The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  'No, sir.'

  Vespasian sniffed. 'Just keep to what you know as fact from now on.'

  'Sorry, sir.'

  'Next… when you came in sight of the ford and saw the enemy moving to take the island, would you say that Macro's century offered the enemy much resistance?'

  'Much resistance, sir?'

  'All right then. For how long did they attempt to defend the crossing once they had caught sight of the rest of the cohort approaching?'

  Cato could see the implication of the question immediately, and for the first time began to fear for his friend. 'It's hard for me to say, sir. I was at the rear of the column.'

  Vespasian sighed and tapped his stylus against the slate.'Was he defending the crossing when you came in sight of it?'

  'No, sir. Some of the men were falling back. They were being covered by Macro and his rearguard. He had to fight his way back to the cohort.'

  'Could you see the fight from where you were on the far bank?'

  'Not quite, sir.'

  'Not quite?'

  'There were trees in the way, sir.'

  'So you had no way of knowing if Macro was forced back, or whether he simply abandoned his position?'

  Cato did not reply for a moment. He couldn't. Even though a denial would not condemn his friend it would not save him either.

  'Sir, you know Macro. You know his quality. He'd never give way to an enemy until the last instant, and even then-'

  'That's irrelevant, Centurion Cato,' Vespasian responded curtly. 'I'm still waiting for an answer to my question.'

  Cato stared at his legate helplessly, before he finally spoke. 'No… I couldn't see the fighting on the island.'

  Vespasian made a note, and then looked up and stared searchingly at Cato. Here it comes, the centurion thought. He's saved the toughest question until last. Cato focused his mind.

  'Just one more issue I need to clear up, then you can go. When the Third Cohort reached the ford there was an attempt to hold the enemy back, I understand.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'How effectively, in your opinion, was this defence prosecuted?'

  Images of the desperate fight shimmered in and out his memory before Cato forced himself to reflect more objectively on the conduct of the cohort.

  'We were outnumbered, sir. We were forced to give ground.'

  'Forced to?'

  'Yes, sir. Once they had pushed us back from the ford they threatened to outflank us. We had to pull back or be wiped out.'

  'Has it occurred to you that if the Third Cohort had been a little more resolute and held their ground then the battle would have been a complete success?'

  'Of course it has, sir. But, with respect, you weren't there…'

  The clerk sucked in his breath nervously and risked a glance at his legate. Vespasian looked furious at having been spoken to in such a manner by the most junior centurion in his legion. For a while he continued to glare at Cato and then he clicked his fingers at the clerk.'Delete that last remark from the record.'

  While the clerk reversed his stylus and used the flat end to erase the offending statement Vespasian addressed the centurion quietly.

  'In view of your previous service record I'll let that one pass. Next time you won't find me so forgiving. I want you and the others to remain in camp. No more swimming. You may be called on without notice. Dismissed!'

  'Yes, sir.' Cato stood to attention, saluted, turned smartly and marched out of the tent. He walked slowly back towards the Third Cohort's station. The baggage train had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and after a quick meal the legionaries had erected their tents. Instead of the long lines of kit there were now hundreds of goatskin tents ranged in ordered lines stretching out on both sides of the Praetorian Way, and the men had stowed their equipment inside and now slept in the shade or chatted quietly in small groups outside in the sunshine.

  Back amongst his men, Cato found his own tent and saw that a camp bed had been set up for him. He slumped down on it and started to unfasten his harness. A shadow partially blocked the light streaming in through the tent flaps, he looked up and there was Macro.

  'I saw you coming back. How did it go?'

  'Badly. Everything I said seemed to go the wrong way.'

  'I know,' Macro smiled bitterly. 'But you're not usually at a loss for words.'

  'No. But nothing I said seemed to make a difference. I think the legate's already made his mind up about what happened.' Cato stopped fiddling with his buckles and looked down at the ground. 'I think we're in trouble… deep trouble.'

