The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  Up the short rise from the shore stood a heavily fortified gate, and beyond that the earth ramp and palisade stretched across the landscape. Granary sheds built on low brick piles stretched out in long ranks to one side of the depot. Next to them stood neatly demarcated stacks of stoppered amphorae filled with oils, wine and beer. There were other areas set aside for military stores of javelins, swords, boots, tunics and shields.

  A small stockade held a dense mass of British prisoners who had been squatting in the glare of the sun for days. In due course they would be herded into the hold of a ship returning to Gaul, and after a long journey they would end up at the great slave market in Rome.

  A short distance beyond the walls of the great depot stood the field abattoir, where skilled butchers slaughtered pigs and oxen. To one side of the facility stood a vast mound of intestines, organs and other unusable parts of the butchered animals. The mound glistened in the bright sunlight, and a swarm of seagulls and other carrion gorged themselves amid a frenzy of flapping wings and shrill cries. The sound carried clearly across the Channel, borne on a light breeze that unfortunately carried the stench of the mound with it.

  The foul odour strengthened as the transport approached the jetty, and more than one of Macro’s men felt their stomachs turn. But a hundred feet or so from the jetty the ship was no longer directly downwind of the offal mound and the air became more breathable. Cato gripped the wooden rail and gulped down some deep breaths to flush his lungs. With a well-practised hand the steersman twisted the broad steering paddle suspended over the quarter, and the transport glided round to present its beam to the jetty.

  ‘Ship oars!’ the captain roared through cupped hands and the crewmen quickly pulled the sweeps in hand over hand and stowed them on the deck. Fore and aft stood men with coils of mooring ropes, and as the transport slowly approached the jetty, they cast the lines to men waiting by the mooring posts. They heaved and drew the transport up against the timber piles with a gentle bump before tying the mooring lines off.

  Immediately a hinged gangway was placed over the side and a junior tribune ran across from the slope beyond the jetty where scores of men were lying on litters and stretchers. Some Spanish auxiliaries squatted nearby. The tribune looked around the deck, caught sight of Macro and hurried over.

  ‘Centurion! What cargo do you have?’

  ‘My century and some medical discharges, sir.’ Macro saluted and took out a folded wax board from the forage bag hanging on his belt. ‘There’s my orders, sir. We’re to pick up replacements for the Second Legion and march them up to the Tamesis.’

  The tribune glanced over the tablet and nodded at the imprint of the Second Legion’s seal in the wax.

  ‘Very well, get your men landed and go up to headquarters. They’ll sort you out with some tents and rations for the night. Right, off you go.’ He waved impatiently and stood at the side of the gangway, drumming his fingers on the rail, until the last of Macro’s century had tramped ashore. Cato watched as the tribune shouted out an order, and the auxiliaries began carrying the long line of stretchers aboard the transport. Many had bandaged stumps where arms and legs should have been, while one man, his head wrapped in stained cloth, ranted at the top of his voice, meaningless words hurled at all those around him. Cato stared at the man and shuddered.

  ‘There’ll be more like him before this campaign’s over,’ said Macro quietly.

  ‘I think I’d rather die.’

  Macro watched as the man suddenly thrashed about violently, threatening to topple himself and his stretcher bearers off the gangway and into the water between the transport and the jetty. ‘Me too, lad.’

  Picking up his yoke, Macro shouted out the order to march, and the men marched up the hill and through the main gate of the depot. At the headquarters a smarmy civilian clerk grudgingly accepted the requests for replacement equipment Macro had been given by the Second’s quartermaster. The clerk did a quick head count of the century and assigned them some tents in the furthest corner.

  ‘And our rations?’

  ‘You can draw some hard tack from the Eighth’s stores.’

  ‘Hard tack! I don’t want hard tack. My men and I want some fresh meat and bread. You see to it.’

  The clerk laid down his pen, leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘Fresh meat and bread aren’t available. They’re for the men at the front. Now then, Centurion, if you don’t mind I’ve got some real work to be getting on with.’

  ‘That fucking does it!’ Macro exploded, dropping his yoke and reaching across to grab the clerk’s tunic. With one powerful tug he jerked the clerk across his table, scattering his paperwork and knocking his inkpot over.

