The Eagles Conquest

'You've made your peace, Optio,' the senior surgeon said quietly as he re-entered the tent a while later. 'Now I'm afraid we must take over. In this heat we have to see that bodies are dealt with as quickly as possible.'

Cato nodded and moved off to one side of the tent as the senior surgeon waved in a pair of medical orderlies. With an efficiency born of regular grim practice, the medics straightened the body out and began removing all the clothes and personal effects.

'You don't have to stay and watch if you don't want to,' said the semor surgeon.

'I'm all right, sir. Really.'

'As you wish. I'm afraid I have to go. I've other duties to see to. I'm sorry I couldn't save your friend,' the senior surgeon added gently. 'You did your best, sir.'

The orderlies were busy stripping away the clothes, separating out those that were free of blood and could be re-used. The rest were placed aside for disposal. The wound had stopped bleeding now that the heart beat no more. The smear of blood on the surrounding skin was quickly sluiced away with a bucket of water. One of the orderlies began to unravel the bandage wound round Nisus' left knee. Suddenly he stopped, craning his head forward to look more closely.

'Hello. That's odd,' he muttered.

'What's odd?' replied his companion as he removed the boots. 'There's nothing under this bandage. No injury, not even a scratch.' 'Course there is, people don't just wear bandages for fun.'

'No, I'm telling you there's nothing here. Just these strange marks.' Curiosity got the better of Cato's grief and he came over to see what was causing the mild commotion. 'What's the problem?'

'Here, Optio. Look at this.' The orderly handed him the bandages. 'Not a scratch on his leg but some strange black marks on that bandage.'

Cato went over to the side of the tent where a rough bench had been erected and slowly sat down, gazing at the curious lines and curves on one side of the cloth. He could make no sense of them. He tucked the bandage inside his tunic, deciding that it needed closer inspection by daylight.

He looked up at the body on the table. Nisus' face was serene and restful now that the strain of dying was over. What had he been up to these last few days?

Cato became aware of a new presence in the tent. Tribune Vitellius had entered so quietly that no one had noticed. He stood in the shadows by the tent flap and gazed at the body. For a moment he did not notice Cato and the optio could see anxiety and frustration playing across the tribune's face. Anxiety and frustration – but not grief. Then Vitellius saw him and frowned.

'What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on duty.'

'I brought Nisus in, sir.'

'What happened to him?'

'One of my sentries caught him trying to cross our lines. He didn't answer the challenge, and when he made a run for it the sentry took him down with a javelin.'

'That's bad luck,' Vitellius muttered, and then more loudly, 'Very bad luck. We didn't get a chance to interrogate him and find out what he's been playing at since he disappeared from the camp. Did he have a chance to say anything before the end?'

'Nothing that made any sense, sir.'

'I see,' the tribune said quietly. He sounded almost relieved. 'Well, you'd best get back to your unit, straight away.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato stood up and exchanged salutes with the tribune.

Outside the sweltering heat of the tent, the air felt cool and moist; dawn was not far off. Cato marched towards the gate, keen to get away from Vitellius as quickly as possible.

Inside the tent, Vitellius made his way over to the body, now being rubbed down with scented oils by the two orderlies, ready for cremation. The tribune ran his eyes over Nisus before turning to his clothes and carefully sifting through them.

'Looking for something, sir?'

'No, just wondering if you'd found anything… unusual on him.'

'No, sir, nothing out of the ordinary.'

'I see.' Vitellius scratched his chin and scrutinised the orderly's expression. 'Well, if you do find anything unusual, anything at all, bring it to me immediately.'

After the tribune had left, the other orderly turned to his mate. 'Why didn't you tell him about the bandage?'

'What bandage?'

'The one that we found on him.'

'Well, it ain't here now. Besides,' the orderly paused to spit into the corner of the tent, 'I don't get involved in anything that involves officers. I tell him about the bandage and immediately I'm involved in something. Get it?'

'Too right.'

Chapter Forty-Four

At dawn the watches at the forts changed and Cato led his half-century back down the slope to the camp. The strain of the night watch was over, and the men were looking forward to spending the day resting, especially as the army would soon be on the move. All the rigours of marching with fully loaded yokes and packs, constructing marching camps and eating endless meals of millet porridge would begin again.

Although the clear sky promised another perfect day, Cato could not share their light mood this morning. Nisus was dead. Warfare was wasteful enough of human life without adding to its toll by accident. What made the death of Nisus even harder to bear were the mysterious circumstances of his earlier disappearance. If he had been killed in battle then that would have been sad but not unexpected. But something was very wrong about this death, and his recent actions made Calo suspicious. He needed to know more, and right now the only clue he had was the strangely marked bandage tucked inside his tunic. He firmly believed that the solution to the mystery somehow lay with Vitellius. The tribune had worked on Nisus, changed him and made him complicit in whatever treachery Vitellius might be planning.

Cato had to speak to someone. Someone he could trust, who would take his suspicions seriously. Macro might ridicule his fears, or just as easily charge in with some formal complaint against the tribune. It had to be someone else.. Lavinia. Of course. He would find her, take her to some peaceful place away from the camp, and open his heart to her.

He stripped off his armour and weapons, scrubbed the dried splashes of blood from his face and hands, and put on a fresh tunic.

As he crossed the bridge, he noted the frantic activity of the camp on the south bank; the army was preparing to move on to the offensive. Cato had to pick his way through the massed baggage of the imperial entourage and the Praetorian Guard. Unlike the camp on the other bank, this one was filled with a sense of eager anticipation, as if the army was about to lay on a spectacular military display rather than go out and fight a determined and dangerous enemy. The wagons of the imperial court were heaped with expensive furniture that had never been designed to leave the luxurious boudoirs of Rome and had suffered a battering as a result. There were huge chests of clothes, musical instruments, ornamental dinner services, and a plethora of other luxuries all attended by expensive household slaves who travelled badly. The wagons of the Praetorian Guard cohorts were piled high with ceremonial uniforms and equipment, in readiness for the Emperor's spectacular victory celebration at Camulodunum.

Cato threaded his way out of the wagon park and headed for the enclosure used by the Emperor's entourage. A large gate connected it to the main camp, although only one of the large timber doors was open. The gate was manned by a dozen Praetorians in campaign whites and full armour. As Cato approached the open door, the guards on either side crossed their spears.

'Purpose of your visit?'

'To see a friend. Handmaid to the Lady Flavia Domitilla.'