The Eagles Prey

'The general will see you now, sir.'

Vespasian turned towards the clerk, forcing himself to withdraw from thoughts of death that hung like a black mantle across the world outside the tent. He turned and ducked through the gap in the linen curtain the clerk held open for him. Inside, a few clerks still worked at their desks, even though it was the middle of the night. They did not look up as Vespasian was led towards another flap at the rear of the tent, and he wondered if they already knew something about his fate. He was cross with himself for entertaining such thoughts. These men were just busy, that was all. Nothing could have been decided yet. The clerk pulled back the curtain and Vespasian stepped into another, smaller, section of the tent. In the far corner, dimly lit, there was a camp bed and a few chests. In the centre stood a large table on which rested an ornate lamp-stand with several lights issuing flickering yellow flames as a huge Nubian slave slowly wafted a vast feather fan to cool the two men seated there.

'Vespasian!' Narcissus smiled warmly. 'It's good to see you again, my dear Legate.'

There was something dismissive about the tone in which Narcissus uttered the last word, and Vespasian recognised the customary attempt to put him in his place. Legate he may be, and from a senatorial family as well. Yet Narcissus, a mere freedman – lower in social status than the meanest Roman citizen – was the right hand of Emperor Claudius himself. His power was very real, and before it all the prestige and haughtiness of the senatorial class was as nothing.

'Narcissus.' Vespasian bowed his head politely, as if greeting an equal. He turned to General Plautius and saluted formally. 'You asked for me, sir.'

'I did. Take a seat. I've sent for some wine.'

'Thank you, sir.' Vespasian eased himself down into a chair opposite the others, and found some small relief from the gentle current of air that emanated from the slave's fan.

There was a brief silence before Narcissus spoke again.'The problem, as far as a mere bureaucrat can understand the military situation, is that the campaign is not quite over.' Narcissus turned towards the general. 'I believe I have that right. Now that Caratacus has slipped from our grasp… once again.'

General Plautius nodded.'It's true, as far as we know. A few thousand men did cross the river before we brought Caratacus to battle.'

Vespasian's eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. There had been no battle, just a pitiless massacre. Then he realised that the general's description had been for the benefit of the Imperial Secretary, who, no doubt, would write a report to his Emperor the moment he reached his own quarters. A battle would win more plaudits than a massacre.

'Caratacus,' Plautius continued,'may well be amongst those who escaped across the ford. It is of little consequence. There's not much he can do with a handful of men.'

Narcissus frowned. 'I hate to split hairs, General, but to me a handful of men implies a somewhat smaller number than several thousand.'

'Maybe,' Plautius conceded with a shrug, 'but on our scale of operations it will not cause us any concern.'

'So I can report to the Emperor that the campaign is over?'

Plautius did not answer, and glanced quickly at the legate, a warning look. Before the conversation could continue a slave arrived with the wine and carefully and quietly set the bronze tray down on the table. He poured a honey-coloured liquid from an elegant decanter into the three silver goblets and, setting the decanter down, he turned and backed out through the entrance. Vespasian waited for the others to take their goblets before he reached for the last one. The silver was cool to his touch and when he held it under his nose a rich aroma filled his nostrils.

'It has been chilled,' Plautius explained. 'In the river. I thought that after the heat of the day's battle some soothing refreshment was well deserved. A toast then.' He raised his goblet. 'To victory!'

'To victory,' said Vespasian.

'To victory… when it comes.'

The general and the legate stared at the Imperial Secretary as he slowly downed his drink and set the goblet lightly upon the table.

'A fine refreshment indeed! I shall have to get the recipe before I return to Rome.'

'How soon will you go?' Plautius asked bluntly.

'When the campaign is over. The moment I can report to the Emperor that we have ended organised resistance to Rome in the heartland of this island. When that is achieved the Emperor will be able to face his enemies in the senate knowing that they know that victory has been achieved. We cannot afford to have any tongues whispering that the war is still unresolved here in Britain. I have spies in your legions, and so do the Emperor's enemies. It is up to you to make sure they have nothing to report that can be used against Claudius.'

Narcissus looked directly at the general, who nodded slowly. 'I understand.'

'Good. Then it's time we were honest with each other. Tell me, how do things stand after today's… battle? Assuming Caratacus still lives.'

'If he has escaped then he will need to retire and lick his wounds. I imagine he'll head for some fortification we haven't discovered yet. He'll let his men recover, pick up any stragglers and rearm his forces. He'll also try and recruit more men, and send envoys to the other tribes to win more allies.'

'I see.' Some of the condensation had run off the bottom of Narcissus' cup and he arranged it into a pattern with the tip of his finger. 'Is he likely to win more allies?'

'I doubt it. The man is quite a shrewd political operator, but the record stands against him. We have beaten him time and again. These native warriors are no match for us.'

'So what will he do now?'

'Caratacus will have to adapt his strategy. He can afford only small engagements now, and will limit himself to picking off small garrisons, foraging columns, patrols and so on.'

'All of which will no doubt be a drain on your manpower, and prolong the campaign indefinitely, I suppose?'

'There is that possibility.'

'Not very satisfactory then, my dear General.'

'No.' Plautius reached for the decanter and refilled Narcissus' goblet.

'So, the question is, how did you come to let him escape? You had led me to believe that this battle would be the end of it all. That Caratacus would be dead, or our prisoner by the end of the day. Instead, it seems that he will continue to plague us for months to come. Nothing has changed. The Emperor will not be pleased, to put it mildly. You both have family in Rome?'

It was not really a question, but a statement, a threat, and both the general and the legate stared at him with naked hatred and fear.

'What are you suggesting?' Vespasian asked quietly.

Narcissus leaned back in his chair and interweaved his long elegant fingers.'You have failed here today. There is a price for failure and it must be paid. The Emperor expects it and I must report to him that you have taken the appropriate steps. If you fail to do so here then the price will have to be paid back in

Rome. It's not much of a choice really. So, gentlemen, who fouled up today? Who is to blame for the escape of Caratacus?' The Imperial Secretary looked from man to man. His face was impassive as he waited patiently for a response.

At last the general shrugged.'It's obvious. He escaped across a ford that should have been better guarded. My plan depended on that.' Plautius looked across the table at his subordinate. 'The fault is with the Second Legion.'

Vespasian pressed his lips into a thin line and returned the look with contempt. At the same time his mind raced for a response. He realised at once that his reputation, his career, maybe even his life and those of his family were in danger. The same, of course, applied to the general. Yet Vespasian was wise enough to know that in such circumstances the powerful men who ran Rome would always close ranks and pass the blame on to a more junior figure: someone high enough in rank to serve as a salutary reminder of the cost of failure, but junior enough to be expendable. Someone like Vespasian himself.