The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Advance!’ Vespasian shouted, and the cohorts moved forwards once more, retrieving unspoiled javelins and finishing off enemy wounded as they passed through the destruction they had wrought. The left flank of the legion was close to the edge of the forest now and Vespasian called for a realignment of the advance. The legion stopped and steadily altered its facing until they were opposite the left flank of the British pikemen, cutting them off from the forest, in a neat reversal of positions. Now it was the Britons who would be forced towards the marsh – for as long as the six cohorts could maintain the momentum of their counterattack.

  Unless Sabinus threw in the weight of whatever units he could lay his hands on soon, the outcome of the battle was still very much in doubt. Vespasian spared a quick glance back up the slope towards the Roman camp, but there was no sign of any help from that quarter yet. He ordered his legion forward, and as they stepped out towards the heaving mêlée sprawling across the vale, Vespasian started striking the rim of his shield with his sword. The rhythm was picked up by the men around him and quickly spread to the other cohorts as the double line closed on the pikemen.

  They were now passing over the bodies of their comrades from the other legions and a firm resolve to exact a full and bloody revenge filled their hearts as they raised their shields and prepared to engage the Britons. The triumphant war cries of the pikemen died away as the Second Legion swept in towards them, and beyond the Britons the hard-pressed knots of other legionaries rallied with a cry of hope.

  Vespasian halted his men one last time to release the remaining javelins, and then the Second charged home with a savage cry of battle-crazed exultation on the lips of every man.

  Surrounded on all sides by wild-eyed legionaries, Cato surrendered to the moment and released the tension and aggression that had been building up within him during the advance. He screamed out a meaningless cry as he was caught up in the charging press of men racing towards the waiting enemy. With a crash of spear and shield the Second Legion smashed into the British line and the momentum of the charge carried them through the broken mass of British spearmen who only moments before had been screaming triumphantly as they swarmed around the disorganised turmoil of the trapped legions.

  Cato lowered his head and pushed his way forwards into the dense press of men hacking and stabbing at each other. To his immediate right he was conscious of Macro bellowing encouragement to the rest of his century and waving his short sword up in the air to rally his men around him. Cato found himself confronted by a snarling Briton who was holding his pike in both hands and swinging it round and down towards his stomach. Cato chopped at the spearhead, knocking it to the right, and then charged inside the Briton’s grip. The man had but an instant to register his surprise before Cato’s sword spitted him high in the chest. He fell back, spluttering great gouts of blood as Cato wrenched his blade free, knocked his opponent to the ground with his shield and turned to look for another enemy.

  ‘Cato, to your left!’ Macro shouted.

  The optio ducked his head instinctively and the broad blade of a spear glanced off the top of his helmet. The blow momentarily blinded him as his vision exploded with white. It cleared instantly but his head was reeling and he was knocked flat as the pikeman slammed into his side, sending them both sprawling in the blood-soaked grass. Cato was aware of the Briton’s fierce breathing, the stench of his body and a vivid blue tattoo on the man’s shoulder, which writhed before his eyes for a moment. Then the man grunted, gasped and was rolled to one side as Macro pulled out his sword and stood over Cato.

  ‘Get up, lad!’

  The centurion covered their bodies with his shield and watched for any attack as Cato clambered to his feet, shaking his head to try and clear his dizziness.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  The impetus of the charge had run its course and now the men of the Sixth Century closed ranks and advanced behind a shield wall, cutting down any enemy that stood in the path of their steady advance. The British ranks were tightly packed now, so much so that they were no longer able to use their spears effectively, and they were gradually being cut to pieces. From further up the slope the legions that had so nearly been defeated now turned on their foe, and savagely meted out their revenge. The triumph in the cries of the British warriors died away and changed to fear and panic as they tried to escape the wicked blades of the legionaries’ short swords. In the tight press of bodies the short sword was the most lethal of weapons and Britons fell in great numbers. Those who were wounded and slipped to the blood-stained grass were trampled underfoot, their bodies crushed by the men fighting over them, and then by more bodies so that some suffocated horribly.

