The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  The ranks quickly formed up into marching order, four abreast.

  ‘Column ready! . . . Forward march!’

  Even the rawest recruit amongst them had undergone enough drilling to respond instantly to the word of command and the column moved as one into the standard marching step. The noise of boots crunching on the chalky soil was softened by the damp air. With Cato at his side, Macro waited for the advance guard to pass before taking his place at the head of the main body. As they passed out of the depot gate, Cato twisted his head round and gazed up at the sentry walk, running his eyes along the dark outline of the palisade until he saw Lavinia. He quickly raised a hand so that she could pick him out, and his heart lifted when her arm rose in reply.

  ‘I take it you didn’t get much sleep then?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Cato turned back. ‘None at all.’

  ‘Good for you, lad!’ Macro nudged him, but Cato was past being offended by his centurion’s bluntness. ‘Feel better for it? I find a quick roll in the hay leaves me feeling fresh as a daisy.’

  ‘It wasn’t that quick, sir.’ Cato yawned before he could stop himself.

  ‘I see. Well, you’d better not drop off on the march. Do that and I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of the Britons.’

  The march back to the legion took them along the route by which the army had advanced only a few weeks before. The engineers had been very busy in the meantime. The land on each side of the track had been cleared of undergrowth and any possible concealment for enemy forces, and the brow of every hill and every ford was now protected by a small fort manned by auxiliaries. The column of replacements overtook heavy supply wagons hauling food and equipment up to the legions. In the opposite direction trundled empty wagons returning from the front, heading for the depot to load up for the next round trip. It was part of the relentless Roman efficiency that would ensure that the advance on Camulodunum would take place with its legions properly armed and well-fed.

  When they next took to the field, the legions would be led by the Emperor in person, accompanied by his elite Praetorian cohorts and the vast lumbering elephants that would be driven into the enemy ranks and trample huge swathes through their lines. Cato could almost bring himself to feel sorry for the natives. But not quite. Not after the dread and despair of the recent battles. What he wanted now was a swift end to the campaign. A single crushing blow that would utterly break the will of the Britons to resist the inevitable. If Caratacus and his army could be comprehensively crushed, surely the other tribes would realise there was no point in any further resistance. The island would become a province one day, there was no doubt of that. Not now the Emperor was here. No matter how many legions, or elephants, it took, the Britons would be forced to their knees. Cato promised himself, when it was all over, he would find a way to be with Lavinia again.

  Each evening, when the last light of day had all but gone, Macro halted his column in the temporary marching camps attached to the forts. Before first light he roused his men and the column marched on well before the sun had raised its head above the distant horizon. The hard pace was as much a test of his new men as it was a result of his desire to get back to his legion. It was gratifying to him that not one of the men he had chosen for his century fell out of line and joined the ragged column of stragglers destined for the other legions. Only a handful of those picked for the Second failed to keep the pace he set. Vespasian would be pleased with his replacements. With such men in his legion the Second would win a fine reputation in the rest of the campaign. And Vespasian, Macro knew, was not a man who forgot those who served him well.

  It felt strange to retrace a route so recently taken at such a cost in lives. Here was the forest track where the Second had been ambushed by Togodumnus and would have been crushed, had it not been for the timely intervention of the Fourteenth Legion. Macro could even see the oak tree on the distant hill where he had killed Togodumnus in single combat as the British chieftain fled towards the marshes with his men.

  The following day they marched across a pontoon bridge over the Mead Way where, only weeks before, their comrades had withered under such a hail of arrow and slingshot that the smooth flowing water was stained red. The route then turned north and passed over a gentle ridge and down towards the Tamesis, through the gorse-choked marsh to the fortress on the south bank, where they waited for transports to ferry them across to the main body of the army. The bridge was nearly finished and the engineers were being driven hard to complete it in time for the Emperor to lead the eagle standards and his reinforcements over into enemy territory.

