‘What’s being done about it, sir?’
‘We’re to continue marching towards Gesoriacum but have been ordered to stop ten miles short, in a holding area, until the mutiny is quelled – with or without our intervention. The new chief of the imperial staff was at Lugdunum when the news broke. He’s making for the army at top speed and we’re to supply an escort from Durocortorum. Apparently he has asked for men from our unit since they have not yet been contaminated by the mutiny.’
‘Contaminated?’ Plinius raised his eyebrows.
‘His words, tribune, not mine.’
‘Sir!’ Plinius protested. ‘I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘That’s all right. Narcissus is not the most tactful of men at times, but there we are.’
‘Narcissus?’ Vitellius muttered, just loud enough to be heard by the others.
‘Narcissus.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘You don’t seem to approve, Vitellius.’
‘I’m not sure I approve of any man who wields power disproportionate to his social standing, if I may be so bold, sir.’ Some of the other tribunes – those unaware of their legate’s provincial origins – laughed.
‘What I meant to say, sir,’ Vitellius continued, ‘is that I’m not sure why the Emperor would find it necessary to send his freedman . . . his chief secretary, to deal with the situation in person. It’s not as if it’s something the army can’t handle for itself.’
‘It’s a big operation,’ Vespasian replied. ‘I would have thought Narcissus would want to make sure it ran as smoothly as possible, for the Emperor’s sake.’
‘Nevertheless, it is peculiar, sir,’ Plinius added quietly.
Vespasian leaned back from the table. ‘There is nothing peculiar in this. You know the man’s reputation – he’s more gauche than sinister. Narcissus will be escorted to the coast and that’s the end of it. If he’s playing a deeper game then it’s one I’m not aware of. Or perhaps some of you gentlemen are privy to information that is being withheld from me. Well?’
No one dared meet his eye, either through guilt or fear of seeming guilty, and Vespasian sighed wearily. ‘I’m getting just a little sick of high politics at the moment, gentlemen. Whatever our futures hold, we happen to be soldiers under strict orders which I intend to obey to the best of my ability. All other considerations should be pushed from your minds. Do I make myself clear? Good! Now, I don’t need to remind you of the need for strict secrecy in this matter. If word of the mutiny spreads to our men then the entire army is as good as useless. Jupiter knows how it’ll end. Any questions?’
The tribunes remained silent.
‘Your orders for tomorrow will be passed to you before morning assembly. Dismissed.’
Later, with an empty tent to himself, Vespasian lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. From all around came the sounds of the Legion settling in for the night; the shouts of sentries and duty officers, the hubbub of men relaxing after the day’s exertion, even some laughter. That was good. As long as the men were happy he could be sure that they remained loyal to the authority that bound them all together. Mutiny was the one thing that a commander feared above everything else. After all, what was it that compelled thousands of men to bend their efforts to his will, even to the point of death? The moment the common soldiery decided to disobey their officers the army ceased to be.
The news from the coast was bad, and by now would be spreading east down the roads. It was only a matter of time before the Legion ran into the rumours seeping out from Gesoriacum. Then he would have to proceed with the utmost caution; a fine balance would be needed between upholding the harsh discipline of everyday army life and not provoking the men into open revolt. He wondered about the loyalty of the rank and file. They seemed to respect him well enough and had done little to disappoint him on the march so far. The grizzled senior centurion had assured him that there were far fewer stragglers than normal for such a hard march. And yet he couldn’t help wondering how fickle those men outside his tent headquarters might prove to be if given the chance. The mutiny had to be quashed so the invasion could proceed. Narcissus had better be as good an operator as his reputation suggested. Certainly Flavia believed he would be up to the job, when the matter had been quietly discussed over dinner.
Then there was the other issue. The second part of the message brought to him that afternoon had confirmed the presence of a conspirator in his Legion. But he was to be reassured by the fact that the imperial agent would be able to deal with the traitor. The imperial agent’s identity would remain a secret to all but the Emperor’s inner circle. This, the message assured him, was to ensure that Vespasian could concentrate on the business of running his Legion.
