The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  Vespasian looked down into his lap and his voice had a hard quality to it when he continued. ‘Flavia, I know about your involvement in the plot against the Emperor. I know that you were working with those who were trying to get the army to mutiny before the invasion began. You tried to keep it all from me, but I know everything now. To conspire with these so-called Liberators was bad enough, but how could you have involved Titus in your treachery? How could you? Your own son? I also know you tried to have Narcissus killed. And now what are you and your Liberator friends up to? Supplying our enemies with weapons! Conspiring to kill the Em—’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ Flavia spat at him. ‘From what madness does all this poison come?’

  ‘From you, my wife.’

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘No, only blind,’ Vespasian said softly. ‘Until recently.’

  Flavia sat bolt upright ready to renew her protests, but Vespasian stabbed a finger at her.

  ‘No! Let me finish. I would never have suspected you, never. I’d thought we were as one mind, one purpose in life. I trusted you in every detail. Then, when your schemes were unveiled to me, I thought the accusations were laughable. But the moment I forced myself to piece the details together, your guilt was inescapable. Oh Flavia! If only you could know how hurt I feel.’

  ‘Who told you this? Who accuses me?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it does. And are you so naïve as to take one person’s word for it? And would you believe another before your own wife?’

  ‘I believe my own mind. I’ve had to think most of it through for myself.’

  ‘Husband, did it not occur to you to question the motives of the person who caused you to question mine? Why would they want to plant such seeds of doubt in your mind? If you tell me the source of these false accusations, I might be able to explain their true purpose.’

  The sincerity in her expression and voice caused Vespasian to pause. Was this the sign of guiltlessness he sought? Could she truly be innocent? Might his deliberations on her treachery be so very misdirected after all?

  ‘The name?’ she insisted.

  Why was she so determined to have the name? Vespasian wondered. Surely if she was innocent, then the name mattered far less than the content of the accusations. Then it occurred to him that the real purpose of knowing the name might be revenge, or the intention to remove the source of the accusations to protect those it accused.

  ‘There’s no need for you to know the name.’

  ‘There is, husband. I told you why.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d be more concerned to convince me of your innocence, rather than another person’s guilt. It would seem more natural.’

  ‘I see.’ Flavia leaned back, away from him, regarding her husband coldly as she considered her next move. ‘You think I’m unnatural, some kind of monster? The same monster that gave life to your son!’

  ‘That’s enough, Flavia!’ Vespasian was too weary to pursue such an argument. It was getting too far outside the range of the discussion he had intended. He had hoped that he knew his wife well enough to detect any falsehood. He had made his accusations and she had refuted them and still he was no clearer about whether or not she was involved with the Liberators.

  ‘Look, I have to ask. I have to know what you are up to. If you are working with the enemies of the Emperor, however distantly, you must tell me. I will do my best to protect you from the consequences. I’m no fool, Flavia. If there’s any way that we can keep this matter from Narcissus’ agents then I’ll do it. Better a guilty secret than a dangerous exposure. But you must swear to me to cut all connections with these traitors and never have any dealings with them again. Tell me everything, swear to that, and I’ll never repeat a word.’ He stared at her fixedly to gauge the effect of his words, and waited for her response.

  Flavia reached for his hand and pulled it to her breast. ‘Husband, I swear on my life that I am not involved with the Liberators. I swear it.’

  Vespasian wanted to believe her. Wanted it so desperately, and yet despite her promise some small reserve of doubt brooded darkly at the back of his mind and would not be satisfied.

  ‘Very well. I will accept your word. And I’ll do it gladly. But Flavia, if you are playing me for a fool and I ever discover it . . .’

  No threats were necessary. He could see that she knew what the consequences of such a discovery would be. Flavia returned his probing stare for a moment before she nodded solemnly.

  ‘We understand one another then.’ Vespasian squeezed her hand in order to reassure her of his feelings, whatever else passed between them. ‘Now, I’m tired, very tired. Is there room for two on that bed?’

  ‘Of course, husband.’

  ‘Good. I can’t tell you how much I have missed sleeping in your arms.’

  ‘I know,’ Flavia whispered.

  Vespasian slipped the tunic over his head and leaned down to undo the laces of his boots. While he undressed, Flavia tentatively placed her fingers on his back and traced them lightly across his skin in the way that she knew he liked. But there would be no passion tonight. Too much uncertainty and hurt had passed between them for that. Vespasian climbed under the sheet and kissed his wife gently on the forehead. She waited in case there was more but his eyes closed and very quickly his breathing fell into a deep, even rhythm.

  She stared at him awhile, then turned over and gently arched her body into the curve of his, felt the rough hair of his genitals against the soft skin of her buttocks. But there was little pleasure in this reunion with her husband, and long after he had fallen asleep she lay awake, deeply troubled.

