The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  At last the general shrugged.'It's obvious. He escaped across a ford that should have been better guarded. My plan depended on that.' Plautius looked across the table at his subordinate. 'The fault is with the Second Legion.'

  Vespasian pressed his lips into a thin line and returned the look with contempt. At the same time his mind raced for a response. He realised at once that his reputation, his career, maybe even his life and those of his family were in danger. The same, of course, applied to the general. Yet Vespasian was wise enough to know that in such circumstances the powerful men who ran Rome would always close ranks and pass the blame on to a more junior figure: someone high enough in rank to serve as a salutary reminder of the cost of failure, but junior enough to be expendable. Someone like Vespasian himself.

  For a moment he considered taking the blame and showing that he had more pride and dignity than this general, with his long noble lineage. There was satisfaction to be gained in that. A highly selfish satisfaction, he reflected. In any case, the only real achievement of his sacrifice would be the saving of Plautius' reputation. When it came down to it Vespasian felt that he had more to offer Rome in the long run than this aged and worn out general. Then, in a moment of clarity he was aware that, however one dressed it up, the real issue was self-preservation. It always was. He'd be damned before he let a bunch of smug aristocrats throw him to the dogs to preserve one of their own. He cleared his throat and made sure that his tone was free of any emotion that would betray his bitterness, or fear.

  'The enemy was never supposed to have reached this ford. The plan – the general's plan, as I understood it – was that the other three legions and auxiliary cohorts were to close with the enemy quickly enough to force Caratacus against the main crossings, where I would be waiting with the main strength of my legion. The third ford was an afterthought. It was only supposed to be defended against those of the enemy who escaped the battle in front of the first two crossings. It was never expected that they would bear the full weight of Caratacus and his army.'

  'It was always a marginal possibility,' Plautius cut in. 'The orders were clear enough. Your men were told to hold the crossings in all circumstances.'

  'That was in my orders?' Vespasian raised his eyebrows.

  'I'm sure it will be,' Narcissus muttered.'Legate, I take it that you are inferring that the general failed to move with sufficient speed to close the trap?'

  'Yes.'

  Plautius leaned forward angrily. 'We marched as fast as we could, damn it! Our heavy infantry cannot be expected to outpace native troops. The speed of our troops is not the issue. We had them in a trap and if the Second Legion had done its job properly the trap would have worked perfectly. Vespasian should have made sure that the ford was adequately protected. One cohort was not enough. Any fool could see that.'

  'One cohort was ample, for the job it was actually given,' Vespasian snapped back.

  For a moment the two senior officers glared at each other, eyes glinting with the wavering reflection of the lamp flames. Then the general eased himself back in his seat and turned to Narcissus.

  'I want this man out of my army. He is not competent to command a legion in the field and his insubordination cannot be tolerated.' He turned back towards the legate. 'Vespasian, I want your resignation. I want you out of here, on the first ship back to Gaul.'

  'I bet you do,' Vespasian replied coldly.'If I'm not around to defend myself against any charges you bring, it doesn't take a genius to work out the consequences. I refuse to resign my command, and I'll put that in writing.'

  Before Plautius could respond Narcissus coughed. 'Gentlemen! That's enough of this. I'm sure the fault is not wholly on one side or the other.'

  Both officers turned on him angrily to protest but the Imperial Secretary quickly raised a hand and continued speaking before they could interrupt him. 'Since you are both adamant that the blame lies with the other I fear your testimonies in front of the senate would only serve to destroy you both. Therefore, it seems to me that the best solution is to have an immediate inquiry and find some culpable character lower down the chain of command. If you can make a swift decision and deliver a suitably draconian punishment then I'm sure we can satisfy those back in Rome who demand action in response to your failure.'

  Plautius visibly winced at the last word but immediately accepted the lifeline being handed to him and the legate.

