The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro sent a forage party out to find provisions for the Sixth Century and dismissed Cato. Only one thing was on the optio’s mind. The desperate need for some kind of relief from the pain of his burns. Leaving the century by the rampart, he climbed over the remains of the palisade and scrambled down the far side. He made his way across the ditch and up onto the river bank, eerily lit by the flickering torches and braziers of the casualty clearing station. Rows of injured, dying and dead had been arranged all along the river bank and Cato had to pick his way through them to reach the river. At the water’s edge he laid down his shield and carefully unfastened the straps of his helmet, mail corselet, and weapons belt. He felt a palpable sense of lightness seep into his exhausted body as he gingerly stripped off his equipment and felt himself for injuries. There were some cuts, now crusted over with dried blood, and the burns were starting to blister. They were agony to the lightest touch. Naked, and shivering more from tiredness than the cool evening air, Cato waded out into the gentle current. As soon as he was deep enough, he slumped down and gasped as the cold water enclosed his body. A moment later he was smiling in pure bliss at the numbing relief it brought to his burns.

  Chapter Fourteen

  _______________

  ‘Bet that hurts!’ Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato’s right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.

  ‘Keep still,’ the surgeon tutted. ‘It’s hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his knees and gently smeared it over Cato’s shoulder. Cato flinched, and had to clench his teeth as the surgeon continued the application. The cool air of the hour before dawn made him shiver, but it provided some small relief from the intensely painful injury that was sending waves of nerve-searing agony up and down his side.

  ‘Is he going to be able to rejoin the unit?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Do me a favour, Centurion!’ The surgeon shook his head. ‘When will you officers learn that you can’t expect wounded men to jump up and dash right back into a fight? If the optio here goes off and opens up the blisters, and they get infected, he’ll be far worse off than he is now.’

  ‘How long then?’

  The surgeon examined the mass of angry blisters and cocked his head on one side. ‘A few days for the blisters to come and go. He’ll have to keep his side open to the air, and rest as much as possible. So he’s excused duties.’

  ‘Excused duties!’ Macro scoffed. ‘You might not have noticed but there’s a bloody battle on the go. He has to return to the unit. I need every man I’ve got.’

  The surgeon rose to his full height and confronted the centurion. For the first time Macro realised what a giant of a man the surgeon was, nearly a foot taller than he was, and built like a bull. He was in his mid-twenties, with dark features and tightly curled black hair that suggested African origins. Big as he was, there didn’t appear to be any fat on his muscled body.

  ‘Centurion, if you value this man he has to be allowed to recover from the burns. He is excused duties – and my decision has the backing of the senior surgeon and the legate.’ His tone and expression made it quite clear that he was in no mood to listen to any arguments about his decision. But that didn’t change the fact that the Sixth Century was badly undermanned and needed the presence of everyone who could still wield a weapon.

  ‘And I said I want him back with the century.’

  The confrontation between the surgeon and the centurion in the flickering pool of torchlight was turning nasty. Cato gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet to intervene.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s right – I can hardly move this arm. I’d be no use to you right now.’

  ‘Who asked you?’ Macro glowered at the optio. ‘Anyway, what are you taking his side for?’

  ‘I’m not taking sides, sir. I want to get back into action as fast as possible, but I won’t be doing any good until I can use this arm.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro was not unsympathetic, in principle, to those bearing injuries, but short of having a limb lopped off or being beaten unconscious, he found it difficult to see why a man should not take part in battle. The Britons may have lost their camp but there were still plenty of them milling about outside the earthworks; the injured might well have to fight for their lives before much longer.

  ‘All right then, lad,’ he said, relenting slightly. ‘But you get back to the century as soon as you can, understand? No malingering.’

  ‘Sir!’ Cato was indignant. But Macro had already turned away and was marching off through the lines of Roman injured lying beside the river. Cato’s gaze followed the centurion’s torch for a while, before it was lost amid the other torches and the flare of campfires.

  ‘Nice one, your centurion,’ muttered the surgeon.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right. Just a little lacking in empathy and tact at times. But an excellent soldier.’

  ‘And you’d be a good judge of such soldiers, would you?’ The surgeon dipped into his pot for some more salve. ‘Ready for this?’

  Cato nodded, bracing himself for more pain. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘Really? And how long have you served in the Second?’

  ‘Getting on for a year.’

  The surgeon paused in his application of salve. ‘A year? Is that it? And this is your first legion?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘You’re hardly more than a boy.’ The surgeon shook his head in amused bewilderment, then he noticed Cato’s tunic and armour lying on the ground. The dull glow of the phalera on Cato’s body harness caught the surgeon’s eye. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’d you come by it?’

  ‘I saved my centurion’s life, before we left Germany last year.’

  ‘You mean you’re that optio? The one everyone was talking about back at base?’ The surgeon looked at Cato with fresh eyes. ‘The optio from the palace?’

  ‘That’s me.’ Cato blushed.

  ‘And you volunteered for the army?’

  ‘No. I was born a slave. I was freed on condition that I joined the eagles. A reward for my father’s services to the palace.’

  ‘And he was a slave too?’

  ‘Freedman. He was given his freedom after I was born so I stayed a slave.’