  It pained her to have misled her husband, but she had taken an earlier oath – on the life of her son – that must take precedence. The Liberators demanded absolute secrecy and threatened the most terrible revenge on those who failed to honour that secrecy. Although she had served them loyally for nearly two years, the daily dread of discovery had finally become too much to bear. She was no longer working for the Liberators, and to that extent she had been honest with her husband. Still, she had learned enough to know that the supply of weapons to the Britons had been arranged by the Liberators when the previous Emperor – the mad Caligula – had resolved to conquer Britain. The plan had always been to undermine any campaign that sought to boost imperial prestige. With every military defeat, and every whispering campaign launched on the streets of Rome, the credibility of the imperial family would be steadily whittled away. In the end, the mob would be begging the aristocracy to seize control of the empire. That would be the Liberators’ crowning achievement.

  That day was still distant, Flavia had come to realise. The few people she had known who had been linked to the secret organisation were now dead, and Flavia did not want to share their fate. She had sent a message in code to the usual drop in Rome: a numbered box in the office of a correspondence agent on the Aventine. Flavia had simply stated that she would no longer work to further their cause. She knew that the Liberators would be unlikely to accept her withdrawal as readily as she had tendered it. She would have to be on her guard.

  Flavia was deeply shocked that her involvement with the Liberators had been uncovered by Vespasian. And if by him, then by who else? Narcissus? But if the chief secretary was aware then surely she would be dead by now. Unless he was playing some deeper game – using her as bait to lure out other members of the conspiracy.

  Chapter Forty-One

  _______________

  Far from the pageant of the Emperor’s arrival Cato was doing the rounds of the fort assigned to his half of the century. Five hundred paces further along the ridge was the fort manned by Macro and the other forty men. The line of outposts formed a perimeter to the main army camp, a mile away down by the river and the ridge gave good views over the countryside north of the Tamesis. In daylight no British force would be able to approach undetected and the small garrisons would have ample time to fall back on the main army, if necess
ary.

  At night, however, the situation was very different and the sentries’ eyes and ears strained to identify every suspicious noise and shift of shadow beyond the turf walls. With the arrival of the Emperor the sentries were more jumpy than usual and Cato had ordered the night watches to be relived every time the signal trumpets down in the main camp sounded the hour. Better that than have the men exhausted the next day, or making sightings of the enemy based on an overheated imagination.

  Cato climbed the rough wooden steps to the sentry walk and made his way along the fort’s straight sides, ensuring that every man was alert and had not forgotten the challenge and password. Words were quietly exchanged as each man made his report and as usual there were no signs of enemy activity. Finally Cato climbed the watchtower with its wicker side and front guards. Forty feet above the ground he pulled himself through the opening at the back and saluted the man watching the northern approaches.

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Nothing to report, Optio.’

  Cato nodded, and leaned against the broad timber post at the rear of the tower, looking back down the slope to the main camp delineated by a mass of brilliant orange pinpricks from torches and fires. Beyond lay the narrow lines of torches that marked out the bridge stretching across the silver-grey loom of the Tamesis, tailing off into the night in a broad sweep. On the far bank glittered the outline of the camp where the Emperor, his followers and reinforcements now slept. And somewhere amongst them slept Lavinia. His heart lifted at the thought of her.

  ‘Bet those bastards over there are living it up.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Cato replied, sharing every sentry’s innate suspicion that the fun only ever began once they were on watch. The thought of Lavinia enjoying the high life of the imperial court a scant two miles away filled him with anxiety and jealousy. While his duty kept him from her in this benighted little outpost, others could be wooing her. An image of the flashy young aristocrats of the imperial court filled him with dread, and with an impulsive thump of the wicker side guard he tore his mind away from Lavinia and forced himself to think about more immediate concerns. Some hours had passed since he had last left the fort to check on the picket line. That would keep him occupied, and keep Lavinia from preying on his thoughts.

  ‘Carry on,’ he muttered at the sentry and swung himself back onto the ladder to descend into the gloom of the fort. No time had been wasted on constructing permanent shelters, and the off-duty men slumbered and snored on the ground, preferring to risk the irritation of insect bites rather than suffer the stifling air inside their leather tents. Cato picked his way along the inside of the turf wall until he reached the fort’s only gate. A quick order to the section leader responsible for the eight men on standby had the bar removed and one of the panels swung inwards. He headed off into the night, keeping in line with the dark mass of Macro’s fort. Behind him the gate clattered back into place.

  Outside the reassuring turf walls, the night was alive with a sense of imminent danger and Cato felt a cold thrill of tension tickle its way up his spine. Looking back he could see the dim outline of the palisade already too far off for comfort and his hand slid down to the pommel of his sword as he strode quietly through the tall grass. A hundred paces on, Cato slowed down in anticipation of the first challenge and sure enough a voice hissed out of the darkness from close at hand and a dark shape rose from the grass.

  ‘Stand and be recognised!’

  ‘Blues triumphant,’ Cato replied quietly. Using his favourite chariot team for a password was not perhaps very original, but it was easy to recall.

  ‘Pass, friend,’ the sentry responded sourly, slinking back into cover. Clearly a devotee of a rival team, Cato realised as he crept on. At least the man was alert. This post was the most dangerous on the sentry roster and any man who fell asleep out here was asking to have his throat cut by a British scout. And the scouts were out there all right. Caratacus may have pulled his main force back, but the British commander knew the value of good intelligence and kept probing the Roman lines under the cover of darkness. There had been more than one vicious skirmish fought in the dead of night over recent weeks.