  Cato thrust out his shield, stepped up to it and stabbed with his sword in a steady rhythm as he advanced with the rest of the century. Some of the men were filled with blood lust and surged ahead of the line, hacking and slashing at the enemy, exposing themselves to danger on all sides. Many paid the price for this loss of self-control, and their freshly slaughtered bodies were clambered over by their comrades. Cato was aware of the danger underfoot and placed his feet carefully as he advanced, in cold dread of stumbling and being unable to rise again.

  ‘They’re breaking!’ Macro shouted above the din of clashing weapons and the grunts and cries of the combatants. ‘The enemy line’s breaking!’

  From the right, above the seething mass of bodies and weapons, Cato could see more Roman standards closing in from the direction of the Roman camp.

  ‘It’s the camp guard!’ he cried out.

  The destruction of the enemy spearmen was sealed once the remaining cohorts of the legion and a scratch force of auxiliary cohorts charged into their rear. Hemmed in on three sides by an impenetrable wall of Roman shields, they were killed where they stood. On the only open side they dropped their weapons and flooded towards the marsh in a desperate attempt to seek salvation in that direction. At first the Britons caught in the armoured vice of Roman legionaries tried to resist even as they were forced to give ground. Then they suddenly disintegrated as a fighting force and became a torrent of individuals running for their lives, pursued by a merciless enemy.

  Shouting with glee, the men of the Sixth Century charged after them a short distance, but their heavy armour and weapons forced them to give up the chase. They leaned over their grounded shields, breathing heavily, many only now aware of the wounds they had sustained amid the frenzy of battle. Cato was tempted to slump to the ground and rest his aching limbs, but the need to set an example to the rest of the men kept him standing erect and ready to respond to fresh orders. Macro pushed his way towards him through the tired legionaries.

  ‘Hot work, eh, Optio?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you see ’em run at the end?’ Macro laughed. ‘Bolted like a bunch of virgins at the Lupercal! Don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of Caratacus before we take Camulodunum.’

  A piercing sound, unlike anything Cato had ever heard, carried across the battlefield and every head turned in the direction of the marsh. It came again, a shrill trumpeting scream of terror and pain.

  ‘What the fuck’s that?’ Macro looked around, wide-eyed.

  Over the heads of the other legionaries Cato could see the low knoll on which the right-hand battery of bolt-throwers had been positioned. Like their comrades on the left wing they had been quickly ridden down by the British chariots. The Britons were still there, and had turned a handful of the weapons round to face the marsh. And there in the marsh stood the elephants, stuck in muddy slime up to their loins, frantically being urged on by their drivers as the Britons used them for target practice. Even as Cato watched, a bolt arced in a low trajectory right into the side of one of the elephants.

  It had already been struck in the rump and a bloody smear ran down its back legs from the bolt which protruded from its wrinkled skin. As the second bolt struck, the elephant whipped its trunk up into the ai
r, bellowing and shrieking with agony. The force of the bolt carried it right through the thick hide and buried the head deep within the animal’s vitals. With the next cry of agony came a thick crimson spray from the end of its trunk, which hung in the air like a red mist before dispersing. Thrashing wildly in the mud, the animal rolled onto its side, dragging the driver down with it. More bolts slammed into the other animals stranded in the marsh and one by one the British charioteers picked off the remaining elephants before the nearest Roman infantry could reach the knoll. The Britons bounded onto their waiting chariots and with a loud chorus of shouts and cracking of reins the chariots rumbled diagonally up the slope, past the Roman camp, and escaped round the edge of the forest.

  ‘The bastards,’ Cato heard a legionary mutter.

  An appalled stillness hung over the vale, made more unbearable by the terrible cries of beasts in their death throes. Cato could see British spearmen skirting the edge of the marsh as they took full advantage of the pause to escape. Cato wanted to point them out and yell out an order to pursue the enemy, but the screams of the dying elephants mesmerised the Romans.

