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  'Please go ahead.'

  'I'm not sure I have the right temperament to be on the general's staff. He works them too hard and exposes them to too many risks, if you understand me.'

  'Perfectly,' Vespasian replied. 'I heard you had gone in with the Ninth on the river assault.'

  Vitellius nodded, the terror of the attack still fresh in his mind; the mind-searing certainty that he would never survive the savage fusillade of arrows and slingshot poured down on the Romans by the desperate defenders.

  'I heard you acquitted yourself well enough.'

  'Yes, sir. All the same, I'd rather not have been down there.' 'Possibly, but perhaps there's some hope for you yet. Start behaving like a tribune, forget the espionage, and we might just survive each other's company.'

  'That would be nice, sir. But I am the Emperor's servant, and will remain so until I die.'

  Vespasian regarded his senior tribune closely. 'I thought the only thing you served was your ambition.'

  'Is there anything more worthy of a man's service?' Vitellius smiled. 'But ambition has to work within the boundaries of the possible and the whim of fate. No one knows the will of the gods. Given the prospect of his imminent deification, I expect that only Claudius can know how things will turn out. '

  'Hmmm.' The imperial predilection for immortality was something that had troubled Vespasian over the years. He found it hard to believe that a motion voted for on the floor of the senate house could determine the divine status of a man. Especially such an unprepossessing creature as the present Emperor. Being declared a god had not protected Caligula from the wrath of those who had assassinated him. It seemed that those mad emperors whom men would destroy they first made gods. Vespasian looked up into the eyes of his senior tribune.

  'Look here, Vitellius, we're in the middle of a major campaign. The last thing I need to worry about is you spying on me and my men behind our backs.'

  'Can you think of a better time to spy, sir? When men's minds are preoccupied with battle they're inclined to guard their tongues less. Makes my task that much easier.'

  Vespasian regarded him with open contempt. 'There are times when you make me feel quite sick, Tribune.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'If you come between my legion and its responsibilities to the rest of the army, I swear I will kill you.'

  'Yes, sir.' If there was any sense of either smugness or surrender to a higher authority in the tribune's expression, it was unreadable to Vespasian. Neither man spoke, or even moved, as they watched each other closely. Eventually Vespasian eased himself back in his chair.

  'I'm sure we understand one another, Vitellius.'

  'Oh, I'm quite sure that we do, sir. And may I assume that the arrangement we came to over your wife's extracurricular politics and my treasure-hunting still stands?'

  Vespasian clasped his hands together tightly and nodded. 'As long as you keep to your side of the bargain.'

  'Don't worry, sir. Your wife is quite safe, for the moment.'

  'Assuming there's a shred of truth in what you have said about her.'

  'Shred of truth?' Vitellius smiled. 'I think you'd be quite surprised at the lengths Flavia would go to pursue her political ends. Far more than is discreet for one whose husband has a promising future… in the service of the Emperor.'

  'So you say.' Vespasian nodded slowly. 'But you have yet to provide me with firm evidence of your allegations. Nothing you have told me so far would be provable in a court of law. '

  'Court of law!' Vitellius chuckled. 'Such a quaint notion. What makes you think for a moment that any charges against Flavia, or yourself, would be brought before any court at all? A quiet word from the Emperor and a small squad of Praetorians would pay you a visit with orders not to leave until you were both dead. The best you could hope for is a polite little obituary in the Rome gazette. That's how the world works, sir. Best get used to it.'

  'I'll get used to it. Just as you had better get used to the fact that I can implicate you in a little treason of your own.'

  'Oh, I haven't forgotten, sir. That's why we're having this discussion. I assume you have made sure that your side of the agreement is safely documented?'

  'Of course,' lied Vespasian. 'I have sent a message to Rome to be lodged with my lawyer until either I reclaim it or I perish. Whichever comes first: At which point the letter will be opened and read before senate and Emperor. I should imagine that your death would follow swiftly upon my own. So swiftly that we might even cross the Styx in the same vessel.'

