along the bank. Then a far-off glint caught his eye and Macro stared hard in that direction. He made out a faint shimmering glitter against the green and brown landscape, and a slight haze hanging in the air about it. That had to be the Third Cohort, still a good three miles from the ford.
Caratacus was going to reach the crossing first.
Lentulus was still in earshot and Macro gritted his teeth to avoid any explosive outpouring of expletives as he silently invoked every curse in his repertoire and directed it at the distant - too distant - column of the cohort crawling across the hot shimmering landscape towards the ford. He took a last longing look, and then trotted back down the slope towards the Tamesis.
As he approached the ford Macro slowed down to catch his breath. No sense in making the lads even more anxious, he decided. Best to try to keep a veneer of calmness and confidence.
‘That’s enough work!’ he called out to the men still embedding the stakes in the shingle.’Get back to the island and kit up! We’ve got company.’
The legionaries abandoned the remaining stakes and let them flow downriver with the current as they splashed along the safe path towards the gap in the barricade.
‘Don’t run!’ Macro bellowed angrily. ‘If anyone gets caught on one of the stakes I’ll leave them there for the Britons.’
With a great effort of will, bolstered by fear of their centurion’s wrath, the legionaries slowed down.
Macro followed them at a more measured pace, keeping a wary eye out for the tips of the stakes they had planted. Glancing ahead he could see more of his men forming up behind the barricade, hurriedly strapping on helmets and hefting their shields and javelins from where they had been left beside the worn and rutted track that crossed over the back of the little island. As Macro emerged dripping from the river, he glanced round at his men and then fixed his gaze on a tall, wiry legionary.
‘Fabius!’
‘Sir!’ The man snapped to attention as Macro strode up to him.
‘Get your armour off. I need a runner.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius quickly undid the leather ties of his segmented armour as Macro explained.
‘Centurion Maximius is approaching along the south bank. He’s nearly three miles away. You run to him as fast as you can. You tell him that Caratacus is making for this ford. Tell him to send a rider to the legate at once to let him know what’s happening. No, wait . . .’ Macro could visualise how that part of the message would be received by the touchy cohort commander. ‘Tell him, I respectfully suggest that he sends a rider to the legate. Finally, tell him that Caratacus is closer to the ford than he is and that he must get the cohort here as quick as possible. Quicker!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius grinned as he struggled out of the armour and laid it down on the track.
‘Well, what’re you waiting for?’ Macro growled. ‘Move yourself!’
Fabius turned and ran down to the river, plunging into the ford. Macro watched him for a moment before turning back to the rest of his men. Most had finished arming and stood ready for orders. He waited until the last man had tied his chinstraps; no easy feat under the impatient gaze of all his comrades and commanding officer. At last the legionary looked up with a guilty expression and pulled himself up into a stiff posture of readiness. Macro cleared his throat.
‘Stand to!’
The legionaries grounded their shields and spears and gathered in a compact line across the track and under the willows.
‘In less than an hour Caratacus and his army are going to come pouring down the track towards the ford. Right behind them should be General Plautius, with his sword right in their backside.’
A few of the men chuckled at the crude image and Macro indulged it a moment before continuing.
‘The rest of the cohort is on the way. I saw it from the top of the hill there. I’ve sent Fabius to hurry them along and they should reach us
Caratacus was going to reach the crossing first.
Lentulus was still in earshot and Macro gritted his teeth to avoid any explosive outpouring of expletives as he silently invoked every curse in his repertoire and directed it at the distant - too distant - column of the cohort crawling across the hot shimmering landscape towards the ford. He took a last longing look, and then trotted back down the slope towards the Tamesis.
As he approached the ford Macro slowed down to catch his breath. No sense in making the lads even more anxious, he decided. Best to try to keep a veneer of calmness and confidence.
‘That’s enough work!’ he called out to the men still embedding the stakes in the shingle.’Get back to the island and kit up! We’ve got company.’
The legionaries abandoned the remaining stakes and let them flow downriver with the current as they splashed along the safe path towards the gap in the barricade.
‘Don’t run!’ Macro bellowed angrily. ‘If anyone gets caught on one of the stakes I’ll leave them there for the Britons.’
With a great effort of will, bolstered by fear of their centurion’s wrath, the legionaries slowed down.
Macro followed them at a more measured pace, keeping a wary eye out for the tips of the stakes they had planted. Glancing ahead he could see more of his men forming up behind the barricade, hurriedly strapping on helmets and hefting their shields and javelins from where they had been left beside the worn and rutted track that crossed over the back of the little island. As Macro emerged dripping from the river, he glanced round at his men and then fixed his gaze on a tall, wiry legionary.
‘Fabius!’
‘Sir!’ The man snapped to attention as Macro strode up to him.
‘Get your armour off. I need a runner.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius quickly undid the leather ties of his segmented armour as Macro explained.
‘Centurion Maximius is approaching along the south bank. He’s nearly three miles away. You run to him as fast as you can. You tell him that Caratacus is making for this ford. Tell him to send a rider to the legate at once to let him know what’s happening. No, wait . . .’ Macro could visualise how that part of the message would be received by the touchy cohort commander. ‘Tell him, I respectfully suggest that he sends a rider to the legate. Finally, tell him that Caratacus is closer to the ford than he is and that he must get the cohort here as quick as possible. Quicker!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius grinned as he struggled out of the armour and laid it down on the track.
‘Well, what’re you waiting for?’ Macro growled. ‘Move yourself!’
Fabius turned and ran down to the river, plunging into the ford. Macro watched him for a moment before turning back to the rest of his men. Most had finished arming and stood ready for orders. He waited until the last man had tied his chinstraps; no easy feat under the impatient gaze of all his comrades and commanding officer. At last the legionary looked up with a guilty expression and pulled himself up into a stiff posture of readiness. Macro cleared his throat.
‘Stand to!’
The legionaries grounded their shields and spears and gathered in a compact line across the track and under the willows.
‘In less than an hour Caratacus and his army are going to come pouring down the track towards the ford. Right behind them should be General Plautius, with his sword right in their backside.’
A few of the men chuckled at the crude image and Macro indulged it a moment before continuing.
‘The rest of the cohort is on the way. I saw it from the top of the hill there. I’ve sent Fabius to hurry them along and they should reach us
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