Under the Eagle Read online

  Beyond they could hear the Germans shouting triumphantly. They would be edging towards the blaze, itching for the moment when the fires had subsided enough to allow them to stream into the village and slaughter the cohort. But for now the flames showed no signs of subsiding, indeed the fire was growing ever more intense as it spread amongst the huts. The heat in the street was already intolerable and Cato found himself squinting to protect his eyes, buffeted by the wavering, stinging air. The centurion knew the time had come to retreat, a bitter truth to swallow – but a necessary one.

  ‘All troops to me! All troops to me! Back down the street!’

  The legionaries turned and quick-marched until they reached the limit of the fire where Macro ordered them to halt and close up once again. The men looked back in relief, glad to be out of immediate danger. The position they had occupied moments earlier erupted in a shower of sparks as a building collapsed across the street where they had been standing.

  ‘Close one, sir,’ muttered one of the men.

  ‘We’re not out of it yet,’ Macro replied sourly. ‘Fire’s spreading fast. We’ll fall back with it. If we’re lucky, we can keep the fire between us and Herman.’

  ‘Until we run out of village,’ Cato said softly.

  Macro turned quickly, on the point of shouting out some abuse, but the boy was right. ‘Until we run out of village,’ he agreed. ‘Or Vespasian reaches us.’

  The fire, let loose like an uncaged beast at some amphitheatre, raged across the village, hungrily devouring all in the path of its blazing jaws.

  Above it, the sky glowed orange and the snow falling from the sky melted into rain. Little by little the legionaries gave ground and, as they did so, Macro became aware that the blaze at the gateway was dying down far more quickly than it should. He frowned, uncomprehending. Then he saw Germans beyond the falling flames, throwing buckets of water on the ruins of the gate where smoke and steam mingled. As he watched, the men around him became aware of what was happening and a low murmur of despair trickled through the Sixth century. The Germans were clearly not content to leave the Romans to the eventual wrath of the fire, they wanted blood, and the street leading up to the gate was nearly clear of flames due to its relative breadth.

  ‘Silence!’ Macro shouted. ‘We’re not done for yet. Not as long as we can keep the fire between us and them. First two squads with me. Castor!’ Macro yelled to the century’s veteran. ‘See to it that the rest tear down buildings along the street – anything that helps the fire line spread. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But you keep the line open for us. When you’re done you call us back. We’ll fall back through you.’ Macro turned to the front two squads. ‘All right, lads, listen. If Herman gets down the street we have to hold him back long enough for the others to do their work. Then we run like hell. Come on then.’

  With Macro and Cato at their head, the two squads marched down the street and stopped as close to the ruins of the gate as the heat permitted. There Macro formed them into an unbroken shield wall and they waited. But not for long. The fire at the gate was quickly extinguished leaving a smouldering heap of ruined timber. The Germans stumbled across it, heedless of the residual heat, and resumed their chain of water jars where the burning building had fallen into the street. As the enemy laboured the Romans waited silently and Cato, in the second rank, held the shaft of the standard tightly to stop himself shaking too obviously. He glanced sidelong at the men around him, silent and still, eyes grimly watching the Germans working towards them.

  Suddenly the Germans downed their jars and scrambled over the last blackened ruins between them and the Romans, voices raised in hysterical war-cries.

  ‘Steady, boys!’ Macro growled. ‘Hold your line. We fight in formation.’

  Cato could see over Macro’s shoulder the first of the Germans, long hair streaming, running straight at them. Without slowing for a moment, he crashed into the wall of shields and was despatched by a quick thrust. With a gasp he fell dead on the street. But more followed, thudding against the shields, desperately trying to force an opening into which they could thrust their short spears. As the weight piled up, the legionaries gave ground. The first of their number fell, wounded in the side by a spear thrust. Streaming blood, he went down – his place instantly taken by the man behind – and his comrades were powerless to help as they gave ground and left him exposed to the Germans. With a savage cry, the man’s throat was ripped open by a spear and the gushing crimson splashed up the shield wall.

  Cato ducked as a spear-thrust was aimed at his own head and the standard dipped forward. The Germans eagerly lunged for it and one secured a grip on the banner.

  ‘Hands off, Herman!’ Macro shouted, thrusting his sword into the chest the German had foolishly exposed. Abruptly his grip was released and Cato snatched the standard back to the vertical, horrified by the shame of what had nearly happened.

  For a second, Macro was able to glance back down the street and saw that the rest of the century had pulled down several buildings, piling the rubble and burning thatch across the street. It was almost time.

  ‘Rear section! Fall back now.’

  The men needed no urging and turned to sprint down the street towards the small opening left for them where Castor had some men poised with ropes to pull a wall down across the street. As soon as the Germans saw the rearmost men run back to safety they shouted their contempt and flew at the thin shield wall with renewed fury. Even Cato could see that the last section would be in perilous danger the moment it tried to disengage. But Macro was ready for the moment and, without warning, bellowed an order, ‘Break and charge!’

  With a shout, the legionaries pushed their shields out and hacked into the Germans before them. The unexpectedness of the move momentarily caught the Germans off guard and they checked and recoiled.

