The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘When can I see you?’ Cato risked taking her hand in his.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll find you. Where are your tents?’

  ‘Over there.’ Cato pointed. ‘Just ask for the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort.’ The sudden image of Lavinia wandering through the darkened tents surrounded by thousands of males made him worry for her safety. ‘It’d be better if I waited for you here.’

  ‘No! I’ll come and find you, if I get time. But you must go now.’ Lavinia leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek before pressing her hand firmly against his chest. ‘Go on!’

  Confused, Cato backed off slowly. Lavinia smiled nervously and waved him away, as if joking, but there was an intensity in her eyes that made Cato feel cold and afraid. He nodded, turned and walked away, round the corner of a line of tents and out of her sight.

  As soon as the tents blocked her view of him, Lavinia turned and hurried down the via Praetoria along the line of torches leading away from the legate’s tents.

  Had she waited a moment she might have seen Cato peep cautiously round the tent line. He watched her almost run in the opposite direction, and once he was sure that he could remain out of sight in the shadows on this side of the via Praetoria he followed her, padding softly from tent to tent, keeping her in view. She didn’t go very far. Just to the first of the six big tents of the Second Legion’s tribunes. The cold anxiety he had felt a moment earlier turned to a sickening, icy dread as he watched Lavinia boldly pull open the flap of Vitellius’ tent and step inside.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  _______________

  With a grand flourish Claudius whipped back the silk sheet covering the table. Underneath, illuminated by the glow of dozens of hanging oil lamps, lay a contoured reproduction of the surrounding landscape, as detailed as the staff officers could make it in the time available, based on reports from the scouts. The legions’ officers crowded round the table and examined the landscape intently. For those who had arrived after sunset this was the first opportunity to see what lay ahead of them the next day. The Emperor allowed his officers a brief moment to familiarise themselves with the model before he began the briefing.

  ‘Gentlemen, tomorrow m-m-morning we begin the end of the conquest of this land. Once Caratacus is beaten and his army wiped out, there will be n-nothing between us and the capital of the Catuvellauni. With the f-fall of Camulodunum the other British tribes will bow to the inevitable. A year from now, I th-think we can safely say, this island will be as peaceful a p-p-province as any in the empire.’

  Vespasian listened in silent contempt, and judging by the arch glances being subtly exchanged by other officers, they shared his doubts. How could there be a complete conquest in just one year? No one even knew the extent of this island; some explorers claimed that it was just the tip of a vast landmass. If so, and if tales of the savage tribes of the far north were true, it would take many more years before the province was pacified. But by then Claudius would have had his triumph in Rome and the mob would have long forgotten distant Britain, distracted by an endless orgy of gladiatorial contests, beast hunts and chariot races at the Circus Maximus. The last page of the official history of Claudius’ conquest of Britain would have been written then copied onto scrolls to be placed in every major public library across the empire.

  Meanwhile Plautius and his legions would still be occupied extinguishing all the minor strongholds that insisted on holding out against the invader. And while a Druid still lived, there would be constant, simmering resistance to Rome, which would regularly boil over into armed rebellion. Ever since their bloody persecution by Julius Caesar the Druids had regarded Rome, and all things Roman, with an unquenchable and fervent hatred.

  ‘In two days’ time,’ Claudius continued, ‘we will be feasting in C-Camulodunum. Think on that, and in years to come you w-w-will be able to tell your grandchildren of the d-d-decisive battle you fought and won at the side of Emperor C-Claudius!’ Eyes gleaming and mouth grinning lopsidedly, he looked round at the faces of his staff officers. General Plautius quickly put his hands together and launched a round of applause that was rather more automatic than enthusiastic.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Claudius raised his hands and the clapping obediently died away. ‘And now I’ll let Narcissus talk you through the details of my p-plan of attack. Narcissus?’

  ‘Thank you, Caesar.’

