Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest by Simon Scarrow Page B

crossing, And still no recall.
    Behind the enemy line word had been passed of the new threat approaching their fortifications and the tribes surged forward to the crest of the ridge to watch the approach of another legion. Any sense of order their chiefs had struggled to maintain quickly dissolved as the Britons poured through the crude gateways, making for their comrades defending the palisade.
    Vespasian watched as dense columns of his men emerged from the forest and moved into position. A few more moments and all would be ready. His ears strained for the first sound of the trumpets ordering the Second into action. But the air remained thick with the sounds of the battle below, unbroken by any trumpet call. By the time the Second Legion was formed up and ready to advance, the defenders on the palisade had been swelled by thousands more screaming to get their share of the promised bloodbath. And still no trumpets.
    ‘Something’s wrong.’
    ‘Sir?’ Macro turned to him.
    ‘We should have heard the headquarters trumpets by now.’
    Then a dreadful thought occurred to Vespasian. Maybe he had missed the signal. Maybe the order had been given already and the men down by the river were desperately searching the ridge for any sign of relief. ‘Did either of you hear anything while I was back at the command post? Any signal?’
    ‘No, sir,’ Macro replied. ‘Nothing.’
     

Chapter Twelve
    ‘Where the hell is the Second?’ Vitellius asked bitterly, not for the first time. Legate Geta exchanged a look with his chief centurion and briefly raised his eyes before drawing closer to the tribune crouching beneath his shield.
    ‘A quiet word of advice: officers should always consider how their demeanour affects the men around them. If you want to make a career out of the army you must set a good example. So let’s have no more of this nonsense about the Second, all right? Now get off your belly and stand up.’
    At first Vitellius was incredulous. Here they were, right in the middle of a first-class military disaster, and Geta was more concerned about etiquette. But the contemptuous looks he was getting from the veterans who made up the command party shamed him. He nodded, swallowed, and rose to his feet, taking his place with the rest or the officers and standard bearers. The fire they had at first attracted from the British slingers had slackened as soon as the cohorts charged the palisade and now only the occasional quick shot could be spared in their direction.
    Even so, two of the Ninth’s tribunes had been downed. One lay dead at the foot of the eagle standard, his face shattered by the impact of a lead shot. The other had just been struck on the shin. The bone was smashed. The young officer was white-faced with the effort not to let out a cry as he looked at the bone protruding from his skin. Vitellius was relieved when a burly legionary heaved the tribune up onto his shoulders and headed back across the river.
    And there, surging down the slope and into the water came the Fourteenth Legion. For an instant Vitellius’ spirits soared at the prospect of reinforcements, a reeling shared by the rest or the colour party, until they saw how the tide was slowly covering the ford. Vitellius turned back to the legate, unable to conceal his alarm.
    ‘What’s the general up to?’
    ‘It’s all in the plan,’ Geta replied calmly. ‘You should know, you were at the briefing.’
    ‘But the river! We won’t be able to get back across unless we withdraw now, sir.’ Vitellius looked round the colour party despairingly. Surely someone would agree with him, but the contempt in their expressions only deepened. ‘We can’t just sit here, sir. We must do something.. Before it’s too late.’
    Geta regarded him silently for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. ‘You are right, of course, Vitellius. We must do something.’ Turning to the colour party, he drew his sword. ‘Raise the eagle. We’re going to