Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest Read Free Page B

such a lifestyle was all that was open to most of them. Death might well have been a more merciful outcome for such men. A sudden image of himself mutilated, condemned to poverty, and an object of pity and ridicule caused Cato to shudder. He had no family to fall back on. The only person who cared for him outside the army was Lavinia. She was far from him now, on the road to Rome with the other slaves in the household of Lady Flavia, wife of the Second Legion’s commander. Cato could not hope that, if the worst happened, Lavinia would be able to love a cripple. He knew he could not bear her pity, or her staying with him out of any misguided sense of duty.
    Macro sensed a change in the young man’s attitude. It was strange, he considered, how much he had become aware of the lad’s moods. Every optio he had ever known had been just a legionary on the make, but Cato was different. Quite different. Intelligent, well-read, and a proven soldier, yet perversely critical of himself. If he lived long enough, Cato would surely make a name for himself someday. Macro could not understand why the optio did not seem aware of this, and tended to regard Cato with a mixture of guarded amusement and admiration.
    ‘Don’t worry, lad. You’ll live through this lot. If you were going to cop it, you’d have done so by now. You’ve survived the worst army life can throw at you. You’ll be around for a while yet, so cheer up.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied quietly. Macro’s words were false comfort, as the death of even the finest soldiers -like Bestia - had shown.
    ‘Now then, where were we?’
    Cato looked down at the wax tablet. ‘The last man in the hospital is making a good recovery. Sword slash to the thigh. Should be back on his feet in a few more days. Then there’s four walking wounded. They’ll be back on our fighting strength soon. Leaves us with fifty-eight effectives, sir.’
    ‘Fifty-eight.’ Macro frowned. The Sixth Century had suffered badly at the hands of the Britons. They had landed on the island with eighty men. Now, only days later, they had lost eighteen for good.
    ‘Any news on the replacements, sir?’
    ‘We won’t be getting any until the staff can organise a shipment from the reserve pool back in Gaul. Take them a week or more at least before they can ship them over the Channel from Gesoriacum. Won’t join us until after the next battle.’
    ‘Next battle?’ Cato sat up eagerly. ‘What battle, sir?’
    ‘Easy, lad.’ Macro smiled. ‘The legate told us at the briefing. Vespasian has had word from the general. It seems the army is facing a river. A nice big, wide river. And on the far side Caratacus is waiting for us with his army, chariots and all.’
    ‘How far from here, sir?’
    ‘Day’s march. The Second should arrive at the river tomorrow. Aulus Plautius doesn’t intend to hang around, apparently. He’ll launch the attack the following morning, as soon as we’re in position.’
    ‘How do we get at them?’ Cato asked. ‘I mean, how do we get across the river? Is there a bridge?’
    ‘You really think the Britons would leave one standing? Just for us to use?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘No, the general still has to figure that one out.’
    ‘Do you think he will order us in first?’
    ‘Doubt it. We’ve been pretty roughly handled by the Britons. The men are still feeling very shaken. You must have sensed it.’
    Cato nodded. The low morale of the legion had been palpable in the last few days. Worse still, he had overheard men openly criticising the legate, holding Vespasian responsible for the heavy casualties they had suffered since landing on British soil. That Vespasian had fought the enemy in the front rank alongside his men was of little account to most legionaries who had not witnessed his valour in person. As things stood, there was considerable resentment and mistrust of the legion’s senior officers, and that did not bode well for the next engagement with the