The Eagles Conquest

'They're just men, Cato. Ordinary men with all their vices and virtues.

But where other men live their lives with death as a side issue, we live ours with death as a constant companion. We have to accept death.' Their eyes met, and Macro nodded sadly. 'That's how it is, Cato. Now look here. You're a good lad, and have the makings of a fine soldier. Think on that.'

'Yes, sir.'

Macro rose to his feet and tugged his tunic straight under his chain mail. With a quick smile of encouragement he turned to leave, and then clicked his fingers in irritation.

'Shit! Almost forgot the reason I came to see you.' He reached under his harness and pulled out a small, tightly-wound and sealed scroll. 'For you. Some letters have arrived with the supply column. Here. Read it and get some rest. I'll need you back on duty this evening.'

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 wi

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 i

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 ma

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 co

Vespasian frowned at the mention of politics, and his expression deepened as he reflected on Flavia's mention of co