Chapter Fifteen
As dawn flooded over the rolling British landscape, the Britons launched a desperate counterattack to regain control of the ford. It was a vain effort since the same boats that had been used to shuttle the wounded back to the eastern bank of the river had returned with bolt-throwers from the army's artillery train. Long before dawn, many of these weapons had been mounted on the western ramparts of the British fortifications, and covered all the approaches.
As the hapless Britons rose up from the mists wreathing the low ground behind the fort and roared their battle cry, many were cut down before they had a chance to draw a second breath. With reckless courage they charged forward, urged on by the braying of their war horns and the example of their standard bearers leading the way beneath their billowing serpents. The Romans had sealed up the gateways and had formed a solid shield wall along the length of the rampart. Disciplined and determined, the legionaries did not yield one foot of ground, and the wave of Britons dashed themselves to pieces on the defences.
Cato was being helped aboard one of the engineers' shallow-bottomed craft when the peal of British war horns sounded on the dawn air, somehow muffled and distant, as if they belonged to a different world. The sounds of battle drifted down to the grey glassy surface of the river but there was little sense of excitement amongst those in the boat. For a moment Cato sat up and strained his ears to listen. Then he glanced down at the weariness and pain etched into the faces of the men around him, too tired to pay heed to the desperate battle being fought, and Cato realised that it was no longer his affair. He had done his duty, he had felt the fire of battle coursing through his veins and shared in the exultation of victory. Now, more than anything else, he needed rest.
The other men's heads nodded and lolled as the engineers steadily paddled the craft over the water, but Cato concentrated on the activity around him to divert his mind from the pain of his burns. The small boat was passing close by one of the warships and Cato looked up to see a bare-headed marine leaning on the side, a small wineskin in his hands.
The man's face and arms were blackened from the soot of the incendiary fire the ships had been pouring down on the British the previous day. He raised his head at the sound of the engineers' paddles splashing into the smooth surface of the river, and raised a finger to his forehead in casual greeting.
Cato nodded back. 'Hot work?' 'You said it, Optio.'
Cato fixed his eyes on the wineskin, and instinctively licked his lips at the thought of its contents. The marine laughed. 'Here! You seem to need it more than I do, Optio.'
Cato, clumsy in his exhaustion, fumbled to catch the thrown wineskin.
The contents sloshed heavily inside. 'Thanks!'
'Typical bloody marine,' grumbled an engineer. 'Those tossers have got nothing better to do than drink all day long.'
'While the likes of us do all the bloody work,' complained his comrade on the other paddle.
'That's your problem, mate!' the marine called out. 'And watch what you're doing with them paddles, or you'll foul the anchor chain!'
'Piss off,' one of the engineers replied sourly, but increased his efforts on the paddle to steer the craft away from the stern of the warship.
The marine laughed and raised a hand in mock salute. Cato pulled out the wineskin stopper and took a deep draught of wine. He almost choked when a sudden whoosh and crack broke the stillness. A catapult on the deck of the ship had just hurled a flint-filled casket high into the air towards a small force of chariots downstream from the fortifications. Curious about the accuracy of the weapon, Cato watched as the casket arced up into the air in the general direction of the spectral shapes of the distant enemy. All eyes must have been fixed on the fight for the fortifications as there was no sign of any reaction to the black speck pitching down towards them. The casket disappeared into the faint shapes of men, horses and vehicles. Moments later a dull crash carried across the water, followed by cries of surprise and pain. Cato could well imagine the devastating impact of the casket and the wounds inflicted by the flints flying out in all directions. Moments later the British had vanished and only the dead and injured remained where the chariots had stood.
As the hulk of the warship fell away in the milky light, Cato slumped back against the hard side of the boat and closed his eyes, despite the agony of his burns. All that mattered now was snatching a moment's rest. Helped by the wine, the instant his aching eyes shut and he surrendered to the warm comfort of relaxation, the young optio fell into a deep sleep. So deep that he barely murmured as he was lifted from the boat and transferred to one of the Second Legion's hospital carts for the jolting journey back to the camp. He strained only briefly when the legion's surgeon had him stripped and prodded the burns to assess the damage. A fresh application of salve was ordered and then Cato, having been entered in the walking wounded lists, was carried back to the Sixth Century's tent line and gently transferred to his coarse sleeping roll.
'Hey!… Hey! Wake up.'
Cata was abruptly wrenched from his sleep as a pair of hands roughly shook his leg.
'Come on, soldier! This is no time for malingering – there's work to be done.'
Cato opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness of a midday sun. Squatting at his side, and smiling, Macro shook his head in despair. 'Bloody younger generation spends half its time on its back. I tell you, Nisus, it's a sorry lookout for the empire.'
Cato looked over his centurion's shoulder and saw the looming form of the surgeon.. Nisus was frowning.
'I think the lad needs more rest. He's in no shape for duty right now.'
'No shape for duty? That's not what the chief quack seems to think. The optio's walking wounded, and right now we need all the men,we can get back into the fighting line.'
'But-'
'But nothing,' Macro said firmly, and hauled his optio up. 'I know the regulations. The boy's fit enough to fight.'
Nisus shrugged; the centurion was in the right about the regulations, and there was nothing he could do about that. Still, it would not look good for the record if one of his patients died of some infection because he had not been allowed sufficient time for recovery.
'The lad just needs a quick drink and a decent meal inside him and he'll be ready to take the Britons on all by himself. Ain't that light, Cato'!'
Cato was sitting up, still not quite awake, and badly irritated by the way the other two were continuing their earlier argument. In truth, Cato felt very far from being able to take on the enemy at the moment. Now that he was awake again, the pain from his burns seemed worse than ever, and glancing down he could see that the side of his body was a mass of red skin and blisters beneath the glistening salve.
'Well, lad?' asked Macro. 'You up for it?'
Cato just wished himself back asleep, and the centurion and the rest of the bloody army as far from his mind as possible. Behind the centurion Nisus was gently shaking his head, and for a moment Cato was tempted to agree with the surgeon's advice and take as long a break from his duties as possible. But he was an optio, with an optio's responsibilities to the rest of the men in his century, and that meant he could not afford to indulge any private weakness. Whatever pain he was in right now was no worse than his centurion had suffered from anyone of his innumerable wounds in past campaigns. If he was to win the respect of the men he commanded, the same respect that Macro wore so easily, then he must suffer for it.
Gritting his teeth, Cato pushed himself up, and rose to his feet. Nisus sighed at the obstinacy of youth.
'Well done, lad!' Macro barked and slapped the boy on the shoulder. A sheet of pain scoured the nerves down the side of the optio's body and he grimaced, locking his body still for a moment. Nisus started forward.