Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (49 page)

Cato nodded.

‘We must go. Now!’

Cato allowed himself to be hauled through the panicking crowd by Macro who kicked and thrust people aside in his desperation to get them both out of the hall before the Praetorian Guards added to the mayhem. ‘Quick!’ Macro grabbed Cato’ s arm and pulled him towards the nearest side entrance. ‘Through here!’

Hardly aware of what was going on, Cato felt himself being pushed out of the hall, and the last image to burn itself on his mind was the sight of the Emperor clasping Vitellius to his arms as his saviour.

Lavinia was dead and Vitellius was a hero. Lavinia was dead, murdered by Vitellius.

Cato reached for his dagger. His fingers encountered the handle and closed round it tightly.

‘No!’ Macro growled harshly into his ear. ‘No, Cato! It isn’t worth it! ‘

Macro dragged him away from the shouting and screaming mob, and thrust him through the small side door.

Outside the building Macro pulled Cato into the shadows as the first Praetorians charged into the hall and began to round up the slaves. Screams and cries rose into the air.

Cato tipped his head back against the rough stone wall. Far above, undisturbed and unconcerned by the miserable details of human existence, lay the heavens in a placid scatter of glittering stars. But they looked so cold, colder even than the vice-like grip of despair that clenched his heart and crushed any will to live.

‘Come on, lad.’

Cato opened his eyes, blinking away the tears. Above him, black against the stars, loomed Macro, hand outstretched. For a moment Cato just wanted to stay there, to be discovered with his knife by the Praetorians and be swiftly put out of his misery.

‘She’s dead, Cato. You’re still alive. That’s the way it is! Now come!’ Cato allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. With a gentle shove Macro pushed him away from the hall and back towards the safety of the camp of the Second Legion.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Some days later the Emperor left the island to return to Rome. Narcissus had received word that, in Claudius’ absence, some of the senators had begun to mutter about the Emperor’s suitability for the job. Left much longer, such muttering might well become more vocal. The time was ripe for a return to the capital. Without any delay the fleet was summoned upriver to Camulodunum and the imperial baggage was hastily stowed below decks. A long line of warships was moored along the crude quayside and sweating slaves scurried to and fro across the gangplanks, driven on by the Emperor’s stewards wielding their canes with their usual lack of restraint.

Not all of the imperial entourage was quitting Britain. Flavia, and some of the other officers’ wives, had been given leave to spend the autumn and winter with their husbands before returning to Rome at the start of the next campaign season. Flavia was not looking forward to spending yet another freezing winter on the harsh northern fringe of the empire. Britain was no place to give birth to the child she was carrying. She had half hoped that Vespasian might decline her offer and send her back to Rome with Titus. But he had insisted that she stay with him, pointing out that she should not be travelling in her condition. Privately he wanted to keep her away from the dangerous political intrigues of Rome, and beyond the influence of the Liberators.

The morning of the official departure dawned with a clear sky and a light breeze. In the cool air and pale light, the men of the Second Legion rose early from their dew-drenched tents to snatch a quick breakfast and prepare themselves for the day’s ceremonies. The Second had been given the honour of escorting the Emperor from the camp, through Camulodunum, to the quay where he would board his flagship. Full ceremonial dress was to be worn and stiff red horsehair helmet crests had been issued to all the men. Every item of equipment had to be spotless and the centurions made a thorough inspection of the men in their centuries before marching them off to the parade ground where the legion was forming up.

The standards rippled in the breeze and the officers’ scarlet cloaks stirred behind them as the legion stood at ease and quietly waited for the procession to begin. Plinius was once again senior tribune now that the Emperor had cut Vitellius’ tribune service short so that he could return to Rome with him and be presented to the capital as the man who had saved the Emperor from the knife of an assassin. Further back in the ranks of the legion Cato stood a step to the side and one step behind his centurion. Several days after the banquet he was still numbed by the events of that night, haunted by the image of Lavinia lying dead in her own blood. Although she had abandoned him for Vitellius and paid the terrible price that came with too close an association with the tribune, Cato could not help feeling bound up in the cause of her death. Macro was somewhat less circumspect, and while not going quite so far as to say openly she had got what was coming to her, his lack of compassion for the slave girl was very evident. Accordingly, a frosty formality had grown between them - much to the regret of both men - and they stood in silence as the other men of the Sixth Century chatted happily.

The light-heartedness suddenly died away as the tall crest of a senior officer approached. A gap opened in the ranks and Vespasian made his way through his men towards Macro.

‘Centurion! A quiet word with you and the optio, if you please.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The legate led the way out of the dense mass of legionaries and stopped once he was sure they were out of earshot. He turned to face his subordinates.

‘Any change of mind about the matter we discussed? This is your last chance.’

‘No, sir.’ Macro replied firmly.

‘Centurion, the fact that you two were instrumental in saving the Emperor’s life might well help your careers. If Cato here hadn’t stopped that assassin, I doubt anyone could have responded in time to save Claudius. Even now, people are still trying to discover the identity of the man who first tackled that Briton. I can find a discreet way of making sure your efforts are rewarded, if you wish. Cato?’

‘No thank you, sir.’ Cato shook his head wearily. ‘It’s too late, sir. You saw how the Emperor embraced Vitellius the moment the assassination attempt was over. He’s found his hero. It would be dangerous for us to claim any part in the Emperor’s salvation. We’d be dead long before we could reap any benefits from the deed. You know that’s true, sir.’

Vespasian stared at the optio, and then nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, of course. I just wanted to see justice done.’

Cato sniffed with contempt at the thought of there being any justice in this world, and his centurion stood stiff with apprehension at this affront to the commander of the legion.

‘Very well.’ Vespasian’s tone was cold. ‘You’d better get back to your men.’

