When the Eagle Hunts Read online

  Praise for The Eagle ‘s Conquest

  “Scarrow manages to summon up in this exhilarating tale all the glory and the gore that characterized life in the Roman legions. Outstanding military history from a relatively new master of the genre.”

  —Booklist

  “Has all the hallmarks of Bernard Cornwell at his best.”

  —Oxford Times (UK)

  “This book quickly becomes a page-turner . . . a cracking good read.”

  —Historical Novels Review (UK)

  Praise for Under the Eagle

  “Readers will devour this spectacular tale of intrigue, adventure, and glory in the Roman legions . . . distinguished by its meticulously detailed portrayal of life in the mighty Roman army.”

  —Booklist

  “A thoroughly enjoyable read. The characters are so lifelike they almost spring off the page. An engrossing storyline, full of teeth-clenching battles, political machinations, treachery, honor, love, and death.”

  —Elizabeth Chadwick, award-winning author of

  The Marsh King ‘s Daughter

  WHEN THE EAGLE HUNTS

  Also by Simon Scarrow

  Under the Eagle

  The Eagle’s Conquest

  WHEN THE

  EAGLE HUNTS

  Simon Scarrow

  Thomas Dunne Books

  St. Martin’s Griffin New York

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  WHEN THE EAGLE HUNTS. Copyright © 2002 by Simon Scarrow. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Scarrow, Simon.

  When the eagle hunts/ Simon Scarrow.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-30535-4 (hc)

  ISBN 0-312-30536-2 (pbk)

  EAN 978-0-312-30536-9

  1. Macro, Lucius Cornelius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Cato, Quintus Licinius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Roman period, 55 B.C. – A.D. 449—Fiction. 4. Romans—Great Britain—Fiction. 5. Druids and Druidism— Fiction. 6. Abduction—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6119.C37W48 2004

  823’.92—dc22 2003058778

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing,

  a division of Hodder Headline

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  For Joseph and Nicholas –

  thanks for the inspiring swordplay

  The Organisation of a Roman Legion

  The Second Legion, like all legions, comprised some five and a half thousand men. The basic unit was the century of eighty men commanded by a centurion with an optio acting as second in command. The century was divided into eight-man sections which shared a room together in barracks and a tent when on campaign. Six centuries made up a cohort, and ten cohorts made up a legion, with the first cohort being double-size. Each legion was accompanied by a cavalry unit of one hundred and twenty men, divided into four squadrons, who served as scouts and messengers. In descending order the main ranks were:

  The legate was a man from an aristocratic background. Typically in his mid-thirties, the legate would command the legion for up to five years and hope to make something of a name for himself in order to enhance his subsequent political career.

  The camp prefect would be a grizzled veteran who would previously have been the chief centurion of the legion and was at the summit of a professional soldier’s career. He was armed with vast experience and integrity, and to him would fall the command of the legion should the legate be absent or hors de combat.

  Six tribunes served as staff officers. These would be men in their early twenties serving in the army for the first time to gain administrative experience before taking up junior posts in civil administration. The senior tribune was different. He was destined for high political office and eventual command of a legion.

  Sixty centurions provided the disciplinary and training backbone of the legion. They were hand-picked for their command qualities and a willingness to fight to the death. Accordingly their casualty rate far exceeded other ranks. The most senior centurion commanded the First Century of the First Cohort and was a highly decorated and respected individual.

  The four decurions of the legion commanded the cavalry squadrons and hoped for promotion to the command of auxiliary cavalry units.

  Each centurion was assisted by an optio who would act as an orderly, with minor command duties. Optios would be waiting for a vacancy in the centurionate.

  Below the optios were the legionaries, men who had signed on for twenty-five years. In theory, a man had to be a Roman citizen to qualify for enlistment, but recruits were increasingly drawn from local populations and given Roman citizenship on joining the legions.

  Lower in status than the legionaries were the men of the auxiliary cohorts. They were recruited from the provinces and provided the Roman Empire with its cavalry, light infantry and other specialist skills. Roman citizenship was awarded on completion of twenty-five years of service.

  Chapter One

  The heaving tumult around the ship was frozen for an instant by sheet lightning. All around, the foaming sweep of the sea stilled as the stark shadows of the sailors and the rigging scored the brilliantly lit deck of the trireme. Then the light was ripped away and darkness gripped the vessel once more. Black clouds hung low in the sky and billowed across the grey waves rolling down from the north. Nightfall was not yet upon them, yet it seemed to the terrified crew and passengers that the sun must have long since quit the world. Only the faintest smudge of lighter grey away to the west indicated its passage. The convoy was hopelessly scattered, and the prefect commanding the newly commissioned squadron of triremes swore angrily. With one hand firmly gripping a stay, the prefect used his spare hand to shield his eyes from the icy spray as he scanned the foaming wave tops around them.

