Under The Eagle c-1

by Simon Scarrow

  'Ma'am?'

  'Do you read poetry, Centurion?'

  'Not often, ma'am, I'm too busy most of the time.'

  'But you do read poetry,' Flavia insisted.

  'Of course, ma'am.'

  'So who's your favourite?'

  'Who's my favourite? Well, let me think. Probably that chap young Cato just mentioned.'

  'Really?' Flavia frowned. 'And which of Virgil's works do you rate most highly?'

  'Difficult question, ma'am. I think all of his stuff is good.'

  'Coward!' laughed Flavia. 'Frankly, I doubt whether you have read anything of his, or any poet, for that matter. In fact, I doubt whether you read at all.'

  She laughed again, but Macro looked down at his food in silence and Cato, sensed his centurion's acute discomfort.

  'Shhh!' Flavia raised a finger to her lips. 'I think the legate is about to speak.'

  Sure enough Vespasian downed the last of his wine and stood up. He tipped a wink to the majordomo who ordered the servants to quickly distribute the decanters of Falernian to all tables. Then he rapped his staff down on to the mosaic floor. The room slowly fell silent as all eyes turned to the head table. Vespasian waited for complete quiet before he began to speak.

  'Gentlemen, and ladies, it cannot have escaped your attention that the Legion has been preparing for relocation in recent weeks. I can tonight confirm that imperial staff has issued us with our marching orders. The Legion is to proceed with all due haste to the west coast of Gaul…'

  If Vespasian was expecting some excited response he was to be disappointed. Many officers in the room looked away in embarrassment, shuffling uncomfortably. One or two polite souls did try and look surprised, as if this was indeed news to them, but they were seen through in an instant, and Vespasian continued with an evident sourness to his tone.

  'On arrival we are to join up with elements of four other legions to train for the invasion of Britain. A fleet is being assembled even now and before the year is out a new province will have been added to the empire in the name of and glorification of Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus. The Legion begins moving in two months' time, our fortress to be garrisoned by a mixed auxiliary cohort from Macedonia in our absence. Right, you know the routine. From tomorrow you get straight to it. All that remains tonight is a toast. So, fill your cups and raise them to the Emperor!'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-=

  As the orderly and Cato helped lift Macro off the litter into his bed the centurion grabbed hold of Cato's tunic and dragged him close.

  'You stay. I want a word in private.' Macro's face was grim.

  Left alone with his superior, his mind sharpened by the cold night air, Cato wondered what on earth he could have done to bring on this sudden change in mood. For a moment Centurion Macro stared up at Cato intently before he could nerve himself to say what was on his mind.

  'Cato, can I trust you?'

  'Sir?'

  'Can I trust you with a secret? Something I dare not tell anyone else?'

  Cato gulped nervously, and instinctively took a step away from the centurion's bed. 'Well, that depends, sir. I mean, naturally I'm flattered, but you know how it is, some men do and some don't. It just happens that I don't, sir. No offence or anything.'

  'What the fuck are you going on about?' Macro frowned as he raised himself up on an elbow. 'If you think, for one moment, that I'm some kind of arse bandit then I'll take your fucking head off. Understand?'

  'Yes, sir.' Cato relaxed. 'So how can I help?'

  'You can help… You can help by teaching me to read.'

  'Read?'

  'Yes, read, damn it! You know, all those bloody words and stuff. I want to learn how it all works. All right, that's a bit too strong. I don't want to read any more than the next man. Fact is, I have to read and write, if I'm going to stay a centurion. And that bitch of woman nearly had me by the short and curlies tonight. But some day it'll come out and, when it does, I'll get busted back to the ranks. Unless I learn my words.'

  'I see. And you want me to teach you?'

  'Yes. And you promise not to tell a soul. Will you do it?'

  Cato thought it over a moment and inevitably his nature led him to the answer. 'Of course I'll teach you, sir.'

