Under The Eagle c-1

by Simon Scarrow

  'Look, there's no-one here now,' the second sentry said impatiently.

  'Maybe.'

  'Well, there's no point in stumbling around in the pitch dark looking for someone who's scarpered. We'll just do ourselves an injury. Let's forget it.'

  The second sentry marched off. After a short pause, the first reluctantly turned away from the wagon and stamped sourly back towards the perimeter rope, muttering dark curses at his companion.

  Under the axle, Cato was wallowing in the throes of a passion he had never experienced before. His right hand slowly slid over the silken curve of Lavinia's hips towards the inside of her thighs. She clamped them together and twisted away from him.

  'No!' she hissed.

  'Why?'

  'Not here!'

  'What's wrong with here?' asked Cato desperately.

  'It's too cold and uncomfortable. Mistress has found a place where we won't be bothered.' She squeezed his hand tightly. 'Somewhere more cosy where we can get to know each other properly. Come on.'

  'Flavia?' Cato wondered aloud. 'Flavia arranged this? Why?'

  'Shhh!'

  Lavinia tugged his hand and led him out from under the wagon. They paused at the edge of the line of vehicles to make sure all was still, before quietly crossing to the back of a tent. She had unlaced a join to provide a small opening in the heavy leather. The gloom inside was almost impenetrable, but Lavinia seemed to know her way well enough, and led him on by the hand. Underfoot, the grass gave way to a sectioned wooden floor which Cato managed to trip over, almost flattening Lavinia in the process.

  'Sorry,' he whispered. 'Where are we going?'

  'The quietest place we could find.'

  'We?'

  'The mistress and me. This way – come on.'

  They passed down a long corridor with rolled-down flaps, leading to private sleeping chambers, and came to a large space dominated by the dark forms of a campaign table and various seats and couches. No more detail than that was available in the darkness. Cato found himself being pushed down on to a soft couch and, with a small chuckle, Lavinia collapsed on top of him. Immediately his lips sought hers again and he kissed with a burning passion that flowed to every extremity of his body. As Cato held her close he untied a silk ribbon and ran his hand through the long flowing hair. Suddenly Lavinia pushed herself upright so that she was sitting on his stomach.

  'What?'

  'Shhh! Lie still.' She placed a finger against his lips and, with her other hand, reached behind her and felt for his crotch.

  She giggled as she discovered his excitement. 'Do you want to do it?'

  Cato choked out a yes.

  'All right then. I hadn't planned to let you. First I need to get something.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Something to prevent babies.'

  'Do we have to stop now?' Cato asked desperately, stroking and squeezing her thighs with his hands. 'Please.'

  'Typical man!' She slapped his hands gently to show she was only joking. 'You don't have to live with the consequences, we do. And I don't want to get pregnant.'

  'I don't have to, you know, come inside you,' Cato said shyly.

  'Oh sure! That's what you all say. I can control myself really I can but when it comes down to it – wallop! Then what's a poor girl to do?'

  'Don't be long,' Cato said, somewhat startled by her forwardness.

  'Relax. I'll be right back.'

  Lavinia climbed off his chest, gave him a final soft kiss and padded away into the darkness, leaving Cato alone in a thrill of expectation. He lay still, eyes closed, heart pounding, letting his mind dwell on that last kiss and the shocking excitement of the touch of her hand on his crotch. He wanted to treasure this moment for ever and opened his eyes to take in as much of the detail of the chamber as possible. Now that they were fully accustomed to the dark, his eyes could discern more of the surroundings and they passed curiously over the trappings of command.

  Lavinia had been gone a little while now and a tinge of doubt slowly swelled in his mind. He wondered if he should go and look for her.

  Surely she shouldn't take as long as this? Unless she planned to use the most extreme form of birth-control and not turn up at all. That wasn't funny, he decided. Suddenly some sixth sense made him aware that someone else was in the chamber. He was about to whisper Lavinia's name when he realised that the sound of a tent flap being pushed aside was coming from an altogether different direction to the one Lavinia had taken.

