The Eagles Conquest c-2

by Simon Scarrow

  'Afraid not, sir. All available shipping has been sent to Gesoriacum for the Emperor and his reinforcements. That's why we've been sent ahead. To help out with the admin.'

  'I wondered what your lot was doing at headquarters.'

  'When something needs organising properly,' the clerk puffed out his chest, 'the experts have to be called in.'

  'Oh, really?' Macro sniffed. 'How reassuring.'

  After the midday meal Macro assembled the new recruits for his century and had them parade in front of his tent. They were all good men; fit, experienced and with exemplary records. When he led the Sixth Century against the Britons again, they would cleave a path right through the heart of the enemy ranks. Satisfied with his selection, he turned to smile at Cato.

  'Right then, Optio. You'd better introduce this lot to the Second Legion.'

  'Me, sir?'

  'Yes, you. Good practice for command.'

  'But, sir!'

  'And make it inspiring.' Macro nudged him. 'Get on with it.' He stepped back into his tent and, sitting on a stool, calmly began to sharpen the blade of his dagger.

  Cato was left standing alone in front of two ranks of the hardest looking men he had ever seen. He cleared his throat nervously and then stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced for suitable words.

  'Well then, I'd just like to welcome you to the Second Legion. We've had a pretty successful campaign so far and I'm sure that soon you will all be as proud of your new legion as you were of the Eighth.' He glanced along the lines of expressionless faces and his self-confidence withered.

  'I-I think you'll find that the lads of the Sixth Century will make you feel welcome enough; in a way, we're like one big family.' Cato gritted his teeth, aware that he was wallowing in a mire of cliches. 'If you have any problems you ever want to talk over with anyone then the flap of my tent is always open.'

  Someone snorted derisively.

  'My name's Cato, and I'm sure I'll get to know all your names quickly enough as we make our way back to the legion… Erm. Anybody want to raise any questions at this stage?'

  'Optio!' A man at the end of the line raised a hand. His features were strikingly rugged and fortunately Cato managed to recall his name. 'Cicero, isn't it? What can I do for you?'

  'Just wondered if the centurion's having us on. Are you really our optio?'

  'Yes. Of course I am!' Cato coloured.

  'How long have you been in the army, Optio?'

  A series of chuckles rolled lightly down the line of men.

  'Long enough. Now then, anything else? No? Right then, roll call at first light in full marching order. Dismissed!'

  As the replacements ambled off, Cato clenched his fists angrily behind his back, ashamed of his performance. Behind him in the tent he could hear the regular rasp of Macro's blade on the whetstone. He could not face the inevitable ridicule of his centurion. At length the noise stopped.

  'Cato, old son.'

  'Sir?'

  'You might well be one of the brightest and bravest lads I've served with.'

  Cato blushed. 'Well, thank you, sir.'

  'But that was about the most dismal welcome address I've ever witnessed. I've heard more inspiring speeches at accounts clerks' retirement bashes. I thought you knew all about this sort of thing.'

  'I've read about it, sir.'

  'I see. Then you'd better supplement the theory with a bit more practice.' This sounded rather good to Macro, and he smiled at the happy turn of phrase. He felt more than a little gratified by his subordinate's failure to do the job properly, in spite of his privileged palace education. As was so often the case, evidence of a weak chink in another man's accomplishments produced a warm, affectionate feeling in him and he grinned at his optio.

  'Never mind, lad. You've proved yourself often enough up to now.' As Cato struggled to find a face-saving response, he became aware of a ripple of excitement sweeping across the depot. Over in the direction of the jetty, men were scrambling up the reverse slope to the palisade where they crowded along the sentry walk.

  'Hello. What's going on?' Macro came out of the tent and stood at his optio's side.

  'Must be something coming in from the sea,' suggested Cato.

  As they watched, more men crowded the palisade, and still more men flowed between the tent lines to join them. There were shouts now, just audible above a swelling din of excited chatter. 'The Emperor! The Emperor!'

  'Come on!' said Marco and he trotted towards the far side of the depot, with Cato close behind him.

