Vespasian had left orders that he be woken well before dawn; the Second Legion was about to move through enemy territory and, although the staff officers had issued orders to every unit, there was still a host of details that needed his personal attention. That, he smiled to himself, was the biggest burden of command. The public in Rome pictured their generals as masters of the battlefield, heroically charging into overwhelming odds at the head of the legions. The mass of paperwork and petty bureaucratic tasks that were also part of the job remained largely invisible, yet it was this dedication to discipline and order that made the army work. Whatever the public may think, the secret of being a good general was having a good army, and the very best armies were composed of men who could wage war with methodical efficiency. Rolling out of his camp bed, Vespasian pulled on a robe and sat at his desk. His personal slave had left a cup of heated wine and bread soaked in olive oil on a small silver tray and Vespasian gratefully gulped both down as he cast an eye over the latest papers. The century returns were initialled and thrust to one side before he scanned a few requisitions awaiting his approval. Finally he read through the night log. Still no sign of Togodumnus, and the thinly spread cavalry patrols had been shifted to the west and north. It was most puzzling – unless of course there was no column. That possibility looked increasingly likely, but Vespasian was wise to the tricks of fate and refused to discount the existence of the Britons just yet. And so the orders to march closed up would stand, however much the men grumbled. It was far better to be cautious than reckless – like that idiot Vitellius who had ridden off with the scouts and completely disappeared, together with a squadron of badly needed auxiliary cavalry. No doubt he was floundering about in the dark, scared out of his wits. Serve him right.
Having completed the paperwork, Vespasian summoned his armourer and stood still, pensive, as the man fastened the contoured breastplate and carefully looped the ribbons at the front. While the man fussed over the final accoutrements, the legate's eyes wandered across the cameo images of his wife and son on his desk and a nagging sense of guilt caused him to frown. It had been some days since he had last paused to even think about them; the sheer volume of the demands placed upon the commander of a legion in the field left no room for any private thought or deed. Vespasian was suddenly aware how much he missed them. It was only ten days since he had seen them set off on the wagon convoy to Rome, yet so much time seemed to have passed already. And the prospect of a long campaign meant it might be years before he saw them again. Titus would be a young boy, no longer the little toddler with his awkward sentences and manic humour. Flavia… what would Flavia be like? More strands of grey in her hair? An extra crease around her eyes and mouth when she smiled? Suddenly he wanted to hold them both close to him and never let them go for as long as he lived. For a moment he was unaware of the stinging sensation in his eyes, then he quickly blinked before tears could betray his inner feelings.
'Too tight, sir?'
'What? Oh no, it's fine. You can leave me now.'
'Yes, sir.'
Once he was alone Vespasian pinched his arm painfully. That had been close – a moment more of wallowing in his homesickness and he would actually have shed tears in front of a bloody slave. He burned with shame at the thought that even now the slave might be confiding with his cronies about the legate's moment of sentimentality. All the work that had gone into constructing an image of a hard, disciplined commander with a heart of stone, coldly aloof from his men, all of that was for nothing if he allowed his emotions to show. Well, he was damned if he would let it happen again. Angrily he snapped shut the hinged likenesses of Flavia and Titus and made a mental note to have his slave stow them at the bottom of a travelling chest for the duration of the campaign.
His foul mood persisted long after dawn and the surly way in which he snapped out his orders was not entirely an attempt to undo the damage of his earlier moment of weakness. As the headquarters tent was packed away none dared even meet the eye of the legate, such was the dark expression that knitted his brow together and twisted down the corners of his mouth.
After a quick meal of barley gruel the legionaries hurriedly packed their equipment. As the sun struggled above the horizon, the men formed up into their centuries ready to march.
The instructions for the order of progress filtered down to the centuries and the men groaned inwardly. Vespasian had elected to march in two divisions, either side of the baggage train, with a cohort at each end to act as vanguard and rearguard. The veterans quietly cursed their commander's excessive caution and then patiently explained to the new recruits that, although the baggage train would have a nice easy passage along the track, the poor sods on each flank would have to negotiate all the obstacles that nature threw in their way. By the end of the day, the flank columns would be scratched, tired and wet, and all because the legate was worried about a few poxy Britons.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
'Now then, you stop for nothing, understand?'
Cato nodded and tried to steady the horse.
'You get to Vespasian and tell him it's a trap. Tell him their numbers and tell him where you last saw them entering that wood.' Macro had severe misgivings about sending the lad but none of the others were up to it.
'What about you, sir?'
'Don't worry about me, lad. Just warn Vespasian. Well, what are you fucking waiting for? GO!'
Macro slapped the horse's rump as hard as he could and the animal started forwards, nearly throwing Cato from its back. At the last moment the optio grabbed the reins and pressed his thighs and heels into the horse. He stayed on, after a fashion. With a last look over his shoulder at the little knot of men gazing anxiously after him, Cato urged his horse down the slope towards the Roman camp in the distance. Cato had never been terribly good in the saddle and now he just knotted his fingers in the flowing mane and pulled sharply on the reins to alter direction. For its part, the horse reacted much to be expected having been parted from its usual rider. It didn't respond easily to his commands and man and horse continued at a slow gallop each regarding the other with antipathy.
As he reached the bottom of the hill Cato looked up in a panic and saw that the camp had disappeared from sight. However, a quick check on the direction of the sun and the lie of the land convinced him that he was still heading in the right direction and he kicked his heels in. As he rode, he wondered if Vitellius had managed to reach the camp ahead of him and if this wild gallop was a waste of time. But unpleasant as this ride might be, Cato could see that it was vital to alert Vespasian to the peril ahead. Visions of the grateful reception of his news filled his imagination and Cato drove his little horse on as he clung to the reins.