  ‘Now listen, you little shit,’ Macro hissed through clenched teeth. ‘See these men? They’re all that’s left of my century. The rest died at the front. You got that? And where the fuck were you when they were killed?’ He breathed heavily, then slowly untwisted his fists from the clerk’s tunic. ‘Now, I’ll only say this once. I want fresh meat and bread for my men. I want it taken to our tents. If it’s not there by the time the evening watch is called, I’ll come back here and gut you personally. Got that?’

  The clerk nodded his head, eyes wide with terror.

  ‘Can’t hear you. Speak up, and make it loud.’

  ‘Yes, Centurion.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see to your men’s food and would you like some wine?’

  Behind Macro, the men shouted their approval. Macro allowed himself a thin-lipped smile and nodded. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. I think we might just get along after all.’

  He turned back to his men and they gave a ragged cheer before he led them off to the tents. Cato smiled triumphantly at the clerk then turned and joined his centurion.

  While he took some pleasure in the cheers of his men, Macro knew he should watch his temper. Assaulting a mere clerk in no way enhanced his authority. Weariness and the remains of his hangover were responsible, and he made a mental note to be careful how much wine he drank that evening. Then he recalled that the wine was free; it would be both churlish and foolish to pass by such an opportunity. He’d compensate by drinking less wine another night, he decided.

  It was not long before Macro was chewing contentedly on a tender piece of beef, grilled rare over the glowing embers of a fire. Opposite him sat Cato. He carefully dabbed away meat juices from around his lips and tucked the rag back into his belt.

  ‘These replacements we’re going to get tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘How do we go about it?’

  ‘Old army custom.’ Macro swallowed before he continued. ‘We get first pick. The very best we keep for our century. Once we’re up to strength, the next best go to the other centuries of the cohort, then the other cohorts, and what’s left we give to the other legions.’

  ‘That’s not very fair, sir.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ agreed Macro. ‘Not fair at all, but right now that’s bloody wonderful. About time our century got a break, and this is it. So let’s just cheer up and make the most of it, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The thought of making good the losses of his sadly depleted century was most gratifying, and Macro downed the dregs of wine in his battered cup, poured himself another and downed that. Then he paused to let out a gut-wrenching belch that turned heads from the men nearby, and lay back on the ground, arms crossed under his head. He smiled, yawned and closed his eyes.

  Moments later, familiar deep snores rumbled from the shadows beyond the glow of the cooking fire, and Cato cursed his fate at not being able to get to sleep first. The rest of the century had also eaten their fill, and drunk more wine than was good for them since there would be no sentry duties for them tonight at least. Nearly all were asleep, and for a while Cato sat hugging his knees, close to the fire. In its wavering heart the orange glow curled and flowed in a hypnotic fashion and he found his wine-befuddled mind drifting off to Elysian
reveries. A vision of Lavinia effortlessly interposed itself before the flames, and he allowed himself to contemplate the loveliness of the image before he laid his head down on his folded cape and drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  _______________

  ‘Name?’ Macro barked at the legionary standing in front of the desk.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Maximus, sir.’

  ‘Tribe?’

  ‘Velina.’

  ‘How long have you served with the eagles?’

  ‘Eight years, sir. Seven with the Twenty-Third Martia, before it was disbanded and I was sent to the Eighth.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro nodded gravely. The Twenty-Third had been heavily implicated in the Scribonianus mutiny and had paid the ultimate price for their tardy loyalty to the new Emperor. Be that as it may, the man standing before him was a veteran and looked tough enough. More tellingly, his kit was in perfect condition; belts and buckles gleamed in the sunlight, and he had invested in a set of the new segmented armour that was becoming popular in the army.

  ‘Let’s see your sword, Maximus,’ Macro growled.

  The legionary reached to his side and smartly withdrew the sword from its sheath, turned it round and held the handle towards the centurion. Macro respectfully closed his fist round the handle and lifted the blade up for close inspection. The standard of care with which it had been maintained was immediately evident, and a light touch to the edge revealed a pleasing sharpness.