  Only two ships of his squadron remained in sight, dark silhouettes heaving into view as his flagship was raised on the crest of a great wave. The two ships were far off to the east, and beyond them would be the rest of the convoy, spread across the wild sea. They might still make the entrance of the channel that led inland to Rutupiae. But for the flagship there was no hope of reaching the great supply base that equipped and fed the Roman army. Further inland the legions were safely nestled in their winter quarters at Camulodunum, in readiness for the renewal of the campaign to conquer Britain. Despite the best efforts of the men at the oars, the vessel was being swept away from Rutupiae.

  Looking across the waves to the dark line of the British coast, the prefect bitterly acknowledged that the storm had bested him, and passed the order for oars to be shipped. As he considered his options, the crew hurriedly raised a small triangular sail from the bows to help steady the vessel. Since the invasion had been launched the previous summer, the prefect had crossed this stretch of sea scores of times, but not in such dreadful conditions. Indeed, he had never before seen the weather turn so rapidly. That morning, which seemed so very long ago now, the sky had been clear and a brisk southerly promised a quick crossing from Gesoriacum. Normally no ships would put to sea in winter, but the army of General Plautius was short of supplies. The scorched-earth tactics of the British commander, Caratacus, meant that the legions depended on a steady supply of grain from the continent to get them through the winter without depleting the stockpiles necessary for continuing the campaign in the spring. So the convoys had continued to cross the c
hannel whenever the weather permitted. This morning the prefect had been fooled by perfidious nature into ordering his laden vessels to set out for Rutupiae, never dreaming that they would be caught in this tempest.

  Just as the coastline of Britain had come into view above the choppy surface, a dark band of cloud had thickened along the northern horizon. The breeze quickly strengthened, and abruptly veered round, and the men of the squadron watched with growing dread aš the dark clouds bounded down on them like foaming ravenous beasts. The squall had struck the prefect’s trireme at the head of the convoy with appalling suddenness. The shrieking wind snatched the vessel by the beam and tilted it over so far that the crew had been forced to abandon their duties and grab the nearest handhold to save themselves from being thrown over the side. As the trireme ponderously righted itself, the prefect cast an eye around the rest of the convoy. Some of the flat-bottomed transports had been rolled over completely and close by the dark humps of their hulls tiny figures bobbed in the foaming sea. Some waved pathetically, as if they truly believed that the other vessels might yet be able to rescue them. Already the convoy’s formation had been blown to pieces and each ship struggled for survival, heedless of the plight of all others.

  With the wind came rain. Great icy drops slashing diagonally down on the trireme and stinging the skin with their impact. Very quickly the bone-numbing cold made the sailors slow and clumsy in their work. Huddled in his water-proofed cloak, the prefect could see that unless the storm eased soon, the captain and his men would surely lose control of their ship. And all about them the sea raged, scattering the ships in every direction. By some quirk of nature the three triremes at the head of the convoy were subjected to the worst violence of the storm and were quickly blown far from the rest – the prefect’s trireme furthest of all. Since then the storm had raged for the whole afternoon and showed no signs of slacking as night drew on.

  The prefect reviewed his knowledge of the British coastline and mentally scanned the coast. He calculated that they had already been swept well down the coast from the channel leading to Rutupiae. The sheer chalk cliffs around the settlement at Dubris were just in sight of the starboard beam and they would have to battle the storm for some hours yet before they could attempt to approach a safe stretch of the shore.

  The ship’s captain staggered along the heaving deck towards him and saluted as he approached, keeping one hand clasped firmly to the taffrail.

  ‘What is it?’ shouted the prefect.

  ‘The bilges!’ the captain called out, voice hoarse from the effort of shouting his orders above the shrieking wind for the last few hours. He jabbed his finger at the deck to make his meaning clear. ‘We’re taking on too much water!’

  ‘Can we bail it out?’

  The captain tilted his ear towards the prefect.

  Taking a deep breath, the prefect cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Can we bail it out?’

  The captain shook his head.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘We have to run before the storm! It’s our only hope of staying afloat. Then find somewhere safe to land!’

  The prefect gave an exaggerated nod to show he had understood. Very well then. They would have to find somewhere to beach the ship. Some thirty or forty miles down the coast the cliffs gave way to shingled beaches. Providing the surf was not too wild, beaching could be attempted. That might cause serious damage to the trireme but better that than the certainty of losing the ship and all the crew and passengers. With that thought, the prefect’s mind went to the woman and her young children sheltering below his feet. They had been trusted to his care and he must do everything in his power to save them.

  ‘Give the order, Captain! I’m going below.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ The captain saluted and turned back towards the waist of the trireme, where the sailors huddled by the base of the mast. The prefect watched for a moment as the captain bellowed his orders and pointed to the furled sail on the spar at the top of the mast. No one moved. The captain shouted the order again, then viciously kicked the nearest sailor. The man cowered back, only to be kicked again. He leaped for the rigging and began to make his way aloft. The others followed, clinging to the stays as they struggled up the swaying ratlines and transferred themselves to the spar. Bare frozen feet pushed down onto the toe-line as they inched out above the deck. Only when every man was in position could they undo the ties and release the sail as far as the first reefing point. That much sail would be all that was necessary to give the vessel steerage way as it ran before the storm. Each burst of lightning briefly silhouetted the mast, spar and men in harsh black against a dazzling white sky. The prefect noticed that lightning made the rain seem to stop in mid-air for an instant. Despite the terror that gripped his heart, he felt a thrill of excitement at this awesome display of Neptune’s powers.