  ‘I wish someone would silence those bloody animals,’ Macro said quietly.

  Cato shook his head in astonishment. All across the vale lay bleeding and butchered men, hundreds of Romans amongst them, and yet these hardened veterans standing around him were perversely fascinated by the fate of a handful of dumb animals. He banged a fist down on the rim of his shield in bitter frustration.

  As the British spearmen fled, their comrades up on the ridge realised that the trap had failed. Uncertainty and fear rippled through their ranks and they began to give ground to the legions, slowly at first, and then more steadily, until they melted away in large numbers. Only Caratacus’ elite band of warriors stood firm until the army had safely withdrawn.

  From the crest of the hill the Emperor slapped his thigh with glee at the sight of the enemy in full retreat.

  ‘Ha! Watch him f-f-fly with his tail between his legs!’

  General Plautius coughed. ‘May I pass the order for the pursuit to begin, Caesar?’

  ‘P-pursuit?’ Claudius’s eyebrows rose. ‘Certainly not! It would be n-nice if you fellows in the army would leave a f-few of those savages left alive for me to rule.’

  ‘But Caesar!’

  ‘But! But! But! Enough, G-g-general! I give the orders. As well I should. My very f-first effort at command and I win a resounding victory. Is that not proof enough of my military b-b-brilliance? Well?’

  Plautius looked towards Narcissus imploringly, but the chief secretary shrugged with a slight shake of his head. The general pursed his lips, and nodded towards the retreating Britons. ‘Yes, Caesar. That’s proof enough.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  _______________

  Two days later the Roman army arrived before the ramparts of Camulodunum. When news of Caratacus’ defeat reached the town elders of the Trinovantes they wisely refused to admit the bedraggled remains of their overlord’s army into their capital, watching with relief as the sullen column disappeared across the rich farmland to the north. Most of the Trinovante warriors who had served with Caratacus kept faith with him and sadly turned their back on their kinsfolk and marched away. A few hours later an advance party of Roman cavalry scouts approached warily, and nearly turned and fled when the gates were abruptly thrown open and a deputation rushed out to greet them. The Trinovantes were effusive in their welcome to the Romans and in their condemnation of those of their tribe who had joined Caratacus in his futile attempt to resist the might of Emperor Claudius.

  The scouts carried the greetings back to the army marching several miles behind them, and late in the afternoon the exhausted Roman legions pitched camp just outside the Trinovantes’ capital. The professional caution of General Plautius meant that the deep ditch and high rampart of a camp in the face of the enemy was constructed before the army was allowed to rest.

  Early the next day the Emperor and his staff were conducted on an informal tour of the tribal capital, a dour affair by imperial standards, mostly timber-framed buildings of wattle and daub with a handful of more impressive stone structures at its heart. The capital fronted a deep river, alongside which ran a sturdy quay and long storage sheds where Gaulish merchants plied their trade, carrying fine wines and pottery from the continent and filling their vessels for the return journey with furs, gold, silver, and exotic barbarian jewellery for the voracious consumers of the empire.

  ‘An excellent place to found our first colony, Caesar,’ Narcissus announced. ‘Strong trade links with the civilised world, and ideally situated to exploit the inland markets.’

  ‘Well, yes. Good,’ muttered the Emperor, not really listening to his chief secretary. ‘But I rather think a n-n-nice temple in honour of me should be an early p-p-priority.’

  ‘A temple, Caesar?’

  ‘Nothing too fussy, just sufficient to insp-sp-spire a little awe.’

  ‘As you wish, Caesar.’ Narcissus bowed and then smoothly moved the conversation on to more pertinent schemes for developing the colony. Listening to them, Vespasian could not help but wonder at how easily the decision to erect such a monument was made. A mere whim of the Emperor, and it would happen just like that. A vast colonnaded shrine dedicated to a man ruling from a great city far away would rise above the meagre hovels of this barbarian town just as surely as if Jupiter himself had ordained it. And yet this man, this Emperor, who aspired to be a god, was just as vulnerable to the thrust of an assassin’s knife as any other mortal. The threat to Claudius was still very much on Vespasian’s mind, as was the fear that Flavia might be involved in the plot.

