Free Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest by Simon Scarrow Page A

Tribune, it’s time for the main assault. Better get yourself a shield from someone.’ ‘Sir?’
    ‘I need a good pair of eyes on the ground, Vitellius. Go in with the first wave and make a note of all the defences you encounter, the nature of the ground you pass over, and any terrain we might be able to exploit if we have to go through it all over again. I’ll have your report when you get back.’
    If I get back, Vitellius reflected bitterly as he sized up the task facing the Ninth Legion. It would be dangerous down there, far too dangerous. Even if he survived, there was always the chance of suffering an injury so disfiguring that it would cause people to avert their gaze. Vitellius was vain enough to want affection and admiration as well as power. He wondered if the general might be persuaded to send a more expendable officer instead, and looked up. Plautius was watching him closely.
    ‘There’s no reason to delay, Tribune. Off you go.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Vitellius saluted and immediately commandeered a shield from one of the general’s bodyguards, before making his way down to the two cohorts of the Ninth Legion earmarked for the first assault. The other eight cohorts were sitting down in the trampled grass that sloped towards the river. They would be afforded a spectacular view of the attack and would cheer their comrades on at the top of their voices when the time came - mostly out of a sense of self-preservation, for if the first wave failed, it would be their turn to face the Britons soon enough. Vitellius picked his way through the unit and made for the even lines of the First Cohort - every legion’s teeth arm, a double strength unit trusted with the most dangerous tasks on any battlefield. Over nine hundred men stood to attention, spears grounded, silently surveying the dangers ahead of them.
    The legate of the Ninth, Hosidius Geta, was standing immediately behind the First Century. At his side stood the legion’s chief centurion and behind them the colour party surrounding the eagle standard.
    ‘Afternoon, Vitellius,’ Geta greeted him. ‘You joining us?’
    ‘Yes, sir. The general wants someone to analyse the ground as the attack goes in.’
    ‘Good idea. We’ll do our best to see you get to make your report.’ ‘Thank you, sir.’
    Heads turned at the heavy irony lacing the tribune’s reply but the legate was gentleman enough to let it pass.
    Just then the headquarters trumpets blasted out a unit signal, followed by a short pause and then the call for advance.
    ‘That’s us.’ The legate nodded to the chief centurion. Geta tightened the strap on his gaudily decorated helmet and drew in a deep breath to bellow out his orders.
    ‘The First Cohort will prepare to advance!’ A beat of three, and then, ‘Advance!’
    With the chief centurion calling out the pace, the cohort moved off in a rippling mass of bronze helmets, chinking links of mail and gleaming javelin tips, line after line of men marching straight down to the edge of the river where the water ran over a bank of shingle and weed.
    Vitellius took his position just behind the legate, concentrating on keeping in step with the colour party. Then he was in the river, splashing into the brown churned-up water swirling in the wake of the First Century. To his right the nearest trireme seemed to be a vast floating fortress, towering up only fifty paces away. The faces of the crewmen were clearly visible on deck as they stepped up the bombardment of the far bank, softening up the defenders as much as possible before their army comrades struck home. The whack of the catapults and sharper cracks of the bolt-thrower arms carried clearly across the water, and were audible even above the infantry thrashing through the river.
    The water quickly rose to his hips, and Vitellius glanced up in alarm to see that they were less than a third of the way across. The increase in depth slowed the advance and already the foremost lines were beginning to