The Eagles Conquest

The grinding passage of wagon wheels eventually heralded the arrival of the baggage train, and the headquarters staff moved swiftly into action. The tents of the field hospital were quickly rigged, and the field kitchen set up to make sure that warm food was in the belly of every man as soon as possible. Around Vespasian the clerks hurriedly assembled a headquarters tent, lit numerous oil lamps mounted on great bronze stands, and erected the campaign desks. All the centuries that arrived were ordered to submit strength reports and requests for replacements of expended weapons and lost equipment, before being led to their assigned assembly areas. From his campaign desk the legate watched as the dark files of men slowly passed by. No one saluted, no one looked up. The legion was spent as an offensive formation for the immediate future. The only compensating factor was that the enemy were in no state to counterattack, having been thrown back from the last river and forced to scramble into defensive positions on the other side of the Tamesis. However, the time needed by the legionaries to recover their momentum would be well spent by the Britons in preparing for the next bloody phase of the campaign.

These were factors the legate had no influence over, and the best he could do under the present circumstances was to get the Second rested, fed and re-equipped as soon as possible. The men deserved better from the general after their spectacular performance two days ago. Two days? Vespasian frowned. Was that all? Even the time seemed to have been sucked down into this infernal marsh stretching out around him in the dark…

Vespasian's eyes flickered open just in time as he started to slip from his stool, and he recovered his balance with a cold shock of surprise. Instantly he reproached himself, then glanced about to see if anyone had noticed this all too human failing in their commander. The clerks were bent to their work in the glow of their oil lamps, and his bodyguards stood rigidly to attention. Another instant's slumber and he would have fallen from his stool and ended up sprawled on the ground. The image made him burn with shame, and he forced himself to stand.

'Bring me some food!' he snapped to an orderly. 'And quick about it. '

The orderly saluted and ran off towards the field kitchen. Vespasian turned his mind to another worrying detail of the campaign. One of the centurions emerging from the marsh had presented him with a short sword. Nothing remarkable in that, but the centurion had encountered a large formation of Britons armed with identical swords.

'See there, sir.' The centurion held the blade up so that it was more clearly visible in the moonlight. Vespasian looked closely and saw the manufacturer's stamp.

'Gnaeus Albinus,' he muttered. 'That's a firm in Gaul, I believe. This sword's a long way from home.'

'Yes, sir. That's right.' The centurion nodded politely. 'But that's not all, sir. The Albinus forge is one of the main suppliers to the Rhine legions.'

'And the arms contracts are exclusive. So what is this doing here?' 'And not just this one sword. I saw scores of them back in the marsh, sir. And since we're the first Roman army on these shores since Caesar's day, they can hardly have been captured.'

'So, what are you suggesting, Centurion? That the Albini are moonlighting on an imperial arms contract?'

'Doubt it, sir.' The grievous penalties for such an act made this very unlikely. The centurion shrugged, then continued in a meaningful tone, 'But if not the manufacturers, then it has to be someone further down the line.'

'You mean someone in the army, or in the civil service?'

'Maybe.'

Vespasian looked at him. 'That's as far as you want to pursue the matter, I presume.'

'I'm a soldier, sir,' the centurion replied firmly. 'I do what I'm ordered to do, and I'll fight who I have to. This is nothing to do with soldiering. It stinks of politics and plots, sir.'

'Meaning you think I should be the one to look into it.'

'Goes with the rank, sir.'

The reference to rank implied social class as well as military title, and Vespasian had to bite back the bitter retort that had been his first response. The centurion was speaking no more than the truth. The man had served for most of his life under the eagles and no doubt had a healthy disdain for the deviousness of the political class from which the legions' legates were drawn. Vespasian, peculiarly driven to win the acceptance and admiration of those under his command, was wounded by the professional soldier's slight. He had hoped to have won their trust by now, but some of the men clearly still had their misgivings. Today's fiasco in the marsh had been the result of orders received from the general, but it would be the legate the soldiers blamed first.

There was nothing to be done about this. It would be an unconscionable display of personal weakness to explain to any of his subordinates the limits of his authority, that he was compelled to obey orders, just as they were. High command placed a man at the heart of an irresolvable dilemma. To his general he was responsible for the actions of his men. To the men he was responsible for the orders he was compelled to pass on to them. No excuses would be tolerated by either side, and any attempt at self-justification would arouse only humiliating contempt and disgust from superiors and subordinates alike.

'Then see to it then, Centurion. You're dismissed.'

The centurion nodded his satisfaction, saluted and strode off back to his men, Vespasian watched him disappear into the gloom, reproaching himself for letting the man witness his distraction. He must be stoical about such things. Besides, there was a far more important issue to be considered. Far more important than the self-pity of a legate, he chided himself. The presence of these swords and the earlier discovery of army issue slingshot amongst the ammunition used by the Britons formed a disturbing pattern. The odd weapon might be accounted for by the looting of dead Romans but what the centurion had told him indicated something more. Someone was supplying the enemy with arms that had been destined for the legions. Someone with money, and a network of agents to handle the movement of substantial cargoes. But who?

'This will do nicely,' Vitellius said to the decurion. 'We'll rest here for a moment. You can water the horses.'

The column of prisoners and their mounted guards had reached a point on the track where it dipped into a small copse beside a narrow stream.

'Here, sir'?' The decurion glanced about at the dark undergrowth hemming them in. He continued as tactfully as he could. 'Do you think that's wise, sir'?' Ordinarily no officer in his right mind would ever consider stopping a column of prisoners in surroundings that were so conducive to escape.

'Do you think it's wise to question my order?' Vitellius replied curtly. The decurion quickly turned in his saddle and filled his lungs. 'Column – halt!'

He ordered the prisoners to sit and arranged for the guards to see to their horses in a hurried rota, while Vitellius dismounted and tethered his beast to a tree stump at the head of a trail that ran alongside the stream.

'Decurion!'

'Sir'?' The decurion trotted back towards the stream.

'Get me that chieftain again. I fancy it's time I tried having another quiet word with him.'

'Sir'?'

'You've been warned about questioning my orders, Decurion,' Vitellius said coldly. 'Once more, and you won't forget it. Now get me that man, and tend to your other duties.'

The gaudily attired Briton was hauled to his feet and thrust towards the tribune. He stared at the Roman officer with an arrogant sneer. Vitellius stared back, then suddenly whipped the back of his hand across the Briton's face. The man's head snapped to one side, and when he brought his face forward once again, a dark trickle of blood, black in the moonlight, was dripping from a cut lip.