  The column of replacements waited wearily while the transports shuttled back and forth across the Tamesis. At last it was the turn of the Second’s replacements to cross. On landing, Macro dismissed his century and led the rest of his column up to the Second’s headquarters to parade them on the wide avenue opposite the main entrance. Inside the clerical tent he handed over the roster, after having marked off the names of those men he had chosen for his century.

  ‘Looks like you’ve picked only the best for us, Centurion.’

  Macro turned and quickly stood to attention at the sight of his legate.

  ‘Yes, sir. The best.’

  ‘Well done.’ Vespasian pulled on his helmet with its bright red crest. ‘Now I’ll introduce myself to them officially.’

  Cato, meanwhile, took his kit to the section tent and then went in search of Nisus, determined to get to the bottom of the surgeon’s cold formality towards him. Cato had not yet reached the age where the opinion of others was no longer the critical issue of his social relations. More than anything he strove to be worthy of respect, and at the least he wanted an explanation from Nisus for the sudden withdrawal of his friendship.

  But Nisus was not in the field hospital, not in his tent, not sitting down by the jetty. Eventually Cato went back to the field hospital and asked one of the orderlies where Nisus might be found.

  ‘Nisus?’ The orderly’s eyebrows rose.

  Cato nodded and a flash of recognition lightened the orderly’s face.

  ‘You’re that mate of his, aren’t you? I’m surprised you don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know?’ Cato felt his blood run cold. ‘I’ve been out of the camp. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nisus has gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Disappeared. Two days ago. Just walked out of the camp to go fishing, and never came back.’

  ‘Who saw him last?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ The orderly shrugged. ‘He was supposed to meet someone by the river and never showed up. That’s how it got reported.’

  ‘Who was he supposed to meet?’

  ‘A tribune. The resident broad-striper.’

  Vitellius. Cato nodded slowly.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  _______________

  It was noon before Vespasian reached the last of the fortified outposts ringing the main camp. He had not given any warning of the inspection, wanting to catch each garrison at its habitual level of operational readiness rather than presenting a show for the visit of a high-ranking officer. Vespasian was gratified to see that he was challenged as he rode up towards each fort, and that admission was steadfastly refused unless the correct password was given. Beyond the gates most of the fortlets were well ordered, with infantry weapons close to hand and an adequate supply of ammunition on the bolt-thrower platforms.

  The last fort was no exception, and as Vespasian and his mounted escort trotted through the gate he was immediately confronted with a line of legionaries standing to across the entrance. Their optio gave the order for the gate to be closed the moment the last of the legate’s escorts had passed inside.

  ‘What’s this, Cato?’ Vespasian waved his hand at the legionaries as he dismounted. ‘An honour guard?’

  ‘A precaution, sir.’ Cato saluted. ‘The gate is always the weakest point of a defence.’

  ‘Archimedes?’

  ‘Yes, sir. From his treatise on sieg
e warfare.’

  ‘Well, he’s right, and you do well to pay heed to him. What’s your strength?’

  ‘Forty men, sir. And forty in the other half of the century in the next outpost with Centurion Macro.’

  ‘So, you’re up to full strength once again, with the cream of the crop. I’ll be expecting nothing but the best from the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort from now on. See to it that I’m not disappointed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right then, let’s have a look round.’

  Vespasian strode off to begin his inspection, with the anxious optio following in his wake. The tents were scrutinised for any signs of slack guy ropes, leaking seams and untidy stowage of bedding. The latrine was examined to ensure that it had not reached the level where it must be filled in and a new one dug. Then Vespasian climbed up onto the turf ramp and began a tour of the palisade. At the artillery platform he carefully examined the winding mechanisms to ensure that they were adequately greased, and nodded approvingly at the scent of linseed oil on the torsion springs. He was experimenting with the elevating gear when there was a shout from the watchtower.

  ‘Enemy in sight!’

  The legate and the optio quickly glanced up at the stark silhouette of the sentry on the trestle platform high above them.

  ‘What direction and what force?’ Cato snapped.

