The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  They ran back to the area of the vast encampment allotted to the Second Legion, and made for the line of officers’ tents. The senior tribune’s tent stood at the end of the line, nearest to the legion’s headquarters, and the two guards assigned to Vitellius stood at the fringe of the awning, hands on shield rims and spears grounded. As Cato and his centurion approached the guards, Macro smiled good-naturedly, and raised his hand in greeting.

  ‘All right, lads?’

  They nodded warily.

  ‘Tribune at home?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell him he’s got some guests.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, can’t do that. Strict orders. He’s entertaining and not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I see. Entertaining.’ Macro winked at them. ‘Wouldn’t be entertaining some young dark-haired piece, by any chance?’

  The guards exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘Thought so.’

  Cato felt sick. Lavinia was here, in his tent, being ‘entertained’.

  Suddenly he was striding towards the entrance, bent on doing murder.

  ‘Lavinia! Get out here!’

  One of the guards, trained to react instantly to any threat to those he guarded, dropped his spear and thrust it between Cato’s legs. The optio caught his shin against it, tripped and tumbled over. Before he could react, the guard was standing over him, spear tip pointed dangerously close to his throat.

  ‘Easy there!’ Macro calmed the guard. ‘Easy. The boy’s no threat.’

  The flap flicked open and Tribune Vitellius, in a silk gown, ducked outside, bellowing angrily, ‘What’s all the bloody commotion?’ He caught sight of Cato sprawled on the ground and Macro standing to one side of the guard who was threatening to impale the youth.

  ‘Well! If it isn’t my Nemesis and his little acolyte! What can I do for you, gentlemen? Keep it brief. I have a rather ravishing young lady on the go.’

  The calculated remark had its desired effect, and Cato grabbed the shaft of the spear above him and wrenched it from the hands of the guard. He thrust the butt back into the man’s face and caught him a sharp crack on the forehead, stunning him. Before the other guard could react, Cato had sprung to his feet and hefted the spear, ready to thrust it into the tribune’s guts. But he never made it. A quick kick to the back of one of his knees floored him again. But this time his body was covered and held down by another’s.

  ‘Stay down!’ Macro hissed in his ear. ‘You fucking hear me?’

  Cato tried to struggle, and was quickly kneed in the groin. He doubled up in agony and felt sure he was going to throw up. Macro quickly got back on his feet.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir. Lad’s been under a lot of strain lately.’

  ‘That’s all right, Centurion,’ Cato heard Vitellius reply. ‘Nasty cut he’s got on his head. I’d lend you a bandage, only I’ve just burnt the last of mine . . .’

  There was a moment’s silence; even Cato stopped struggling. Then Macro pulled him to his feet and thrust him away from the tribune.

  ‘Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I’ll see to it that the lad doesn’t bother you again.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Vitellius replied flatly.

  ‘Let’s be going,’ Macro said sharply and pushed Cato away from the tent. ‘That’ll teach you to disrespect our officers!’

  As they passed out of earshot, Macro leaned close to Cato and hissed, ‘You were bloody lucky to get out of that alive. From now on you listen to me and obey me.’

  ‘But the Emperor—’

  ‘Shut up, you fool! Can’t you see he was trying to make you hit him? You know what the penalty is for assaulting an officer. You want to be crucified? No? Just keep quiet then.’

  Once they were out of sight of Vitellius, Macro grabbed the collar of Cato’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘Cato! Get a grip! We’ve got to do something. The banquet’ll be starting soon, and we’ve got to find some way of stopping Vitellius.’

  ‘Fuck Vitellius,’ mumbled Cato.

  ‘Later. Right now we’ve got to save the Emperor.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  _______________

  ‘Not bad,’ commented Vespasian, mouth full of the salty pastry. ‘Not bad at all.’

  ‘Careful, those crumbs are going everywhere.’ Flavia brushed them off the folds of her husband’s tunic. ‘Honestly, you’d think a grown man would spend just a little more time thinking about the consequences of what he chooses to eat.’