  The Emperor stepped back from the table and his trusted freedman took his place, a long thin baton in his hand. Claudius limped over to a side table and began picking at some of the elaborate pastries and tarts his team of chefs had managed to conjure up. He paid little attention to Narcissus’ presentation, and so missed the sullen resentment of the senior army officers at being given their orders by a civilian bureaucrat, and a mere freedman at that. Narcissus was relishing the moment and looked thoughtfully at the model before he raised his baton to begin his address.

  ‘The Emperor has decided that bold tactics are required to crack this nut.’ He tapped the stumps of twigs which represented the British palisade on the ridge. ‘We can’t use the ground to the south because of the marsh and we can’t get through the forest. The scouts report that thick briars grow right up to the edge of the tree line.’

  ‘Did they manage any penetration of the forest?’ asked Vespasian.

  ‘I’m afraid not. The Britons sent out chariots to chase the scouts off before they could have a good look. But they report that, as far as they could see, the forest is impenetrable and there were no signs of any open trails.’

  Vespasian was not content. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious that the Britons didn’t want the scouts getting too near the forest?’

  Narcissus smiled. ‘My dear Vespasian, just because you were once ambushed is not reason enough to judge others by your failure to reconnoitre adequately.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the tent and the other senior officers watched for Vespasian’s reaction to this outrageous attack on his professionalism, The legate clamped his jaw shut to bite off the outburst that rose in his throat. The charge was grossly unfair; he had been acting on Plautius’ direct order, but it would be most unseemly to say so now.

  ‘Then it would be wise to reconnoitre adequately on this occasion,’ Vespasian responded in an even voice.

  ‘It’s been taken care of.’ Narcissus waved his hand airily. Behind him the Emperor left the tent with a plate piled high with delicacies. ‘Now then, on to the details. The artillery train will be deployed in range of the enemy defences under cover of night. The army will be drawn up behind the Praetorian Guards, with the elephants on our right wing. The bolt-throwers will lay down fire on the palisade until the Praetorians and the elephants start advancing up the slope. I should think the mere sight of the elephants will unnerve and divert the Britons for long enough to enable the Praetorians to scale the defences. They will take and hold the palisade. The Twentieth, Fourteenth and Ninth Legions will advance through the gap opened up by the Praetorians and fan out on the far side of the ridge. The Second will remain in reserve, after leaving four cohorts, along with the auxiliary troops, to guard the camp and baggage train. Once we’ve dealt with Caratacus it’s a straight road to Camulodunum. That’s all, gentlemen.’ Narcissus let his baton slip through his fist until it thumped the wooden flooring.

  Aulus Plautius quickly stepped up to the head of the map table. ‘Thank you, a most succinct delivery.’

  ‘I try not to say a word more than is completely and utterly necessary,’ replied Narcissus.

  ‘Quite. Now then, are there any questions?’

  ‘If there were any questions,’ Narcissus cut in, ‘they would simply indicate a failure to listen properly. And I’m sure your men are as professional as they seem. There is one final item on the agenda. Word has reached me that there might be an attempt on the Emperor’s life over the next few days. I have to deal with such rumours all the time, and I am sure this will prove to be another false alarm.
’ He gave Vespasian a slight nod and continued, ‘But we can never be too sure. Accordingly, I’d be most grateful if you gentlemen could keep an eye and an ear out for anything remotely suspicious. General Plautius, you can dismiss them now.’

  For an instant Vespasian was certain that his general was going to explode at the freedman’s impudence, and he willed Plautius to do so. But at the last moment Plautius looked up, over Narcissus’ shoulder, and saw Claudius watching them closely through a small gap in the tent flap as he munched on a pastry, oblivious to the flakes soiling his gorgeous imperial finery. The general curtly nodded to his officers and they quickly filed from the tent, anxious to avoid being drawn into a confrontation between Plautius and the chief secretary.

  Vespasian waited by the map table, determined to have his say, and he deliberately ignored the warning look and beckoning wave from Sabinus who had paused briefly at the threshold. At last, only Vespasian, Plautius, the Emperor and his freedman remained.

