before the enemy gives us much grief. Not that we’re going to need ‘em, of course! The Third Century can hold its own with the best of them. It’s only a few days that we’ve served together, but I’ve lived with the Eagles long enough to know quality when I see it. You’ll do. It’s those poor bastards on the other side I feel sorry for! They can only attack us on a narrow front, and only then after they’ve impaled themselves on our stakes and the barricade. If they’re really lucky, and I’m feeling generous, I might just spare them a little more bloodshed and accept Caratacus’ surrender.’
Macro smiled, and to his relief his men smiled back.
‘However, the Britons are a mad lot, and might not see sense. If they really want to cross the river, they will. We can only buy time. I’m not in the business of creating martyrs, so if we’ve done our bit and it looks like they’re going to break through I’ll give the order to fall back. If I do, I don’t want any heroics. You get over to our side of the ford as fast as you can, then you head downriver towards the cohort. Understand?’
Some of the men nodded.
‘I can’t fucking hear you!’ Macro shouted.
‘YES, SIR!’
‘That’s better. Now form up facing the river!’
His men turned round and shuffled forward until they lined the makeshift defences facing the north bank of the Tamesis. Macro ran his eyes over his small command in their tarnished armour and dusty and stained red tunics. The men were formed up in three lines that stretched along the length of the small island. Eighty men against twenty, maybe thirty thousand barbarians. Macro, like most soldiers, was a gambler, but never had he known such unfavourable odds. Despite his attempt to bolster the confidence of his men he knew that they were as good as dead. If only Maximius had arrived at the ford in time to defend it properly, things might have been different.
The afternoon dragged on. Macro allowed his men to sit on the ground. Now that all activity had ceased across the ford the scene looked quite idyllic. Macro smiled. Cato would have loved this; it would have touched the lad’s poetic sensibility. To Macro’s left the sun was long past its zenith and bathed the scene in an angled glare that intensified the colours of the landscape and flashed brilliantly off the surface of the river. But despite the serenity of nature, a tension stretched through the air like the torsion ropes of a catapult, and Macro was aware that his senses were straining to catch any sight or sound of the enemy.
Perhaps half an hour had passed when a small figure came pelting down the track towards the ford. Before Lentulus had reached the river’s edge a party of horsemen burst over the crest of the hill behind and charged down the near slope. Lentulus looked over his shoulder as he ran into the shallows.
‘Keep to your left!’ Macro shouted. ‘Keep to the left!’
If Lentulus heard him, he gave no sign of it, and plunged into the river. He charged headlong, kicking up sheets of spray, and then suddenly pitched forward with a shrill cry. A groan rippled through the men on the island as Lentulus struggled to his feet, blood gushing from his thigh. The legionary looked down at his injury in horror. Then the splashing of the enemy horsemen behind him made him glance back as he staggered towards his comrades. The Britons picked their way forward towards the legionary thrashing through the waist-deep water. Lentulus’ wound must have cut a major blood vessel, Macro realised, for he seemed quickly to become faint. Then slowly he collapsed to his knees, head bowed forward so that only his torso was above the water. The horsemen hung back, watching the Roman for a moment. Then they turned round carefully and returned to the far bank.
For a while both sides watched Lentulus in silence as his head rolled from side to side. A thin red slick flowed downstream from his body. At last he collapsed sideways, and
Macro smiled, and to his relief his men smiled back.
‘However, the Britons are a mad lot, and might not see sense. If they really want to cross the river, they will. We can only buy time. I’m not in the business of creating martyrs, so if we’ve done our bit and it looks like they’re going to break through I’ll give the order to fall back. If I do, I don’t want any heroics. You get over to our side of the ford as fast as you can, then you head downriver towards the cohort. Understand?’
Some of the men nodded.
‘I can’t fucking hear you!’ Macro shouted.
‘YES, SIR!’
‘That’s better. Now form up facing the river!’
His men turned round and shuffled forward until they lined the makeshift defences facing the north bank of the Tamesis. Macro ran his eyes over his small command in their tarnished armour and dusty and stained red tunics. The men were formed up in three lines that stretched along the length of the small island. Eighty men against twenty, maybe thirty thousand barbarians. Macro, like most soldiers, was a gambler, but never had he known such unfavourable odds. Despite his attempt to bolster the confidence of his men he knew that they were as good as dead. If only Maximius had arrived at the ford in time to defend it properly, things might have been different.
The afternoon dragged on. Macro allowed his men to sit on the ground. Now that all activity had ceased across the ford the scene looked quite idyllic. Macro smiled. Cato would have loved this; it would have touched the lad’s poetic sensibility. To Macro’s left the sun was long past its zenith and bathed the scene in an angled glare that intensified the colours of the landscape and flashed brilliantly off the surface of the river. But despite the serenity of nature, a tension stretched through the air like the torsion ropes of a catapult, and Macro was aware that his senses were straining to catch any sight or sound of the enemy.
Perhaps half an hour had passed when a small figure came pelting down the track towards the ford. Before Lentulus had reached the river’s edge a party of horsemen burst over the crest of the hill behind and charged down the near slope. Lentulus looked over his shoulder as he ran into the shallows.
‘Keep to your left!’ Macro shouted. ‘Keep to the left!’
If Lentulus heard him, he gave no sign of it, and plunged into the river. He charged headlong, kicking up sheets of spray, and then suddenly pitched forward with a shrill cry. A groan rippled through the men on the island as Lentulus struggled to his feet, blood gushing from his thigh. The legionary looked down at his injury in horror. Then the splashing of the enemy horsemen behind him made him glance back as he staggered towards his comrades. The Britons picked their way forward towards the legionary thrashing through the waist-deep water. Lentulus’ wound must have cut a major blood vessel, Macro realised, for he seemed quickly to become faint. Then slowly he collapsed to his knees, head bowed forward so that only his torso was above the water. The horsemen hung back, watching the Roman for a moment. Then they turned round carefully and returned to the far bank.
For a while both sides watched Lentulus in silence as his head rolled from side to side. A thin red slick flowed downstream from his body. At last he collapsed sideways, and
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