Under The Eagle c-1

by Simon Scarrow

At last they marched over the brow of a hill and Cato let out a gasp of astonishment. Below them was a vast military camp stretching, it seemed, for miles, lit by thousands of camp fires and braziers. Four full legions were concentrated in the area, together with an equal number of specialist auxiliary cohorts, engineers, shipbuilders and staff planning-officers – over fifty thousand men all told. But as they approached the gates Macro sensed that something was wrong. Small pockets of men roamed outside the camp, unarmed and out of uniform, others played at dice or just sat drinking themselves insensible.

  Before the Sixth century came within speaking range of any of the other legionaries they were intercepted by a staff officer on horseback, escorted by several centurions, who commanded them to halt. Once the identity of the imperial secretary had been confirmed, the officer issued immediate orders for the removal of the prisoners to a secure place, while he escorted the imperial secretary to army headquarters. And that was the last Cato and Macro saw of Narcissus. They received no thanks for their success in preserving his mission and no acknowledgement of the lives that had been lost in his cause.

  The camp prefect of the Ninth arrived to arrange for the movement of the wounded to the Ninth Legion's hospital. Then he led the remnants of the century out of the camp to a cleared area some miles distant where the lines for the Second Legion had already been laid out.

  The Sixth century set up its tents as quickly as possible and, once the pickets had been positioned, the men fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Two days later the Second Legion marched into the site and the vast area was overrun by thousands of soldiers struggling to erect tents. In strict accordance with military protocol, the legate's camp was put up first, followed by the senior officers' and only then was the common soldiery allowed to begin work on their own, far more basic, quarters.

  Vespasian sat in his command tent at a small table, screened off from the household slaves as headquarters staff scurried to and fro, laying down wooden flooring and unpacking furniture and other items. Above it all, he could hear Flavia issuing orders and driving them on to greater speed. He knew she was glad the tiresome journey was over and that the hardships of life on the march could be pushed to the back of her mind for a few weeks at least, though soon she would have to undertake the even longer journey south to Rome.

  Vespasian was much less content – even though the missing scroll had been returned to him by Flavia a few days earlier. She had found it amongst the toys in Titus's travel chest and saw that it was addressed to her husband. The boy told her he had found it on the floor, so she said, and was incapable of being any more specific, given his age. Vespasian had hugged his wife and immediately locked the document away in the darkest recess of the safe-box. It seemed that whoever had stolen the scroll must have dropped it while fleeing from the command tent. Vespasian was appalled by the breach of security that could have occurred. What if someone else had discovered the scroll before Titus? Jupiter! It didn't bear thinking about. But Vespasian's joy at the recovery of the scroll was now tempered by the forbidding situation that existed beyond the confines of his command tent.

  A day's march from Gesoriacum they had been met by a messenger from Plautius with new orders. In the army commander's opinion – and here Vespasian detected the hand of Narcissus – it would not be wise to use the Second Legion to put down the mutiny. It would be more efficacious for the mutiny to be settled by negotiation rather than direct action. For the army to go into a major campaign with the memory of bloody repression fresh in their minds would be foolhardy. A delay in crossing the thin strip of sea between Gaul and Britain would have to be tolerated as the price to be paid for quelling the mutiny.

  Worse news, as far as Vespasian was concerned, followed: the Second Legion would not be included in the first wave of the invasion. Two other legions had been training for amphibious operations for several months and to them would fall the honour of fighting their way ashore and establishing a beachhead for the rest of the army. Vespasian knew that if the Britons decided to meet the invaders on the beaches then all the glory and political capital would go to the commanders and officers of the spearhead units. He gloomily foresaw a long period of mopping-up operations stretching ahead of him; a nasty process of attrition that would win no garlands and be a mere footnote to the epic tales of victory that would be told on the streets of Rome.

  If the mutiny could be put down, he reflected.