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Shortly before dusk Vespasian headed across the Tamesis to report to General Plautius in the main camp. He carried the results of his interviews in a large pannier bag hanging across the horse's back behind his saddle. The auxiliary units had been busy during the day, digging huge pits a short distance away from the crossing. The bodies of the Britons massacred the previous evening were still being dragged away and the crushed grass where they had been heaped was dark with their dried blood. Vespasian's horse wrinkled its nostrils nervously at the smell hanging in the air and he urged it on, anxious to reach the ridge and leave the unsettling scene behind him.

  Inside the camp the legate dismounted outside the general's headquarters and signalled to one of the guards to carry his pannier bags. A clerk ushered him into Plautius' tents as the last glimmer of the sun set on the horizon. Inside the headquarters the general's staff were busy with the administrative consequences of the previous day's battle. There were after-action reports that needed collating for the official history: logging of unit strength returns; compiling weapons and supplies inventories; recording the numbers of the enemy dead and preparing orders for the next stage of the campaign. It was nearly September, Vespasian reflected, and Plautius had hoped to be firmly entrenched on the banks of the Sabrina by autumn when the rain and mud would bog the legions down.

  Now that Caratacus' army had been all but eliminated, the enemy would be limited to small operations – at least until large numbers of fresh tribal levies could be raised, armed and given some basic training. The warrior caste that had formed the backbone of his army had been whittled away over the last year and only a small cadre remained. Amongst them, in all likelihood, Caratacus himself. And while he lived the spirit of resistance would still smoulder in the hearts of the Britons, threatening all the while to flare up in the faces of the Roman invaders.

  Vespasian frowned. That bloody man had far more than his fair share of luck. Far more, at least, than the thousands of natives being buried down by the river.

  General Plautius was examining a large map spread across a table when Vespasian was ushered into his presence. The other legates and senior tribunes stood round him. Vespasian caught the eye of his older brother, Sabinus, and nodded a greeting. Seated to one side of the table, and looking thoroughly bored, was Narcissus, painstakingly peeling a pear with an ornate dagger.

  The general glanced up. 'Vespasian, you've joined us at an interesting moment. We've just had the reports in from the mounted units.'

  Vespasian nodded to the soldier who had carried the bags and he set them down beside one of the leather sides of the tent, and then withdrew. Vespasian joined the others at the table.

  The map was made up from finely cured hides upon which the general's staff continually added new geographical features. The disposition of Roman forces was marked by red painted blocks of wood with unit identifiers cut into the top surface. There was no sign of any enemy markers on the map.

  The general cleared his throat with a small cough. 'We know that a number of the enemy escaped us yesterday, perhaps as many as five thousand. I ordered our cavalry to pursue them and cut them down. So far they claim to have killed at least another two thousand, before they came up against a vast expanse of wetlands… here.'

  Plautius leaned forward and tapped the map some ten to fifteen miles south and west of the crossing. 'The downs
quickly give way to a marsh. That's where the survivors gave our cavalry the slip. But only after they turned on our cavalry and started to fight back. We began to lose men so the cavalry withdrew and now they're screening the approaches to the marsh. So, we're faced with a pretty little conundrum, gentlemen. We could ignore these survivors for the moment. After all, there can't be too many left. Certainly not enough to significantly threaten our operations. On the other hand, they will undoubtedly recover their nerve fairly quickly and make a nuisance of themselves. As such they will act as an inspiration to any tribes still thinking of opposing Rome. Our immediate goal, then, is to finish the job and destroy whatever's left of Caratacus' army, and, of course, Caratacus himself, assuming he survived yesterday's battle.

  'We need to make the most of the situation while Caratacus is licking his wounds. Since there's no significant enemy force left to oppose us we can at last afford to disperse our forces and consolidate our gains. If we move swiftly we can lay down a network of forts and roads across the heartlands of Britain. Once that's done the tribes will not be able to move without us knowing about it. Should be a simple policing operation from then on. To that end…'

  Plautius reached for one of the markers and placed it away to the east, in position just outside the boundary of the lands the map ascribed to the Iceni, a tribe that had declared itself for Rome the previous year. The general then turned towards an older officer, Hosidius Geta – legate of the Ninth Legion.

