waving an arm from just within the trees. Moments later Cato was making his report.
‘March along the river bank?’ Vespasian reflected doubtfully as he surveyed the far side. ‘That’s going to slow us down.’
‘Can’t be helped, sir. The ridge is too exposed and the woods are too dense.’
‘Very well. Return to the centurion, and tell him he’s to scout ahead of the main force. Avoid all contact and report back on anything you see.’
‘Yes, Sir’
As the column began to file across the ford, the scouting parties of the Sixth Century regrouped on the far bank around Macro. Once Cato had delivered the legate’s orders, Macro formed his men up, and sent the optio ahead with the first section. Cato was well aware of the responsibility placed upon him. He was now the eyes and ears of the Second Legion. Upon him depended the success of the general’s plan, and the safety of his comrades. If the enemy were warned of the Second’s approach, they would have ample time to prepare to receive the attackers. Even worse, they might have time to organise a counterattack. With this on his mind, the young optio crept forward along the bank, straining his senses to their limits. The untroubled river glided past in the pale air as the sun rose above the trees and filled the summer morning with light and warmth. So it continued for the best part of an hour, as Cato picked his way forward - until he came to a place where the river bank had given way, and many years before a mighty oak tree had tumbled into the water. It now lay across the broken ground at the river’s edge, dead tangled branches rippling the passing flow. A mass of roots torn up from the earth provided a frame for new growth to cling to.
A sudden splash in the water caused him to freeze, and the men of the scouting party exchanged anxious glances before Cato spotted the kingfisher nesting in a branch that overhung an expanding ripple on the river’s surface. He almost laughed at the sudden release of tension before he noticed, not more than fifty feet away, a horse standing at the river’s edge. The graceful neck lowered and the beast began to drink. A set of reins tethered the horse to the stump of a tree. Of the rider there was no sign.
Chapter Eight
‘Signal the warships to open fire.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Vitellius saluted and turned smartly away. This posting to the general’s staff was proving to be onerous in the extreme. Plautius sought any excuse to find him lacking and there was not a moment when he did not feel the scrutinising glare of the general resting upon him. Well, let the bastard have his fun for now, thought Vitellius. Time was on his side. With his father nicely ensconced in the Emperor’s inner circle, his career would advance smoothly enough. He would bide his time and suffer the slights of old fools like Plautius until the moment was ripe to make his play. Already Vitellius was harbouring an ambition so audacious that the mere thought of it caused him to catch his breath at times. If Claudius could become Emperor, then so might any man with the patience and strength of will to see it through. But, he steadied himself, he must not act until he was sure of success. Until that glorious day he could only chip away at the ruling dynasty of the Claudians, invisibly undermining the Emperor, and his heirs, in any way he could.
Trotting down the slope to the makeshift headquarters, Vitellius waved to the assembled trumpeters. They snatched up their instruments and hurried into line. The signals orders had all been thoroughly outlined the night before and as soon as the tribune passed the word, the first notes blared out, splitting the morning air above the heads of the clerks scribbling away on camp tables. First the unit identification, then the instruction for the prearranged action. Below, four triremes lay on the smooth surface of the river, anchored fore and aft to present their beams to the British fortifications. As Vitellius
‘March along the river bank?’ Vespasian reflected doubtfully as he surveyed the far side. ‘That’s going to slow us down.’
‘Can’t be helped, sir. The ridge is too exposed and the woods are too dense.’
‘Very well. Return to the centurion, and tell him he’s to scout ahead of the main force. Avoid all contact and report back on anything you see.’
‘Yes, Sir’
As the column began to file across the ford, the scouting parties of the Sixth Century regrouped on the far bank around Macro. Once Cato had delivered the legate’s orders, Macro formed his men up, and sent the optio ahead with the first section. Cato was well aware of the responsibility placed upon him. He was now the eyes and ears of the Second Legion. Upon him depended the success of the general’s plan, and the safety of his comrades. If the enemy were warned of the Second’s approach, they would have ample time to prepare to receive the attackers. Even worse, they might have time to organise a counterattack. With this on his mind, the young optio crept forward along the bank, straining his senses to their limits. The untroubled river glided past in the pale air as the sun rose above the trees and filled the summer morning with light and warmth. So it continued for the best part of an hour, as Cato picked his way forward - until he came to a place where the river bank had given way, and many years before a mighty oak tree had tumbled into the water. It now lay across the broken ground at the river’s edge, dead tangled branches rippling the passing flow. A mass of roots torn up from the earth provided a frame for new growth to cling to.
A sudden splash in the water caused him to freeze, and the men of the scouting party exchanged anxious glances before Cato spotted the kingfisher nesting in a branch that overhung an expanding ripple on the river’s surface. He almost laughed at the sudden release of tension before he noticed, not more than fifty feet away, a horse standing at the river’s edge. The graceful neck lowered and the beast began to drink. A set of reins tethered the horse to the stump of a tree. Of the rider there was no sign.
Chapter Eight
‘Signal the warships to open fire.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Vitellius saluted and turned smartly away. This posting to the general’s staff was proving to be onerous in the extreme. Plautius sought any excuse to find him lacking and there was not a moment when he did not feel the scrutinising glare of the general resting upon him. Well, let the bastard have his fun for now, thought Vitellius. Time was on his side. With his father nicely ensconced in the Emperor’s inner circle, his career would advance smoothly enough. He would bide his time and suffer the slights of old fools like Plautius until the moment was ripe to make his play. Already Vitellius was harbouring an ambition so audacious that the mere thought of it caused him to catch his breath at times. If Claudius could become Emperor, then so might any man with the patience and strength of will to see it through. But, he steadied himself, he must not act until he was sure of success. Until that glorious day he could only chip away at the ruling dynasty of the Claudians, invisibly undermining the Emperor, and his heirs, in any way he could.
Trotting down the slope to the makeshift headquarters, Vitellius waved to the assembled trumpeters. They snatched up their instruments and hurried into line. The signals orders had all been thoroughly outlined the night before and as soon as the tribune passed the word, the first notes blared out, splitting the morning air above the heads of the clerks scribbling away on camp tables. First the unit identification, then the instruction for the prearranged action. Below, four triremes lay on the smooth surface of the river, anchored fore and aft to present their beams to the British fortifications. As Vitellius
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