THE EAGLE’S CONQUEST
Also by Simon Scarrow
Under the Eagle
THE EAGLE’S
CONQUEST
Simon Scarrow
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE EAGLE’S CONQUEST. Copyright © 2001 by Simon Scarrow. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Scarrow, Simon.
The eagle’s conquest : a novel / Simon Scarrow.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-30534-5
ISBN 0-312-30534-6 (pbk)
1. Great Britain—History—Invasions—Fiction. 2. Claudius, Emporer of Rome, 10 B.C.–A.D. 54—Fiction. 3. Attempted assassination—Fiction. 4. Romans—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6119.C37 E34 2002
823′.92—dc21
2002075906
First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing
A division of Hodder Headline
10 9 8 7
For Carolyn, who makes it all possible.
The Organisation of a Roman Legion
The Second Legion, like all legions, comprised some five and a half thousand men. The basic unit was the century of eighty men commanded by a centurion with an optio acting as second in command. The century was divided into eight-man sections which shared a room together in barracks and a tent when on campaign. Six centuries made up a cohort, and ten cohorts made up a legion, with the first cohort being double-size. Each legion was accompanied by a cavalry unit of one hundred and twenty men, divided into four squadrons, who served as scouts and messengers. In descending order the main ranks were:
The legate was a man from an aristocratic background. Typically in his mid-thirties, the legate would command the legion for up to five years and hope to make something of a name for himself in order to enhance his subsequent political career.
The camp prefect would be a grizzled veteran who would previously have been the chief centurion of the legion and was at the summit of a professional soldier’s career. He was armed with vast experience and integrity, and to him would fall the command of the legion should the legate be absent or hors de combat.
Six tribunes served as staff officers. These would be men in their early twenties serving in the army for the first time to gain administrative experience before taking up junior posts in civil administration. The senior tribune was different. He was destined for high political office and eventual command of a legion.
Sixty centurions provided the disciplinary and training backbone of the legion. They were hand-picked for their command qualities and a willingness to fight to the death. Accordingly their casualty rate far exceeded other ranks. The most senior centurion commanded the First Century of the First Cohort and was a highly decorated and respected individual.
The four decurions of the legion commanded the cavalry squadrons and hoped for promotion to the command of auxiliary cavalry units.
Each centurion was assisted by an optio who would act as an orderly, with minor command duties. Optios would be waiting for a vacancy in the centurionate.
Below the optios were the legionaries, men who had signed on for twenty-five years. In theory, a man had to be a Roman citizen to qualify for enlistment, but recruits were increasingly drawn from local populations and given Roman citizenship on joining the legions.
Lower in status than the legionaries were the men of the auxiliary cohorts. These were recruited from the provinces and provided the Roman Empire with its cavalry, light infantry and other specialist skills. Roman citizenship was awarded on completion of twenty-five years of service.
THE ROMAN INVASION OF BRITAIN IN
43AD SHOWING THE MAIN LINE OF THE
ROMAN ADVANCE AND MAIN BATTLE SITES
Chapter One
_______________
‘I don’t think I fancy the odds on the tall one,’ muttered Centurion Macro.
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘Look at him, Cato! The man’s all skin and bones. Won’t last long against the opposition.’ Macro nodded to the other side of the makeshift arena where a short, thickset prisoner was being armed with a buckler and short sword. The man took the unfamiliar weapons reluctantly and eyed up his opponent. Cato looked over to the tall, thin Briton, naked except for a small leather loin guard. One of the legionaries assigned to arena duties thrust a long trident into his hands. The Briton hefted the trident experimentally and adjusted his grip for the best balance. He seemed to be a man who knew his weapons and moved with a certain amount of poise.
‘I’ll bet on the tall one,’ Cato decided.
Macro swung round. ‘You mad? Look at him.’
‘I have looked, sir. And I’ll back my judgement with money.’
‘Your judgement?’ The centurion’s eyebrows rose. Cato had only joined the legion the winter before, a fresh-faced youth from the imperial household in Rome. A legionary for less than a year and already throwing his judgements about like a veteran.
‘Have it your own way then.’ Macro shook his head and settled down to wait for the fight to begin. It was the last bout of the day’s games laid on by the legate, Vespasian, in a small dell in the middle of the Second Legion’s marching camp. Tomorrow the four legions and their support troops would be on the march again, driven on by General Plautius in his determination to seize Camulodunum before autumn closed in. If the enemy capital fell, the coalition of British tribes, led by Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, would be shattered. The forty thousand men under Plautius were all that Emperor Claudius could spare for the audacious invasion of the misty isles off the coast of Gaul. Every man in the army was aware that they were greatly outnumbered by the Britons. But as yet the enemy were dispersed. If the Romans could only strike quickly at the heart of British resistance before the imbalance in numbers weighed against the legions, victory would be within their grasp. The desire to push forward was in all their hearts, although the tired legionaries were grateful for this day’s rest and the entertainment provided by the fights.
Twenty Britons had been paired against each other, armed with a variety of weapons. To make things more interesting the pairs had been picked by lot out of a legionary helmet and a handful of the bouts had been entertainingly unbalanced. Like this last one appeared to be.