With the first five cohorts leading the way, the Emperor and his staff proceeded through Camulodunum to the quayside. At his side rode Vitellius, graciously acknowledging the cheers of the legionaries lining the route each time the Emperor gestured towards his new favourite. Behind them rode Narcissus, cold eyes fixed on Vitellius as he considered his options in silence.

At the quay the cohorts spread out on either side and the red crests of the Second Legion stretched in a line that extended along the full length of the warehouses. The Emperor dismounted and boarded his flagship, and then stood on a platform at the rear of the vessel, bowing his head as Vespasian led his men in a chorus of cheers for the Emperor and the glory of Rome. As the gap between the gilded beam of the vessel and the rough-hewn stonework of the quay widened, the cries of the legionaries continued to echo across the river. General Plautius eased his horse over to the side of Vespasian.

‘Seems our Emperor will have his triumph after all.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘While we are, of course, sorry to see our Emperor return to Rome, I rather feel that this army might be pleased to be spared the further benefit of his tactical genius.’

Vespasian smiled. ‘Yes, sir.’

They watched as the great banks of oars on the flagship extended from the hull, and then, as one, dipped down into the water. The flagship got under way and began to surge downriver towards the sea, closely followed by its escort of triremes.

‘Well, that’s the campaign over for this year at least,’ announced Plautius. ‘Don’t know about you, but I could do with a long rest before we stick it to the Britons again.’

‘I know exactly how you feel, sir.’

‘You’d better make the most of it, Vespasian. The Second will need to be ready for a pretty gruelling time of it, once spring comes.’ Vespasian turned his head to glance sharply at the general.

‘I thought that might interest you. Next year, while the other three legions push on into the heart of this benighted island, I’ve assigned the Second the hardest task of the lot. You’ll work along the south coast and compel any tribes that have not already done so to surrender to Roman rule. We already have an ally we can trust in those regions. Cogidubnus. He’ll provide you with a base of operations and you’ll work with the Channel fleet to secure the lands to the west. No doubt you’ll be delighted by the prospect of an independent command.’

Vespasian tried to stop himself from smiling, and nodded gravely. ‘Good. I’m sure you will make a good job of it. Be mindful, Vespasian, that this is the kind of duty that launches men on great careers.’

Once the flagship had rounded the bend of the river, the Second Legion was dismissed. The cohorts tramped off the quay, back through Camulodunum towards the camp. Macro had seen the raw hatred in Cato’s eyes as they had watched Vitellius bask in the glow of the Emperor on the deck of the flagship. For all his bluffness Macro had seen enough of the world to know that this was the kind of rage that chewed away at men’s hearts and led them down the path of gradual self-destruction. Cato badly needed some kind of diversion, and Macro decided he was just the man to provide it.

‘Fancy coming into the town for a drink tonight?’

‘Sir?’

‘I said we’re going for a drink tonight.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes. We are.’

Cato nodded vaguely, and his centurion could see that he would have to offer rather more of an incentive. Well then, there was something he could try. Not that it pleased him to take the risk of introducing the optio to his latest piece of romantic interest.

‘There’s this girl I’d like you to meet. Came across her in the marketplace the other day. She’ll be coming along with us tonight. She’s good for a laugh, and I think you’ll get on with her well enough.’

‘That’s kind of you, sir. But I wouldn’t want to get in the way.’

‘Nonsense! Come along and get a skinful. Trust me, you could do with it.’

For a moment Cato considered refusing. He did not yet feel he could enjoy life again - he was too emotionally scarred for that. Then he looked into the eyes of his centurion. He saw the genuine concern for his well-being expressed there, and found that he was moved to push aside his self-indulgent grief. Very well then. For Macro he would get horribly drunk tonight. Drunk enough to forget everything.

‘Thank you, sir. I’d appreciate a drink.’

‘Good lad!’ Macro slapped him on the back. ‘So tell me, sir, who’s this woman of yours?’

Historical Note

The most significant account of the Claudian Invasion that has passed down to us from the days of the Empire is a scant eight hundred words penned by Cassius Dio. Writing over a hundred years after the event Dio was reliant on other sources. How accurate or detailed these sources might have been is anyone’s guess and it is infuriating that the section of Tacitus’ Annals relating to the invasion is missing. However, the historian’s loss is the novelist’s gain. Being as true as I can to Dio’s account, and taking on board as much of the archaeological evidence as possible, I have fashioned my tales of Cato, Macro and Vespasian. That said, it would be nice one day to read of the discovery of a few elephant bones in the depths of Essex…

Despite the paucity of Dio’ s account it is clear that the success of the invasion was anything but a foregone conclusion. The assault across the Mead Way (Medway) was unusual in that the battle lasted two days, a testament to the ferocity with which the Britons resisted the advance of the eagles. The reasons for the later halt on the far side of the Tamesis (Thames) is a matter of dispute amongst historians. Some argue that the Britons were a spent force after their failure to defend the river crossings and that the halt had been pre-arranged to allow Claudius to lead the assault on Camulodunum in person. Others have argued that Plautius’ troops genuinely needed reinforcing after being roughly handled by the natives. In view of the Emperor’s precarious political situation I tend towards the former interpretation.

I have tried to keep the tribal politics of the Britons uncomplicated so as not to slow down the flow of the story. At the time of the Roman invasion of 43 AD the island was riven by shifting alliances, and most tribes regarded the sweeping gains of the Catuvellauni with growing apprehension. Having snapped up the Trinovantes and made the wealthy town of Camulodunum their capital, the Catuvellauni were making great inroads south of the Thames. When the Romans landed, the Catuvellauni had a hard time recruiting their erstwhile tribal foes to the forces resisting Rome.

END

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