The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Glad to hear it. In the meantime we need to reassemble the legion. There’s no point in sounding the recall. They’re far enough into the marshes by now to make it easier to continue forward than march back.’

  ‘True enough,’ muttered Sextus, stroking his chin.

  ‘I’ll take the command party and the guard century down the causeway to that jetty.’ Vespasian pointed down the slope. ‘Once we get there I’ll start sounding the recall. Meanwhile, you and the junior tribunes mount up and find as many of our men as possible and let them know what’s going on. We need the main body of the legion gathered on that rise by the jetty before nightfall if we’re going to have enough men for the assault in the morning.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir,’ said Sextus. He turned to the junior tribunes who had all heard the legate’s orders and were not looking forward to the discomfort of their task. ‘You heard the legate! Off your arses and on your horses, gentlemen. Quickly now!’

  With a barely tolerable display of reluctance the young tribunes dragged themselves to their horses, trotted down the slope and separated along the myriad paths and ways that crisscrossed the dense mass of gorse and marsh. Vespasian watched them disappear from sight. Then he turned to his own mount and led the legate’s guard and the rest of the command party towards the track leading down to the causeway.

  This was no way to fight a battle, he reflected angrily. No sooner had the Second Legion won back its self-respect than some bloody careless order plunged the men into an unholy mess, dispersed and leaderless across the wretched wilderness of this wretched bloody island. By the time he managed to regroup the legion they would be exhausted, filthy, and hungry, their flesh and clothing torn to shreds by the gorse bushes. It would be a wonder if he managed to get them even to contemplate anything half so dangerous as the general’s order for an amphibious assault on the opposite river bank.

  Chapter Twenty-One

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  ‘This is a complete fucking nightmare!’ Centurion Macro growled as he slapped at a large mosquito feeding on his forearm. No sooner had it become a smear of red and black amid the dark hairs below the hem of his sleeve than several more insects from the swirling cloud hovering above him decided to take their chance, and landed on the nearest patch of exposed skin. Macro slapped away at them with one hand and swiped at their airborne comrades with the other. ‘If I ever get my hands on the man responsible for this fucking fiasco he’ll never draw another breath.’

  ‘I suspect the order came from the general, sir,’ Cato responded as mildly as he could.

  ‘Well then, I’ll take up the issue in Hell, where we’ll be on a more equal footing.’

  ‘By then the general will be well past drawing another breath, sir.’

  The centurion paused in his war against the native auxiliaries and rounded on his optio. ‘Then I might just satisfy myself with someone else right now. Someone a little lower on the pecking order. Unless that’s the very last of your helpful comments.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ replied Cato meekly. The situation was intolerable, and levity did nothing to ease the situation.

  For the last hour the Sixth Century had been following a twisting path through the clumps of gorse bushes, clinging to the more solid patches of ground in the marsh that stretched out all round. The path was wide enough for one man and had, in all likelihood, been made by wild beasts. Contact had been lost with the rest of the cohort, and the only other indications of human presence were far-off shouts and sounds of small-scale skirmishes from elsewhere in the marsh. The only Britons they had encountered had been a bedraggled handful of light infantry armed with wicker shields and hunting spears. Outnumbered and outclassed by the legionaries, they had given in without a fight, and were escorted to the rear by eight men Macro could ill afford to release from his shrinking command. Once the escort had left, the century struggled on.

  As the sun declined towards the horizon, the still, hot air closed in on the century like a smothering blanket and sweat trickled from every pore. Macro had called a halt to try to get some sense of where they were in relation to the river and the rest of the legion. If the sun lay to their left then the river had to be more or less straight ahead, but the track seemed to be taking them to the west. The river ought to be near by now. It would be easier to go on and find it rather than face the prospect of retracing their steps for several hours through the coming night.

  As he considered his options, the men sat in sullen, sweaty silence, plagued by the thousands of insects gathering over them. At length Cato could stand the insects no more, and crept further along the path to spy out the way ahead. A warning glance from Macro ensured that he remained in sight as he moved stealthily along the path. A short distance on, it dog-legged to the right. Cato squatted down and peered round the corner. He had hoped to see further along the track but almost immediately it swung back to the left out of sight. Mindful of the centurion’s expression, Cato stayed where he was and strained his ears for any sound of movement. A distant skirmish was just audible above a dull background buzzing from what sounded like a large swarm of flies and their kin. The immediate vicinity seemed to be clear of the enemy, but Cato felt little sense of relief. The discomfort caused by the heat and the insects was such that any diversion would have been welcome, even the enemy.

  That buzzing from the insects was unusually loud, and Cato’s natural curiosity was aroused by the sound.

  ‘Pssst!’

  He turned and looked back down the track to where the centurion was trying to attract his attention. Macro raised his thumb with a questioning expression. Cato shrugged his shoulders and pointed his javelin round the corner. Moments later Macro squatted quietly at his side.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Listen, sir.’

  Macro cocked his head. He frowned. ‘Can’t hear a thing. Not from nearby, at least.’

  ‘Sir, that buzzing – the insects.’

  ‘Yes, I hear it. So?’

  ‘So, it’s a bit too loud, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  ‘Too loud?’

