The Eagles Conquest c-2 Page 10

  As the tired centurion walked stiffly towards his tent, Cato examined the scroll. The address on the wafer that bound the scroll had been written in a neat, tidy hand. 'To Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort, Second Legion.' Curiosity turned to delicious anticipation as he read the name of the sender: Lavinia.

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Sixteen

  To fighting men on campaign, any opportunity to rest represented a luxury to be savoured, and the men of the Second Legion dozed happily in the sunlight. The heat of the afternoon sun soaked into the world below, and induced a still, warm haze that floated across the landscape and filled them with a sense of calm and contentment. The legate had seen to it that his men were well fed on their return to camp, and a generous allowance of wine had been sent to all the field kitchens. As usual some of the legionaries had gambled their wine ration in games of dice in a bid to win more. Accordingly, some were sullenly sober as they glared at their insensible comrades snoring off their winnings in a drunken stupor.

  Wandering down the quiet lines of men, the legate of the Second Legion could not help but be conscious of the abrupt changes that life wrought. This time the day before, these same men had been preparing to assault the British fortifications and kill or be killed in the attempt. Yet here they were sleeping like babes. And those who weren't asleep were quietly contemplative. So lost in their thoughts were some of the men that they failed to notice him passing, but Vespasian made no issue of this breach of discipline. They had fought hard. Fought hard and won through at some cost, and it was good that they rested and recovered some sense of inner well-being. Tomorrow they would be hard at it again, as the army shifted its position across the Mead Way and continued to push the Britons back.

  But military matters were a side issue at the moment. Tucked inside his belt purse was a letter he had found with the despatches on returning to his headquarters tent. The handwriting was instantly recognisable, and the legate had seized it eagerly. A message from his wife was what he needed more than anything else in the world at this moment. Something to occupy his thoughts for a brief while and remind him that he was human; something unrelated to the press of duties that surrounded him. He had curtly ordered his staff officers to deal with the paperwork, removed his armour and left the tent in a light linen tunic in search of some privacy. The decurion in charge of the legate's bodyguard had snapped to attention, and prepared to order his men to their feet, but Vespasian had managed to stop him in time. He ordered the decurion to stand the men down and let them rest. Then he strolled off, alone and unprotected.

  Beyond the picket lines rose a small knoll, on top of which stood a copse of birch trees. An animal track traced a more or less straight line up the slope through a dense mass of cow parsley and stinging nettles. No breeze disturbed the air; butterflies, bees and other insects wafted above the unmoving greenery, oblivious of the great force of men, their horses and oxen stretched out across the ridge above the placidly flowing river. Up here on the knoll it was silent, and quite still. Vespasian slumped down with his back against the rough bark of a tree.

  Even in the shade the air felt warm and close. Sweat trickled from under his arms, and felt cold as it slid down his sides under the tunic. Below, by the river crossing, a glittering spray amid tiny figures caught his eye. Some legionaries were swimming in the river, no doubt delighted at the chance to enjoy the cool water. Vespasian could think of nothing more he wanted than a swim, but the walk down to the river would take up too much time. In any case, the walk back up to the camp on the ridge would only make him uncomfortably hot once again.

  A quite wonderful sense of anticipation had been building up inside him; the letter could be savoured now, rather than slotted into a convenient break between sifting the paperwork back at headquarters. He broke the wafer, imagining as he did so Flavia's hands holding this very scroll not so long ago. The parchment was stiff, and he smiled as he recognised it as part of the writing set he had bought Flavia nearly a year ago. The handwriting was as elegant as ever. Resisting the impulse to scan ahead, as he did with most documents, Vespasian settled to read his wife's letter. It began with customary mock formality.

  Witten on the Ides of June, from the headquarters of the governor at Lutetia.

  To Flavius Vespasianus, commander of the Second Legion, and incidentally beloved husband of Flavia Domitilla, and absent father of Titus.