  As he had made his way through the main camp to report to Plautius, it had been heart-breaking for the legate to see the collapse of discipline in the other legions. Few of the soldiers he rode past bothered to salute and, although no-one had actually said anything to him, the look of defiance in their eyes – daring him to try and exercise his authority – enraged Vespasian. Only the army commander's personal bodyguard and the officers remained in full uniform, carrying out their normal duties as far as they were able to.

  Vespasian was shown into the wooden headquarters building dominating the centre of the huge army camp, where Narcissus was seated at a great map table with General Plautius. Vespasian had known Plautius socially before he had joined the army and he was shocked to see the weary, beaten expression on the general's face.

  'Good to see you again,' said Plautius with a smile. 'It's been a long time. I just wish it was under happier circumstances. Have you met Narcissus?'

  'No, sir, though his reputation precedes him.'

  'A good reputation, I trust?' Narcissus asked.

  Vespasian nodded, not willing to perjure his true opinion.

  'I must thank you for your unit's protection, legate.'

  'I'll pass word of your gratitude on to the men concerned, if you haven't already thanked them.'

  'You are most kind.'

  'Now, your report please, Vespasian.' Plautius waved him to a seat. 'How is your legion?'

  'They are still responding to orders, if that's what you mean, sir.'

  'For the moment maybe. In a few days they'll be just like the others.'

  'Have you found the ringleaders of the mutiny yet?' Vespasian asked.

  'Thanks to Narcissus we have the names. Tribune Aurelius, two centurions and twenty or so legionaries. All were transferred to the Ninth from the Dalmatian legions, complete with their previous loyalties, as you'd expect.'

  'Have they made any demands?'

  'Only that the invasion be abandoned. They've managed to persuade the others that demons and certain death are the only things waiting for them on the other side of the ocean.'

  'Not that it's much of an ocean,' Narcissus added. 'But the word has a certain depressing effect on the imagination of military types. Present company excepted, of course.' He smiled. 'I'm afraid we are dealing with some quite well-thought-through treason, gentlemen. More sophisticated than anything that Tribune Aurelius and his little band of mutineers could come up with. You see, Vespasian, the general and I have already decided to eliminate this group. But first we must try and discover the identity of their masters back in Rome. Aurelius and his men were only exposed when my agents intercepted a message en route to his masters in Rome. Unfortunately, the courier expired before he could be induced to divulge the name of the intended recipient. Such is life – or not, in his case. Then there is the little matter of the ambush on the road from Durocortorum. Evidently the opposition got wind of my travel arrangements and the purpose of my journey. It appears that someone on "our side" is not quite what they seem.'

  'I had news of the attack. I heard that you had prisoners. Have they said anything yet?'

  'Not much, I'm afraid, before they died,' Narcissus replied, with regret at the inconvenience. 'The interrogators were quite thorough, but only managed to confirm that they were Syrians, supposedly a group of deserters raiding the area. That's all we got before I had their throats cut.'

  'A raiding party?' Vespasian shook his head. 'Doubtful enough. But to attack an army unit…'

  'Quite,' Narcissus rep
lied. 'It's not remotely possible. Their loyalty to their masters does – did – them credit. But there's a more worrying factor. I've had news that a few days ago an entire squadron of Syrian horse-archers supposedly deserted from an auxiliary cohort that was marching from Dalmatia to join this army.'

  'Dalmatia?' Vespasian pondered. 'From Scribonianus's command?'

  'Exactly.'

  'I see. Whose unit?'

  'Gaius Marcellus Dexter,' Narcissus replied, watching the legate closely.

  'The name's familiar, my wife might know him. Do you think the men who attacked you are from that unit?' Vespasian asked.

  'We'll know soon enough. The cohort is due here in three days' time. The bodies will keep until then and someone should be able to identify them.'

  'If they are from that unit,' Plautius added, 'then this plot spreads far wider than we first feared. The question is, can we stamp it out in time for an invasion this year?'

  'We have to, my dear Plautius,' Narcissus said firmly. 'There's no question of the operation not proceeding. The Emperor himself has arranged to join the army in Britain.'

