The Eagles Conquest

Vespasian considered them for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

A few days ago the centurion, the optio and a small party of Macro's hand-picked men had been sent on a secret mission. They had been tasked with retrieving a pay chest that Julius Caesar had been forced to abandon in a marsh close to the coast nearly a hundred years earlier. The Second Legion's senior tribune, a smooth patrician named Vitellius, had decided to seize the pay chest for himself and, with a gang of horse archers he had bribed, had fallen on Macro's men amid the mists of the marsh. Thanks to the fighting skills of the centurion, Vitellius had failed and fled the scene. But the fates seemed to favour the tribune; he had come across a column of Britons trying to outflank the Roman advance and had been able to warn the legions of the danger just in time. As a result of the subsequent victory, Vitellius was now something of a hero. Those who knew the truth about Vitellius' treachery felt disgust at the praise that was showered on the senior tribune.

'I'm afraid I can't press any charges against Tribune Vitellius. I've only your word to go on, and that isn't enough.'

Macro bristled with barely contained rage.

'Centurion, I know the type of man he is. You say he tried to have you and your men killed when I sent you after the pay chest. That mission was secret, quite secret. I suspect that only you, me and the lad there knew about the chest's contents. And Vitellius of course. Even now it is still sealed, and on its way back to Rome under heavy guard, and the fewer who know about the gold it contains the better. That's the way the Emperor wants to keep things. No one will thank us for exposing this in court if charges are bought against Vitellius. In addition, you might not be aware that his father is a close friend of the Emperor. Do I need to say more?'

Macro pursed his lips and shook his head.

Vespasian let his words sink in, well understanding the expression of resignation settling on the faces of the centurion and his optio. It was too bad that Vitellius should be the one to emerge from the situation smelling of roses, but that was typical of the tribune's luck. That man was destined for high office, and the fates would let nothing stand in his way. And there was far more behind his treachery than Vespasian could ever let these two men know. Besides his duties as a tribune, Vitellius was also an imperial spy in the service of Narcissus, the Emperor's chief secretary. If Narcissus ever came to know he had been fooled by Vitellius, the tribune's life would be forfeit. But Narcissus would never find out from the lips of Vespasian. Vitellius had seen to that. While gathering information on the loyalty of the officers and men of the Second Legion, Vitellius had uncovered the identity of a conspirator involved in a plot to overthrow the new Emperor.

Flavia Domitilla, the wife of Vespasian.

For the moment, then, a stand-off existed between Vitellius and Vespasian; both had information that could fatally wound the other if it ever came to the ears of Narcissus.

Aware that he must have been staring vacantly at his subordinates for some time, Vespasian quickly turned his mind to the other reason he had summoned Macro and Cato.

'Centurion, there is something that should cheer you up.' Vespasian reached to the side of the table and picked up a small bundle wrapped in silk. Carefully unfolding the silk, Vespasian revealed a gold torc which he gazed at momentarily before holding it up in the dim light of the oil lamps. 'Recognise it, Centurion?'

Macro looked a moment, then shook his head. 'Sorry, sir.'

'I'm not surprised. You probably had other things on your mind when you first saw this,' Vespasian said with a wry smile. 'It's the torc of a chief of the Britons. It used to be the property of one Togodumnus, fortunately no longer with us.'

Macro laughed, suddenly recalling the torc as it had been, worn round the neck of the huge warrior he had killed in single combat a few days earlier.

'Here!' Vespasian tossed the torc and Macro, caught by surprise, fielded it awkwardly. 'A small token of the legion's gratitude. It comes out of my share of the spoils. You deserve that, Centurion. You won it, so wear it with honour.'

'Yes, sir,' Macro replied as he examined the tore. Plaited bands of gold gleamed in the wavering light, and each end curled back on itself round a large ruby that sparkled like a blood-soaked star. Strange swirling designs had been worked into the gold surrounding the rubies. Macro felt the weight of the tore and made a rough calculation of its value. His eyes widened as he registered the significance of the legate's gesture.

'Sir, I don't know how to thank you for this.'

Vespasian waved a hand. 'Then don't. As I said, you deserve it. As for you, Optio, I have nothing to give except my thanks.'

Cato coloured, his lips thinning into a bitter expression. The legate couldn't help laughing at the young man.

'It's true I may not have anything of value to give you. But someone else has, or had, rather.' 'Sir?'

'You're aware that Chief Centurion Bestia has died of his wounds?' 'Yes, sir.'

'Last night, before he lost consciousness, he made a verbal will in front of witnesses. He asked that I be his executor.'

'A verbal will?' Cato frowned.

'As long as there are witnesses, any soldier can state verbally how his camp property is to be disposed of in the event of his death. It's a custom rather than a rule enshrined in law. It seems that Bestia wanted you to have certain items of his property.'

'Me!' Cato exclaimed. 'He wanted me to have something, sir?' 'Apparently.'

'But why on earth? He couldn't stand the sight of me.'

'Bestia said he'd seen you fight like a veteran, with no armour, just helmet and shield. Going at it just as he had taught you. He told me he had been wrong about you. He'd thought you a fool and a coward. He learned otherwise, and wanted you to know he was proud of the way you'd turned out.'

'He said that, sir?' 'Precisely that, son.'

Cato opened his mouth, but no words came. He could not believe this; it seemed impossible. To have misjudged someone so completely. To have assumed that they were irredeemably bad and incapable of positive sentiment.

'What did he want me to have, sir?'

'Find out for yourself, son,' replied Vespasian. 'Bestia's body is still in the hospital tent, with his personal effects. The surgeon's assistant knows what to give you. We'll burn Bestia's body at dawn. You're dismissed. '

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Four

Outside, Cato whistled with astonishment at the prospect of Bestia's bequest. But the centurion was paying little attention to his optio; he fingered the torc, relishing its considerable weight. They walked towards the hospital tent in silence until Macro looked up at the tall figure of the optio.

'Well, well. Wonder what Bestia's left for you.'

Cato coughed, clearing the tightness in his throat. 'No idea, sir.'

'I had no inkling the old boy had it in him to make that kind of gesture. Never heard of him doing anything like this the entire time I've served with the eagles. Guess you must have made quite an impression after all'

'I suppose so, sir. But I can hardly believe it.'

Macro thought about it a moment, and then shook his head. 'Neither can I. No offence meant or anything but, well, you just weren't his idea of a soldier. Must admit, it took me a while to work out there was more to you than a beanpole bookworm. You just don't have the look of a soldier about you.'

'No, sir,' came the sullen reply. 'I'll try and look the part from now on.'

'Don't worry about it, lad. I know you're a killer, through and through, even if you don't know it. Seen you in action, haven't I?"

Cato winced at the word 'killer'. That was the last thing he wanted to be known as. A soldier, yes, that word had some measure of civilised credibility. Obviously being a soldier entailed the possibility of killing but that, Cato told himself, was incidental to the essence of the profession. Killers, on the other hand, were just brutes with few, if any, values. Those barbarians who lived in the shadows of the great German forests were killers. They slaughtered for the sheer hell of it, as their endless, petty tribal conflicts illustrated all too well. Rome may have had civil wars in its past, Cato reminded himself, but under the order imposed by the emperors the threat of internal conflict had all but passed. The Roman army fought with a moral purpose: the extension of civilised values to the benighted savages who lived on the fringes of the empire.