Britannia, page 23
‘Right then, it’s down to us. Get me close to that gap in the rocks.’
None of the men responded at first, and Cato saw the fear in their eyes. He regarded them squarely. ‘Those are your comrades over there. Would you leave them to the storm? Would they leave you if you were in their place?’
‘It’s madness to try to save them, sir,’ said the man at the bow oar.
Cato felt tempted to snap back and tell him to shut his mouth, but he bit back on his anger and continued gently. ‘I won’t ask you to sacrifice your lives. Just get me close enough to do what I can. That’s all.’
The sailor nodded and called the time for the others, and the boat surged towards the wrecked transport. Cato peeled off his drenched tunic, took up one of the coils of rope in the bottom of the boat and looped it over his shoulder. ‘If I make it, I’ll heave the end of this back to you. You’ll need to tie it to the ship’s cable. Clear?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘One final thing. If I fail, don’t try and save me.’
The man smiled grimly. ‘Is that an order, sir?’
Cato forced himself to smile, then untied his bootstraps and kicked off the heavy military sandals, shivering in the biting cold as he crouched in only his loincloth, summoning up his courage. He thought briefly of Julia, and their child, who might soon be widow and orphan, and pushed them from his mind. Then, without hesitation, he leapt from the boat and plunged into the rough sea.
The first sensation was the terrible cold of the water that briefly closed over him, as if a giant fist was clenched around his body. Then his head burst free and the roar and hiss of the sea filled his ears. At once he struck out for the rocks beneath the hull of the transport. They seemed close, but he was fighting the swirling currents and knew that he must reach them swiftly. There was not much daylight left, and the agonising cold of the sea would soon sap his strength.
He made for a low step in the rock and had almost reached it when a fresh wave broke over the transport’s bows. The surf carried him back a short way before it ebbed, drawing him closer. Taking advantage of the current, he kicked out with all his strength and groped for a handhold as he reached the rock. The sea rose up underneath him and he allowed himself to move with it, then grasped the hard surface tightly and clambered out of the water, drawing himself several feet higher before he paused to take stock. He was crouching on a flat-topped rock, above the waves. The hull curved up a short distance away, and Cato looked down on the foredeck, where the sailors had been watching his progress with anxious expressions. Now there was a spark of hope in their faces, but they had not been saved yet.
Trembling violently in the biting wind and snow, he uncoiled the rope and stood, feet braced and arm drawn back as he beckoned to the men in the boat to draw closer to him. They worked hard at the oars, and when they were within twenty feet of the rock beneath him, the sailor closest to the bow shipped his oar and turned to take the rope. Cato hurled the loose loops out and they snaked through the air, splashing just short of the boat.
He gritted his teeth and snatched the rope back, hurriedly looping it, and adding another length, then threw again. Fortune was with him. The swell lifted the boat closer and the rope fell across the bows. Instantly it began to slide back and the sailor snatched at it, missed, then tried again. This time his fingers closed tightly, and he pulled it in and fastened it to the rope trailing back through the sea to the warship before looking up at Cato and nodding.
Turning back to the transport, Cato hefted the remaining coils of rope and looked over the rocks between him and the open sea. Another huge wave loomed, sending frothing sheets of water surging up the shattered deck and swirling round the rocks beneath. Then the sea receded and he clambered down from his perch and scurried over the glistening mass of rock and thick growths of seaweed, stopping directly under the bows.
‘Take the rope!’ he shouted at the faces looking down at him. He swung his arm and threw the loops up. Hands snatched at them and pulled the cable in, then Cato quickly worked his way round the hull until he found a gap in the shattered timbers and climbed on to what was left of the deck, gasping for breath as his frozen body trembled uncontrollably. He staggered towards the others just as a fresh wave struck, sweeping him off his feet and tumbling him across the deck. He tried to grab hold of something to prevent himself being drawn back by the sea, then, just as he felt the first stab of despair, a hand closed tightly around his forearm, bringing him to a stop, and then more hands drew him up and out of the water and he saw the faces of the sailors staring down at him. The nearest was grinning through a dark, glistening beard.
‘Mate, you have got balls of solid iron! Here, let me.’ The sailor hauled Cato up on to his feet and steadied him as the others slapped him on the back. Beyond them, Cato saw that the rope had been securely tied around the bow post and was taut as it angled down towards the sea where the boat bobbed. Now that it was fastened to both the warship and what was left of the transport, the small craft was held steady in the swell. Then he noticed two more boats approaching, drawing towards the cable and pulling themselves along it. He glanced round at the sailors and counted nine of them.
‘We have to get off here as soon as possible. One at a time, down the rope, into the boat.’
The burly sailor who had kept him from being washed away pointed to the nearest of his companions. ‘Sallus, you go first. Porcinus, you next, once he has reached the boat.’
The small group of men gathered by the bow post while Sallus swung himself out. He hung downwards, legs locked on to the rope as he used his arms to draw himself out over the rocks, then the sea, towards the boat that had carried Cato out from the shore. By the time he had reached the craft, the other boats were alongside and he was manhandled into the nearest of them as the second man began his descent.