  'Has he?' Vespasian turned to Plautius. 'But I thought you were to be the supreme commander, sir?'

  'Apparently not.' Plautius shrugged. 'The Emperor's right-hand man here has told me to summon the Emperor to our "rescue" once the army stands outside the Trinovantes's capital.'

  'Relax, General,' Narcissus said with a gentle pat of Plautius's hand, which the other man withdrew as if it had been slithered over by a snake. 'It's just good public relations. You'll be in charge right through the campaign. Claudius is there to act as a figurehead, to lead the triumphant army into their capital, hand out the gongs and then rush back to Rome for the triumph.'

  'If the Senate awards one,' Vespasian reminded him.

  'It's already in the bag,' Narcissus smiled. 'I like to plan ahead as far as possible, keeps things simple for the historians. So Claudius gets his triumph, the Empire gains a new province, we all avoid a nasty civil war, and our careers are safeguarded for the foreseeable future – which, I admit, is never quite as long as one would like. It all comes up roses, provided-'

  'We end the mutiny and get the legions on to the ships,' Plautius finished wearily.

  'Precisely.'

  'And how,' Vespasian broke in, 'do we achieve that?'

  'I have a little plan.' Narcissus tapped his nose. 'Can't let anyone else in on it if it is to stand a chance of working. But, trust me, it's a corker.'

  'And if it doesn't work?' asked Vespasian.

  'Then I'll save you a space on the cross next to me.'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-=

  Once the Second Legion had settled down for the night and the sentries had been issued with strict orders not to permit any men to move in or out of the camp, Vespasian summoned Macro to make his full report. He had received a preliminary account earlier but, in the present hush-hush atmosphere dominating army headquarters, Vespasian wanted to glean as much information as possible. Night had long fallen when the centurion was quietly ushered into the tent and stood at attention before the legate's desk. Vespasian was catching up on some paperwork by the guttering light of a pair of oil lamps. Once the leather tent flap had fallen back into place, the legate set down his stylus and closed the ink pot.

  'Tough journey, I hear?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Lose many men?'

  'Eight killed, six of the wounded are still in the Ninth's hospital recovering.'

  'The losses will be made up from the recruit pool.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Now I want the full story, Centurion. Leave nothing out and tell it just as it happened, no embellishments.'

  With Macro standing at attention and staring at the back of the tent above the legate's head, the tale of the march, the ambush and the final day's journey to Gesoriacum was delivered in a prosaic monotone while Vespasian listened attentively. When the centurion had finished Vespasian looked sharply at him.

  'And you told no-one the nature of your mission?'

  'No-one, sir. The orders were very clear on that.'

  'So we can assume that your attackers were not acting on inside information?'

  'Yes, sir.' Macro nodded before committing his own opinion on the matter. 'They were no ordinary bunch of thieves and crooks. Those men laid on an excellent ambush and fought like regulars. It was clear they were after the imperial secretary.'

  'I see.' Vespasian nodded, hiding his disappointment; nothing the centurion had said added significantly to what he already knew. If Macro was to be believed then Narcissus's attackers had acquired information about his route from outside the Legion. That should narrow things down for the imperial chief secretary – if the centurion was telling the truth.

  'Centurion, may I ask you for a personal opinion – strictly off the record?'

  Macro shifted uneasily. He would like to have replied 'It depends', but a soldier did not set conditions for his response to a superior officer, so he had to agree – while emphasising his reluctance as far as possible. 'Yes, sir, I suppose so.'

  'Do you consider the invasion of Britain to be wise?'

  'That's state policy, sir,' Macro replied warily. 'Far too high up for me. I guess the Emperor and his staff have thought it all through and made the right decision. I don't even have an opinion.'

  'I did say it was off the record.'

  'Yes, sir.' Macro inwardly cursed his legate for placing him in this tortuous situation. Nothing a subordinate ever said was 'off the record', if a superior chose to change his mind later on.