  Soon they merged with the others hurrying towards the Channel. After much jostling and panting they squeezed their way up onto the sentry walk and pushed through to the palisade.

  'Make way there!' Macro bellowed. 'Make way! Centurion coming through:'

  The men grudgingly deferred to his rank, and moments later Macro was hard up against the wooden stakes, with Cato by his side, both staring out across the Channel at the spectacle serenely making its way in from the sea. A few miles off, caught in the full glare of the afternoon sun, the imperial squadron was making its way towards them. Flanked by four triremes, which it utterly dwarfed, was the Emperor's flagship. It was a massive vessel of great length and breadth, with two towering masts mounted between the elaborately crenellated bow and stern. Two huge purple sails hung from their spars, tightly sheeted home to ensure that the gold eagles emblazoned on them were displayed to best effect. Cato had seen the vessel once before, at Ostia, and had marvelled at its huge dimensions. Great oars rose from the water, swept forward in shimmering unison, and sank back smoothly into the sea. Behind the flagship a line of warships entered the Channel, followed by transports, and then by the navy afterguard, by which time the flagship was drawing close to the shore with all the stately grace that its highly trained crew could muster. The draught of the flagship was such that it would have run aground had it attempted to make for the jetty. Instead, the vessel heaved to a quarter of a mile from the shore, and anchors were run out fore and aft. The triremes swept past and headed for the jetty, decks crowded with the white uniforms of the Praetorian Guard. Once the warships had moored, the Praetorians filed ashore and formed up along the slope outside the depot.

  'Can you see the Emperor?' Macro asked. 'Your eyes are younger than mine.'

  Cato scanned the deck of the flagship, running his eyes over the milling ranks of the Emperor's entourage. But there was no sign of any obvious deference, and Cato shook his head.

  The legionaries waited excitedly for a sign of Claudius. Someone started a chant of 'We want the Emperor! We want Claudius!' that quickly caught on. It rippled along the palisade and echoed out across the Channel to the flagship. But there was still no sign of the Emperor, despite a number of false alarms, and slowly the mood changed from excitement to frustration, and then apathy as the Praetorian cohorts were marched off to the side of the depot furthest from the field abattoir and began making camp for the night.

  'Why's the Emperor not landing?' asked Macro.

  From his childhood in the imperial palace Cato recalled the lengthy protocols that accompanied the official movements of the Emperor, and could guess at the reason for the delay easily enough. 'I expect he'll land tomorrow, when the full ceremony for welcoming an emperor can be laid on.'

  'Oh.' Macro was disappointed. 'Nothing worth seeing tonight then?'

  'I doubt it, sir.'

  'Right, well, I expect there's some work we can be getting on with. And there's some of that wine that still needs drinking. Coming?'

  Cato knew Macro well enough by now to recognise the difference between a genuine choice and a politely worded order.

  'No thank you, sir. I'd like to stay and watch for a while.'

  'Suit yourself.'

  As dusk gathered, the other men on the wall slowly drifted away.

  Cato leaned forward, resting his elbow in the notch between two stakes and cupping his chin on one palm as he gazed at the of sh
ipping now filling the Channel around the flagship. Some vessels carried soldiers, some carried the servants of the imperial household, and a few others the expensively dressed members of the Emperor's entourage. Further out some large transports were anchored with curious grey humps showing above the coping of their holds. Once the triremes that had unloaded the Praetorians had moved away from the jetty, the large transports were eased alongside the jetty and Cato had a clearer view of their cargo.

  'Elephants!' he exclaimed.

  His surprise was shared by the few men remaining along the palisade.

  Elephants had not been used in battle for over a hundred years. Though they presented a terrifying spectacle to those facing them on the battlefield, well-trained soldiers could neutralise them very quickly. And, if badly handled, elephants could be as much of a danger to their own side as the enemy. Modern armies had little use for them and the only elephants Cato had ever seen were those in the beast pens behind the Circus Maximus. Quite what they were doing here in Britain was anybody's guess. Surely, he thought, the Emperor can't be intending to use them in battle. They must be here for some ceremonial purpose, or to put the fear of the gods into the hearts of the Britons.