  ‘To the west, sir! Maybe two miles away.’ The sentry pointed with his javelin. ‘Small group of horsemen, maybe fifteen or twenty. Heading this way.’

  ‘Come on!’ Vespasian led the way up the rough wooden ladder of the watchtower. He emerged through the opening on the platform and stepped over to the side of the sentry as Cato scrambled up behind him.

  ‘Over there, sir.’ The sentry pointed again and beyond the tip of the javelin lay a distant hill. Vespasian could make out the tiny shapes of horses galloping ahead of a thin smudge of brown from the dust kicked up by their hooves. The land stretching out from the fortlet was mostly grass, mixed with random copses of oak, but the horsemen made no attempt to conceal their approach and pounded directly towards the fortlet.

  ‘I hardly think they mean to attack us,’ muttered Vespasian.

  ‘Nevertheless, sir, I think we should stand the men to,’ said Cato.

  ‘Very well.’

  Cato bellowed the order and the half-century snatched up their weapons and manned the wall. The legate continued to watch the approaching horsemen. They were closing rapidly and he could see now that there were two groups. A cluster of three was leading the way, and from the frequent glances back over their shoulders it was evident that they were being pursued by the others. The shrill cries of the pursuers were faintly audible now.

  ‘Load the bolt-thrower!’ Cato called down to the palisade. The artillery crew strained on the winch sheers, and the clank of the ratchet competed with the excited hubbub of the soldiers watching the chase. The men’s mood was understandable, but not tolerable and Vespasian raised an eyebrow at the optio. Cato leaned over the rail.

  ‘Silence there! Next man who opens his mouth is on a charge!’

  The horsemen were barely a quarter of a mile away now and Vespasian could make out the purple cloaks and long hair whipping out behind the three being pursued. The gap between the two groups had narrowed to a few score yards and the men behind howled their triumph as they chased down their prey, swooping for the kill with their narrow-bladed cavalry spears. The man nearest the fortlet suddenly looked up and waved at the Romans.

  Vespasian started. ‘It’s Adminius! Open the gate, Optio! Quickly, man!’

  The section on the gate removed the bar and pulled the gate inwards. Cato ordered the bolt-thrower crew to make ready to fire.

  ‘Aim for the second group, and fire the instant the first lot are clear!’

  As the horsemen galloped up towards the fortlet, barely fifty feet separated the two groups. Adminius and his bodyguards slewed round in an arc and approached the open gate from the side, clearing the way for the artillery crew. A legionary flipped the firing lever and the bolt-thrower discharged its missile with a loud crack. There was a sharp thwack as the bolt struck one of the British cavalrymen just below the throat, passed clean through him, and buried itself in the shaggy forehead of the horse immediately behind. Beast and rider fell in a sprawling, kicking mass, right in the path of the horsemen behind. Only a handful managed to ride on and keep up with their quarry. As they caught sight of the gateway, the leading Briton realised he had lost the race, and hurled his spear after Adminius and his men. The dark shape curved through the air and struck the rearmost man squarely between the shoulders and he toppled to one side as Adminius spurred his beast inside the fortlet.

  The section on the gate ran into the opening and presented their shields and javelins to the Britons chasing Adminius. At sight of the legionaries, the horsemen drew up, savage expressions of rage and frustration etched on their features.

  ‘Get ’em!’ Cato shouted from the watchtower. ‘Use your javelins!’

  The section responded at once and moments later two more men and their horses were down, thrashing about in the dirt track in front of the gate. The others turned and galloped off, leaning low across the necks of their beasts in case any more javelins came after them.

  Cato followed the legate down the ladder and the two of them ran over to the gate where Adminius had dropped from his mount and lay on his back, gasping for breath, eyes clenched shut in pain. There was a large tear in the side of his tunic, which was drenched with blood.

  ‘He’s wounded.’ Vespasian turned towards his escort to shout an order for a surgeon to be brought up from the main camp immediately. Adminius’ eyes snapped open at the sound of the legate’s voice and he struggled to raise himself up on one elbow.