  He froze, hardly daring to breathe, and strained his ears and eyes towards the far side of the chamber where a dark form eased itself in through a gap in the sidings. Once the shape was inside the room it paused a moment, crouching down, poised for action. Cato was suddenly afraid for Lavinia and for what the intruder might do to her when she returned. But the night was quite still.

  Then the figure moved stealthily towards the table, strewn with the evening's paperwork. Round the table he came and now Cato could see that the man wore a hooded cape over his short and stocky frame. He moved with the balanced agility of a cat. In his hand was the unmistakable shape of a legionary's short sword. Cato only had a dagger, sheathed in a scabbard under his left thigh. The intruder, no more than ten feet away, turned his back and groped blindly beneath the table. He grasped something and pulled. Slowly an awkward dead weight was dragged clear – the man pausing every time it grated on the wooden floor panels – Cato saw that it was a chest. He lay rigid with fear, hardly daring to draw breath as his blood pounded in his ears. Leaning over the box, the intruder worked on the iron lock with faint clicks until the mechanism clunked open. The man rummaged inside – he was clearly after something specific.

  Cato suddenly realised that the man would turn round in a moment. He could hardly fail to see his body stretched out flat on the couch. Cato slid his left hand under his thigh and pulled at the dagger handle. It was wedged under him firmly enough to require a sharp tug, and he shifted his buttock to make the task easier. Too much. The blade rasped from its scabbard into his hand. The intruder spun round and raised his sword in one motion, momentarily forgetting his basic training – that a few inches of point is worth any length of edge. The sword slashed down and struck the edge of the couch above Cato's head with a loud splintering crack.

  Cato thrust his dagger at the shape looming over him and the weapon penetrated cloth and something a little more yielding beneath.

  'Fuck!' The man grunted, leaping backwards. He crashed against the table. Cato ran blindly to the left, towards the flap through which Lavinia had deserted him, and smashed his shin against a low stool. He thrust his arms out as he flew headlong over the stool on to the floor. The intruder came after him in a low crouch, taking care not to repeat his previous mistake. Cato felt an agonising shooting pain along the front of his leg and paused an instant too long before trying to rise. His attacker, recovered from his surprise now, rushed at him, sword point aimed at his throat.

  'Help!' Cato cried out and instinctively rolled under the table. 'Help!'

  'Quiet, you little fucker!' The man hissed and for a moment Cato was taken back enough to still his tongue – but only for a moment. The sword swiped at him and he rolled against the couch and shouted again.

  'Help! In here!'

  Groggy voices of men disturbed from sleep sounded in the chambers down the adjoining corridor. With relief Cato heard someone call out the guard. The intruder heard as well and paused, twisting about as he looked for an escape route. A glow suddenly appeared at the front of the tent as a sentry shouted, 'Here! This way!'

  The intruder ran fast to the side of the tent flap and raised his sword as Cato leapt to his feet by the table. A spear tip swept the tent flap to one side and suddenly the chamber was flooded with the flickering glow of a torch as a sentry stepped inside. Out of the shadows to his left the intruder swung his sword.

  'Look out!' Cato shouted.

  The sentry turned to the source of the shout and, an instant later, was struck a sava
ge blow to the back of his head. With a grunt he slumped to his knees and pitched forward as Cato looked on in horror. Sparks flew as the torch thudded down on to the wooden flooring and rolled up against a loosely arranged pile of maps. When Cato looked up the light was fading and he saw the back of the intruder as he dashed from the room. Without any hesitation he followed, sprinting out of the legate's tent into an antechamber lined with collapsible tables for the scribes. Ahead, to the right, the intruder slashed at the tent siding and hurled himself through. From the left came the flares of approaching torches and the shouts and thudding footsteps of those carrying them. Cato stopped at once, panting in a blind terror.

