The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Well, lad?’ asked Macro. ‘You up for it?’

  Cato just wished himself back asleep, and the centurion and the rest of the bloody army as far from his mind as possible. Behind the centurion Nisus was gently shaking his head, and for a moment Cato was tempted to agree with the surgeon’s advice and take as long a break from his duties as possible. But he was an optio, with an optio’s responsibilities to the rest of the men in his century, and that meant he could not afford to indulge any private weakness. Whatever pain he was in right now was no worse than his centurion had suffered from any one of his innumerable wounds in past campaigns. If he was to win the respect of the men he commanded, the same respect that Macro wore so easily, then he must suffer for it.

  Gritting his teeth, Cato pushed himself up, and rose to his feet. Nisus sighed at the obstinacy of youth.

  ‘Well done, lad!’ Macro barked and slapped the boy on the shoulder.

  A sheet of pain scoured the nerves down the side of the optio’s body and he grimaced, locking his body still for a moment. Nisus started forward.

  ‘You all right, Optio?’

  ‘Fine,’ Cato managed between gritted teeth. ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘I see. Well, if you need anything, get down to the field hospital. And if there’s any sign of infection, come and see me at once.’

  The last remark was directed at the centurion as much as the optio, and Cato nodded his understanding.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be sensible.’

  ‘All right then. I’m off.’

  As Nisus walked away, Macro tutted with disapproval. ‘What is it with surgeons? They either refuse to believe you’re ill until you croak on them, or they treat the lightest scratch as some kind of mortal wound.’

  Cato was tempted to say that his burns were somewhat more serious than a light scratch, but managed to bite his tongue. There were more important issues. The presence of his centurion on this side of the river was worrying and required an explanation.

  ‘What’s happening, sir? Why’s the legion back here? Have we retreated across the river?’

  ‘Relax, lad. Things are going well. The ford’s in our hands and the Second’s been relieved by the Twentieth. The boys are having a rest before General Plautius moves the army over to the far bank.’

  ‘Have the Britons gone?’

  ‘Gone?’ Macro laughed. ‘You should have seen them this morning. I tell you, that British general must have a pretty impressive hold over his men. They came at us like madmen, screaming and shouting as they threw themselves onto the shield wall. It was a close call, we very nearly lost it at one point. Bunch of them burst through by one of the gates and would have opened a sizeable breach in our line if it hadn’t been for Vespasian. Bloody legate’s a game lad, all right.’ Macro chuckled. ‘Took the colour party and the staff officers by the scruff of the neck and threw them into the fight. Glorious stuff. Even the trumpet-blowers got involved. I saw one of the beggars take his horn and lay into the Britons, swinging it round like a bloody battle-axe. Anyway, once the line had been closed again, the Britons lost heart and pulled back.’

  ‘The general’s just letting them escape?’ Cato was appalled. What was the point of so much loss of life the day before if the enemy was allowed to pull back and fortify the next river?

  ‘He may be a general but he’s not that stupid. He’s sent the auxiliary cavalry after them. Meanwhile, the Twentieth are finally off their arses and doing something and we’re back here for a day’s rest. Then we push on again.’

  ‘A whole day’s rest?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, lad. We’ve got the buggers knocked off balance and if we can keep pushing forward then Caratacus won’t have the chance to re-form his army. It’s all a question of time. The more he gets, the stronger his army will be. We march hard now or we fight a lot more of them later. Either way, we’re in for a tough time of it.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’

  They both fell silent for a moment as all too vivid memories of the previous day flooded back. Cato felt a chill of horror ripple up his spine into the nape of his neck. It took an effort to order the jumble of impressions into sequence, and make sense of what had happened. The ferocity of battle had a way of altering one’s perception and it seemed to Cato that an impossible intensity of life, in all its terror and ecstasy, had been experienced the day before. He was filled with a deep sense of being far too young for the things he had witnessed. Indeed, far too young for the things he had done. A wave of disgust washed over him.