  'Very well.' Plautius nodded. 'A court of inquiry, then. The legate and I will act as presiding magistrates. At least you'll agree to that, Vespasian?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then I'll issue the orders at first light. Statements will be taken by all the relevant officers at once. If we move quickly the matter can be solved in a few days. Will that satisfy the Emperor?'

  'It will,' Narcissus smiled. 'Trust me. Now, I think we have settled the issue satisfactorily. Neither of you need lose any sleep over this matter. The blame will rest on other shoulders, in place of their heads.' He chuckled at the quip. 'Have your inquiry. Find some plausible men to blame and as soon as judgement has been made I can return to Rome and make my report. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?'

  Plautius nodded, and a moment later, his stomach twisted by cold, bitter contempt for the other men, but mostly for himself, Vespasian lowered his head, stared at the silver decanter on the tray, and nodded slowly.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The men of the Second Legion had spent the night in the open, curled up by their equipment. They slept deeply, exhausted by the rapid marching of the day before, and by the construction of the marching camp. Since their entrenching equipment had been left with the baggage train the men had dug the ditches with their swords and piled up the inner rampart by hand. Roughly cut wooden stakes projected from the outer face of the rampart, and sentries patrolled along each side of the camp.

  The men of the Third Cohort were the most exhausted of them all, having had to fight a battle on top of everything else. Yet a handful of them were denied sleep and tossed restlessly on the flattened grass. Some because they could not forget the terrible sights and sensations that had been etched into their minds, others mourned the loss of close friends, cut down in front of their eyes. But for Cato the cause of sleeplessness was anxiety about the days to come, rather than the eventful day that had passed.

  The escape of a significant number of the enemy practically guaranteed that the exhausting struggle would continue. Even if Caratacus was not amongst them, then one of his lieutenants was bound to swear the survivors to further resistance to Rome, spurred on by the need to exact revenge for the loss of so many of their comrades. They would ensure that more blood was spilled, and Cato wondered how much more the soil of this land could absorb before it sank into a sea of gore. The image was fanciful and he smiled mirthlessly and turned over, pulling his cloak round his shoulders and resting his head on his greaves.

  But worse than the escape of the enemy was the failure of the cohort to do its duty. Centurion Maximius had fouled up badly. He should never have diverted from his mission to chase down the small band that had sacked the supply fort and slaughtered its garrison. He should have made straight for the ford.

  Maximius well knew that he would be called to account for this costly error in judgement, and before the cohort had bedded down for the night he had summoned his officers for a quiet meeting, out of earshot of the men.

  'There'll be questions asked about today's events,' he had begun, staring intently into the moonlit faces of his centurions. 'I'm counting on you to stick together on this. I'll speak for us, and take whatever blame the legate tries to pin on the Third Cohort.'

  His expression had been sincere and Cato had felt a simultaneous wave of relief that the blame would not attach to him, and then a shameful sense of empathy for the cohort commander who could expect to be harshly disciplined. Maximius' career was over. He would be lucky if he was only broken back to the ranks. That in itself was a bad fall from grace. His pay,
pension and the privileges due to his present post would all be lost and the men who had suffered punishment at his hands would be seeking to exact a painful revenge when he became their equal.

  'I'm sorry I led you to this,' Maximius had continued. 'You're fine men, and you lead fine men. You deserved better.'

  There'd been a painful silence before Felix leaned forward and clasped the cohort commander's arm. 'It's been an honour to serve with you, sir.'

  'Thank you, lad. I knew I could count on your loyalty. And the loyalty of the rest of you, eh?'

  The centurions had murmured their agreement, all except Macro, who stood stiffly and refused to make a sound. If Maximius noticed, he'd made no mention of it as he clasped the arms of his officers and bid them good night.