‘As if . . .’ Vespasian grumbled. He found that he now thought hard about every word spoken in front of his senior officers for fear of alerting the conspirator, or of voicing thoughts that the imperial agent might possibly construe as disloyal. Although he had his doubts about Vitellius, there was as yet no proof, or any overt indication, that the tribune was plotting against the Emperor. For all Vespasian knew it might just as easily be that bookworm Plinius. The distracted academic behaviour might well be a clever front for his real activities. Try as he might, Vespasian could not picture Plinius as a spy. Yet, in the absence of proof, he had to suspect everyone – not just his senior officers.
The presence of the imperial agent was far from reassuring. Vespasian was certain that the man’s job was to keep as close an eye on the Legion’s commander as it was to track down any unknown traitors. And he wondered who that agent might be; in the current political turmoil it might be any officer under his command. For that matter, it might well be that youngster who had joined the Legion straight from the imperial palace. He made a mental note to have the lad closely watched and then swore out loud.
Of course he wouldn’t do that. Otherwise where would it all end? A legion riven by men spying on men spying on men. A mental image of the Legion marching into battle with every soldier casting suspicious sidelong glances at his neighbour sprang up into his head and he laughed.
Well then, let someone else worry about the espionage. He would try and concentrate on making his Legion fight well in the coming campaign. That was bound to enhance his reputation far more than plotting in dark corners. He smiled at his own naivety and went to bed.
Chapter Twenty-two
Although winter was gone, the spring night was cold and Cato’s exhaled breathing plumed into the air as he clasped his cloak about him. The note he had received from Lavinia, or at least on her behalf, had arranged for them to meet at the rear of the headquarters’ tentage shortly after the trumpeter sounded the change of watch. A roped-off area surrounded the staff baggage vehicles and two sentries marched slowly around the perimeter. Cato waited until they had passed each other, than he padded softly between them over the beaten-down grass and slipped under the rope, before weaving in among the dark forms of the wagons looming up all around. Some of the tents glowed from the light of lamps still burning within and Cato quietly picked his way through the baggage train until he emerged to find a long wall of leather sidings stretching out before him. It was here that Lavinia had arranged to meet him. And yet, there was no sign of her. He stood quite still and waited, annoyed that his heart pounded so quickly as he strove to listen for any movement. But there was none from the immediate area. Perhaps she had lost her nerve? Or been kept busy with some household task?
His shoulder was suddenly grasped from behind. Cato jumped round and a sharp cry of surprise escaped his lips before he could stop himself.
‘Shhh!’ Lavinia whispered. ‘Quick, under here!’
She tugged his arm, pulling him beneath the wheels of a large wagon. He followed automatically and rolled into her side.
‘What—’ he whispered, but she pressed a hand to his lips and told him to keep quiet and still. He marvelled at the softness of her skin as it brushed his lips and caught a momentary scent of something fragrant.
‘Who
goes there?’ a voice called out from nearby. ‘Come on out, sunshine!’
Cato froze and held his breath, scared – and at the same time excited by the physical closeness of Lavinia. A warm glow flowed into his loins.
‘What’s up?’ another voice called out from slightly further off.
‘Think we’ve got a thief. Heard someone over here.’
A pair of legs and a spear butt appeared in front of the wagon and paused. A moment later the other sentry arrived on the scene.
‘Found anything?’
‘Not yet.’
Cato fumbled for Lavinia’s hand and held it tight as he carefully pulled her body into his with his spare arm. She stiffened in protest for an instant and then allowed herself to be embraced.
‘Seems quiet enough.’
‘I’m telling you I heard something.’
‘Could have been from inside the tent.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Cato’s lips moved across her hair and down her cheek until they met hers. With a delirious sense of pleasure – even in this dangerous situation – Cato kissed her gently, relishing the warmth of her breath and the pounding of his chest against her breasts. Lavinia returned the kiss softly for a moment and then darted her tongue into his mouth. Cato rippled in ecstasy.