  Dear husband, I trust that you are safe, and doing your very best to keep safe. Young Titus begs you to be careful and threatens that he won't ever speak to you again should you fall in battle. I rather think he takes the euphemism literally and wonders at the clumsiness of you army types. I haven't the heart to explain what really happens. Not that I could; nor would I ever want to discover what a battle is like. You might explain it all to him one day when, not if, you return.

  I expect you want to know about our journey to Rome. The roads have been difficult to negotiate since there is all manner of military traffic pouring towards the coast. It seems that no effort is being spared to ensure that your campaign succeeds. We even passed a convoy of elephants heading for Gesoriacum. Elephants! Quite what the Emperor thinks General Plautius will do with the poor creatures is anybody's guess. I hardly think a bunch of ignorant savages will be able to put up much of a fight…

  Vespasian gently shook his head; so far the ignorant savages were doing rather better than had been anticipated, and the reinforcements being rushed to support Plautius were desperately needed. The Second Legion badly needed replacements to bring them up to full fighting strength.

  The more optimistic of the officers' wives are saying that Britain will be a part of the empire by the end of the year – just as soon as Caratacus is crushed and their tribal capital at Camulodunum taken. I tried to explain to them what you told me about the island's size, but such is their belief in the invincibility of our troops that they insisted that everyone of the native tribes would wilt at the mere mention of Rome. I hope they are right, but I have my doubts given what you once told me about the Briton's penchant for guerrilla fighting. I just pray that the gods deliver you back to me in Rome older and wiser, and in perfect health, so that you can put the army behind you and concentrate on your future in politics. I have sent word ahead that we are returning to Rome, and I will get to work on building up our social connections as quickly as possible.

  Vespasian frowned at the mention of politics, and his expression deepened as he reflected on Flavia's mention of connections. If she misjudged them in the current political climate in the capital, she might well jeopardise his chances and, worse, might actually endanger them all. Vespasian had only recently discovered that Flavia had been linked to an attempt to unseat Claudius. Scores of conspirators had been rounded up and executed in Rome, but Flavia had not been directly implicated.

  So far. Vitellius had uncovered her involvement, and it was only the threat of his own disgrace over his attempt to steal a fortune in imperial gold and silver, about which Vespasian had evidence, that kept Vitellius from exposing Flavia's treachery. It was an acutely uncomfortable state of affairs, Vespasian reflected before turning back to the letter.

  Dear husband, I must tell you that I have had word from Rome that the Emperor is still hounding the survivors of the Scribonianus plot. It seems that there is a rumour going round about a secret organisation conspiring to overthrow the empire and return Rome to its republican glory. Everyone here in Lutetia is talking, or rather whispering, about it. It seems this gang refers to itself as 'The Liberators', a rather presumptuous nomenclature – but shrewdly evocative of a more egalitarian age, don't you think? I believe the days of the republic are long gone, and we are in an age where the winner takes all. Great men must play by whichever rules help them most efficiently to achieve their ends. Dearest husband, in this, as in all things, I am your ardent servant.

  Despite the day's warmth, and his earlier contentment, Vespasian suddenly felt a nerve-tingling chil
l rise at the back of his neck and glide slowly down his spine. Was Flavia trying to sound out his feelings about the Liberators? If, indeed, she was linked to them at all, as Vitellius claimed. Flavia did not yet know that her husband knew of her role in Scribonianus' plot. What was Flavia saying to him between the words written there on the page?

  Suddenly, he felt an intense longing to have Flavia with him right at this moment, here in the warm shadows of the sun-dappled birch trees. He wanted to hold her, to look her in the eye and demand the truth, to be reassured of her innocence, to see no trace of guile in those wide brown eyes. And then to make love. Oh yes, to make love! He could almost believe she was with him as he conjured up the sensation of holding her naked in his alms.