  ‘I take it you d-disapprove of my plan, Legate.’

  ‘Caesar,’ Vespasian began warily, ‘the plan is excellent. You want to fight this war like a bolt of lightning, striking down your foe with one dazzling thrust that will overwhelm him before he can react. Who would not want to fight a war in this way? But . . .’ He looked round to gauge the expressions on the other men’s faces.

  ‘Please continue,’ Narcissus said coldly. ‘Your silence is thunderous. But?’

  ‘The problem lies with the enemy. We are assuming that they will simply sit on that ridge and defend it. What if they conceal troops in the wood? What if—’

  ‘We’ve been through this, Vespasian,’ Narcissus responded, as if explaining something yet again to a particularly thick schoolboy. ‘The scouts say that the woods are impassable.’

  ‘But what if they’re wrong?’

  ‘What if they’re wrong?’ Narcissus mimicked. ‘What if there are chariots hiding in ditches waiting to burst out on us the moment we approach? What if they have thousands of men hiding in marshes? What if they have secretly allied themselves to a tribe of Amazons to distract our men from thoughts of invasion and conquest?’

  His mocking tone enraged Vespasian. How dare this fool show such contempt.

  ‘The lie of the land has been thoroughly scouted,’ Narcissus went on. ‘We know where the enemy is positioned, we know how to play to our strengths and their weaknesses, and we have beaten Caratacus before and we’ll do it again. In any case, we’ve issued all the orders so it’s too late to change things now.’

  Plautius caught Vespasian’s eye and shook his head to forestall any more argument. The Emperor’s word was law, for soldiers more than most, and there was no arguing with that. If Claudius wished to wage his lightning war, then no one could stop him – except the Britons.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  _______________

  The humidity of the last few days, and the proximity of the marsh and river combined to produce a particularly thick mist that lay most densely in the shallow vale between the two armies. Long before the sun came up and tinted the milky wreaths with orange, the legionaries had dressed and fed and were marching to take up their positions for the coming battle. From either side of the Praetorian cohorts came the mechanical clanking of the bolt-throwers as the artillerymen strained at the torsion levers and the ratchets dropped across cog teeth. Small braziers gleamed as incendiary missiles were made ready. Far to the right the elephants stuck closely together, thoroughly unnerved by the pallid wisps of mist that hemmed them in on all sides.

  From a small grassy mound just outside the Roman camp, the Emperor and his staff waited for news of the battle preparations. Below them the mist blanketed most of the Roman army and only vague snatches of shouted orders, drumming hoofbeats and the clatter of equipment indicated the presence of thousands of men. A continuous stream of messengers went to and fro as Plautius struggled to co-ordinate his invisible army. Fortunately, he had foreseen the rising of the mist and during the night had ordered the engineers to lay out pegs to mark the start position for each unit. Even so, dawn came and went and the sun was well above the horizon before he was satisfied that the army was in position and ready to attack.

  ‘Caesar, the eagles await your orders,’ he announced finally.

  ‘Well, let’s g-get on with it, shall we?’ Claudius replied, irritated by the delay; it had not been a part of his battle plan.

  ‘Yes, Caesar.’ Plautius nodded to his signals tribune to launch the attack. The massed trumpets of the headquarters staff blasted out across the vale, slightly muffled in the clammy air. Almost at once the British war horns began to bray out their defiant response, and swelling through the noise came cheers and jeering from the British warriors on the ridge. Down in the mist a sharp rhythmic clatter reached the ears of the Roman staff officers. The noise grew in volume and extended down the entire length of the Roman front.

  ‘What is that racket?’ snapped Claudius.

  ‘Just our men announcing themselves, Caesar. They’re hitting their shields with their javelins. It makes them feel good and scares the enemy.’

  ‘They d-don’t sound too scared to me.’ Claudius nodded across the vale.

  ‘Well then, it’ll just have to be for the benefit of our men, Caesar.’

  ‘It’s a bloody nuisance!’

