Simon Scarrow - Under The Eagle

The other legionaries grumbled in support.

Macro looked down between his feet and thought for a moment before he rose stiffly. 'No, not yet at least. The lad's right. If it is anywhere then it has to be here. We'll have a rest and then have another dig. If we find nothing by dusk we'll head back.'

Pyrax swore and spat at Cato's feet. His fist clenched.

'That's my decision, Pyrax,' Macro intervened firmly. 'Now back down and have a rest. That's an order. Understand me?'

Pyrax remained silent, glaring coldly at the optio. Then he turned towards Macro for a moment and nodded.

'I asked if you understood me?'

'Yes, sir!'

'Good. Now sit down.'

With a last glare at the optio, Pyrax turned away and slumped down with the other legionaries who all looked angrily at Cato.

It was more than the young optio could bear for the moment and he wandered down to the edge of the swamp to escape the immediate aura of hostility assaulting him from all sides. The remains of a sapling protruded out of the dark surface at the edge of the hummock and hung at an angle towards the track. With a deep sigh of frustration Cato leaned back against the sapling, firmly intending to empty his mind of immediate concerns and take in the view, such as it was. The moment the mass of his weight fetched up against the sapling it gave way with a loud creak and fell down on to the grass bank of the hummock. For a moment Cato felt himself toppling forwards for a second time, but a frantic windmill gesture kept him on his feet.

'Cato!' Macro shouted out. 'Oh, for fuck's sake! Can't you keep on your bloody feet for a little longer? I swear I have seen completely pissed sailors less clumsy than you.'

'Sorry, sir. I thought this tree could bear my weight.'

'Tree?' Macro asked, then looked down in the grass where Cato indicated. 'That's no bloody tree.'

He bent down and examined the long shaft of wood. Under the lichen, grime and scraps of moss the wood was far too smooth and regular for a sapling. At the end of the shaft he wiped away the dirt and exposed an iron cap. A little more work revealed a foot-long iron collar with two handles protruding on opposite sides of the shaft.

'Well, Cato,' he began, 'you may not be the most agile lad to have joined the legion, but your clumsiness has its moments. Do you know what this is?'

Cato shook his head, still a little bemused that his sapling had managed to sprout ironware.

'It's a wagon shaft end. And where there's a wagon shaft end it's reasonable to suppose that there might be a wagon. Let's see.'

Macro picked the shaft of wood up and raised it above his head, following its line down to where it disappeared in the marsh. He gave it an experimental tug, but even though the shaft rose up and down it was clearly fixed to something at its base. Macro let it drop back into the grass and turned to face the other legionaries who were watching him with weary curiosity.

'Last time then, lads! On your feet and get over here. Seems the optio was right after all. Not that I ever seriously doubted him.'

Were it not for the unreasonable fact that assaulting a superior officer was a capital offence, Cato would have hit him.

Dusk was fast approaching and there was still no sign of Togodumnus's force. By now the cavalry scouts of three legions had been joined by two auxiliary cavalry cohorts and the surrounding country was being systematically swept for any trace of the Britons. Until they were found, the Second Legion would be highly vulnerable and Vespasian was loath to quit a fortified position while the location and strength of the enemy were still unknown. His imagination readily visualised the consequences of his men being attacked in force as they were strung out along the line of march. A determined attack, pushed through resolutely, could cripple the Second. That was why he had placed the scouting sweeps under the direct command of Vitellius. Even now, the tribune was somewhere out there in the British countryside with orders not to rest until Togodumnus was located.

Meanwhile, General Plautius was relentlessly pressing the enemy back and had sent messengers racing to the rear to call up the two fresh legions – the Second and the Fourteenth – and have them rush to the front to sustain the offensive's momentum. A swift crushing blow was required, he told his subordinates. If the four legions could catch the Britons before they managed to place a major river between themselves and the Romans, the resulting battle would surely see the destruction of the Britons' field army. After that, it would just be a question of picking off the odd hill fort and mopping up the surviving forces. The legate smiled bitterly as he had read that. What the general had not mentioned – perhaps had not anticipated – was the guerrilla war that would inevitably follow for many years before the new province could be considered pacified.

Vespasian wished that he could share the general's confidence in the smooth progress of the campaign. But orders were orders and Plautius wanted the Second Legion on the move at daybreak on the morrow. Vespasian could only assume that the general was aware of the risk.

As far as Vespasian could tell from the latest scout reports, the tracks leading west to the front were clear of the enemy and the land to the south had been searched as far as the marsh – which, his British йmigrйs had told him, was impassable for a force of any size as the old tracks had been abandoned for many years and were all but swallowed up by the bogs. That left the heavily wooded region to the north of the line of march; a rolling mass of trees and thickets criss-crossed by numerous tracks well known to the natives. If an attack came, it was sure to come from that quarter.

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

The sun was sinking into the rolling banks of mist by the time Macro and his men had cleared away enough of the slimy foul-smelling peat to reveal the bed of the wagon. The men were caked in mud that sucked at them as they struggled, waist deep. Finally they had discovered the chest they had been sent to retrieve. Once it was cleared of mud, Macro excitedly examined the heavy wooden box bound with iron. Aside from the inevitable staining and the dampness of the wood, the chest was in remarkably good condition and still fastened by a heavy lock. The other men, now that they had something to show for all their exertions, shared his excitement and eagerly helped drag the chest to more solid ground. It proved to be far heavier than they expected and nearly sank back into the mud several times before it was heaved on to the grass bank leading up to the track.

'Right, lads, there's no time to waste. We have to load it on to the cart and get back to the Legion.'

Cato looked up at the sky. 'It'll be dark soon. We won't make it back before nightfall, sir.'

'No. But we'll get out of this place at least.' Macro grasped one of the iron handles. 'Come on! Let's get on with it.'

The twelve men struggled around the chest and hauled it up the bank. Then, with a final back-breaking effort, accompanied by loud hisses of strain and exertion, the chest was pushed on to the back of the cart, which creaked under the load. The men leaned against its sides gasping for breath. Cato found himself shivering as his body was overtaken by a degree of tiredness he had never experienced before. His leg and arm muscles ached abominably and the strenuous labour of the previous hours had left him feeling sick. Looking at the faces of the other men he realised that they were all quite done in, and it would be as much as they could manage to haul the cart clear of the marsh by the time night fell.

Macro rested his arms across the top of the chest. He was tired, but elated that he had succeeded in his mission. Once the chest was in the legate's safe keeping, Macro could rest assured that he had at least one friend in high places who might smooth his path to further promotion. He had reached the pinnacle of a career based solely on competence and ability. Further advancement depended on a mix of guile, intelligence and personal connections. Macro knew himself well enough to be aware that he was somewhat lacking in the first two of these qualities; the third he had just taken care of. He patted the chest affectionately.