  'Remember, I'll speak for us all…'

  Before sunrise the trumpets sounded and all across the marching camp men stirred, muscles stiff. Those with injuries winced at the aching and throbbing from under their dressings. Cato, who had finally fallen asleep only a few hours earlier, did not stir with the others and his men let him sleep on, partly out of kindness but mostly because the longer he slept the longer it would be before his orders stirred them into the daily routine. So it was that Macro came to find him after the sun had risen, tutting as he discovered his lanky friend still asleep under his cape, mouth hanging open and an arm stretched out above the shock of dark curls on his head. Macro shoved his boot into Cato's side and rolled him over.

  'Come on! Wakey, wakey! Sun's burning your eyes out.'

  'Ohhh…' Cato groaned, squinting up at the clear sky. His gaze drifted across to the grizzled features of his friend and he sat up with a guilty start. 'Shit!'

  'You fully awake now?' Macro asked quietly as he glanced around.

  Cato nodded, and stretched his shoulders. 'What's up?'

  'Plenty. There's a rumour going round that the general has ordered an inquiry into yesterday's cock-up.'

  'An inquiry?'

  'Shhh! Not so loud. There's also talk that they're going to make an example of whoever is held responsible.'

  Cato looked up at him. 'Where'd you hear all this?'

  'One of the legate's clerks told me. He had it from someone on the general's staff.'

  'Oh, it must be true then,' Cato muttered.

  Macro ignored his sarcastic tone. 'Sounds plausible enough to me. They're going to need someone to blame, and it happened on our patch. So watch your back.'

  'Maximius went through that last night. He's carrying the responsibility.'

  'That's what he said…'

  'You don't believe him?'

  Macro shrugged. 'I don't trust him.'

  'There's a difference?'

  'For now. Come on, you'd better get up.'

  'The legion's on the march again?' Cato hoped not. His muscles ached terribly, and the prospect of another day's tramping across the land under a blistering hot sun was almost unbearable.

  'No. General's sent some mounted cohorts after the enemy. We're to rest here and wait for the baggage trains to come up.'

  'Good.' Cato threw back his cape, struggled to his feet and stretched his neck.

  Macro nodded over his shoulder. 'Maximius' slave has got breakfast on the go. He's brought some provisions with him. See you over there.'

  The centurions of the Third Cohort sat around a small fire over which the slave was frying several thick sausages in olive oil. A jar of warmed mulsum rested close to the fire and a honeyed scent curled up from the spout. The slave had arrived at sunrise and set straight to work, having walked through the night to catch up with his master. The air was filled with the aroma of meat as the pan sizzled and spat. The nearest legionaries looked over with twitching nostrils, knowing that they had several hours to wait before the baggage train arrived with their food.

  'Jupiter's balls!' Centurion Tullius growled. 'Will you hurry up with those sausages? I'll start chewing my bloody boot leather if I have to wait much longer.'

  'It's nearly ready, master,' the slave replied quietly, well used to the impatience of centurions.

  While they waited Cato looked across the river. The far bank was covered with bodies, washed in the rosy glow of sunrise. Above them wheeled a swirling cloud of carrion birds, drawn to the ripe stench of death. Scores of them had already settled to plucking shreds of flesh from the bodies. But even that failed to ruin Cato's appetite when the slave handed him his mess tin, filled with steaming sliced sausage and hunks of bread. The centurions set to the meal and soon the warm food in their bellies had revived their spirits and, mouths full, they began to talk about the battle.

  'How was it on the island, Macro?' asked Felix. 'How long did you hold them for?'

  Macro thought about it, trying to recall the detail.'An hour or so.'

  'You fought them off for an hour?' Felix's jaw dropped in amazement. 'The whole bloody army?'

  'Not the whole army, you twat!' Macro jabbed a finger towards the ford. 'They could only take us on a few at a time. And then only after they cleared away the little surprises we'd prepared for them. I doubt we were in contact for a fraction of that time. And that was more than enough.'

  Maximius was watching him closely. 'Why did you give way?'

  'Once they'd opened a gap in the barricade what else could we do? And I'll tell you something else.' Macro wagged a finger at him to emphasise the point. 'Those bastards are starting to pick up a few tricks from us now.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Tullius.

