Britannia, page 30
Quintatus looked doubtful as he considered the man’s report. ‘How many men exactly?’
The trooper hesitated. ‘The optio told me to say at least ten thousand, sir.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I ain’t good at numbers, sir. But I’d say there’s at least as many of the bastards as we’ve got. Maybe more.’
‘Sounds just like Centurion Macro said, sir,’ said Cato. ‘In which case, there is every reason to accept the rest of the intelligence he brought you.’
The legate took a deep breath and gritted his teeth as he considered the situation. Then he let out an explosive sigh and turned to his staff officers. ‘Silanus! Call off the attack. Post a cohort to guard our side of the tidal crossing. Then I want five cohorts of the Fourteenth, together with Iberian archers, up to cover the mouth of that valley. At the double. We could do with some cavalry as well.’
Silanus bowed his head as Cato cleared his throat. ‘I’ve given orders for the Blood Crows to prepare for action, sir.’
Quintatus stared hard at him. ‘It seems you are a step ahead of me, Prefect.’
Cato kept quiet.
‘Very well, send your men ahead to cover the lads of the Fourteenth. But you stay here. I’ll need to hold a full briefing for all unit commanders, once I’ve considered our options.’
‘What about the artillery, sir?’ asked Silanus. ‘Shall I have the carts brought up and the bolt-throwers broken down?’
‘No. If the Druids see that, they’ll know for sure we plan a retreat. Besides, if they try to break out from Mona, then we can cut ’em down the moment they venture out of their earthworks.’ Quintatus took one last, longing look at the far shore and turned away. ‘All senior officers to headquarters at once!’
By the time Cato joined the others in the largest of the headquarters tents, the rest of the patrols had returned with news of more sightings of the enemy. Small mounted bands for the most part, scouting ahead and along the flanks of the main force. The patrols were sent to join the rest of the force sent to block the mouth of the valley. Fortunately, it was narrow, and steep rocky slopes and crags looming up on either side restricted the frontage. The legionaries had carried some field fortifications with them, and baskets of iron caltrops to swiftly scatter before their lines to break up any charges by the rapidly approaching native army. Despite the continued presence of the artillery batteries and the troops along the shore of the mainland, the Druids and their followers had already guessed the significance of the cancellation of the attack and the movement of men towards the mountains. The sound of cheering carried across the waters of the channel, and clusters of figures lined the high ground behind the defences as they looked for the first sign of their allies’ arrival to close the trap on the Roman army.
The mood in the tent was grim, and the only warmth came from a brazier at one end. Constant footfall and the heat of bodies had melted the snow and ice and rendered the ground muddy and slick, and the officers waited for the legate to appear from his private quarters, where he had been conferring with the camp prefect and his closest staff officers. Cato crossed to the tent flap and ducked his head outside. The scattered breaks in the cloud that had flitted across the sea and mountains at noon had given way to an uninterrupted overcast that was the colour of grimy linen. More snow was on the way, then, he mused. It would hinder the enemy as much as the Roman army, but the critical difference was that the legionaries and auxiliaries were a long way from their base and their supply line had been severed, whereas the enemy were on their own soil and could draw on the supplies of grain and meat that had been stockpiled by the natives of these mountains.
‘So what do you think?’
Cato turned to see Glaber standing at his shoulder. ‘I think it’s going to snow again.’
The tribune flashed a smile. ‘Very funny. I mean what do you think he’ll do?’
Cato let the flap slip back into place. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
‘You’re very reticent about offering an opinion all of a sudden.’
‘The legate has as much information as he needs. The decision is his, not mine. I’m not going to second-guess him. Especially not in front of the man who represents his incoming superior.’
Glaber stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I’m not a spy, and I’m not gathering information to dish the dirt on anyone. I’m just an officer like everyone else in this tent, and I’m in the same predicament. I’m just curious to hear your professional opinion on our situation. That’s all.’
‘My professional opinion is that the legate is in command and will take the course of action he decides is most prudent. It is my further opinion that officers below the rank of legate should avoid being embroiled in politics as far as they possibly can, if they know what’s good for them.’ Cato paused, then added, ‘Speaking from personal experience.’
‘Oh?’ Glaber cocked his head to one side. ‘Care to elaborate?’
‘No.’ Cato stepped round the tribune. ‘Excuse me.’
He made his way back over to Macro, stifling a yawn. His eyes ached and the thick atmosphere inside the tent was making him feel tired and a little nauseous. Macro folded his thick arms and ground his teeth.
‘By the time he’s finished conferring with his cronies, it’ll be bloody Saturnalia at this rate.’
Before Cato could reply, Silanus appeared through the flaps leading to the legate’s private tent and stood to one side as he announced, ‘Commanding officer present!’
At once all conversation ceased and the officers stood to attention as Quintatus entered, followed by a handful of tribunes and Legate Valens. Quintatus waited until everyone was still and then nodded to the camp prefect.
‘At ease!’