  Chapter Seventeen

  The winter wore on towards spring and the snow melted; for several weeks frequent heavy showers of rain turned all unmetalled roadways into muddy quagmires. The only traffic in and out of the fortress was the constant stream of imperial staff messengers rushing to the far-flung Second Legion with the latest instructions for the impending relocation. Having delivered the despatches they returned burdened with requests for permission to buy draught animals, fodder and slaves to cover the spring campaign.

  Anticipating the assent of the staff corps in Rome, the Legion had hired a cadre of muleteers to buy up the necessary livestock from the towns and villages in a wide sweep south of the Rhine. The men were hand-picked and could be trusted to select only the fittest animals for the long journey ahead. They could also be trusted to haggle for the lowest possible price and, as long as the cost remained reasonable, those in authority generally overlooked the unofficial 'commission' that found its way into the purses of the muleteers. So it was that the mules, and other draught animals, arrived to swell the ranks grazing in the pastures hastily constructed outside the fortress.

  Inside, most of the space between the walls and the barracks was filled with the Legion's transport vehicles. Each century was allocated a wagon for engineering tools, administrative baggage – namely, the centurion's tent and all the personal items he desired to make the campaign comfortable – and the pointed entrenchment stakes. Then there was the medical convoy for the carriage of sick and non-walking wounded, the artillery company with their carriage-mounted catapults and bolt-throwers, large grain wagons for the portable food reserve of barley, the vast headquarters baggage train and, finally, the staff officers' convoy of personal effects. Even as things stood the Legion was travelling light. No time could be spared for foraging and so a number of grain dumps had already been established along the route.

  Within the fortress the imminence of events was palpable, even to those soldiers who lived a day at a time, and desperate legionaries were trying to offload their nonportable goods to the merchants who gathered like vultures to take advantage of such occasions. Word of the Legion's relocation had spread far and wide and, over the following weeks, the settlement around the fortress swelled to accommodate the Empire's peripatetic merchants, in search of the bargains that every such buyer's market attracted. Disconsolate legionaries trudged from dealer to dealer with all manner of goods, sentimental, ornamental or simply superfluous, and haggled bitterly for the few coins that escaped the tight purses of the merchants, who made small fortunes every time a major military formation was relocated.

  One crisp, clear spring afternoon Cato came wandering through the hastily erected market, on the lookout for some basic reading matter for Macro.

  'Nothing fancy, mind,' Macro had warned him. 'None of your poncy literature. Just something simple you can teach me with.'

  'But we'll need to go through some literature eventually, sir.'

  'Eventually, but for now let's keep it simple, understand?'

  'Sir.'

  'Now, there's a month's pay there, so make sure you get me value for money.'

  'Of course I will, sir.'

  'And you keep this quiet. If anyone asks, just tell them I want something to read in the wagon. Catching up on my military histories, whatever. But just you remember – not one mention of reading lessons.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  And so it was that Cato pushed his way through a buzzing throng of soldiers and merchants on a cold and windy afternoon. Clutching his military cloak tightly about him Cato made his way down the lines of merchant wagons piled high with a bewildering array of goods; fine Samian ware, lyres and other musical instruments, a variety of chairs, chests, tables and portable libraries.
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  In one wagon sat a slender slave girl in a thin well-worn tunic, shivering miserably, a For Sale sign leaning against her legs. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, with jet black hair tied back. Perched on the driver's board, she rested her pointed chin on her knees, hugging them tightly and trembling from the cold. She glanced up and Cato was stopped dead in his tracks by a pair of startling green eyes. For a moment he simply stared, then, aware that he was making a fool of himself, he tore his eyes away and scurried off down the line of wagons.

  He soon found what he was searching for. The tail of one wagon was piled high with scrolls and, as Cato rummaged through them, a shrewd old Phoenician dragged himself away from his small brazier to greet his customer. In view of the soldier's age and inexperience, the trader tried to interest Cato in a nicely illustrated set of pornographic manuals which, while not anatomically accurate, were at least conceptually diverting. Eventually Cato managed to persuade the Phoenician that his interests were strictly limited to historical studies and they parted company with Cato carrying an armful of books, as the trader added yet more coins to his swelling purse.