  ‘How is the planning for tomorrow’s c-ceremony going?’ Claudius was asking.

  ‘Very well, Caesar,’ Narcissus replied. ‘A state procession into the capital at midday, the dedication of an altar to peace, and then a banquet in the centre of Camulodunum in the evening. I’ve had word from our new allies. Seems that they know of Caratacus’ defeat and are anxious to pledge their allegiance to us as soon as they can. Should make a dramatic centre-piece to the banquet. You know the sort of thing: the savages led into the presence of the mighty Emperor, before whose imperial majesty they feel compelled to fall on bended knee and swear eternal obedience. It’ll look terrific, and make for great reading in the Rome gazette. The plebs will love it.’

  ‘Good. Then see to the appropriate arrangements, please.’ Claudius stopped in mid-stride, and his staff officers had to pull up abruptly to avoid running into him. ‘Did you hear that last sentence? I didn’t stammer once! Gracious me!’

  Vespasian suddenly felt very worn out by the Emperor’s presence. The endless and effortless arrogance of members of the imperial family was born of the cringing obeisance presented by all those who surrounded them. Vespasian was proud of his family’s genuine achievements. From his grandfather who had served as a centurion in Pompey’s army, to his father who had earned sufficient fortune to be elevated into the equestrian class, and thence to his own generation where both he and Sabinus could look forward to glittering senatorial careers. None of it was a mere accident of birth. All of it was the result of a great deal of effort and proven ability. Looking from Claudius to Narcissus and back again, Vespasian experienced his first pang of desire to be as venerated as was his due. In a fairer world it would be him, and not the inept Claudius, who held the destiny of Rome in his hands.

  More galling still was the greeting Claudius had made to him after the crushing defeat of Caratacus’ army. As Vespasian galloped up to make sure that his Emperor had survived the battle unhurt, he was surprised to see Claudius’ air of smug satisfaction.

  ‘Ah! There you are, Legate. I must thank you for the part you and y-your men played in my trap.’

  ‘Trap? What trap, Caesar?’

  ‘Why, to lure the enemy into a p-position where his true strength would be r-re-revealed and lured to its destruction. You had just the wit to fill the important r-rol
e I had assigned to you.’

  Vespasian’s mouth had dropped open as he heard this astonishing version of the morning’s events. Then he clamped his jaw firmly shut to stop himself making a remark that would threaten his career, not to mention his life. He had bowed his head graciously and mumbled his thanks and tried not to think about the hundreds of stiffening Roman corpses sprawled across the battlefield in silent tribute to the Emperor’s tactical genius.

  Vespasian wondered if it might be so terrible if Claudius fell under an assassin’s knife after all.

  The tour of the Trinovantes’ capital came to an end and the Emperor and his staff returned to the Roman camp to discover that the representatives of twelve tribes had arrived and were waiting at headquarters for an audience with the Emperor.

  ‘An audience with Caesar?’ Narcissus sniffed. ‘I think not. Not today at least. They can be presented to him tomorrow, at the banquet.’

  ‘Is that wise, Caesar?’ Plautius asked quietly. ‘We’ll need them when we renew the campaign. It would be better for them to feel like welcome allies rather than despised supplicants.’

  ‘Which is what they are,’ Narcissus interposed.

  Claudius turned his face towards the skies as if seeking divine advice, and gently stroked his chin. A moment later he nodded and turned back to his staff with a smile. ‘The tribesmen can wait. It’s been a long day and I’m t-tired. Tell them . . . tell them that Caesar welcomes them warmly, but that the ex-ex-exigencies of his office prevent him from greeting them in p-p-person. How’s that?’

  Narcissus clapped his hands together. ‘A paragon of elegance and clarity, Caesar!’

  ‘Yes, I thought so.’ Claudius tipped his head back in order to look down his nose at Plautius. ‘Well, General?’