The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Ah! There you are, Vespasian. I trust your day went well?’

  ‘Sir, I have to tell you something. In private.’

  ‘In private?’ Plautius looked irritated. ‘Then it’ll have to wait.’

  ‘But, sir, it’s vital I tell you what I know straightaway.’

  ‘Look, we can’t delay any longer. The Emperor and the reinforcements are just beyond that ridge on the far side of the river. He has to be met with the full formalities as he enters the southern camp. Now go and get your ceremonials on. Then join me as fast as you can on the other side of the river.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘Vespasian, you have your orders. Kindly carry them out.’

  The horses had reached the headquarters tent and without another word or glance at Vespasian, Aulus Plautius hoisted himself onto a glossy black mare and pulled the reins to turn the horse in the direction of the newly completed bridge. After a sharp kick of his booted heels the beast lurched forward into a canter and the rest of the staff scrambled onto their mounts and hurried to catch up. Vespasian watched them go, arm raised to protect his mouth from the dust churning through the air. Then he slapped his thigh angrily and marched back towards his legion.

  Claudius and his reinforcements would have arrived in the camp on the south bank just before dusk, but for Narcissus. In the event, the column was halted on the far side of the ridge while the freedman went on ahead in his litter to make the appropriate arrangements for a dramatic entry. The litter drew up in front of the assembled ranks of officers and they waited in hushed anticipation for the occupant to emerge. With painstaking exactness the bearers lowered the litter to the ground, and a pair of footmen hurried to the silk curtains and drew them back. The plumes of the officers’ helmets tilted as they craned their necks to get a good view of the litter, fully expecting the Emperor to emerge in some strange twist of protocol. There was an audible sigh of disappointment as Narcissus stepped out of the litter, rose to his feet and greeted the general.

  ‘Aulus Plautius! Nice little camp site you’ve got here.’ Narcissus paused to examine the scarlet cloaks and polished breastplates massed before him. ‘Hello, gentlemen, I’m most touched by this welcome. You really shouldn’t have.’

  Aulus Plautius ground his teeth in an effort to control his temper. He stood silently as the freedman stepped up to him with a broad smile and pumped his hand.

  ‘Now then, let’s not hang about any longer. We need to get on and make preparations for the arrival of the Emperor. Have your staff officers stay to help with the organisation. The rest of these chaps can go and wait wherever it is you soldiers go between battles.’

  While the officers milled about impatiently in the overcrowded officers’ mess tent, Narcissus quickly issued instructions that sent legionaries scurrying around the camp to assemble the materials necessary to achieve the theatrical effect that the Emperor’s chief secretary wanted. Vespasian, bathed, scented and clad in ceremonial finery, managed to join the officers reassembled outside the headquarters just as proceedings began.

  Long after the last rays of the sun had been blotted out by night, a strident blaring of trumpets at the main gate announced the arrival of Claudius. The avenue from the main gate to the wooden praetorium was lined with legionaries holding blazing torches aloft. By the light of the orange and gold flames the senior cohort of the Praetorian Guard marched into the camp. The spotless white of their uniforms and shields engendered a certain amount of quiet resentment in the men who had had to fight their way to the Tamesis. More cohorts followed and formed up on the parade ground in front of the Praetorium. Next came a score of young boys in purple tunics, carrying gilded wicker baskets, who showered flower petals along the route. Finally, another blast from the trumpets split the night air, this time accompanied by a different kind of trumpeting, which few men in the invading army had ever heard before.

  Lumbering into view down the avenue of flickering torches came the elephants, with the Emperor himself riding the first in the line. Right on cue the legionaries along the route began to shout out ‘Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!’ the traditional acclamation for a beloved and respected commander. Claudius sat behind an elephant driver on an elaborate throne specially made to be carried on the back of an elephant. Without inclining or turning his head, the Emperor waved one hand in acknowledgement. He wore a magnificent silver cuirass studded with jewels that gleamed like eyes of red and green in the torchlight. Flowing around him was a cloak of imperial purple. On his brow he wore a golden wreath whose lustre reflected the flickering glow.

