The Eagle's Prey Page 3

  That thought was very much to the fore in Narcissus’ mind, and was the reason why he had been sent in secret from the palace to this far-flung camp on the north bank of the river Tamesis.

  ‘How long will you be staying with us?’ asked the general.

  ‘How long?’ Narcissus looked amused. ‘You haven’t yet asked why I’m here.’

  ‘I imagine it has something to do with enquiring about the progress of the campaign.’

  ‘Partly that,’ Narcissus admitted. ‘So how are things going, General?’

  ‘You should know well enough – you must read the dispatches I send back to the palace.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Very informative and very detailed. You have a fine style, if I may say so. Somewhat reminiscent of Caesar’s commentaries. Must be heady stuff, commanding so large an army …’

  Plautius had known Narcissus long enough to become immune to the ingratiating flattery that was the Greek’s stock in trade. He was also sufficiently familiar with the nuances of palace officials to recognise the threat implied in the Imperial Secretary’s last remark.

  ‘I am, of course, flattered by the comparison with the divine Julius. But I harbour none of his thirst for power.’

  Narcissus smiled. ‘Come now, General, surely a man in your position with such a large army at his disposal must have developed some small taste for ambition. Such a taste would not be unexpected or, indeed, unwelcome. Rome values ambition in its generals.’

  ‘Rome might. I doubt the Emperor does.’

  ‘Rome and the Emperor are as one,’ Narcissus said mildly. ‘Some people might regard it as faintly seditious to suggest anything else.’

  ‘Seditious?’ Plautius raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not serious. Have things got that bad in Rome?’

  Narcissus took another, long, sip. He watched the general closely over the rim of the glass before he set it down. ‘The situation is worse than you can imagine, Plautius. How long is it since you were last in Rome?’

  ‘Four years. And I haven’t missed it a bit. Mind you, that was when Gaius Caligula was in the saddle. I’ve heard that Claudius is a much better proposition. I’m told things have got a lot better.’

  Narcissus nodded. ‘Better for most, I’ll agree. Trouble is, the Emperor is tending to become over-reliant on the wrong sort of people.’

  ‘Present company excepted, I assume.’

  ‘Of course.’ Narcissus frowned. ‘And that’s not even remotely funny, by the way. I have served the Emperor as loyally as any man. You might say I have dedicated myself to ensuring his success.’

  ‘I understand, from my friends in Rome, that your finances have prospered quite remarkably in recent years …’

  ‘So? Is it wrong for a man to be rewarded for his loyal service? But I’m not here to discuss my private finances.’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘And I’ll thank your friends to think long and hard before they make such remarks again. That kind of talk has a way of rebounding on loose tongues, if you take my meaning … my warning.’

  ‘I’ll let them know.’

  ‘Good. Now then, as I was saying, the Emperor’s judgement has become misplaced in recent months. Especially since he slapped eyes, amongst other organs, on that little tart Messalina.’

  ‘I’ve heard of her.’

  ‘You should see her,’ smiled Narcissus. ‘Really you should. I’ve never known anyone quite like her. The moment she enters the room and makes those bloody eyes at men, they flop at her feet like puppies. Makes me sick. And Claudius is not so old that his head can’t be turned by youth and beauty. Oh, and she’s a smart one too. Jupiter knows how many lovers she is bedding, right there in the imperial palace, but as far as Claudius is concerned she is besotted with him and can do no wrong.’

  ‘And is she doing wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Not intentionally, perhaps. Of course, the scandalous way Messalina is carrying on is damaging the Emperor’s reputation and making him look like a fool. As to whether she has any more sinister designs … I have no proof as yet. Just suspicions. Then there’s those bastards, the Liberators.’

  ‘I thought you’d settled their account last year.’

  ‘We bagged most of them following that mutiny in Gesoriacum. But there were still enough of them around to organise some arms shipments to the Britons last summer. My agents have picked up hints that they’re planning something big. But they’re powerless as long as the Praetorian Guard and the legions stay on side.’

