Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I had news of the attack. I heard that you had prisoners. Have they said anything yet?’

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid, before they died,’ Narcissus replied, with regret at the inconvenience. ‘The interrogators were quite thorough, but only managed to confirm that they were Syrians, supposedly a group of deserters raiding the area. That’s all we got before I had their throats cut.’

  ‘A raiding party?’ Vespasian shook his head. ‘Doubtful enough. But to attack an army unit . . .’

  ‘Quite,’ Narcissus replied. ‘It’s not remotely possible. Their loyalty to their masters does – did – them credit. But there’s a more worrying factor. I’ve had news that a few days ago an entire squadron of Syrian horse-archers supposedly deserted from an auxiliary cohort that was marching from Dalmatia to join this army.’

  ‘Dalmatia?’ Vespasian pondered. ‘From Scribonianus’s command?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I see. Whose unit?’

  ‘Gaius Marcellus Dexter,’ Narcissus replied, watching the legate closely.

  ‘The name’s familiar, my wife might know him. Do you think the men who attacked you are from that unit?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘We’ll know soon enough. The cohort is due here in three days’ time. The bodies will keep until then and someone should be able to identify them.’

  ‘If they are from that unit,’ Plautius added, ‘then this plot spreads far wider than we first feared. The question is, can we stamp it out in time for an invasion this year?’

  ‘We have to, my dear Plautius,’ Narcissus said firmly. ‘There’s no question of the operation not proceeding. The Emperor himself has arranged to join the army in Britain.’

  ‘Has he?’ Vespasian turned to Plautius. ‘But I thought you were to be the supreme commander, sir?’

  ‘Apparently not.’ Plautius shrugged. ‘The Emperor’s right-hand man here has told me to summon the Emperor to our “rescue” once the army stands outside the Trinovantes’s capital.’

  ‘Relax, general,’ Narcissus said with a gentle pat of Plautius’s hand, which the other man withdrew as if it had been slithered over by a snake. ‘It’s just good public relations. You’ll be in charge right through the campaign. Claudius is there to act as a figurehead, to lead the triumphant army into their capital, hand out the gongs and then rush back to Rome for the triumph.’

  ‘If the Senate awards one,’ Vespasian reminded him.

  ‘It’s already in the bag,’ Narcissus smiled. ‘I like to plan ahead as far as possible, keeps things simple for the historians. So Claudius gets his triumph, the Empire gains a new province, we all avoid a nasty civil war, and our careers are safeguarded for the foreseeable future – which, I admit, is never quite as long as one would like. It all comes up roses, provided—’

  ‘We end the mutiny and get the legions on to the ships,’ Plautius finished wearily.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And how,’ Vespasian broke in, ‘do we achieve that?’

  ‘I have a little plan.’ Narcissus tapped his nose. ‘Can’t let anyone else in on it if it is to stand a chance of working. But, trust me, it’s a corker.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work?’ asked Vespasian.

  ‘Then I’ll save you a space on the cross next to me.’

  Once the Second Legion had settled down for the night and the sentries had been issued with strict orders not to permit any men to move in or out of the camp, Vespasian summoned Macro to make his full report. He had received a preliminary account earlier but, in the present hush-hush atmosphere dominating army headquarters, Vespasian wanted to glean as much information as possible. Night had long fallen when the centurion was quietly ushered into the tent and stood at attention before the legate’s desk. Vespasian was catching up on some paperwork by the guttering light of a pair of oil lamps. Once the leather tent flap had fallen back into place, the legate set down his stylus and closed the ink pot.

  ‘Tough journey, I hear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lose many men?’

  ‘Eight killed, six of the wounded are still in the Ninth’s hospital recovering.’

  ‘The losses will be made up from the recruit pool.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now I want the full story, centurion. Leave nothing out and tell it just as it happened, no embellishments.’

  With Macro standing at attention and staring at the back of the tent above the legate’s head, the tale of the march, the ambush and the final day’s journey to Gesoriacum was delivered in a prosaic monotone while Vespasian listened attentively. When the centurion had finished Vespasian looked sharply at him.

  ‘And you told no-one the nature of your mission?’

  ‘No-one, sir. The orders were very clear on that.’

  ‘So we can assume that your attackers were not acting on inside information?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded before committing his own opinion on the matter. ‘They were no ordinary bunch of thieves and crooks. Those men laid on an excellent ambush and fought like regulars. It was clear they were after the imperial secretary.’

  ‘I see.’ Vespasian nodded, hiding his disappointment; nothing the centurion had said added significantly to what he already knew. If Macro was to be believed then Narcissus’s attackers had acquired information about his route from outside the Legion. That should narrow things down for the imperial chief secretary – if the centurion was telling the truth.

  ‘Centurion, may I ask you for a personal opinion – strictly off the record?’

  Macro shifted uneasily. He would like to have replied ‘It depends’, but a soldier did not set conditions for his response to a superior officer, so he had to agree – while emphasising his reluctance as far as possible. ‘Yes, sir, I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you consider the invasion of Britain to be wise?’

