Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Oh no! Nothing. Just looking.’

  ‘I see.’ The merchant continued to watch him closely, a hint of a smile on his dark lips. ‘Just looking, then?’

  ‘Yes. You, uh, you had a girl here earlier.’

  The merchant nodded slowly.

  ‘Is she yours? I mean is she family?’

  ‘No, sir. A slave. Bought her from a tribune this morning.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. And I just sold her a few moments ago.’

  ‘Sold her!’ Cato’s heart jumped.

  ‘To a lady, there, sir.’ The merchant pointed through the throng to where a tall, slender figure was about to enter the fortress gate. At her side, following her new mistress like a dog, was the girl he had seen earlier. Without another word to the merchant Cato set off in pursuit, not sure of any reason for his behaviour other than a powerful desire to see the girl again. And so he hurried through the crowd, eyes locked on the pair of women ahead as he quickly closed the distance. At the gate, the woman turned to look back and Cato instantly recognised her as the legate’s wife. Before he could react, Flavia’s eyes met his and she instantly waved a greeting.

  ‘Why! It’s young Cato!’

  Trying hard not to blush, Cato hurried over, managing to avoid looking at the slave girl as he made his greeting.

  ‘Good morning, my lady.’

  ‘Been buying books I see, rather a lot of books.’

  ‘Not for me, my lady. For my centurion.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Flavia smiled. ‘It must be quite pleasant having an officer who shares one’s tastes in poetry so completely. Did you find anything for yourself?’

  ‘No, my lady.’ Cato let his eyes shift to the slave girl and flushed with embarrassment when he saw her smiling back at him. ‘Can’t afford any books, my lady.’

  ‘Really? That’s too bad. But look here, Cato. I have to leave some of my books behind since there’s so little room to spare in the wagons. They might not be to your taste, but you’re welcome to have the first pick.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. That’s most kind.’

  ‘Call round to the legate’s house later on and we’ll see. Do you two know each other?’

  Cato had found himself responding to the slave girl’s smile while the legate’s wife had been speaking and now he snapped his eyes back.

  ‘Oh no, my lady! Never!’

  ‘You could have fooled me!’ Flavia laughed. ‘You look like a pair of lovestruck puppies. Honestly, you youngsters only ever have one thing on your minds. You’re worse than rabbits.’

  ‘No, my lady!’ Cato’s blush deepened to a most unbecoming crimson. ‘I assure you I had no intention—’

  ‘Peace, Cato! Peace!’ Flavia raised her hands. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry. There, I’ve embarrassed you. I apologise. Do you forgive me?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Oh dear! I really have upset you. I just hope I can make amends when you call round later on. Can’t leave you walking around the base with that look on your face, it’d damage morale.’

  ‘I’m all right, my lady.’

  ‘Of course you are. Well, I’ll see you later on then.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Come, Lavinia!’

  Lavinia. Cato savoured the name a moment and, as he watched Flavia lead her new purchase away, the slave girl glanced back and winked at him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The legate’s house was in turmoil, packing cases lay strewn about his private quarters and the household slaves laboured to bed down every breakable item between layers of straw. The slaves, fearful of Flavia’s wrath – she had a fierce temper when provoked and was not above having a slave flogged when the circumstances warranted it – handled the pottery and china with as much care as possible. Besides the breakables, Flavia had to make arrangements for the packing of the linen and personal items of furniture – all of which was being shipped back to Vespasian’s house on the Quirinal in Rome. Flavia and Titus were to accompany him as far as the Gaulish coast and return home once the campaign was launched. By that time the witch-hunt for the surviving members of the Scribonianus conspiracy should have died down and some sort of normality would have returned to the social scene. And Rome was the best place for Titus since they must begin thinking about his education in the near future. Vespasian favoured a strictly vocational training in law and rhetoric and wanted Flavia to begin looking for a tutor as soon as possible.

