The Eagles Conquest

'Pretty enough, my dear.' Flavia reached over and deftly flicked the crumbs from her handmaid's stola. 'But they're only snacks when all is said and done. One shouldn't be too concerned with appearances. It's the essence of a thing that matters. Isn't that right, Cato?'

'Yes, my lady.' Cato nodded, wondering why Flavia was attempting to warn him off Lavinia. 'But since the essence of a thing is a matter of conjecture, might we not be better off simply judging by appearances, my lady?'

'Think that if you will.' Flavia shrugged, unimpressed by his glib sophistry. 'But life will be a harsh teacher if you persist in such a view.' Cato nodded. He disagreed with her but was keen not to risk disturbing the happy ambience of their reunion. 'Might I have some more wine, my lady?'

Flavia gestured towards his cup and a slave with a decanter hurried from the shadows at the rear of the tent. Cato held out his cup and the slave quickly refilled it and stepped back discreetly, as still and silent as before.

'I wouldn't drink too much of that,' Lavinia said with a cheeky smile, and nudged Cato gently in the ribs.

'To you, my lady.' Cato raised his cup. 'To you, and your husband.' Flavia nodded graciously, and then leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the young optio. 'And is the legate enjoying a successful campaign?'

Cato paused before he replied. The campaign was undoubtedly a success as things stood, but he was still too close to the experience of how it had been won by the rank and file of the legions to feel much sense of triumph. Any success that future historians might lightly allude to when writing about the invasion of this island would never acknowledge the pain, blood, filth and soul-numbing exhaustion it had cost. A vivid image of Pyrax being cut down as he struggled to free himself from the mud flashed into Cato's mind. He knew that historians would regard the death of Pyrax as a pitifully insignificant detail unworthy of a place in history.

'Yes, my lady,' Cato said carefully. 'The legate has won his share of the glory. The Second has acquitted itself well enough.'

'Maybe. But I'm afraid the plebs want heroism, not competency.' Cato smiled bitterly. His newly acquired status as a Roman citizen technically ranked him as one of the plebeians that Flavia spoke of with such contempt. Yet the accusation was valid enough.

'The Second has proved itself in every battle it has fought in. You can be proud of your husband. And it's not as if the Britons aren't being helped.'

'No?'

'No, my lady. Time and again we've found that the Britons are using Roman slingshot and swords.'

'Did they capture them from our men?'

'Hardly. We've won every fight so far, they've not had any pickings from the battlefield. Someone must be supplying them.'

'Someone? Who do you mean?'

'I have no idea, my lady. All I know is that the legate is investigating the matter and said he'd report it to the general.'

'I see.' Flavia nodded thoughtfully, and twitched the hem of her gown.

Without looking up she continued, 'Now then, I expect you two might want to catch up on a few matters. It's a lovely night for a walk. A long walk, I should think.'

Lavinia grasped his hand as she quickly stood up, and gave him a sharp tug. Cato rose, and dipped his head in a bow to Flavia. 'It's good to see you again, my lady.'

'And you, Cato.'

Lavinia led the way to the tent fiap. Just before they disappeared outside, Flavia called out after them, 'Enjoy yourselves, while you can.'

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It was just before dawn and a milky grey mist had risen from the Channel. It hung about the depot gate like a clammy shroud, illuminated by the close glow of dying torches on the sentry walk. The men were quiet, shuffling in their assigned unit columns, their subdued conversation punctuated by occasional coughs in lungs unaccustomed to the damp air of the island. A long day's march lay ahead of them. They had been fed on quickly heated porridge that felt like a stone inside them now.

For nearly all of them a new life awaited in a legion they might have only heard of before, whose men would regard them with no more than grudging acceptance for the next few months, until they had proved themselves better than their reserve legion status implied. For some the transition to a combat unit would be smooth enough, having been sent to the Eighth from one of the frontier legions. In preparation for the invasion of Britain, the imperial general staff had pulled veteran cohorts out of those legions facing quiescent barbarians, and marched them to Gaul for temporary attachment to the Eighth.

The older men who had hoped for a peaceful end to their career under the eagles were naturally resentful to find themselves drawn into the decisive phase of this year's campaign. They were no longer as fit and quick as they had once been, and so the odds of surviving the coming battles were not encouraging.

Then there were the young men, recent recruits, fresh out of training and more afraid of their officers than any enemy. In brightly polished segmented armour, the cost of which would be subtracted from their meagre pay for many years yet, wearing tunics whose red dye had not yet begun to fade, and with sword grips not yet worn smooth from frequent handling, they were keen to get stuck in, and develop the easyygoing swagger of the veterans.

'All present?' asked Macro as he strode up to Cato, fastening the strap of his helmet.

'Yes, sir.'

'Then let's get going.' Macro turned to the head of the dimly visible column and shouted, 'Fall in!'

The ranks quickly formed up into marching order, four abreast. 'Column ready!… Forward march!'

Even the rawest recruit amongst them had undergone enough drilling to respond instantly to the word of command and the column moved as one into the standard marching step. The noise of boots crunching on the chalky soil was softened by the damp air. With Cato at his side, Macro waited for the advance guard to pass before taking his place at the head of the main body. As they passed out of the depot gate, Cato twisted his head round and gazed up at the sentry walk, running his eyes along the dark outline of the palisade until he saw Lavinia. He quickly raised a hand so that she could pick him out, and his heart lifted when her arm rose in reply.

'I take it you didn't get much sleep then?'

'No, sir.' Cato turned back. 'None at all.'

'Good for you, lad!' Macro nudged him, but Cato was past being offended by his centurion's bluntness. 'Feel better for it? I find a quick roll in the hay leaves me feeling fresh as a daisy.'

'It wasn't that quick, sir.' Cato yawned before he could stop himself. 'I see. Well, you'd better not drop off on the march. Do that and I'll leave you to the tender mercies of the Britons.'

The march back to the legion took them along the route by which the army had advanced only a few weeks before. The engineers had been very busy in the meantime. The land on each side of the track had been cleared of undergrowth and any possible concealment for enemy forces, and the brow of every hill and every ford was now protected by a small fort manned by auxiliaries. The column of replacements overtook heavy supply wagons hauling food and equipment up to the legions. In the opposite direction trundled empty wagons returning from the front, heading for the depot to load up for the next round trip. It was part of the relentless Roman efficiency that would ensure that the advance on Camulodunum would take place with its legions properly armed and well-fed.

When they next took to the field, the legions would be led by the Emperor in person, accompanied by his elite Praetorian cohorts and the vast lumbering elephants that would be driven into the enemy ranks and trample huge swathes through their lines. Cato could almost bring himself to feel sorry for the natives. But not quite. Not after the dread and despair of the recent battles. What he wanted now was a swift end to the campaign. A single crushing blow that would utterly break the will of the Britons to resist the inevitable. If Caratacus and his army could be comprehensively crushed, surely the other tribes would realise there was no point in any further resistance. The island would become a province one day, there was no doubt of that. Not now the Emperor was here. No matter hmv many legions, or elephants, it took, the Britons would be forced to their knees. Cato promised himself, when it was all over, he would find a way to be with Lavinia again.