The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Can you see the Emperor?’ Macro asked. ‘Your eyes are younger than mine.’

  Cato scanned the deck of the flagship, running his eyes over the milling ranks of the Emperor’s entourage. But there was no sign of any obvious deference, and Cato shook his head.

  The legionaries waited excitedly for a sign of Claudius. Someone started a chant of ‘We want the Emperor! We want Claudius!’ that quickly caught on. It rippled along the palisade and echoed out across the Channel to the flagship. But there was still no sign of the Emperor, despite a number of false alarms, and slowly the mood changed from excitement to frustration, and then apathy as the Praetorian cohorts were marched off to the side of the depot furthest from the field abattoir and began making camp for the night.

  ‘Why’s the Emperor not landing?’ asked Macro.

  From his childhood in the imperial palace Cato recalled the lengthy protocols that accompanied the official movements of the Emperor, and could guess at the reason for the delay easily enough. ‘I expect he’ll land tomorrow, when the full ceremony for welcoming an emperor can be laid on.’

  ‘Oh.’ Macro was disappointed. ‘Nothing worth seeing tonight then?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir.’

  ‘Right, well, I expect there’s some work we can be getting on with. And there’s some of that wine that still needs drinking. Coming?’

  Cato knew Macro well enough by now to recognise the difference between a genuine choice and a politely worded order.

  ‘No thank you, sir. I’d like to stay and watch for a while.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  As dusk gathered, the other men on the wall slowly drifted away. Cato leaned forward, resting his elbow in the notch between two stakes and cupping his chin on one palm as he gazed at the array of shipping now filling the Channel around the flagship. Some vessels carried soldiers, some carried the servants of the imperial household, and a few others the expensively dressed members of the Emperor’s entourage. Further out some large transports were anchored with curious grey humps showing above the coping of their holds. Once the triremes that had unloaded the Praetorians had moved away from the jetty, the large transports were eased alongside the jetty and Cato had a clearer view of their cargo.

  ‘Elephants!’ he exclaimed.

  His surprise was shared by the few men remaining along the palisade. Elephants had not been used in battle for over a hundred years. Though they presented a terrifying spectacle to those facing them on the battlefield, well-trained soldiers could neutralise them very quickly. And, if badly handled, elephants could be as much of a danger to their own side as the enemy. Modern armies had little use for them and the only elephants Cato had ever seen were those in the beast pens behind the Circus Maximus. Quite what they were doing here in Britain was anybody’s guess. Surely, he thought, the Emperor can’t be intending to use them in battle. They must be here for some ceremonial purpose, or to put the fear of the gods into the hearts of the Britons.

  As he watched one of the elephant transports, a section of the vessel’s side was removed and a broad gangway was manhandled onto the jetty. Sailors lowered a heavy treaded ramp into the hold and spread a mix of straw and earth up the ramp and across the gangway. These familiar smells would be a badly needed comfort to the animals after the uncertain motion of the sea journey from Gesoriacum. Satisfied that all was in place, the captain gave the order to unload the elephants. A moment later, amid anxious trumpeting, an elephant driver urged an elephant up the ramp and onto the deck. Even though Cato had seen them before, the sudden emergence of the vast grey bulk of the beast with its wicked tusks still awed him and he caught his breath before reassuring himself that he was safe enough where he was. The elephant driver tapped his stick against the back of the animal’s head and it tentatively lumbered onto the gangway, causing the transport to tip slightly at the shift in weight. The elephant paused and raised its trunk, but the driver whacked the stick down and with clearly visible expressions of relief from the crew, the elephant crossed to the jetty.

  The last elephant came ashore as the daylight faded, and the ponderous beasts were led away to an enclosure some distance from those of other animals who were afraid of the elephants. As Cato and the remaining legionaries watched them move off with their curious slow, swaying gait, the transports made way for yet more shipping – this time the smartly painted warships carrying the Emperor’s household and entourage. Across the gangways spilled the social elite of Rome: patricians in red striped togas, their wives in exotic silks and coiffured hair. After them came the lesser nobility, the men in expensive tunics, their wives in respectable stolae. Finally came the baggage, portered across the gangways by scores of slaves carefully supervised by each household’s major domo to ensure nothing was broken.

  As each household gathered in clusters along the jetty, clerks from the depot’s headquarters scurried around searching for names on their lists and escorting their guests to the tented area prepared for them in a fortified enclosure appended to the depot. Few of the new arrivals deigned to look up at the legionaries lining the palisade. For their part the legionaries stared silently, marvelling at the flamboyant wealth of the aristocracy of Rome whose lifestyle depended upon the blood and sweat shed by the men of the legions.

  As Cato’s eyes drifted over the colourful throng on the jetty, a face in the crowd abruptly turned towards him in a way that instantly drew his attention. He felt his heart thrill inside his chest and was conscious of a rapid quickening of his pulse. His breath stilled as he drank in the long dark hair, held back by combs, the fine dark line of the eyebrows and the heart-shaped face coming to a gentle point at the chin. She was wearing a bright yellow stola that emphasised the slender curves of her body. There was no mistaking her, and he stared dumbstruck, wanting to call out her name but not quite daring to. She turned back to her mistress and continued their conversation.