  ‘That’s state policy, sir,’ Macro replied warily. ‘Far too high up for me. I guess the Emperor and his staff have thought it all through and made the right decision. I don’t even have an opinion.’

  ‘I did say it was off the record.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro inwardly cursed his legate for placing him in this tortuous situation. Nothing a subordinate ever said was ‘off the record’, if a superior chose to change his mind later on.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I simply don’t know enough about it to voice an opinion that would be useful to you, sir.’

  So, that line of enquiry was stalled, Vespasian realised. A more indirect approach was needed, one that would absolve the centurion of responsibility for what he said.

  ‘What are the men saying about it?’

  ‘The men, sir? Well, some of them are worried, quite naturally – none of us likes to be any nearer to water than the next drink. Anything could happen at sea. And then there’s stories about the dangers waiting for us.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of their army?’

  ‘Not afraid as such, sir. Only concerned, as much as any man facing a new kind of enemy should be. It’s, well, more to do with the druids, sir. Them and their kind.’

  ‘What about the druids?’

  ‘The men have heard that they have the power to summon up demons.’

  ‘And you believe this?’

  ‘Of course not, sir.’ Macro was offended. ‘Anyone with half a mind can see it’s a load of bollocks. But you know what the men are like with their superstitions.’

  ‘Not so long ago I believe you were one of the men.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you’re not superstitious? Like them?’

  ‘No, sir. I gave most of that up when I became a centurion. A centurion hasn’t much time for that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Where did your men hear about these druids?’

  ‘Some of our foragers ran into men from the main camp yesterday, sir. They told them about the druids, then they let on about the mutiny.’

  ‘They called it a mutiny?’ asked Vespasian. ‘Be quite sure about t
hat.’

  ‘Well, no, sir. They said they were still loyal to the Emperor and that the invasion must be some crackpot scheme of Narcissus’ that no sane man would pursue. Call it what you like, it’s still mutiny to me, sir.’

  ‘And the other men feel as you do about this?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, sir.’

  ‘Very good, centurion. Very good.’ Vespasian eased himself back in his chair. So far so good. For the moment at least the Legion was loyal. But, unless Narcissus’s little scheme worked its magic, then it would only be a matter of time before the Second Legion was riven by the same contagion that had hit the other units. However, as long as the officers like Macro acted their part, the spread of the mutiny might be contained for a few weeks at least.

  Chapter Thirty

  While the men of the Sixth century watched the rest of the Legion settle in around them, Cato left the tent lines and hurried between the mass of men, animals and transport wagons to the area allocated for the legate’s quarters. The headquarters staff and the wagons allotted to Vespasian’s household were just entering the area set aside for vehicles behind the tent site. Since summer was fast approaching and the Legion would only be encamped for two months at most prior to the invasion, the army staff officers had marked the camp out for tents rather than wooden barracks.

  Cato kept far enough back from the wagons to avoid attracting attention and looked for any sign of Lavinia. The wagons were drawn up alongside each other by heaving, cursing muleteers. Their passengers climbed down to begin the tiring process of unpacking the travel chests and carrying them into the large tents being hauled up on tall tent poles by teams of legionaries straining on guy ropes. Cato’s eyes alighted on the household wagons and his frantically searching gaze was finally rewarded by the sight of Lavinia descending from the legate’s personal coach with Titus clenched under one arm. Cato resisted the temptation to wave or call out, and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as he stood still amongst the crowds of legionaries toiling away. He watched Lavinia follow her mistress as Flavia marched into one of the erected tents. Cato stared at the entrance for a long time before he turned and walked slowly away.

  He wandered through the Legion until dusk when the meal call was sounded and he realised he was hungry. Cato had had no appetite at midday as he nervously anticipated the arrival of the Legion and news of Lavinia and the injured sentry; an odd mix of heartache and dread that was peculiarly painful. By the time he had rejoined the century the sun had set and the shapes of men and tents were grey and indistinct against the pale glow of the horizon. Cooking fires had been lit and the first faint odours of yet another stew wafted into the rapidly cooling air. Cato had been assigned to the second watch and wanted a full belly before he had to follow the senior watch officer on his rounds, collecting the tokens from each station on the walls and gates. As he sat by the section fire and mopped up the last remnants of his meal with some freshly baked bread, Macro squatted down by his side.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I just went for a walk, sir.’

  ‘A walk, eh? I don’t suppose you happened to pass the general’s quarters?’

  Cato smiled.

  ‘I suppose it’s that woman of yours. Still carrying the candle for that little bint?’ Macro shook his head wonderingly. ‘What did I tell you about all this before – back at the base? A soldier who lets his feelings cloud his thinking is a soldier distracted, and the army can’t afford distraction. Put her out of your mind, boy. As a matter of fact, I might be able to help out in that direction. Some of the lads and I are heading into the town later on tonight – I’ve wangled a pass to purchase barley supplies for the cohort. We’ve been told where to find a nice little inn that offers something a little more tasty than the local brew. You might want to join us once you’ve finished your watch.’