  But what if she was part of the conspiracy? She might deny it even then, even while gazing into his face, with an expression of injured innocence, and he would never be able to prove it – or disprove it. He cursed out loud at the wedge Vitellius had driven between them. The smouldering distrust that the imperial agent had planted in his head now ignited into a raging despair at the situation he faced. Flavia must be confronted with the accusation and made to relinquish any link she might have to the Liberators. And if she was innocent, then Vitellius must be made to suffer for the damage he had caused by fracturing the sacred trust that exists between man and wife. Vitellius would pay dearly, most dearly, Vespasian promised himself as he stared bitterly down the slope to where the legionaries still splashed about in the river.

  For a moment he continued staring, an icy glint of hatred in his eyes, his fist unconsciously tightening round the scroll. A vague pain finally registered in his mind, and he looked down and saw that the scroll was tightly crushed, and that his fingernails were biting deeply into the palm of his hand. It took a moment to refocus his mind, relax his grip and uncrumpled Flavia's letter. There was more to read; a few more lines about their son Titus, but the words blurred into meaninglessness and so Vespasian abruptly rose to his feet and strode off down the slope back towards his headquarters.

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Seventeen

  'You're in a good mood!' Macro stopped whetting the blade of his sword and grinned at Cato. Normally he would send his weapon to be sharpened by one of the legionaries on fatigues, but they were at war now, and Macro had to be confident his weapons were honed to their sharpest. He ran his fingers gently back from the point along each edge. 'That letter, I guess.'

  'From Lavinia.' Cato gazed dreamily towards the fading bronze sky in the west. The sun had set, and faint fingers of light gilded the underside of scattered clouds. After the beating heat of the day, the air felt cooler at last Even the wood pigeons in the nearest trees sounded more comfortable in the dull haze of the closing dusk. 'First letter I've had from her'

  'Still burning a lamp for you, eh?'

  'Yes, sir. Seems that way.'

  The centurion regarded his optio for a moment and slowly shook his head with pity. 'Not even a man yet and you're straining at the leash to get hitched to the girl. At least, that's how it looks. Haven't you got some wild oats to sow?'

  'If it's all the same to you, sir, that's my business.'

  Macro laughed. 'All right, boy, but don't say I didn't encourage you when some day you look back on all the lost opportunities. I've met some odd types in my time, but you must be the first lad I've met who's been so smitten that he's not looking forward to getting his leg over the first of the local women we get to grips with.'

  Cato looked down, ashamed and bitter. Try as he might, he could not slip into the role of the legionary that Macro was so comfortable with. He was plagued by a painful and perpetual self-consciousness whenever he approached a new challenge.

  'Now then, how are those burns? Can you cope?' 'Do I have a choice, sir?'

  'No.'

  'They hurt like hell, but I can do my duty.'

  'That's the spirit! Spoken like a true soldier.'

  'Spoken like a true fool,' muttered Cato. 'But you are up to it? I mean, seriously?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The centurion cast an eye over the glistening mass of blisters covering Cato's arm then nodded. 'All right then. The legion's moving off at first light. We leave our packs here, and the army's baggage train will bring everything up once we cross the Tamesis. When we're on the far side, the orders are that we dig in and wait for the Emperor to arrive with reinforcements. '

  'The Emperor's coming here?'

  'In person. Least that's what the legate said at the briefing. Seems he wants to be in on the kill so that he can present himself as triumphant general to the mob in Rome. We get across the Tamesis, and then we're nicely poised to strike west into the heart of Britain, or go east and take the Catuvellauni capital. Either way we keep the natives guessing and meanwhile get ourselves fully rested and ready for the next stage of the invasion.'

  'Wouldn't it be better to keep our swords in Caratacus' back, to keep him from re-forming? If we just sit there and wait he can only grow stronger.'

  Macro nodded. 'That's what I'd have thought. Still, orders is orders.'

  'Are we going to get any replacements, sir?'

  'Some cohorts of the Eighth are being sent over from Gesoriacum.

  They should catch up with us by the time we cross the Tamesis. Thanks to our losses the Second's been promised the biggest share of the replacements. You up to date with the century's strength returns?'

  'Just sent them over to headquarters, sir.'

