The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Cato!’

  ‘What? What?’ he managed to reply, eyes struggling to open.

  The hands shook him, trying to break him out of his exhausted stupor. ‘Cato! What the fuck have you done to my century?’

  The question might have sounded bitter but beneath it was the familiar grudging tone he had grown used to over recent months. He forced himself to look up, to open his stinging eyes and face his questioner.

  ‘Macro?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  _______________

  ‘Glad to see you still recognise me under all this crap!’ Macro smiled and clapped his optio on the shoulder, carefully avoiding his injured side.

  Cato silently beheld the spectacle standing before him. The centurion’s head and chest were covered in dried blood and soiled with mud; he looked like a walking corpse. Indeed, for Cato, whose recent ferocity had been driven by grief at his centurion’s death, the vision of Macro alive and grinning into his face was too shocking to accept. Stupid with exhaustion and disbelief, he just stared blankly, mouth open.

  ‘Cato?’ Macro’s face creased with concern. The optio swayed, head drooping, sword arm hanging limply by his side. All around them stretched the twisted bodies of Romans and Britons. The bloodstained river lapped gently along the shore, its surface broken by the glistening hummocks of corpses. Overhead the sun beat down on the scene. There was an overwhelming sense of calm that was really a slow adjustment from the terrible din of conflict. Even the birdsong sounded strange to the ears of men just emerging from the intensity of battle. Cato was suddenly aware that he was covered in filth and the blood of other men, and a wave of nausea swept up from the pit of his stomach. He could not stop himself and threw up, splashing vomit down Macro’s front before the centurion could step back. Macro grimaced but quickly reached out to grab the lad’s shoulders as Cato’s legs buckled. He slowly lowered the optio onto his knees.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ he said gently. ‘Easy there.’

  Cato threw up again, and again, until there was nothing left inside him and then he retched, stomach, chest and throat in spasm, mouth agape, until at last it passed and he could gasp for air. A thin trail of drool curved down through the acid stench between his spread hands. All the weariness and strain of the previous days had found its release and his body could cope with no more. Macro patted his back and watched with awkward concern, wanting to comfort the boy, but too self-conscious to do so in front of the other soldiers. Eventually Cato sat back and rested his head between his hands, the grime on his face spattered with blood. His thin body trembled with the coldness of total exhaustion, and yet some final reserve of mental strength kept him awake.

  Macro nodded with full understanding. All soldiers reached this moment at some point in their lives. He knew that the boy had finally passed the limit of physical and emotional endurance. He was past any exhortation to duty.

  ‘Rest, boy. I’ll take care of the lads. But you must rest now.’

  For a brief moment it looked as if the optio would try to protest. In the end he nodded and slowly lowered himself onto the grassy river bank and closed his eyes, asleep almost at once. Macro watched him for a moment and then unclasped the cloak from a Briton’s body and gently laid it over Cato.

  ‘Centurion Macro!’ Vespasian’s voice boomed out. ‘I’d heard you were dead.’

  Macro rose to his feet and saluted. ‘You were misinformed, sir.’

  ‘Evidently. Explain yourself.’

  ‘Nothing much to explain, sir. I was knocked to the ground, took one of them with me, and they left us both for dead. Soon as I could, I made my way back to the legion. Arrived just in time to hop on one of the boats in the second wave. Thought Cato and the lads might need some help, sir.’

  Vespasian glanced down at the huddled form of the optio. ‘Is the boy all right?’

  Macro nodded. ‘He’s fine, sir. Just exhausted.’

  Over the legate’s shoulder the fresh-faced tribunes and other staff officers mingled with the weary legionaries who had survived the river assault. The legate’s presence suddenly caused Macro to frown with concern.

  ‘The lad’s finished for the moment, sir. There’s nothing more he can do until he has rested.’

  ‘Easy there!’ The legate chuckled. ‘I wasn’t looking to use him for another duty. I just wanted to make sure he was all right. The boy’s done quite enough for his Emperor this morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He has.’

  ‘Make sure that he gets all the rest he needs. And see to your century. They’ve performed magnificently. Let ’em rest. The legion will just have to manage without them for the remainder of the day.’ Vespasian exchanged a smile with his centurion. ‘Carry on, Macro. It’s good to have you back!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  Vespasian saluted and then turned and marched off to organise the defence of the hard-won bridgehead. The staff officers parted to let him through and then scrambled along behind.

  With a final glance to check that his optio was still resting peacefully, Macro went off to see to the comforts of his surviving men. He carefully picked his way over the sprawled bodies and shouted out the order for the Sixth Century to assemble.

  Cato woke with a start and sat up, bathed in a cold sweat. He had been dreaming about drowning, held down by an enemy warrior in a river of blood. The mental image slowly dissipated and was replaced with the colour blue which dissolved into orange. His ears filled with the crackle and clatter of campfire cooking. A pungent odour of stew filled his nostrils.

  ‘Better now?’ Macro leaned over him.

  Macro alive.

  Cato struggled up into a reclining position. It was dusk, the sun had just set and in the faint light he could see the legion camped along the river bank. The bodies had been removed and neat lines of tents stretched out on all sides. The silhouette of the distant rampart and palisade marked the fortifications that had been thrown up around the encampment.