  Thrusting himself away from the palisade, Cato ran down the reverse slope in the direction of the depot’s main gate, all the weariness of the past weeks swept from his body at the prospect of holding Lavinia in his arms again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  _______________

  ‘Lavinia!’ Cato called out as he pushed through the milling bodies of the Emperor’s entourage, heedless of the astonished expressions and sharp curses that followed him. Ahead, a short distance off, he saw her yellow stola flash between a gap in the crowd, and Cato pushed on towards it, calling out again, ‘Lavinia!’

  She caught the sound of her name and turned her head, searching for its source, and her gaze came to rest on Cato as he brushed between a senator and his wife twenty feet away.

  ‘Cato?’

  At Lavinia’s side her mistress, the lady Flavia, turned to follow her gaze. Flavia’s face broke into a smile as she, too, caught sight of the young man she had first met at the imperial palace ten years earlier. While she had been a minor figure at court, Flavia had taken an interest in the shy boy, and seen to it that he was given access to the palace library, and protected as far as possible from the endemic bullying amongst the imperial slaves. In return Cato had been utterly loyal to her ever since.

  ‘I say!’ the senator protested. ‘Bloody watch where you’re going, young man!’

  Cato ignored him and ran the last few paces, arms outstretched as Lavinia’s expression broke into a wide-eyed grin of delight. She squealed out a greeting and raised her arms, and an instant later was crushed in his embrace. It lasted only a moment before Cato pulled back, raising his hands to her cheeks, cupping her smooth skin and wondering once more at the dark, piercing beauty of her eyes. She smiled, and then couldn’t help laughing at the pure joy of the moment, and he laughed with her.

  ‘Oh Cato! I’d so hoped to see you here.’

  ‘Well, here I am!’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, before his cursed self-consciousness returned and made him aware of the surrounding crowd. He pulled back from her and glanced about. A number of people were
staring at them, some in amused surprise, some frowning at the unseemliness of such behaviour in public. The senator was still looking angry. Cato flashed him an apologetic smile, and returned his eyes to Lavinia.

  ‘What-what are you doing here? I thought you were on the way to Rome.’

  ‘We were,’ said Flavia, stepping round to one side of the couple. ‘We’d just reached Lutetia when I received instructions from Narcissus to return to Gesoriacum and wait for the Emperor.’

  ‘And here we are!’ Lavinia concluded happily. Then she looked down and caught sight of the livid scar on his arm. ‘Oh no! What happened to you? Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. Just a burn.’

  ‘My poor baby,’ Lavinia cooed, and kissed his hand.

  ‘Have you had it treated properly?’ asked Flavia as she examined the scar. ‘I know what these army quacks are like. I wouldn’t trust them to treat a cold.’

  The attention was making Cato feel embarrassed and he quickly insisted that all was well – yes, it looked bad, but it was healing; no, there weren’t any other injuries; yes, he’d make sure he was more careful in future; no, it wasn’t Macro’s fault.

  ‘And did you really miss me?’ Lavinia concluded quietly, intently watching his expression.

  ‘Do fish live in the sea?’ Cato replied, smiling.

  ‘Oh you!’ Lavinia punched his chest. ‘You could just say yes.’

  ‘Well, yes then. I did. Very much.’ Cato kissed her again, automatically running one hand down the small of her back to the swell of her buttocks. Lavinia chuckled. ‘Jupiter! You just can’t wait for it, can you?’

  Cato shook his head.

  ‘Well then,’ Lavinia leaned forward and whispered in his ear, ‘we’ll have to sort something out a little bit later . . .’

  ‘Look here,’ Flavia intruded. ‘I hate to interrupt this distastefully amorous reunion, but a more secluded venue would be appropriate, don’t you think?’

  The tents provided for the imperial entourage were luxuriously appointed, and for Cato, starved of such a lifestyle for almost a year now, a welcoming reprieve from the rough and ready accommodation of the legions. Lady Flavia, Lavinia and he were sitting on heavy bronze chairs arranged around a low table on which sweet pastries and savouries were artfully arranged on gold platters. Cato sat beside Lavinia, while her mistress sat on the opposite side of the table where the light cast by the oil lamps was dim.

  ‘Nice.’ Cato nodded at the ornately decorated snacks, mindful of the battered mess tin waiting for him back in his tent.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Flavia. ‘My husband disapproves of fripperies. It’s part of the service Narcissus has laid on for the Emperor’s companions. In case we should get homesick.’

  ‘Rather pretty, aren’t they?’ Lavinia smiled, flashing her perfect white teeth at Cato. She helped herself to a small filled pastry and bit into it. Flakes and crumbs fell down her front and Cato’s eyes followed them as far as her breasts. And then flickered back to her face as he blushed.

