The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  The general had nodded at Vespasian's arguments, but there was no shifting him from strict adherence to the instructions he had received from Narcissus, Emperor Claudius' chief secretary.

  'I agree with everything you say, Vespasian. Everything. Believe me, if there were any ambiguity in the orders, I'd exploit the loopholes. But Narcissus was quite precise: the moment we secure a bridgehead on the far bank of the Tamesis we are to halt and wait for the Emperor to come and take personal command of the final phase of this campaign. Once we've taken Camulodunum, Claudius and his entourage will head home, we'll consolidate what we hold and prepare for next year's campaign. It'll be some years yet before this island is completely tamed. But we must make sure we are strong enough to deal with Caratacus.' 'We've beaten him before, we can beat him again.'

  'Only if we keep the upper hand,' replied Vespasian. 'Right now Caratacus has no army as such, just the scattered remnants of the forces we've defeated so far. If we push on we can wipe them out easily, and that'll be the end of any effective resistance before we reach Camulodunum.' Vespasian paused to choose his next words carefully. 'I know what the orders say, but what if we destroy the remainder of the enemy and then pull back to the bridgehead? Surely that would satisfy our strategic needs and the Emperor's political goals?'

  Plautius clasped his hands together and leaned forward across his desk. 'The Emperor needs a military victory. He needs it for himself, and we are going to give it to him. If we do what you say and utterly crush the opposition, then who will he fight when he gets here?'

  'And if we leave Caratacus alone until Claudius arrives, maybe we won't be able to beat the Britons at all. Maybe he'll arrive just in time to join the rout back to the ships. How will that look on his political record?'

  'Vespasian!' Sabinus cut in, glancing sharply at his younger brother. 'I'm sure it won't come to that. Even if Caratacus does manage to field another army, we'll be reinforced by the men the Emperor brings with him. Most of the Eighth, some of the Praetorian Guard cohorts, and even elephants. Isn't that right?' Sabinus looked across the table to Plautius.

  'Quite right. More than enough to crush anything the Britons can place in our way. Once those savages catch sight of the elephants, they'll bolt.'

  'Elephants!' Vespasian laughed bitterly as he recalled a vivid account of the battle of Zama he had read as a boy. 'I rather think they pose more danger to our side than to the enemy. The Eighth are mostly a bunch of aged invalids and raw recruits, and the Praetorians are used to the soft life in Rome. We don't need them, any of them, if we strike now.'

  'Which we cannot do under any circumstances,' Plautius said firmly. 'Those are the orders and we obey them. We don't attempt to interpret them, or skirt round them. That's an end to the issue.' The general stared fixedly at Vespasian, and the legate's final attempt at protest died in his throat. There was no point in pursuing the matter, even though all present must know it made good military sense. The effective deployment of military strategy had been overridden by a political agenda.

  Sabinus sensed his brother's submission and quickly turned the discussion on to the next item on the agenda.

  'Sir, we need to consider the allocation of replacements. It's most urgent.'

  'Very well.' Plautius was eager to move on to a new subject. 'I've looked over your strength returns and decided on the allocations. The biggest share goes to the Second Legion.' He smiled placatingly at Vespasian. 'Your unit has taken the most casualties since we landed.'

  Plautius completed his allocation of replacements, which left only the commander of the Twentieth unhappy with his lot. He was granted no extra men and, worse, his legion was relegated to the role of strategic reserve – a move guaranteed to diminish his share of the coming glory, assuming the campaign concluded successfully for the invaders.

  'One final matter, gentlemen.' Plautius leaned back and made sure that he had the close attention of every officer. 'I've had reports that the enemy is using Roman army equipment: swords, slingshot and some scaled armour. If this was no more than one or two items, I might not be concerned. It is not unknown for a discharged veteran to sell his army issue to a passing trader. But the quantity recovered so far is too large to overlook. It would appear that someone has been running arms to the Britons. We'll deal with them after the campaign is over, but until then I want a record kept of every item you recover from the battlefield. When the trader is found we can round off the fighting with a nice little crucifixion.'

  At once the fears Vespasian harboured about his wife's connections to the Liberators flowed to the forefront of his thoughts, accompanied by a chilling ripple up his spine.

  'This trader has been rather busy, sir,' Hosidius Geta said quietly. 'Meaning?'

  'Meaning that he must be running a sizeable export organisation if he's been shipping the quantity of equipment we've encountered so far. Not the kind of operation that goes easily unnoticed.'

  'Do you have any objection to speaking your mind clearly?'

  'None, sir.'

  'Then please do so.'

  'I think we're looking at something a little more sinister than some chancer hoping to turn a quick profit. The quantity of arms the Ninth has come across so far is too large. Whoever is backing this operation has access to money, some senior people in the arms factories, and a small fleet of trading vessels.'

  'The Liberators emerging from the shadows again, no doubt,' Vitellius suggested with a mocking smile.

  Geta turned on his stool towards him. 'You have a better explanation, Tribune?'

  'Not me, sir. Just repeating a rumour that's doing the rounds.'