  At last all the men were in position. Bracing his solid legs on the deck, the captain cupped both hands and tipped his face up towards the mast.

  ‘Unfurl!’

  Numbed fingers worked frantically at the leather ties. Some were less clumsy than others and the sail loosened unevenly from the spar. A sudden shrilling through the rigging heralded the renewal of the storm’s wildest efforts and the trireme recoiled from its wrath. One sailor, in a more weakened condition than his comrades, lost his grip and was hurled into the darkness so quickly that none who saw it happen marked where he fell into the sea. But there was no pause in the sailors’ efforts. The wind tore at the exposed parts of the sail and nearly succeeded in prising it free of their grip before the sailors managed to tie down the reefing lines. As soon as the sail was set, the men climbed back along the spar and painstakingly made their way down to the deck, their haggard faces testimony to the cold and exhaustion they were suffering.

  The prefect made his way to the hatch coaming at the stern and carefully lowered himself down into the pitch-black interior. The small cabin seemed unnaturally quiet after the shrieking, buffeting wind and rain on deck. The sound of whimpering drew him aft, where the timbers curved together, and a flash of lightning through the hatch revealed the woman wedged into the stern, her arms tightly held round the shoulders of two young children. They shivered, clutching their mother, and the youngest, a boy of five, cried inconsolably, face drenched with spray, tears and snot. His sister, three years older, just sat, silent but wide-eyed with terror. The trireme’s bows suddenly lifted to a huge wave and the prefect pitched towards his passengers. He thrust an arm out against the hull and fell sprawling against the opposite side. He took a moment to recover his breath, and the woman’s voice spoke calmly from the darkness.

  ‘We will come through this, won’t we?’

  Another flash of lightning revealed the panic etched onto the pale faces of the children.

  The prefect decided there was no point in mentioning that he had decided to try and beach the trireme. Best save his passengers any further anxiety.

  Of course, my lady. We’re running before the storm and as soon as it’s passed we’ll make our way back up the coast to Rutupiae.’

  ‘I see,’ the woman replied flatly, and the prefect realised she had seen through his answer. Clearly a perceptive woman then, a credit to her noble family and to her husband. She gave her children a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘Did you hear that, my dears? We’ll be warm and dry soon enough.’

  The prefect recalled their shivering and cursed his thoughtlessness.

  ‘Just a moment, my lady.’ His numbed fingers fiddled with the clasp fastening the water-proofed cloak at his throat. He swore at his clumsiness, and then the pin came free. He drew it from around his shoulders and held it towards her in the darkness.

  ‘Here, for you and your children, my lady.’

  He felt the cloak drawn from him.

  ‘Thank you, Prefect, it’s most kind of you. Let’s cuddle under this cloak, you two.’

  As the prefect drew his knees up and hugged his arms round them, trying to create some centre
of warmth to draw comfort from, a hand gently tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘It’s Valerius Maxentius, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Well then, Valerius. Shelter under this cloak with us. Before the cold kills you.’

  The casual use of his informal name momentarily shocked the prefect. Then he mumbled his thanks and shifted over, joining the woman under the cloak. The boy sat huddled between them, shivering violently, and every so often his body was wracked by sobbing.

  ‘Easy there,’ the prefect said softly. ‘We’ll be all right. You’ll see.’

  A series of lightning flashes illuminated the cabin, and the prefect and the woman glanced at each other. Her look was questioning, and he shook his head. A fresh deluge of silvery water splashed through the hatch into the cabin. The great timbers of the trireme groaned all around them as the fabric of the vessel was subjected to forces its builders had never dreamed of. The prefect knew that her seams would not stand much more of this violence and eventually the sea would swamp her. And all the slaves chained at the oars, the crewmen and these passengers would drown with him. He cursed softly before he could stop himself. The woman guessed his feelings.

  ‘Valerius, it’s not your fault. You could never have foreseen this.’

  ‘I know, my lady. I know.’

  ‘We might yet be saved.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. If you say so.’

  Throughout the night the storm swept the trireme down the coast. Halfway up the rigging, the captain braved the biting cold to search for a suitable place to try to beach the trireme. All the time he was conscious that the ship beneath him was ever more sluggish in its response to the waves. Below decks a number of galley slaves had been unshackled to help with the bailing. They sat in a line and passed buckets from hand to hand, to be emptied over the side. But it was not enough to save the ship; it merely delayed the inevitable moment when a massive wave would burst over the trireme and sink her.