  A hundred paces further on Cato began looking for the next sentry. Crouching low he slowed to a creeping step and picked his way forward to where the man should be. No challenge greeted him and Cato quickly looked up to check that he was still in line with the ramparts of his fort and those of Macro. He was, near enough, and there was the crushed grass where the sentry had been squatting. But no sign of the man. Cato wondered if he should call out. Just as he was about to, the terrible thought that something had happened to the sentry jumped into his mind. Supposing the man had been discovered by a British scout and killed? Supposing the scout was still close by? Cato went for the handle of his sword and slowly drew it from its scabbard, wincing at the metallic rasp of its passage.

  ‘Keep still, Optio,’ a voice whispered so softly he might have mistaken it for a breeze rustling the grass, had the air not been so still. Cato’s blood froze at the sound and then he felt anger rising up inside him. This wasn’t a proper challenge. What the bloody hell was the man playing at?

  ‘Over here, Optio. Stay low.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cato whispered back.

  ‘We’ve got company.’

  Cato slipped down onto his hands and knees and eased his way through the grass in the direction of the sentry’s voice. The sentry, Scaurus, was one of the replacements, a man with a good record, Cato recalled. There he was, dark form squatting on his haunches, javelin held down out of sight. No shield to burden him if he needed to sprint back to the fort. Cato crept to his side.

  ‘What is it?’

  Scaurus didn’t reply for a moment, and remained quite still, head fixed in one direction, down the slope towards enemy territory. He raised his arm and pointed into the shadows of some tall shrubs growing halfway up the slope. ‘There!’

  Cato followed his direction but saw only stillness. He shook his head. ‘Can’t see anything.’

  ‘Don’t look, listen.’

  The optio tilted an ear towards the shrubs and tried to distinguish any noise that ought not to be there. A single bird whose call he could not recognise sang a melancholy refrain over and over again, and a hunting owl briefly added its mellow hooting before it abruptly fell silent. Cato gave up. Whatever was out there had either gone or more likely, had simply been the product of Scaurus’ imagination. He made a mental note to ensure that Scaurus was given only tower duties from now on. At that moment something snorted down in the shrubs. A horse.

  ‘Hear that?’ said Scaurus.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Want me to go down and look?’

  ‘No. We wait here. See who it is.’

  It might be a Roman scout, lost on patrol and unaware how near he had wandered to his own lines. So they waited, stiffly poised, heightened senses straining for further sign of the intruder. The owl called out again, louder this time, and Cato was about to curse it when there was a disturbance down the slope, and a dark shape detached itself from the shrubs: a man leading a horse. He drew the animal up the slope, almost in line with Cato and Scaurus, so that he must pass within ten feet of them. The horseman came on, carefully picking his way in case the ground contained any obstacles that might trip him up and attract unwanted attention. The footfall of the horse was much more obvious, a dull scuffing clomp as it followed its rider, oblivious of the need for secrecy. When the rider was no more than twenty feet away, Cato nudged Scaurus and whispered, ‘Now.’

  The sentry leaped to his feet, javelin arm raised and moving smoothly back into the throwing position as he called out his challenge. Cato moved out to one side, sword drawn, ready to fight.

  ‘Stand still and be recognised!’

  The rider jumped back with a cry of alarm, causing the horse to shy off to one side with a frightened whinny. The moment of shock passed in an instant and before either Cato or Scaurus could react, the rider had t
hrown himself onto his mount and was kicking it with his heels.

  ‘Don’t let him get away!’ Cato screamed.

  There was a blur of movement and a sickening thunk. The rider cried out and for a moment reeled in his saddle. Then he folded to one side and, head first, rolled off his horse. The beast reared up, nearly toppling back onto its rider, before twisting to one side at the last moment and galloping back down the slope and into the night. The grass rustled briefly as Cato and Scaurus sprinted over to the rider. He lay on his back gasping for breath, the shaft of the javelin embedded in his stomach. He cried out a few words in a strange tongue before he passed out.

  ‘Want me to finish him off, Optio?’ asked Scaurus as he braced his foot on the man’s chest and pulled out the javelin with a wet sucking noise.

  ‘No.’ Cato was puzzled by the language the man had used. It sounded like no Celtic he had ever heard. ‘Give me a hand, let’s get him into some light.’

  Scaurus hooked his arms under the man’s shoulders and Cato took his feet. He gauged the relative distances between his fort and the centurion’s.

  ‘Come on. Macro’s going to want to see this!’

  The rider was a big man and the two of them struggled to carry the awkward burden along the ridge towards the fort. As they approached the gate, Cato had time to be gratified by the early challenge – clearly Macro’s men were alert and watching keenly.

  ‘Blues triumphant!’ Cato called out.

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ he heard someone mutter.

  ‘Open the gate!’

  ‘Who is there?’

  ‘The optio! Now open the bloody gate!’

  A moment later the gate swung in and Cato and Scaurus heaved the body inside and let it drop to the ground while they bent over to catch their breath.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Macro’s voice bellowed. ‘Which of you stupid sods gave the order for the gate to be opened? Trying to get us all killed?’