  ‘Want some food?’

  Cato looked round and saw that he was lying close to a small fire over which a large bronze pot hung from a tripod. A faint sound of bubbling accompanied the steam gently wafting over the brim and the aroma instantly made him feel ravenous.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hare,’ replied Macro. He ladled some into Cato’s mess tin. ‘The place is thick with them. Never seen so many in my life. Lads have been taking pot shots at them all afternoon. Here you go.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Cato put the mess tin down on the grass beside him. He took the spoon Macro handed him and began to stir the steaming food, impatient to begin eating. At the same time, there was a question he needed answering. ‘Sir, how did you do it?’

  Macro sat back and hugged his knees with a smile. The blood and filth that had made him such a grim spectacle earlier in the day had been washed away and the centurion sat barefoot in his tunic. ‘I wondered when you’d ask. Luck, I guess. Fortuna must have taken a shine to me. I really thought it was all over. Just wanted to kill as many of the bastards as I could before I was taken down. We did manage to hold them for a while. Then some of them got between the shields and caught one of the lads. Once he went down, they were all over us in an instant. One of ’em leaped at me, knocked my sword to one side, and we went down into them bushes beside the path. I managed to get my dagger out and stuck him in the throat. Bugger’s blood nearly drowned me!

  ‘Anyway I lay still as the rest of them piled by. They must have thought I was done for, and they were keen as mustard to see to you and the rest of the lads. Once I was sure they were gone, I heaved the Briton off and slid into the marsh. I kept off the tracks and made for the river, and then headed downstream. Had to be careful, though, there were still plenty of them about. I finally hooked up with some of the lads from the Seventh Cohort, and we got back to the legion just in time to see you lot piling into the Britons on the far side of the river. You really have no respect for another man’s century, do you? No sooner are
you made acting centurion than you throw the lads back into the grinder.’

  Cato stopped blowing on the spoonful of stew and looked up. ‘The lads wanted to do it, sir.’

  ‘So they say. But I think we’ve had enough heroics for now. One more fight like that and there won’t be a century any more.’

  ‘Did we lose many?’ Cato asked guiltily.

  ‘A few. The burial club funds are going to be badly hit,’ the centurion added. ‘Just hope we can make up the shortfall once the replacements arrive.’

  ‘Replacements?’

  ‘Yes. I had word from one of the clerks on the staff. A column is on its way over from Gaul. If we’re lucky we’ll get some men from the Eighth. But most of ’em are new recruits sent up from the legion training depots.’ He shook his head. ‘Bunch of bloody recruits to nursemaid in the middle of a campaign. Can you believe it?’

  Cato said nothing. He looked down into his mess tin and continued eating. When he had joined the Second Legion the last thing he expected was that less than a year later he would be with the eagles fighting for his life in barbarian lands. Technically, he was still a recruit; his basic training was over but he had yet to reach the first anniversary of the date he had been signed into the Second Legion. His embarrassed silence did not go unnoticed.

  ‘Oh, you’re all right, Cato! You might not be much cop at drill, and you’ve still got to learn how to swim, but you’re a good hand in a fight. You’ll do.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, not quite certain how best to handle being damned by such faint praise. Not that he minded, being cursed with a temperament that was always suspicious of any praise aimed at him. Anyway, the stew was delicious and he had already polished off the mess tin and was scraping the bottom with his spoon.

  ‘There’s plenty more, lad.’ Macro dipped the ladle back into the pot and scooped deep to make sure that Cato got plenty of meat. ‘Fill up while you can. In the army the next meal’s never guaranteed. By the way, how do the burns feel?’

  Cato instinctively reached for the dressing on his side and discovered that it had been changed, and a clean roll of linen had been bound about his chest, tight enough not to slip and yet not too tight to be uncomfortable. A good job had been made of it and Cato looked up gratefully.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. That surgeon did it. Nisus. Seems our century’s been assigned to his care, and you’ve seen to it that he’s kept busy.’

  ‘Well, I’ll thank him for it sometime.’

  ‘You can do it now.’ Macro nodded over Cato’s shoulder. ‘Here he comes.’

  Cato twisted his head and saw the huge hulk of the surgeon emerging from the dull shadows between the tents. He raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Cato! Awake at last. You were way down the Lethe last time I saw you. Hardly a murmur when I changed the dressing.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Nisus slumped down by the fire between Cato and his centurion, and sniffed at the pot. ‘Hare?’

  ‘What else?’ replied Macro.

  ‘Any spare?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  Nisus unhooked the mess tin and spoon from his belt and, ignoring the ladle, dipped the mess tin in and scooped it out almost filled to the brim. With a keen look of anticipation he moistened his lips.

  ‘Please make yourself at home,’ Macro muttered.

  Nisus skimmed a spoonful off the surface, blew on it a moment and sipped cautiously. ‘Lovely! Centurion, you’re going to make someone a wonderful wife one day.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘So then, Cato, how are the burns today?’

  The optio touched the dressing tenderly and winced immediately. ‘Painful.’

