'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.
'You all right, Optio?'
'Fine,' Cato managed between gritted teeth. 'Fine, thank you.'
'I see. Well, if you need anything, get down to the field hospital. And if there's any sign of infection, come and see me at once.'
The last remark was directed at the centurion as much as the optio, and Cato nodded his understanding. 'Don't worry. I'll be sensible.' 'All right then. I'm off. '
As Nisus walked away, Macro tutted with disapproval. 'What is it with surgeons? They either refuse to believe you're ill until you croak on them, or they treat the lightest scratch as some kind of mortal wound.'
Cato was tempted to say that his burns were somewhat more serious than a light scratch, but managed to bite his tongue. There were more important issues. The presence of his centurion on this side of the river was worrying and required an explanation.
'What's happening, sir? Why's the legion back here? Have we retreated across the river?'
'Relax, lad. Things are going well. The ford's in our hands and the Second's been relieved by the Twentieth. The boys are having a rest before General Plautius moves the army over to the far bank.'
'Have the Britons gone?'
'Gone?' Macro laughed. 'You should have seen them this morning. I tell you, that British general must have a pretty impressive hold over his men. They came at us like madmen, screaming and shouting as they threw themselves onto the shield wall. It was a close call, we very nearly lost it at one point. Bunch of them burst through by one of the gates and would have opened a sizeable breach in our line if it hadn't been for Vespasian. Bloody legate's a game lad, all right.' Macro chuckled. 'Took the colour party and the staff officers by the scruff of the neck and threw them into the fight. Glorious stuff. Even the trumpet-blowers got involved. I saw one of the beggars take his horn and lay into the Britons, swinging it round like a bloody battle-axe. Anyway, once the line had been closed again, the Britons lost heart and pulled back.'
'The general's just letting them escape?' Cato was appalled. What was the point of so much loss of life the day before if the enemy was allowed to pull back and fortify the next river?
'He may be a general but he's not that stupid. He's sent the auxiliary cavalry after them. Meanwhile, the Twentieth are finally off their arses and doing something and we're back here for a day's rest. Then we push on again.'
'A whole day's rest?'
'Don't be sarcastic, lad. We've got the buggers knocked off balance and if we can keep pushing forward then Caratacus won't have the chance to re-form his army. It's all a question of time. The more he gets, the stronger his army will be. We march hard now or we fight a lot more of them later. Either way, we're in for a tough time of it.'
'I can't wait.'
They both fell silent for a moment as all too vivid memories of the previous day flooded back. Cato felt a chill of horror ripple up his spine into the nape of his neck. It took an effort to order the jumble of impressions into sequence, and make sense of what had happened. The ferocity of battle had a way of altering one's perception and it seemed to Cato that an impossible intensity of life, in all its terror and ecstasy, had been experienced the day before. He was filled with a deep sense of being far too young for the things he had witnessed. Indeed, far too young for the things he had done. A wave of disgust washed over him.