The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘From Lavinia.’ Cato gazed dreamily towards the fading bronze sky in the west. The sun had set, and faint fingers of light gilded the underside of scattered clouds. After the beating heat of the day, the air felt cooler at last. Even the wood pigeons in the nearest trees sounded more comfortable in the dull haze of the closing dusk. ‘First letter I’ve had from her.’

  ‘Still burning a lamp for you, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Seems that way.’

  The centurion regarded his optio for a moment and slowly shook his head with pity. ‘Not even a man yet and you’re straining at the leash to get hitched to the girl. At least, that’s how it looks. Haven’t you got some wild oats to sow?’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, that’s my business.’

  Macro laughed. ‘All right, boy, but don’t say I didn’t encourage you when some day you look back on all the lost opportunities. I’ve met some odd types in my time, but you must be the first lad I’ve met who’s been so smitten that he’s not looking forward to getting his leg over the first of the local women we get to grips with.’

  Cato looked down, ashamed and bitter. Try as he might, he could not slip into the role of the legionary that Macro was so comfortable with. He was plagued by a painful and perpetual self-consciousness whenever he approached a new challenge.

  ‘Now then, how are those burns? Can you cope?’

  ‘Do I have a choice, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They hurt like hell, but I can do my duty.’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Spoken like a true soldier.’

  ‘Spoken like a true fool,’ muttered Cato.

  ‘But you are up to it? I mean, seriously?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The centurion cast an eye over the glistening mass of blisters covering Cato’s arm then nodded. ‘All right then. The legion’s moving off at first light. We leave our packs here, and the army’s baggage train will bring everything up once we cross the Tamesis. When we’re on the far side, the orders are that we dig in and wait for the Emperor to arrive with reinforcements.’

  ‘The Emperor’s coming here?’

  ‘In person. Least that’s what the legate said at the briefing. Seems he wants to be in on the kill so that he can present himself as triumphant general to the mob in Rome. We get across the Tamesis, and then we’re nicely poised to strike west into the heart of Britain, or go east and take the Catuvellauni capital. Either way we keep the natives guessing and meanwhile get ourselves fully rested and ready for the next stage of the invasion.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to keep our swords in Caratacus’ back, to keep him from re-forming? If we just sit there and wait he can only grow stronger.’

  Macro nodded. ‘That’s what I’d have thought. Still, orders is orders.’

  ‘Are we going to get any replacements, sir?’

  ‘Some cohorts of the Eighth are being sent over from Gesoriacum. They should catch up with us by the time we cross the Tamesis. Thanks to our losses the Second’s been promised the biggest share of the replacements. You up to date with the century’s strength returns?’

  ‘Just sent them over to headquarters, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope those bloody clerks see fit to send us our quota. Not that those idle buggers in the Eighth are up to much. They’ve spent too long on garrison duty and most will be soft as rotten fruit. You can count on it. Still, a live idle bugger is more use than a dead one.’

  Cato could only nod in agreement with such flawless wisdom. Particularly since all the men who had died were now generating a distastefully large amount of paperwork.

  ‘So how are we doing?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Macro raised his eyes. ‘What’s our current strength?’

  ‘Oh. Forty-eight effectives, including us and the standard bearer, sir. We’ve got twelve in the hospital; three of those have lost limbs.’

  Macro spared the last three a moment’s thought, well aware of the fate waiting those who were discharged from the legions. ‘Those three, any of them veterans?’

  ‘Two, sir. The third, Caius Maximus, only joined the legion two years ago. Took a sword blow to the knee, nearly cut right through. Surgeon had to amputate.’

  ‘That’s tough. Very tough,’ Macro murmured, his face all but hidden in the gathering shades of night. ‘Two twenty-fifths of his gratuity is all he’ll get. Not much for a man to survive on.’

  ‘He’s from Rome, sir. He’ll be eligible for the corn dole.’

  ‘Corn dole!’ Macro sniffed contemptuously. ‘That’s a bloody humiliating prospect for an ex-legionary. No, I can’t let him depend on that. He has to have some money to set up in trade. A cobbler wouldn’t miss a leg or two. He can do that, or some similar trade. We’ll have a collection for Maximus. You do the rounds before everyone turns in tonight. And do him a refund from the funeral club. I doubt if the lads will protest about that. See to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?’

  ‘No. You can pass the word about tomorrow’s advance while you note the contributions for Maximus. Let the lads know we’ll be up before dawn. Breakfasted, assembled and ready to move off. Now go to it.’

  As he watched the optio’s dark form move down the tent line, Macro’s thoughts returned to Caius Maximus. He was barely older than Cato, but not nearly as bright. Quite stupid in fact. A big, gangling youth from the slums of the Subura in Rome. Tall, ponderous, with large ears between which a maddening lopsided smile split his face. From the moment Macro had taken charge of the century he had seen Maximus as a casualty waiting to happen, and he had shaken his head in pity at the boy’s attempts to cut it in the legion. It gave Macro no satisfaction to be proved right about the lad, and the thought of the thick young invalid trying to survive in a teeming metropolis populated by thieves and rogues of the very worst kind was painful. But the sword that had cut short the lad’s career, not to mention his leg, could just as easily have landed on any other man in the century, Macro reflected. It could just as easily have been him or young Cato.

