The Eagles Conquest

'So, what are you suggesting, Centurion? That the Albini are moonlighting on an imperial arms contract?'

'Doubt it, sir.' The grievous penalties for such an act made this very unlikely. The centurion shrugged, then continued in a meaningful tone, 'But if not the manufacturers, then it has to be someone further down the line.'

'You mean someone in the army, or in the civil service?'

'Maybe.'

Vespasian looked at him. 'That's as far as you want to pursue the matter, I presume.'

'I'm a soldier, sir,' the centurion replied firmly. 'I do what I'm ordered to do, and I'll fight who I have to. This is nothing to do with soldiering. It stinks of politics and plots, sir.'

'Meaning you think I should be the one to look into it.'

'Goes with the rank, sir.'

The reference to rank implied social class as well as military title, and Vespasian had to bite back the bitter retort that had been his first response. The centurion was speaking no more than the truth. The man had served for most of his life under the eagles and no doubt had a healthy disdain for the deviousness of the political class from which the legions' legates were drawn. Vespasian, peculiarly driven to win the acceptance and admiration of those under his command, was wounded by the professional soldier's slight. He had hoped to have won their trust by now, but some of the men clearly still had their misgivings. Today's fiasco in the marsh had been the result of orders received from the general, but it would be the legate the soldiers blamed first.

There was nothing to be done about this. It would be an unconscionable display of personal weakness to explain to any of his subordinates the limits of his authority, that he was compelled to obey orders, just as they were. High command placed a man at the heart of an irresolvable dilemma. To his general he was responsible for the actions of his men. To the men he was responsible for the orders he was compelled to pass on to them. No excuses would be tolerated by either side, and any attempt at self-justification would arouse only humiliating contempt and disgust from superiors and subordinates alike.

'Then see to it then, Centurion. You're dismissed.'

The centurion nodded his satisfaction, saluted and strode off back to his men, Vespasian watched him disappear into the gloom, reproaching himself for letting the man witness his distraction. He must be stoical about such things. Besides, there was a far more important issue to be considered. Far more important than the self-pity of a legate, he chided himself. The presence of these swords and the earlier discovery of army issue slingshot amongst the ammunition used by the Britons formed a disturbing pattern. The odd weapon might be accounted for by the looting of dead Romans but what the centurion had told him indicated something more. Someone was supplying the enemy with arms that had been destined for the legions. Someone with money, and a network of agents to handle the movement of substantial cargoes. But who?

'This will do nicely,' Vitellius said to the decurion. 'We'll rest here for a moment. You can water the horses.'

The column of prisoners and their mounted guards had reached a point on the track where it dipped into a small copse beside a narrow stream.

'Here, sir'?' The decurion glanced about at the dark undergrowth hemming them in. He continued as tactfully as he could. 'Do you think that's wise, sir'?' Ordinarily no officer in his right mind would ever consider stopping a column of prisoners in surroundings that were so conducive to escape.

'Do you think it's wise to question my order?' Vitellius replied curtly. The decurion quickly turned in his saddle and filled his lungs. 'Column – halt!'

He ordered the prisoners to sit and arranged for the guards to see to their horses in a hurried rota, while Vitellius dismounted and tethered his beast to a tree stump at the head of a trail that ran alongside the stream.

'Decurion!'

'Sir'?' The decurion trotted back towards the stream.

'Get me that chieftain again. I fancy it's time I tried having another quiet word with him.'

'Sir'?'

'You've been warned about questioning my orders, Decurion,' Vitellius said coldly. 'Once more, and you won't forget it. Now get me that man, and tend to your other duties.'

The gaudily attired Briton was hauled to his feet and thrust towards the tribune. He stared at the Roman officer with an arrogant sneer. Vitellius stared back, then suddenly whipped the back of his hand across the Briton's face. The man's head snapped to one side, and when he brought his face forward once again, a dark trickle of blood, black in the moonlight, was dripping from a cut lip.

'Roman,' he muttered in a coarse accent. 'If I ever get rid of these chains… '

'You won't,' sneered Vitellius. 'Consider them an extension of your body, for whatever is left of your life.' He struck the prisoner again, slamming his fist into the man's midriff, causing him to double over and gasp for air.

'I don't think he's going to cause me any trouble now, Decurion. Continue watering the horses until we get back.' 'Back from… Yes, sir.'

Vitellius grasped the leather thongs between Briton's iron wrist collars and roughly hauled him down the trail, dragging him savagely when he stumbled. When they had turned a corner and were out of sight and earshot of the prisoner column, Vitellius stopped and pulled the man upright.

'You can stop the acting now, I didn't hit you that hard.'

'Hard enough, Roman,' the Briton grunted. 'And if we ever meet again, you'll pay for that blow.'

'Then I must make sure we don't meet again,' replied Vitellius, and drew his dagger. He raised the tip so that it was poised barely a finger's breadth from the Briton's throat. The Briton showed no sign of fear, merely a cold contempt for an enemy who would do such an unmanly thing as threaten a bound prisoner. Vitellius sniffed at the other's expression. Then the blade dropped and he sawed briefly at the thongs until they parted. He stepped back from the freed Briton.

'You're sure you remember the message?'

'Yes.'

'Good. I'll send a man to you when I'm ready. Now then.' Vitellius flicked the dagger and caught it by the blade, handle towards the other man. 'Make it look good.'

The Briton took the knife and slowly smiled, then suddenly smashed the tribune in the face with his spare hand. With a grunt the tribune dropped to his knees, only to be hauled up, spun round and have the tip of the blade jabbed into the small of his back.

'Easy there!' he whispered.

'This has to look convincing, remember?'

With one arm locked round the tribune's throat and the other holding the dagger to the back of his erstwhile captor, the Briton pushed him back up the trail towards the column. As soon as the decurion was aware of his superior's plight, he scrambled to his feet.

'To arms!'

'Hold back!' Vitellius managed to choke out. 'Or he'll kill me!'

The decurion waved his arms at the cavalrymen rushing up with spears levelled for action. 'Stop! He's got the tribune.'

'The horse!' shouted the British chieftain. 'Get me his horse. Now! Or he dies,'

Vitellius yelped as the point bit into his flesh. At the sound the decurion hurried across to the horse and untethered it, offering the reins to the Briton.

The other Britons had risen to their feet at the sight of the confrontation and were surging forward for a better view, some shouting encouragement.

'Get them back on the ground!' bellowed the decurion and after a moment of hesitation the cavalrymen herded their prisoners back.

The chieftain didn't waste the chance, With a kick and a thrust he hurled Vitellius on top of the decurion, grabbed the reins and leaped onto the horse. He folded low on the animal's back and with a savage kick spurred it back down the trail. By the time the decurion had returned to his feet, the Briton had rounded the corner and was gone, only the fading sound of the horse's hoof beats lingering. The other Britons cheered.