  Through the tangle of packing cases and piles of straw weaved a maid-servant, trying to catch Flavia’s eye.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone to see you, mistress. One of the soldiers,’ she said with evident distaste.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An optio.’

  ‘Cato?’

  ‘Yes, mistress, that’s what he said his name was.’

  ‘Very well. I suppose I could do with a little break from all this packing.’

  A nearby slave raised his eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Show the optio through to the study. I’ll be there in a minute. Make him at home and offer the boy something to drink.’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’

  ‘I was just thinking about you,’ Flavia said as she breezed into the study, wearing a light silk stola. The room, like most rooms in the legate’s house, was heated by a hypercaust system and Cato was relishing the warmth it provided in the moments before Flavia’s entrance.

  ‘You’re fortunate that those fools haven’t packed up my study yet. Do sit down.’

  Cato resumed his seat as Flavia wafted over to a large shelved cupboard with dozens of scrolls neatly stacked in sections. She paused a moment and fondly ran her hands over some of them before she addressed the optio.

  ‘You’re welcome to whatever you want, or at least whatever you can carry. You can take the Philippics – bombastic delivery but with flashes of wit – and the Georgics – fertile reading matter – and here’s a few volumes of Livy. Would you like some poetry?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Nearly an hour later a pile of scrolls lay on the couch beside Cato and he was engaged in the heart-breaking task of deciding which of Flavia’s offerings he would be able to fit into his marching pack. Flavia watched him thoughtfully as he mentally weighed up each book before deciding which pile to place it in.

  ‘You were quite taken with Lavinia, weren’t you?’

  ‘My lady?’ Cato looked up, scroll poised in hand.

  ‘The slave girl I bought this morning.’

  ‘Oh, her!’

  ‘Oh, her, indeed. You’re not fooling me, young Cato, I know the signs. The question is, what do you want to do about it?’

  Cato stared back, mind reeling with shame at the transparency of his feelings and a desire to see Lavinia again, to stare into those emerald eyes.

  ‘Well, maybe I was wrong then,’ Flavia teased him. ‘Maybe you don’t want to see her again.’

  ‘My lady! I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Thought so,’ laughed Flavia. ‘Honestly, I can read you men like a book almost every time. Don’t worry, Cato, I’m not going to stop you seeing her – far from it, but give the girl some time to settle into the household and then I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  ‘Yes, my lady . . . Thank you.’

  ‘Now you’d better take those scrolls and leave. I’d love to talk but there’s too much work still to be done. Another time, soon. And maybe Lavinia can join us?’

  ‘Of course, my lady. I’d like that.’

  ‘I bet you would!’

  As she watched Cato’s back disappear down the Via Praetoria Flavia smiled to herself. A lovely boy, she thought, and far too trusting. If she cultivated him carefully he might well be useful to her some day.

  ‘So what is all this stuff?’ asked Macro suspiciously as Cato handed over the scrolls, each one neatly encased and labelled.

  ‘Essays and histories mostly.’

  ‘No poetry?’

  ‘
None, sir, as you ordered,’ Cato replied. ‘There’s some pretty exciting material here—’

  ‘Exciting? Look, I just want to learn enough to read. That’s it, as far as I’m concerned – all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. If that’s what you really want . . . Now then, sir, how have you been managing with the letters I showed you?’

  Reaching under his bed, Macro brought out a wooden wax tablet and handed it over to his subordinate. Cato flipped it open and scanned the contents. To the left-hand side of each tablet were the letters of the alphabet that he had neatly inscribed on the wax-coated surface. Immediately to the right of this were the centurion’s rough attempts at copying – straggling lines and curves that occasionally bore a passing resemblance to the original.

  ‘It wasn’t easy writing on my lap, you know,’ explained Macro. ‘Bloody thing kept sliding all over the place.’

  ‘So I see. Well, it’s a good start. Have you managed to remember what each one sounds like?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then would you mind going through them with me, sir? Just for practice. Then we’ll try a few words.’

