Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  He ran back to the legate’s room and saw that the maps were now alight, orange and yellow flames eagerly lapping across their surfaces. From the other side of the chamber he heard the voices of those roused by the commotion. There was no escape there. He fell to the floor at the opposite end and heaved at the heavy leather siding. A peg suddenly gave and he rolled underneath. He found himself in a kitchen area with trampled grass beneath him – no luxury wooden floors for the slaves then. Terrified by the proximity of the cries behind him, Cato rushed across the kitchen to the far wall and rolled out under the side of the tent.

  He was outside, on his back looking up at the stars peacefully twinkling from the serene inky depths of the night sky. Then he was on his feet, running for the gap behind the tribunes’ tents and the artillery train, weaving in between them until the headquarters tent was no longer visible. Leaning against the side of a ballista carriage, he paused to catch his breath. His heart pounded as his breathing came in sharp, shaking gasps. Over in the direction of headquarters a tinge of orange was visible and then a stab of flame as voices shouted for water and more guards.

  It would be bad to be discovered anywhere near, Cato realised. He turned away, hurrying through the artillery train until he emerged on the far side of the camp, into the space in front of the turf wall and palisade. Drawing his cloak around his shoulders, he turned left and headed for his century’s line of tents, at what he hoped was a steady pace. If anyone stopped him now he knew he could not trust himself to give a plausible reason for his presence.

  The sentries on the wall were turning to look back into the camp but the distance between them, and the darkness, protected Cato and he walked steadily on. After a nerve-shredding age, he reached the cohort standard and then hurried to the tents of the Sixth century. Off in the night, a trumpet sounded the call-out of the watch cohort. Without a glance back over his shoulder, he entered the eight-man tent of his section and lay straight down on his blanket roll, without removing his cloak or boots.

  ‘That you, Cato?’ Pyrax asked sleepily from the darkness.

  Cato lay still and silent.

  ‘Cato?’

  It was no good to ignore Pyrax. Better say something. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What’s going on out there?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You’ve just come in.’

  ‘Just been to the latrines, that’s all. Seems like there’s some kind of fire up at headquarters.’

  ‘Careless twats,’ Pyrax yawned. ‘Wake me if it spreads to our tent line. Night.’

  ‘Night then,’ Cato muttered sleepily. But there was no sleep possible as he lay quietly staring up at the roof of the tent in absolute terror.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  With hands on hips and head thrown back. Vespasian looked up into the starry night, through a large scorched hole in the roof of his tent. Lowering his eyes he stared at the silent ring of men standing around the table. The sentries looked down in shame.

  ‘So how do you suppose our thief managed to gain entry to this tent? If you were as conscientious in your duties as you claim.’

  ‘Sir, we were keeping a good watch, as always,’ the centurion explained. ‘Four men at the entrance, another four patrolling the outside of the tentage. I’ve checked round and we’ve found two places where the tent sidings have been slashed open. I suspect our man used those to get in and out, sir.’

  ‘You suspect that, do you?’ Vespasian said bitterly. ‘That’s brilliant centurion, quite brilliant. And while our man was busy cutting his way in, where were the rest of you?’

  ‘Please, sir, we were being spoken to by the tribune.’

  ‘Which tribune?’

  ‘Gaius Plinius, sir. Duty tribune for the night. Came up and demanded a full inspection.’

  ‘And why did he do that, do you suppose?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we were talking about the invasion.’

  ‘Oh, were you? What were you saying?’

  ‘Well, sir—’ the centurion was embarrassed. ‘Some of the lads have heard that there’s monsters living on the islands.’

  ‘And where might they have heard such nonsense from?’ Vespasian asked, trying not to reveal his anxiety.

  The centurion shrugged. ‘Just the grapevine, sir.’

  Vespasian drew a breath. ‘So then, Plinius was disciplining you for talking like a bunch of old women, and that’s when you think the intruder made his way into my tent?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right, well, you and the watch will be up on charges. And you’re demoted to a line century. Now get out of here.’

  As he watched them shuffle out Vespasian knew that the latter punishment was the more telling since the headquarters guard was rightly seen as a cushy number under normal circumstances; better food, lighter duties and a relatively safe position in the line of battle. And now one of them was lying in the hospital tent critically injured. The man had been unconscious and bleeding heavily from a slash wound to the back and side of the head. He was alive, just, but the surgeon had not been convinced that he would survive the night. It was too bad, since the man might have seen his attacker and be able to provide an identification. And that was what Vespasian desperately needed at the moment.

  Upon entering the room, half dressed like the others who had been woken by the crashes and thumps coming from the command tent, the first thing he had checked was his document safe-box. One glance was all he needed – the small scroll bearing the confidential seal of Claudius had gone. Everything else remained; that meant the thief knew precisely what he was after, and now he had it. Someone in the camp had possession of a priceless piece of political intelligence that might be used to help topple the Emperor. Not that Vespasian needed the document – he had long since memorised the contents and made his plans. But now someone else had access to the information it contained.