‘Look, there’s no-one here now,’ the second sentry said impatiently.
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, there’s no point in stumbling around in the pitch dark looking for someone who’s scarpered. We’ll just do ourselves an injury. Let’s forget it.’
The second sentry stomped off. After a short pause, the first reluctantly turned away from the wagon and stamped sourly back towards the perimeter rope, muttering dark curses at his companion.
Under the axle, Cato was wallowing in the throes of a passion he had never experienced before. His right hand slowly slid over the silken curve of Lavinia’s hips towards the inside of her thighs. She clamped them together and twisted away from him.
‘No!’ she hissed.
‘Why?’
‘Not here!’
‘What’s wrong with here?’ asked Cato desperately.
‘It’s too cold and uncomfortable. Mistress has found a place where we won’t be bothered.’ She squeezed his hand tightly. ‘Somewhere more cosy where we can get to know each other properly. Come on.’
‘Flavia?’ Cato wondered aloud. ‘Flavia arranged this? Why?’
‘Shhh!’
Lavinia tugged his hand and led him out from under the wagon. They paused at the edge of the line of vehicles to make sure all was still, before quietly crossing to the back of a tent. She had unlaced a join to provide a small opening in the heavy leather. The gloom inside was almost impenetrable, but Lavinia seemed to know her way well enough, and led him on by the hand. Underfoot, the grass gave way to a sectioned wooden floor which Cato managed to trip over, almost flattening Lavinia in the process.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The quietest place we could find.’
‘We?’
‘The mistress and me. This way – come on.’
They passed down a long corridor with rolled-down flaps, leading to private sleeping chambers, and came to a large space dominated by the dark forms of a campaign table and various seats and couches. No more detail than that was available in the darkness. Cato found himself being pushed down on to a soft couch and, with a small chuckle, Lavinia collapsed on top of him. Immediately his lips sought hers again and he kissed with a burning passion that flowed to every extremity of his body. As Cato held her close he untied a silk ribbon and ran his hand through the long flowing hair. Suddenly Lavinia pushed herself upright so that she was sitting on his stomach.
‘What?’
‘Shhh! Lie still.’ She placed a finger against his lips and, with her other hand, reached behind her and felt for his crotch.
She giggled as she discovered his excitement. ‘Do you want to do it?’
Cato choked out a yes.
‘All right then. I hadn’t planned to let you. First I need to get something.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Something to prevent babies.’
‘Do we have to stop now?’ Cato asked desperately, stroking and squeezing her thighs with his hands. ‘Please.’
‘Typical man!’ She slapped his hands gently to show she was only joking. ‘You don’t have to live with the consequences, we do. And I don’t want to get pregnant.’
‘I don’t have to, you know, come inside you,’ Cato said shyly.
‘Oh sure! That’s what you all say. I can control myself – really I can but when it comes down to it – wallop! Then what’s a poor girl to do?’
‘Don’t be long,’ Cato said, somewhat startled by her forwardness.
‘Relax. I’ll be right back.’
Lavinia climbed off his chest, gave him a final soft kiss and padded away into the darkness, leaving Cato alone in a thrill of expectation. He lay still, eyes closed, heart pounding, letting his mind dwell on that last kiss and the shocking excitement of the touch of her hand on his crotch. He wanted to treasure this moment for ever and opened his eyes to take in as much of the detail of the chamber as possible. Now that they were fully accustomed to the dark, his eyes could discern more of the surroundings and they passed curiously over the trappings of command.
Lavinia had been gone a little while now and a tinge of doubt slowly swelled in his mind. He wondered if he should go and look for her.
Surely she shouldn’t take as long as this? Unless she planned to use the most extreme form of birth-control and not turn up at all. That wasn’t funny, he decided. Suddenly some sixth sense made him aware that someone else was in the chamber. He was about to whisper Lavinia’s name when he realised that the sound of a tent flap being pushed aside was coming from an altogether different direction to the one Lavinia had taken.