  Macro, glancing over at his optio, saw the grim expression on the youngster’s face. He had seen enough young soldiers in his time to guess what Cato was thinking.

  ‘It isn’t all glory being a soldier, my lad, not by a long way. And those who ain’t been soldiers never realise that. You’re new to the game, still adjusting to our ways. But it’ll come to you.’

  ‘What’ll come to me?’ Cato looked up. ‘What will I become?’

  ‘Hmmm. Tough question.’ Macro grimaced. ‘What you will become is a soldier. Even now I’m not quite sure what that means. It’s just a way we have. A way we have to have – to get through each day. I guess you must think me and the others a bit hard sometimes. No, hard’s not the right word. What about that word I came across the other day? I asked you about, it remember?’

  ‘Callous,’ Cato replied quietly.

  ‘That’s it! Callous. Good word.’

  ‘And are you, sir?’

  Macro sighed, and sat down beside his optio. Cato noticed the weariness in his movements, and realised that Macro had had no rest for the best part of two days. He wondered at the marvellous resilience of the centurion, and the way in which he made the wellbeing of the men in his command his priority in all things, as the present situation proved.

  ‘Cato, you’ve got eyes. You’ve got a good brain. But you ask the most daft bloody questions at times. Sure, some soldiers are callous. But aren’t some civilians? Didn’t you meet any callous men when you were living in the palace? The kind of men who would kill their own children for political advancement? When Sejanus fell, didn’t someone order the executioner to rape his ten-year-old daughter because the law doesn’t allow the execution of virgins? Doesn’t that smack of callousness? Look around you.’ Macro waved at the lines of tents stretching out on all sides, the hundreds of men quietly resting in the warm summer’s day, a handful playing at dice, one or two reading, some cleaning their equipment and weapons.

  ‘They’re just men, Cato. Ordinary men with all their vices and virtues. But where other men live their lives with death as a side issue, we live ours with death as a constant companion. We have to accept death.’

  Their eyes met, and Macro nodded sadly. ‘That’s how it is, Cato. Now look here. You’re a good lad, and have the makings of a fine soldier. Think on that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Macro rose to his feet and tugged his tunic straight under his chain mail. With a quick smile of encouragement he turned to leave, and then clicked his fingers in irritation.

  ‘Shit! Almost forgot the reason I came to see you.’ He reached under his harness and pulled out a small, tightly-wound and sealed scroll. ‘For you. Some letters have arrived with the supply column. Here. Read it and get some rest. I’ll need you back on duty this evening.’

  As the tired centurion walked stiffly towards his tent, Cato examined the scroll. The address on the wafer that bound the scroll had been written in a neat, tidy hand. ‘To Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort, Second Legion.’ Curiosity turned to delicious anticipation as he read the name of the sender: Lavinia.

  Chapter Sixteen

  _______________

  To fighting men on campaign, any opportunity to rest represented a luxury to be savoured, and the men of the Second Legion dozed happily in the sunlight. The heat of the afternoon sun soaked into the world below, and induced a still, warm haze that floated across the landscape and filled them with a sense of
calm and contentment. The legate had seen to it that his men were well fed on their return to camp, and a generous allowance of wine had been sent to all the field kitchens. As usual some of the legionaries had gambled their wine ration in games of dice in a bid to win more. Accordingly, some were sullenly sober as they glared at their insensible comrades snoring off their winnings in a drunken stupor.

  Wandering down the quiet lines of men, the legate of the Second Legion could not help but be conscious of the abrupt changes that life wrought. This time the day before, these same men had been preparing to assault the British fortifications and kill or be killed in the attempt. Yet here they were sleeping like babes. And those who weren’t asleep were quietly contemplative. So lost in their thoughts were some of the men that they failed to notice him passing, but Vespasian made no issue of this breach of discipline. They had fought hard. Fought hard and won through at some cost, and it was good that they rested and recovered some sense of inner well-being. Tomorrow they would be hard at it again, as the army shifted its position across the Mead Way and continued to push the Britons back.