  '… the Ninth will move there, establish a base and start probing north with auxiliary troops, establishing small forts along your lines of advance. The tribes in that area are nominally allied to us. That's fine, but I want a display of strength, understand? You make it clear to them that Rome is here to stay. No marching camps. I want permanent structures, and I want them to look imposing.'

  'Yes, sir.' Geta smiled eagerly. 'Trust me, sir. I'll sort them out.'

  'No!' Plautius stabbed a finger towards him.'That's precisely what I want to avoid. We'll be thinly spread and I want no man here giving the natives an easy excuse to rise up. Once your forces are in place I want you to go out of your way to cultivate good relations with local chieftains. Go hunting with them. Get your engineers to build them bridges, baths, comfortable villas – whatever it takes to get them on our side and make them appreciate the benefits of joining the Empire. I want these bog-hopping barbarian bastards Romanised as soon as possible. Once that's done we can think about extending the province west and north.'

  He gestured towards the lands of the Silurians and the Brigantians, and the officers registered surprise at the scope of his ambitions. Plautius observed their reactions and smiled. 'That's work for the future, gentlemen. All in good time… The Twentieth will continue to advance north of the Tamesis, then cut across to the river Sabrina and establish its base there. I'll be marching with the Twentieth, so Legate Sulpicius Piso will have to double the guard on his fine collection of wines.'

  The officers laughed politely and then the general turned to Sabinus.'You'll have the strongest column. I want you to move directly north. To here.' Plautius pushed the Fourteenth Legion's marker across the map to a point between the Twentieth and the Ninth.'I want you to start construction of a road to link all three legions. That way we can concentrate our forces quickly, should we ever need to. Gentlemen, the end is in sight. Rome can at last consider these lands to be part of the Empire. In a few more years Britain will be a fully functioning province, paying taxes into the imperial treasury.'

  'I rather think that the people back in Rome already regard this vile land as part of the Empire…'

  The officers' heads turned towards Narcissus, who had started peeling another pear as he spoke and did not return their gaze.

  'After all, the Emperor had his triumph through the streets of the capital at the end of last year. You fellows are just doing the mopping-up. I'd remember that if I were you. To imply that the Emperor had somehow fallen short in his conquest of the Britons might smack of treason to some people.' Narcissus lowered his dagger, popped a dripping slice of fruit into his mouth and smiled. 'A word of advice on how to phrase your official reports, that's all. No offence intended. Please continue, my dear General.'

  Plautius nodded curtly, and turned his attention back to the map. 'Vespasian, you will remain in the south. Your first task is to complete the pacification of the south-west. I want that done as swiftly as possible. By the end of this campaign season, if you can. Find and eliminate what is left of Caratacus' army. If you come upon Caratacus, try and take him alive. His life is to be spared.'

  'Spared, sir? Surely we want him out of the way permanently.'

  'He will be out of the way. The Imperial Secretary wants him shipped back to Rome in chains, as a souvenir for Emperor Claudius, to remind him of his brilliant campaign to conquer and subdue the Britons.'

  'Don't overegg it, General,' Narcissus said quietly.

  Plautius pretended to ignore the remark as he continued to brief Vespasian.'According to our intelligence the marsh covers a vast area, all the way to the river Sabrina. It's crossed by a multitude of tracks. Parts of it are slightly elevated and support a few small settlements. There are stretches of open water and some narrow creeks, but they're too small to navigate with anything larger than a raft. It is rumoured that Caratacus has established a fortified camp somewhere in the flats, but so far we've not been able to get any of the prisoners to tell us the location. I appreciate it's difficult ground to work with, Vespasian, but I must have the enemy survivors found and destroyed. If there is a camp, I want it razed. If you can take Caratacus alive, do it.' Plautius paused, and smiled. 'But if not, then we'll just have to present the Emperor with some other souvenir of his trip to Britain.'

