Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  Suddenly the volley of arrows ceased and, an instant later, there came the wild roar of a battle cry from the darkness all about them. Dark shapes flew out of the night and, in the mid-distance, could be heard the deep thrumming of many hoof beats.

  ‘Stand by to receive cavalry!’ Cato shouted. ‘Close up on me!’

  His little body of men compacted around the wagon just as a score of huge men burst into the lurid glow of the fires, bearded faces contorted by their screams. They wore thick black cloaks, pointed helmets and carried curved cleaver-like swords. They moved into attack with a fierceness few of the Romans had seen before. The first three crashed into the shields and tumbled to the ground in a tangle of cloaks, shields and flailing limbs and were quickly despatched by the other men around them. The rest of the attackers arrived as one body and a desperate fight began in the flickering red and orange light.

  The Roman line dissolved at once into a mass of desperate one-on-one fights and Cato, no longer in command of a cohesive body of troops, found himself facing a large, powerfully built enemy, face twisted into a snarl. Sizing up his young opponent in an instant, the attacker screamed as he feinted forward. Cato flinched momentarily, but kept his position, shield raised and short sword poised by his side. Seeing that his attempt to scare Cato into fleeing had failed, the man laughed and swung his sword in an arc at Cato’s head. The raised shield took the blow at an angle and the blade clanged off into the ground, gouging up a long divot of turf. The shock of the blow shot pain down Cato’s arm from fingertips to shoulder and he cried out. Then, as the momentum of the blow carried the man forward, Cato went down on one knee, twisting to one side to avoid being crushed by his enemy. Savagely, he thrust his sword deep into the warrior’s side. He fell forwards on his face with a dull moan, yanking the sword from Cato’s hand. Cato thrust his foot against the man’s back and tried to jerk the blade free, grimacing with the effort as the dying warrior groaned in agony. But it was no use, the blade was tightly wedged in the man’s ribs and would not come free easily. Glancing around, Cato saw that most of the attackers were down, together with a number of Romans.

  Close by, one of his men had lost his shield and could only raise his arm against the sword about to be smashed down on his head. With a howl that bordered on an embarrassing scream, Cato threw himself behind his shield into the attacker’s back, sending both of them headlong into the grass. By the time he had risen to his feet, the man he had saved had thrust his dagger into the attacker’s throat.

  As suddenly as the attackers had burst upon them they were gone, and the surviving Romans stood, bewildered by the speed of events.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Macro shouted from close at hand as he ran up to the wagon with the remainder of the men. ‘You heard the optio! Close up to face cavalry!’

  For a moment, Cato had forgotten about the horses but now they were close and the legionaries hurriedly closed ranks around the wagon, shields interlocking, with swords and javelins held ready.

  As suddenly as the first attack had come, the second raced out of the night; a line of horsemen in the same equipment, some still holding horse-bows while others carried long spears, thrusting out from under their arms, all of them crying out their terrifying battle-cry. Macro quickly looked across at Cato to make sure the optio was unhurt.

  ‘Pick up a fucking sword, you idiot!’

  Cato realised that he was unarmed and hastily snatched up the nearest weapon – one of the attackers’ curved cleavers. It felt strange to a hand used to the weight and balance of the legionary’s short sword, but reassuringly heavy.

  ‘Hold steady, lads!’ Macro called out. ‘Hold steady and we’ll live.’

  When the horsemen were almost on them they drew up; those who still carried bows drew arrows and waited for a chance to pepper any Roman foolish enough to expose himself while the spear-carriers moved in on the ring of shields. They brought their horses slamming up against the shield wall, throwing the legionaries back against the wagon, while stabbing down with their long bladed spears. The bulk of their horses and fear of the archers kept the Romans crouched down through sheer instinct for self-preservation. A few of them took every chance to thrust their swords into any part of man or horse that came within reach and an occasional cry or shrill neigh told when a blow had struck home. But time was not on the Romans’ side; already four men were down on the ground around the wagon and blood was making the grass slippery.