  'I would count that an honour, sir.' Vitellius permitted himself a wry smile. 'But there really is no need for things to go that far, wouldn't you agree?'

  'I would.'

  'Then there's nothing more to be said, sir.'

  'Nothing.'

  'Am I dismissed?'

  Vespasian paused a moment and then shook his head. 'Not quite yet, Tribune. I need you to answer a question before you leave. '

  'Oh yes?'

  'What do you know of the Liberators?'

  Vitellius raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the question. He tightened his lips and frowned before the answer came to him. 'She's been in touch with you, hasn't she?'

  Vespasian refused to satisfy the tribune with a response and tried to hide his irritation at the informal reference to his wife.

  'I thought so.' Vitellius nodded. 'The Liberators. Now there's a name that's been cropping up more and more in recent months. Well, well. Our Flavia is a darker horse than I realised, sir. You'd best guard her well before she does something your family line might have cause to curse her for. '

  'You know of this organisation then?'

  'I have heard of them, you might say,' the tribune replied smoothly. 'Rumour has it that the Liberators are a secret organisation with ambitions to overthrow the Emperor and restore the republic. They're supposed to have existed since the time of Augustus, and were vain enough to name themselves after the assassins of Julius Caesar.'

  'A rumour?' Vespasian mused. 'Is that all?'

  'It's still enough to get you executed, sir. Narcissus has men crawling all over Rome, and the provinces, searching for people connected to the organisation. Those involved with Scribonianus' plot are supposed to have links with the Liberators. I wonder how much your wife knows about them. I imagine Narcissus would be keen to ask her, given the chance.'

  Vespasian refused to respond to the scarcely veiled threat; neither of them had anything to gain from exposing the other. He focused instead on Flavia, and her possible connection to this conspiracy hiding in the shadows of history. From what he knew of Narcissus, the imperial chief of staff would be relentless, and quite ruthless, in his pursuit of any who threatened the Emperor. However long it took, however many suspects were tortured for information, the conspiracy would be tracked down and its members quietly eliminated.

  Yet if Vitellius was right, the Liberators had been quietly plotting for decades and that spoke of an extraordinary commitment to secrecy and patience. Vespasian could guess at the motivation of those who had joined the Liberators. Rome had been ruled by the emperors for over sixty years, and while Augustus had ended the terrible era of civil strife that had torn the Roman state asunder for generations, it was a peace bought at the cost of denying the aristocrats the political powers their families had wielded for hundreds of years. A social class imbued with such a sense of its own destiny does not easily accept its subordination to a dynasty that produced a madman like Caligula and a fool like Claudius.

  But, wondered Vespasian, what other way was there for Rome now? Returning control of the empire to the senate would once again transform the civilised world into a battlefield, over which roamed the vast armies of power-crazed senatorial factions. They would leave devastation in their wake, while the barbarian hordes watched in glee from beyond the wild frontiers of the empire. Whatever their faults, the emperors stood for order. They might thin out the ranks of the aristocrats from time to time, but for the heaving masses of Rom
e, and everyone else who lived within the empire, the emperors stood for some measure of order and peace. Even though Vespasian was a member of the senatorial class, whose cause the Liberators claimed to represent, he knew that the consequences of the return to senatorial control offered by the Liberators were too terrible to contemplate.

  'Sir?'

  Vespasian looked up, irritated by the interruption to his train of thought. 'What is it?'

  'Is there anything else for us to discuss? Or can I return to my duties with the Second?'

  'We've said all that need be said. You'd better let Plinius know that he's to step down from the senior tribune's post. Get him to brief you on tomorrow's advance. And there's still some supplies to sort out. See to it before you turn in.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Bear in mind what I said, Vitellius.' Vespasian fixed the tribune with a stern expression. 'Regardless of your duties as an imperial agent, you are still my senior tribune and I expect you to act the part. One step, or word, out of line and I'll see you suffer for it.'