  ‘Run!’ Macro shouted.

  In an instant the charge turned tail and the soldiers bolted down the street, Cato amongst them, cursing the awkwardness of the standard. As the street narrowed towards the point where the rest of the century was waiting, Macro faced the Germans once again, determined to make sure his men got away. The enemy were still reeling from the sudden turnabout in Roman tactics and, with a grim smile of satisfaction, he ran after the others.

  But one German, more alert than the rest, hefted his spear above his head and hurled it after the retreating Romans with all his might.

  Cato, awash with relief, was bolting towards the gap being held open by his comrades when he heard Macro shout.

  ‘Ahhh! Fuck!’

  Cato turned quickly. Ten paces up the street Macro had tumbled headlong, a spear right through his thigh. His shield had fallen ahead of him and his sword lay to one side. Beyond Macro, the Germans had recovered from their surprise and were running towards the stricken centurion. Macro looked up and saw Cato.

  ‘Run, you fool!’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Save the fucking standard! RUN!’

  In a moment of shocking stillness Cato saw the angry look on Macro’s face; the Germans running down towards him; the fire raging in the buildings around them and the sky glowing blood red against the night. Then, before he was aware of any kind of conscious decision, he was running back towards his centurion screaming meaninglessly at the Germans.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Did you see Titus today?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Vespasian looked up from his travel desk. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Your son, Titus. Have you seen him today?’ Flavia tapped her finger on his shoulder. ‘Or have you been too busy to notice that you have a son?’

  ‘My dear, I really haven’t had time.’

  ‘That’s what you always say. Always. All these wretched documents are taking up your whole life.’ She looked into the document chest. ‘Don’t you think you should make time for the boy?’

  Vespasian laid down his stylus and regarded her for a moment, heart heavy with guilt. After three miscarr
iages and one still-born, Titus had seemed like something of a miracle. The long labour had nearly killed Flavia and the child. Since his birth in Rome two years ago the boy had been treated like a precious vase, wrapped in wool and hardly ever out of his mother’s sight. Vespasian had devoted much effort to being as supportive as he could, all the while conscious that time spent with family was time spent away from politics and career advancement – which was ultimately for Titus’s benefit, he assured himself.

  Accepting the appointment to the Legion had not been an easy choice. He had known Flavia was hugely reluctant to leave Rome, even as she dutifully urged him to accept the post. Like all wives with a respect for tradition, she had accompanied him when Vespasian had left to take up his command. While the fresh air was a pleasant change from clinging stench of Rome, it had not proved beneficial to Titus. Since they had arrived at the base the child had been down with one illness after another. The cold, damp climate was ruinous to a fragile constitution, and many months of long nights at the side of his cradle had exhausted Flavia. The thought of the loss of Titus filled them both with dread, but Vespasian had had the comfort of a full working day while Flavia had not. Removed from her social circle and isolated in the closed world of a military base with only a handful of other officers’ wives, Flavia’s world had turned inward on her son.

  Titus, as is the way with infants, contrived to find every possible way to drive his mother, and her domestic slaves, completely frantic with worry. There was no shelf, table edge or door he had not managed to crash his head against, no chair or chest he had not fallen off and no rug or mat he had not tripped over. The boy’s natural inquisitiveness meant that no safety audit of their quarters was ever completed thoroughly enough that Titus did not find something dangerous or unsavoury to stick in his mouth or poke in his eye or when the mood took him – which it frequently did – in the eye of some unfortunate slave. Now his nurses were having to contend with a fine range of needle-sharp teeth that closed unexpectedly on any exposed flesh that ventured within range.

  Vespasian smiled at the thought that at least his son had spirit.

  ‘What?’ Flavia asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re smiling. What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking it’s time I spent some time with my boy.’ Vespasian pushed the travel desk back and stood up. ‘Come.’

  As they left the study and walked along the covered walkway that ran along the private courtyard Vespasian looked at the sky. Beyond the dull flickering light of the courtyard torches the freezing night air was brushed with the first flakes of snow. It occurred to him that Vitellius had not yet returned and the thought of the cocksure tribune marching back from the village in a miserable blizzard would have been gratifying were it not for the poor men he was commanding.

  As the door to the little nursery opened, Titus’s head swivelled round and, with a shout of pure pleasure, he jumped on to his little legs, pushing his nurse to one side, and ran across to his parents.

  ‘Dada!’ he squealed as he wrapped his arms around his father’s legs and tipped his head back, wide-eyed and smiling. ‘Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!’

  Vespasian leant down and, firmly grasping the boy under the arms, swung him up above his head, provoking a fresh bout of excited screaming.

  ‘How’s my soldier? Eh? How’s my little boy today?’ Vespasian smiled and turned to his wife. ‘He’s growing up fast. Not long now before he gets to wear his first toga.’

  ‘He’s still a baby!’ Flavia protested. ‘Still my little baby. Aren’t you?’

  Titus regarded his mother with a disgusted expression and pushed himself back from her tight embrace. Vespasian laughed and leant forward to ruffle the boy’s unruly hair. ‘That’s my little soldier!’