  But military matters were a side issue at the moment. Tucked inside his belt purse was a letter he had found with the despatches on returning to his headquarters tent. The handwriting was instantly recognisable, and the legate had seized it eagerly. A message from his wife was what he needed more than anything else in the world at this moment. Something to occupy his thoughts for a brief while and remind him that he was human; something unrelated to the press of duties that surrounded him. He had curtly ordered his staff officers to deal with the paperwork, removed his armour and left the tent in a light linen tunic in search of some privacy. The decurion in charge of the legate’s bodyguard had snapped to attention, and prepared to order his men to their feet, but Vespasian had managed to stop him in time. He ordered the decurion to stand the men down and let them rest. Then he strolled off, alone and unprotected.

  Beyond the picket lines rose a small knoll, on top of which stood a copse of birch trees. An animal track traced a more or less straight line up the slope through a dense mass of cow parsley and stinging nettles. No breeze disturbed the air; butterflies, bees and other insects wafted above the unmoving greenery, oblivious of the great force of men, their horses and oxen stretched out across the ridge above the placidly flowing river. Up here on the knoll it was silent, and quite still. Vespasian slumped down with his back against the rough bark of a tree.

  Even in the shade the air felt warm and close. Sweat trickled from under his arms, and felt cold as it slid down his sides under the tunic. Below, by the river crossing, a glittering spray amid tiny figures caught his eye. Some legionaries were swimming in the river, no doubt delighted at the chance to enjoy the cool water. Vespasian could think of nothing more he wanted than a swim, but the walk down to the river would take up too much time. In any case, the walk back up to the camp on the ridge would only make him uncomfortably hot once again.

  A quite wonderful sense of anticipation had been building up inside him; the letter could be savoured now, rather than slotted into a convenient break between sifting the paperwork back at headquarters. He broke the wafer, imagining as he did so Flavia’s hands holding this very scroll not so long ago. The parchment was stiff, and he smiled as he recognised it as part of the writing set he had bought Flavia nearly a year ago. The handwriting was as elegant as ever. Resisting the impulse to scan ahead, as he did with most documents, Vespasian settled to read his wife’s letter. It began with customary mock formality.

  Written on the Ides of June, from the headquarters of the governor at Lutetia.

  To Flavius Vespasianus, commander of the Second Legion, and incidentally beloved husband of Flavia Domitilla, and absent father of Titus.

  Dear husband, I trust that you are safe, and doing your very best to keep safe. Young Titus begs you to be careful and threatens that he won’t ever speak to you again should you fall in battle. I rather think he takes the euphemism literally and wonders at the clumsiness of you army types. I haven’t the heart to explain what really happens. Not that I could; nor would I ever want to discover what a battle is like. You might explain it all to him one day when, not if, you return.

  I expect you want to know about our journey to Rome. The roads have been difficult to negotiate since there is all manner of military traffic pouring towards the coast. It seems that no effort is being spared to ensure that your campaign succeeds. We even passed a convoy of elephants heading for Gesoriacum. Elephants! Quite what the Emperor thinks General Plautius will do with the poor creatures is anybody’s guess. I hardly think a bunch of ignorant savages will be able to put up much of a fight . . .

  Vespasian gently shook his head; so far the ignorant savages were doing rather better than had been anticipated, and the reinforcements being rushed to support Plautius were desperately needed. The Second Legion badly needed replacements to bring them up to full fighting strength.

  The more optimistic of the officers’ wives are saying that Britain will be a part of the empire by the end of the year – just as soon as Caratacus is crushed and their tribal capital at Camulodunum taken. I tried to explain to them what you told me about the island’s size, but such is their belief in the invincibility of our troops that they insisted that every one of the native tribes would wilt at the mere mention of Rome. I hope they are right, but I have my doubts given what you once told me about the Briton’s penchant for guerrilla fighting. I just pray that the gods deliver you back to me in Rome older and wiser, and in perfect health, so that you can put the army behind you and concentrate on your future in politics. I have sent word ahead that we are returning to Rome, and I will get to work on building up our social connections as quickly as possible.