  And what would happen to him once word got back to Rome, to Claudius, that he had allowed someone to steal the scroll? No excuse would be accepted, the responsibility was his, and that was why he had punished the sentries harshly; they had to share in the suffering they had caused him.

  At least the thief had to be near. Someone in the Legion, more than likely the traitor Plautius’s letter referred to. There might yet be time to recover the letter before the Legion reached the coast and merged into the mass of units gathering for the invasion. Some blood had been discovered near the couch, with more splatters around the table, leading from the tent to the churned-up soil where the trail was lost. The man had been wounded, then. Which struck Vespasian as most odd. Since the sentry had been struck from behind in the doorway to the tent it seemed likely he had been surprised. In which case the intruder must have been injured by someone else.

  What had happened to Lavinia? Inwardly Cato squirmed with fear and worry. She had never come back, but surely she wouldn’t have encountered the intruder while he lay waiting in the tent? He prayed that she was alive and unhurt. He couldn’t risk going near headquarters to try and see her for a while. That guard had got a clear look at him and would surely be able to pick him out without any problem. He would have to get word of Lavinia from Flavia; a message must be got through to her as soon as possible. But he did not know how much the legate’s wife would know about the situation and how far she could be trusted. If Vespasian discovered that he had been in the tent, then all the evidence would point to him being directly involved in the theft of whatever it was. He was in deep trouble and needed an ally. If he could see Flavia – tell her everything he had seen – then maybe she could protect him. She had befriended him and now he needed her. In the morning he would try and see her.

  Next morning Cato was rudely woken from a troubled sleep by a rough shaking of his shoulders. He looked up blearily into Pyrax’s face. ‘W-what?’

  ‘Centurion wants you right away.’

  Cato propped himself up on his elbows and, looking out of the tent-flap, saw that the sun had risen for
some time. He shook his head and scrambled up.

  ‘How long since morning call?’

  ‘A while.’ Pyrax shrugged. ‘You missed breakfast and we’re about to strike the tents.’

  ‘Why didn’t someone wake me?’

  ‘You’re a grown-up now, lad, it’s up to you to look after yourself.’

  ‘Where’s the centurion?’

  ‘In his tent. I’d get over there smartish if I were you. Macro doesn’t look too chuffed with his lot—’ Pyrax glanced down at Cato. ‘What happened to your hand?’

  Following his gaze, Cato saw that the thumb and forefinger of his hand were smeared with dried blood.

  ‘Oh that! I, er, managed to get a cut of meat from a beast some of the muleteers slaughtered last night. Roasted it on their fire.’

  ‘Nice of them.’ Pyrax said grudgingly. ‘But you might have cleaned yourself up afterwards.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Cato mumbled. ‘I have to go.’

  He punched through the half-open flaps and washed his hand with some water from a skin hanging on the tent frame. The blood from the intruder had caked on and had to be scratched off with his nails and wiped clear. With a shock he realised that his dagger must be bloody as well and drew it to find the blade heavily soiled by dried blood. That took somewhat longer to clean and by the time Cato pushed his way into Macro’s tent the centurion was steaming. Piso stood at the back of the tent, eyebrows raised in warning.

  ‘What took you so bloody long? I sent for you ages ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why were you late? Explain yourself.’

  ‘I was in the latrines, sir, something I ate last night.’

  ‘Well, take more care over what you eat in future,’ Macro said impatiently. ‘Now then, we’ve got work to do. The legate’s detached our century from the Legion to perform escort duties. I was given the orders at the morning briefing. We’re to advance ahead of the Legion to Durocortorum and meet up with some staff bigwig. Then we’re to escort him to General Plautius’s headquarters at Gesoriacum. That’s all, and since we have to get moving ahead of the column we’re going to have to rush. I’ve already given the orders for the wagon to be loaded and hitched up. I want you to requisition some wine and treats for our guest. The quartermaster’s been notified. Piso, you go and get the men moving; I want tents struck and loaded and packs ready before the next watch call. Now get out of here, both of you.’

  Outside Cato looked at Piso enquiringly.

  ‘Bad morning,’ Piso whispered. ‘Some dodgy business up at headquarters last night.’

  ‘Dodgy business?’

  ‘Some thief tried to rob the legate. Managed to knife a guard and get away. Now Vespasian’s blowing his stack at the officers for not having their men keep a good enough watch.’

  ‘Oh. Did anyone say what was stolen?’

  ‘Nothing of value, apparently. But the poor sod who discovered the thief won’t live long.’

  ‘That’s bad.’ Cato tried to sound concerned while his heart lifted slightly at the news, and then, as his cursed imagination summoned up an image of the blameless sentry lying bandaged and scarcely alive, he felt ashamed and guilty.

  ‘Don’t take it too badly, son,’ Piso laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘It happens. Just your good fortune it wasn’t you.’

