The Eagles Conquest

Bellonius crashed to the stone floor'.

'Guards!' Narcissus shouted. 'Guards!'

It took only an instant for Vitellius to realise that the assassin had failed. Snatching a dagger from the belt of one of the bodyguards, he fung himself on the writhing Briton. The bodyguards were moving in but by the time they had reached the spot, it was all over. Vitellius rose to his knees, cheek and tunic front splattered with blood. Bellonius lay at his feet, dead, the handle of the body-guard's blade protruding from under his chin. The blade had been driven up through his throat into his brain and his eyes bulged with surprise. A dribble of dark blood formed at the side of his open mouth and rolled down his cheek.

In the Briton's hand lay the jewelled hilt of the Celtic dagger Lavinia had smuggled into the hall. She glanced down at it and then looked up at Vitellius with a terrified expression, slowly backing away from him even as she clutched the ruined tunic to her chest.

The bodyguards swarmed forward, weapons drawn. From the other direction the di

The Emperor's bodyguards were forcing the crowds away from Claudius at swordpoint. At the sight of the weapons, there were cries of panic and the crowd recoiled, carrying Cato with them, and he lost sight of the tribune and Lavinia. His arm was wrenched in someone's powerful grip and he was spun round, to face Macro.

'Let's get out of here!' Macro shouted. 'Before the Praetorian Guards arrive and some fool starts a massacre.'

'No! Not before I find Lavinia!'

'Lavinia? What the fuck for? Thought that bitch was working with Vitellius! '

'I'm not leaving her, sir.'

'Find her later. Now let's go.'

'No!' Cato tore himself free and thrust his way towards the place he had seen Lavinia struggling with Vitellius. With no thought to the people around him, Cato forced his way through. Behind him he heard Macro calling out his name, angrily shouting at him to get out of the hall. Then a woman directly in front of him shrieked and through the crowd he saw Vitelli us, drenched in blood and holding a knife that dripped crimson. He met Cato's eyes and frowned. Then, glancing around at the terrified faces hemming him in, Vitellius smiled once at Cato and backed away towards the Emperor's bodyguards, where he let the blade drop and raised his hands. Claudius saw him, and instantly rushed over to take him by the hands, face beaming with gratitude.

Cato continued to push forward, fighting to catch sight of Lavinia.

His foot snagged on something and he almost tripped. Looking down he saw that it had caught on a fold of tunic. The tunic was wrapped about the still form of a woman lying on the floor, in a spreading puddle of blood that matted the long tresses of dark hair. Cato felt a chill wave of horror sweep through his body.

'Lavinia?'

The tightly packed mob heaved and pressed in all around as Cato knelt down beside the body and lifted the hair away from the face with a trembling hand. Lavinia's lifeless eyes were open, pupils large and dark, her mouth slightly open to reveal white teeth. Below her chin, her throat had been cut so deeply that bone was just visible beneath the severed tendons and arteries.

'Oh no… No!'

'Cato!' Macro bellowed into his ear as he finally broke through to his optio. 'Come… Oh shit.'

For a brief moment neither man moved, then Macro snapped back into action and viciously hauled Cato to his feet. 'She's dead. Dead, you understand me?'

Cato nodded.

'We must go. Now!'

Cato allowed himself to be hauled through the panicking crowd by Macro who kicked and thrust people aside in his desperation to get them both out of the hall before the Praetorian Guards added to the mayhem. 'Quick!' Macro grabbed Cato' s arm and pulled him towards the nearest side entrance. 'Through here!'

Hardly aware of what was going on, Cato felt himself being pushed out of the hall, and the last image to burn itself on his mind was the sight of the Emperor clasping Vitellius to his arms as his saviour.

Lavinia was dead and Vitellius was a hero. Lavinia was dead, murdered by Vitellius.

Cato reached for his dagger. His fingers encountered the handle and closed round it tightly.

'No!' Macro growled harshly into his ear. 'No, Cato! It isn't worth it! '

Macro dragged him away from the shouting and screaming mob, and thrust him through the small side door.

Outside the building Macro pulled Cato into the shadows as the first Praetorians charged into the hall and began to round up the slaves. Screams and cries rose into the air.

Cato tipped his head back against the rough stone wall. Far above, undisturbed and unconcerned by the miserable details of human existence, lay the heavens in a placid scatter of glittering stars. But they looked so cold, colder even than the vice-like grip of despair that clenched his heart and crushed any will to live.

'Come on, lad.'

Cato opened his eyes, blinking away the tears. Above him, black against the stars, loomed Macro, hand outstretched. For a moment Cato just wanted to stay there, to be discovered with his knife by the Praetorians and be swiftly put out of his misery.

'She's dead, Cato. You're still alive. That's the way it is! Now come!' Cato allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. With a gentle shove Macro pushed him away from the hall and back towards the safety of the camp of the Second Legion.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Some days later the Emperor left the island to return to Rome. Narcissus had received word that, in Claudius' absence, some of the senators had begun to mutter about the Emperor's suitability for the job. Left much longer, such muttering might well become more vocal. The time was ripe for a return to the capital. Without any delay the fleet was summoned upriver to Camulodunum and the imperial baggage was hastily stowed below decks. A long line of warships was moored along the crude quayside and sweating slaves scurried to and fro across the gangplanks, driven on by the Emperor's stewards wielding their canes with their usual lack of restraint.

Not all of the imperial entourage was quitting Britain. Flavia, and some of the other officers' wives, had been given leave to spend the autumn and winter with their husbands before returning to Rome at the start of the next campaign season. Flavia was not looking forward to spending yet another freezing winter on the harsh northern fringe of the empire. Britain was no place to give birth to the child she was carrying. She had half hoped that Vespasian might decline her offer and send her back to Rome with Titus. But he had insisted that she stay with him, pointing out that she should not be travelling in her condition. Privately he wanted to keep her away from the dangerous political intrigues of Rome, and beyond the influence of the Liberators.

The morning of the official departure dawned with a clear sky and a light breeze. In the cool air and pale light, the men of the Second Legion rose early from their dew-drenched tents to snatch a quick breakfast and prepare themselves for the day's ceremonies. The Second had been given the honour of escorting the Emperor from the camp, through Camulodunum, to the quay where he would board his flagship. Full ceremonial dress was to be worn and stiff red horsehair helmet crests had been issued to all the men. Every item of equipment had to be spotless and the centurions made a thorough inspection of the men in their centuries before marching them off to the parade ground where the legion was forming up.