Chapter Fifteen

As dawn flooded over the rolling British landscape, the Britons launched a desperate counterattack to regain control of the ford. It was a vain effort since the same boats that had been used to shuttle the wounded back to the eastern bank of the river had returned with bolt-throwers from the army’s artillery train. Long before dawn, many of these weapons had been mounted on the western ramparts of the British fortifications, and covered all the approaches.

As the hapless Britons rose up from the mists wreathing the low ground behind the fort and roared their battle cry, many were cut down before they had a chance to draw a second breath. With reckless courage they charged forward, urged on by the braying of their war horns and the example of their standard bearers leading the way beneath their billowing serpents. The Romans had sealed up the gateways and had formed a solid shield wall along the length of the rampart. Disciplined and determined, the legionaries did not yield one foot of ground, and the wave of Britons dashed themselves to pieces on the defences.

Cato was being helped aboard one of the engineers’ shallow-bottomed craft when the peal of British war horns sounded on the dawn air, somehow muffled and distant, as if they belonged to a different world. The sounds of battle drifted down to the grey glassy surface of the river but there was little sense of excitement amongst those in the boat. For a moment Cato sat up and strained his ears to listen. Then he glanced down at the weariness and pain etched into the faces of the men around him, too tired to pay heed to the desperate battle being fought, and Cato realised that it was no longer his affair. He had done his duty, he had felt the fire of battle coursing through his veins and shared in the exultation of victory. Now, more than anything else, he needed rest.

The other men’s heads nodded and lolled as the engineers steadily paddled the craft over the water, but Cato concentrated on the activity around him to divert his mind from the pain of his burns. The small boat was passing close by one of the warships and Cato looked up to see a bare-headed marine leaning on the side, a small wineskin in his hands.

The man’s face and arms were blackened from the soot of the incendiary fire the ships had been pouring down on the British the previous day. He raised his head at the sound of the engineers’ paddles splashing into the smooth surface of the river, and raised a finger to his forehead in casual greeting.

Cato nodded back. ‘Hot work?’ ‘You said it, Optio.’

Cato fixed his eyes on the wineskin, and instinctively licked his lips at the thought of its contents. The marine laughed. ‘Here! You seem to need it more than I do, Optio.’

Cato, clumsy in his exhaustion, fumbled to catch the thrown wineskin.

The contents sloshed heavily inside. ‘Thanks!’

‘Typical bloody marine,’ grumbled an engineer. ‘Those tossers have got nothing better to do than drink all day long.’

‘While the likes of us do all the bloody work,’ complained his comrade on the other paddle.

‘That’s your problem, mate!’ the marine called out. ‘And watch what you’re doing with them paddles, or you’ll foul the anchor chain!’

‘Piss off,’ one of the engineers replied sourly, but increased his efforts on the paddle to steer the craft away from the stern of the warship.

The marine laughed and raised a hand in mock salute. Cato pulled out the wineskin stopper and took a deep draught of wine. He almost choked when a sudden whoosh and crack broke the stillness. A catapult on the deck of the ship had just hurled a flint-filled casket high into the air towards a small force of chariots downstream from the fortifications. Curious about the accuracy of the weapon, Cato watched as the casket arced up into the air in the general direction of the spectral shapes of the distant enemy. All eyes must have been fixed on the fight for the fortifications as there was no sign of any reaction to the black speck pitching down towards them. The casket disappeared into the faint shapes of men, horses and vehicles. Moments later a dull crash carried across the water, followed by cries of surprise and pain. Cato could well imagine the devastating impact of the casket and the wounds inflicted by the flints flying out in all directions. Moments later the British had vanished and only the dead and injured remained where the chariots had stood.

As the hulk of the warship fell away in the milky light, Cato slumped back against the hard side of the boat and closed his eyes, despite the agony of his burns. All that mattered now was snatching a moment’s rest. Helped by the wine, the instant his aching eyes shut and he surrendered to the warm comfort of relaxation, the young optio fell into a deep sleep. So deep that he barely murmured as he was lifted from the boat and transferred to one of the Second Legion’s hospital carts for the jolting journey back to the camp. He strained only briefly when the legion’s surgeon had him stripped and prodded the burns to assess the damage. A fresh application of salve was ordered and then Cato, having been entered in the walking wounded lists, was carried back to the Sixth Century’s tent line and gently transferred to his coarse sleeping roll.