  Magnificent as the spectacle was, the principal member of the cast would have benefited from a dress rehearsal. The unusual rolling motion of riding an elephant is uneasy on the stomach of someone new to elephants and the motion necessitated frequent adjustments to the wreath to keep it at an aesthetically pleasing angle. Otherwise, judged Vespasian, Claudius was making a decent enough fist of it.

  The elephant driver halted the Emperor’s beast and urged it down with a set sequence of kicks and orders. The front knees gracefully buckled and the Emperor, still waving nonchalantly to his cheering troops, was almost pitched out of his throne and only avoided this indignity by throwing himself backward and grabbing the arms. Even so the imperial wreath was dislodged. It bounced down the flank of the elephant and would have landed on the ground had not Narcissus leaped forward and fielded it with a neat one-handed catch. The beast lowered its rear and the Emperor pulled a hidden lever to release the side of the throne, which folded out to provide a nicely angled series of steps down to the ground.

  ‘Ohh! Very neat!’ Vitellius marvelled, standing in his place next to Vespasian.

  The Emperor descended, replaced the wreath discreetly returned to him by Narcissus, and limped forward to greet the general of his army.

  ‘My dear Aulus Plautius. It d-d-does my heart good to s-see you again!’

  ‘The pleasure and honour is all mine, Caesar,’ uttered Plautius and bowed his head.

  ‘Yes, m-most kind of you, I m-m-must say.’

  ‘I trust Caesar’s journey was comfortable?’

  ‘No. N-not really. Bit of a s-storm after we left Ostia and the roads in Gaul n-need upgrading. But the chaps on the British f-f-fleet were very accommodating. And do you know, P-Plautius, every fort I’ve passed th-th-through since I landed at Rutupiae has hailed me as Imperator! What about that then?’ The eyes gleamed proudly, and the nervous tic he had never quite managed to master emphasised his pride with a sudden sideways twitch of the head that nearly shook the wreath off again. It now hung at a slight angle above his left eye and behind him Narcissus had to still his hand as it instinctively started to reach out to straighten his master’s symbol of office. Abruptly Claudius swung round towards his chief secretary.

  ‘Narcissus!’

  ‘Caesar?’

  ‘How many times did they call me Imperator?’

  ‘Eighteen times, including tonight, Caesar.’

  ‘Th-there! What about that? More than either Augustus or Tiberius ever got!’

  Narcissus inclined his head and smiled modestly at the achievement.

  ‘No more than you deserve, Caesar,’ Plautius said respectfully. He stood to one side and indicated his senior officers with a wave of his hand. ‘May I present my legates and tribunes to you, Caesar?’

  ‘What did you say?’ Claudius craned an ear towards him. In the background the troops had got a little too enthusiastic in their cheering and it was becoming hard to conduct a conversation at the prescribed distance between Emperor and subordinate. A quite different arrangement existed between Emperor and freedman since the latter was so far down the social order that no protocol existed. Claudius waved Narcissus over and shouted into one ear.

  ‘Look, it’s terribly n-nice of them and all that, b-b-but would you have someone tell them to shut up. Can’t hear a th-th-thing.’

  ‘At once, Caesar!’ Narcissus bowed, backed away and pointed to the assembled senior
centurions of the Praetorian Guard and then pointed to the ground before his feet. Vespasian watched in astonishment as the centurions immediately trotted over in response to the freedman’s summons. Clearly, Narcissus was so firmly positioned at the Emperor’s side that he could command instant obedience from these free-born citizens of Rome, who were nominally his social superiors. The instructions were quickly issued and the centurions hurried off waving their arms at the men lining the route, and quickly the shouting began to subside.

  ‘Ah! Much b-better! Now then, Plautius, you were s-s-saying?’

  ‘My officers, Caesar. I would like to present them to you.’

  ‘Of course you would! Jolly g-good idea.’

  The Emperor went down the line of legates and tribunes, arranged by legion, repeating a series of stock phrases as he passed along.

  ‘Having a good campaign? Wished I could have j-joined you earlier. Maybe n-n-next time, eh?