  The centurion folded up his tunic and placed it between his harness and his armour so that the dew would not soak it. Satisfied that his weapons were to hand, Macro pulled his wool cape across his body and lay back on the grass staring up into the star-pricked blackness. All around, the darkness was filled with the sounds of an army bedding down for the night. The distant blare of a horn from headquarters announced a change of watch, and then, in the gathering quiet of rows of slumbering men, the centurion fell asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  _______________

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’ Vitellius smiled innocently at the legate.

  ‘Why have you been posted back to the Second Legion? I thought you’d been promoted to the general’s staff permanently. A reward for your heroic efforts. So what’s changed?’ Vespasian eyed him suspiciously. ‘Were you ordered back here, or did you request it?’

  ‘It was my request, sir,’ the tribune replied easily. ‘I told the general that I wanted to be back in the thick of it when the legion next goes into battle. The general said he admired my pluck, wished there were more like me, asked me once if I wished to change my mind, and then sent me on my way.’

  ‘I can imagine. No one in his right mind would actually want an imperial spy camping on his doorstep.’

  ‘He doesn’t know, sir.’

  ‘Doesn’t know? How can he not know what you are?’

  ‘Because no one has told him. Our general assumes that my preferment is entirely down to my palace connections. When I asked to be returned to the Second he wasn’t that sorry to see me go. If I can be honest, sir?’

  ‘Please go ahead.’

  ‘I’m not sure I have the right temperament to be on the general’s staff. He works them too hard and exposes them to too many risks, if you understand me.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Vespasian replied. ‘I heard you had gone in with the Ninth on the river assault.’

 
; Vitellius nodded, the terror of the attack still fresh in his mind; the mind-searing certainty that he would never survive the savage fusillade of arrows and slingshot poured down on the Romans by the desperate defenders.

  ‘I heard you acquitted yourself well enough.’

  ‘Yes, sir. All the same, I’d rather not have been down there.’

  ‘Possibly, but perhaps there’s some hope for you yet. Start behaving like a tribune, forget the espionage, and we might just survive each other’s company.’

  ‘That would be nice, sir. But I am the Emperor’s servant, and will remain so until I die.’

  Vespasian regarded his senior tribune closely. ‘I thought the only thing you served was your ambition.’

  ‘Is there anything more worthy of a man’s service?’ Vitellius smiled. ‘But ambition has to work within the boundaries of the possible and the whim of fate. No one knows the will of the gods. Given the prospect of his imminent deification, I expect that only Claudius can know how things will turn out.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ The imperial predilection for immortality was something that had troubled Vespasian over the years. He found it hard to believe that a motion voted for on the floor of the senate house could determine the divine status of a man. Especially such an unprepossessing creature as the present Emperor. Being declared a god had not protected Caligula from the wrath of those who had assassinated him. It seemed that those mad emperors whom men would destroy they first made gods. Vespasian looked up into the eyes of his senior tribune.

  ‘Look here, Vitellius, we’re in the middle of a major campaign. The last thing I need to worry about is you spying on me and my men behind our backs.’

  ‘Can you think of a better time to spy, sir? When men’s minds are preoccupied with battle they’re inclined to guard their tongues less. Makes my task that much easier.’

  Vespasian regarded him with open contempt. ‘There are times when you make me feel quite sick, Tribune.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If you come between my legion and its responsibilities to the rest of the army, I swear I will kill you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ If there was any sense of either smugness or surrender to a higher authority in the tribune’s expression, it was unreadable to Vespasian. Neither man spoke, or even moved, as they watched each other closely. Eventually Vespasian eased himself back in his chair.

  ‘I’m sure we understand one another, Vitellius.’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure that we do, sir. And may I assume that the arrangement we came to over your wife’s extracurricular politics and my treasure-hunting still stands?’

  Vespasian clasped his hands together tightly and nodded. ‘As long as you keep to your side of the bargain.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. Your wife is quite safe, for the moment.’

  ‘Assuming there’s a shred of truth in what you have said about her.’

  ‘Shred of truth?’ Vitellius smiled. ‘I think you’d be quite surprised at the lengths Flavia would go to pursue her political ends. Far more than is discreet for one whose husband has a promising future . . . in the service of the Emperor.’

  ‘So you say.’ Vespasian nodded slowly. ‘But you have yet to provide me with firm evidence of your allegations. Nothing you have told me so far would be provable in a court of law.’

  ‘Court of law!’ Vitellius chuckled. ‘Such a quaint notion. What makes you think for a moment that any charges against Flavia, or yourself, would be brought before any court at all? A quiet word from the Emperor and a small squad of Praetorians would pay you a visit with orders not to leave until you were both dead. The best you could hope for is a polite little obituary in the Rome gazette. That’s how the world works, sir. Best get used to it.’

  ‘I’ll get used to it. Just as you had better get used to the fact that I can implicate you in a little treason of your own.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t forgotten, sir. That’s why we’re having this discussion. I assume you have made sure that your side of the agreement is safely documented?’

