'Has it occurred to you that if the Third Cohort had been a little more resolute and held their ground then the battle would have been a complete success?'

'Of course it has, sir. But, with respect, you weren't there…'

The clerk sucked in his breath nervously and risked a glance at his legate. Vespasian looked furious at having been spoken to in such a manner by the most junior centurion in his legion. For a while he continued to glare at Cato and then he clicked his fingers at the clerk.'Delete that last remark from the record.'

While the clerk reversed his stylus and used the flat end to erase the offending statement Vespasian addressed the centurion quietly.

'In view of your previous service record I'll let that one pass. Next time you won't find me so forgiving. I want you and the others to remain in camp. No more swimming. You may be called on without notice. Dismissed!'

'Yes, sir.' Cato stood to attention, saluted, turned smartly and marched out of the tent. He walked slowly back towards the Third Cohort's station. The baggage train had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and after a quick meal the legionaries had erected their tents. Instead of the long lines of kit there were now hundreds of goatskin tents ranged in ordered lines stretching out on both sides of the Praetorian Way, and the men had stowed their equipment inside and now slept in the shade or chatted quietly in small groups outside in the sunshine.

Back amongst his men, Cato found his own tent and saw that a camp bed had been set up for him. He slumped down on it and started to unfasten his harness. A shadow partially blocked the light streaming in through the tent flaps, he looked up and there was Macro.

'I saw you coming back. How did it go?'

'Badly. Everything I said seemed to go the wrong way.'

'I know,' Macro smiled bitterly. 'But you're not usually at a loss for words.'

'No. But nothing I said seemed to make a difference. I think the legate's already made his mind up about what happened.' Cato stopped fiddling with his buckles and looked down at the ground. 'I think we're in trouble… deep trouble.'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Shortly before dusk Vespasian headed across the Tamesis to report to General Plautius in the main camp. He carried the results of his interviews in a large pannier bag hanging across the horse's back behind his saddle. The auxiliary units had been busy during the day, digging huge pits a short distance away from the crossing. The bodies of the Britons massacred the previous evening were still being dragged away and the crushed grass where they had been heaped was dark with their dried blood. Vespasian's horse wrinkled its nostrils nervously at the smell hanging in the air and he urged it on, anxious to reach the ridge and leave the unsettling scene behind him.

Inside the camp the legate dismounted outside the general's headquarters and signalled to one of the guards to carry his pannier bags. A clerk ushered him into Plautius' tents as the last glimmer of the sun set on the horizon. Inside the headquarters the general's staff were busy with the administrative consequences of the previous day's battle. There were after-action reports that needed collating for the official history: logging of unit strength returns; compiling weapons and supplies inventories; recording the numbers of the enemy dead and preparing orders for the next stage of the campaign. It was nearly September, Vespasian reflected, and Plautius had hoped to be firmly entrenched on the banks of the Sabrina by autumn when the rain and mud would bog the legions down.

Now that Caratacus' army had been all but eliminated, the enemy would be limited to small operations – at least until large numbers of fresh tribal levies could be raised, armed and given some basic training. The warrior caste that had formed the backbone of his army had been whittled away over the last year and only a small cadre remained. Amongst them, in all likelihood, Caratacus himself. And while he lived the spirit of resistance would still smoulder in the hearts of the Britons, threatening all the while to flare up in the faces of the Roman invaders.

Vespasian frowned. That bloody man had far more than his fair share of luck. Far more, at least, than the thousands of natives being buried down by the river.

General Plautius was examining a large map spread across a table when Vespasian was ushered into his presence. The other legates and senior tribunes stood round him. Vespasian caught the eye of his older brother, Sabinus, and nodded a greeting. Seated to one side of the table, and looking thoroughly bored, was Narcissus, painstakingly peeling a pear with an ornate dagger.

The general glanced up. 'Vespasian, you've joined us at an interesting moment. We've just had the reports in from the mounted units.'

Vespasian nodded to the soldier who had carried the bags and he set them down beside one of the leather sides of the tent, and then withdrew. Vespasian joined the others at the table.

The map was made up from finely cured hides upon which the general's staff continually added new geographical features. The disposition of Roman forces was marked by red painted blocks of wood with unit identifiers cut into the top surface. There was no sign of any enemy markers on the map.

The general cleared his throat with a small cough. 'We know that a number of the enemy escaped us yesterday, perhaps as many as five thousand. I ordered our cavalry to pursue them and cut them down. So far they claim to have killed at least another two thousand, before they came up against a vast expanse of wetlands… here.'

Plautius leaned forward and tapped the map some ten to fifteen miles south and west of the crossing. 'The downs quickly give way to a marsh. That's where the survivors gave our cavalry the slip. But only after they turned on our cavalry and started to fight back. We began to lose men so the cavalry withdrew and now they're screening the approaches to the marsh. So, we're faced with a pretty little conundrum, gentlemen. We could ignore these survivors for the moment. After all, there can't be too many left. Certainly not enough to significantly threaten our operations. On the other hand, they will undoubtedly recover their nerve fairly quickly and make a nuisance of themselves. As such they will act as an inspiration to any tribes still thinking of opposing Rome. Our immediate goal, then, is to finish the job and destroy whatever's left of Caratacus' army, and, of course, Caratacus himself, assuming he survived yesterday's battle.

'We need to make the most of the situation while Caratacus is licking his wounds. Since there's no significant enemy force left to oppose us we can at last afford to disperse our forces and consolidate our gains. If we move swiftly we can lay down a network of forts and roads across the heartlands of Britain. Once that's done the tribes will not be able to move without us knowing about it. Should be a simple policing operation from then on. To that end…'

Plautius reached for one of the markers and placed it away to the east, in position just outside the boundary of the lands the map ascribed to the Iceni, a tribe that had declared itself for Rome the previous year. The general then turned towards an older officer, Hosidius Geta – legate of the Ninth Legion.

'… the Ninth will move there, establish a base and start probing north with auxiliary troops, establishing small forts along your lines of advance. The tribes in that area are nominally allied to us. That's fine, but I want a display of strength, understand? You make it clear to them that Rome is here to stay. No marching camps. I want permanent structures, and I want them to look imposing.'

'Yes, sir.' Geta smiled eagerly. 'Trust me, sir. I'll sort them out.'