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Nineteen

  Early next morning the army advanced across the Mead Way. As the dense column of soldiers reached the ford, the pace slowed. Most had served long enough to know the discomfort of marching with a waterlogged shield, and kept their equipment held high as they waded into the churning water in the wake of the thousands of men crossing to the far side. Despite the previous afternoon's rest, the men still felt weary, and those with injuries light enough to classify them as walking wounded bore the strained expressions of men who fought their pain. All along the column were men with dressings to head or limbs, some still soiled by their blood, and the blood of others. But despite the ravaged look of the legion it still marched to the front fully prepared and willing to engage the Britons once more.

  The success of yesterday's attack had rekindled the Second Legion's confidence in a way that heartened its commander. He watched the column on the far bank rise up from the river and drip through the muddy shallows before climbing the earthworks and disappearing inside the fortifications beyond. In the dim light Vespasian was reminded of a vast centipede he had once seen as a child at his family's estate near Reate; a shining mass with dark limbs struggling up the slope.

  At his side Vitellius sat silently on his mount, staring at the ground before the earthworks. The memory of the harrowing assault across this very ground contrasted sharply with the early morning serenity of the river. The blood that had stained the river red had been washed away, and the bodies that had littered this shore had been carried away for cremation. Little indication of the savage fight remained beyond the memories of those who had fought and survived. With a vague sense of the depressing unreality of it all, Vitellius turned his mount and dug his heels into its shanks, trotting up the incline prepared by the engineers. He passed alongside the men of the Fourth Cohort, unaware of the hostile looks directed at him from the two men marching at the head of the Sixth Century.

  'Thought we'd seen the last of that bastard,' Macro grumbled. 'Wonder what he's doing back in the legion.'

  Cato was not unduly bothered by the tribune's return to the Second Legion. His mind was on other things. The pain from his burns seemed to be worse than ever this morning, and he longed for the inactivity of the previous day. Already the chafing of his equipment had burst some of the blisters and his raw flesh was agony against the rough material of his tunic. He gritted his teeth and concentrated his mind on following the rear of the century ahead.

  He was shocked by the scene that met his eyes as the Sixth Century passed through the remains of the British fortifications. The enclosed area was fire-blackened, and while the bodies of the Romans had been respectfully cremated, no such treatment had been accorded the dead natives who lay heaped in sun-ripened piles of decay. The still air was heavy with the sickly sweet stench of dead men, and their stiff limbs, blank eyes and sagging open mouths filled the young optio with a nauseous disgust. Cato could feel the bile rising up the back of his throat and he quickened his pace, as had all the men passing through the fortifications ahead of him. Scores of prisoners were being kept busy digging burial pits for their fallen comrades, under the watchful gaze of men from the Twentieth Legion detached for prisoner-guarding duties. They must be grateful for the chance to keep out of the coming fight, Cato reflected, momentarily envious of their lot before a fresh waft of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, causing him to retch.

  'Easy, lad!' Macro comforted. 'It's just a smell. Try not to think about what's making it. We'll be out of this place soon enough.'

  Cato wondered that Macro could be so unmoved by the charnel chaos surrounding them. But then he saw his centurion swallow nervously and realised that even this hardened veteran was not unaffected by the foul consequences of battle. The column hurried through the ruined camp in silence, broken only by the jingle of equipment and the nervous coughs of those most afflicted by the unholy stench. Once over the far ramp and back into the open countryside Cato breathed deeply to expel every last breath of the foetid air from his lungs.

  'Better?' asked Macro.

  Cato nodded. 'Is it always like that?'

  'Pretty much. Unless we fight in winter.'