  ‘That’s tough.’

  ‘That’s the way it is.’

  The surgeon laughed, a rich, deep laugh that drew glances from those nearby. ‘Well, you really have made your mark, haven’t you? From slave to raw recruit to decorated veteran in less than a year. At this rate you’ll probably make centurion – no, what am I saying? You’ll make legate by this time next year!’

  ‘Can we get on with the salve?’ Cato asked, embarrassed by the sudden attention they were attracting.

  ‘Sorry. No offence intended, Optio.’

  ‘None taken. And let’s keep it that way, please.’

  The surgeon continued with his work, applying the sweet-smelling salve to the raw flesh down the side of the optio’s skinny body. Cato tried to occupy his mind, to keep the pain at bay as much as possible. He looked along the rows of injured men, some moaning and crying out as they writhed feebly on the ground. The medical staff of all three legions were busy ferrying the injured back across the river in several small skiffs that had been brought up from the engineers’ baggage train. A two-way traffic of wounded men and empty stretchers struggled past each other down towards the river.

  ‘How bad have our casualties been?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Bad. Hundreds of dead. We’ve placed them in the centre of the camp. Word is that the general is going to flatten the earthworks when the army moves forward. Should be enough for a sizeable mound over the ashes.’

  ‘And the wounde
d?’

  ‘Thousands.’ The surgeon looked up. ‘Mainly from the Ninth, thanks to those bloody slingers. I’ve never treated so many broken bones. Here, let me find you a souvenir.’

  The surgeon scanned the ground for a moment and then pounced on something in the trampled turf. He straightened up and popped it into Cato’s hand. It was small and heavy and in the dim light Cato could see an oval lump of lead the size of his thumb, but thickening in the middle.

  ‘Nasty, isn’t it?’ The surgeon nodded at it. ‘You’d be surprised just how much damage one of those can do in the hands of a good slinger. The impact will break bone, even through chain mail, or a helmet. I had to cut one out of a tribune tonight. Went right into his leg, smashing the thigh bone to pieces. Poor sod died from loss of blood before I could finish.’

  ‘From one of these?’ Cato tossed the lead shot up and felt the stinging impact as he caught it. Travelling many times faster, he shuddered to think of the damage it would do to a human being. As he rolled the shot in his hand he noticed an irregularity on its surface, and raised it to his eyes for a closer look. Even in the poor light he could see that something had once been stamped on the side of the shot and that someone had tried to erase the markings, rather too hurriedly.

  ‘Can you see some letters there?’ he asked, holding up the shot.

  The surgeon gazed at it a moment, then frowned. ‘Well, it looks like an L, then an E, but that’s all I can make out.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Cato nodded. ‘But what is Latin script doing on British shot?’

  ‘Maybe it’s one of ours being returned.’

  Cato thought for a moment. ‘But slings haven’t been issued to the legions yet. So where can this have come from?’

  ‘Someplace beginning with LE,’ suggested the surgeon.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cato said quietly. ‘Or maybe the LE stands for LEGIO, in which case it really is one of ours. You see any more like this?’

  ‘Look around.’ The surgeon waved his hand. ‘They’re all over the place.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato tossed the lead shot up in the air again. ‘That’s interesting . . .’

  ‘Right! That’s you finished.’ The surgeon stood up and wiped his hand on a rag tucked into his belt. ‘Get down to the river and take a boat back to your unit’s camp. You’re to rest up and keep the arm as still as possible. If there’s any sign of pus in the burns, go and see the nearest surgeon immediately. Clear?’

  Cato nodded. He tucked his tunic into his belt and picked up his equipment in his good hand. The salve and the cool air on the naked skin of his upper torso combined to take some of the sting out of his burns and he smiled gratefully.

  ‘If you pass our way in the next few days I’ll stand you a drink.’

  ‘Thanks, Optio. That’s very kind. I don’t usually make house calls, but given your offer I’ll be happy to make an exception. Who shall I ask for?’

  ‘Cato. Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort of the Second Legion.’

  ‘Well met then, Cato. I’ll look forward to it.’ The surgeon placed the salve jar into his leather dressing bag and turned to leave.

  ‘Er, might I have your name?’ Cato called out.

  ‘Nisus. At least that’s my known name.’ The surgeon replied bitterly and strode off between the lines of wounded.

  Chapter Fifteen

  _______________

  As dawn flooded over the rolling British landscape, the Britons launched a desperate counterattack to regain control of the ford. It was a vain effort since the same boats that had been used to shuttle the wounded back to the eastern bank of the river had returned with bolt-throwers from the army’s artillery train. Long before dawn, many of these weapons had been mounted on the western ramparts of the British fortifications, and covered all the approaches.

  As the hapless Britons rose up from the mists wreathing the low ground behind the fort and roared their battle cry, many were cut down before they had a chance to draw a second breath. With reckless courage they charged forward, urged on by the braying of their war horns and the example of their standard bearers leading the way beneath their billowing serpents. The Romans had sealed up the gateways and had formed a solid shield wall along the length of the rampart. Disciplined and determined, the legionaries did not yield one foot of ground, and the wave of Britons dashed themselves to pieces on the defences.