‘Hey!… Hey! Wake up.’

Cata was abruptly wrenched from his sleep as a pair of hands roughly shook his leg.

‘Come on, soldier! This is no time for malingering - there’s work to be done.’

Cato opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness of a midday sun. Squatting at his side, and smiling, Macro shook his head in despair. ‘Bloody younger generation spends half its time on its back. I tell you, Nisus, it’s a sorry lookout for the empire.’

Cato looked over his centurion’s shoulder and saw the looming form of the surgeon.. Nisus was frowning.

‘I think the lad needs more rest. He’s in no shape for duty right now.’

‘No shape for duty? That’s not what the chief quack seems to think. The optio’s walking wounded, and right now we need all the men,we can get back into the fighting line.’

‘But-’

‘But nothing,’ Macro said firmly, and hauled his optio up. ‘I know the regulations. The boy’s fit enough to fight.’

Nisus shrugged; the centurion was in the right about the regulations, and there was nothing he could do about that. Still, it would not look good for the record if one of his patients died of some infection because he had not been allowed sufficient time for recovery.

‘The lad just needs a quick drink and a decent meal inside him and he’ll be ready to take the Britons on all by himself. Ain’t that light, Cato’!’

Cato was sitting up, still not quite awake, and badly irritated by the way the other two were continuing their earlier argument. In truth, Cato felt very far from being able to take on the enemy at the moment. Now that he was awake again, the pain from his burns seemed worse than ever, and glancing down he could see that the side of his body was a mass of red skin and blisters beneath the glistening salve.

‘Well, lad?’ asked Macro. ‘You up for it?’

Cato just wished himself back asleep, and the centurion and the rest of the bloody army as far from his mind as possible. Behind the centurion Nisus was gently shaking his head, and for a moment Cato was tempted to agree with the surgeon’s advice and take as long a break from his duties as possible. But he was an optio, with an optio’s responsibilities to the rest of the men in his century, and that meant he could not afford to indulge any private weakness. Whatever pain he was in right now was no worse than his centurion had suffered from anyone of his innumerable wounds in past campaigns. If he was to win the respect of the men he commanded, the same respect that Macro wore so easily, then he must suffer for it.

Gritting his teeth, Cato pushed himself up, and rose to his feet. Nisus sighed at the obstinacy of youth.

‘Well done, lad!’ Macro barked and slapped the boy on the shoulder. A sheet of pain scoured the nerves down the side of the optio’s body and he grimaced, locking his body still for a moment. Nisus started forward.

‘You all right, Optio?’

‘Fine,’ Cato managed between gritted teeth. ‘Fine, thank you.’

‘I see. Well, if you need anything, get down to the field hospital. And if there’s any sign of infection, come and see me at once.’

The last remark was directed at the centurion as much as the optio,

and Cato nodded his understanding. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be sensible.’ ‘All right then. I’m off. ‘

As Nisus walked away, Macro tutted with disapproval. ‘What is it with surgeons? They either refuse to believe you’re ill until you croak on them, or they treat the lightest scratch as some kind of mortal wound.’

Cato was tempted to say that his burns were somewhat more serious than a light scratch, but managed to bite his tongue. There were more important issues. The presence of his centurion on this side of the river was worrying and required an explanation.

‘What’s happening, sir? Why’s the legion back here? Have we retreated across the river?’

‘Relax, lad. Things are going well. The ford’s in our hands and the Second’s been relieved by the Twentieth. The boys are having a rest before General Plautius moves the army over to the far bank.’

‘Have the Britons gone?’

‘Gone?’ Macro laughed. ‘You should have seen them this morning. I tell you, that British general must have a pretty impressive hold over his men. They came at us like madmen, screaming and shouting as they threw themselves onto the shield wall. It was a close call, we very nearly lost it at one point. Bunch of them burst through by one of the gates and would have opened a sizeable breach in our line if it hadn’t been for Vespasian. Bloody legate’s a game lad, all right.’ Macro chuckled. ‘Took the colour party and the staff officers by the scruff of the neck and threw them into the fight. Glorious stuff. Even the trumpet-blowers got involved. I saw one of the beggars take his horn and lay into the Britons, swinging it round like a bloody battle-axe. Anyway, once the line had been closed again, the Britons lost heart and pulled back.’