  'So?'

  'I simply don't know enough about it to voice an opinion that would be useful to you, sir.'

  So, that line of enquiry was stalled, Vespasian realised. A more indirect approach was needed, one that would absolve the centurion of responsibility for what he said.

  'What are the men saying about it?'

  'The men, sir? Well, some of them are worried, quite naturally – none of us likes to be any nearer to water than the next drink. Anything could happen at sea. And then there's stories about the dangers waiting for us.'

  'You're not afraid of their army?'

  'Not afraid as such, sir. Only concerned, as much as any man facing a new kind of enemy should be. It's, well, more to do with the druids, sir. Them and their kind.'

  'What about the druids?'

  'The men have heard that they have the power to summon up demons.'

  'And you believe this?'

  'Of course not, sir.' Macro was offended. 'Anyone with half a mind can see it's a load of bollocks. But you know what the men are like with their superstitions.'

  'Not so long ago I believe you were one of the men.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'But you're not superstitious? Like them?'

  'No, sir. I gave most of that up when I became a centurion. A centurion hasn't much time for that sort of stuff.'

  'Where did your men hear about these druids?'

  'Some of our foragers ran into men from the main camp yesterday, sir. They told them about the druids, then they let on about the mutiny.'

  'They called it a mutiny?' asked Vespasian. 'Be quite sure about that.'

  'Well, no, sir. They said they were still loyal to the Emperor and that the invasion must be some crackpot scheme of Narcissus's that no sane man would pursue. Call it what you like, it's still mutiny to me, sir.'

  'And the other men feel as you do about this?'

  'As far as I can tell, sir.'

  'Very good, Centurion. Very good.' Vespasian eased himself back in his chair. So far so good. For the moment at least the Legion was loyal. But, unless Narcissus's little scheme worked its magic, then it would only be a matter of time before the Second Legion was riven by the same contagion that had hit the other units. However, as long as the officers like Macro acted their part, the spread of the mutiny might be contained for a few weeks at least.

  Chapter Thirty

  While the men of the Sixth century
watched the rest of the Legion settle in around them, Cato left the tent lines and hurried between the mass of men, animals and transport wagons to the area allocated for the legate's quarters. The headquarters staff and the wagons allotted to Vespasian's household were just entering the area set aside for vehicles behind the tent site. Since summer was fast approaching and the Legion would only be encamped for two months at most prior to the invasion, the army staff officers had marked the camp out for tents rather than wooden barracks.

  Cato kept far enough back from the wagons to avoid attracting attention and looked for any sign of Lavinia. The wagons were drawn up alongside each other by heaving, cursing muleteers. Their passengers climbed down to begin the tiring process of unpacking the travel chests, carrying them into the large tents being hauled up on tall tent poles by teams of legionaries straining on guy ropes. Cato's eyes alighted on the household wagons and his frantically searching gaze was finally rewarded by the sight of Lavinia descending from the legate's personal coach with Titus clenched under one arm. Cato resisted the temptation to wave or call out, and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as he stood still amongst the crowds of legionaries toiling away. He watched Lavinia follow her mistress as Flavia marched into one of the erected tents. Cato stared at the entrance for a long time before he turned and walked slowly away.

  He wandered through the Legion until dusk when the meal call was sounded and he realised he was hungry. Cato had had no appetite at midday as he nervously anticipated the arrival of the Legion and news of Lavinia and the injured sentry; an odd mix of heartache and dread that was peculiarly painful. By the time he had rejoined the century the sun had set and the shapes of men and tents were grey and indistinct against the pale glow of the horizon. Cooking fires had been lit and the first faint odours of yet another stew wafted into the rapidly cooling air. Cato had been assigned to the second watch and wanted a full belly before he had to follow the senior watch officer on his rounds, collecting the tokens from each station on the walls and gates. As he sat by the section fire and mopped up the last remnants of his meal with some freshly baked bread, Macro squatted down by his side.