The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Fifty

The legions camped outside Camulodullum were in high spirits. Despite being caked in mud and exhausted by advancing so quickly after a pitched battle, there was a palpable sense of celebration in the air. A decisive victory had been won and Caratacus and the remnants of the British army were in full flight towards those tribes still loyal to the confederation resisting Rome. The tribal representatives who had been awaiting the outcome of the last battle had hurried to Camulodunum to swear allegiance to Rome. The danger of being opposed by almost every tribe on the island had passed now that the most powerful of the native tribes had been soundly beaten by the legions. Until next year's campaigning, the Roman army would be free to consolidate its gains unopposed. Caratacus' capital had opened its gates to the Emperor, and the following day's festivities would mark the end of this year's bloody campaigning. Of course, the conquest of the island was far from complete but in the prevailing mood of celebration few men spoke of it.

The Trinovantes had saved themselves from having their capital sacked, to the disappointment of some hardened veterans, but there were already ample spoils of war in the form of the thousands of Britons taken prisoner, who would be sold into slavery. Each legionary stood to gain a substantial sum of money as his share of the booty realised from the sale of prisoners. But there was even more to follow.

'Word has it that the Emperor is going to pay us a donative!' Macro grinned as he dropped down onto the grass outside his tent, eyes glinting at the prospect of a large handout of money from the imperial treasury. 'Why?' asked Cato.

'Because it's a good way of keeping us sweet. Why do you think?

Besides, we deserve it. And he's managed to persuade the Trinovantes to hand over a supply of booze so we can celebrate in style after tomorrow's ceremonies. I know it's only that crap Celt beer they insist on brewing – like that stuff we had to drink in Gaul- but whatever it is, it still gets you pissed without too much effort. Then we're going to see some sights!' The centurion's eyes glazed over as be recalled previous drinking binges he had enjoyed with comrades in the past.

Cato could not help feeling a little nervous about the prospect. His body had a low tolerance for alcohol, and the slightest excess left his head reeling and made him curse the day that men first fermented their drink He inevitably threw up and continued spewing until the pit of his stomach felt raw and the muscles were strained by the effort. Then sleep came uneasily and he would wake with a dry mouth and a foul taste on his tongue, head pounding. If what he had heard about the local brew was accurate, the after effects would be even more unpleasant. But short of volunteering for provost duties, there would be no way of avoiding the drinking session.

'Is it wise to be drinking with Caratacus nearby?' he asked.

'Don't worry about him. It'll be a long time before he can cause us any more trouble. Besides, one of the legions will be on duty at the time. Just pray it isn't ours.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato said quietly.

'Relax, lad! The worst is over. The enemy's on the run, we've a party lined up and the weather's improved.' Macro lay back in the grass, tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. 'Life is good, so enjoy it.'

Cato would like to have shared the mood of the centurion and the other legionaries but he could not feel content. Not while he was tormented by the spectre of Vitellius seducing Lavinia. The Emperor's entourage had joined the army at midday, and was busy making camp in the corner of the fortifications allotted to it by General Plautius. Knowing that Lavinia was near quickened Cato's pulse, but at the same time he was filled with dread at the prospect of encountering her again. This time she would be sure to tell him what he most feared, that she no longer wanted to see him. The thought tormented him so much that at last Cato could bear it no longer, and the need to know overwhelmed the fear of finding out.

Leaving Macro dozing quietly in the sunshine, Cato made himself walk through the camp towards the elaborate tents of the Emperor's followers. Each step towards Lavinia was an effort, and on all sides the light-hearted mood of the legionaries increased the weight of misery bearing down on him. It did not take him long to find the tent of the legate's wife and her travelling household, but it took a while to steel himself to approach the entrance. A burly slave he had never seen before stood guard and from inside came the muffled chatter of female voices. Cato strained his ears to catch the sound of Lavinia's voice.

'What's your business?' asked the slave, intervening between the entrance flap and the young optio.

'Personal. I wish to speak with a slave of Lady Flavia.'

'Does the mistress know you?' asked the slave contemptuously. 'Yes. I'm an old friend.'

The slave frowned, unsure whether to turn this filthy soldier away or risk interrupting his mistress in her unpacking.

'Tell her that it's Cato. Tell her I'd like to talk to Lavinia.'

The slave narrowed his eyes before reluctantly reaching his decision. 'Very well. Stay here.'

He entered the tent and left Cato standing alone. He turned away and gazed out over the camp while he waited for the slave to return. A rustling behind him caused Cato to turn back quickly. Instead of the slave he found Lady Flavia facing him, a strained smile on her face as she held her hand out in greeting.

'My lady.' Cato bowed his head. 'You are well?' asked Flavia.

'I'm quite well, my lady.' He raised his arms and did a quick turn, hoping to amuse her. 'As you can see.'

'Good…'

The silence was awkward, and when Flavia's usually cheerful mood failed to materialise, a cold sense of dread welled up inside Cato. 'My lady, might I speak to Lavinia?'

Flavia's expression took on a pained look. She shook her head. 'What's the matter, my lady? Is Lavinia all right?'

'Yes. She's all right.'

Cato's anxiety quickly abated. 'Then can I see her'?'

'No. Not now. She's not here.'

'Where can I find her, my lady'?'

'I don't know, Cato.'

'Then I'll wait for her to return. That is, if you don't mind.'

Flavia stood silently and made no reply. Instead she looked him in the eye and her expression became sorrmvful. 'Cato, do you respect my opinion as you once used to?'

'Of course, my lady. '

'Then forget Lavinia. Forget her, Cato. She is not for you. No! Let me finish.' She raised her hand to quell his objections. 'Cato, you deserve better. Lavinia is no good for you. She's changed her mind about you these last few weeks. She has… higher ambitions.'

Cato recoiled from Flavia, and she was distressed by the cold anger that hardened his youthful face.

'Why didn't you tell me about Vitellius, my lady?' he asked in a strained voice. 'Why?'

'For your own good, Cato. You have to believe me. I have no desire to hurt you unnecessarily.' 'Where is Lavinia?'

'I can't tell you.'

Cato could guess where Lavinia might be easily enough. He stared at Flavia, jaw working as he struggled to control his churning emotions. Then he suddenly clenched his fists, turned, and strode away from the tent

'Cato!' Flavia took a few paces towards him, and stopped, hand half lifted as if to restrain him. She stared sadly at the thin, almost frail body of the young man striding stiffly away, the hurt he was suffering evident in the tightly clenched fists at his sides. Since she had been responsible for allowing the youngsters' relationship to nourish in the first place, and had used it for her own political ends, Flavia felt the weight of guilt descend upon her. Despite her private justifications for her deeds, the human costs they entailed were hard to bear.

Flavia wondered if a simple brutal statement of Lavinia's present location might not have been a quicker and kinder way to help Cato get over his youthful adoration of Lavinia.