  A loud series of cracks sounded from within the mist and a volley of fire-bolts whirred across the British defences in blazing arcs before crashing through the palisade. Sparks, fragments of wood, sods of turf and bits of men flew in all directions as the heavy bolts stuck home. There was a sudden end to the battle cries from the British, but someone on the other side knew the danger of sitting and taking such punishment in silence. One by one the war horns took up their battle cry once again and they were quickly joined by the shouts of the warriors behind the defences.

  From their position just outside the ditch of the Roman camp the men of the Second Legion were in a good position to view the bombardment. The artillery kept up a steady fire and the air above the British defences was continually scored by flaming bolts and dark smoke trails. Already a series of small fires had broken out and thick smudges of smoke billowed up on the far ridge.

  ‘Poor sods.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t like to be over there right now.’

  Cato looked sidelong at his centurion, surprised at this evidence of empathy for the enemy.

  ‘You’ve never seen what an artillery bolt can do, have you, lad?’

  ‘I’ve seen the consequences, sir.’

  ‘Not the same thing. You have to be on the receiving end of those things to fully appreciate the effect.’

  Cato looked at the flames and thick black smoke on the opposite slope, hoping the Britons had the good sense to turn and run. In recent weeks he had come to value most the battles that delivered the least number of dead and wounded at their conclusion. But today he no longer cared. After the previous night’s sighting of Lavinia his heart was in the grip of a cold despair that made life seem quite pointless.

  The Britons were a game lot and raised their serpent-tail banners above their defences. The lack of any breeze meant the bearers had to sweep their banners to and fro to fully reveal the tails and in the distance they looked like frenzied worms twisting on a hot plate.

  ‘There go the Praetorians!’ Macro pointed down the slope. Just emerging from where the mist began to thin marched an uneven line of men in white crested helmets. Then came their white tunics as they drew free of the mist. When the first wave was clear, they were halted and the officers dressed the line, then with perfect military precision the Praetorians moved up to the first line of defences: a series of ditches. Already the second line was emerging from the mist. The fire from the bolt-throwers slackened and finally stopped as word reached the artillery crews that the Praetorians were nearing the enemy.

  As soon as the Britons were aware that the danger from the bolts had passed, they swarmed back up to their palisade and began rai
ning down arrows and slingshot on the Romans as they struggled up the steep face of the first ditch. Small gaps opened in the lines of the leading cohorts but the relentless discipline of the Roman army proved its worth as the line instantly dressed itself and the gaps were filled. But the banks of the ditches were already dotted with the white uniformed bodies of the fallen. The first line clambered out of the last ditch, re-formed under intense fire, and began mounting the final slope to the palisade. Suddenly, all along the palisade, smoke spilled up into the air, and moments later great blazing bundles were raised with the aid of long pitchforks and lobbed over. They bounced down the steep slope, showering sparks in all directions before slamming into the Roman lines, scattering the Praetorians in all directions.

  ‘Ouch,’ Cato muttered. ‘That’s a nasty trick.’

  ‘But effective. For the moment. However, I wouldn’t fancy being a Briton when those Praetorians get in amongst them.’

  ‘Just as long as they spare enough to sell for slaves.’

  Macro laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now you’re thinking like a soldier!’

  ‘No, sir. I’m just thinking like someone who needs money,’ replied Cato briefly.

  ‘Where’ve those bloody elephants gone?’ Macro strained his eyes to try and detect any movement out on the far right of the Roman line. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. You see anything?’

  Cato looked, but nothing disturbed the white bank of mist hanging over the marsh, and he shook his head.

  ‘Bloody daft, using elephants.’ Macro spat on the ground. ‘Wonder which prat came up with that idea.’

  ‘It has the touch of Narcissus about it, sir.’

  ‘True. Look! In go the guards!’

  The Praetorians had reached the palisade and managed to break down a few sections. As Cato and Macro watched, the thin slivers of their javelins rained down on the defenders before they drew swords and forced their way into the breaches.