The Eagles Conquest

Lifting the flap of his tent, Vespasian saw that the sunrise was well advanced; the pale orange disc hung just above the horizon, faintly shrouded by wisping smoke from the dying campfires. Some of the men were already talking and coughing in the cool dawn air, while the centurions and their optios began to rouse the rest. The reluctance of the men to bestir themselves and begin the daily routine of legionary life was palpable, and Vespasian made himself greet the men cheerfully as he passed by.

The assembled centurions and tribunes of the legion rose stiffly to their feet as Vespasian entered the headquarters tent. He waved them back to their stools. It was then that he noticed Vitellius, clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp new tunic. Although the man looked tired, the contrast with the other officers and himself was striking and the old antagonism for Vitellius bloomed in his heart.

'No time for ceremony, I'm afraid, gentlemen,' Vespasian said as he leaned across the map table, resting on spread fingers. 'The general's decided to keep the battle rolling forward, and we get to play the leading part once again.'

Although the tribunes had suspected bad news they still could not help groaning with dismay at the prospect of further action.

'Before anyone asks, the general is aware of our condition, and the order to attack stands.'

'Why us, sir?' asked Tribune Plinius.

'Because we're here, Plinius. Simple as that.'

'But the Twentieth have hardly been scratched,' Plinius persisted with a bitter tone that evidently reflected the mood of the other officers, many of whom nodded and muttered in agreement. Vespasian heartily shared their grievance, especially after what the Second Legion had been through recently, and everything they had achieved. But his rank demanded a stoic acceptance of orders.

'The Twentieth are being held in reserve. Plautius wants to keep one unit intact to meet any counterattacks, and to spearhead any advance we might make.' That was true enough, Vespasian reflected: he did not mention that the Second was being used to wear the enemy down. Attrition was a hard tactic to stomach when the numbers being whittled down were your own men.

Tribune Plinius was not yet mollified. 'If there is an advance,' he said angrily. 'At this rate, sir, we'll all be dead before the Twentieth loses a man.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. But the orders will be obeyed, Tribune,' Vespasian replied firmly. 'If there's any man here who wants no part in this I'll willingly accept his resignation… after the assault.'

Subdued laughter rippled round the tent, and the tribune blushed. 'Right then, gentlemen. Down to details.'

The light mood quickly died away and the centurions and tribunes focused their attention on Vespasian.

'We should be joined by the navy early this morning. The general has supplied a trireme to provide covering fire for the landing, and ten transports to convey the legion across the Tamesis. As the sharper ones among you will have calculated, it's going to take us three journeys to get what's left of the legion across. And that means the first wave must hold the landing ground until the other waves can be fed into the fight. There will be no chance of retreat if things go bad – the transports will be heading back for the next wave.' Vespasian paused to let the point sink in. 'As you gentlemen will appreciate, the first wave might well be a suicide mission. Now, I don't want to order anyone into the first transports to cross, so I'll ask for volunteers.' He looked up and quickly glanced round the room. Some officers avoided his gaze while others shuffled nervously. Vespasian's eyes came to rest on an arm raised at the rear of the tent, held straight in the air. The light inside the tent was still dim and the legate's tired eyes could not make out the identity of the officer.

'Stand up!'

The officer rose to his feet, amidst the astonished murmurs of the others.

'Are you volunteering for the first wave?' Vespasian asked, barely keeping the surprise from his voice.

'Yes, sir, First vessel of the first wave.'

'And you think your men are up to it'?'

'Yes, sir. They're ready, and they want revenge.'

'Then they shall have it, acting Centurion. But do you think you are the man to lead them on this assault'?'

Cato flushed angrily. 'I am, sir.'

Vespasian smiled grimly at the youngster's determination to avenge his centurion. There was no doubting his courage, but leaders needed to be above personal motivation in the heat of battle. Could this boy be relied upon to put duty before revenge'? Or would he just hurl himself upon the enemy and fight like a fury until he was killed, heedless of his responsibility to the men under his command? Vespasian weighed up the situation and came to a quick decision. The first wave would have little time to co-ordinate a defence of the landing point and he might as well make best use of whatever battle frenzy came his way.

'Very well, acting Centurion. And good luck. Any others ready to join him'?'

Cato's instant response had shamed the veterans, and almost to a man they raised their arms.

'Good,' said the legate. 'Your final orders will be with you after the legion has been fed. Now you'd best rouse your men and let them know what Rome wants for its money today.'

As the officers filed out of the tent, Vespasian caught Cato's eye and raised a finger to beckon him over.

'Sir?'

'Are you sure about this?'

When Cato nodded, Vespasian leaned closer so that his words would not be overheard by the men leaving the tent. 'It's not necessary for you to lead the attack. You and your men must be exhausted, and you're injured.'

'I'll live,' Cato muttered. 'We are tired, sir. And there aren't many of us left in the century. But that's no different to any other century, sir. The difference is we've got more reason to fight than most. I think I can speak for Macro's men on this.'

'They're your men now, son.'

'Yes sir.' Cato stiffened and raised his chin.

'Good man!' Vespasian said approvingly. 'And make sure you look after yourself, young Cato. There's the promise of great things in you. Survive this and you can survive anything.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now go. I'll see you later, on the other side of the river.' Cato saluted and followed the other officers out of the tent.

As he watched the young man leave, Vespasian felt a pang of guilt. It was true the lad showed promise, and the cheap rhetoric he had offered had worked, as he knew it would. The optio – the acting centurion, Vespasian corrected himself – would feel fired by his superior's confidence in him. But it would probably get him killed that much more quickly. It was too bad. The lad was likeable and had performed well enough in the short time he had served with the eagles. But that was the nature of command. Regardless of one's feelings, the battle had to be won, the enemy defeated, and both had their price – measured in the blood of the men in his legion.

The Eagles Conquest