The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The inside of the general's tent was stifling after the cool wash of the moonlit air. Vespasian felt the clammy prickle of sweat on his brow and cuffed it away quickly. He had no desire to let the general think he was nervous. That would imply he had something to be nervous about; like carrying the blame for the failure of the general's plan. It might be the fault of his subordinates that Caratacus and a large number of his men had managed to escape the trap, but that would not matter a great deal to Aulus Plautius. Vespasian was responsible for the performance of the men under his command – that was the way it was in the army – and he must suffer the consequences. How he subsequently disciplined his men was his own affair.

The legate was kept waiting at the entrance, standing just inside the tent flaps, as the clerk pushed through a linen curtain into the section reserved for Plautius and his staff. A number of lamps glowed through the fine material and the distorted shapes of men flitted across its uneven surface. The entrance was lit by a single lamp hanging by a chain from the tent pole and the dull yellow flame guttered at every waft of air. Outside the entrance, between the squad of bodyguards that lined the approach to the tent, the ground sloped down to the river, gliding serenely by under the moonlight. Down at the ford it twinkled as the current raced over the shallow pebbles and round the dark heaps of bodies that still choked the passage. On the far bank, in the pale silvery light of the moon, he could clearly see the ramparts of the Second Legion's marching camp. Within its dark outline tiny fires glinted brightly, like fallen stars.

Vespasian had left the camp and ridden across the ford a short while earlier, in response to the terse summons he had received from the general. Every step of the way his horse had had to pick a path through the dead that were strewn on the ground. Some men still lived amongst the corpses, moaning softly to themselves, or still possessed of enough strength to scream out in agony and cause the horse to start nervously. The sickly stench of blood drenched the air and made it seem hotter than it was. There had been no end to the bodies as the legate splashed through the ford and reached the small island in the middle of the Tamesis. More dead men lay along the track and were heaped in front of the remains of Centurion Macro's rough barricade. But the very worst was saved for last as Vespasian's horse emerged from the crossing and picked its way up towards the low ridge on which the general had set up his camp.

Bodies had been dragged clear of the track leading down to the ford, and the corpses were piled on either side, a shadowy tangle of torsos and limbs, stiffening as the sultry night dragged on. Beyond the nearest corpses the legate saw a field of bodies stretching out across the moonlit landscape, thousands of them. He shuddered at the thought of all the spirits of the dead that must be wreathing the air about him, lingering a while before beginning the journey to the land of endless shadows where the dead eked out their dreary existence for eternity. He knew well enough that these barbarians believed in an afterlife of endless drunken revelry, but the grim austerity of death made it hard for him to accept such a vision. The awfulness of the scale of human destruction all around him was the most oppressive sensation Vespasian had ever felt. Surely, he thought, next to a battle lost there is nothing so dreadful as a battle won.

'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.

For a moment he considered taking the blame and showing that he had more pride and dignity than this general, with his long noble lineage. There was satisfaction to be gained in that. A highly selfish satisfaction, he reflected. In any case, the only real achievement of his sacrifice would be the saving of Plautius' reputation. When it came down to it Vespasian felt that he had more to offer Rome in the long run than this aged and worn out general. Then, in a moment of clarity he was aware that, however one dressed it up, the real issue was self-preservation. It always was. He'd be damned before he let a bunch of smug aristocrats throw him to the dogs to preserve one of their own. He cleared his throat and made sure that his tone was free of any emotion that would betray his bitterness, or fear.

'The enemy was never supposed to have reached this ford. The plan – the general's plan, as I understood it – was that the other three legions and auxiliary cohorts were to close with the enemy quickly enough to force Caratacus against the main crossings, where I would be waiting with the main strength of my legion. The third ford was an afterthought. It was only supposed to be defended against those of the enemy who escaped the battle in front of the first two crossings. It was never expected that they would bear the full weight of Caratacus and his army.'

'It was always a marginal possibility,' Plautius cut in. 'The orders were clear enough. Your men were told to hold the crossings in all circumstances.'

'That was in my orders?' Vespasian raised his eyebrows.

'I'm sure it will be,' Narcissus muttered.'Legate, I take it that you are inferring that the general failed to move with sufficient speed to close the trap?'

'Yes.'

Plautius leaned forward angrily. 'We marched as fast as we could, damn it! Our heavy infantry cannot be expected to outpace native troops. The speed of our troops is not the issue. We had them in a trap and if the Second Legion had done its job properly the trap would have worked perfectly. Vespasian should have made sure that the ford was adequately protected. One cohort was not enough. Any fool could see that.'

'One cohort was ample, for the job it was actually given,' Vespasian snapped back.

For a moment the two senior officers glared at each other, eyes glinting with the wavering reflection of the lamp flames. Then the general eased himself back in his seat and turned to Narcissus.

'I want this man out of my army. He is not competent to command a legion in the field and his insubordination cannot be tolerated.' He turned back towards the legate. 'Vespasian, I want your resignation. I want you out of here, on the first ship back to Gaul.'

'I bet you do,' Vespasian replied coldly.'If I'm not around to defend myself against any charges you bring, it doesn't take a genius to work out the consequences. I refuse to resign my command, and I'll put that in writing.'

Before Plautius could respond Narcissus coughed. 'Gentlemen! That's enough of this. I'm sure the fault is not wholly on one side or the other.'

Both officers turned on him angrily to protest but the Imperial Secretary quickly raised a hand and continued speaking before they could interrupt him. 'Since you are both adamant that the blame lies with the other I fear your testimonies in front of the senate would only serve to destroy you both. Therefore, it seems to me that the best solution is to have an immediate inquiry and find some culpable character lower down the chain of command. If you can make a swift decision and deliver a suitably draconian punishment then I'm sure we can satisfy those back in Rome who demand action in response to your failure.'

Plautius visibly winced at the last word but immediately accepted the lifeline being handed to him and the legate.

'Very well.' Plautius nodded. 'A court of inquiry, then. The legate and I will act as presiding magistrates. At least you'll agree to that, Vespasian?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then I'll issue the orders at first light. Statements will be taken by all the relevant officers at once. If we move quickly the matter can be solved in a few days. Will that satisfy the Emperor?'

'It will,' Narcissus smiled. 'Trust me. Now, I think we have settled the issue satisfactorily. Neither of you need lose any sleep over this matter. The blame will rest on other shoulders, in place of their heads.' He chuckled at the quip. 'Have your inquiry. Find some plausible men to blame and as soon as judgement has been made I can return to Rome and make my report. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?'

Plautius nodded, and a moment later, his stomach twisted by cold, bitter contempt for the other men, but mostly for himself, Vespasian lowered his head, stared at the silver decanter on the tray, and nodded slowly.

05 The Eagles Prey