  He ran back to the legate's tent and saw that the maps were now alight, orange and yellow flames eagerly lapping across their surfaces. From the other side of the canvas he heard the voices of those roused by the commotion. There was no escape there. He fell to the floor at the opposite end and heaved at the heavy leather siding. A peg suddenly gave and he rolled underneath. He found himself in a kitchen area with trampled grass beneath him – no luxury wooden floors for the slaves then. Terrified by the proximity of the cries behind him, Cato rushed across the kitchen to the far wall and rolled out under the side of the tent.

  He was outside, on his back looking up at the stars peacefully twinkling from the serene inky depths of the night sky. Then he was on his feet, running for the gap behind the tribunes' tents and the artillery train, weaving in between them until the headquarters tent was no longer visible. Leaning against the side of a ballista carriage, he paused to catch his breath. His heart pounded as his breathing came in sharp, shaking gasps. Over in the direction of headquarters a tinge of orange was visible and then a stab of flame as voices shouted for water and more guards.

  It would be bad to be discovered anywhere near headquarters, Cato realised. He turned away, hurrying through the artillery train until he emerged on the far side of the camp, into the space in front of the turf wall and palisade. Drawing his cloak around his shoulders, he turned left and headed for his century's line of tents, at what he hoped was a steady pace. If anyone stopped him now he knew he could not trust himself to give a plausible reason for his presence.

  The sentries on the wall were turning to look back into the camp but the distance between them, and the darkness, protected Cato and he walked steadily on. After a nerve-shredding age, he reached the cohort standard and then hurried to the tents of the Sixth century. Off in the night, a trumpet sounded the call-out of the watch cohort. Without a glance back over his shoulder, he entered the eight-man tent of his section and lay straight down on his blanket roll, without removing his cloak or boots.

  'That you, Cato?' Pyrax asked sleepily from the darkness.

  Cato lay still and silent.

  'Cato?'

  It was no good ignoring Pyrax. Better say something. 'Yes?'

  'What's going on out there?'

  'How should I know?'

  'You've just come in.'

  'Just been to the latrines, that's all. Seems like there's some kind of fire up at headquarters.'

  'Careless twats,' Pyrax yawned. 'Wake me if it spreads to our tent line. Night.'

  'Night then,' Cato muttered sleepily. But there was no sleep possible as he lay quietly staring up at the roof of the tent in absolute terror.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  With hands on hips and head thrown back, Vespasian looked up into the starry night, through a large scorched hole in the roof of his tent. Lowering his eyes he stared at the silent ring of men standing around the table. The sentries looked down in shame.

  'So how do you suppose our thief managed to gain entry to this tent? If you were as conscientious in your duties as you claim.'

  'Sir, we were keeping a good watch, as always,' the centurion explained. 'Four men at the entrance, another four patrolling the outside of the tentage. I've checked round and we've found two places where the tent sidings have been slashed open. I suspect our man used those to get in and out, sir.'

  'You suspect that, do you?' Vespasian said bitterly. 'That's brilliant Centurion, quite brilliant. And while our man was busy cutting his way in, where were the rest of you?'

  'Please, sir, we were being spoken to by the tribune.'

  'Which tribune?'

  'Gaius Plinius, sir. Duty tribune for the night. Came up and demanded a full inspection.'

  'And why did he do that, do you suppose?'

  'Begging your pardon, sir, but we were talking about the invasion.'

  'Oh, were you? What were you saying?'

  'Well, sir-' the centurion was embarrassed. 'Some of the lads have heard that there's monsters living on the islands.'

  'And where might they have heard such nonsense?' Vespasian asked, trying not to reveal his anxiety.

  The centurion shrugged. 'Just the grapevine, sir.'

  Vespasian drew a breath. 'So then, Plinius was disciplining you for talking like a bunch of old women, and that's when you think the intruder made his way into my tent?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right, well, you and the watch will be up on charges. And you're demoted to a line century. Now get out of here.'