  Macro ground his teeth. ‘Don’t you think I can do it?’

  ‘I’m sure you can, sir. But practice makes perfect, as you keep telling me. Shall we?’

  As Macro stumbled through the alphabet, Cato kept his comments to a minimum and all the while images of Lavinia trickled into his mind’s eye, to be expelled with considerable reluctance. In the end, even Macro could see that the young man’s attention was not fully engaged with the task at hand. Abruptly he snapped the tablets shut so that Cato nearly fell off his stool.

  ‘What’s on your mind, boy?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Even I know I got some of those words wrong – and you’re just sitting there nodding like a chicken. What’s so bloody important that you can’t concentrate on this?’

  ‘Sir, it’s nothing. Just a personal matter. It won’t happen again. Shall we continue?’

  ‘Not if your problem’s going to get in the way.’

  The lesson had become boring and Macro was not keen to continue. Moreover, the boy’s evident reluctance to explain the cause of his distraction had provoked Macro’s curiosity.

  ‘Spit it out, lad!’

  ‘Really, sir,’ protested Cato. ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Speak. That’s an order. I’m not having my men walk around like daydreamers. You youngsters spend all your time worrying about bullying and women. So which is it? Who’s been having a go at you?’

  ‘No-one, sir.’

  ‘Narrows things down a bit then, doesn’t it?’ Macro winked salaciously. ‘So who’s the woman then? It better not be the legate’s wife. Might as well write out a suicide note right now.’

  ‘No, sir! Not her,’ Cato said, with a look of horror.

  ‘Then who?’ Macro demanded.

  ‘A slave girl.’

  ‘You want to get her in the sack, I take it?’

  Cato stared at him for a moment and then nodded.

  ‘So what’s the problem? Offer her a few goodies and you’re in. I’ve never known a slave woman who wasn’t prepared to part her legs for the right gifts. What’s she like?’

  ‘Quite beautiful,’ Cato replied softly.

  ‘No, you idiot! I meant what does she like?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Cato blushed. ‘I don’t really know that much about her.’

  ‘Well, find out. Ask her what she wants in exchange and you’re away.’

  ‘It isn’t like that, sir. I feel something more than just lust.’

  ‘Lust? Who’s talking about lust? You want to screw her, right? So that’s your objective. All you need now is deployment of the appropriate tactics to manoeuvre her into an advantageous position and then secure your conquest. Then it’s just a question of mopping up.’

  ‘Sir!’ Cato, who thought he had become inured to the crude humour of the army, was caught off guard and blushed. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘What are you talking about, lad?’

  Cato tried to elaborate, but found it excruciating to talk about his feelings for Lavinia. It wasn’t that there were no words – his mind reeled with well-remembered lines from any number of poems – but none seemed to quite capture the essence of the horrible aching pain that twisted his stomach and tore at his heart. Poets, he decided, were poor mirrors of mankind’s soul. Precious little pen-scratchers pouring out their petty banalities in order to impress their pals. His feelings for Lavinia went some way beyond mere verse. Or did they? Perhaps Macro was right and his motives were somewhat more prosaic than he thought?

  ‘What’s so different about this woman? Spit it out.’

  ‘I think you have to see her to understand.’

  ‘Bit of a looker, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato smiled.

  ‘So let her know you’re interested and that you’ll pay what it takes to have your way – within reason of course, no sense in inflating her price for the lads who come after you – give her one and be on your way.’

  ‘I was hoping for something a little more meaningful and long-lasting.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Cato replied hurriedly. There was no speaking to the man on such issues, he now realised. ‘Shall we continue with the letters, sir? We’ve quite a long way to go.’

  ‘And some of us are hoping to go all the way,’ Macro smirked.

  ‘Yes, sir. The letters, sir?’ Cato held out the waxed tablets.

  ‘All bloody right then! I can see you don’t want to talk about the woman – that’s your business, right?’