  Books were not uppermost in Cato's mind as he made his way back down the line of wagons. He found himself drawn back to the girl sitting on the driver's board, driven by the simple desire to set his eyes on her once more. That was all. What else could possibly come of it? And yet he felt his heart quicken as he approached the place he had seen her earlier.

  The wagon was still there, piled high with goods, but there was no sign of the girl. Cato pretended to browse through the wares of the next trader, making sidelong glances at the nearby tents set behind the wagons. Casually reversing direction, he sifted through some chipped Samian ware with his spare hand.

  'Looking for anything in particular, noble sir?'

  Cato looked up quickly. A swarthy merchant in an unseasonally bright cloak stood at his side.

  'Oh no! Nothing. Just looking.'

  'I see.' The merchant continued to watch him closely, a hint of a smile on his dark lips. 'Just looking, then?'

  'Yes. You, uh, you had a girl here earlier.'

  The merchant nodded slowly.

  'Is she yours? I mean is she family?'

  'No, sir. A slave. Bought her from a tribune this morning.'

  'Oh, really?'

  'Yes. And I just sold her a few moments ago.'

  'Sold her!' Cato's heart jumped.

  'To a lady, there, sir.' The merchant pointed through the throng to where a tall, slender figure was about to enter the fortress gate. At her side, following her new mistress like a dog, was the girl he had seen earlier. Without another word to the merchant Cato set off in pursuit, not sure of any reason for his behaviour other than a powerful desire to see the girl again. And so he hurried through the crowd, eyes locked on the pair of women ahead as he quickly closed the distance. At the gate, the woman turned to look back and Cato instantly recognised her as the legate's wife. Before he could react, Flavia's eyes met his and she instantly waved a greeting.

  'Why! It's young Cato!'

  Trying hard not to blush, Cato hurried over, managing to avoid looking at the slave girl as he made his greeting.

  'Good morning, my lady.'

  'Been buying books I see, rather a lot of books.'

  'Not for me, my lady. For my centurion.'

  'Ah yes,' Flavia smiled. 'It must be quite pleasant having an officer who shares one's tastes in poetry so completely. Did you find anything for yourself?'

  'No, my lady.' Cato let his eyes shift to the slave girl and flushed with embarrassment when he saw her smiling back at him. 'Can't afford any books, my lady.'

  'Really? That's too bad. But look here, Cato. I have to leave some of my books behind since there's so little room to spare in the wagons. They might not be to your taste, but you're welcome to have the first pick.'

  'Thank you, my lady. That's most kind.'

  'Call round to the legate's house later on and we'll see. Do you two know each other?'

  Cato had found himself responding to the slave girl's smile while the legate's wife had been speaking and now he snapped his eyes back.

  'Oh no, my lady! Never!'

  'You could have fooled me!' Flavia laughed. 'You look like a pair of lovestruck puppies. Honestly, you youngsters only ever have one thing on your minds. You're worse than rabbits.'

  'No, my lady!' Cato's blush deepened to a most unbecoming crimson. 'I assure you I had no intention-'

  'Peace, Cato! Peace!' Flavia raised her hands. 'I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry. There, I've embarrassed you. I apologise. Do you forgive me?'

  'Yes, my lady.'

  'Oh dear! I really have upset you. I just hope I can make amends when you call round later on. Can't leave you walking around the base with that look on your face, it'd damage morale.'

  'I'm all right, my lady.'

  'Of course you are. Well, I'll see you later on then.'

  'Yes, my lady.'

  'Come, Lavinia!'

  Lavinia. Cato savoured the name a moment and, as he watched Flavia lead her new purchase away, the slave girl glanced back and winked at him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The legate's house was in turmoil, packing cases lay strewn about his private quarters and the household slaves laboured to bed down every breakable item between layers of straw. The slaves, fearful of Flavia's wrath – she had a fierce temper when provoked and was not above having a slave flogged when the circumstances warranted it – handled the pottery and china with as much care as possible. Besides the breakables, Flavia had to make arrangements for the packing of the linen and personal items of furniture – all of which was being shipped back to Vespasian's house on the Quirinal in Rome. Flavia and Titus were to accompany him as far as the Gaulish coast and return home once the campaign was launched. By that time the witch-hunt for the surviving members of the Scribonianus conspiracy should have died down and some sort of normality would have returned to the social scene. And Rome was the best place for Titus since they must begin thinking about his education in the near future. Vespasian favoured a strictly vocational training in law and rhetoric and wanted Flavia to begin looking for a tutor as soon as possible. Through the tangle of packing cases and piles of straw weaved a maid-servant, trying to catch Flavia's eye.