A movement to the left drew his attention. To his horror, he saw several horsemen in the wild attire of the Britons racing at an angle to intercept him. They were scarcely a quarter of a mile away and urging their horses on to cut in front of Cato before he reached the top of the next hill. With a savage kick at the flanks of his horse, Cato shouted at it to run, run fast as the wind, run for its life. The beast sensed the new urgency, pricked its ears back and lowered its neck as it burst into a headlong gallop up the side of the hill. Cato glanced again to the left and saw that the Britons had closed the distance. With a chilling clarity he knew that he would not make it, the camp was just too far away, and in a few moments he would be dead – already he anticipated the sensation of a sudden spear thrust from behind.
The crest of the hill was barely more than a few hundred feet away and Cato begged his horse to make more speed. But even as he did so, he could sense that it was running on its last reserves of strength. Cato looked over his shoulders. His pursuers were right behind him, close enough for him to see their feral expressions of triumph as they too realised that he would not escape them. It would be over in moments. Then his horse carried him on to the crest of the hill – two miles away lay the Roman camp, two miles too far. Cato let one hand fall from the reins to draw his sword. Fear had gone now, in its place was a frustrated rage. There was no escape now and death was certain, but he would not let them take his life without a brief, bitter struggle.
Cato looked over his shoulder again, fully expecting to see the Britons hefting their spears, but to his amazement he saw that they were reining in, the leading man pointing his spear directly beyond Cato. He looked ahead and saw what the Britons had already spotted. At the base of the hill, a small patrol of infantry were marching back towards the camp. Heart thumping with a surge of joy, Cato slapped the sword on the horse's rump and pounded down the hill. Looking back he was surprised to see the Britons had gone, vanishing over the crest of the hill as their prey escaped.
The men of the patrol heard the approaching sound of hooves and turned quickly, shields to the front and javelins held ready. A short distance from the patrol Cato reined in a few feet from the rearmost men. Slipping from the horse's back, Cato ran into them.
'Who the hell are you?' demanded the optio in command.
'Doesn't matter,' Cato panted. 'Have to see the legate! Now!'
'Who are you?'
'Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio, Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort. I have to report to Vespasian.'
'Report?'
'The enemy are preparing an ambush, ahead in the woods.'
'Enemy? Where?'
'They were right behind me. You must have seen them.'
The optio shook his head.
'But they were there!' Cato pointed to the top of the hill. 'Right behind me. Someone must have seen them!'
The men of the patrol watched him in silence and Cato stared back in disbelief.
'How could you not have seen them? Look, I have to see the legate.'
He turned and reached for the horse's reins and was about to throw himself up on to its back when the optio grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the horse.
'Not so fast! You're coming with us.'
'What? Look, you don't understand! I have to warn Vespasian!'
'I'm sorry, but I have my orders. Now, you're coming with us.'
As Cato stood in numbed disbelief the optio ordered one of his patrol to take charge of the horse, and then Cato was pushed into the centre of the patrol and forced to march with two men behind him to guard him.
'What the fuck is going on?' he shouted at the optio.
The patrol's commander stepped closer, so that his words would not be overheard.
'You're not to speak to anyone until we get back to the camp.'
'Why? What's this all about?'
'All patrols have been ordered by headquarters to look out for you and your mates, and told to bring you in quietly. Between you and me, it seems you're in deep shit. Now, don't make it worse. One more word out of you and I'll have you knocked on the head and thrown over that horse for the rest of the way to camp. Clear?'
Cato opened his mouth to protest and the optio raised his eyebrows in warning. Cato just nodded.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
As the patrol approached the camp, Cato saw that the bulk of the Legion had already moved off towards the forest. Only the rearguard remained, forming up and ready to depart. Unless Vespasian was told about the Britons lying in wait, the disaster was unavoidable. Cato searched for any sight of the legate, but in the milling mass of soldiers, artillery trains and baggage wagons there was no sign of the Legion's commander. The patrol wound its way through the turmoil to report to the officer commanding the Legion's rearguard. Tribune Plinius looked up from his campaign desk as the patrol approached.
'What have we here then?'
'Captured a deserter, sir,' replied the optio. 'Rode right into us on some horse he stole.'
'I'm not a deserter!'
'Seems the boy wants to deny the charge. Well?'
'We're not deserters, sir,' Cato said quietly. 'We were on a secret mission for the legate.'
'A secret mission for the legate – I see.' Tribune Plinius let his amusement show, and winked at the optio. 'So you were on a secret mission, were you? What kind of a mission?'
'It doesn't matter, sir. I have to warn the legate. Before it's too late!'
'Too late for what?'
'There's an ambush, sir, right up ahead in the forest.' Cato pointed desperately at the back of the column disappearing into the trees. 'Togodumnus and his column are right there waiting. Thousands of them, sir. We have to warn Vespasian now!'
Tribune Plinius stared at him in silence for a moment, weighing up the information. There was no reason why he should believe the wild tale told by the boy. How could Togodumnus possibly have evaded the cavalry screen?
'You've seen these Britons personally?'
'Yes, sir! I beg you to tell the legate-'
'Silence!'
Whatever the boy had seen was clearly enough to scare him into this state, Plinius reasoned. But what if it turned out to be a false alarm? What damage would that do to his career? On the other hand what would be the damage of not acting on the information should it prove to be accurate? The reputation of a tribune could not be allowed to weigh against the safety of a legion.
'Very well, get on your horse and go after the legate as fast as you can. Tell him I'm getting the rearguard formed up for battle and will close up with him as soon as I can.'
'Yes, sir!' Cato's heart lifted, and he immediately turned to retrieve his horse from the patrol.
'One last thing!' Plinius called out.
'Sir?'
'If this proves to be a false alarm then I will personally crucify you on the nearest tree. Understand?'