‘Look out!’
Cato’s head snapped round in time to see a cloud of spray above his head. He gripped the side rail as he was engulfed by the icy torrent. The man on the rope gave a brief cry, and when the spray cleared, there was no sign of him, just the rope trembling as water dripped from its length.
‘Poor bastard,’ the burly sailor muttered before he slapped the next man on the shoulder. ‘You’re up. Get moving!’
As they watched the man swing himself on to the rope and make his way down to the waiting boats, he turned to Cato. ‘The name’s Talbo. If we survive this, I’ll buy you the best jar of wine I can find, my friend.’
He thrust his hand out and Cato clasped his forearm. ‘Good. We’ll need a drink after this. I’m Cato.’
‘You’re from the Medusa?’ Talbo gestured towards the nearest warship. He continued before Cato could respond. ‘I hope your skipper writes you up for a medal for this. You bloody deserve it, my friend.’
Cato bowed his head slightly. ‘Thanks, but let’s not count our chickens just yet, eh? Fortuna likes to play her games to the very end.’
Their exchange was interrupted by a lurch in the deck beneath them and a grating crunch, and they looked back to see a section of the deck collapse no more than ten feet away.
‘Not long now,’ said Cato.
The sailors calmly took their turn and the first boat turned back to the shore with those it had rescued. At last only Talbo and Cato remained.
‘After you.’ The sailor gestured towards the rope.
Cato shook his head. ‘You’re a big man. You’ll need more time. You first. Go.’
‘Calling me fat? Ah, shit, I was just getting to like you.’
Talbo heaved himself over the side and started to shimmy away, leaving Cato alone on the foredeck. Another wave struck, and the wreck shifted again, more noticeably this time, and a section of the deck split open. His judgement of the sailor was correct, and Cato had to restrain himself from shouting encouragement to the man to move faster. He was shivering violently now and the feeling had gone from his toes. He rubbed his hands together hard and clapped them to try and keep them from locking up.
At last Talbo reached the side of the boat, and the sailors hauled him in. At once Cato clambered over the rail, grasped the rope, swung his legs over it and pulled himself hand over hand along it. Each time the sea washed over what was left of the wreck, the rope jerked and he swayed over the rocks and then the surging foam of the sea. Dropping his head and glancing back, he saw that he was close to the boat and the sailors were urging him on with desperate gestures. At first he did not grasp their anxiety, then he looked up and saw that the last section of the bow was swaying from side to side. Suddenly the bow post gave a lurch and toppled, the rope slackened and he plunged down into the sea.
Once again he was violently seized by its icy grip, and this time he held his breath and clung to the rope rather than try to reach the surface. If he released it, he knew he might not have the strength to swim to safety. As he hung on, he felt a tug, and his body moved through the icy depths. Just as his lungs were starting to burn, he broke the surface a short distance from the boat, and then hands grasped him and pulled him over the side and dumped him unceremoniously into the well of the craft.
‘Cast us loose!’ Talbo roared. ‘Before the fucking wreck takes us down with it! Don’t untie it, you fool! Cut it! Out of my way.’
Cato looked up in a daze and saw the sailor against the failing light of day sawing at the rope with his knife. The hemp parted strand by strand and then the severed end flickered and was gone. Talbo sheathed his knife and gave the order to head for the shore. Then he picked up Cato’s sodden tunic and laid it over him as he lay shaking in the water slopping about the bottom of the boat.
‘Rest easy, Cato. Your job’s done, mate.’
Talbo patted him on the shoulder and then called the time for the men on the oars as the little craft rose and fell on the rough sea, lurching away from the danger of the rocks and making for safety. Cato felt a terrible weariness seep through his body and was tempted to close his eyes and drift off. But he feared that call to sleep. What if he never woke? Instead he propped himself up against the stern bench and hugged his knees as he shivered, teeth chattering.
At last his ears filled with the crash of waves on shingle and the boat lurched as it grounded, lifted again and then thudded home more solidly. The sailors shipped their oars and jumped over the side to draw the craft up the beach. Talbo leaned back in, offering a hand. Cato took it willingly and allowed himself to be helped out on to the pebbles. Dusk was gathering along the shore and the gloom was made worse by the snow, which was falling heavily now.
‘My boots,’ he said weakly, and the sailor reached in and handed them to him.
‘There you go, mate. I’ll see what I can do about a cloak for you, and some wine, food and a warm fire. Then I’ll get you back to your ship.’
As Cato nodded dumbly, the sound of footsteps racing over the shingle reached his ears.
‘Sir! Sir! Prefect Cato!’
He glanced up and saw Miro and several of his men rushing forward with excited and relieved expressions. One had already removed his cloak and now pressed it around Cato’s shoulders as Talbo looked on with raised eyebrows.
‘Prefect Cato? Well, I . . . I . . . Fuck me.’ Talbo laughed. ‘I thought you was a sailor. One of us. Never thought I’d have my life saved by a landsman. An officer at that.’
‘It takes all kinds, Talbo.’ Cato smiled thinly.