  Cato was being helped aboard one of the engineers’ shallow-bottomed craft when the peal of British war horns sounded on the dawn air, somehow muffled and distant, as if they belonged to a different world. The sounds of battle drifted down to the grey glassy surface of the river but there was little sense of excitement amongst those in the boat. For a moment Cato sat up and strained his ears to listen. Then he glanced down at the weariness and pain etched into the faces of the men around him, too tired to pay heed to the desperate battle being fought, and Cato realised that it was no longer his affair. He had done his duty, he had felt the fire of battle coursing through his veins and shared in the exultation of victory. Now, more than anything else, he needed rest.

  The other men’s heads nodded and lolled as the engineers steadily paddled the craft over the water, but Cato concentrated on the activity around him to divert his mind from the pain of his burns. The small boat was passing close by one of the warships and Cato looked up to see a bare-headed marine leaning on the side, a small wineskin in his hands. The man’s face and arms were blackened from the soot of the incendiary fire the ships had been pouring down on the British the previous day. He raised his head at the sound of the engineers’ paddles splashing into the smooth surface of the river, and raised a finger to his forehead in casual greeting.

  Cato nodded back. ‘Hot work?’

  ‘You said it, Optio.’

  Cato fixed his eyes on the wineskin, and instinctively licked his lips at the thought of its contents. The marine laughed. ‘Here! You seem to need it more than I do, Optio.’

  Cato, clumsy in his exhaustion, fumbled to catch the thrown wineskin. The contents sloshed heavily inside. ‘Thanks!’

  ‘Typical bloody marine,’ grumbled an engineer. ‘Those tossers have got nothing better to do than drink all day long.’

  ‘While the likes of us do all the bloody work,’ complained his comrade on the other paddle.

  ‘That’s your problem, mate!’ the marine called out. ‘And watch what you’re doing with them paddles, or you’ll foul the anchor chain!’

  ‘Piss off,’ one of the engineers replied sourly, but increased his efforts on the paddle to steer the craft away from the stem of the warship.

  The marine laughed and raised a hand in mock salute. Cato pulled out the wineskin stopper and took a deep draught of wine. He almost choked when a sudden whoosh and crack broke the stillness. A catapult on the deck of the ship had just hurled a flint-filled casket high into the air towards a small force of chariots downstream from the fortifications. Curious about the accuracy of the weapon, Cato watched as the casket arced up into the air in the general direction of the spectral shapes of the distant enemy. All eyes must have been fixed on the fight for the fortifications as there was no sign of any reaction to the black speck pitching down towards them. The casket disappeared into the faint shapes of men, horses and vehicles. Moments later a dull crash carried across the water, followed by cries of surprise and pain. Cato could well imagine the devastating impact of the casket and the wounds inflicted by the flints flying out in all directions. Moments later the British had vanished and only the dead and injured remained where the chariots had stood.

  As the hulk of the warship fell away in the milky light, Cato slumped back against the hard side of the boat and closed his eyes, despite the agony of his burns. All that mattered now was snatching a moment’s rest. Helped by the wine, the instant his aching eyes shut and he surrendered to the warm comfort of relaxation, the young optio fell into a deep sleep. So deep that he barely murmured as he was lifted from the boat and t
ransferred to one of the Second Legion’s hospital carts for the jolting journey back to the camp. He stirred only briefly when the legion’s surgeon had him stripped and prodded the burns to assess the damage. A fresh application of salve was ordered and then Cato, having been entered in the walking wounded lists, was carried back to the Sixth Century’s tent line and gently transferred to his coarse sleeping roll.

  ‘Hey! . . . Hey! Wake up.’

  Cato was abruptly wrenched from his sleep as a pair of hands roughly shook his leg.

  ‘Come on, soldier! This is no time for malingering – there’s work to be done.’

  Cato opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness of a midday sun. Squatting at his side, and smiling, Macro shook his head in despair.

  ‘Bloody younger generation spends half its time on its back. I tell you, Nisus, it’s a sorry lookout for the empire.’

  Cato looked over his centurion’s shoulder and saw the looming form of the surgeon. Nisus was frowning.

  ‘I think the lad needs more rest. He’s in no shape for duty right now.’

  ‘No shape for duty? That’s not what the chief quack seems to think. The optio’s walking wounded, and right now we need all the men we can get back into the fighting line.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But nothing,’ Macro said firmly, and hauled his optio up. ‘I know the regulations. The boy’s fit enough to fight.’

  Nisus shrugged; the centurion was in the right about the regulations, and there was nothing he could do about that. Still, it would not look good for the record if one of his patients died of some infection because he had not been allowed sufficient time for recovery.

  ‘The lad just needs a quick drink and a decent meal inside him and he’ll be ready to take the Britons on all by himself. Ain’t that right, Cato?’

  Cato was sitting up, still not quite awake, and badly irritated by the way the other two were continuing their earlier argument. In truth, Cato felt very far from being able to take on the enemy at the moment. Now that he was awake again, the pain from his burns seemed worse than ever, and glancing down he could see that the side of his body was a mass, of red skin and blisters beneath the glistening salve.