The Eagles Conquest

'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?'

'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.