He froze, hardly daring to breathe, and strained his ears and eyes towards the far side of the chamber where a dark form eased itself in through a gap in the sidings. Once the shape was inside the room it paused a moment, crouching down, poised for action. Cato was suddenly afraid for Lavinia and for what the intruder might do to her when she returned. But the night was quite still.
Then the figure moved stealthily towards the table, strewn with the evening’s paperwork. Round the table he came and now Cato could see that the man wore a hooded cape over his short and stocky frame. He moved with the balanced agility of a cat. In his hand was the unmistakable shape of a legionary’s short sword. Cato only had a dagger, sheathed in a scabbard under his left thigh. The intruder, no more than ten feet away, turned his back and groped blindly beneath the table. He grasped something and pulled. Slowly an awkward dead weight was dragged clear – the man pausing every time it grated on the wooden floor panels – Cato saw that it was a chest. He lay rigid with fear, hardly daring to draw breath as his blood pounded in his ears. Leaning over the box, the intruder worked on the iron lock with faint clicks until the mechanism clunked open. The man rummaged inside – he was clearly after something specific.
With a sudden realisation Cato knew the man would turn round in a moment. He could hardly fail to see his body stretched out flat on the couch. Cato slid his left hand under his thigh and pulled at the dagger handle. It was wedged under him firmly enough to require a sharp tug, and he shifted his buttock to make the task easier. Too much. The blade rasped from its scabbard into his hand. The intruder spun round and raised his sword in one motion, momentarily forgetting his basic training – that a few inches of point is worth any length of edge. The sword slashed down and struck the edge of the couch above Cato’s head with a loud splintering crack.
Cato thrust his dagger at the shape looming over him and the weapon penetrated cloth and something a little more yielding beneath.
‘Fuck!’ The man grunted, leaping backwards. He crashed against the table. Cato ran blindly to the left, towards the flap through
which Lavinia had deserted him, and smashed his shin against a low stool. He thrust his arms out as he flew headlong over the stool on to the floor. The intruder came after him in a low crouch, taking care not to repeat his previous mistake. Cato felt an agonising shooting pain along the front of his leg and paused an instant too long before trying to rise. His attacker, recovered from his surprise now, rushed at him, sword point aimed at his throat.
‘Help!’ Cato cried out and instinctively rolled under the table. ‘Help!’
‘Quiet, you little fucker!’ The man hissed and for a moment Cato was taken back enough to still his tongue – but only for a moment. The sword swiped at him and he rolled against the couch and shouted again.
‘Help! In here!’
Groggy voices of men disturbed from sleep sounded in the chambers down the adjoining corridor. With relief Cato heard someone call out the guard. The intruder heard as well and paused, twisting about as he looked for an escape route. A glow suddenly appeared at the front of the tent as a sentry shouted, ‘Here! This way!’
The intruder ran fast to the side of the tent flap and raised his sword as Cato leapt to his feet by the table. A spear tip swept the tent flap to one side and suddenly the chamber was flooded with the flickering glow of a torch as a sentry stepped inside. Out of the shadows to his left the intruder swung his sword.
‘Look out!’ Cato shouted.
The sentry turned to the source of the shout and, an instant later, was struck a savage blow to the back of his head. With a grunt he slumped to his knees and pitched forward as Cato looked on in horror. Sparks flew as the torch thudded down on to the wooden flooring and rolled up against a loosely arranged pile of maps. When Cato looked up the light was fading and he saw the back of the intruder as he dashed from the room. Without any hesitation he followed, sprinting out of the legate’s chamber into an antechamber lined with collapsible tables for the scribes. Ahead, to the right, the intruder slashed at the tent siding and hurled himself through. From the left came the flares of approaching torches and the shouts and thudding footsteps of those carrying them. Cato stopped at once, panting in a blind terror.
Under the Eagle Page 19