  ‘Good! Very good.’ Macro handed the weapon back. ‘You’ll get your unit assignment by the end of the day. Dismissed!’

  The legionary saluted, turned and marched away, a little too stiffly for Macro’s liking.

  ‘Shall I put him down for the Second, sir?’ asked Cato, sitting at Macro’s side, four scrolls unrolled in front of him. He dabbed his pen in the ink and held it poised above the Second’s scroll.

  Macro shook his head. ‘No. Can’t use him. Look at the left leg.’

  Cato saw a vivid white line running down from thigh to calf, the tightness of the scar tissue causing the man to drag his leg slightly.

  ‘He’d be a liability to himself, and more importantly to us, on a forced march. Put him down for the Twentieth. He’s only fit for reserve duties.’

  Macro raised his eyes to the line of legionaries waiting to be assigned. ‘Next man!’

  As the day wore on, the long line of replacements was slowly whittled down, and the lists of names on Cato’s scrolls grew longer. The process was not completed until late in the evening, when Cato checked his lists by lamplight against the tally sent from the Eighth Legion’s headquarters to ensure that no names had been missed out. To his credit, Macro had balanced out the numbers so that each legion got replacements in proportion to their losses. But the best men went to the Second Legion.

  The next morning Cato rose at first light and had four men from his century round up each legion’s replacements and quarter them according to their allocated units so that they got used to their new identity as soon as possible. Macro busied himself at headquarters chasing up the Second’s replacement equipment. Somehow the requests had been misplaced, and a clerk had gone off to look for them, leaving the centurion sitting on one of the benches lined up outside the headquarters entrance. As he sat waiting, Macro began to feel like some cheap client awaiting his patron back in Rome, and shifted about angrily on the bench until finally he could stomach it no more. Storming into the tent he found the clerk back at his desk with the requests lying on one side of the desk.

  ‘Found ’em then? Good. Now I’ll come with you while we get things sorted.’

  ‘I’m busy. You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘No. I won’t. On your feet, laddie.’

  ‘You can’t order me around,’ the clerk responded sniffily. ‘I’m not army. I’m part of the imperial service.’

  ‘Oh really? Must be a cushy number. Now let’s go, before you delay the war effort any longer.’

  ‘How dare you? If we were in Rome I’d report you to the prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

  ‘But we’re not in Rome,’ Macro growled, leaning across the desk. ‘Are we?’

  The clerk saw the prospect of imminent violence in the centurion’s glowering expression.

  ‘Very well then, sir,’ he conceded. ‘But let’s make this quick.’

  ‘Quick as you like. I’m not being paid by the hour.’

  With Macro in tow, the clerk scurried round the depot and authorised the provision of all the requested weapons and equipment, as well as carts to carry them on the march back to the Tamesis.

  ‘I can’t believe you don’t have any transports available,’ Macro challenged him.

  ‘Afraid not, sir. All available shipping has been sent to Gesoriacum for the Emperor and his reinforcements. That’s why we’ve been sent ahead. To help out with the admin.’

  ‘I wondered what your lot was doing at headquarters.’

  ‘When something needs organising properly,’ the clerk puffed out his chest, ‘the experts have to be called in.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Macro sniffed. ‘How reassuring.’

  After the midday meal Macro assembled the new recruits for his century and had them parade in front of his tent. They were all good men; fit, experienced and with exemplary records. When he led the Sixth Century against the Britons again, they would cleave a path right through the heart of the enemy ranks. Satisfied with his selection, he turned to smile at Cato.

  ‘Right then, Optio. You’d better introduce this lot to the Second Legion.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you. Good practice for command.’

  ‘But, sir!’

  ‘And make it inspiring.’ Macro nudged him. ‘Get on with it.’ He stepped back into his tent and, sitting on a stool, calmly began to sharpen the blade of his dagger.

  Cato was left standing alone in front of two ranks of the hardest looking men he had ever seen. He cleared his throat nervously and then stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced for suitable words.

  ‘Well then, I’d just like to welcome you to the Second Legion. We’ve had a pretty successful campaign so far and I’m sure that soon you will all be as proud of your new legion as you were of the Eighth.’ He glanced along the lines of expressionless faces and his self-confidence withered.