  ‘Is that an order, sir?’

  Macro stared coldly at him. ‘Well, fuck you, lover boy. I’m just trying to help out. But if you want to sit and sulk rather than have a drink with some mates and get your end away, then it’s your funeral.’

  Cato knew he was in the wrong. The sour note of his reply had been impulsive and now he regretted the offence it had caused.

  ‘Sir. I’m not ungrateful for the offer. I just don’t feel like it right now. I can’t help it.’

  ‘Can’t help it?’ snorted Macro. ‘Suit yourself then.’

  He quickly rose to his feet and stormed off, with one final black look at Cato before entering his tent.

  While he waited for his watch to begin, Cato sank into a mood of despair. Perhaps the centurion was right? What kind of romance could he carry on with a girl he could never see? She was, moreover, a dangerous girl to know, given that she could testify that he’d been in the legate’s tent that night. If for any reason she was indiscreet, then both of them would be up in front of Vespasian. And the truth, about the other man, was hardly likely to be believed. The best move would be to forget her, forget about love and get on with life. Perhaps he would join Macro and the others after all.

  Shortly after the change of the second watch, when all but a few diehards were sound asleep, the sentry on the main gate saw two figures walking down the road towards the camp. He called out for the password and, when he received no immediate reply, he lowered his javelin point and challenged them again.’

  ‘Relax soldier!’ a voice called out. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘Password!’

  ‘We’re friends, I tell you! From the other camp.’

  ‘Keep your fucking distance!’ the sentry shouted, slightly relieved that the strangers spoke Latin.

  ‘We want to speak with your commander. We have a pass signed by General Plautius himself. Let us in.’

  ‘No! Stay where you are.’ The thickset sentry took a pace back and pointed his javelin at the two figures scarcely ten feet away. Now, by the dim light of the stars, he could see that one man was tall and thin, wearing a dark, hooded cloak. The other was a giant of a man who wore a sword in a scabbard at his side. ‘Optio! Optio of the watch! Come down here quick!’

  The side-passage gate opened and the optio marched over, munching on a hunk of bread soaked in wine.

  ‘What is it? Better not be another false alarm, I’m still bloody eating.’

  ‘This man wants to speak to the legate.’

  ‘Has he given you the password?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then tell him to fuck off – you should bloody well know the regulations by now.’

  ‘If I might interrupt?’ The taller figure took two paces nearer.

  ‘Stay exactly where you are, pal,’ the optio growled.

  ‘I have business with the legate,’ the man insisted, then he brought out a small slate from his cloak. ‘See here, I’ve a pass authorised by Aulus Plautius.’

  The optio approached cautiously and quickly took the slate held out to him, before retiring towards the open side-gate, which provided just enough light to read the message. The pass was in order and the ring seal pressed into the wax surface bore the eagle of a commanding general. Still, the optio considered, it might just be a fake. Given the strictness with which camp regulations and restrictions of movement to and from the gates were being enforced, the legate and his senior officers were clearly jumpy about something.

  The optio paused: a person bearing a pass authorised by Plautius himself must hold some kind of rank. ‘Please wait here, sir.’

  ‘Commendable security you have here,’ Narcissus said, somewhat later, as he accepted a drink from Vespasian. ‘It was quite difficult persuading the senior watch officer to let us see you, even with the general’s pass. Your soldiers are sticklers for the rules.’

  ‘No rules – no order – no civilisation – no Rome.’ Vespasian trotted out the old adage and raised his glass to Narcissus. ‘But I’m glad you came, for whatever reason of your own. I needed to speak to you alone.’

  ‘Then our interests happily coincide.’
/>
  ‘What about him?’ Vespasian nodded at the imperial secretary’s bodyguard looming in the shadows, still and silent.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Narcissus. ‘I take it we’re safe in here?’

  ‘Absolutely. All entrances are well guarded.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Narcissus took a small sip of wine as he fixed Vespasian with his eyes. ‘That’s not what my sources tell me.’

  Vespasian coloured. ‘Your spy told you about that?’

  ‘I was informed that a sentry had been injured by an intruder. I take it nothing was stolen. Nothing important that is.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Vespasian said firmly, forcing himself to keep his eyes fixed on those of Narcissus.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘As far as I know, a slave girl was due to meet her lover in my command tent. He didn’t show and she waited a while and then left. Shortly afterwards the guards came across someone in the tent. He injured a sentry and fled the scene. A dropped torch set fire to the tent, but we managed to get it out without too much damage being done. And that is all there is to tell.’

  Narcissus stared at him and slowly took another sip. ‘You tortured the girl?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘Really? There are some officers who get a kick out of that sort of thing.’

  ‘If you think—’ Vespasian half rose from his chair and the figure in the shadows moved quickly forwards. Narcissus waved the bodyguard back.