  The British camp was behind them now and the air was filled with fresh country scents that brushed away the memory of the stench of the dead. Even so, traces of the running fight between the Britons and their pursuers littered the track as far as the eye could see in the direction of the Tamesis. Spent weapons, dead horses, overturned chariots and sprawling bodies lay strewn across the trampled ground. The air hummed with the sound of flies whirling in small speckled clouds over the dead. A dull haze hung above the track, kicked up from the passage of the legions marching to join the auxiliaries and the cavalry in their pursuit of the enemy.

  Cato felt the first of the day's warmth flow over him. Later, he knew, the growing heat would make conditions intolerable under the load of cumbersome equipment that was designed for efficiency in battle, with little thought to the wearer's comfort on the march. Already his exposed burns were causing him torment beyond imagination. But he knew the pain would last for some days yet and since there was nothing to be done about it, he would just have to bear it, Cato reflected with a grimace.

  As the sun eased its way high into a clear azure heaven the shadows of the tramping legionaries shortened, as if themselves withering in the growing heat, and the cheerful conversation of dawn dwindled to the odd murmured comment. As noon drew near, the legion approached the crest of a low ridge and the legate ordered a halt. Shields and spears were laid down at the side of the road before each legionary slumped down and gratefully sipped from the leather canteens filled before first light.

  The Sixth Century found itself near a small circle of bodies, some Roman, most Britons, silent testament to a bitter skirmish fought the day before. Today, no sound of fighting disturbed the muted talk of the men of the Second Legion, not even a far-off trumpet or horn. It was as if the battle of the previous two days had withdrawn like some fleeting tide and left the land strewn with its broken and bloody flotsam. Cato felt a sudden desire, tinged with panic, to know more about how things lay between the legions and their enemy. He stilled the urge to ask Macro what was unfolding since the centurion knew as little as he did and could only offer a veteran's best guess at the situation. As far as Cato could work out, the legion had marched eight or nine miles beyond the Mead Way, and that meant a similar distance lay ahead before they encountered the Tamesis. Then what? Another bloody river assault? Or were the Britons retreating too quickly to form an organised defence this time?

  The grassy downs gave way to dense gorse thickets that crowded the track on both sides and through which little runs twisted out of sight. If this was the nature of the terrain ahead, reflected Cato, then the next battle was going to be a very different affair, a mass of skirmishes as both sides negotiated their way through the tangled undergrowth. The kind of battle that a g
eneral could do little to control.

  'Not the best of battlefields for us Romans, eh?' Macro had seen his optio glancing anxiously into the gorse thickets.

  'No, sir.'

  'I shouldn't worry, Cato. This stuff's as likely to hamper the Britons as it is us.'

  'I suppose so, sir, But I'd have thought they'd know their way about the local tracks. Could cause us problems.'

  'Maybe.' Macro nodded without too much concern. 'But I doubt it will count for much now they haven't got a river and a rampart between them and us.'

  Cato wished he could share his superior's equanimity about the situation, but the tactical claustrophobia of the soldier at the very end of the chain of command preyed upon his imagination.

  A shrill blast on several trumpets abruptly split the air, and Macro was on his feet in an instant. 'Up! Up, you lazy bastards! Get your kit and form up on the track!'

  The orders echoed down the line and moments later the men of the Second Legion had formed a long, dense column with every shield and javelin held ready for action.

  Where the track rose ahead of the century, Cato could see the command party on the crest of the ridge. A mounted messenger was addressing the legate and waving his arm over the terrain on the other side of the ridge. With a quick salute the messenger wheeled his horse and galloped out of sight, leaving the legate to turn to his staff officers and issue the necessary orders.

  'What now?' grumbled Macro.

  The Eagles Conquest

  Chapter Twenty

  The advance to the Tamesis was rapidly running out of control, Vespasian decided. The pursuit of the Britons had been badly mishandled by the Batavian cohorts. Rather than concentrate on clearing the line of march through to the next river, the auxiliaries had fallen victim to the blood lust so typical of their race. And so the cohorts were dispersed over a wide front, running down every Briton that came in sight, as if the whole thing was just some great stag hunt.