Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘War hero? You?’ he growled. ‘Un-fucking-likely. Who’d you have to be buggered by to get the commendation?’

  Cato did not answer, did not even look up from his digging.

  ‘Hey, I’m talking to you!’

  Cato ignored him.

  ‘What’s this? No manners? And I thought you were so well brought up. I suppose you’re too good to speak to the likes of us.’ He laughed to the recruit on his other side. ‘Seems the war hero’s got ideas above his station.’

  ‘Quiet there!’ an instructor called out. ‘Silence when you work.’

  Pulcher fell back to work with exaggerated effort until he was sure that he was no longer being paid any attention. Then he flicked a shovel full of soil at Cato’s face.

  ‘You fucking ignore me again, boy and I’ll . . .’

  ‘You’ll what?’ Cato turned angrily, with his pick half raised. ‘You tell me what you’ll do! C’mon, you bastard!’

  Pulcher’s hands tightened on his shovel, but some sixth sense warned him to turn back to his ditch just as Bestia strode up to them.

  ‘What’s this? Taking a break without orders are we, war hero?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And why are you covered in dirt, boy?’

  ‘Sir, I . . .’

  ‘Answer my fucking question!’

  ‘I slipped, sir. While I was tossing the soil up into the camp.’

  ‘You tired then, boy?’ Bestia asked with an expression of feigned concern.

  ‘Yes, sir, but I . . .’

  ‘Well then, it seems you need a bit more fitness training. You’re on latrine fatigues for the next five evenings.’

  ‘But, sir. I’m to attend the legate’s party after the investiture.’

  ‘You’ll have to shovel shit twice as quick then if you’re going to be there on time.’ Bestia smiled sweetly. ‘And do make sure you’re smartly turned out, or Vespasian’ll have you on a charge.’

  Bestia laughed as he allowed himself to imagine the scene. Then with a hearty clap on Cato’s shoulder he wandered back down the line.

  ‘And fuck you, sir,’ Cato swore softly at the man’s back and then started in horror as the centurion whipped round and pointed a finger at him accusingly.

  ‘Did you say something’ Did you?’

  ‘Just “thank you”, sir.’

  ‘You being sarky to me, son?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Cato replied, deadpan. ‘I’m just grateful that you are offering me an opportunity to improve myself so I can be a legionary you can be proud of, sir.’

  Bestia glared at him a moment then whirled round abruptly and strode away, leaving Cato to his digging. Next to him, Pulcher’s shoulders rocked with silent laughter.

  ‘I’ll remember this,’ Cato said quietly.

  ‘Oooh, I’m so scared of you! I’m just pissing my pants,’ Pulcher whispered.

  Cato stared at him a moment, no longer as terrified of the man as he used to be, only worn down by the anxiety of looking out for Pulcher, wondering when and how the bastard would next find a way to get at him. With an angry sigh he swung the pick back into the ground as hard as possible, then grunted with effort to dislodge the clump of earth. Something had to be done about Pulcher, and soon.

  At midday Bestia called for a halt and the men stood at attention as he examined their efforts. The abrupt halt to work allowed the sweat to run cold and clammy beneath their tunics and, in the enforced stillness, most of them were shivering as the drill team strode along tutting at their crude technique. The ditch ran unevenly along its inner side as a number of recruits had forgotten the two-spades-width rule. Others had not yet managed to dig the required amount out of the frozen ground and their sections did not match up to their neighbours. Only a few dozen had performed to Bestia’s grudging satisfaction, Pulcher and Cato amongst them.

  ‘Frankly, ladies, I don’t think the barbarians out there have much to fear from Rome as long as useless shits like you are manning its legions. If you call this a defensive ditch then I’m a cheap Greek tart. The only thing this’ll keep out is the cold. So, ladies, let’s fill it in, stop for a quick bite, and then we’ll have another go this afternoon.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The entrance to the legate’s house was brightly lit when Cato arrived, after a fast run from the barracks. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and place the grass crown back on his head. For the moment, the phalera hung from a ribbon around his neck over the front of his tunic. Later it would be fixed to his chain-mail armour where it would remain for the rest of his life and be buried with him. Composed, he strode up to the gate where a household steward sat at a desk in the porch behind the two guards. The guards crossed spears to indicate Cato was to halt.

  ‘Name, please?’ the steward asked.

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato.’

  ‘Cato,’ murmured the steward as he made a mark on a wax slate with his stylus. ‘You’re late, Cato, very late. Admit him.’

  The spears parted and Cato passed through the gateway to the interior courtyard.

  ‘Straight ahead.’ The steward pointed to the main hall, wrinkling his nose and frowning as Cato went by. From the windows above the colonnade came the glow of a brightly lit interior, and the sounds of music and laughter spilled out above the hubbub of general conversation. It was bad form to arrive so late to a party but it would have been unthinkable to have ignored the invitation, just as it was impossible to disobey Bestia’s orders to sluice and scrub the latrine channels. Tonight’s fatigues had taken longer than usual due to a stomach bug that was going through the Legion at a ferocious rate. Cato had been left with little time to change into his best tunic and run through the fortress to arrive even at this late hour. With a bitter sense of dread for the inevitable interrogation about his tardiness, Cato walked over to the hall at a condemned man’s pace. He rapped the door. Instantly the latch leapt up and the door swung inwards to reveal the household’s majordomo, hardly able to conceal his irritation.

