The Eagles Conquest

It was ironic, thought Vespasian as he recalled the event, that it was him rather than Flavia who had been singled out as the potential conspirator, however lightly. Flavia had seemed to be the loyal wife and model citizen in every respect, and had never given him cause to fear that she might become involved in anything more perilous than a trip to the public baths.

Looking back, the small social lunches she had given or been invited to without his presence now looked positively sinister, especially as a number of those with whom she had dined had subsequently been condemned following investigation by Narcissus' network of spies. Vespasian still did not know how deep her involvement was with those who were plotting against Claudius. Until he confronted her, he could not be sure. Even then, supposing she was half the cold-blooded traitor that Vitellius claimed, how would he know if her version of events was truthful? The possibility that Flavia would lie, and he would not be able to recognise the lie, filled him with a terrible sense of self-doubt.

The tramp of feet on the boards outside his office tent caught his ear and he quickly grabbed the nearest scroll and concentrated his gaze on it: a request for extra hospital capacity from the legion's senior surgeon, A hushed exchange of words took place before the sentry barked out:

'Wait here!'

The flap parted and a shaft of daylight slanted across the desktop, causing Vespasian to squint as he looked up. 'What is it?'

'Excuse me, sir, Centurion Macro and his optio to see you. Says he was ordered to be here by the first hour signal'

'Well, then he's late,' Vespasian grumbled. 'Get them in here.'

The sentry ducked out and stepped to one side. holding back the tent flap. 'All right, sir. The legate will see you now.'

Two shapes stepped into the shaft of light and marched up to his desk, then stamped their feet down and stood to attention.

"Centurion Macro and Optio Cato reporting as ordered, sir.'

"You're late.'

'Yes, sir.' Macro briefly thought about apologising, but kept his silence.

No apology was acceptable in the army. One either did as one was ordered or one didn't and there were no excuses.

'Why?'

'Sir?'

'Why are you late, Centurion? The first hour was sounded a short while ago.'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian knew when he was being stonewalled. As his vision readjusted to the dim light of the tent's interior he saw that the centurion was heavy-eyed and looked tired. In view of the man's record, he decided an unofficial warning would suffice. 'Very well, Centurion, but if you let it happen again there will be consequences.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And if I ever hear that you've been letting drink get in the way of duty I swear I will have you returned to the ranks. Got that?'

'Yes, sir,' Macro replied with an emphatic nod.

'Right then, gentlemen, I've got some work for you. Nothing too dangerous but important nonetheless, and it won't get in the way of the optio's recuperation.' Vespasian searched through some documents on one side of the desk and carefully extracted a small sheet with a seal in one corner. 'Here's your warrant. You will take your century back to Rutupiae. There you'll meet the replacements from the Eighth. I want you to take the pick of the crop for the Second. Get' em signed on to our strength right away and the other legions can have the rest. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And if you're quick, you can load your men onto one of the transports taking the wounded down the coast. Dismissed.'

Alone in his tent once more, Vespasian's mind switched to another matter that had been causing him anxiety. Earlier in the day he and the other legion commanders had been summoned by General Plautius to be briefed on the latest attempts to negotiate with the British tribes. The news from Adminius was not good. The failure of the Roman army to advance any further towards Caratacus' capital had alarmed the tribes who had promised themselves to Rome. They had been led to understand that the confederation headed by the Catuvellauni would be knocked out of the war in a matter of weeks. Instead, the Romans were hiding within the ramparts of their fortifications while Caratacus quickly rebuilt his army. Dire threats had been issued by the Catuvellauni against tribes who were slow to join those already resisting Rome. Plautius had countered by issuing his own threats, via Adminius, about the consequences of reneging on the putative deals these tribes had struck with Rome.

Adminius reported that the tribes had now come up with a compromise.

If Camulodunum fell to the legions before the end of the campaigning season they would honour their earlier promise to make peace with Rome. But if Caratacus was still in control of his capital they would feel obliged to join the confederation of tribes sworn to destroy Plautius and his army. Thus reinforced, Caratacus' army would vastly outnumber Plautius'. Defeat, if not retreat, would be inevitable, and the eagles would be hurled back from British shores.

Once more Vespasian cursed the enforced delay while the army waited for Claudius and his court to appear. Four weeks had already passed and Plautius said that it could be another month before they advanced on Camulodunum. It would be September at the earliest when the eagles arrived before the capital – assuming that Caratacus and his new army could be brushed aside easily. An because the Ernperor insisted on being there for the advance.

The vanity of Claudius might yet kill them all.

Down at the river, the remains of the Sixth Century waited patiently for the loading of the injured to be completed. The legion's medical orderlies were carefully carrying the severely injured up the boarding ramps of the transports and laying the stretchers down under the awnings stretched across the decks. It was a depressing business to watch. These were the men who would be given medical discharges from the army and sent back to their homes with missing limbs or shattered bones that would never fully mend. These men were comrades, and some were good friends, but the men of Macro's century kept their silence, uncomfortable with their knowledge of the dismal future awaiting the invalids, Many were still in pain and cried out at any jarring movement.

Cato walked down the makeshift jetty looking for Nisus, hoping that it might be possible to renew their friendship in some way. The Carthaginian was easy enough to find. He was standing on top of a pile of grain sacks, bellowing out instructions and curses to his orderlies as they struggled to load the stretchers aboard the transports. As Cato approached, Nisus nodded curtly.

'Good morning, Optio, What can I do for you?' Cato had been about to clamber up and join him, but his cold tone warned him off. 'Well, Optio'?'

'Nisus, I… I just wanted to say hello.'

'Well, you've said it. Now, is there anything else?' Cato stared at him, frowning, and then shook his head.

'Then if you don't mind, I've got work to do… You do that again and I'll kick your bloody Roman arses into the river!' he bellowed at a pair of orderlies whose struggles with an overweight casualty had caused the raw stump of his leg to knock against the side of the transport. The man was screaming with pain.

Cato waited a moment longer, hoping for some glimmer of change in the Carthaginian's mood, but Nisus was making it quite clear that he had nothing more to say to him. Cato turned sadly away and returned to the century. He sat down some distance from Macro and just stared at the river. Eventually the last of the wounded were loaded and the transport's captain beckoned to Macro.

'Time to move, lads! Let's be having you!'

The century filed across the boarding plank and dropped heavily onto the deck where they were guided forward. Macro gave the men permission to down packs and remove their armour. The sailors fended the transport away from the river bank, idly watched by some of the legionaries. Most of the century stretched out on the deck and dozed in the warm sun.