The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato nodded. Sleeping on sentry duty, like so many other active-service offences, carried the death penalty. The execution had to be performed by the comrades of the guilty man.

  ‘Right then, if anyone needs me I’ll be in the centurion’s mess tent.’

  Cato watched him disappear into the gloom with a sprightly step, The centurions had managed to wangle a number of wine amphorae out of one of the transport ship captains. The consignment had been intended for a tribune of the Fourteenth, but the man had drowned one night when he had decided to go for a swim after far too much Falernian, and his new supply was snapped up before the slow-witted captain thought to return the cargo to its sender. Long before the Gaulish wine merchant received word that his customer was well past paying the bill, the wine would have been guzzled.

  Left on his own, Cato hurried through the day’s administration without any interruption and tidied the scrolls away. This was his chance for some peace and quiet. Much as he admired and liked his centurion, Macro was annoyingly sociable and insisted on conversation at the most inconvenient moments. So much so that Cato often found himself grinding his teeth in frustration while Macro prattled on in his soldierly manner.

  Cato was painfully aware of how difficult it was for him to make small talk with his military comrades, even now after several months in the army. The easy masculine jocularity of the legionaries irritated him terribly. Crude, obvious and embarrassing, it was second nature to them, but he found it difficult to join in, not least because he feared that any attempt he made at the appropriate argot would be seen through in an instant. There was nothing worse, he reflected, than being caught out in a patronising attempt at slumming it with the common soldiery.

  Cato occasionally tried to steer his conversation with Macro round to more stimulating matters. But the blank and sometimes annoyed expression that greeted his efforts quickly stilled his tongue. What Macro might lack in sophistication he made up for with generosity of spirit, courage, honesty and moral integrity, but right now Cato just wanted someone to talk to – someone like Nisus. He had enjoyed their fishing expedition, and had hoped to cultivate a real friendship with the Carthaginian. The surgeon’s quiet sensitivity was a balm to the raw emotions grating inside him. But Nisus had been driven away by the blunt hostility of Macro. Worse, he seemed to be falling under the spell of Tribune Vitellius. So who could he unburden his feelings to now?

  Cato wondered if the answer was to keep a diary and commit his troubles to paper. Better still, he would write to Lavinia and make the most of the tortured poet-philosopher role he had been using to impress her. As real as the traumatic experiences of battle had been for him, he was also analytical and intelligent enough to see them as being in some way instructive. They would confer on him a sense of enigmatic world-weariness that was sure to impress Lavinia.

  Carefully spreading out a blank scroll with his forearm, Cato dipped his pen into the inkpot, wiped off the excess ink and placed the tip on the plain surface of the scroll. There was light enough to write by for a while yet before he would have to resort to the dull glow of the oil lamp, and he took time to order his thoughts carefully. The pen made contact with the scroll, and neatly scratched out the formal greeting:

  From Quintus Licinius Cato to Flavia Lavinia greetings.

  The pen paused interminably as Cato faced the familiar challenge of the first sentence. He frowned with the effort of producing an opening line that would be impressive without being unnecessarily florid. A flip sentence would put Lavinia in the wrong frame of mind for what would follow. Conversely, an overly serious tone at the outset might be off-putting. He slapped the side of his head.

  ‘Come on! Think!’

  He glanced up to make sure he hadn’t been overheard, and coloured as he met the twinkling eye of a passing legionary. Cato nodded back and smiled self-consciously before he charged the pen with ink and wrote the first sentence.

  My darling, scarcely a spare moment goes by when I do not think of you.

  Not bad, he reflected, and true in word, if not wholly in spirit. In the few moments when his life was not busy with some duty or other, he did indeed think of Lavinia. Especially that one time they had made love in Gesoriacum shortly before she had left for Rome with her mistress, Flavia.

  He bent his head and continued. This time inspiration came easily, and his pen hurriedly scratched out the words that poured from his heart, flying back and forth between the inkpot and the scroll. He told Lavinia of the very personal way in which he loved her, of the passion that burned in his loins at the very thought of her, and of how every day marked one less before the next time they would be in each other’s arms.

  Cato paused to read over his work, grimacing here and there as his eyes froze on the odd glib phrase, cliché or clumsy expression. But overall he was pleased with the effect. Now he wanted to tell her his news. What he had been doing since they had parted. He wanted to unburden himself of all the terrible things he felt compelled to remember but could never make sense of. The guilt at the recall of a killing thrust, the stench of a battlefield two days later, the foul oily smoke of the funeral pyres blotting out the sun and choking the lungs of those caught downwind. The way blood and intestines glistened as they were spilled on a bright summer day.

  Most of all he wanted to confess to the bowel-clenching terror he had felt as the transport had approached the screaming ranks of the Britons on the far side of the Tamesis. He wanted to tell someone how close he had come to cowering down in the scuppers and screaming out his refusal to take any more.

  But just as he feared that his comrades would react with disgust and pity at his weakness, so he feared that Lavinia, too, would consider him less than a man. And conscious of his youth and lack of worldliness compared to the other men of the legion, he feared that she would despise him as a frightened little boy.