  'They only went and formed a testudo when they came in for the second attack!'

  'A testudo?' Tullius shook his head. 'I don't believe it.'

  'It's true! Ask any of my men. That's why we had to fall back. We had no way of stopping that. If we'd stayed they'd have cut us to pieces in short order.'

  'Same as the rest of us on the river bank,' Maximius said thoughtfully. 'We had to give ground or fall where we stood. Wouldn't have taken 'em long to carve us up.'

  The other centurions glanced at each other warily, and ate their food in silence until Antonius looked up.

  'Oi! Slave!'

  'Yes, master?'

  'Any more sausage there?'

  'Yes, master. There's one left.' He looked to Maximius, waiting for instruction. 'Master Maximius… sir?'

  'What?' Maximius looked round irritably. 'What is it?'

  'The sausage, sir.' The slave nodded towards Centurion Antonius, who was holding out his mess tin.

  Maximius smiled and nodded his assent. 'Let him have it. He's a growing boy and needs his food.'

  'Thank you, sir.' Antonius beamed, eyes greedily fixed on the skillet the slave swung towards him. He thrust his mess tin forwards, caught the edge of the pan and the sausage jumped over the rim into the fire.

  'Fucking shit!' Antonius glared at the sausage spitting in the heart of the fire and everyone else laughed.

  'Consider that a sacrifice!' Maximius grinned. 'An offering to… which god shall we honour?'

  'Fortuna,' Macro said seriously.'We need all the luck we can get. Right now.'

  He nodded over Maximius' shoulder and the centurions turned to look at a squad of soldiers marching down the sleeping lines of the men of the Third Cohort.

  'Provosts!' Felix spat into the fire.'Trust them to go and ruin a decent breakfast.'

  They fell silent as the squad marched up, led by an optio from the legate's personal bodyguard. They halted a short distance from the group sitting round the fire. The optio stepped forward.

  'Centurion Maximius, sir.'

  'Yes.'

  'You're to come with us. The general wants to question you.'

  'I see.' Maximius bowed his head for a moment, as if composing himself, then he nodded. 'All right… All right, then. Let's go.'

  He set his mess tin down and rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his soiled and bloodied tunic. He forced a smile on to his face. 'I'll see you lads a bit later. Tullius?'

  'Sir?'

  'Get the cohort up for m
e. Ready for duty. I'll do an inspection as soon as I get back.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The optio nodded towards the small collection of tents in the centre of the camp.

  'I'm coming,' Maximius responded with a trace of irritation at the optio's manner.

  The centurions silently watched as their cohort commander was marched away between the double file of provosts. Maximius stiffened his back and strode forward as if he was on the parade ground.

  'Poor bastard,' Cato said softly enough that only Macro heard him. 'This is the end of the road for him, isn't it?'

  'Yes,' Macro muttered. 'If there's any justice.'

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The optio and the provosts returned with Maximius just over an hour later. Tullius had carried out his orders and the legionaries were formed up ready for inspection. In the short time that they had been allowed, the men had struggled to make the best of their appearance. As Tullius caught sight of their commander approaching he bellowed out the order to call them to attention and the men stamped their feet together and stiffened their backs, staring fixedly ahead. The centurions stood to the front of their men, and to each side of them stood their optio and standard-bearer. As Maximius and his escort approached, Cato could see that he looked strained and shaken by his questioning. He acknowledged Tullius' formal greeting with a nod and then, without even looking at the men, he quietly ordered Tullius to dismiss them.

  'Cohort! Fall out!'

  The men turned and filed back towards their sleeping lines and Cato noted their discontented expressions and the faint grumblings of resentment at being roused and rushed into preparing for an inspection. That was the army way, he knew. Moments of frenzied activity, often for no better reason than to keep the men on their toes, ready to respond to any demand on the instant. But right now they were still tired and hungry, and their resentment was understandable. Even so…