Under The Eagle

'What are you talking about, lad?'

Cato tried to elaborate, but found it excruciating to talk about his feelings for Lavinia. It wasn't that there were no words – his mind reeled with well-remembered lines from any number of poems – but none seemed to quite capture the essence of the horrible aching pain that twisted his stomach and tore at his heart. Poets, he decided, were poor mirrors of mankind's soul. Precious little pen-scratchers pouring out their petty banalities in order to impress their pals. His feelings for Lavinia went some way beyond mere verse. Or did they? Perhaps Macro was right and his motives were somewhat more prosaic than he thought?

'What's so different about this woman? Spit it out.'

'I think you have to see her to understand.'

'Bit of a looker, eh?'

'Yes, sir.' Cato smiled.

'So let her know you're interested and that you'll pay what it takes to have your way – within reason of course, no sense in inflating her price for the lads who come after you – give her one and be on your way'

'I was hoping for something a little more meaningful and long-lasting.'

'Don't be so bloody ridiculous.'

'Yes, sir!' Cato replied hurriedly. There was no speaking to the man on such issues, he now realised. 'Shall we continue with the letters, sir? We've quite a long way to go.'

'And some of us are hoping to go all the way,' Macro smirked.

'Yes, sir. The letters, sir?' Cato held out the waxed tablets.

'All bloody right then! I can see you don't want to talk about the woman – that's your business, right?'

'Shall we continue with the letters, sir?'

'Fair enough,' Macro said sulkily, 'bloody letters it is.'

Chapter Nineteen

By nightfall on the eve of the Legion's departure every vehicle had been checked for roadworthiness and all wheels freshly greased with tallow. Now they stood in long ranks loaded with the Legion's equipment and assorted baggage. In their pens outside the fortress the animals contentedly chewed on the last of the winter feed. Most of the headquarters staff, their work done for the next few weeks, were on a serious bender amongst the tents and grimy halls where the locals sold a heady brew that the garrison had grown accustomed to in the years they had been stationed on the Rhine frontier. The more sober-headed veterans were busy waterproofing their boots and making sure that the nail-studded soles were in good shape for the three hundred miles that lay between the Second Legion and the coast.

At headquarters a small staff still laboured over final details in large chambers that echoed with an eerie emptiness now that all records had been carefully ordered and packed in filing chests and loaded on wagons. Sundry debts owed to local traders were still being settled and travel permits written out for those officers' families immediately heading south to Italy. A detachment of the Legion's cavalry had been assigned to escort the convoy as far south as Corbumentum before turning west to rejoin the Legion.

As Vespasian passed a row of desks where a team of five clerks were bent over their work, writing by the flickering light of oil lamps, he glanced down at the papers strewn before them.

'What's this?'

'Sir?' The senior clerk quickly rose to his feet.

'What's this stuff you're working on?'

'Copies of a letter we're writing for Lady Flavia, sir. They're for slave agents in Rome requesting details of any infant tutors they might have in their catalogues.'

'I see.'

'She said it was on your orders, sir.'

The resentment in the tone was unmistakable and Vespasian felt a twinge of guilt that these men were labouring into the night while their comrades were free to indulge themselves to excess.

'Well, I doubt that a night's delay will ruin her plans. You and your men can finish the letters another time. Off you go then.'

'Thank you, sir. You heard the legate, lads.'

The papers were eagerly shuffled into order, ink pots stopped up and pens wiped clean before the clerks rose to leave the room.

'Wait!' Vespasian called out and they turned towards him anxiously. He fumbled in the purse hanging from his belt and tossed a gold piece to the senior clerk. 'For you and your men – have a few drinks on me. You've done a good job these last few days.'

The clerks mumbled their thanks and hurried away, voices loud with excitement, leaving Vespasian gazing wistfully after them. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had enjoyed a night out with the lads as a newly appointed tribune. Dusty memories of wild nights and hideously painful hangovers amidst the fleshpots of Syria filtered into his mind and Vespasian felt a pang for the sweetness of youth that seemed over almost before it had begun. Now he was forever separated from these men by age and, more fundamentally, by rank.

Vespasian slowly made his way towards the gate of the headquarters building, pausing only to nod as he passed by the door to Vitellius's office where the tribune was still toiling over some paperwork by lamplight. Vitellius had been spending a great deal of time in headquarters of late – more than was required by his duties and more than enough to make Vespasian curious. But he could not ask him outright the reason for his new-found diligence; tribunes were supposed to be diligent and any questioning of the man might look like paranoia, or worse. If Vitellius was indeed up to something, any undue attention would alert him to the legate's suspicion. More curious still was the fact that the tribune had taken on a bodyguard. It was a right due to his rank, but one rarely claimed these days. But there he was – shadowing his master about the base – a stocky thick-set man with the manner of professional killer. It would be sensible to keep a closer eye on Tribune Vitellius from now on.

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

Since Lavinia had been taken into Vespasian's household, Cato had had no chance even to speak to her and was only able to catch fleeting glances from time to time as he loitered outside the legate's house after he had finished with his duties for the day. He contrived to visit Flavia a few times in the hope that Lavinia might be present while they reminisced about life in the palace. But she remained out of sight and Cato was loath to reveal the true purpose of his visits, to the barely concealed amusement of the legate's wife. Finally, one day, Flavia could not help laughing.

'Really, Cato! You should be more inventive.'

'What do you mean, my lady?'

'I mean these excuses you have for coming to see me,' she smiled, 'or should I say coming to try and see Lavinia.'

Cato flushed and stammered out a garbled protestation that only provoked further laughter. He frowned.

'Please don't get cross! I'm not making fun of you. Really I'm not. If you wanted to see the girl then you should have said and I'd have arranged something for the two of you. Would you like to see her now?'

Cato nodded.

'All right then. But in a moment. We need to talk first.'

'What about, my lady?'

'I take it you know very little about Lavinia?'

'I only met her the same day you bought her,' admitted Cato.

'So she said.'

'The merchant who sold her said that she used to be owned by one of the tribunes.'

'Yes,' Flavia nodded. 'Plinius. Nice man, very intelligent – a quality that is totally wasted on the army.'

'Why did he sell her? Why did he leave her nothing more than those rags?'

'The answer to that depends on who you listen to.'

'What do you mean, my lady?'

'Plinius let it be known that he had sold her because Lavinia was useless as a house-servant. He said she was lazy, dishonest and incapable of learning her duties. The last straw, so he tells the tale, is that she stole one of his silk nightshirts.' Flavia leaned forward and continued, quietly. 'But the story being touted around the officers' wives is far more interesting. They say that Lavinia was something more than a house-servant. With her looks, anything else would be a sheer waste. Anyway, word has it that Plinius bought her from a sex-slave trader and was trying to groom her to while away the long winter evenings.'