When the Eagle Hunts

'Do what you can, Centurion. If they won't learn from their betters they'll never be a threat to us.'

'Yes, sir.' Albinus's gaze dropped despondently.

The muffled blaring of a signal trumpet sounded beyond the tent. Moments later they could hear orders being shouted. The centurion glanced towards the legate but Vespasian refused to be seen as a man who would be ruffled by any stray distraction. He leaned back in his chair to address the centurion.

'Very well, Centurion. I'll send a report back to the general to let him know about your situation, and these Druid raids. In the meantime, you're to carry on with the training, and keep the patrols going. We might not keep the Druids out but at least they'll know we're looking for them. The scouts should make that job easier. Anything else to tell me?'

'No, sir.'

'Dismissed.'

The centurion picked up his helmet, saluted and marched smartly out of the tent.

Vespasian was aware that the shouting had increased, and the chinking of weapons and armour indicated that a large body of men was on the move. It was difficult to resist the impulse to rush from the tent to discover what was happening, but he would be damned if he allowed himself to behave like some excitable junior tribune on his first day in the army. He forced himself to pick up a scroll and start reading the latest strength reports. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards immediately outside the tent.

'Is the legate there?' someone shouted to the sentries guarding the entrance flap to Vespasian's tent. 'Then let me pass.'

The folds of leather parted and Plinius, the senior tribune, pushed through, panting for breath. He swallowed anxiously. 'Sir! You have to see this.'

Vespasian looked up from the lines of figures on the scroll. 'Calm yourself, Tribune. This is no way for a senior officer to act.'

'Sir?'

'You don't go belting about the camp unless there is the gravest of emergencies.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And are we in grave danger, Tribune?'

'No, sir.'

'Then keep a cool head and set a good example for the rest of the legion.'

'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'

'All right then. What have you come to report that is so urgent?'

'There are some men approaching the camp, sir.'

'How many?'

'Two men, sir. And a few more are holding back at the treeline.'

'Two men? So what's all the fuss about?'

'One of them's a Roman…'

Vespasian waited patiently for a moment. 'And the other?'

'I don't know, sir. I've never seen anything like it before.'

Chapter Seven

The Sixth Century had pulled the second watch of the day. After a hurried breakfast of steaming porridge, they relieved the century patrolling the walls of the fortified camp. The centurion coming off duty briefly informed Cato of the arrival of the horsemen from Calleva. Mid-morning sunlight streamed over the ramparts. Cato squinted, having climbed up from the cold shadows around the neat lines of tents. He was forced to shield his eyes for a moment.

'Nice morning, Optio!' a legionary greeted him. 'Might actually get warm today.'

Cato turned to the man; a large, round youth with a jolly face and a handful of crooked teeth that looked like the remains of one of the stone circles the legion had marched past the previous summer. Being thin with little fat on him, thanks to his nervous disposition, Cato found it difficult to keep warm and was still shivering inside his tightly belted wool cloak. He simply nodded at the legionary, not wanting to let the man see his teeth chatter. The legionary was one of the recent replacements, a Gaul by the name of Horatius Figulus. Figulus was an adequate enough soldier, and the youngster's cheerful nature had made him popular with the century.

With a sudden jolt of awareness, Cato recalled that Figulus was the same age as he was. The same age, and yet the few months longer he had served with the eagles made him look upon this recruit with the cool gaze of a veteran. Certainly, a casual onlooker might well imagine the optio to be a veteran; the scars of the terrible burns he had suffered the previous summer were clearly visible. And yet the hair on his cheeks was still so sparse that it would be risible for him to even consider a shave. Figulus, by contrast, shared the hairy physiognomy of his Celt forebears; the fine growth of light hair across his cheeks and chin needed almost daily attention from a carefully whetted blade.

'Watch this, Optio!' Figulus leaned his javelin against the rampart and fumbled inside his cloak for a moment, before pulling out a walnut. 'I've been practising this one all week.'

Cato stifled a groan. Ever since the century had been entertained by an itinerent Phoenician conjurer several weeks earlier, young Figulus had attempted to copy the conjuror's repertoire of tricks – with little success. The would-be magician was holding out the walnut for his inspection.

'What's this?'

Cato stared at him a moment, and then rolled his eyes to the heavens with a faint shake of his head.

'It's an ordinary walnut, right, Optio?'

'If you say so,' replied Cato through gritted teeth.

'Now as we know, walnuts are not in the habit of just up and disappearing. Am I right?'

Cato nodded, once.

'Now watch!' Figulus closed his hands and flourished them about each other as he chanted the sound that best approximated the spells of the Phoenician. 'Ogwarz farevah!' With a final sweep he flicked his empty hands open in front of his optio's face. Out of the corner of one eye Cato saw the walnut sailing up in an arc before it dropped over the side of the rampart.

'Where do you suppose that walnut has gone?' Figulus winked. 'Well, let me show you!'

He reached behind Cato's ear, and frowned. Cato sighed in exasperation. The legionary tilted his head to examine the space behind Cato's ear.

'Half a mo, the bloody thing's supposed to be there.'

Cato slapped his hand aside. 'Get on duty, Figulus. You've wasted enough time.'

With a last confused glance at Cato's ear, the legionary took up his javelin and faced out across the white wilderness of Atrebate territory. Although frost had gilded the world with its sparkling lace, the snow underneath was slowly melting away and clear ground showed on the south-facing slopes of the surrounding hills. The recruit's face showed a mixture of embarrassment and confusion and Cato was moved to take pity on him.

'Nice try, Figulus. Just needs a little more practice.'

'Yes, Optio.' Figulus grinned, and Cato instantly wished he hadn't – purely on aesthetic grounds. 'More practice, I'll see to it.'

'Right, fine. But that's for later. Keep an eye out for the enemy meanwhile.'

'Yes, sir!'

Cato left him and continued his rounds of the sector of the fort entrusted to him. Over the other side, Centurion Macro was supervising the rest of the century. Across the ranks of tent ridges basking in the glow of the rising sun, Cato could see the short powerful figure strutting along the opposite rampart, hands clasped behind his back, his head turned towards the distant Tamesis, and Camulodunum far beyond. Cato smiled as he imagined where his centurion's thoughts lay. In spite of his laddish, hard-drinking, womanising nature, Macro had let the statuesque Boudica get under his skin. It had never occurred to the centurion that a woman could be such a complete companion, one who equalled him in almost every sphere of manly behaviour, and the affection he had for her was all too apparent to his optio, and those other men who knew him best. While other centurions and optios winked at each other and joked in low voices about life lived under the thumb of such a woman, Cato was quietly pleased for his centurion.

'Call out the guard!' cried a voice.