‘The general’s just letting them escape?’ Cato was appalled. What was the point of so much loss of life the day before if the enemy was allowed to pull back and fortify the next river?

‘He may be a general but he’s not that stupid. He’s sent the auxiliary cavalry after them. Meanwhile, the Twentieth are finally off their arses and doing something and we’re back here for a day’s rest. Then we push on again.’

‘A whole day’s rest?’

‘Don’t be sarcastic, lad. We’ve got the buggers knocked off balance and if we can keep pushing forward then Caratacus won’t have the chance to re-form his army. It’s all a question of time. The more he gets, the stronger his army will be. We march hard now or we fight a lot more of them later. Either way, we’re in for a tough time of it.’

‘I can’t wait.’

They both fell silent for a moment as all too vivid memories of the previous day flooded back. Cato felt a chill of horror ripple up his spine into the nape of his neck. It took an effort to order the jumble of impressions into sequence, and make sense of what had happened. The ferocity of battle had a way of altering one’s perception and it seemed to Cato that an impossible intensity of life, in all its terror and ecstasy, had been experienced the day before. He was filled with a deep sense of being far too young for the things he had witnessed. Indeed, far too young for the things he had done. A wave of disgust washed over him.

Macro, glancing over at his optio, saw the grim expression on the youngster’s face. He had seen enough young soldiers in his time to guess what Cato was thinking.

‘It isn’t all glory being a soldier, my lad, not by a long way. And those who ain’t been soldiers never realise that. You’re new to the game, still adjusting to our ways. But it’ll come to you.’

‘What’ll come to me?’ Cato looked up. ‘What will I become?’

‘Hmmm. Tough question.’ Macro grimaced. ‘What you will become is a soldier. Even now I’m not quite sure what that means. It’s just a way we have. A way we have to have - to get through each day. I guess you must think me and the others a bit hard sometimes. No, hard’s not the right word. What about that word I came across the other day? I asked you about, it remember?’

‘Callous,’ Cato replied quietly.

‘That’s it! Callous. Good word.’

‘And are you, sir?’

Macro sighed, and sat down beside his optio. Cato noticed the weariness in his movements, and realised that Macro had had no rest for the best part of two days. He wondered at the marvellous resilience of the centurion, and the way in which he made the wellbeing of the men in his command his priority in all things, as the present situation proved.

‘Cato, you’ve got eyes. You’ve got a good brain. But you ask the most daft bloody questions at times. Sure, some soldiers are callous. But aren’t some civilians? Didn’t you meet any callous men when you were living in the palace? The kind of men who would kill their own children for political advancement? When Sejanus fell, didn’t someone order the executioner to rape his ten-year-old daughter because the law doesn’t allow the execution of virgins? Doesn’t that smack of callousness? Look around you.’ Macro waved at the lines of tents stretching out on all sides, the hundreds of men quietly resting in the warm summer’s day, a handful playing at dice, one or two reading, some cleaning their equipment and weapons.

‘They’re just men, Cato. Ordinary men with all their vices and virtues.

But where other men live their lives with death as a side issue, we live ours with death as a constant companion. We have to accept death.’ Their eyes met, and Macro nodded sadly. ‘That’s how it is, Cato. Now look here. You’re a good lad, and have the makings of a fine soldier. Think on that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro rose to his feet and tugged his tunic straight under his chain mail. With a quick smile of encouragement he turned to leave, and then clicked his fingers in irritation.

‘Shit! Almost forgot the reason I came to see you.’ He reached under his harness and pulled out a small, tightly-wound and sealed scroll. ‘For you. Some letters have arrived with the supply column. Here. Read it and get some rest. I’ll need you back on duty this evening.’

As the tired centurion walked stiffly towards his tent, Cato examined the scroll. The address on the wafer that bound the scroll had been written in a neat, tidy hand. ‘To Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort, Second Legion.’ Curiosity turned to delicious anticipation as he read the name of the sender: Lavinia.