  ‘There you are at last! You’d better have a good explanation for the legate.’

  ‘I’ll apologise as soon as there’s a quiet moment,’ Cato promised. ‘Is there any way I can get to my place unobtrusively?’

  ‘Hardly, young man. Follow me.’

  The majordomo shut the door and led Cato through a heavy curtain into a large hall. Though minute by imperial palace standards, Cato mused, the room had been made as comfortable as it could possibly be this close to the ends of the Empire. The hall was brightly lit from scores of oil lamps suspended from the joists. Two long benches ran down each side of the hall, covered with cushions for the diners who ate off the low tables in front of them. Cato was surprised to see that all the tribunes and nearly every centurion was present, together with a number of wives. In the open space between the tables a pair of wrestlers were grunting and straining in a tight embrace as they groped for a decisive hand-hold. At one end of the hall a small group of pipe players strove to be heard above the din of the guests. Cato hurriedly looked for a gap on the nearest bench to quietly slip into, but the majordomo beckoned to him and slowly proceeded down the side of the hall to the head table where Vespasian and his most honoured guests reclined. With horror Cato saw a conspicuous gap between Macro and Vespasian. The legate frowned as they approached, but only for a moment before he forced a smile on to his lips and waved a greeting.

  ‘Optio! I wondered where you had got to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Cato replied as he slipped forward on to the couch beside Macro. ‘I had some duties I was ordered to complete first.’

  ‘What duties?’

  ‘I’d rather not say over dinner, sir.’

  ‘Not much of that left, I’m afraid. Rufulus! See what you can find for the optio, must be some choice titbits left.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The majordomo bowed, darting a sharp glare at Cato.

  ‘While you’re waiting you might try some of the stuffed dormice.’ Vespasian proffered a gold
serving dish around which lay an arrangement of tiny baked mice. ‘They’re filled with some of the local herbs and cheese. Not quite what you’re used to at the palace, I suspect, but it’s a pleasant enough gastronomic reminder of home. Take one.’

  Cato did as he was told. While the mice had been slightly overbaked, they made a pleasant change from standard legionary fare. As Cato happily crunched on the tasty morsels, the legate ordered a slave to bring the late arrival a selection of delicacies.

  ‘Have some wine.’ Vespasian pointed out a row of Samian decanters. ‘There’s a decent Caecuban and a tolerable Massic. I’m saving the last of my Falernian for a toast.’

  Cato’s eyes glittered at the prospect. ‘Your cook has done his Apicius proud. Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘My pleasure, son. You did well in that little business with the locals. Now I’ll leave you to your meal before it goes completely cold. I want to introduce you to a few people later on. Some you will already know.’ Vespasian smiled. ‘My wife says she is particularly keen to catch up on some of the palace gossip. That is, if I can tear her away from Tribune Vitellius.’ He nodded towards the end of the head table where Cato could see the tribune over the shoulder of a slim woman. The pair seemed to be deep in conversation. Suddenly the legate’s wife shook with laughter and Vespasian frowned momentarily. He switched his attention back to the waiting optio. ‘As I said, that can wait for later. But for now I’m afraid I have to talk shop with the camp prefect. Please excuse me and enjoy the meal.’

  The legate turned his back and Cato shifted on to his stomach, feasting his eyes on the spread before him, before he allowed his tastebuds a turn.

  ‘What the hell is that smell?’ Macro sniffed accusingly.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s me, sir,’ Cato replied, filling his cup with a dark red Massic.

  ‘What is it? You stink like a cheap tart.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a scent Pyrax bought for a cheap tart.’

  ‘You’re wearing a scent?’ Macro recoiled in horror.

  ‘Had to, sir. I’ve been up to my knees in shit all afternoon. I cleaned myself down as best I could but there’s no shifting the smell. Pyrax suggested I try to cover over it with his scent.’

  ‘He did, did he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Said it was better to smell like a tart than a turd, or something.’

  ‘That’s debatable.’

  ‘How’s the leg today, sir?’ Cato asked, reaching for another dormouse.

  ‘Getting better. But still a few weeks before I’m allowed back on my feet. I’m not looking forward to spending most of it in a transport wagon.’

  ‘Any idea where the Legion’s being sent?’

  ‘Shhh! Keep your mouth shut! We’re not supposed to know yet. I think that’s why we’ve all been invited.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Why else invite so many if it’s just a quiet dinner to celebrate the investiture? There’s bound to be more to it than that.’

  Flavia laughed politely, but discreetly, at the tribune’s joke; one had to be careful when discussing Emperor Claudius. At the same time she wished to probe Vitellius a little further so the amused expression remained on her face.