  As he watched them shuffle out Vespasian knew that the latter punishment was the more telling since the headquarters guard was rightly seen as a cushy number under normal circumstances; better food, lighter duties and a relatively safe position in the line of battle. And now one of them was lying in the hospital tent critically injured. The man had been unconscious and bleeding heavily from a slash wound to the back and side of the head. He was alive, just, but the surgeon had not been convinced that he would survive the night. It was too bad, since the man might have seen his attacker and be able to provide an identification. And that was what Vespasian desperately needed at the moment.

  Upon entering the room, half dressed like the others who had been woken by the crashes and thumps coming from the command tent, the first thing he had checked was his document safe-box. One glance was all he needed – the small scroll bearing the confidential seal of Claudius had gone. Everything else remained; that meant the thief knew precisely what he was after, and now he had it. Someone in the camp had possession of a priceless piece of political intelligence that might be used to help topple the Emperor. Not that Vespasian needed the document – he had long since memorised the contents and made his plans. But now someone else had access to the information it contained.

  And what would happen to him once word got back to Rome, to Claudius, that he had allowed someone to steal the scroll? No excuse would be accepted, the responsibility was his, and that was why he had punished the sentries harshly; they had to share in the suffering they had caused him.

  At least the thief had to be near. Someone in the Legion, more than likely the traitor Plautius's letter referred to. There might yet be time to recover the letter before the Legion reached the coast and merged into the mass of units gathering for the invasion. Some blood had been discovered near the couch, with more splatters around the table, leading from the tent to the churned-up soil where the trail was lost. The man had been wounded, then. Which struck Vespasian as most odd. Since the sentry had been struck from behind in the doorway to the tent it seemed likely he had been surprised. In which case the intruder must have been injured by someone else.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-=

  What had happened to Lavinia? Inwardly Cato squirmed with fear and worry. She had never come back, but surely she wouldn't have encountered the intruder while he lay waiting in the tent? He prayed that she was alive and unhurt. He couldn't risk going near headquarters to try and see her for a while. That guard had got a clear look at him and would surely be able to pick him out without any problem. He would have to get word of Lavinia from Flavia; a message must be got through to her as soon as possible. But he did not know how much the legate's wife would know about the situation and how far she could be trusted. If Vespasian discovered that he had been in the tent, then all the evidence would point to him being
directly involved in the theft of whatever it was the intruder had taken from the chest. He was in deep trouble and needed an ally. If he could see Flavia – tell her everything he had seen – then maybe she could protect him. She had befriended him and now he needed her. In the morning he would try and see her.

  Next morning Cato was rudely woken from a troubled sleep by a rough shaking of his shoulders. He looked up blearily into Pyrax's face. 'W-what?'

  'Centurion wants you right away.'

  Cato propped himself up on his elbows and, looking out of the tent-flap, saw that the sun had risen for some time. He shook his head and scrambled up.

  'How long since morning call?'

  'A while.' Pyrax shrugged. 'You missed breakfast and we're about to strike the tents.'

  'Why didn't someone wake me?'

  'You're a grown-up now, lad, it's up to you to look after yourself.'

  'Where's the centurion?'

  'In his tent. I'd get over there smartish if I were you. Macro doesn't look too chuffed with his lot-' Pyrax glanced down at Cato. 'What happened to your hand?'

  Following his gaze, Cato saw that the thumb and forefinger of his hand were smeared with dried blood.

  'Oh that! I, er, managed to get a cut of meat from a beast some of the muleteers slaughtered last night. Roasted it on their fire.'

  'Nice of them,' Pyrax said grudgingly. 'But you might have cleaned yourself up afterwards.'

  'Sorry,' Cato mumbled. 'I have to go.'

  He punched through the half-open flaps and washed his hand with some water from a skin hanging on the tent frame. The blood from the intruder had caked on and had to be scratched off with his nails and wiped clear. With a shock he realised that his dagger must be bloody as well and drew it to find the blade heavily soiled by dried blood. That took somewhat longer to clean and by the time Cato pushed his way into Macro's tent the centurion was steaming. Piso stood at the back of the tent, eyebrows raised in warning.