  'That would be wise,' added Narcissus.

  Vespasian was looking at the map. The area occupied by the flats was huge. The map simply marked its boundaries, with one or two known features, culled from natives or traders. The only area that had any amount of detail was a valley that ran alongside the marshland, following the course of the river that fed into the marshes and fens. A few tracks had been drawn in tentatively, and as Vespasian ran his finger along one of the lines, it smudged, and he realised it was only chalked on to the map. The general saw the gesture and frowned irritably at the smudge mark.

  'As soon as we've updated the map, I'll ensure that you have a copy. There aren't many of the enemy left, Legate. Shouldn't be too difficult to find them and finish them off. Once you've crushed Caratacus and his surviving forces, that should be the end of resistance to us in the south.'

  The general looked up brightly.'That's that, gentlemen. Any questions?… No? Good. Your written orders will be with you shortly and you're to begin preparations to break camp the day after tomorrow.'

  Sabinus looked uncomfortable. 'Only one day to prepare, sir?'

  'That's what I said. We've already lost enough time this year. We need to move fast to catch up. Now, unless there's anything else, you may return to your legions and get your staffs to work.'

  As the officers filed out, Vespasian waited for a moment and then approached his commander. 'Sir, I've questioned the officers of my Third Cohort and taken their statements, which I've brought with me.' He indicated the bag over by the side of the tent.

  'Good. I'll send for my chief clerk. He can make preparations for the inquiry. If we move quickly we can settle the matter in the next few days.'

  'No.' Narcissus interrupted him. 'Now.'

  General Plautius turned towards the freedman, and Vespasian saw his jaw stiffen with suppressed anger. 'I beg your pardon, Narcissus. Did you have anything to contribute to the disciplinary procedures of my legions?'

  'You mean the Emperor's legions, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  Narcissus smiled. 'I'm afraid I must rush you on this matter. You know I'm leaving at first light to report back to Rome.'

  'Yes… a great shame.'

  'Quite. Anyway, I will, naturally, have
to mention yesterday's missed opportunity to crush Caratacus completely.'

  'Oh, naturally.'

  'The Emperor and the senate will want to know that those responsible for the mistake have paid a price commensurate with the scale of their failure. So I'm afraid we can't wait for a proper inquiry. We need to act now.'

  'Now?' The general frowned.

  'Tonight,' Narcissus replied firmly. 'The inquiry must be held tonight, and those found responsible must be sentenced before I leave in the morning.'

  'That's absurd!' Plautius blustered. 'It's impossible.'

  'No it's not. And I'll tell you what is possible. It's possible that Rome will take a dim view of your failure to eliminate Caratacus and his army. Unless I can persuade them that you have won a decisive victory. The escape of Caratacus can be presented as a minor detail, provided that those responsible for letting him slip away are identified and punished swiftly and decisively. Vespasian's Third Cohort should fit the bill nicely.'

  'We haven't had the inquiry yet,' the General pointed out. 'They might not be found at fault.'

  'You'd better make sure that they are. In the end, it's you or them, my dear General.' Narcissus paused to let the threat sink in, then he spoke again, in his quiet, polite, unflustered manner. 'So, might I suggest that you give the necessary orders?'

  General Plautius glared at the man, visions of bloody torture and revenge flooding into his mind in rapid succession. The freedman's impudence was breathtaking, but the gulf in social status between a senator and a freedman, who had been a slave of Claudius only a few years ago, was erased by the fact that Narcissus was the Emperor's most trusted and closest advisor. The Emperor ruled Rome, but the Emperor, Plautius had heard it said, was ruled by his freedman. Only now, the freedman had a rival in Messalina, Claudius's scheming young wife, and that made Narcissus an even more desperate and dangerous man to cross.

  'I'll give the orders.'

  'Thank you, General.' Narcissus resumed his concentration on the skinless pear on the silver plate on his lap, slicing it as finely as possible with the glinting blade of his dagger. 'Send me word when all is ready. I'll wait here.'