  ‘That’s a good story Vitellius. Very good. But I wonder, do you think Claudius is right for the job?’

  ‘What do I think of Claudius?’ He scrutinised her closely before replying. ‘It’s a bit too early to make a judgement, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I have friends in Rome who tell me that people are already saying that Claudius won’t last long, that he’s mad or, at the very least, a simpleton. And that he lets his freedmen run the empire in his name. Particularly that fellow Narcissus.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that too.’ Vitellius smiled, amused by the way in which people discussing the Emperor always voiced their own opinions through the mouths of anonymous friends. ‘But it’s early days, he’s bound to delegate some tasks while he learns the ropes.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Flavia replied as she picked a scrap of meat from one of the bones lying on her plate. ‘But I wonder how one man can ever be expected to rule the Empire – such a burden. I know I’m only a woman and have a limited perspective on affairs of state, but I would have thought that such a task required the energies of more than one man. Surely there are enough wise heads in the Senate who can be relied on to help the Emperor rule?’

  ‘To help the Emperor rule? Or to rule in his place? And then we’re back to the bloodshed of the Republic. Nearly every politician a soldier and every soldier a politician, and once you’re in that situation there are no longer any elections – just wars.’

  ‘Not that we have elections any more,’ Flavia smiled.

  ‘No. No, we don’t. But how long has it been since Romans slaughtered Romans in the name of their general’s political ambitions?’

  ‘As far as I recall, not since the divine Augustus wiped out all his rivals and imposed his dynasty upon us. And, let’s face it, the Emperors have rather a lot of blood on their hands. There are many in Rome who suffered at the hands of Augustus, Tiberius and Caligula. And who is to say that the present incumbent won’t continue the tradition?’

  ‘Maybe. But how many more might have died if Augustus had not seized control of the army from the Senate and made it the tool of one man?’

  ‘So it’s simply a question of the relative death-rates, then?’

  ‘Look here,’ Vitellius asked quietly. ‘Are you really suggesting that we return to the Republic?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Flavia replied sweetly. ‘But – just for the sake of argument between friends over a comfortable meal – don’t you think a return to senatorial rule would be preferable to the present situation?’

  ‘An interesting question, Flavia. Very interesting. Of course there are arguments that can be made in favour of either arrangement. I’m sure there’s a considerable pool of talent that could be drawn on if the Senate had all its powers restored, but I fear that there are rather more senators with designs on accruing power to themselves than there are those who genuinely wish to serve Rome. You only have to look at that nasty business in Dalmatia last year. Poor Claudius had only just been confirmed as Emperor when the mutiny occurred. If a few more legions had joined Scribonianus and the other plotters then who knows how it would have ended? We’re lucky Narcissus’s agents managed to nip that one in the bud.’

  ‘Nipped in the bud?’ Flavia mused. ‘That’s a nice euphemism for the dozens who were killed. I lost some good friends before I left Rome. I’m sure you did as well. And they’re still hunting down the surviving members of the plot. Not a comfortable time in which to live.’

  ‘They brought it on themselves, Flavia. Before you gamble in such affairs you should consider the stakes. It’s all or nothing. They lost and Claudius won. Do you think they would have been any more merciful to him if it had worked out the other way round?’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose they would.’ She nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Not that there was ever much chance of them succeeding,’ Vitellius continued. ‘The fools had been old-fashioned enough to appeal to the legionaries’ patriotism rather than their purses. The moment Narcissus showed up with Claudius’s gold it was all over.’

  ‘It would seem,’ Flavia looked him deep in the eyes, ‘that the moral of the tale is that the army is only as loyal as the imperial treasury is deep.’

  ‘Why, Flavia!’ Vitellius laughed. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself! But I’m afraid you are right. At the end of the day it’s all down to whoever can offer the troops the most money. Ancestors, wisdom and integrity mean nothing any more. Money is the font of all power. If you have it then the world turns for you, if not then you are quite helpless.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Flavia sipped at her wine. ‘I hope our Emperor can afford to remain in the job. Otherwise, as you say, it’s just a question of time before the army looks to a wealthier patron.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vitellius sa
id. ‘Just a question of time. But enough of politics, for now. You’re an interesting woman. I really do wish I’d had the opportunity to share a decent conversation with you before tonight.’

  ‘That would have been nice. I’m afraid Vespasian does tend to try and keep me under lock and key, army bases being what they are.’

  ‘And I’m sure,’ Vitellius leaned closer, ‘that you’re smart enough to run rings round such restrictions, should you want to.’

  ‘Yes . . . should I want to.’

  ‘And is that why you married him?’

  Flavia looked up and saw that his eyes were openly appraising her as his lips melted into the smooth smile of a seducer.

  ‘No.’ Flavia shook her head. ‘I married Vespasian because I love him. And there’s more steel in him than you can imagine. You’d do well to remember that.’

  The tribune’s brow creased and he was quite still as he accepted the rebuff. Then he refilled his glass, without offering to do the same for Flavia, and raised it.

  ‘To your husband,’ he said quietly. ‘What you say about him may well be true . . . for now.’