Allowing a brief pause to gather his officers’ attention, Quintatus began his briefing. ‘As you know, a large enemy force has appeared to our rear. No doubt that’s why none of our supply convoys have reached us in the past few days. And that’ll mean we have to manage the supplies we have in camp very carefully. But the immediate danger is that we are caught between the new force and the enemy opposing us on Mona. At the moment we’ve blocked their advance at the mouth of the valley. But we can be sure they will find a way round during the night, or tomorrow morning. At the same time, we can reckon on the Druids and their friends pulling up their obstacles in preparation for attacking us from Mona.
‘Given the new situation, we have little time to decide on the best course of action. We could try to throw our full weight across the channel and take the island. Then we could easily hold the enemy’s main force off for as long as we needed.’ He smiled. ‘It would be pleasing to see them put up with what our lads have endured the last few days. The trouble is, any attempt to force a crossing would be costly, and if the Druids attempt a scorched-earth policy, then we’d be bottled up on Mona without anything to eat over the winter. Not an appealing prospect, gentlemen. So I’ve decided, very reluctantly, to withdraw to Mediolanum.’
The officers stirred a little uneasily, and Cato could well understand why. The army had suffered hundreds of casualties to get to this point, and just when it seemed that the Druids were about to be eliminated once and for all, they would escape destruction.
‘I have no choice,’ Quintatus continued. ‘And believe me, I know that I will have to face the consequences when word of this reaches Rome. But that can’t be helped. If we tried to take the island we would most likely fail and be crushed between the two enemy forces. If Mona cannot be taken, then it is my duty to try and save the army.’ The legate stepped aside and gestured to one of his tribunes. ‘Livonius, the map, if you please.’
The tribune and his scribe, Hieropates, brought forward a wooden frame upon which hung the map they had been drafting each day since the army had begun the campaign. When it was in place, Livonius stood to one side as the legate continued his briefing, indicating the most recent additions to the map.
‘That’s where we are, gentlemen. Over a hundred miles from Mediolanum by the route we took. Now that the enemy has chosen to deny that to us, we face a choice. Our first option is that we attempt to batter our way through them and retrace our steps. Man for man we are better soldiers than they are, but we can expect heavy losses. They outnumber us – substantially once their garrison on Mona tips the scales. If, and more likely when, that happens, they’ll be able to attack us from the front and rear at the same time. Not a happy prospect. Even if we do break through their main army, we’ll have to fight every inch of the way along the route back to Mediolanum, with this snow only making matters worse. We’ll struggle with the baggage train, that’s for certain.’
He paused to let his words sink in and then indicated the coastline. ‘The alternative, which I prefer, is to take this route, towards the fortress at Deva. Not so direct as far as returning to Mediolanum is concerned, but easier going for our wagons. It presents one clear danger, namely that if the enemy hit us from the front, flank and rear, then we’ll have our backs to the shore, and if we are forced to fight a major engagement and lose, we’ll be driven into the sea. In that case, the entire army will be lost.’
Cato knew that the loss of the army would have far-reaching consequences. The destruction of the best part of two legions and their attached auxiliary units would greatly enhance the authority of the Druids and inspire every Celtic warrior who hated Rome to rise up in revolt. There would be too few soldiers left in Britannia to put them down and the stark possibility that the new governor would land on the island with no province left to rule.
‘The trick of it,’ Quintatus continued, ‘is to keep moving as fast as we can along the coast. If we can hold off their army for long enough to get our men on the move, the enemy will not be able to block our line of march and will be forced to follow us, even if their two forces combine. They’ll be snapping at our heels, to be sure, and the rearguard will have its work cut out, but we’ll be able to cover our retreat until we’re clear of the mountains in seven or eight days’ time. As long as we keep the column closed up and maintain the pace, we should be able to withdraw without too much difficulty. Any comments or questions?’
There was a brief pause as the officers reflected on what they had been told. Then Legate Valens raised a hand and Quintatus nodded at him.
‘Whichever route we choose, sir, the men and horses will need feeding. We haven’t been resupplied for some days already. How well provisioned is the army at the moment?’
‘The camp prefect can tell you the answer to that.’
Silanus cleared his throat and glanced round the tent. ‘We have two days’ full rations left for the men and three days’ feed for horses and mules.’
There was some anxious muttering amongst the officers before Quintatus called for silence and addressed them steadily. ‘That is why I have given orders that the men are to go on half-rations as of this moment. You will inform your quartermasters accordingly. There will be some units that carry more than three days’ stock of barley and meat. They will report their excess to Silanus. The same applies to those units with less than two days’ rations. What we have will be shared fairly. That goes for the officers too. Each one of us must accept the same as the men. Any private stocks of food and wine will be surrendered to headquarters. If anyone is caught hoarding, I will treat it the same way I would treat theft – the individual concerned will be beaten by his comrades and denied food or shelter until we reach Mediolanum.’
Given the situation, and the arrival of bitterly cold winter weather, such a punishment was as good as a death sentence, and every man in the tent knew it. There was silence, except for the low moan of the rising wind outside.