  ‘He’s not a soldier!’ Flavia said firmly. ‘And he’s not going to be a soldier, at least he’s not going to be one for any longer than is absolutely necessary. If I have anything to do with it, he’ll stay in Rome where I can look after him.’

  ‘We’ll have to let him decide for himself one day,’ Vespasian replied gently. ‘The army’s a good life for a man.’

  ‘No, it’s not! The army’s dangerous, uncomfortable and populated by uncouth louts.’

  ‘Provincials like me, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Only joking. But seriously, if Titus is to make a career for himself in the Senate then he must serve with the legions first.’

  ‘You could see to it that he gets a posting near home.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. The appointments get made by the imperial staff. I have no influence there, at least not at the moment. If you want him to be successful he must serve in the army first. You know that’s the way it is.’

  ‘Yes.’ Flavia nodded sadly and kissed Titus on the forehead. The infant sensed her mood and suddenly hugged her tightly, crushing his little face into her shoulder. ‘I just wish I could have him at this age for longer.’

  ‘I know. I really do. Maybe there’ll be more children one day. When you’re ready.’

  Flavia stared up into his face, dark eyes full of painful memory that threatened to well up into tears. She blinked and then forcefully smiled away the tremble in her lip. ‘Oh, I hope so. I want so very many of them. And I want them with you. You promise me you will be careful?’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘This new campaign of yours in Britain. You will be careful.’

  ‘Britain! How the hell . . .’ Vespasian’s brow creased angrily. ‘That’s supposed to be a secret. Where did you hear it?’

  ‘From the officers’ wives.’ Flavia laughed at his expression. ‘You men really do have a great deal to learn about keeping secrets, don’t you?’

  ‘Typical,’ Vespasian muttered. ‘Bloody typical. I swear my most senior officers to strict confidentiality and the next thing I know it’s common gossip. Is nothing sacred any more?’

  Titus laughed and shook his head violently from side to side.

  ‘Now, don’t fuss, dear.’ Flavia patted him on the arm. ‘I’m sure the secret’s safe from everyone else. But don’t let’s change the subject. I was talking about Britain.’

  ‘So, it seems, is everyone else,’ grumbled Vespasian.

  ‘You must promise me you’ll be careful. I want your word. Right now.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ She nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now give the boy a hug and put him to bed.’

  Vespasian carried the child over to the cot in the corner of the room. Leaning down, he pulled back the soft woollen covers one-handed and removed the warming brick. As he was lowered into the cot, Titus moaned and tightly clenched his hands into the folds of his father’s tunic. ‘Not tired! Not tired!’

  ‘You must go to sleep now,’ Vespasian replied softly as he tried to prise his son’s fingers loose. The boy’s tiny hands were surprisingly strong and his father struggled to unpick them as the child’s eyes welled with tears of anger and frustration. As the last fingers were worked free from the cloth round Vespasian’s neck Titus suddenly bit his father on the knuckle. Before he could help himself, Vespasian swore out loud.

  ‘Language!’ Flavia hissed. ‘Do you want him to pick up such words at his age?’

  It occurred to Vespasian that any child brought up in a military garrison was going to pick up a rather wider vocabulary than was deemed appropriate in the social circles of Rome.

  ‘That boy,’ he continued after a moment, ‘has quite a bite on him.’

  ‘But that’s good.’

  ‘It is?’ Vespasian looked down with raised eyebrows at the small teeth-shaped crescent on the back of his hand.

  ‘Show’s he’s got strength of character.’ Flavia pressed the still struggling boy down into the cot and drew the cover up over his body.

  ‘Shows he’s got sharp teeth,’ her husband muttered.

  With a last whine, Titus succumbed to a child’s sense of routin
e and turned over on to his stomach, closed his eyes and, with a few meaningless mumbles spoken softly into his mattress, fell asleep. Both parents gazed down at him for a moment, wondering at the peaceful, perfectly rounded shape of his face, the final twitches of his curled fingers in the flickering glow of the oil lamps.

  Someone hammered on the door. Titus stirred, eyes flickering open for a moment.

  ‘Who the hell?’

  ‘Just shut them up quickly,’ Flavia hissed. ‘Before they wake Titus.’

  Vespasian opened the door on to the courtyard and was confronted by the duty centurion and a shivering legionary.

  ‘Sir!’ the centurion barked in best parade-ground manner. ‘Beg to report. . .’

  ‘Shhh! Keep your voice down. My boy’s asleep.’

  The centurion stood open-mouthed for a second, before he managed to force himself to continue in a whisper. ‘Beg to report a fire.’

  ‘A fire. How big a fire? Where?’

  ‘In the direction of the forest, sir, towards the Rhine.’

  Vespasian eyed the man impatiently. ‘And you think that’s worth disturbing me for?’

  ‘This sentry says it’s a big fire, sir.’

  ‘Big? How big?’

  ‘Dunno, sir,’ the legionary replied. ‘Can’t see the fire as such, sir. Just a glow, on the horizon like.’

  A nasty thought struck the legate. ‘Third cohort back yet?’