  ‘Not surprised. You’ve not given them a moment’s rest. Some of the wounds are open and might’ve got infected if I hadn’t cleaned them out when I changed the dressing. You’re really going to have to take a bit more care of yourself. That’s an order, by the way.’

  ‘An order?’ Macro protested. ‘Just who the hell do you medics think you are?’

  ‘We’re qualified to look after the health of the Emperor’s troops, that’s who. Besides, it’s an order from the top. The legate told me to make sure Cato rested. He’s excused duties and is out of the line of battle until I say so.’

  ‘He can’t do that!’ Cato protested. Macro looked at him sharply and Cato subsided, realising the foolishness of his protest.

  ‘Might as well make the most of it, lad, since the order’s come from the legate,’ said Macro gruffly.

  Nisus agreed with a vigorous nod, and then returned to his stew. Macro reached for one of the roughly hacked logs and placed it carefully in the flames. A small cloud of sparks swirled up and Cato’s eyes followed them into the velvet sky until their glow faded and they were lost against the dazzling pinpricks of the stars. Despite being asleep for most of the day, Cato still felt exhaustion weighing down every sinew of his body and would have been shaking with cold but for the fire.

  Nisus finished his stew, set his mess tin down and lay down on his side, gazing at Cato. ‘So then, Optio. You come from the palace.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true that Claudius is as cruel and incompetent as all his predecessors?’

  Macro spluttered. ‘What kind of a question is that for a Roman to ask?’

  ‘A reasonable enough one,’ Nisus replied. ‘And anyway, by birth I’m not a Roman. African as it happens, though there’s some Greek in there as well. Hence the occupation and my presence here. The only place the legions can get decent medical experience from is Greece and the eastern provinces.’

  ‘Bloody foreigners!’ Macro sniffed. ‘Beat ’em in war and they profit from us in peace.’

  ‘Thus it ever was, Centurion. The compensations of being conquered.’

  Despite the levity of the comments, Cato sensed a bitterness behind the words and was curious. ‘Where are you from then?’

  ‘A small town on the African coast. Cartanova. Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘I believe I have. Isn’t it home to the library of Archelonides?’

  ‘Why yes.’ Nisus’ face lit up with pleasure. ‘You know it?’

  ‘I know of it. The town’s built over some of the foundations of a Carthaginian city, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nisus nodded. ‘That’s right. Over the foundations. You can still see the lines of the old city wall, and some of the temple complexes and shipyards. But that’s it. The city was razed pretty thoroughly at the end of the second patriotic war.’

  ‘The Roman army doesn’t do things by halves,’ Macro said with a certain amount of pride.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘And you trained in medicine there?’ asked Cato, trying to steer the discussion onto safer ground.

  ‘Yes. For a few years. There’s a limit to what can be learned in a small trading town. So I went east to Damascus and worked in a practice servicing the wide variety of ailments the rich merchants and their wives imagined that they suffered from. Lucrative enough, but dull. I got friendly with a centurion in the garrison. When he was transferred to the Second a few months back, I went with him. Can’t say that it hasn’t been exciting, but I do miss the Damascus lifestyle.’

  ‘Is it as good as you hear?’ Macro asked with the eagerness of all those who believe that paradise must exist somewhere in this life. ‘I mean, the women have quite a reputation, don’t they?’

  ‘The women?’ Nisus raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that all that soldiers think about? There’s more to Damascus than its women.’

  ‘Sure there is.’ Macro tried to be gracious for a moment. ‘But is it true about the women?’

  The surgeon sighed. ‘The legions who garrisoned the town certainly seemed to think so. You’d think they had never seen a woman at all before. Bunches of slavering drunks staggering from one brothel to the next. Not so much in pursuance of the Roman peace as in pursuit of a piece for the Romans.’
/>   Nisus gazed into the fire, and Cato saw his mouth fix into a tight, bitter line. Macro was also gazing into the fire, but the lazy flames showed a smile on his face as his mind dwelt upon the exotic pleasures of an eastern posting.

  The difference between these two representatives of the ruling and conquered races troubled Cato. What was the value of a world ruled by uncouth womanisers who lorded it over their better educated subject races? Macro and Nisus were not typical examples of course, and the comparison was perhaps unfair, but was it always the case that strength would triumph over intellect? Certainly the Romans had triumphed over the Greeks, for all their science, art and philosophy. Cato had read enough to know how much the Romans had subsequently appropriated from Greek heritage. In truth, the destiny of Rome depended upon her ability to ruthlessly overwhelm other civilisations and subsume them. The thought was very unsettling, and Cato turned to stare down towards the river.

  There was no doubting that the Britons were barbarians. Aside from looking the part, the lack of neatly planned towns, metalled roads and regimented crops of agricultural estates spoke clearly of an inferior quality of existence. The Britons, Cato decided, lacked the refinements necessary to be called a civilisation. If the stories brought back from the misty isles by merchants and traders were to be believed, the natives were scratching a living on top of huge deposits of silver and gold. It seemed typical of the capricious nature of the gods that the most primitive of peoples were granted tenure of the most valuable of resources – resources they had little appreciation of, and which could be put to much better use by more advanced races, such as the Romans.