‘Very well, I think we can all appreciate the need to move as swiftly as possible. The army will start leaving the camp as soon as darkness falls. Our wounded will be transferred to the surviving warships and transports to make their way along the coast ahead of us. At least they will be spared the discomfort and danger of the march. The artillery will be broken down under cover of darkness and loaded on to their carts. The camp will be abandoned. We can’t afford to waste time demolishing it. We’ll leave a few of our dead set up on the rampart to look like we’re still here. It won’t fool the enemy for long, but it may buy us a few hours at least. The force blocking the mouth of the valley will be relieved at dusk by the remaining cohorts from the Fourteenth, and Prefect Cato’s Thracians and the archers can remain in place. They will light campfires and arrange more of our dead around them before pulling back to join the column on the march. With a bit of luck we will be several miles away before the enemy are aware that we have gone. After that, gentlemen, the race is on.’
Cato quietly sucked in a breath. Some race, he reflected. The army, hungry and cold, would have to march through ice and snow without let-up. Those too slow to keep their place in the line of march would lag behind and be at the mercy of the Druids and their allies. The only prize offered in this race was survival, at a terrible cost in suffering and danger. The price of losing would be that every man standing there in the tent, every man in the camp beyond, would die. For himself he cared little. What did life mean to him now that Julia was no longer there? He felt an awful abyss filled with grief opening up before him and forced himself to step back. He had to be strong, for the sake of his men, for Macro, and for his son. Until the campaign was over. Only then could he afford the luxury of grief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dawn was still some hours away when Cato reported to Legate Valens, who was warming himself by the embers of a campfire to the rear of the cohorts deployed to hold the mouth of the valley. With him were the commander of the archers and the centurions of the five cohorts tasked with holding the enemy off. The sky had been clear for most of the night, and a half-moon hung low above the horizon, adding its glow to the tiny glint of the stars. The enemy had tried to force their way through late in the afternoon, and again at dusk. Each time the attack had been broken up by volleys of javelins and arrows, and the caltrops and hastily erected field fortifications set up by the legionaries. After the second attempt, the natives had sent large parties of men up the sides of the valley to try and outflank the defenders. The Romans had countered the move, with the two sides struggling through deep snowdrifts to get at each other, dark figures flailing with sword, spear and shield against the white backdrop. At length, the fighting ceased as each side pulled back for the night and foraged for whatever wood was available to light fires, so that they could eat and stay as warm as possible during the bitterly cold night.
Cato and the Blood Crows had been positioned to the rear, ready to cover any retreat in the event that the infantry were forced back from the mouth of the valley. But they had not been needed, and once night had fallen, Cato gave orders for each squadron in turn to feed their mounts and remove their saddles to rest the horses’ backs and minimise the risk of saddle sores. Thanks to the ambient light of the moon and stars and the dull gleam of the snow, there was no opportunity to attempt any surprise movements, and a wary calm settled over the serene beauty of the mountainous landscape.
Then, in the depths of the night, the stars began to blink out, a dim veil of cloud appeared across the face of the moon and a light dusting of snow crystals began to fall. That was when Valens decided to call in his officers and make ready to carry out the most difficult part of his orders.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Ah, Prefect Cato, then we’re all present. Come and stand by the fire.’ Valens gestured to a space amongst the men crowding the warm glow from the dull golden gleam wavering over the embers of the campfire.
Cato spotted Macro and nodded a greeting as he stepped into place beside him. He gestured towards his friend’s leg. ‘How has it been?’
Macro had resumed command of the Fourth Cohort and had marched at its head when they had relieved the men already guarding the valley as night had fallen.
‘Still a bit stiff, but I’ll manage.’
‘No surprises there. You always do. Tough as a horse, you are.’
‘An old horse, maybe. But I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard. Not by a long shot.’
‘Delighted to hear it.’ Cato smiled for a moment and then lowered his voice. ‘I have a mount set aside for you, in case you need it.’
Macro pursed his lips. ‘Thank you. Let’s hope I won’t, eh?’
As they were speaking, Valens looked searchingly towards the scatter of distant fires spread across the valley floor over a mile away that marked the position of the enemy’s army. Then he returned his attention to his officers.
‘It’s time to begin the withdrawal. Prefect Parminius and his archers will go first. Then the first of the legionary cohorts, allowing for a quarter of a mile between units. The Fourth Cohort will be the last of the infantry to leave, once they have carried out their final task.’
Macro could not help a glance towards the carts laden with corpses that stood a short distance away. He was not looking forward to that. But even in death his fallen comrades might yet be of help to those that lived, and he steeled himself for the job at hand.
‘The final element of Quintatus’s plan is that the Blood Crows will remain here to keep the illusion going that we are defending the line in force. Prefect Cato, you and your men will pull out only when the enemy rumble our little deception. Not before. I want you to buy us as much time as possible to rejoin the main column.’
Cato nodded firmly. ‘You can depend on the Blood Crows, sir.’
‘I dare say that was why the legate chose you to command the rearguard, Cato. The same reason why you were given the vanguard during the advance. First into the fight, and last out. You’re earning quite a reputation, eh?’