  ‘Pretty enough, my dear.’ Flavia reached over and deftly flicked the crumbs from her handmaid’s stola. ‘But they’re only snacks when all is said and done. One shouldn’t be too concerned with appearances. It’s the essence of a thing that matters. Isn’t that right, Cato?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Cato nodded, wondering why Flavia was attempting to warn him off Lavinia. ‘But since the essence of a thing is a matter of conjecture, might we not be better off simply judging by appearances, my lady?’

  ‘Think that if you will.’ Flavia shrugged, unimpressed by his glib sophistry. ‘But life will be a harsh teacher if you persist in such a view.’

  Cato nodded. He disagreed with her but was keen not to risk disturbing the happy ambience of their reunion. ‘Might I have some more wine, my lady?’

  Flavia gestured towards his cup and a slave with a decanter hurried from the shadows at the rear of the tent. Cato held out his cup and the slave quickly refilled it and stepped back discreetly, as still and silent as before.

  ‘I wouldn’t drink too much of that,’ Lavinia said with a cheeky smile, and nudged Cato gently in the ribs.

  ‘To you, my lady.’ Cato raised his cup. ‘To you, and your husband.’

  Flavia nodded graciously, and then leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the young optio. ‘And is the legate enjoying a successful campaign?’

  Cato paused before he replied. The campaign was undoubtedly a success as things stood, but he was still too close to the experience of how it had been won by the rank and file of the legions to feel much sense of triumph. Any success that future historians might lightly allude to when writing about the invasion of this island would never acknowledge the pain, blood, filth and soul-numbing exhaustion it had cost. A vivid image of Pyrax being cut down as he struggled to free himself from the mud flashed into Cato’s mind. He knew that historians would regard the death of Pyrax as a pitifully insignificant detail unworthy of a place in history.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ Cato said carefully. ‘The legate has won his share of the glory. The Second has acquitted itself well enough.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m afraid the plebs want heroism, not competency.’

  Cato smiled bitterly. His newly acquired status as a Roman citizen technically ranked him as one of the plebeians that Flavia spoke of with such contempt. Yet the accusation was valid enough.

  ‘The Second has proved itself in every battle it has fought in. You can be proud of your husband. And it’s not as if the Britons aren’t being helped.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, my lady. Time and again we’ve found that the Britons are using Roman slingshot and swords.’

  ‘Did they capture them from our men?’

  ‘Hardly. We’ve won every fight so far, they’ve not had any pickings from the battlefield. Someone must be supplying them.’

  ‘Someone? Who do you mean?’

  ‘I have no idea, my lady. All I know is that the legate is investigating the matter and said he’d report it to the general.’

  ‘I see.’ Flavia nodded thoughtfully, and twitched the hem of her gown. Without looking up she continued, ‘Now then, I expect you two might want to catch up on a few matters. It’s a lovely night for a walk. A long walk, I should think.’

  Lavinia grasped his hand as she quickly stood up, and gave him a sharp tug. Cato rose, and dipped his head in a bow to Flavia. ‘It’s good to see you again, my lady.’

  ‘And you, Cato.’

  Lavinia led the way to the tent flap. Just before they disappeared outside, Flavia called out after them, ‘Enjoy yourselves, while you can.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  _______________

  It was just before dawn and a milky grey mist had risen from the Channel. It hung about the depot gate like a clammy shroud, illuminated by the close glow of dying torches on the sentry walk. The men were quiet, shuffling in their assigned unit columns, their subdued conversation punctuated by occasional coughs in lungs unaccustomed to the damp air of the island. A long day’s march lay ahead of them. They had been fed on quickly heated porridge that felt like a stone inside them now.

  For nearly all of them a new life awaited in a legion they might have only heard of before, whose men would regard them with no more than grudging acceptance for the next few months, until they had proved themselves better than their reserve legion status implied. For some the transition to a combat unit would be smooth enough, having been sent to the Eighth from one of the frontier legions. In preparation for the invasion of Britain, the imperial general staff had pulled veteran cohorts out of those legions facing quiescent barbarians, and marched them to Gaul for temporary attachment to the Eighth.

  The older men who had hoped for a peaceful end to their career under the eagles were naturally resentful to find themselves drawn into the decisive phase of this year’s campaign. They were no longer as fit and quick as they had once been, and so the odds of surviving the coming battles were not
encouraging.

  Then there were the young men, recent recruits, fresh out of training and more afraid of their officers than any enemy. In brightly polished segmented armour, the cost of which would be subtracted from their meagre pay for many years yet, wearing tunics whose red dye had not yet begun to fade, and with sword grips not yet worn smooth from frequent handling, they were keen to get stuck in, and develop the easy-going swagger of the veterans.

  ‘All present?’ asked Macro as he strode up to Cato, fastening the strap of his helmet.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then let’s get going.’ Macro turned to the head of the dimly visible column and shouted, ‘Fall in!’