  ‘Had some good b-b-battles, I hear. Hope you sh-sh-showed them how tough we Romans are!

  ‘Hope you’ve left me enough b-barbarians for a decent fight! I’ve got a deal of f-f-fighting to catch up on!’

  Until he approached Vespasian.

  He limped along from the last tribune of the Ninth Legion and stood before the legate of the Second.

  ‘Having a . . . Why, it’s Flavius Vespasian. How are you, my lad?’

  ‘I’m well, Caesar.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. Jolly g-good. Been hearing excellent things about your brother. Must be proud of him.’

  ‘Yes, Caesar,’ Vespasian replied icily before he could stop himself.

  ‘Still, keep up the g-good work and maybe one day you can have a legion of your own to c-command.’

  ‘Caesar.’ Narcissus stepped up smoothly. ‘This is the Flavian brother who commands the Second.’

  ‘Then who’s the other fellow?’

  ‘Flavius Sabinus. Attached to the staff.’

  The light of realisation dimly dawned in the Emperor’s countenance. ‘Aha! Then this is the one with that w-w-wife. What’s her name?’

  ‘Flavia, Caesar,’ Vespasian answered.

  ‘You’re right! That’s her name. She’s got that gorgeous little slave g-girl, hasn’t she? Wouldn’t mind having a close look at her myself sometime. The slave girl, that is,’ Claudius hastily added as Vespasian tried to hide his outraged expression. ‘But your Flavia’s a n-n-nice looking filly as well. B-bit cheeky too, eh, Narcissus?’ The Emperor made to wink at his freedman but his tic got the better of him and his face convulsed. Narcissus coloured slightly and turned to Plautius.

  ‘Introduce the next officer, please.’

  ‘Vitellius, senior tribune of the Second, Caesar.’

  ‘Vitellius, my boy, doing well?’

  ‘As ever, Caesar,’ Vitellius said with a smirk.

  ‘Your father sends his g-greetings, and hopes . . . and hopes . . .’ Claudius’ face crinkled with concentration before the memory drifted back. ‘Ah! I have it now! Hopes you’re keeping the f-family end up! There! Are you joining us for the f-f-feasting tonight?’

  ‘Sorry, Caesar, but due to the onerous nature of the duties my legate heaps upon me I need an early night.’

  Claudius laughed. ‘Your loss, my boy. T-take care, young Vitellius, and you’ll go a l-long way.’

  ‘I fully intend to, Caesar.’

  Claudius continued down the line of officers and Vitellius risked a quick wink at his fuming legate. Once the last of the senior officers had been dealt with, Claudius formally saluted the standards and made the requisite libation at the army altar. Then Narcissus led the Emperor to the elaborate quarters that had been erected for him within the walls of the Praetorium. As soon as Claudius was out of sight, General Plautius dismissed the officers and gave the signal for the Praetorian units and elephants to stand down. They were being quartered in tents already prepared next to the parade ground, the closest possible position to the Emperor they were sworn to protect with their lives.

  Vespasian hurried up to his commander and set himself foursquare in front of him, determined to deliver his warning without any further delay. Plautius eyed him warily and pursed his lips. ‘Can’t it wait until after you’ve caught up with your wife?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘All right then, a moment only.’ The other tasks on his schedule before turning in were obviously going to have to be put back.

  ‘In private, sir.’ Over the shoulder of the general Vespasian could see Vitellius lingering within earshot. ‘What I have to say is for your ears only.’

  ‘Damn it! I haven’t time for this.’

  ‘Yes you have, sir. Believe me.’

  That the legate had risked being so insubordinate was not lost on Plautius. He nodded quickly, led the way into the headquarters lobby, and took a turn into the first office. A number of clerks looked up from their paperwork in surprise.

  ‘Leave,’ Plautius ordered, and the clerks instantly laid down their pens and scurried from the room. Plautius closed the flap and turned round angrily.

  ‘Now, would you mind telling me what’s so bloody important that I have to hear it in person and in private.’

  Vespasian told him.