  ‘Too many of them. Too many, too close together, sir.’

  Macro listened again, and had to admit that the lad had a point. ‘Stay here, Cato. If I call for you, get the century up here double quick.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The sun was low enough to throw much of the track into shadow, dark against the burnished halo rimming the tops of the gorse thickets. Crouching low, Macro padded softly down the track, round the corner and out of sight, while Cato squatted, tense and ready to spring to his centurion’s aid the instant he called out. But there was no call, no noise of any kind above the droning of insects. The suspense was dreadful and, in his effort to remain quite still, the prickling heat and sweat on his body became almost unbearably uncomfortable on top of the pain of his burns.

  Suddenly Macro strode back into view, no sign of the previous caution in his posture, merely a resigned grimness in his features.

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘I’ve found some of the Batavian auxiliaries.’

  Cato smiled. ‘Good. Maybe they can tell us where we are, sir.’

  ‘I think not,’ replied Macro quietly. ‘They’re past caring.’

  In a flat voice Macro ordered the Sixth Century to rise, and led them down the track, past the double bend and into a clear area formed by a slight rise in the ground. The path and trampled grass were littered with the remains of auxiliary troops from one of the Batavian cohorts. Most had been killed as they fought, but a good number had had their throats cut and lay in a heap to one side of the track. The bodies were swarming with flies and the sickeningly sweet stench of blood filled the still air. A handful of British warriors had been laid in a straight line, shields across their bodies and a spear resting at their sides. These men were helmeted and wore chainmail corselets.

  Macro paused by one of the Batavian bodies which had a cut throat, and nudged it with his toe. Then he spoke in a voice loud en
ough to be heard by all his men.

  ‘This is what you can expect if ever you feel the temptation to surrender to the natives. Make sure you all take a good long look, and thank the gods that it isn’t you. Then swear you’ll never die the same way. These Batavians were fools, and if I catch any of you being as foolish, I’ll have my revenge in this life or the next. Count on it.’ He glared round at the century, determined that they should be more afraid of their centurion than the enemy. ‘Right, let’s get this lot cleared up then! Cato, have our lads lined up alongside the Britons. Help yourself to anything you find on them.’

  While the legionaries carried out the distasteful task, Macro posted a watch at each end of the clearing and then sat down on the grass, avoiding the areas still dark with blood. He undid the strap of his helmet and took it off, happy to be relieved of its weight. His hair, drenched with sweat, lay plastered to his scalp and rucked up in matted clumps when he tried to run his fingers through it. He looked up and saw Cato standing nearby. The optio was staring at the bodies of the Britons.

  ‘Impressive-looking lot, aren’t they?’

  Cato nodded. These were clearly not the ordinary rank and file of the enemy. They were men in their prime, well-muscled and tough. The finery of their dress and equipment indicated some special status. ‘Someone’s bodyguard?’

  ‘That’d be my guess,’ agreed Macro. ‘And judging from the rather unequal outcome in bodies, they’re a pretty tough bunch. Hope there aren’t too many of them out there.’

  Cato glanced at the impenetrable gorse surrounding the clearing. ‘Do you suppose they’re still around, sir?’

  ‘I’m a centurion, lad, not a bloody soothsayer,’ Macro responded sharply. And instantly regretted it. The young optio was merely giving voice to the fears of them all, but the heat and exhaustion of fighting through this tangled landscape exacerbated Macro’s growing anxiety about being separated from the rest of the legion. ‘Don’t worry, Cato, there’s more of our lot out there than there is of them.’

  Cato nodded but was not convinced. Numbers didn’t matter in a situation like this, only local knowledge. The thought of a large party of elite British warriors hunting down isolated units of Romans was terrifying, and he felt ashamed of the fear that the prospect aroused in him. What made it worse was the imminent approach of night. The idea of spending any time in this ghastly wilderness during the hours of darkness appalled him. Already the sun had passed beyond the dense horizon of foliage and the sky blazed in its molten bronze afterglow. Against this the dark shapes of swallows flitted through the air as they fed on the insects above the marsh. The insects in turn were looking for the warm decay of the dead and the blood of the living to feed on, and today the marsh was positively crawling with sustenance.

  Cato slapped at his cheek and caught a knuckle on his cheek guard. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Nice to see the little buggers go for a younger vintage once in a while,’ commented Macro and waved a swarm of midges away from his face. ‘Won’t be sorry to be shot of this lot and have a swim in that river.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cato with feeling. He could think of nothing more he would like to do than cast off his heavy, uncomfortable equipment that chafed so badly on his weeping burns and plunge into the cool flowing current of a river. The image conjured up was so desirable that for a moment Cato was quite transported from his immediate troubles, and the mental return to them was that much more painful as a consequence. ‘Should we try and reach the river tonight, sir?’

