'Yes, Sir'

As the column began to file across the ford, the scouting parties of the Sixth Century regrouped on the far bank around Macro. Once Cato had delivered the legate's orders, Macro formed his men up, and sent the optio ahead with the first section. Cato was well aware of the responsibility placed upon him. He was now the eyes and ears of the Second Legion. Upon him depended the success of the general's plan, and the safety of his comrades. If the enemy were warned of the Second's approach, they would have ample time to prepare to receive the attackers. Even worse, they might have time to organise a counterattack. With this on his mind, the young optio crept forward along the bank, straining his senses to their limits. The untroubled river glided past in the pale air as the sun rose above the trees and filled the summer morning with light and warmth. So it continued for the best part of an hour, as Cato picked his way forward – until he came to a place where the river bank had given way, and many years before a mighty oak tree had tumbled into the water. It now lay across the broken ground at the river's edge, dead tangled branches rippling the passing flow. A mass of roots torn up from the earth provided a frame for new growth to cling to.

A sudden splash in the water caused him to freeze, and the men of the scouting party exchanged anxious glances before Cato spotted the kingfisher nesting in a branch that overhung an expanding ripple on the river's surface. He almost laughed at the sudden release of tension before he noticed, not more than fifty feet away, a horse standing at the river's edge. The graceful neck lowered and the beast began to drink. A set of reins tethered the horse to the stump of a tree. Of the rider there was no sign.

The Eagles Conquest

'Signal the warships to open fire.'

'Yes, sir.' Vitellius saluted and turned smartly away. This posting to the general's staff was proving to be onerous in the extreme. Plautius sought any excuse to find him lacking and there was not a moment when he did not feel the scrutinising glare of the general resting upon him. Well, let the bastard have his fun for now, thought Vitellius. Time was on his side. With his father nicely ensconced in the Emperor's inner circle, his career would advance smoothly enough. He would bide his time and suffer the slights of old fools like Plautius until the moment was ripe to make his play. Already Vitellius was harbouring an ambition so audacious that the mere thought of it caused him to catch his breath at times. If Claudius could become Emperor, then so might any man with the patience and strength of will to see it through. But, he steadied himself, he must not act until he was sure of success. Until that glorious day he could only chip away at the ruling dynasty of the Claudians, invisibly undermining the Emperor, and his heirs, in any way he could.

Trotting down the slope to the makeshift headquarters, Vitellius waved to the assembled trumpeters. They snatched up their instruments and hurried into line. The signals orders had all been thoroughly outlined the night before and as soon as the tribune passed the word, the first notes blared out, splitting the morning air above the heads of the clerks scribbling away on camp tables. First the unit identification, then the instruction for the prearranged action. Below, four triremes lay on the smooth surface of the river, anchored fore and aft to present their beams to the British fortifications. As Vitellius watched, the pennant briefly dipped on the nearest vessel, confirming the order. Tiny figures hurried into position around the catapults fixed to the decks. Smoke trailed into the air from the portable ovens requisitioned from the army the previous evening. At first the prefect of the fleet had refused point blank to allow any fire-making apparatus on to his ships; the risk was just too great. The general had insisted; the enemy fortifications must be burned down to help the later infantry assault. In any case, he had pointed out, the fleet was no longer at sea. If the worst happened the sailors would be in easy reach of their comrades on the shore.

'And the galley slaves?' the prefect of the fleet had asked. 'What about them?'

'They're chained to their benches,' explained the prefect patiently. 'If there's a fire, there won't be much chance to get them out.'

'I expect not,' General Plautius agreed. 'But look on the bright side.

Once we defeat that lot over the way, I guarantee that you will have first pick of the prisoners to replace any losses. Happy?'

The prefect considered the proposition and eventually nodded. Some fresh recruits to the slaves' benches would be well received by his captains, those who would still have ships, that is.

'Now,' Plautius had concluded, 'see to it that we have some incendiary artillery ready for the morning.'

Recalling the scene, Vitellius smiled as he climbed the slope back to the general's command post.

As the sun rose behind them, the ships' catapults opened up, their throwing arms smacking against their restraining bars. Thin coils of greasy smoke trailed up and over towards the Britons' fortifications, and then the pots smashed down, dousing them in bright pools of blazing oil. Bolt-throwers hurled heavy iron arrows at the palisade to discourage any attempt by the Britons to put the fires out.

Vitellius had seen the effects of a bolt-thrower barrage before and knew just how effective those weapons could be. The Britons, however, had not, and as the tribune watched, a swarm of the natives rushed up over the earthworks and ran towards a section of the palisade that had taken a direct hit and was burning nicely. Reaching the spot, the Britons frantically shovelled earth onto the fire while those with buckets formed a chain down to the river. But before the chain could even begin to work, the bolt-thrower crews had trained their weapons against it, and in moments the ground was littered with figures struck down by a hail of bolts. The survivors fled back towards the earth works, swiftly followed by their comrades with shovels.

'Shouldn't see much more of them this morning, sir.' Vitellius was smiling as he rejoined General Plautius.

'No. Not if they have any brains.' Plautius shifted his gaze to the right where the river's silvery surface curved round in a great sweep and disappeared between rising ground on the other bank. At this moment, four miles downstream, the Batavian cohorts should be swimming across; four thousand men in mixed cohorts of horse and infantry. Recruited from the recently subdued tribes on the lower Rhine, the Batavians, like all auxiliary cohorts, were supposed to harass the enemy until the legions could close in for the kill. With any luck they would gain the far bank and form up before the enemy scouts had time to summon forces to meet the threat. Plautius had no doubt that Caratacus would have men positioned along the river bank for several miles in both directions. Plautius was counting on the Britons not being able to react fast enough to quell each attack.

As soon as he detected enemy movement downstream, the frontal assault would begin. Directly in front of him, at the foot of the slope down by the ford, the massed ranks of the Ninth Legion stood still and silent, waiting for the order to advance on the enemy fortifications. Plautius well knew the cold dread that would be biting at the pit of their stomachs as they prepared themselves for the attack. He had been in their boots a few times in his youth, and now thanked the gods for being a general. True, there were now other fears and anxieties, but no longer the physical terror of hand-to-hand battle.

Glancing to the left, upriver, he stared hard into the forested river banks that all but swallowed up the silvered surface of the water, only permitting a gleam here and a glitter there. Somewhere in that rolling wilderness lay the Second Legion, moving down towards the enemy flank. Plautius frowned as he failed to detect any sign of movement. Provided Vespasian kept a cool head and arrived within the time the general had allowed, then victory over Caratacus was assured. But if Vespasian was delayed for any reason, the main assault might well be beaten back and the Batavians, isolated on the wrong side of the river, would be cut to pieces.