  ‘So you needed to assess my loyalty?’ Plautius watched Narcissus closely.

  ‘Why else do you think I’m here? Why else would I come so discreetly?’

  ‘Won’t you be missed?’

  ‘Clearly someone’s got wind of my mission. Just hope that the news doesn’t get any wider circulation. The palace have put out word that I’m down in Capri, recovering from an illness. I hope to be back in Rome before any word of my presence here leaks out from any of the other side’s spies on your staff.’

  ‘Enemy spies on my staff?’ Plautius affected a look of indignation. ‘Whatever next? Imperial spies?’

  ‘Your irony is duly noted, Plautius. But you should not resent my men. Their presence here is as much to do with your protection as it is to do with gathering intelligence on those who might pose a threat to the Emperor.’

  ‘Who do I need to be protected against?’

  Narcissus smiled. ‘Why, yourself, my dear Plautius. Their presence will act as a reminder that those in the palace get to see and hear everything. Tends to curb the tongues and ambitions of some of our less politically acute commanders.’

  ‘And you think I need discouraging?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Narcissus stroked his beard. ‘Do you?’

  The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, before General Plautius let his gaze fall back to the glass he was turning round and round in his fingers. Narcissus laughed lightly.

  ‘I thought not. Which leads me on to my next query. If you are not disloyal to the Emperor then why are you doing so much to undermine his cause?’

  The general put his empty glass back on the table with a sharp rap and folded his arms. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Let me put it another way, then; a less culpable form of words. Why are you doing so little to further his cause? As far as I can see, your army has done hardly more than consolidate the gains of last year. The only advances have been made in the south-west by Legate Vespasian and his Second Legion. You still haven’t brought Caratacus to battle, despite having superior forces, and despite having half the tribes of this benighted land come over to us as allies. I can hardly think of any more propitious circumstances for pushing forward, defeating the enemy and ending this costly campaign.’

  ‘So it’s the cost you take exception to, then?’ General Plautius sneered. ‘There are some things in this world that don’t have a price.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Narcissus snapped back before the patrician could launch into any high-flown rhetoric about Rome’s manifest destiny and the need for each generation to extend the limits of the Empire’s glory. ‘There is nothing in this world that doesn’t have a price. Nothing! Sometimes the price is paid in gold. Sometimes in blood, but it is always paid. The Emperor needs victory in Britain to make his position safe. That will cost Rome the lives of many thousand of its finest troops. That’s regrettable. But we can rectify that. There will always be more men. What we can’t afford to do is lose one more emperor. The murder of Caligula nearly brought the Empire to its knees. If Claudius’ claim to the title hadn’t been seized on by the Praetorian Guard we’d have had another civil war – power-mad generals tearing the legions to pieces in their pursuit of glory. In a short time the Empire would have become nothing more than a closed chapter in the histories of fallen powers. What sane man would wish that on the world?’

  ‘Very nice. Very elegantly put,’ said Plautius. ‘But what’s this got to do with me?’

  Nar
cissus sighed patiently. ‘Your slow progress is costing us dearly. It’s costing the Emperor a loss of reputation. It’s nearly a year now since he had a triumph to celebrate victory in Britain. And still I receive requests for more troops. More weapons. More supplies.’

  ‘We’re just mopping up.’

  ‘No. Mopping up is what you do after you’ve beaten the enemy. What you’re doing is soaking up resources. This island is like a sponge. It’s continually sucking in men, money and political capital. How much longer is this going to go on, my dear General?’

  ‘As I said in my reports, we’re making progress. Slowly but steadily. We’re forcing Caratacus back mile by mile. Very soon he will have to turn and fight us.’

  ‘How soon, General? Another month? Another year? Longer than that?’

  ‘A matter of days, as it happens.’

  ‘Days?’ Narcissus looked doubtful. ‘Please explain.’