  ‘Shall we continue with the letters, sir?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Macro said sulkily, ‘bloody letters it is.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  By nightfall on the eve of the Legion’s departure every vehicle had been checked for roadworthiness and all wheels freshly greased with tallow. Now they stood in long ranks loaded with the Legion’s equipment and assorted baggage. In their pens outside the fortress the animals contentedly chewed on the last of the winter feed. Most of the headquarters staff, their work done for the next few weeks, were on a serious bender amongst the tents and grimy halls where the locals sold a heady brew that the garrison had grown accustomed to in the years they had been stationed on the Rhine frontier. The more sober-headed veterans were busy waterproofing their boots and making sure that the nail-studded soles were in good shape for the three hundred miles that lay between the Second Legion and the coast.

  At headquarters a small staff still laboured over final details in large chambers that echoed with an eerie emptiness now that all records had been carefully ordered and packed in filing chests and loaded on wagons. Sundry debts owed to local traders were still being settled and travel permits written out for those officers’ families immediately heading south to Italy. A detachment of the Legion’s cavalry had been assigned to escort the convoy as far south as Corbumentum before turning west to rejoin the Legion.

  As Vespasian passed a row of desks where a team of five clerks were bent over their work, writing by the flickering light of oil lamps, he glanced down at the papers strewn before them.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Sir?’ The senior clerk quickly rose to his feet.

  ‘What’s this stuff you’re working on?’

  ‘Copies of a letter we’re writing for Lady Flavia, sir. They’re for slave agents in Rome requesting details of any infant tutors they might have in their catalogues.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She said it was on your orders, sir.’

  The resentment in the tone was unmistakable and Vespasian felt a twinge of guilt that these men were labouring into the night while their comrades were free to indulge themselves to excess.

  ‘Well, I doubt that a night’s delay will ruin her plans. You and your men can finish the letters another time. Off you go then.’

&
nbsp; ‘Thank you, sir. You heard the legate, lads.’

  The papers were eagerly shuffled into order, ink pots stopped up and pens wiped clean and the clerks rose to leave the room.

  ‘Wait!’ Vespasian called out and they turned towards him anxiously. He fumbled in the purse hanging from his belt and tossed a gold piece to the senior clerk. ‘For you and your men – have a few drinks on me. You’ve done a good job these last few days.’

  The clerks mumbled their thanks and hurried away, voices loud with excitement, leaving Vespasian gazing wistfully after them. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had enjoyed a night out with the lads as a newly appointed tribune. Dusty memories of wild nights and hideously painful hangovers amidst the fleshpots of Syria filtered into his mind and Vespasian felt a pang for the sweetness of youth that seemed over almost before it had begun. Now he was forever separated from these men by age and, more fundamentally, by rank.

  Vespasian slowly made his way towards the gate of the headquarters building, pausing only to nod as he passed by the door to Vitellius’s office where the tribune was still toiling over some paperwork by lamplight. Vitellius had been spending a great deal of time in headquarters of late – more than was required by his duties and more than enough to make Vespasian curious. But he could not ask him outright the reason for his new-found diligence; tribunes were supposed to be diligent and any questioning of the man might look like paranoia, or worse, if Vitellius was indeed up to something, it would alert him to the legate’s suspicion. More curious still was the fact that the tribune had taken on a bodyguard. It was a right due to his rank, but one rarely claimed these days. But there he was – shadowing his master about the base – a stocky thick-set man with the manner of professional killer. It would be sensible to keep a closer eye on Tribune Vitellius from now on.

  Since Lavinia had been taken into Vespasian’s household, Cato had had no chance even to speak to her and was only able to catch fleeting glances from time to time as he loitered outside the legate’s house after he had finished with his duties for the day. He contrived to visit Flavia a few times in the hope that Lavinia might be present while they reminisced about life in the palace. But she remained out of sight and Cato was loath to reveal the true purpose of his visits, to the barely concealed amusement of the legate’s wife. Finally, one day, Flavia could not help laughing.