  ‘Easy there! Rest yourself. I’ve sent for a surgeon.’ Vespasian knelt down beside Adminius. ‘I see the negotiations with the tribes didn’t go so well this time.’

  Adminius grinned weakly, his face white from loss of blood. He reached up and clenched his fist on the clasp holding the legate’s cloak. Cato started forward but was waved back.

  ‘S-something I have to tell you!’ Adminius whispered anxiously. ‘A warning.’

  ‘Warning?’

  ‘There’s a plot to kill your Emperor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know the full details . . . Only heard a rumour at the last gathering of tribal representatives.’

  ‘What rumour? Tell me.’

  ‘I was in disguise . . . because Caratacus was there, trying to get the others to join his fight against Rome . . . One of his advisers was drunk . . . started to brag that the invaders would soon leave the island . . . that a war amongst the Romans would start the moment the Emperor was killed. The man told me that it would be a Briton who would strike the blow . . . and that the assassin will be provided with the means by a Roman.’

  ‘A Roman?’ Vespasian could not hide his shock. ‘Did this adviser of Caratacus give any names?’

  Adminius shook his head. ‘He was stopped before he could. Caratacus called him away.’

  ‘Does Caratacus know what the man revealed?’

  Adminius shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Those men chasing you – might they have been sent after you?’

  ‘No. We ran into them. They weren’t following us.’

  ‘I see.’ Vespasian thought for a moment, then turned to Cato. ‘You heard all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will not reveal one word of what Adminius has said. Not one word unless I give you express permission. Not to anyone. Understand?’

  Vespasian and his escort returned to the main camp late in the afternoon. The legate dismissed his men and made straight for General Plautius’ headquarters. Vespasian’s creased brow was eloquent expression of his unease as he strode down the lines of tents. The rumour Adminius had spoken of might be no more than drunken bravado by one of Caratacus’ followers anxious to be thought of as a
man in the know, but the threat could not be ignored given the large quantity of Roman arms being found in the hands of the natives. The whole thing smacked of a grand conspiracy. Was it possible that the Liberators’ network reached as far as Britain? If so, then they were truly a force to be reckoned with. If Adminius’ information was well-founded, then there was a traitor in the army.

  Vespasian’s first thought was Vitellius. But would the tribune take such a terrible risk with his life? Vespasian wished he knew the man well enough to make that judgement. Was Vitellius so arrogant and imprudent as to make yet another direct attempt to further his lofty political ambitions? Surely he had more sense than that.

  On the other hand the assassin’s Roman contact might not be in the army at all. There was already a large number of civilians following in the wake of the army; slave agents from Rome looking for bargains, wine merchants anxious to supply the legions, land agents mapping the best of the farmland for quick purchase from the Emperor, and all manner of camp followers and traders now that the army had firmly established itself as far as the Tamesis. Perhaps the traitor was among the imperial entourage itself. Certainly such a person would be well-placed to assist an assassin. This possibility made Vespasian’s heart sink like a rock, and he suddenly felt very weary and utterly depressed.

  Flavia was in the imperial entourage.

  All the dreadful uncertainty about the woman he wanted to love unreservedly tortured him anew. How could she? How could she risk so much? Not just for herself, but for him and their son, Titus. How could she put them all in such danger? But, he told himself, Flavia might be innocent. It might be an altogether different person who was the traitor. In all likelihood it was.

  Whatever the truth, if indeed there was a plot to kill the Emperor, then General Plautius must be informed at once. Regardless of the risk to Flavia.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  _______________

  The general was just leaving his headquarters tent when Vespasian arrived. Aulus Plautius was wearing his full ceremonial armour and the afternoon sun was brilliantly reflected in the fine cuirass and gilded helmet. Around him his senior officers gathered in equally gaudy attire. A string of neatly groomed horses was being led up the slope to where they waited outside the general’s headquarters.