  As he watched one of the elephant transports, a section of the vessel's side was removed and a broad gangway was manhandled onto the jetty.

  Sailors lowered a heavy treaded ramp into the hold and spread a mix of straw and earth up the ramp and across the gangway, These familiar smells would be badly needed to comfort to the animals after the uncertain motion of the sea journry journey from Gesoriacum. Satisfied that all was in place, the captain gave the order to unload the elephants. A moment later amid anxious trumpeting, an elephant driver urged an elephant up the ramp and onto the deck. Even though Cato had seen them before, the sudden emergence of the vast grey bulk of the beast with its wicked tusks still awed him and he caught his breath before reassuring himself that he was safe enough where he was. The elephant driver tapped his stick against the back of the animal's head and it tentatively lumbered onto the gangway, causing the transport to tip slightly at the shift in weight. The elephant paused and raised its trunk, but the driver whacked the stick down and with clearly visible expressions of relief from the men. the elephant crossed to the jetty.

  The last elephant came ashore as the daylight faded, and the ponderous beasts were led away to an enclosure some distance from those of other animals who were afraid of the elephants. As Cato and the remaining legionaries watched them move off with their curious slow, swaying while the transports made way for yet more shipping – this time the smartly painted warships carrying the Emperor's household and entourage. across the gangways spilled the social elite of Rome: patricians in red 'triped togas, their wives in exotic silks and coiffured hair. After them came the lesser nobility, the men in expensive tunics, their wives in respectable stolae. Finally came the baggage, portered across the gangways by scores of slaves carefully supervised by each household's major domo to ensure nothing was broken.

  As each household gathered in clusters along the jetty, clerks from the depot's headquarters scunied around searching for names on their lists and escorting their guests to the tented area prepared for them in a fortified enclosure appended to the depot. Few of the new arrivals deigned to look up at the legionaries lining the palisade. For their part the legionaries stared silently, marvelling at the flamboyant wealth of the aristocracy of Rome whose lifestyle depended upon the blood and sweat shed by the men of the legions.

  As Cato's eyes drifted over the colourful throng on the jetty, a face in the crowd abruptly turned towards him in a way that instantly drew his attention. He felt his heart thrill inside his chest and was conscious of a rapid quickening of his pulse. His breath stilled as he drank in the long dark hair, held back by combs, the fine dark line of the eyebrows and the heart-shaped face coming to a gentle point at the chin. She was wearing a bright yellow stola that emphasised the slender curves of her body. There was no mistaking her, and he stared dumbstruck, wanting to call out her name but not quite daring to. She turned back to her mistress and continued their conversation.

  Thrusting himself away from the palisade, Cato ran down the reverse slope in the direction of the depot's main gate, all the weariness of the past weeks swept from his body at the prospect of holding Lavinia in his arms again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  'Lavinia!' Cato called out as he pushed through the milling bodies of the Emperor's entourage, heedless of the astonished expressions and sharp curses that followed him. Ahead, a short distance off, he saw her a yellow stola flash between a gap in the crowd, and Cato pushed on towards it, calling out again, 'Lavinia!'

  She caught the sound of her name and turned her head, searching for the source, and her gaze came to rest on Cato as he brushed between a senator and his wife twenty feet away.

  'Cato?'

  At Lavinia's side her mistress, the lady Flavia, turned to follow her gaze, Flavia's face broke into a smile as she, too, caught sight of the young man she had first met at the imperial palace ten years earlier. while she had been a minor figure at court, Flavia had taken an interest in the shy boy, and seen to it that he was given access to the palace library, and protected as far as possible from the endemic bullying amongst the imperial slaves. In return Cato had been utterly loyal to her ever since,

  'I say!' the senator protested. 'Bloody watch where you're going, young man!'

  Cato ignored him and ran the last few paces, arms outstretched as Lavinia's expression broke into a wide-eyed grin of delight. She squealed out a greeting and raised her arms, and an instant later was crushed in his embrace. It lasted only a moment before Cato pulled back, raising his hands to her cheeks, cupping her smooth skin and wondering once more at the dark, piercing beauty of her eyes. She smiled, and then couldn't help laughing at the pure joy of the moment, and he laughed with her.