They clasped arms again and grinned with the delight and relief of men who had faced grave peril together and lived through it.
‘And as for that wine? Make it Falernian, and bring it to my tent. I’ll hold you to it.’
‘Aye, sir. That I will. On my word.’
There was a pause, and both men instinctively looked back towards the rocks. There was no longer any sign of the transport. The storm had destroyed it completely and swallowed the remains. Out in the white-capped waters of the bay, the battered survivors of the fleet were dropping anchor or being beached by their exhausted crews amid the wind and snow that was starting to settle on the surrounding landscape. Winter had finally arrived in earnest, Cato reflected grimly, and he wondered if their troubles were only just beginning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cato winced as the headquarters trumpets blared into the morning air and a moment later the first battery of bolt-throwers went into action. The usual crack of the throwing arms springing forward was reduced to a softer snap by the layer of snow that had blanketed the landscape during the night. Three inches or so, and it had drifted in front of the enemy palisade and against their shelters beyond. Puffs of white exploded where the iron-headed bolts smashed into the palisade timbers encrusted with frost and snow. At once the enemy warriors who had been lining the defences, shouting insults at the Romans, ducked out of sight. After the last of the bolts struck home there was a brief pause before the dark dots of their faces reappeared along the defences. The jeering began to start again, prematurely, as the second battery unleashed its missiles, concentrating on the same stretch of defences at the centre of the enemy line. As Cato watched, one of the defenders, bolder than his comrades, stood tall, waving his fists. An instant later a bolt struck him squarely in the chest and he was hurled back out of sight.
‘First blood to us,’ chuckled Legate Valens of the Fourteenth Legion as he stood at Cato’s side. ‘Those savages never seem to learn what modern weapons can do. Won’t be long before we knock their defences to pieces.’
Cato nodded. Over a hundred bolt-throwers and catapults had accompanied the army, and between them they would be more than enough to breach the enemy’s defences, as well as causing them heavy losses. However, the advantage would only lie with the Romans with respect to the defences on this side of the channel. The artillery would lack the range to attack the Druids’ defences lining the shore of Mona. He turned to gaze along the coast to where the four surviving warships were leading what was left of the transports towards the northern entrance of the channel between the mainland and Mona. The warships had a handful of artillery pieces with which to support the landing on the island, but Cato doubted they would be enough to turn the tide of battle. The assault troops would have to struggle ashore through the icy shallows before attacking the fortifications protecting the narrowest stretch of the channel. He could see that the rest of the shoreline facing the mainland was protected by lesser earthworks and lines of sharpened stakes. The only other option was the narrow, muddy causeway that was briefly explored at low tide. Even that was protected by a thick belt of sharpened stakes. It was going to be a bloody business.
Legate Quintatus and his senior officers were watching proceedings from a small hillock a short distance behind the men of the Fourteenth, who were still moving into position in preparation for the attack that would go in once a number of practicable breaches had been torn through the enemy’s palisade. On the flanks of the legion stood the four auxiliary cohorts chosen to support the assault, two of which were missile units comprised of archers and slingers from the Balearic islands. The Blood Crows were positioned on the right flank. Their horses were still in camp; the entire unit would be fighting on foot, together with the legionary cohort to which they had been attached since the beginning of the year. Such was the fear that the Blood Crows struck into enemy hearts that Quintatus had decided to have them join the assault.
Although there was no wind and the sea was calm, the leaden sky threatened more snow, and many of the Roman soldiers had chosen to wear their cloaks into action, knowing that they might have to wait a while before the order to advance was given. Those in the cohorts that had already formed up on the slope leading down to the enemy’s defences were stamping their feet and rubbing their hands in an attempt to stave off the cold. Their comrades in the Twentieth Legion and the remaining auxiliary cohorts were being held in reserve in the marching camp sprawling across the crest of the hill that overlooked the narrowest point of the channel. They still had the comfort of the fires burning inside the ramparts of the camp as they stood ready in case they were called on to fight.
It had been two days since the storm had passed, the following morning revealing the extent of the damage wreaked on the hapless fleet that had been sent to join Quintatus and his column. The shore had been strewn with wreckage and corpses for miles either side of the bay, and fully two thirds of the vessels and their crews had been lost. The bodies had been gathered up and cremated on pyres constructed from the shattered timbers of the ships before the army made its final advance to the hill overlooking the enemy’s positions either side of the channel. In that time Cato had recovered from the effects of the cold and exhaustion caused by his rescue of the sailors. They at least had been saved from the savage storm, and that was some small comfort to the prefect. Now he turned his attention to the pending assault and the wider situation as he continued the conversation he had been having with Legate Valens.
‘We’ll deal with their position on this side of the channel easily enough, sir, but getting across the water and taking the island itself is going to be a much tougher proposition. Either we try crossing at low tide through those obstacles, or we go straight across the water. Not easy given how few transports made it through the storm.’
Both men glanced at the vessels edging into the mouth of the channel, keeping as close to the mainland as they dared in case the enemy attempted anything with the scores of small craft they had beached along the shore of the island. Besides the warships, there were eight transports, each capable of carrying no more than fifty men.