  ‘Gladly. Caratacus and his army are camped less than ten miles away.’ Plautius gestured to the west. ‘He knows we’re here, and knows that we’re expecting him to fall back when we advance, as he has done every time. However, when we next push forward it’s his plan to cross the Tamesis at a series of fords not far from here, march round behind us and lay waste to all those tribes we’ve subdued south of the Tamesis. He might even try to steal a large enough advance on us to storm the supply base at Londinium. It’s a sound enough plan.’

  ‘Indeed. And how did you come to know of it?’

  ‘One of his senior chiefs is an agent of mine.’

  ‘Really? First I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Some information is too sensitive to commit to written reports,’ Plautius said smugly. ‘You never know into whose hands it might fall. May I continue?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘What Caratacus doesn’t know is that the Second Legion has been moved up from Calleva to cover the crossing. Caratacus will be caught between this army and the river. There will be nowhere to run this time. He’ll have to turn and fight, and when he does he’ll be crushed. Then, Narcissus, you and the Emperor will have your victory in Britain. All that will remain are a few malcontents in the mountainous country to the west and those savages up in Caledonia. It may not be worth bringing them under our control, in which case some kind of barrier defence will be needed to keep them out of the province.’

  ‘Barrier? What kind of barrier?’

  ‘A ditch, a wall, maybe a canal.’

  ‘Sounds horribly expensive.’

  ‘Rebellion is more expensive. Anyway, that’s work for the future. For now, we must concentrate out efforts on defeating Caratacus and breaking the tribes’ will to resist. I trust you will want to be there to witness the battle?’

  ‘Very much so. I’ll look forward to it. Almost as much as I look forward to relating the event to the Emperor himself. You’ll do well out of this, Plautius. We all will.’

  ‘Then may I propose a toast?’ Plautius refilled both their glasses and raised his own. ‘To the frustration of the Emperor’s enemies, and a … crushing victory over the barbarians!’

  ‘To victory!’ Narcissus smiled, and emptied his glass.

  Chapter Four

  The centurions of the Second Legion were seated on several rows of stools in the headquarters tent waiting for their legate to give his briefing. They had spent a long day preparing the legion for the rapid advance scheduled for the following morning. Quite where the unit was headed no one knew, except Vespasian, the legate, and he had not divulged any information to his headquarters staff. The sun had only just set and the air was alive with midges. They swarmed around the flickering yellow flares of the oil lamps and every so often there was a pop and crackle as an insect foolishly ventured into a flame. At the head of the tent a large hide map, depicting a section of the Tamesis, was suspended on a wooden frame.

  Three rows from the front sat the six centurions of the Third Cohort. Tucked on to the end of the row sat a tall dark youth, who looked conspicuously out of place amongst the lined and weathered faces of the other centurions seated around him. Indeed, he looked barely old enough to qualify for service with the legions. Beneath a curly mop of dark hair, brown eyes gazed out of a lean-looking face. His thin frame was readily apparent beneath the tunic, chain-mail corselet and harness, and his bare arms and legs were not bulky with muscle, but slender and sinewy. In spite of the uniform and the two sets of untarnished medals fixed to his harness, he still looked like a boy, and the sidelong glances he darted about the tent revealed the self-consciousness he felt about his situation.

  ‘Cato! For fuck’s sake, stop fidgeting!’ grumbled the centurion sitting next to him. ‘You’re like a flea on a hot plate.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s this heat. It’s making me feel funny.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be the only one laughing. I don’t know what’s wrong with this bloody island. When it isn’t wet and rainy it throws a blinder of a day at you. Wish it would make its mind up. I’m telling you, we should never have come to this dump. Why the hell are we here, anyway?’

  ‘We’re here because we’re here, Macro.’ His companion made a smile. ‘I seem to remember you telling me that’s always the answer.’

  Macro spat on the ground between his boots. ‘Try to help you out and all I ever get is backchat. Why do I bother?’