  'Good. Let's hope those bloody clerks see fit to send us our quota.

  Not that those idle buggers in the Eighth are up to much. They've spent too long on garrison duty and most will be soft as rotten fruit. You can count on it. Still, a live idle bugger is more use than a dead one.'

  Cato could only nod in agreement with such flawless wisdom. Particularly since all the men who had died were now generating a distastefully large amount of paperwork.

  'So how are we doing?'

  'Sir?'

  Macro raised his eyes. 'What's our Current strength?'

  'Oh. Forty-eight effectives, including us and the standard bearer, sir.

  We've got twelve in the hospital; three of those have lost limbs.' Macro spared the last three a moment's thought, well aware of the fate waiting those who were discharged from the legions. 'Those three, any of them veterans?'

  'Two, sir. The third, Caim Maximus, only joined the legion two years ago. Took a sword blow to the knee, nearly cut right through. Surgeon had to amputate.'

  'That's tough. Very tough,' Macro murmured, his face all but hidden in the gathering shades of night 'Two twenty-fifths of his gratuity is all he'll get. Not much for a man to survive on.'

  'He's from Rome, sir. He'll be eligible for the corn dole.'

  'Corn dole!' Macro sniffed contemptuously. 'That's a bloody humiliating prospect for an ex-legionary. No, I can't let him depend on that. He has to have some money to set up in trade. A cobbler wouldn't miss a leg or two. He can do that, or some similar trade. We'll have a collection for Maximus. You do the rounds before everyone turns in tonight. And do him a refund from the funeral club. I doubt if the lads will protest about that. See to it.'

  'Yes, sir. Anything else, sir'?'

  'No. You can pass the word about tomorrow's advance while you note the contributions for Maximus. Let the lads know we'll be up before dawn. Breakfasted, assembled and ready to move off. Now go to it.'

  As he watched the optio's dark form move down the tent line, Macro's thoughts returned to Caius Maximus. He was barely older than Cato, but not nearly as bright. Quite stupid in fact. A big, gangling youth from the slums of the Subura in Rome. Tall, ponderous, with large ears between which a maddening lopsided smile split his face. From the moment Macro had taken charge of the century he had seen Maximus as a casualty waiting to happen, and he had shaken his head in pity at the boy's attempts to cut it in the legion. It gave Macro no satisfaction to be proved right about the lad, and the thought of the thick young invalid
trying to survive in a teeming metropolis populated by thieves and rogues of the very worst kind was painful. But the sword that had cut short the lad's career, not to mention his leg, could just as easily have landed on any other man in the century, Macro reflected. It could just as easily have been him or young Cato.

  The centurion folded up his tunic and placed it between his harness and his armour so that the dew would not soak it. Satisfied that his weapons were to hand, Macro pulled his wool cape across his body and lay back on the grass staring up into the star-pricked blackness. All around, the darkness was filled with the sounds of an army bedding down for the night. The distant blare of a horn from headquarters announced a change of watch, and then, in the gathering quiet of rows of slumbering men, the centurion fell asleep.

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Eighteen

  'Why?'

  'Sir?' Vitellius smiled innocently at the legate.

  'Why have you been posted back to the Second Legion? I thought you'd been promoted to the general's staff permanently. A reward for your heroic efforts. So what's changed?' Vespasian eyed him suspiciously. 'Were you ordered back here, or did you request it?'

  'It was my request, sir,' the tribune replied easily. 'I told the general that I wanted to be back in the thick of it when the legion next goes into battle. The general said he admired my pluck, wished there were more like me, asked me once if I wished to change my mind, and then sent me on my way.'

  'I can imagine. No one in his right mind would actually want an imperial spy camping on his doorstep.'

  'He doesn't know, sir.'

  'Doesn't know? How can he not know what you are?'

  'Because no one has told him. Our general assumes that my preferment is entirely down to my palace connections. When I asked to be returned to the Second he wasn't that sorry to see me go. If I can be honest, sir?'