  'Oh Cato! I'd so hoped to see you here.'

  'Well, here I am!' He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, before his cursed self-consciousness returned and made him aware of the surrounding crowd. He pulled back from her and glanced about. A number of people were staring at them, some in amused surprise, some frowning at the unseemliness of such behaviour in public. The senator was still looking angry. Cato flashed him an apologetic smile, and returned his eyes to Lavinia.

  'What-what are you doing here? I thought you were on the way to Rome.'

  'We were,' said Flavia, stepping round to one side of the couple. 'We'd just reached Lutetia when I received instructions from Narcissus to return to Gesoriacum and wait for the Emperor.'

  'And here we are!' Lavinia concluded happily. Then she looked down and caught sight of the livid scar on his arm. 'Oh no! What happened to you? Are you all right?'

  'Of course I'm all right. Just a burn.'

  'My poor baby,' Lavinia cooed, and kissed his hand.

  'Have you had it treated properly?' asked Flavia as she examined the scar. 'I know what these army quacks are like. I wouldn't trust them to treat a cold.'

  The attention was making Cato feel embarrassed and he quickly insisted that all was well – yes, it looked bad, but it was healing; no, there weren't any other injuries; yes, he'd make sure he was more careful in future; no, it wasn't Macro's fault.

  'And did you really miss me?' Lavinia concluded quietly, intently watching his expression.

  'Do fish live in the sea?' Cato replied, smiling.

  'Oh you!' Lavinia punched his chest. 'You could just say yes.'

  'Well, yes then. I did. Very much.' Cato kissed her again, automatically running one hand down the small of her back to the swell of her buttocks. Lavinia chuckled. 'Jupiter! You just can't wait for it, can you?'

  Cato shook his head.

  'Well then,' Lavinia leaned forward and whispered in his ear, 'we'll have to sort something out a little bit later… '

  'Look here,' Flavia intmded. 'I hate to interrupt this distastefully amorous reunion, but a more secluded
venue would be appropriate, don't you think?'

  The tents provided for the imperial entourage were luxuriously appointed, and for Cato, starved of such a lifestyle for almost a year now, a welcoming reprieve from the rough and ready accommodation of the legions. Lady Flavia, Lavinia and he were sitting on heavy bronze chairs arranged around a low table on which sweet pastries and savouries were artfully arranged on gold platters. Cato sat beside Lavinia, while her mistress sat on the opposite side of the table where the light cast by the oil lamps was dim.

  'Nice.' Cato nodded at the ornately decorated snacks, mindful of the battered mess tin waiting for him back in his tent.

  'Not mine,' said Flavia. 'My husband disapproves of fripperies. It's part of the service Narcissus has laid on for the Emperor's companions. In case we should get homesick.'

  'Rather pretty, aren't they?' Lavinia smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth at Cato. She helped herself to a small filled pastry and bit into it. flakes and crumbs fell down her front and Cato's eyes followed them as her far as her breasts. And then flickered back to her face as he blushed.

  'Pretty enough, my dear.' Flavia reached over and deftly flicked the crumbs from her handmaid's stola. 'But they're only snacks when all is said and done. One shouldn't be too concerned with appearances. It's the essence of a thing that matters. Isn't that right, Cato?'

  'Yes, my lady.' Cato nodded, wondering why Flavia was attempting to warn him off Lavinia. 'But since the essence of a thing is a matter of conjecture, might we not be better off simply judging by appearances, my lady?'

  'Think that if you will.' Flavia shrugged, unimpressed by his glib sophistry. 'But life will be a harsh teacher if you persist in such a view.' Cato nodded. He disagreed with her but was keen not to risk disturbing the happy ambience of their reunion. 'Might I have some more wine, my lady?'

  Flavia gestured towards his cup and a slave with a decanter hurried from the shadows at the rear of the tent. Cato held out his cup and the slave quickly refilled it and stepped back discreetly, as still and silent as before.