  It was all too obvious to Macro what the outcome of the fight would be if they fought defensively; a whittling away of their numbers and one final rush that would overrun the survivors. Just as he realised this, fate intervened in a peculiar way. Two of the horsemen suddenly spied the imperial secretary sheltering beneath the wagon and hurled their horses through the Romans. Leaning down from the saddle, they thrust under the wagon. Narcissus rolled away from their spear tips with a scream. Up jumped Macro, teeth parted in a savage snarl, as he automatically leaped to the imperial secretary’s defence. He caught one man by the arm and hauled him bodily from his saddle. A slash of the sword into the man’s eyes left him helpless as the centurion snatched up the fallen spear and plunged it into the small of the other attacker’s back.

  Then Cato, too, was on his feet, kicking at the men nearest him. ‘Up and at ’em! Come on, get up! Charge!’

  Now all the Romans were running at their attackers echoing Cato’s call to the charge. The attackers were momentarily shocked into stillness – a fatal failure of nerve, as it turned out. Moments later, the Roman infantry were in amongst them, knocking them from their saddles and finishing them off as they lay helpless on the ground. The bloody skirmish was quickly over, only a handful of the enemy managing to break away and flee into the night.

  Cato leaned on his shield, blood pounding through his veins as he breathed heavily. All about him bodies were strewn around the century’s camp fires. Legionaries quickly moved among the prostrate forms to finish off the wounded enemy.

  ‘Stop that!’ Narcissus shouted as he scrabbled out from under the wagon. ‘Don’t kill them!’

  The shrill tone of his voice caused the men to pause in their grisly work, swords poised, waiting for Macro to countermand this ridiculous instruction.

  ‘Don’t kill them?’ Macro was astonished. ‘These bastards were about to gut you. And us!’

  ‘Centurion, we must have prisoners! We must find out who is responsible for the attack.’

  Macro could see the sense of what Narcissus was saying. He wiped his sword clean on the cloak of one of the attackers before sliding it back into his scabbard. ‘Lads! If any of these bastards are still breathing drag them over here. Section leaders! Call the roll of your men, all returns to the optio at once!’

  Later, while the Roman injured groaned and cried at the rough first-aid that was meted out to them by their inexpert comrades, Macro gazed down angrily at the three warriors sitting sullenly at his feet. Cato emerged from the night.

  ‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’

  ‘Eight dead and sixteen wounded, sir.’

  ‘Right. Get the seals off the dead and tell off a burial detail.’

  ‘What about my litter bearers? My bodyguard?’ asked Narcissus, nursing his injured hand.

  ‘One dead, one missing and the bodyguard’s still unconscious – someone said he’d been kicked by a horse.’

  ‘Right then, you bastards,’ growled Macro, and as he kicked the nearest one on his broken arm a shrill scream of agony split the air. ‘Eight of my men are dead. Don’t think for a moment you aren’t going the same way. But we can make it quick for you, or slow and painful. Depends on how you answer this gentleman here.’

  He jerked a thumb at Narcissus and stepped to one side. The imperial secretary stared hard at them, hands on hips, but stood beyond arm’s reach.

  ‘Who ordered you to kill me?’

  ‘Kill you?’ Cato asked. ‘I thought they were bandits.’

  ‘Bandits!’ Macro laughed ha
rshly. ‘Ever heard of bandits attacking a full century? No? Well then, don’t be stupid. Besides, look at them, look at the clothes and armour. This lot belong to something far more organised.’

  ‘Like an army unit?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Narcissus raised a hand for silence and asked his question again. ‘I said, who ordered you to kill me?’

  None of the three looked up, even when he repeated the question more forcefully.

  ‘Centurion?’

  Macro stepped up and delivered another kick, this time to the head. The man went down on his back with a sharp cry.

  ‘Well, are you going to tell me?’

  The man who had escaped the kicking thus far glared up through bushy brows and said something in a language neither Macro nor Cato had heard before. He emphasised his point by spitting on to the hem of Narcissus’ tunic. Macro drew back his boot.