  Chapter Forty

  _______________

  The camp on the south bank had long since settled down for the night when the flap to Flavia’s chamber was lifted. A dark shadow crept in and quietly stole up to the travel bed. Vespasian trod softly into the weak glow of the single oil lamp, still burning on a nearby stand, and looked down on the sleeping form of his wife, marvelling at her perfection in repose. Flavia’s face was smooth in the gentle orange glow and with lips slightly apart she breathed deeply in an even rhythm that sounded like the far-off sea. Dark strands of her hair lay across the silk bolster and he leaned forward to sniff them, smiling at the familiar scent. Straightening up, Vespasian let his eyes travel down to her breast, softly rising and falling with each breath, and then his gaze took in the ripples of silk that clung in fuller curves to the outline of her body.

  For a moment he surrendered to the raw love he felt for her. She was so close that she was almost flesh of his flesh, so guileless in her slumber that she appeared to him as she had in the first hot heady days of their passion. The fruit of that passion, he knew, lay in the very next chamber.

  He had looked in on young Titus before coming to his wife. The boy had been lying on his back, one arm raised across the top of his head, mouth gaping open, the shock of dark hair soft to the touch. So many of his mother’s features were reproduced in him in cherubic miniature, and yet Vespasian had felt a twinge of rage at his wife for spoiling the moment.

  For a while he stood gazing at his wife, then he slowly lowered himself onto the soft mattress. There was a light rustle of silk against the coarser wool of his military tunic and a displacement of the comfortable position her body had settled into while asleep. Flavia turned onto her side, disturbing the rhythm of her breathing and a loud click at the back of her throat turned into a snort. Her eyes flickered open, closed a moment and split open again, much wider this time. She smiled.

  ‘Thought you’d never come.’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘I can see that. Just wondered where you’d got to.’

  ‘I had work to do.’

  Flavia propped her head up on her hand. ‘So important you couldn’t see me first?’

  Vespasian nodded. ‘Yes, that important, I’m afraid.’

  She stared at him a moment and then suddenly wrapped her arm round his neck and drew his head down towards her. Their lips met. Soft and tentative at first, and then with the comforting firmness of a long and loving relationship. Vespasian drew back and looked down at her closed eyes.

  ‘I needed that,’ she whispered. ‘Any more where that came from?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Later?’

  ‘We must talk. It can’t wait.’

  ‘Talk?’ Flavia smiled. ‘Surely not.’<
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  Sliding her hand to the hem of the silk sheet, she drew it down her naked body – like a sinuous serpent sloughing off its skin, thought Vespasian. The disturbing simile drew his mind back to what he must do. Now. Without further delay. He gently grasped her hand and drew the sheet back up over her breasts. His deliberate movements astonished Flavia. She was offended and her brows drew together in a frown.

  ‘What’s the matter? Darling, tell me.’

  Vespasian stared down at her with cold eyes, not trusting himself to speak before he was in control of his emotions.

  Flavia was alarmed now and quickly eased herself back and up so that she was sitting facing her husband. ‘You don’t love me. That’s it. Isn’t it?’ Her almond-shaped eyes widened in panic and her lips trembled. She clenched her jaw to still them.

  This was not what Vespasian had anticipated; that he would have to convince her of his love first before accusing her of treason. He shook his head.

  ‘Then what? Why are you so cold to me, husband?’

  There was fear in her face now, and a look that he was reluctant to interpret as dawning suspicion that her intrigues had been discovered. Fortunately, it wasn’t.

  ‘You bastard!’ She slapped him hard. ‘Who is she? What’s the name of the little tart?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Vespasian grabbed her wrist as her hand came sweeping in to deliver another blow. ‘There is no other woman! This is about you!’

  ‘Me?’ Flavia froze. ‘What about me?’

  ‘I have to know about you . . . and your relationship to the Liberators.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She dropped her hands to her chest and stared at him, returning his searching gaze with what seemed to be frankness.

  ‘You’ve heard of the Liberators, Flavia?’

  ‘Of course. There’ve been wild rumours circulating about them for months. But what has it got to do with me?’