  Dusk dimmed into night, lit only by the thin crescent of a waning moon, and finally Cato decided that he could not tell Lavinia any more than a bald outline of the battles he had fought in. He lit the lamp, and by its guttering glow he leaned over the scroll and briskly and simply described the progress of the campaign so far. He had nearly finished by the time Macro rolled in from the centurions’ mess, swearing loudly as he stubbed his toe against a tent peg.

  ‘Who the fuck put that there?’ His anger only made his speech more slurred. He stumbled past Cato into the tent and collapsed heavily onto his camp bed, which in turn collapsed with a splintering crack. Cato raised his eyes and shook his head before wiping his pen and clearing his writing materials away.

  ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘I’m far from all right! Bloody crap bed’s croaked on me,’ the centurion mumbled bitterly. ‘Now fuck off and leave me alone.’

  ‘Right you are, sir. Fuck off it is.’ Cato smiled as he rose and ducked his head under the fringe of the awning. ‘See you in the morning, sir.’

  ‘In the morning, why not?’ Macro replied absently as he struggled with his tunic, and then decided to give up, slumping down on the ruins of his camp bed. Then he lurched up on an elbow.

  ‘Cato!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ve orders to see the legate first thing tomorrow. Don’t you go and forget, lad!’

  ‘The legate?’

  ‘Yes, the bloody legate. Now piss off and let me get some sleep.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

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  The first hour watch sounded from the general’s headquarters, followed at once by the calls from the other three legions camped on the north bank of the Tamesis, and an instant later from the legion still on the south bank. Although General Plautius was with the larger force, coordinating the preparations for the next phase of the advance, the eagles of all four legions were still housed in a headquarters area constructed on the other side of the river, so officially the army had not yet crossed the Tamesis. That triumph would be accorded to Claudius. Emperor and eagles would cross the Tamesis together. It wo
uld be a magnificent spectacle, Vespasian had no doubt of that. The greatest possible political advantage would be wrung out of the advance to the enemy capital at Camulodunum. The Emperor and his entourage, dressed in dazzling ceremonial armour, would lead the procession, and somewhere in the long train of his followers would be Flavia.

  Flavia, like all those close to the Emperor, would be carefully watched by the imperial agents; all those she spoke to and every overheard conversation would be dutifully noted and forwarded to Narcissus. Vespasian wondered whether the Emperor’s most trusted freedman would be accompanying his master on the campaign. It depended on how much faith Claudius had in his wife and in the prefect of the Praetorian Guard commanding the cohorts left in Rome. Vespasian had met Messalina only once, at a palace banquet. But once was enough to know that a needle-sharp mind contemplated the world from behind the dazzling mask of her beauty. Her eyes, heavily made up in the Egyptian style, had burned right through him, and Vespasian had only just managed to prevent himself from shifting his gaze. Messalina had smiled her approval at his temerity as she held out her hand to be kissed. ‘You ought to watch this one, Flavia,’ she had said. ‘Any man who so easily withstands the gaze of the Emperor’s wife is a man who would be capable of anything.’ Flavia had forced a thin-lipped smile, and quickly led her husband away.

  It was ironic, thought Vespasian as he recalled the event, that it was him rather than Flavia who had been singled out as the potential conspirator, however lightly. Flavia had seemed to be the loyal wife and model citizen in every respect, and had never given him cause to fear that she might become involved in anything more perilous than a trip to the public baths.

  Looking back, the small social lunches she had given or been invited to without his presence now looked positively sinister, especially as a number of those with whom she had dined had subsequently been condemned following investigation by Narcissus’ network of spies. Vespasian still did not know how deep her involvement was with those who were plotting against Claudius. Until he confronted her, he could not be sure. Even then, supposing she was half the cold-blooded traitor that Vitellius claimed, how would he know if her version of events was truthful? The possibility that Flavia would lie, and he would not be able to recognise the lie, filled him with a terrible sense of self-doubt.

  The tramp of feet on the boards outside his office tent caught his ear and he quickly grabbed the nearest scroll and concentrated his gaze on it: a request for extra hospital capacity from the legion’s senior surgeon.

  A hushed exchange of words took place before the sentry barked out: ‘Wait here!’

  The flap parted and a shaft of daylight slanted across the desktop, causing Vespasian to squint as he looked up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, Centurion Macro and his optio to see you. Says he was ordered to be here by the first hour signal.’

  ‘Well, then he’s late,’ Vespasian grumbled. ‘Get them in here.’

  The sentry ducked out and stepped to one side, holding back the tent flap. ‘All right, sir. The legate’ll see you now.’

  Two shapes stepped into the shaft of light and marched up to his desk, then stamped their feet down and stood to attention.

  ‘Centurion Macro and Optio Cato reporting as ordered, sir.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro briefly thought about apologising, but kept his silence. No apology was acceptable in the army. One either did as one was ordered or one didn’t and there were no excuses.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why are you late, Centurion? The first hour was sounded a short while ago.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vespasian knew when he was being stonewalled. As his vision readjusted to the dim light of the tent’s interior he saw that the centurion was heavy-eyed and looked tired. In view of the man’s record, he decided an unofficial warning would suffice. ‘Very well, Centurion, but if you let it happen again there will be consequences.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if I ever hear that you’ve been letting drink get in the way of duty I swear I will have you returned to the ranks. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied with an emphatic nod.

