The Eagles Conquest

More galling still was the greeting Claudius had made to him after the crushing defeat of Caratacus' army. As Vespasian galloped up to make sure that his Emperor had survived the battle unhurt, he was surprised to see Claudius' air of smug satisfaction.

'Ah! There you are, Legate. I must thank you for the part you and yyyour men played in my trap.'

'Trap? What trap, Caesar?'

'Why, to lure the enemy into a p-position where his true strength would be r-re-revealed and lured to its destruction. You had just the wit to fill the important r-role I had assigned to you.'

Vespasian's mouth had dropped open as he heard this astonishing version of the morning's events. Then he clamped his jaw firmly shut to stop himself making a remark that would threaten his career, not to mention his life. He had bowed his head graciously and mumbled his thanks and tried not to think about the hundreds of stiffening Roman corpses sprawled across the battlefield in silent tribute to the Emperor's tactical genius.

Vespasian wondered if it might be so terrible if Claudius fell under an assassin's knife after all.

The tour of the Trinovantes' capital came to an end and the Emperor and his staff returned to the Roman camp to discover that the representatives of twelve tribes had arrived and were waiting at headquarters for an audience with the Emperor.

'An audience with Caesar?' Narcissus sniffed. 'I think not. Not today at least. They can be presented to him tomorrow, at the banquet.'

'Is that wise, Caesar?' Plautius asked quietly. 'We'll need them when we renew the campaign. It would be better for them to feel like welcome allies rather than despised supplicants.'

'Which is what they are,' Narcissus interposed.

Claudius turned his face towards the skies as if seeking divine advice, and gently stroked his chin. A moment later he nodded and turned back to his staff with a smile. 'The tribesmen can wait. It's been a long day and I'm t -tired. Tell them… tell them that Caesar welcomes them warmly, but that the ex-ex-exigencies of his office prevent him from greeting them in p-p-person. How's that?'

Narcissus clapped his hands together. 'A paragon of elegance and clarity, Caesar!'

'Yes, I thought so.' Claudius tipped his head back in order to look down his nose at Plautius. 'Well, General?'

'Caesar, I am a mere soldier, and lack the necessary refinement to judge the aesthetic merit of another's loquacity.'

Claudius and Narcissus regarded him silently, one with a look of benign incomprehension, the other with close scrutiny as he looked for any trace of irony in the general's features.

'Well yes, quite!' Claudius nodded. 'It's a good thing to be aware of one's d-d-deficiencies.'

'You speak truly, as ever, Caesar.' Plautius bowed his head and Claudius limped off towards his tent, with Narcissus scurrying along to one side. Then the general turned to his officers. 'Vespasian!'

'Yes, sir.'

'You'd better deal with our tribal guests.'

'Yes, sir.'

'See that they're made comfortable and are well looked after. But keep them under close guard. Nothing too obtrusive but just enough to let them know we're watching closely. Can't afford to have them wandering around if there's anything to this rumour about an attempt on the Emperor's life.'

'Yes, sir.' Vespasian saluted and left. His charges were at the headquarters tent. As he entered he was immediately aware of a marked division in the tribal representatives, between those who rose to greet him with a weary acceptance of the inevitable and those who remained squatting on the ground, glaling at him with bitter hostility. To one side, trying to be dignified without looking smug at having sided with the victors, sat Adminius. A huge man turned towards the legate and looked him over with the distastefully obvious air of a man examining an inferior. He approached Vespasian, arm raised, and greeted the legate formally. When he began to speak, Vespasian quickly indicated that Adminius should translate.

'Venutius begs to inform you that he and the others here had the privilege of viewing the battle as guests of Caratacus. He says he still finds it a little difficult to follow the logic of your tactics in the battle, and would be most grateful if you would talk them through with him.'

'Another time. I'm rather busy at the moment.' Vespasian responded coldly. 'And tell him thay whatever the tactics, rhe outcome was inevitable. It always is when ill-disiplined natives attempt to best an army of professional soldiers. What matters is we won and that this island will eventually become a Roman province. Nothing else concerns me right now. Tell him I'll look forward to seeing him and thoses others, when they bow before Caesar and pledge their loyalty to him at the banquet tomorrow night.'

As Adminius translated, Vespasian cast his eyes over the tribal representatives and was struck by the sneering expression on the face of the youngest of them. Hatred burned in the young man's eyes, and his gaze was unfaltering as Vespasian looked at him. For a moment the legate considered staring him out, but then decided it would be a waste of time and turned to leave. A small smile of satisfaction played on the young Briton's lips. Vespasian cocked a finger at Adminius and ducked through the tent flap.

'Who was the youngster?'

'Bellonius,' replied Adminius. 'Son of the ruler of a small northern tribe. His father's dying and sent his son to represent him. Not the wisest choice, I think.'

'Why?'

'You saw him. Not hiding much behind that expression.'

'Dangerous?'

Adminius considered the young Briton a moment before responding. 'No more so than any teenager who has been exposed to Caratacus' propaganda. '

'And Venutius?'

'Him?' Adminius laughed. 'He was once a great warrior. But he's getting on. Spends all his time talking about the old days. Bit of an old fool really.'

'You think so?' Vespasian raised an eyebrow as he recalled the shrewdness in the man's grey eyes when he had stood before him and assessed his character.

Vespasian could not help thinking there was more to Venutius than Adminius gave him credit for.

Chapter Fifty

The legions camped outside Camulodullum were in high spirits. Despite being caked in mud and exhausted by advancing so quickly after a pitched battle, there was a palpable sense of celebration in the air. A decisive victory had been won and Caratacus and the remnants of the British army were in full flight towards those tribes still loyal to the confederation resisting Rome. The tribal representatives who had been awaiting the outcome of the last battle had hurried to Camulodunum to swear allegiance to Rome. The danger of being opposed by almost every tribe on the island had passed now that the most powerful of the native tribes had been soundly beaten by the legions. Until next year's campaigning, the Roman army would be free to consolidate its gains unopposed. Caratacus' capital had opened its gates to the Emperor, and the following day's festivities would mark the end of this year's bloody campaigning. Of course, the conquest of the island was far from complete but in the prevailing mood of celebration few men spoke of it.

The Trinovantes had saved themselves from having their capital sacked, to the disappointment of some hardened veterans, but there were already ample spoils of war in the form of the thousands of Britons taken prisoner, who would be sold into slavery. Each legionary stood to gain a substantial sum of money as his share of the booty realised from the sale of prisoners. But there was even more to follow.

'Word has it that the Emperor is going to pay us a donative!' Macro gri