  'Then kindly confine your remarks to ones that assist the deliberations of your betters. The rest you can save to impress the junior tribunes.' A ripple of laughter swept through the senior officers, and Vitellius' face flushed with bitter humiliation. 'As you wish, sir.'

  Geta nodded with satisfaction, and turned back to the general. 'Sir, we need to inform the palace at once. Whoever is responsible for supplying the Britons with our equipment will run for cover as soon as word gets out about what we've discovered.'

  'A despatch is already on its way to Narcissus,' Plautius replied smugly.

  It occurred to Vespasian that the general wanted all those present to believe that he had already thought well ahead of his most seasoned commander. A message might well be en route to the chief secretary, but he doubted if it mentioned a word of Geta's conclusions. That message would hurriedly follow in the wake of the first, the moment the meeting closed. The speed with which Plautius moved on to the next item for discussion merely strengthened his suspicion.

  At length Plautius pushed back his chair and ended the briefing. The legates and senior staff officers rose from their seats and filed outside to where their cavalry escorts waited to see them back to their legions. As Vespasian went to make his farewell to his brother, Plautius called him over.

  'A quick word, if you'll excuse us, Sabinus?' 'Of course, sir.'

  When they were alone, Plautius smiled. 'Some good news for you, Vespasian. You will have heard the Emperor is bringing a sizeable entourage with him.'

  'Besides the elephants'?'

  The general chuckled politely. 'Don't mind them. They're strictly for show and won't be allowed within a mile of the battle line, if I have anything to do with it. All generals have to make a show of obeying orders in public; in private we try to do what we must in order to achieve victory. Generals must be seen to obey emperors, whatever their relative military merits may be. Wouldn't you agree?'

  Vespasian felt the blood drain from his face as fear and anger spilled over his self-control. 'Is this another loyalty test, sir?'

  'Not in this instance, but you're wise to be cautious. No, I was merely trying to reassure you that your commanding general is not quite the fool you seem to think he is.'

  'Sir!' Vespasian protested. 'I never meant to-'

  'Peace, Legate.' Plautius raised his hands. 'I know what you and the other
s must be thinking. In your place I would feel the same. But I am the Emperor's man, charged with doing his bidding. Should I fail to obey his orders I'll be damned as insubordinate, or worse. If I fail to beat the enemy I'm also damned, but at least I'll have the defence that I was only obeying orders.' Plautius paused. 'You must think me contemptibly weak. Maybe. But one day, if your star continues to rise, you will find yourself in my position, with a talented and impatient legate anxious to execute the necessary military strategy without once considering the political agenda from which it emanates. I hope you remember my words then.'

  Vespasian made no reply, just stared coldly at the general, ashamed of his inability to confront the man's patronising comments. Homilies delivered by senior officers could only be listened to in frustrated silence. 'Now then,' Plautius continued, 'the good news I promised you. Your wife and child will be travelling with the Emperor.'

  'Flavia will be in his entourage? But why?'

  'Don't feel overly delighted at the honour. It's a large party, well over a hundred, according to Narcissus' dispatch. I imagine Claudius just wanted to be surrounded by colourful types to keep him entertained while he's away from Rome. Whatever the reason, you'll get the chance to see her again. Quite a looker, as I recall.'

  The cheap comment soured Vespasian even further. He nodded, without any attempt to convey manly pride in the possession of a wife of such striking appearance. What was between them went far deeper than any superficial attraction. But that was personal, and he would break the confidence of such an intimacy with no man. The thrilling prospect that Flavia would soon be travelling towards him was quickly submerged by anxiety about her inclusion in the Emperor's entourage. People were requested to attend the Emperor on his travels for one of two reasons. Either they were great entertainers and flatterers, or they were people who posed a sufficient threat to the Emperor that he dare not leave them out of his sight.

  In view of her recent plotting, Flavia could be in the greatest possible danger – if she was under suspicion. Within the pageantry of the imperial court's travelling party, she would be secretly watched. The faintest glimmer of treason would result in her falling into the sinister claws of Narcissus' interrogators.

  'Will that be all, sir?'

  'Yes, that's all. Make sure you and your men make the most of the time while we wait for Claudius to arrive.'

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Once the fortifications were completed, three of the other legions were ferried across the Tamesis and moved into their allocated areas. The auxiliaries and the Twentieth legion remained behind to guard the army's draught animals which grazed over an enormous region on every available strip of pasture land. A string of small forts stretched out along the lines of communication all the way back to Rutupiae and occasional convoys of supplies trundled up to the front, returning empty apart from those bearing invalids destined for an early discharge and subsequent dependence on the corn dole in Rome. Most of the supplies were now being carried along the coast and thence upriver by the transports of the invasion fleet.

  A huge supply depot had been established in the legions' encampment, and every day more rations, weapons and spare equipment were unloaded, carefully recorded by the quartermasters, and deposited within the meticulously marked-out grid laid down by the engineers. When the army next took to the field, it would be as well-provisioned and planned as it had been at the start of the campaign.