  Macro rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands as he mentally debated the available courses of action. The prospect of staying put in this clearing overnight with the spirits of the newly dead creeping about the place made his flesh tingle with revulsion and terror. The river could not be that far, but in this marsh any progress along the narrow paths would be dangerous in the dark. A sudden thought struck him. ‘Isn’t there a moon tonight?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Then we rest here until the moon rises enough to let us see where we’re going. We’ll take our chances on this path. It seems to be heading in the right direction. Detail two sentry watches and pass the word to the lads to try and get as much sleep as they can.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and strode off to give the orders. On his return he discovered his centurion lying on his back, eyes closed, snoring with the raucous grumble of a man deeply asleep. With an affectionate smile Cato slumped down on the opposite side of the path, removed his helmet and laid it with his other equipment. For a while he watched the sunset paint the sky in lurid shades of orange, red, violet and finally indigo. Then, after he had changed the watch, he also lay down, and tried to surrender to his own exhaustion. But the pain down his side, the merciless whine of insects, the droning from the flies, the rumbling snores of the centurion and the prospect of encountering any comrades of the dead Britons opposite ruined any immediate prospect of sleep. And so Cato lay uncomfortable, exhausted and angry at himself for not sleeping. The snoring from nearby had long since ceased to have any endearing quality and the young optio could quite happily have smothered his centurion long before the moon made its first appearance amidst the scattered clouds of the night sky.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

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  ‘Optio!’ hissed a voice.

  Cato’s eyes flickered open. A dark shape loomed against the star-pricked night sky. A hand was grasping his blistered arm, shaking him, and Cato nearly howled with agony but just managed to bite it off in time. He snapped upright, fully awake.

  ‘What is it?’ Cato whispered. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Sentry reports movement.’ The shape pointed to the end of the clearing near the track by which they had entered at dusk. ‘Should we wake the centurion?’

  Cato looked over towards the source of the snoring. ‘I think we’d better. Just in case they hear us before we see them.’

  As Cato hastily strapped his helmet on and picked up his equipment, the legionary woke Macro as quietly as he could. Not an easy task due to the depth of the centurion’s slumber, and even when Macro came round he seemed to be breaking out of a fairly powerful dream.

  ‘Because it’s MY fucking tent!’ grumbled the centurion. ‘That’s why!’

  ‘Sir! Shhh!’

  ‘W-what? What’s up?’ Macro jerked upright and immediately reached for his sword in a swift reflex action. ‘Report!’

  ‘We’ve got company, sir!’ Cato called out softly as he crept over to the centurion. ‘Sentry says he can hear movement.’

  Macro was on his feet in an instant, his other hand automatically fastening his helmet strap. ‘Get the lads formed up across the clearing, but keep ’em as quiet as you can. We might want to avoid this one.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato crept off towards the sleeping legionaries and Macro quietly lifted his shield and made his way past the line of bodies, grateful that the drone from the flies had diminished with the coming of night. He almost missed the sentry in the darkness as the man was standing to one side of the track, completely still, straining to detect sounds from further down the narrow path.

  ‘Sir!’ the sentry whispered so quietly that had Macro not been listening so intently he might have missed it. As it was, the sudden sound caused him to flinch in surprise. He recovered in an instant, and silently crouched down beside the sentry.

  ‘What is it, laddie?’

  ‘Please, sir, there’s nothing now. But I swear I heard something just a moment ago.’

  ‘What did you hear, exactly?’

  ‘Voices, sir. Very low, but not far off. Talking very quiet like.’

  ‘Ours or theirs?’

  The sentry paused for a moment before replying.

  ‘Spit it out!’ Macro whispered angrily. ‘Ours or theirs?’

  ‘I-I can’t be sure, sir. It was mostly something I couldn’t quite make out. But then again there was something that sounded like Latin.’

  The centurion
sniffed dismissively. He squatted in silence, straining his ears to detect the slightest sound from the direction of the path which bent out of sight a scant thirty feet from his position. The sounds from the clearing were all too audible even though the men tried to form up as quietly as possible. But, at last, they were still, and Macro renewed his concentration. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the occasional sound of frogs croaking. A dark shape drew close from the direction of the clearing.

  ‘Psst!’ hissed Macro. ‘Over here, Cato.’

  ‘Any sign of them, sir?’

  ‘Fuck all. Seems our boy here just got a little too carried away with his imagination.’

  It was a common enough fault in sentries, particularly on active service. Darkness heightened a man’s reliance on one sense, and imagination went to work on even the slightest noise for which there was no immediate interpretation.

  ‘Shall I stand the century down, sir?’

  Macro was about to reply when a sudden rustle, as of a bush caught and quickly released, turned their blood to ice. There was no question about the sentry’s report now, and they squatted motionless in the warm night air, muscles tensed and ready for action. A faint orange glow flickered from round the corner of the track, and sparks pierced the gaps in the foliage as someone bearing a torch approached down the track.

  ‘Ours?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Quiet!’ Macro whispered.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a voice suddenly called out from the direction of the torch. Cato felt a wave of relief sweep over him, and nearly laughed at the abrupt easing of tension. He made to rise but Macro grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Keep still!’

  ‘But, sir, you heard him. It’s one of ours.’

  ‘Shut up and keep still!’ Macro hissed.

  ‘Who’s there?’ repeated the voice. There was a pause, followed by what might have been a quick exchange of words in low whispers. Then the voice continued, ‘I’m Batavian. Third Cohort of horse! If you’re Roman, make yourself recognised!’