  The tribune rested his chin on the palms of his hand and stared across to where Pulcher sat on a folding stool nursing his leg. The upper thigh had been punctured to a finger’s depth and had bled profusely until he had got far enough away from the tent to apply pressure on the wound. Pulcher had limped back to the tribune’s quarters, where he now sat applying a fresh bandage to the area. Luckily, the wound was high enough that the bandage would be concealed under his breeches and no-one need know that he had been injured. But the day’s march would be agony, the tribune reflected with a smile. That would encourage the man not to cock it up next time – if there was a next time. Vespasian had issued orders to double the guard from now on and access to the command tent would be almost impossible. The man opposite did not yet know that another attempt would be required.

  ‘I expect you’ll be looking forward to returning to Rome,’ the tribune asked as he poured the man a cup of wine.

  ‘Too right!’ Pulcher grunted. ‘I’ve had enough of this undercover nonsense. I want to get back to soldiering.’

  ‘I hardly think the Praetorian Guard counts as soldiering,’ said the tribune mildly.

  ‘It’s the kind of soldiering I like.’

  ‘But you did volunteer for this.’

  ‘True. But for the sum of money we arranged anyone would volunteer.’

  ‘But not everyone has your unique talent for ensuring things happen, encouraging loquacity in the tongue-tied, making people disappear – that sort of thing. Speaking of which, are you sure you can’t put a face to the man you saw in the tent, the one who managed to pigstick you so efficiently?’

  ‘No.’ The reply was laced with anger. ‘But when I do find out who it was, they’ll suffer before I let them die. That’s something I’ll take care of for no extra fee.’

  ‘Well, be sure that you do find him. If he knows who you are, he might manage to make you implicate me.’

  ‘There’s no chance of that.’

  ‘Don’t ever underestimate the power of effectively applied torture to loosen tongues,’ the tribune warned him. The other merely sniffed with derision before the tribune continued, ‘Now, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’ve not done your job.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pulcher jabbed a finger at the scroll. ‘That’s what you wanted, and that’s what you’ve fucking got.’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied the tribune. ‘You don’t really think I took the trouble of bringing you all the way up from Rome to get a piece of stationery.’

  He flattened the scroll out for the other man to read. But there was nothing to read, it was completely blank.

  ‘It seems someone is a step ahead of us. Looks like Vespasian was smart enough to use his safe-box as a decoy. Or, someone else here has beaten us to the scroll and left this in its place.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The departure of the Sixth century well ahead of the main column caused some little excitement to those who witnessed it, not least the men of the century itself. In the normal course of events no common solider would dare march out of the camp before the senior officers and the colour party. Therefore it was clear to all that the Sixth century was being detached on a special duty. What that duty was remained known only to the centurion, his optio and secretary; the common soldiery could only wonder as the century’s baggage wagon creaked out of the main gate and followed the line of men stepping out down the road towards Durocortorum. The curiosity of the onlookers soon disappeared as their officers drove them back to work, preparing to strike the tents for the day’s march.

  The Sixth century’s excitement was palpable and the men noisily speculated about the task before them. At the head of the column Macro could hardly fail to overhear the conversation conducted behind him at a level calculated to attract his attention. He allowed himself a small smile at their all-too-obvious angling for information. Let them have their fun, they would know soon enough. In the meantime there was little to be gained from ordering them to quit babbling like small children and march in silence. While they were happy he was prepared to indulge them. The centurion was glad to be detached from the Legion; no more looking at the same backs he had followed for the best part of two hundred miles. No more frustrating delays for distant bottlenecks, and waiting patiently to be led to and from tent-area allotments by members of the colour party puffed up by their sense of self-importance.

  Ahead was an empty road, stretching out in a more or less straight line towards the horizon. Above him the sky was clear and deep blue, while the air was filled with birdsong. In short, it was
the kind of morning that filled Macro with an inner glow of delight at simply being alive.

  Which made it all the more strange that the optio marching to one side and slightly behind him cast his eyes down to the road surface with a grim expression of concentration, quite oblivious to the general sense of well-being in the world.

  Macro dropped back a step and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What on earth is the matter with you this morning, Cato?’

  The boy was quite startled by this abrupt intrusion into his thoughts. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I asked you what the matter was.’

  ‘Matter sir? Nothing’s the matter.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Macro beamed. ‘So, smile and enjoy life. It’s not often you’ll get an independent duty. Even if,’ he lowered his voice, ‘even if all we’re told to do is nursemaid some staff officer to army headquarters.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do say so, lad. And believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Now be a good sort and try to enjoy things a bit more. You take life too seriously, young Cato.’

  The optio fixed him with a bitter glare. ‘That’s because I find life rather too serious at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Still mooning about over that slip of a girl?’ Macro laughed, before giving him a sharp nudge in the side. ‘So how did last night go then?’

  Cato was startled into breaking his stride for a moment, until a low curse from the front rank of the column made him skip forward again to his position at the centurion’s side.

  ‘Well?’ Macro winked. ‘Did you score?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why on earth not? Don’t tell me you came over all poetic and romantic. You didn’t, did you? Please tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Cato looked down, not trusting himself to mislead Macro effectively. ‘We were interrupted before we could . . . get down to anything.’

  ‘Oh that’s too bad.’ Macro nodded sympathetically. ‘So what happened?’