  Vespasian frowned at the mention of politics, and his expression deepened as he reflected on Flavia’s mention of connections. If she misjudged them in the current political climate in the capital, she might well jeopardise his chances and, worse, might actually endanger them all. Vespasian had only recently discovered that Flavia had been linked to an attempt to unseat Claudius. Scores of conspirators had been rounded up and executed in Rome, but Flavia had not been directly implicated. So far. Vitellius had uncovered her involvement, and it was only the threat of his own disgrace over his attempt to steal a fortune in imperial gold and silver, about which Vespasian had evidence, that kept Vitellius from exposing Flavia’s treachery. It was an acutely uncomfortable state of affairs, Vespasian reflected before turning back to the letter.

  Dear husband, I must tell you that I have had word from Rome that the Emperor is still hounding the survivors of the Scribonianus plot. It seems that there is a rumour going round about a secret organisation conspiring to overthrow the empire and return Rome to its republican glory. Everyone here in Lutetia is talking, or rather whispering, about it. It seems this gang refers to itself as ‘The Liberators’, a rather presumptuous nomenclature – but shrewdly evocative of a more egalitarian age, don’t you think? I believe the days of the republic are long gone, and we are in an age where the winner takes all. Great men must play by whichever rules help them most efficiently to achieve their ends. Dearest husband, in this, as in all things, I am your ardent servant.

  Despite the day’s warmth, and his earlier contentment, Vespasian suddenly felt a nerve-tingling chill rise at the back of his neck and glide slowly down his spine. Was Flavia trying to sound out his feelings about the Liberators? If, indeed, she was linked to them at all, as Vitellius claimed. Flavia did not yet know that her husband knew of her role in Scribonianus’ plot. What was Flavia saying to him between the words written there on the page?

  Suddenly, he felt an intense longing to have Flavia with him right at this moment, here in the warm shadows of the sun-dappled birch trees. He wanted to hold her, to look her in the eye and demand the truth, to be reassured of her innocence, to see no trace of guile in those wide brown eyes. And then to make love. Oh yes, to make love! He could almost believe she was with
him as he conjured up the sensation of holding her naked in his arms.

  But what if she was part of the conspiracy? She might deny it even then, even while gazing into his face, with an expression of injured innocence, and he would never be able to prove it – or disprove it. He cursed out loud at the wedge Vitellius had driven between them. The smouldering distrust that the imperial agent had planted in his heart now ignited into a raging despair at the situation he faced. Flavia must be confronted with the accusation and made to relinquish any link she might have to the Liberators. And if she was innocent, then Vitellius must be made to suffer for the damage he had caused by fracturing the sacred trust that exists between man and wife. Vitellius would pay dearly, most dearly, Vespasian promised himself as he stared bitterly down the slope to where the legionaries still splashed about in the river.

  For a moment he continued staring, an icy glint of hatred in his eyes, his fist unconsciously tightening round the scroll. A vague pain finally registered in his mind, and he looked down and saw that the scroll was tightly crushed, and that his fingernails were biting deeply into the palm of his hand. It took a moment to refocus his mind, relax his grip and uncrumple Flavia’s letter. There was more to read; a few more lines about their son Titus, but the words blurred into meaninglessness and so Vespasian abruptly rose to his feet and strode off down the slope back towards his headquarters.

  Chapter Seventeen

  _______________

  ‘You’re in a good mood!’ Macro stopped whetting the blade of his sword and grinned at Cato. Normally he would send his weapon to be sharpened by one of the legionaries on fatigues, but they were at war now, and Macro had to be confident his weapons were honed to their sharpest. He ran his fingers gently back from the point along each edge. ‘That letter, I guess.’