is going to be churned into thick mud. Hard going.’