  ‘Of course,’ lied Vespasian. ‘I have sent a message to Rome to be lodged with my lawyer until either I reclaim it or I perish. Whichever comes first. At which point the letter will be opened and read before senate and Emperor. I should imagine that your death would follow swiftly upon my own. So swiftly that we might even cross the Styx in the same vessel.’

  ‘I would count that an honour, sir.’ Vitellius permitted himself a wry smile. ‘But there really is no need for things to go that far, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more to be said, sir.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Am I dismissed?’

  Vespasian paused a moment and then shook his head. ‘Not quite yet, Tribune. I need you to answer a question before you leave.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘What do you know of the Liberators?’

  Vitellius raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the question. He tightened his lips and frowned before the answer came to him. ‘She’s been in touch with you, hasn’t she?’

  Vespasian refused to satisfy the tribune with a response and tried to hide his irritation at the informal reference to his wife.

  ‘I thought so.’ Vitellius nodded. ‘The Liberators. Now there’s a name that’s been cropping up more and more in recent months. Well, well. Our Flavia is a darker horse than I realised, sir. You’d best guard her well before she does something your family line might have cause to curse her for.’

  ‘You know of this organisation then?’

  ‘I have heard of them, you might say,’ the tribune replied smoothly. ‘Rumour has it that the Liberators are a secret organisation with ambitions to overthrow the Emperor and restore the republic. They’re supposed to have existed since the time of Augustus, and were vain enough to name themselves after the assassins of Julius Caesar.’

  ‘A rumour?’ Vespasian mused. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s still enough to get you executed, sir. Narcissus has men crawling all over Rome, and the provinces, searching for people connected to the organisation. Those involved with Scribonianus’ plot are supposed to have links with the Liberators. I wonder how much your wife knows about them. I imagine Narcissus would be keen to ask her, given the chance.’

  Vespasian refused to respond to the scarcely veiled threat; neither of them had anything to gain from exposing the other. He focused instead on Flavia, and her possible connection to this conspiracy hiding in the shadows of history. From what he knew of Narcissus, the imperial chief of staff would be relentless, and quite ruthless, in his pursuit of any who threatened the Emperor. However long it took, however many suspects were tortured for information, the conspiracy would be tracked down and its members quietly eliminated.

  Yet if Vitellius was right, the Liberators had been quietly plotting for decades and that spoke of an extraordinary commitment to secrecy and patience. Vespasian could guess at the motivation of those who had joined the Liberators. Rome had been ruled by the emperors for over sixty years, and while Augustus had ended the terrible era of civil strife that had torn the Roman state asunder for generations, it was a peace bought at the cost of denying the aristocrats the political powers their families had wielded for hundreds of years. A social class imbued with such a sense of its own destiny does not easily accept its subordination to a dynasty that produced a madman like Caligula and a fool like Claudius.

  But, wondered Vespasian, what other way was there for Rome now?

  Returning control of the empire to the senate would once again transform the civilised world into a battlefield, over which roamed the vast armies of power-crazed senatorial factions. They would leave devastation in their wake, while the barbarian hordes watched in glee from beyond the wild frontiers of the empire. Whatever their faults, the emperors stood for order. They might thin out the ranks of the aristocrats from time to time, but for the heaving masses of Rome, and everyone else who lived within the empire, the emper
ors stood for some measure of order and peace. Even though Vespasian was a member of the senatorial class, whose cause the Liberators claimed to represent, he knew that the consequences of the return to senatorial control offered by the Liberators were too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘Sir?’

  Vespasian looked up, irritated by the interruption to his train of thought. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Is there anything else for us to discuss? Or can I return to my duties with the Second?’

  ‘We’ve said all that need be said. You’d better let Plinius know that he’s to step down from the senior tribune’s post. Get him to brief you on tomorrow’s advance. And there’s still some supplies admin, to sort out. See to it before you turn in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Bear in mind what I said, Vitellius.’ Vespasian fixed the tribune with a stern expression. ‘Regardless of your duties as an imperial agent, you are still my senior tribune and I expect you to act the part. One step, or word, out of line and I’ll see you suffer for it.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  _______________

  Early next morning the army advanced across the Mead Way. As the dense column of soldiers reached the ford, the pace slowed. Most had served long enough to know the discomfort of marching with a waterlogged shield, and kept their equipment held high as they waded into the churning water in the wake of the thousands of men crossing to the far side. Despite the previous afternoon’s rest, the men still felt weary, and those with injuries light enough to classify them as walking wounded bore the strained expressions of men who fought their pain. All along the column were men with dressings to head or limbs, some still soiled by their blood, and the blood of others. But despite the ravaged look of the legion it still marched to the front fully prepared and willing to engage the Britons once more.

  The success of yesterday’s attack had rekindled the Second Legion’s confidence in a way that heartened its commander. He watched the column on the far bank rise up from the river and drip through the muddy shallows before climbing the earthworks and disappearing inside the fortifications beyond. In the dim light Vespasian was reminded of a vast centipede he had once seen as a child at his family’s estate near Reate; a shining mass with dark limbs struggling up the slope.