  'What is it?'

  'Someone to see you, mistress. One of the soldiers,' she said with evident distaste.

  'Who?'

  'An optio.'

  'Cato?'

  'Yes, mistress, that's what he said his name was.'

  'Very well. I suppose I could do with a little break from all this packing.'

  A nearby slave raised his eyes heavenwards.

  'Show the optio through to the study. I'll be there in a minute. Make him at home and offer the boy something to drink.'

  'Yes, mistress.'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-=

  'I was just thinking about you,' Flavia said as she breezed into the study, wearing a light silk stola. The room, like most rooms in the legate's house, was heated by a hypercaust system and Cato was relishing the warmth it provided in the moments before Flavia's entrance.

  'You're fortunate that those fools haven't packed up my study yet. Do sit down.'

  Cato resumed his seat as Flavia wafted over to a large shelved cupboard with dozens of scrolls neatly stacked in sections. She paused a moment and fondly ran her hands over some of them before she addressed the optio.

  'You're welcome to whatever you want, or at least whatever you can carry. You can take the Philippics – bombastic delivery but with flashes of wit – and the Georgics – fertile reading matter – and here's a few volumes of Livy. Would you like some poetry?'

  'Yes, my lady.'

  Nearly an hour later a pile of scrolls lay on the couch beside Cato and he was engaged in the heart-breaking task of deciding which of Flavia's offerings he would be able to fit into his marching pack. Flavia watched him thoughtfully as he mentally weighed up each book before
deciding which pile to place it in.

  'You were quite taken with Lavinia, weren't you?'

  'My lady?' Cato looked up, scroll poised in hand.

  'The slave girl I bought this morning.'

  'Oh, her!'

  'Oh, her, indeed. You're not fooling me, young Cato, I know the signs. The question is, what do you want to do about it?'

  Cato stared back, mind reeling with shame at the transparency of his feelings and a desire to see Lavinia again, to stare into those emerald eyes.

  'Well, maybe I was wrong then,' Flavia teased him. 'Maybe you don't want to see her again.'

  'My lady! I… I…'

  'Thought so,' laughed Flavia. 'Honestly, I can read you men like a book almost every time. Don't worry, Cato, I'm not going to stop you seeing her – far from it, but give the girl some time to settle into the household and then I'll see what I can arrange.'

  'Yes, my lady… Thank you.'

  'Now you'd better take those scrolls and leave. I'd love to talk but there's too much work still to be done. Another time, soon. And maybe Lavinia can join us?'

  'Of course, my lady. I'd like that.'

  'I bet you would!'

  As she watched Cato's back disappear down the Via Praetoria Flavia smiled to herself. A lovely boy, she thought, and far too trusting. If she cultivated him carefully he might well be useful to her some day.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-=

  'So what is all this stuff?' asked Macro suspiciously as Cato handed over the scrolls, each one neatly encased and labelled.

  'Essays and histories mostly'

  'No poetry?'

  'None, sir, as you ordered,' Cato replied. 'There's some pretty exciting material here-'

  'Exciting? Look, I just want to learn enough to read. That's it, as far as I'm concerned – all right?'

  'Yes, sir. If that's what you really want… Now then, sir, how have you been managing with the letters I showed you?'

  Reaching under his bed, Macro brought out a wooden wax tablet and handed it over to his subordinate. Cato flipped it open and scanned the contents. To the left-hand side of each tablet were the letters of the alphabet that he had neatly inscribed on the wax-coated surface. Immediately to the right of this were the centurion's rough attempts at copying – straggling lines and curves that occasionally bore a passing resemblance to the original.