The legion’s eagle-bearer was acting as master of ceremonies and strode out to the centre of the arena, arms waving for silence. The eagle-bearer’s assistants rushed to take final bets and Cato sat back down beside his centurion, having got odds of five to one. Not good, but he had staked a month’s pay and if the man won, Cato would make a tidy sum. Macro had bet on the muscle-bound opponent with sword and buckler. Much less money, at much tighter odds, reflecting the assessment of the fighters.
‘Quiet! Quiet there!’ the eagle-bearer bellowed. Despite the holiday atmosphere, the automatic grip of discipline exerted itself over the gathered legionaries. Within moments over two thousand shouting, gesticulating soldiers stilled their tongues, and sat waiting for the bout to begin.
‘Last fight, then! On my right I give you a swordsman, well-built, and a skilled warrior, or so he claims.’
The crowd howled with derision. If the Briton was so bloody good, why the hell was he here fighting for his life as their prisoner? The swordsman sneered at the audience, and suddenly raised his arms, screaming out a defiant war cry. The legionaries jeered back. The eagle-bearer allowed the shouting to continue a moment, before calling for silence again. ‘On my left we have a trident. Says he’s a squire to some chief or other. A
weapon-carrier by trade, not a user. So this should be nice and quick. Now then, you lazy bastards, remember that normal duties begin right after the noon signal.’
The crowd groaned rather too much to be convincing and the eagle-bearer smiled good-naturedly. ‘Right then, fighters – to your marks!’
The eagle-bearer backed away from the centre of the arena, a grassy sward, smeared with glistening patches of crimson where previous fighters had fallen. The contestants were led up behind two divots scored in the turf and made to face each other. The swordsman raised his short sword and buckler, and lowered himself into a tense crouch. By contrast the trident held his weapon vertically and almost seemed to be leaning on it, thin face completely expressionless. A legionary gave him a kick and indicated that he should prepare himself. The trident merely rubbed his shin instead, wincing painfully.
‘Hope you didn’t bet much on that one,’ Macro commented.
Cato didn’t reply. What the hell was the trident up to? Where was the poise of a moment ago? The man looked unconcerned, almost as if the whole morning had been a boring drill instead of a series of fights to the death. He had better be acting.
‘Begin!’ the eagle-bearer shouted.
At the word the swordsman howled, and hurtled forward at his opponent fifteen paces away. The trident lowered the shaft of his weapon and jabbed the wicked points towards the throat of the shorter man. The war cry died away as the latter ducked, knocking the trident to one side and thrusting for a quick kill. But the response was neatly worked. Rather than trying to recover the point of the trident, the tall Briton merely allowed the butt to swing round and smash into the side of the swordsman’s head. His opponent dropped to the ground, momentarily stunned. The trident quickly reversed the weapon and moved in for the kill.
Cato smiled.
‘Get up, you dozy bastard!’ Macro shouted, hands cupped.
The trident lanced down at the figure on the ground, but a frantic sword swipe knocked the points aside from his neck. The trident still drew blood, but only from a shallow slash on the shoulder. Those in the audience who had taken the long odds groaned in dismay as the swordsman rolled to one side and got back onto his feet. He was panting, eyes wide, all arrogance gone now that he had been so neatly tricked. His tall opponent ripped the trident free of the soil and went into a crouch, a fierce expression twisting his face. There would be no more pretending from now on, just a trial of strength and skill.
‘Get on with it!’ Macro shouted. ‘Stick the bastard in the guts!’
Cato sat silently, too self-conscious to join in with the shouting, but urgently willing his man on, fists clenched by his sides – despite his aversion to such fights.
The swordsman quickly side-stepped, testing the other man’s reactions to see if the earlier move had been a fluke. But an instant later the tips of the trident were back in line with his throat. The crowd cheered appreciatively. This had the makings of a good fight after all.
The trident suddenly feinted, matched by his opponent’s well-balanced backward hop, and the crowd cheered again.
‘Good move!’ Macro thumped one fist into the palm of the other. ‘If we’d faced more like this it’d be us fighting out there. These two are good, very good.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied tensely, eyes fixed on the pair now circling each other over bloodstained grass. The sun blazed down on the spectacle. The birds singing in the oak trees surrounding the dell seemed quite out of place. For a moment Cato felt disturbed by the comparison between the fight-crazed soldiers hoarsely cheering men on to their deaths, and the placid harmony of wider nature. He had always disapproved of gladiatorial spectacles when he had lived in Rome, but that distaste was impossible to voice in the company of soldiers who lived by a code of blood, battle and discipline.
There was a metallic ring, and a frenzied exchange of clattering blows. With no advantage gained, the two resumed their circling motion. A swelling mood of frustration became evident in the cries of the watching legionaries and the eagle-bearer signalled the heated iron holders to move in behind the fighters, black rods tipped with red, glowing ends that wavered through the air. Over the shoulder of the swordsman, the trident caught sight of the approaching danger and threw himself into a furious attack, slashing at the shorter man’s sword, trying to knock the blade from his grasp. The swordsman parried for his life, using both sword and buckler as he was forced back towards the side of the arena, straight into the path of the heated irons.