  ‘Don’t blame me, blame him.’ Vespasian waved the pastry over towards Narcissus who was standing to one side of the Emperor’s table while his master picked at a plate of garlic mushrooms. ‘He decided on the menu, and he’s done a first-rate job. What is this anyway?’

  Flavia picked up one of the pastries and sniffed it with the refined contempt of those raised to look down their noses on the efforts of others. ‘It’s venison – left to hang a little longer than necessary, I might add – and marinated in fish pickle sauce before being shredded, mixed with herbs and flour, and baked.’

  Vespasian gazed at her in open admiration, and looked again at the remains of his pastry. ‘How can you tell all that? Just from the scent?’

  ‘Unlike you, I actually bothered to read the menu.’

  Vespasian smiled graciously. ‘What else is on the menu, since you’re the expert?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, I only read as far as the introductory course, but I imagine it is simply a replay of every banquet Claudius has ever had.’

  ‘Creature of habit, our Emperor.’

  ‘Narcissus’ habits unfortunately. The menu has his stamp all over it, fussy, pretentious and likely to leave you with a sick feeling in your stomach.’

  Vespasian laughed, and spontaneously reached over to kiss his wife on the cheek. She accepted the kiss with a surprised expression.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to shock you,’ Vespasian said. ‘It was just that, for a moment there, it felt like old times.’

  ‘It needn’t feel otherwise, husband. If you would not treat me so coldly.’

  ‘Coldly,’ Vespasian repeated and met her gaze. ‘I don’t feel cold towards you. I have never loved you more than now.’ He leaned closer to her, and continued softly, ‘But I feel I don’t really know you. Not since I was told about your involvement with the Liberators.’

  Flavia took his hand and grasped it firmly. ‘I’ve told you all you need to know. I’ve told you I have no connection with those people. None at all.’

  ‘Now maybe. But before?’

  Flavia smiled sadly before she responded in a quiet, clear voice, ‘I have no connection with them now. That’s all I can tell you. To say any more would endanger you, and maybe Titus . . . and the other child.’

  ‘Other child?’ Vespasian frowned before the sestertius dropped. He stopped chewing the pastry, breathed in to reply, and promptly started choking on the pastry crumbs. His face went red as he coughed frantically to try and clear his throat. Heads began to turn, and at the table of honour Claudius looked up, watched the spectacle and looked down at his food in terror. Narcissus rushed over to reassure him and quickly nibbled at one of the mushrooms on Claudius’ plate.

  Flavia was thumping her husband on the back, trying to dislodge the blockage, until finally Vespasian started breathing again, eyes watering, and caught Flavia’s hands to stop the beating.

  ‘I’m all right. I’m all right.’

  ‘I thought you were dying!’ Flavia was on the verge of tears, then suddenly she laughed at them both, and the other diners relaxed again. ‘What on earth got into you!’

  ‘The baby,’ Vespasian managed to say before having to cough. ‘You’re expecting another child?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flavia replied with a smile, before sending Lavinia to fetch some water for her husband.

  Vespasian, still red-faced, leaned over and wrapped his arms round his wife, burying his face in her shoulder and neck. ‘When did you conceive?’

  ‘Back in Gaul, shortly before w
e arrived in Gesoriacum. Over four months ago. The baby’s due early next year.’

  ‘Vespasian!’ Claudius called out above the hubbub of conversation, which abruptly died away, ‘I say, V-V-Vespasian!’

  Vespasian released his wife and quickly turned round. ‘Caesar?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Quite all right, Caesar.’ He turned to smile at his wife. ‘Marvellous, in fact.’

  ‘Well, you don’t 1-1-look it. You seemed to be on the verge of croaking just a m-m-moment ago! Lucky escape for me, I was thinking – someone poisoned you by mistake.’

  ‘No poison, Caesar. I’ve just learned I’m going to have another child.’

  Flavia blushed and gazed down at her hands with becoming modesty. Caesar reached for his gold wine cup and raised it in their direction.