  ‘Right then, gentlemen, I’ve got some work for you. Nothing too dangerous but important nonetheless, and it won’t get in the way of the optio’s recuperation.’ Vespasian searched through some documents on one side of the desk and carefully extracted a small sheet with a seal in one corner. ‘Here’s your warrant. You will take your century back to Rutupiae. There you’ll meet the replacements from the Eighth. I want you to take the pick of the crop for the Second. Get ’em signed on to our strength right away and the other legions can have the rest. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And if you’re quick, you can load your men onto one of the transports taking the wounded down the coast. Dismissed.’

  Alone in his tent once more, Vespasian’s mind switched to another matter that had been causing him anxiety. Earlier in the day he and the other legion commanders had been summoned by General Plautius to be briefed on the latest attempts to negotiate with the British tribes. The news from Adminius was not good. The failure of the Roman army to advance any further towards Caratacus’ capital had alarmed the tribes who had promised themselves to Rome. They had been led to understand that the confederation headed by the Catuvellauni would be knocked out of the war in a matter of weeks. Instead, the Romans were hiding within the ramparts of their fortifications while Caratacus quickly rebuilt his army. Dire threats had been issued by the Catuvellauni against tribes who were slow to join those already resisting Rome. Plautius had countered by issuing his own threats, via Adminius, about the consequences of reneging on the putative deals these tribes had struck with Rome.

  Adminius reported that the tribes had now come up with a compromise. If Camulodunum fell to the legions before the end of the campaigning season they would honour their earlier promise to make peace with Rome. But if Caratacus was still in control of his capital they would feel obliged to join the confederation of tribes sworn to destroy Plautius and his army. Thus reinforced, Caratacus’ army would vastly outnumber Plautius’. Defeat, if not retreat, would be inevitable, and the eagles would be hurled back from British shores.

  Once more Vespasian cursed the enforced delay while the army waited for Claudius and his court to appear. Four weeks had already passed and Plautius said that it could be another month before they advanced on Camulodunum. It would be September at the earliest when the eagles arrived before the capital – assuming that Caratacus and his new army could be brushed aside easily. All because the Emperor insisted on being there for the advance.

  The vanity of Claudius might yet kill them all.

  Down at the river, the remains of the Sixth Century waited patiently for the loading of the injured to be completed. The legion’s medical orderlies were carefully carrying the severely injured up the boarding ramps of the transports and laying the stretchers down under the awnings stretched across the decks. It was a depressing business to watch. These were the men who would be given medical discharges from the army and sent back to their homes with missing limbs or shattered bones that would never fully mend. These men were comrades, and some were good friends, but the men of Macro’s century kept their silence, uncomfortable with their knowledge of the dismal future awaiting the invalids. Many were still in pain and cried out at any jarring movement.

  Cato walked down the makeshift jetty looking for Nisus, hoping that it might be possible to renew their friendship in some way. The Carthaginian was easy enough to find. He was standing on top of a pile of grain sacks, bellowing out instructions and curses to his orderlies as they struggled to load the stretchers aboard the transports. As Cato approached, Nisus nodded curtly.

  ‘Good morning, Optio. What can I do for you?’

  Cato had been about to clamber up and join him, but his cold tone warned him off.

  ‘
Well, Optio?’

  ‘Nisus, I . . . I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Well, you’ve said it. Now, is there anything else?’

  Cato stared at him, frowning, and then shook his head.

  ‘Then if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do . . . You do that again and I’ll kick your bloody Roman arses into the river!’ he bellowed at a pair of orderlies whose struggles with an overweight casualty had caused the raw stump of his leg to knock against the side of the transport. The man was screaming with pain.

  Cato waited a moment longer, hoping for some glimmer of change in the Carthaginian’s mood, but Nisus was making it quite clear that he had nothing more to say to him. Cato turned sadly away and returned to the century. He sat down some distance from Macro and just stared at the river.

  Eventually the last of the wounded were loaded and the transport’s captain beckoned to Macro.

  ‘Time to move, lads! Let’s be having you!’

  The century filed across the boarding plank and dropped heavily onto the deck where they were guided forward. Macro gave the men permission to down packs and remove their armour. The sailors fended the transport away from the river bank, idly watched by some of the legionaries. Most of the century stretched out on the deck and dozed in the warm sun.

  As Cato looked across the slowly widening gap between the transport and the shore, he saw Nisus leading his orderlies back up the slope towards the hospital tents. Casually striding down in the opposite direction came Tribune Vitellius. He caught sight of Nisus and with a broad smile raised his hand in greeting.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

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  Although only two months had passed since the Second Legion had landed at Rutupiae, the hurriedly constructed fort guarding the landing beach had been transformed into a vast supply depot. Scores of ships were anchored in the Channel waiting for their turn at the jetty to unload their cargoes. Over a dozen vessels were tied up alongside, and hundreds of auxiliary troops were carrying sacks and amphorae from the deep holds of the broad-beamed cargo ships to stack them on carts for bulk transport into the depot.