  The legionaries rested while they waited for the Emperor and his coterie to arrive, although there were still many duties to perform. The fort's walls had to be manned, latrines dug and maintained, forage parties sent out to secure firewood and seize any supplies of grain or farm animals they might discover, and scores of other routine duties that comprised army life. Initially the forage parties had set out in full cohort strength, but as the cavalry scouts continued to report few signs of the enemy, smaller groups of legionaries were permitted to leave the camp during daylight hours.

  Although Cato had been excused duties until he had fully recovered from his burns, he found that he needed to fill his days doing something useful. Macro had scoffed at his request to help him catch up with the administration. Most veterans placed a premium on snatching as much free time as possible and had learned all the tricks and scams to get out of duties. When Cato presented himself at the centurion's tent with an offer to help, Macro's first inclination was to question what the optio was really up to.

  'I just want to do something useful, sir.'

  'I see,' Macro replied with a contemplative scratch of his chin.

  'Something useful, eh?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Why?'

  'I'm bored, sir.'

  'Bored?' Macro responded with genuine horror. The possibility of rejecting the chance to indulge in the panoply of off-duty activities of legionary life was something he had never considered. He pondered the matter for a while. Any normal optio might have discovered some new wheeze for screwing extra rations or payout of the century's accounts. But Cato had demonstrated a quite deplorable integrity in his administration of the century's records. In his more charitable moments Macro assumed that Cato must be directing his powerful intelligence into some hitherto overlooked opportunity for personal enrichment at the army's expense. In his less charitable moments he put the lad's conscientiousness down to youthful ignorance of army ways, which experience would eventually put right. But here he was, abusing his excused-all-duties status, and actually requesting something to do.

  'Well, let me think,' said Macro. 'The dead men's accounts need settling. How about that?'

  'That's fine, sir. I'll get started right away.'

  As the bemused centurion looked on, Cato heaved open the lid of the century's record chest and carefully extracted the financial accounts and wills of all the men marked down as 'discharged dead' on the most recent strength return. Before the wills could be validated, each dead man's accounts had to be brought up to date with every chargeable item of equipment offset against accumulated savings. The net value of the legionary's estate was apportioned according to the terms set out in the man's will. If no will existed, written or oral, then strictly speaking the estate should be conferred on the eldest male relative. But in practice most centurions claimed that the man had made an oral will bequeathing their worldly goods to the unit's funeral club. Such additional sources of revenue were needed on active service to fund the large number of memorial stones required. The increased demand pushed up prices, and the grief that the legion's masons felt at the deaths of their comrades was in some small measure assuaged by the tidy sums to be earned in preparing their tombstones.

  In the shade of the awning at the front of the centurion's tent, Cato sat quietly, finger moving from item to item, mentally adding up the debts and subtracting the totals from the figures in the savings column. Many of the dead men had left behind more debts than savings, reflecting the fact that they were recent recruits, who were always less likely to survive than seasoned veterans. Most of the names meant little, but some leapt from the page and brought a wave of sadness: Pyrax, the easygoing veteran who had showed Cato the ropes when he had arrived in barracks; Harmon, the bovine brick shithouse who entertained his comrades with farmyard impersonations and ear-splitting farts on demand (perhaps that last was no great loss to civilisation, Cato decided on reflection). They were all men like himself, once living, breathing, laughing human beings with their complement of virtues and faults. Men he had marched alongside for the past months, men who knew each other better than most men know their own families. Now they were dead, their rich experiences of life reduced to a line of figures on a financial record scroll and the few personal belongings that made up their bequest.

  Cato's stylus wavered above a waxed tablet, trembling in his uncertain fingers. He remembered that he had been told that death would be his constant companion throughout his career in the army. He had thought he understood the implications well enough, b
ut now he knew that there was a wide gulf between fine concepts expressed in neat phrases, and the sordid reality of war.

  In the days while he was recovering he had found that normal sleep did not come easily. He would be lying inside his section tent, eyes closed but mind working feverishly as terrible images of slaughter leapt unbidden before his mind's eye. Even when he was awake the same images forced themselves upon him relentlessly, until he began to doubt his sanity. As nervous exhaustion seeped in he began to hear sounds from the fringes of his waking world: a muffled clash of weapons, Pyrax shrieking out his name or Macro bellowing at him to run for his life.

  Cato needed someone to talk to, but he could not unburden himself to Macro. The cheerful insensitivity and bluffness that made him so admirable both in everyday life and in the heat of battle was precisely what made it impossible for Cato to confide in him. He simply could not trust the centurion to understand the torment he was going through. Nor did he want to reveal what he considered to be his weaknesses. The very prospect of having Macro offer him pity or, worse, contempt, filled him with self-loathing.

  The most nightmarish image from the grinding sequence of battles recurred when he eventually fell asleep. He would dream he was being held under water by the British warrior once again. Only this time the water was blood, and the thick salty redness of it filled his lungs and choked him. And the warrior did not die, but looked through the red river, face horribly mutilated by a savage wound yet fixed in a terrible grin as his hands held Cato down, far beneath the surface.