‘Come on!’ shouted Cato, waving his fist, caught up in the excitement. ‘You’ve got him!’
A piercing shriek split the air as the heated iron came into contact with the swordsman’s back and he instinctively recoiled, straight onto the barbed tips of the trident. He howled as one prong entered his thigh, high up near the hip, and tore free with a thick gout of blood which flowed down his leg and dripped onto the grass. The swordsman swiftly side-stepped away from the heated iron and tried to get some distance between himself and the wicked tips of the trident. Those who had bet on him shouted their support, willing him to close the distance and stick it to the trident while he still could.
Cato saw that the trident was grinning, aware that time was on his side. He just had to keep his opponent at a distance long enough for the loss of blood to weaken him. Then close in for the kill. But the crowd was in no mood for a waiting game and jeered angrily as the trident backed away from his bleeding foe. Up came the heated irons again. This time the swordsman sought the advantage, knowing that his time for effective action was short. He rushed at the trident, raining blows on the tip of his weapon, forcing the tall Briton back. But the trident was not going to fall for the same trick. He slid his grip down the shaft and suddenly swung it at the legs of the swordsman, then ran round to the side, away from the irons. The shorter man jumped awkwardly and landed off balance.
A series of thrusts and parries clattered out and then Cato noticed that the swordsman was swaying, his steps becoming more and more uncertain as his lifeblood ebbed from his body. Another attack from the trident was beaten off, but only just. Then the swordsman’s strength appeared to give out and he slowly sank down onto his knees, sword wavering in his hand.
Macro jumped to his feet. ‘Get up! Get up before he guts you!’
The rest of the crowd rose, sensing that the end of the fight was near, most of them desperately urging the swordsman to stand up.
The trident thrust forward, catching the sword between the prongs. A quick twist and the blade spun from the swordsman’s grip and landed several feet away. Knowing all was lost the swordsman slumped onto his back, waiting for a quick end. The trident shouted his victory cry, and shifted his grip forward as he advanced to stand over his opponent and deal the final blow. Legs astride the heavily bleeding swordsman, he raised his trident high. The swordsman’s buckler suddenly swung up with savage desperation and slammed into the taller man’s groin. With a deep groan the trident doubled up. The crowd cheered. A second blow from the buckler smashed into the man’s face and he went down on the grass, weapon slipping from his grip as he clutched at his nose and eyes. Two more blows to the head from the buckler and the trident was finished.
‘Marvellous stuff!’ Macro jumped up and down. ‘Bloody marvellous!’
Cato shook his head bitterly, and cursed the trident’s cockiness. It never paid to assume your foe was beaten simply because he appeared that way. Hadn’t the trident tried that very trick earlier in the fight?
The swordsman rose to his feet, far more easily than a critically wounded man could, and quickly retrieved his sword. The end was merciful, the trident was sent to his gods with a sharp thrust under the ribcage into his heart.
Then, as Cato, Macro and the crowd watched, a very strange thing happened. Before the eagle-bearer and his assistant could disarm the swordsman, the Briton raised his arms and shouted out a challenge. In crudely accented Latin he screamed out, ‘Romans! Romans! See!’
The sword swept down, the gr
ip was quickly reversed and with both hands the Briton thrust it into his chest. He swayed a moment, head lolling back, and then collapsed onto the grass beside the body of the trident. The crowd was hushed.
‘What the fuck did he do that for?’ Macro muttered.
‘Maybe he knew his wounds were fatal.’
‘He might have survived,’ Macro replied grudgingly. ‘You never know.’
‘Survived, only to become a slave. Perhaps he didn’t want that, sir.’
‘Then he was a fool.’
The eagle-bearer, concerned about the uncertain change in the audience’s mood, hurried forward, arms raised. ‘Right then, lads, that’s your lot. Fight’s over. I declare the swordsman the winner. Pay up the winning bets, and then back to your duties.’
‘Wait!’ a voice cried out. ‘It’s a draw! They’re both dead.’
‘The swordsman won,’ the eagle-bearer shouted back.
‘He was finished. The trident would have bled him to death.’
‘Would have,’ agreed the eagle-bearer, ‘if he hadn’t screwed it up at the end. My decision’s final. The swordsman won, and everyone’s to pay their debts. Or they’ll have me to deal with. Now, back to your duties!’
The audience broke up, quietly streaming through the oak trees towards the tent lines while the eagle-bearer’s assistants heaved the bodies onto the back of a wagon, to join the losers of the earlier bouts. While Cato waited, his centurion hurried off to collect his winnings from his cohort’s standard-bearer, surrounded by a small mob of legionaries clutching their numbered chits. Macro returned a short while later, happily weighing up the coins in his purse.
‘Not the most lucrative bet I’ve ever made but nice to win all the same.’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Why the long face? Oh, of course. Your money went on that cocky twat with the trident. How much did you lose?’
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