  ‘No!’ Narcissus raised his hand. ‘There’s no need for that. I think I know this tongue. They’re from Syria. If they’re who I think they are, they won’t talk for a while.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that, sir,’ Macro replied coldly. ‘There are ways . . .’

  ‘I haven’t got time. We mustn’t be delayed in reaching the army. These men will come along as prisoners. When I get to Gesoriacum there’ll be plenty of time to go to work on them. See that they’re securely bound. They can march behind my litter tomorrow.

  When the century set out the next morning, the full scale of the action became clear. Twelve more bodies were found, as well as the Roman dead, and all were buried in a hastily dug trench before the unit broke camp. Macro had ordered his men to march in full battledress and they moved wearily down the road to Gesoriacum in a box shape around Narcissus’s litter and the wagon now carrying the Roman wounded. All surplus baggage had been abandoned to make room for the wounded. That had not endeared the prisoners to the centurion, who had them tied to each other by the ankle, and fastened the line to the back of the wagon. There was no stop for a rest, despite the weariness brought on by a sleepless night, before the column picked its way along the road to the coast. A pair of horsemen appeared in the distance from time to time as they shadowed the century, evidently frustrated by the lack of opportunity to continue the action. Shortly before dusk the horses wheeled away and disappeared over the brow of a narrow ridge that ran alongside the line of the road. As night fell the century’s pace quickened and the men glanced nervously into the shadows looming around them, fully expecting the ambush to be renewed the instant darkness could provide enough cover for their strange attackers.

  At last they marched over the brow of the last hill and Cato let out a gasp of astonishment. Below them was a vast military camp stretching, it seemed, for miles, lit by thousands of camp fires and braziers. Four full legions were concentrated in the area, together with an equal number of specialist auxiliary cohorts, engineers, ship-builders and staff planning-officers – over fifty thousand men all told. But as they approached the gates Macro sensed that something was wrong. Small pockets of men roamed outside the camp, unarmed and out of uniform, others played at dice or just sat drinking themselves insensible.

  Before the Sixth century came within speaking range of any of the other legionaries they were intercepted by a staff officer on horseback, escorted by several centurions, who commanded them to halt. Once the identity of the imperial secretary had been confirmed, the officer issued immediate orders for the removal of the prisoners to a secure place, while he escorted the imperial secretary to army headquarters. And that was the last Cato and Macro saw of Narcissus. They received no thanks for their success in preserving his mission and no acknowledgement of the lives that had been lost in his cause.

  The camp prefect of the Ninth arrived to arrange for the movement of the wounded to the Ninth Legion’s hospital. Then he led the remnants of the century out of the camp to a cleared area some miles distant where the lines for the Second Legion had already been laid out.

  The Sixth century set up its tents as quickly as possible and, once the pickets had been positioned, the men fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Two days later the Second Legion marched into the site and the vast area was overrun by thousands of soldiers struggling to erect tents. In strict accordance with military protocol, the legate’s camp was put up first, followed by the senior officers and only then was the common soldiery allowed to begin work on their own, far more basic, quarters.

  Vespasian sat in his command tent at a small table screened off from the household slaves as headquarters staff scurried to and fro, laying down wooden flooring and unpacking furniture and other items. Above it all, he could hear Flavia issuing orders and driving them on to greater speed. He knew she was glad the tiresome journey was over and that the hardships of life on the march could be pushed to the back of her mind for a few weeks at least, though soon she would have to undertake the even longer journey south to Rome.

  Vespasian was much less content – even though the missing scroll had been returned to him by Flavia a few days earlier. She had found it amongst the toys in Titus’s travel chest and saw that it was addressed to her husband. The boy told her he had found it on the floor, so she said, and was incapable of being any more specific, given his age. Vespasian had hugged his wife and immediately locked the document away in the darkest recess of the safe-box. It seemed that whoever had stolen the scroll must have dropped it while fleeing from the command tent. Vespasian was appalled by the breach of security that could have occurred. What if someone else had discovered the scroll before Titus? Jupiter! It didn’t bear thinking about. But Vespasian’s joy at the recovery of the scroll was now tempered by the forbidding situation that existed beyond the confines of his command tent.

