The Eagles Conquest

Vespasian laughed, and spontaneously reached over to kiss his wife on the cheek. She accepted the kiss with a surprised expression.

'Sorry. Didn't mean to shock you,' Vespasian said. 'It was just that, for a moment there, it felt like old times.'

'It needn't feel otherwise, husband. If you would not treat me so coldly.'

'Coldly,' Vespasian repeated and met her gaze. 'I don't feel cold towards you. I have never loved you more than now.' He leaned closer to her, and continued softly, 'But I feel I don't really know you. Not since I was told about your involvement with the Liberators.'

Flavia took his hand and grasped it firmly. 'I've told you all you need to know. I've told you I have no connection with those people. None at all.'

'Now maybe. But before?'

Flavia smiled sadly before she responded in a quiet, clear voice, 'I have no connection with them now. That's all I can tell you. To say any more would endanger you, and maybe Titus… and the other child.'

'Other child?' Vespasian frowned before the sestertius dropped. He stopped chewing the pastry, breathed in to reply, and promptly started choking on the pastry crumbs. His face went red as he coughed frantically to try and clear his throat. Heads began to turn, and at the table of honour Claudius looked up, watched the spectacle and looked down at his food in tenor. Narcissus rushed over to reassure him and quickly nibbled at one of the mushrooms on Claudius' plate.

Flavia was thumping her husband on the back, trying to dislodge the blockage, until finally Vespasian started breathing again, eyes watering, and caught Flavia's hands to stop the beating.

'I'm all right. I'm all right.'

'I thought you were dying!' Flavia was on the verge of tears, then suddenly she laughed at them both, and the other diners relaxed again. 'What on earth got into you!'

'The baby,' Vespasian managed to say before having to cough. 'You're expecting another child?'

'Yes,' Flavia replied with a smile, before sending Lavinia to fetch some water for her husband.

Vespasian, still red-faced, leaned over and wrapped his arms round his wife, burying his face in her shoulder and neck. 'When did you conceive?'

'Back in Gaul, shortly before we arrived in Gesoriacum. Over four months ago. The baby's due early next year.'

'Vespasian!' Claudius called out above the hubbub of conversation, which abruptly died away, 'I say, V-V-Vespasian!'

Vespasian released his wife and quickly turned round. 'Caesar?' 'Are you all right?'

'Quite all right, Caesar.' He turned to smile at his wife. 'Marvellous, in fact.'

'Well, you don't look it. You seemed to be on the verge of croaking just a m-m-moment ago! Lucky escape for me, I was thinking – someone poisoned you by mistake.'

'No poison, Caesar. I've just learned I'm going to have another child.'

Flavia blushed and gazed down at her hands with becoming modesty.

Caesar reached for his gold wine cup and raised it in their direction.

'A toast! May the next Flavian to be born live to serve his Emperor with as much distinction as his father, and uncle of course.' Claudius nodded towards Sabinus, who smiled weakly. The rest of the guests in the brightly lit great hall of the Catuvellauni chorused the toast and Vespasian bowed his head in thanks. But the Emperor's light-hearted mention of assassination brought back Vespasian's fears over what Adminius had told him, and he glanced round the hall, eyeing the British contingent suspiciously. Venutius, the elders of the Trinovantes, and a score of other natives sat in self-conscious discomfort not far from the Emperor's right hand.

'What's keeping that wretched girl Lavinia?' Flavia muttered as she glanced round the hall. 'She was only supposed to go and get you a glass of water… '

A pungent aroma of spices and the richer undercurrent of sauces and cooked meats filled Cato's nostrils as he and Macro entered the open kitchen area at the back of the great hall. Huge cauldrons simmered over cooking fires tended by sweating slaves, while the cooks laboured over long trestle tables, preparing the plethora of dishes required at an imperial banquet.

'What now?' Cato whispered. 'Just follow my lead.'

The centurion marched up to the timber-framed door leading into the side of the great hall. A burly palace slave in a purple tunic held up a hand at their approach.

'Out of my way!' Macro snapped.

'Stop!' the slave responded firmly. 'No entry without authorisation.' 'Authorisation?' Macro glared back. 'Who says I need authorisation, slave?'

'Only kitchen slaves come through here. Try the main entrance to the hall.'

'Says who?'

'My orders, sir. Straight from Narcissus himself.'

'Narcissus eh?' Macro stepped closer, and lowered his voice. 'We have to see the legate of the Second right now.'

'Not without authorisation, sir.'

'OK then, you want see my authorisation?' Macro reached into his purse with his left hand, and the moment the slave's eyes followed the gesture the centurion piled in a skull-shattering uppercut with his right. The slave's jaw snapped back and he dropped like a sack of stones. Macro shook his hand as he gazed down at the crumpled form at his feet. 'How's that for authorisation, you dumb shit?'

The kitchen slaves were nervously watching the centurion.

'Back to work!' Macro shouted. 'Now! Before you get the same treatment as him. '

For a moment there was no reaction, and Macro took a few paces towards the nearest group of cooks, slowly drawing his sword. At once they returned to their work. Macro glowered round, daring any of the others to challenge him until all the cooks turned back to their duties.

'Come on, Cato,' Macro said quietly and ducked through the door into the great hall. Cato followed him into the shadows behind a stone buttress. A warm fug wrapped itself round them.

'Stay back,' Macro ordered. 'I need to check the lie of the land.' Macro peered round the buttress. The huge space was lit by countless oil lamps and tallow candles fixed to vast timber crosspieces hanging from pulleys up in the dim rafters high above. In their amber glow hundreds of guests were ranged along dining couches on three sides of the hall. Before them lay tables heaped with the best cuisine that the imperial cooks could provide. Loud conversation and laughter overwhelmed the Greek singers battling to be heard from a dais behind the top table, where the Emperor reclined alone. In the space between the tables a bear was chained to a bolt in the floor. It snarled and swiped at a pack of hairy hunting dogs that darted around and snapped whenever the bear presented an unguarded quarter. With a shrill yelp one of the slower dogs was caught by a paw, and flew through the air to crash into a table. Food, plates, cups and wine exploded into the air while a female guest shrieked in horror at the blood that splattered across her pale blue stola.

As the roars of support for the bear died down, Macro turned his gaze to the British contingent sitting to one side of the Emperor. Most of the Britons had succumbed to the Celtic weakness for drink and were being loud and gauche as they cheered on the beast fight. A few, however, were sitting quietly, picking at their food and gazing at the spectacle with barely concealed contempt. On the couch nearest the Emperor sat a young Briton, chewing on a small plaited loaf, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him, quite outside the prevailing mood of the banquet.

'There's our man – Bellonius, I'd say.' Macro waved Cato round and pointed. 'See him?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Think we should rush him?'

'No, sir. We've no proof any more. We have to try and speak to the legate, or Narcissus.'

'The freedman is standing in his master's shadow, but I can't see the legate yet.'

'Over there.' Cato nodded directly across the hall. Vespasian's head was turned away from them as he kissed his wife. Behind them stood Lavinia, laughing happily as she watched the tormented bear. A simmering mixture of jealous loathing and remembered affection bubbled up from the pit of Cato' s stomach. Lavinia looked to one side and smiled. Following her gaze, Cato saw Vitellius sitting with a group of staff officers opposite the Britons. The tribune was looking over his shoulder and smiling back at Lavinia, causing Cato to clench his fists and press his lips together in a thin line.