  ‘I-I think you’ll find that the lads of the Sixth Century will make you feel welcome enough; in a way, we’re like one big family.’ Cato gritted his teeth, aware that he was wallowing in a mire of clichés. ‘If you have any problems you ever want to talk over with anyone then the flap of my tent is always open.’

  Someone snorted derisively.

  ‘My name’s Cato, and I’m sure I’ll get to know all your names quickly enough as we make our way back to the legion . . . Erm. Anybody want to raise any questions at this stage?’

  ‘Optio!’ A man at the end of the line raised a hand. His features were strikingly rugged and fortunately Cato managed to recall his name.

  ‘Cicero, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’

  ‘Just wondered if the centurion’s having us on. Are you really our optio?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I am!’ Cato coloured.

  ‘How long have you been in the army, Optio?’

  A series of chuckles rolled lightly down the line of men.

  ‘Long enough. Now then, anything else? No? Right then, roll call at first light in full marching order. Dismissed!’

  As the replacements ambled off, Cato clenched his fists angrily behind his back, ashamed of his performance. Behind him in the tent he could hear the regular rasp of Macro’s blade on the whetstone. He could not face the inevitable ridicule of his centurion. At length the noise stopped.

  ‘Cato, old son.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You might well be one of the brightest and bravest lads I’ve served with.’

  Cato blushed. ‘Well, thank you, sir.’


  ‘But that was about the most dismal welcome address I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve heard more inspiring speeches at accounts clerks’ retirement bashes. I thought you knew all about this sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ve read about it, sir.’

  ‘I see. Then you’d better supplement the theory with a bit more practice.’ This sounded rather good to Macro, and he smiled at the happy turn of phrase. He felt more than a little gratified by his subordinate’s failure to do the job properly, in spite of his privileged palace education. As was so often the case, evidence of a weak chink in another man’s accomplishments produced a warm, affectionate feeling in him and he grinned at his optio.

  ‘Never mind, lad. You’ve proved yourself often enough up to now.’

  As Cato struggled to find a face-saving response, he became aware of a ripple of excitement sweeping across the depot. Over in the direction of the jetty, men were scrambling up the reverse slope to the palisade where they crowded along the sentry walk.

  ‘Hello. What’s going on?’ Macro came out of the tent and stood at his optio’s side.

  ‘Must be something coming in from the sea,’ suggested Cato.

  As they watched, more men crowded the palisade, and still more men flowed between the tent lines to join them. There were shouts now, just audible above a swelling din of excited chatter. ‘The Emperor! The Emperor!’

  ‘Come on!’ said Macro and he trotted towards the far side of the depot, with Cato close behind him. Soon they merged with the others hurrying towards the Channel. After much jostling and panting they squeezed their way up onto the sentry walk and pushed through to the palisade.

  ‘Make way there!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Make way! Centurion coming through!’

  The men grudgingly deferred to his rank, and moments later Macro was hard up against the wooden stakes, with Cato by his side, both staring out across the Channel at the spectacle serenely making its way in from the sea. A few miles off, caught in the full glare of the afternoon sun, the imperial squadron was making its way towards them. Flanked by four triremes, which it utterly dwarfed, was the Emperor’s flagship. It was a massive vessel of great length and breadth, with two towering masts mounted between the elaborately crenellated bow and stern. Two huge purple sails hung from their spars, tightly sheeted home to ensure that the gold eagles emblazoned on them were displayed to best effect. Cato had seen the vessel once before, at Ostia, and had marvelled at its huge dimensions. Great oars rose from the water, swept forward in shimmering unison, and sank back smoothly into the sea. Behind the flagship a line of warships entered the Channel, followed by transports, and then by the navy afterguard, by which time the flagship was drawing close to the shore with all the stately grace that its highly trained crew could muster. The draught of the flagship was such that it would have run aground had it attempted to make for the jetty. Instead, the vessel heaved to a quarter of a mile from the shore, and anchors were run out fore and aft. The triremes swept past and headed for the jetty, decks crowded with the white uniforms of the Praetorian Guard. Once the warships had moored, the Praetorians filed ashore and formed up along the slope outside the depot.