The Eagles Prey

'So spare them all!'

'And look like a squeamish weakling?' Plautius shook his head. 'I think not, Vespasian. You must see that. If I condemn men one day and pardon them the next it'll be the first step down the road to completely losing our authority over our soldiers. And not just them – the plebs as well. Fear is what holds them all in check, and what better way of focusing their minds on blind obedience than fear of punishment, even if they are quite blameless? That's how it works, Vespasian. That's how it has always worked. That's why our class rules Rome… But I forgot,' Plautius smiled. 'You're one of the new men. You and your brother. In time, when you've grown used to wearing the broad stripe, you'll fully understand what I mean.'

'I understand it well enough right now,' Vespasian replied, 'and it disgusts me.'

'It goes with the rank. Get used to it.'

'Rank?' Vespasian chuckled bitterly. 'Oh, it's rank all right.'

He felt a weariness that went beyond tired muscles, a weariness that sapped his very soul. He had been raised by a father for whom Rome and everything it stood for represented the best of all worlds. It was his father's legacy to inspire the same devotion to duty and service to Rome in his two sons. Ever since Vespasian had embarked on a political career, little by little that faith had been chipped away, as a sculptor strikes away shards of stone. But what remained was no proud monument, merely a shrine to selfishness, steeped in the blood of those who were sacrificed, not for the greater good, but for the narrow self-interest of a select circle of cynical cold-blooded aristocrats.

'Enough!' Plautius slapped a hand down on the desk, making the slates jump and rattle. 'You forget yourself, Legate! Now hear me.'

For an instant both men stared across the table at each other with an implacable sense of estrangement, and Vespasian knew he had lost. Not only the attempt to save the lives of his men, but also any admission to the higher reaches of society in Rome. He lacked the necessary ruthlessness. The general's brow creased with anger as he addressed his subordinate.

'Hear me. There will be no pardon. The men will die, and by their deaths they will serve as an example to their comrades. That is an end to it. I will not tolerate any further discussion of the matter. Never mention this to me again. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then the execution will take place at dawn tomorrow. In front of the First Cohorts of all four legions. Find out who amongst your men are the closest friends and companions of the condemned. They will be the executioners. If any one of them demurs or protests in any way then they will be crucified, the moment the executions have concluded.' Plautius eased himself back and took a deep breath through his nose. 'Now, you have your orders, Legate. You are dismissed.'

Vespasian rose stiffly to his feet and saluted. Before he turned away from the general, he was tempted to try one last time – one final appeal to justice and reason, despite everything that had been said. Then he saw the deathly cold glint of iron resolve in Plautius' eyes and he knew that, worse than a waste of time, it would be positively dangerous to breathe another word.

So he turned and marched out of the tent, into the fresh air, as fast as the decorum of his ill-fitting rank allowed.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWENTY

There was a cool shaded patch of grass under one of the willow trees growing along the river bank, and Macro rustled through the thin flowing branches and sat down heavily. He had left his optio, Publius Sentius, to oversee the men as they set up their tents. Centurion Felix had suggested that the officers go for a swim in the river, but despite the glaring heat of the day neither Macro nor any of the others had felt it appropriate with their condemned comrades sitting in full view. Maximius had busied himself with every aspect of setting up a separate camp; anything to give the impression of a stoic professional continuing with his duties, whatever the circumstances. But whatever efforts he had driven the men to since dawn, they still moved with a heavy lethargy that made no secret of their mood. The Third Cohort was in the depths of gloom and the silent and still presence of those men awaiting execution loomed over them. Particularly those who had been detailed to carry out the execution: twenty men, under the command of Centurion Macro.

When the legate had given the orders, Macro had immediately refused, horrified by the prospect of clubbing his friend Cato to death.

'It's an order, Centurion,' the legate had said firmly. 'You can't refuse. That's not an option.'

'Why me, sir?'

'Orders.' Vespasian looked up sadly.'Just make sure he doesn't suffer for too long… understand?'

Macro nodded. A sharp heavy blow to the head should render Cato unconscious and save him the agonies of having his bones shattered and crushed. The very thought of it made Macro's stomach tighten uncomfortably.

'And the rest of the lads, sir?'

'No. Just Cato. We go easy on the men and the general will simply stop it and get someone else to finish the job.'

'I see.' Macro nodded. If there was any real chance of being merciful to all of the condemned men he would have taken it without hesitation. But the legate was right: they could get away with only one small act of mercy.

'It's a bad situation, Centurion. For all of us. But at least this way Cato is spared the worst.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now go and select the men for the execution party.'

Macro had saluted quickly and bowed out of the tent, glad to get back outside and breathe the clean, pure air into his lungs. He had never before been asked to do anything that so revolted against his notions of what was right and wrong. An image of Cato, bound and kneeling at his feet, flashed through Macro's mind. The lad raised his eyes to meet his friend's as Macro raised his club…His blood chilled at the thought, and Macro slapped his fist against his thigh and marched back to the camp of the Third Cohort.

The men he selected were mostly from Cato's century, burly veterans who could be counted on not to flinch from the dreadful duty they had been ordered to perform. Even now they were busy preparing the pick handles they would use. The wood had to be of the right length and weight to ensure that the blows could be delivered with sufficient force to do mortal damage. The men went about their work pragmatically enough and Macro, veteran as he was, could not help wondering at the casual way they bent to the task as if it were no different to any other duty asked of them. He had been hanging around Cato for too long, he decided with a grim smile. Before the lad had turned up Macro had never questioned any aspect of army life. But now he was beginning to see things with fresh eyes and it discomforted him. Perhaps, after Cato was dead and cremated, he could get on with life. Slip back into the easy oblivion of carrying out duties and ducking the bigger questions in life.

Dead and cremated…

Someone as sharp and lively as Cato? It wasn't right, thought Macro. It just wasn't right. The legate must be mad to carry this through. Mad, perhaps, and cowardly, insofar as he had off-loaded the dirty work on to Macro, and Macro would never forgive him for that.

'Shit!' he muttered. He was angry at the legate, and angry with himself for ever befriending Cato in the first place. Macro snapped off a length of branch, and methodically began to strip the leaves away from the slender stem of willow. On the far side of the Tamesis a party of men from the other legions were stripping off their tunics and wading into the water. The brown tan of their faces, arms and legs contrasted sharply with the gleaming whiteness of torsos and thighs. Their cries of shock at the coldness of the water, and the whooping and laughter of horseplay as they splashed each other, carried flatly across the surface of the water. It made Macro angrier still, and he glanced over them to where the men of the auxiliary cohorts were filling in the last of the funeral pits, piled high with the heat-ripened dead. The cold and dead existing side by side with the vital lives of the young and carefree. Macro tore off another strip of willow branch and shredded its leaves furiously.