He paused when Cato did not respond. 'I'm sorry, lad. I forgot about your aversion to water. If it comes to swimming across, stick with me and I'll see you get over safely.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Just make sure you get some proper bloody swimming lessons in at the first available opportunity.'
Cato nodded, head lowered in shame. 'So where were we?'
'Bladders, sir.'
'Ah, yes. Let's hope we don't need them. If we can't find a ford I don't fancy tackling the Britons with just a woollen tunic between them and my vitals.'
Cato had wholeheartedly agreed.
The sun was now low over the western horizon and Cato again looked towards the river, which seemed wider than ever. He shuddered at the thought of having to actually swim across it; his swimming technique barely did justice to the words.
The sun was shining directly through the trees, casting a tangle of shadows with orange-hued edges across the clearing. A sudden flash of movement caught Cato's eye. Keeping his body still, he turned his head to follow the movement. A hare had cautiously hopped out onto the track from a patch of stinging nettles not twenty feet from where he stood. It rose up on its hind legs, cautiously sniffing the air. With its upper body and head haloed by the glow of the distant sun, the hare looked like a tempting target, and Cato slowly made to lift the hunting bow. One hare was not going to feed the men of the Sixth Century, but it would do until something larger came down the track.
Cato steadied the bow and was about to release the drawstring when he became aware of another presence in the clearing. The hare turned and scurried back into the undergrowth.
A deer ambled out of the shadows into the clearing, heading for the point at which the trail entered the trees on the far side. A much bigger target, even at twenty paces, and without hesitation, Cato adjusted his aim, allowing for drop and a tendency to shoot up and to the right. The drawstring hummed, the deer froze, and a streak of darkness hurtled through the air and landed in the back of the deer's neck with a loud whack.
The animal crashed down, thrashing its long neck as blood flecked the undergrowth. Cato hurriedly notched another arrow to the bow, and sprinted across the clearing. Sensing the danger, and maddened by the barbed arrowhead buried deep in its neck, the deer struggled up and leaped along the track towards the river. Heedless of the tangled vegetation straddling the track, Cato pursued his quarry down the slope, falling behind, then catching up again each time the deer stumbled. The injured animal burst onto the river bank and plunged into the river. The smoothly flowing surface exploded into a multitude of sparkling droplets as they caught the evening sun.
Cato was close behind, and drew up at the edge of the river. It seemed much wider and more dangerous than when viewed from the clearing above. The deer splashed on and Cato raised his bow, furious that the animal might yet escape or be dragged off by the current.
The deer floundered on, fully thirty paces away now. The second arrow caught it right in the middle of the back and its rear legs crashed down senseless. Dropping the bow on the river bank, Cato plunged in. The bed of the river was firmly pebbled and less than a foot deep. Water sprayed up around him as he made for the deer with drawn dagger. The second arrow had shattered the deer's spine and it writhed in terror, desperately trying to use its front legs to drag itself on, and staining the water with its blood.
Cato stopped short, fearful of the flailing hooves, and worked his way round to the front. As his shadow fell across its face, the deer froze in tenor, and seizing the opportunity Cato thrust his dagger into the animal's throat and ripped it clear. The end was mercifully quick, and after a brief final struggle the deer lay still, eyes staring lifelessly. Cato was trembling, partly from the nervous energy released by the frantic pursuit and kill, and partly through a peculiar sense of distaste and shame at having killed the animal. It was different to killing a man. Quite different. Yet why should it feel any worse? Then Cato realised he had never killed an animal like this before. Sure, he had wrung the neck of the odd chicken, but this felt unsettling and the swirls of blood eddying about his feet made him feel queasy.
He looked down at his feet again. Then up at the river bank he had come running down. Then across to the far bank.
'I wonder.'
Cato turned away from the deer and headed for the far bank where the trees were starkly black against a deep orange sky. Squinting, he tried to make out the depth of the water ahead of him. It was too dark, and he nervously felt his way through the water, testing each step as he went. The river's depth gradually increased, and the current quickened, but by the time he reached midstream it had risen only as far as his hips. Thereafter the depth diminished again and he was soon standing on the other side of the river gazing back at the bank held by the legions.
He crouched down in the shadows and waited until the sun had fully set and stars were pricking the early evening sky, but there was no sign of anyone. No men on watch, no patrols, just the sound of wood pigeons and soft cracks as woodland creatures moved in the darkness about him. Satisfied that he was quite alone, Cato returned to the river, waded to the body of the deer and dragged it to where he had left the hunting bow.
The optio smiled happily. The men of the Sixth Century were going to eat well tonight, and tomorrow the rest of the legion were going to have something else to thank him for.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Seven
'Are you sure this is the place, Optio?' 'Yes, sir.'
Vespasian looked out across the river towards the far bank. Dawn had not yet broken, and the outline of trees was barely distinguishable from the night sky. The far bank was invisible, and the only sound that carried across the water was the hooting of an owl Behind the legate the trail was packed with a silent mass of legionaries, tense and alert for the first sign of danger. Night marches were the bugbear of army life: no idea of how far one had progressed, frequent halts as columns bottlenecked or simply ran into one another, and the ever-lurking fear of ambush. They were a nightmare to co-ordinate as well, which was why army commanders rarely moved troops between dusk and dawn. But the plan of attack developed by Plautius and his staff officers required that the Second Legion be across the river and in position as quickly as possible, and preferably under cover of darkness.
Vespasian had not quite believed his good fortune when news was brought to him of the discovery of a ford not two miles from the legion's marching camp. It was almost too convenient, suspiciously so, and he had questioned the optio closely. Cato, he knew from previous experience of the lad's abilities, was intelligent and cautious – two qualities the legate particularly admired – and could be relied upon to report accurately. Nevertheless, if the optio had discovered the crossing so easily then surely the Britons were aware of its existence as well. It might well be a trap. There would be little time to test this hypothesis he realised as he looked back over his shoulder to where the darkness was thinning out against the horizon. A small scouting force had to be pushed across at once. If the Britons were guarding the ford after all, the legion would be forced to march further upstream in search of another. But the more time it took to get across, the less chance the general had of co-ordinating all three attacks on the British fortifications.
'Centurion!'
'Yes, sir!' Macro snapped back from nearby.
'Take your men across the river and scout half a mile in each direction from the far edge of the ford. If you don't encounter the enemy and you're satisfied that we can cross unobserved, send a runner back to me. Best use Cato here.'