  ‘A toast! May the next Flavian to be born live to serve his Emperor with as much distinction as his father, and uncle of course.’ Claudius nodded towards Sabinus, who smiled weakly. The rest of the guests in the brightly lit great hall of the Catuvellauni chorused the toast and Vespasian bowed his head in thanks. But the Emperor’s light-hearted mention of assassination brought back Vespasian’s fears over what Adminius had told him, and he glanced round the hall, eyeing the British contingent suspiciously. Venutius, the elders of the Trinovantes, and a score of other natives sat in self-conscious discomfort not far from the Emperor’s right hand.

  ‘What’s keeping that wretched girl Lavinia?’ Flavia muttered as she glanced round the hall. ‘She was only supposed to go and get you a glass of water . . .’

  A pungent aroma of spices and the richer undercurrent of sauces and cooked meats filled Cato’s nostrils as he and Macro entered the open kitchen area at the back of the great hall. Huge cauldrons simmered over cooking fires tended by sweating slaves, while the cooks laboured over long trestle tables, preparing the plethora of dishes required at an imperial banquet.

  ‘What now?’ Cato whispered.

  ‘Just follow my lead.’

  The centurion marched up to the timber-framed door leading into the side of the great hall. A burly palace slave in a purple tunic held up a hand at their approach.

  ‘Out of my way!’ Macro snapped.

  ‘Stop!’ the slave responded firmly. ‘No entry without authorisation.’

  ‘Authorisation?’ Macro glared back. ‘Who says I need authorisation, slave?’

  ‘Only kitchen slaves come through here. Try the main entrance to the hall.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘My orders, sir. Straight from Narcissus himself.’

  ‘Narcissus eh?’ Macro stepped closer, and lowered his voice. ‘We have to see the legate of the Second right now.’

  ‘Not without authorisation, sir.’

  ‘OK then, you want see my authorisation?’ Macro reached into his purse with his left hand, and the moment the slave’s eyes followed the gesture the centurion piled in a skull-shattering uppercut with his right. The slave’s jaw snapped back and he dropped like a sack of stones. Macro shook his hand as he gazed down at the crumpled form at his feet. ‘How’s that for authorisation, you dumb shit?’

  The kitchen slaves were nervously watching the centurion.

  ‘Back to work!’ Macro shouted. ‘Now! Before you get the same treatment as him.’

  For a moment there was no reaction, and Macro took a few paces towards the nearest group of cooks, slowly drawing his sword. At once they returned to their work. Macro glowered round, daring any of the others to challenge him until all the cooks turned back to their duties.

  ‘Come on, Cato,’ Macro said quietly and ducked through the door into the great hall. Cato followed him into the shadows behind a stone buttress. A warm fug wrapped itself round them.

  ‘Stay back,’ Macro ordered. ‘I need to check the lie of the land.’

  Macro peered round the buttress. The huge space was lit by countless oil lamps and tallow candles fixed to vast timber crosspieces hanging from pulleys up in the dim rafters high above. In their amber glow hundreds of guests were ranged along dining couches on three sides of the hall. Before them lay tables heaped with the best cuisine that the imperial cooks could provide. Loud conversation and laughter overwhelmed the Greek singers battling to be heard from a dais behind the top table, where the Emperor reclined alone. In the space between the tables a bear was chained to a bolt in the floor. It snarled and swiped at a pack of hairy hunting dogs that darted around and snapped whenever the bear presented an unguarded quarter. With a shrill yelp one of the slower dogs was caught by a paw, and flew through the air to crash into a table. Food, plates, cups and wine exploded into the air while a female guest shrieked in horror at the blood that splattered across her pale blue stola.

  As the roars of support for the bear died down, Macro turned his gaze to the British contingent sitting to one side of the Emperor. Most of the Britons had succumbed to the Celtic weakness for drink and were being loud and gauche as they cheered on the beast fight. A few, however, were sitting quietly, picking at their food and gazing at the spectacle with barely concealed contempt. On the couch nearest the Emperor sat a young Briton, chewing on a small plaited loaf, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him, quite outside the prevailing mood of the banquet.

  ‘There’s our man – Bellonius, I’d say.’ Macro waved Cato round and pointed. ‘See him?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Think we should rush him?’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve no proof any more. We have to try and speak to the legate, or Narcissus.’

  ‘The freedman is standing in his master’s shadow, but I can’t see the legate yet.’