  Cato smiled again, spontaneously this time. Only a few months earlier he had served as Macro’s optio, second in command of the century Macro commanded. Much of what he had come to know of army ways over the last two years had been taught to him by Macro. Since Cato had been given his first legionary command ten days earlier he had felt terribly exposed to the onerous responsibilities of his new rank and had affected a hard and humourless countenance in front of the eighty men of his own century, and prayed that they did not see through the mask to the anxious and tormented soul beneath. Once that happened his authority to command would be lost, and Cato lived in dread of that moment. He had a very limited time to win their loyalty. No easy feat when he had barely come to know the names of the men under his command, still less the peculiarities of their character. He had drilled them hard, harder than most centurions did, but knew that until they had seen him perform in battle they would not fully accept him as their commander.

  It was different for Macro, he reflected with a trace of bitterness. Macro had had more than ten years of service before being promoted, and he wore his rank like a second skin. Macro had nothing to prove and the scars that covered his body were testament to his courage in battle. Moreover, the older man was short and solidly built – the physical antithesis of his friend. A legionary only had to take one look at Macro to realise this centurion was not the sort of man you pissed off if you valued your teeth.

  ‘When is this bloody briefing going to start?’ Macro muttered, slapping at a mosquito that had landed on his knee.

  ‘On your feet!’ The camp prefect bawled out from the front of the tent. ‘Legate present!’

  The centurions instantly rose up and stood to attention as a side flap was held open by a sentry and the commander of the Second Legion entered the tent. Vespasian was powerfully built, with a broad, heavily lined face. While not handsome, there was, nevertheless, something about his face that put men at their ease. No haughty expression of social aloofness that was common amongst the senatorial class. But then his family had only recently been admitted from the equestrian tier of society, and his grandfather had been a centurion in the service of Pompey the Great. Vespasian was not so far removed from the background of the men he commanded. It was a feature that made his men warm to him to the extent that the Second Legion had fought well under his command and had won more than its share of the battle honours in this campaign.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen. Please be seated.’

  Vespasian waited until the tent was silent again. When all were still and the only sounds came from the camp beyond the leather walls of the tent, he positioned himself to one side of the map and cleared his throat.<
br />
  ‘Gentlemen, we are within a day of concluding this campaign. The army of Caratacus is marching into a trap that will lead to its utter annihilation. With his army destroyed and Caratacus in the bag, the fight will be completely knocked out of those tribes still resisting us.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,‘Macro whispered. ‘How many times have I heard that one?’

  ‘Shhh.’ Cato nudged him.

  The legate had seized the attention of his audience and raised a cane towards the suspended map. ‘This is where we are camped, a short distance from the Tamesis. Our Atrebatan scouts tell us the area is called the three fords – for obvious reasons.’ The legate raised his cane and indicated the land north of the fords. ‘Caratacus is retreating in front of General Plautius’ army and should have arrived at this point here, just above the fords. So far he has simply given ground every time the general and the other three legions advance on him. As far as Caratacus knows, we expect him to carry out the same manoeuvre again. Which is why he’s planning to do something completely different this time. Instead of retreating, Caratacus will take his forces across these three fords and swing round behind us. That way he’ll threaten our supply lines, and cut the legions off from the depot at Londinium. Even if he’s successful it won’t bring him victory, but it will cost us a few months to retrieve the situation.

  ‘However, as the more observant of you will already have realised from the map, he’s taking a big risk. The three fords are set in a wide loop of the Tamesis. If the fords are denied him and the general’s force covers the open face of the loop he will be trapped with his back to the river. There will be no way out for him. He’ll have to surrender or fight.

  ‘At dawn tomorrow the Second Legion will advance to cover these three fords. We’ll sow the riverbed with caltrops and wooden stakes and set up defence lines on our side of the fords. The main line of his advance will be towards these two crossings, here and here. They’re quite broad and will need to be defended in strength. Accordingly, the First, Second, Fourth and Fifth Cohorts will be under my command at the downriver ford. The Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Cohorts, under the command of Camp Prefect Sextus, will defend the next ford upriver.’