  A day’s march from Gesoriacum they had been met by a messenger from Plautius with new orders. In the army commander’s opinion – and here Vespasian detected the hand of Narcissus – it would not be wise to use the Second Legion to put down the mutiny. It would be more efficacious for the mutiny to be settled by negotiation rather than direct action. For the army to go into a major campaign with the memory of bloody repression fresh in their minds would be foolhardy. A delay in crossing the thin strip of sea between Gaul and Britain would have to be tolerated as the price to be paid for quelling the mutiny.

  Worse news, as far as Vespasian was concerned, followed: the Second Legion would not be included in the first wave of the invasion. Two other legions had been training for amphibious operations for several months and to them would fall the honour of fighting their way ashore and establishing a beachhead for the rest of the army. Vespasian knew that if the Britons decided to meet the invaders on the beaches then all the glory and political capital would go to the commanders and officers of the spearhead units. He gloomily foresaw a long period of mopping-up operations stretching ahead of him; a nasty process of attrition that would win no garlands and be a mere footnote to the epic tales of victory that would be told on the streets of Rome.

  If the mutiny could be put down, he reflected.

  As he had made his way through the main camp to report to Plautius, it had been heart-breaking for the legate to see the collapse of discipline in the other legions. Few of the soldiers he rode past bothered to salute and, although no-one had actually said anything to him, the look of defiance in their eyes – daring him to try and exercise his authority – enraged Vespasian. Only the army commander’s personal bodyguard and the officers remained in full uniform, carrying out their normal duties as far as they were able to.

  Vespasian was shown into the wooden headquarters building dominating the centre of the huge army camp, where Narcissus was seated at a great map table with General Plautius. Vespasian had known Plautius socially before he had joined the army and he was shocked to see the weary, beaten expression on the general’s face.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ said Plautius with a smile. ‘It’s been a long time. I just wish it was under happ
ier circumstances. Have you met Narcissus?’

  ‘No, sir, though his reputation precedes him.’

  ‘A good reputation, I trust?’ Narcissus asked.

  Vespasian nodded, not willing to perjure his true opinion.

  ‘I must thank you for your unit’s protection, legate.’

  ‘I’ll pass word of your gratitude on to the men concerned, if you haven’t already thanked them.’

  ‘You are most kind.’

  ‘Now, your report please, Vespasian.’ Plautius waved him to a seat. ‘How is your legion?’

  ‘They are still responding to orders, if that’s what you mean, sir.’

  ‘For the moment maybe. In a few days they’ll be just like the others.’

  ‘Have you found the ringleaders of the mutiny yet?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘Thanks to Narcissus we have the names. Tribune Aurelius, two centurions and twenty or so legionaries. All were transferred to the Ninth from the Dalmatian legions, complete with their previous loyalties, as you’d expect.’

  ‘Have they made any demands?’

  ‘Only that the invasion be abandoned. They’ve managed to persuade the others that demons and certain death are the only things waiting for them on the other side of the ocean.’

  ‘Not that it’s much of an ocean,’ Narcissus added. ‘But the word has a certain depressing effect on the imagination of military types. Present company excepted, of course.’ He smiled. ‘I’m afraid we are dealing with some quite well-thought-through treason, gentlemen. More sophisticated than anything that Tribune Aurelius and his little band of mutineers could come up with. You see, Vespasian, the general and I have already decided to eliminate this group. But first we must try and discover the identity of their masters back in Rome. Aurelius and his men were only exposed when my agents intercepted a message en route to his masters in Rome. Unfortunately, the courier expired before he could be induced to divulge the name of the intended recipient. Such is life – or not, in his case. Then there is the little matter of the ambush on the road from Durocortorum. Evidently the opposition got wind of my travel arrangements and the purpose of my journey. It appears that someone on “our side” is not quite what they seem.’