  ‘Over there.’ Cato nodded directly across the hall. Vespasian’s head was turned away from them as he kissed his wife. Behind them stood Lavinia, laughing happily as she watched the tormented bear. A simmering mixture of jealous loathing and remembered affection bubbled up from the pit of Cato’s stomach. Lavinia looked to one side and smiled. Following her gaze, Cato saw Vitellius sitting with a group of staff officers opposite the Britons. The tribune was looking over his shoulder and smiling back at Lavinia, causing Cato to clench his fists and press his lips together in a thin line.

  ‘There’s Vitellius, by the Emperor,’ whispered Macro.

  ‘Seen him.’

  ‘What now?’ Macro eased himself back behind the buttress and looked at his optio. ‘Narcissus or Vespasian?’

  ‘Vespasian,’ Cato decided immediately. ‘There’s too many of those German bodyguards round Narcissus. We’d have no chance of getting a message through that lot. Let’s wait for the next change in course and use the waiters as cover to get close to the legate.’

  ‘Wait? Can’t afford to. Won’t take that lot outside long to recover their balls enough to go for help.’

  ‘Sir, what do you think will happen if we’re discovered in here without any invitation or authority, and carrying weapons?’

  ‘Point taken. We’ll wait a little longer.’

  As they crouched down behind the buttress, the savage growls and roaring from the beast fight reached a crescendo. The banquet guests cheered and howled like beasts themselves as the bear and dogs tore at each other in a terrifying frenzy. With a final shrill yelp that was abruptly drowned by the triumphant roar of the bear, the fight came to an end and the cheers of the audience subsided into loud conversation. Cato risked a glimpse round the roughly hewn stone buttress and saw the bear being led away in chains by a dozen burly Britons, blood dripping from its jaws and numerous wounds. Its mangled victims were dragged away on hooks.

  There was a loud clapping from outside the hall and the doors burst open to admit dozens of imperial slaves who flowed round the sides of the hall.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Cato hissed, tugging at Macro’s arm. The two of them rose and causally joined the slaves making for the far side of the hall, mingling with them as they threaded through the mass of entertainers and party guests. Cato’s heart pounded and he felt cold and afraid at th
e dreadful risk he was taking. If they were discovered, the chances were that they’d be cut down at once, before they had any chance to explain their presence. Cato could see Lavinia standing behind her master and mistress. Not far beyond, Vitellius had risen from his couch and beckoned to Lavinia. With a quick glance to make sure her mistress wasn’t watching, she ran lightly over to the tribune. Cato’s heart hardened at the sight and he had to force her from his mind.

  With Macro at his side, Cato shuffled into position behind Vespasian. Just then Flavia glanced round, and frowned as she saw the two soldiers amongst the slaves. Then she smiled as she recognised Cato. She tugged her husband’s sleeve.

  On the far side of the great hall the head steward clapped his hands, and the slaves moved closer to the guest’s laden tables.

  ‘Sir,’ Cato said quietly. ‘Sir, it’s me, Cato.’

  Vespasian looked up and exactly reproduced his wife’s reaction.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Optio? And you, Macro? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sir, there’s no time to explain,’ Cato whispered urgently. He saw Vitellius take Lavinia by the hand and lead her towards the Emperor’s table. ‘That assassin Adminius warned us about is here.’

  ‘Here?’ Vespasian swung his feet to the floor and stood up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Bellonius.’

  The legate’s eyes snapped towards the group of Britons opposite, all of them drunk and shouting now, except Bellonius. He, too, was on his feet, one hand hidden in the folds of his tunic.

  ‘How do you know it’s him?’ He swung round to face Cato. ‘Quickly!’

  At the Emperor’s table, Claudius licked his lips as he ran his eyes over the shapely slave girl standing before him. Far from being nervous at the prospect of being presented to her Emperor, the girl was smiling, coyly.

  ‘She’s quite something,’ said Claudius appreciatively.

  ‘Indeed, Caesar,’ Vitellius agreed. ‘And very willing.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Claudius smiled at Lavinia. ‘And are you ready to s-surrender to your Emperor?’