Pushing thoughts of the future aside for the moment, Vespasian made his way over to the hospital tent. There was an unfortunate matter he could put off no longer. The chief centurion of the Second Legion had been mortally wounded in a recent ambush, and had wanted to speak to him before he died. Bestia had been a model soldier, earning men's praise, admiration and fear throughout his military career. He had fought in many wars across the empire, and had the scars on his body to prove it. And now he had fallen to a British sword in a minor skirmish that no historian would ever record. Such was army life, Vespasian reflected bitterly. How many more unsung heroes were out there waiting to be snuffed out while vain politicians and imperial lackeys grabbed the credit?

Vespasian thought of his brother, Sabinus, who had raced up from Rome to serve on General Plautius' staff while there was still some glory to be won. Sabinus, like most of his political peers, saw the army only in terms of the next rung on their career ladder. The cynicism of high politics filled Vespasian with a cold fury. It was more than likely that Emperor Claudius was using the invasion to strengthen his hold on the throne. Should the legions succeed in subduing Britain, there would be plenty of spoils and sinecures to oil the wheels of state. Some men would make fortunes, while others would be granted high office, and money would flow into the thirsty imperial coffers. The glory of Rome would be reaffirmed and its citizens be given further proof that the gods blessed Rome's destiny, yet there were men to whom such great achievements meant little, for they viewed events only in terms of the opportunities they presented for personal advancement.

This savage island, with its restless, feuding warrior tribes, might one day be afforded all the benefits of order and prosperity conferred by Roman rule. Such an extension of civilisation was a cause worth fighting for, and it was in pursuit of this vision that Vespasian served Rome, and tolerated those Rome placed over him – for now at least. Before that, the present campaign must be won. Two major rivers must be crossed, in the teeth of fierce resistance by the natives. Beyond the rivers lay the capital of the Catuvellauni – the most powerful of the British tribes opposing Rome. Thanks to their ruthless expansion in recent years, the Catuvellauni had swallowed up the Trinovantes and their prosperous trading city of Camulodunum. Now many of the other tribes viewed Caratacus with almost as much dread as they viewed the Romans. So, Camulodunum must fall before autumn to demonstrate to those tribes still wavering that resistance to Rome was futile. Even then, there would be more campaigns, more years of conquest, before every corner of this large island was incorporated into the empire. Should the legions fail to take Camulodunum then Caratacus might well win the allegiance of the uncommitted tribes, and raise enough men to overwhelm the Roman army.

With a weary sigh Vespasian ducked under the hospital tent's flap and nodded a greeting to the legion's senior surgeon.

The Eagles Conquest

'Bestia's dead.'

Cato looked up from his paperwork as Centurion Macro entered the tent. The summer shower thudding down on the canvas had drowned out Macro's announcement.

'Sir?'

'I said Bestia's dead,' Macro shouted. 'Died this afternoon.'

Cato nodded. The news was expected. The old chief centurion's face had been laid open right down to the bone. The legion's surgeons had done all they could to make his final days as comfortable as possible, but loss of blood, the shattered jaw and a subsequent infection had made death inevitable. Cato's first instinct was to welcome the news. Bestia had made his life a grinding misery throughout the months he had spent in training. Indeed, the chief centurion had seemed to positively enjoy picking on him and a smouldering hatred had grown in Cato in response.

Macro undid the clasp of his wet cloak and threw it across the back of a camp stool which he pulled up in front of the brazier. The steam from a variety of garments drying on other stools rose in orange wisps, and added to the muggy atmosphere of the tent. If the rain outside was the best weather that the British summer could offer, Macro wondered if the island was worth fighting for. The British exiles accompanying the legions claimed that the island had vast resources of precious metals and rich agricultural lands. Macro shrugged. The exiles might be telling the truth but they had their own reasons for wanting Rome to triumph over their own people. Most had lost land and title at the hands of the Catuvellauni and hoped to regain both as a reward for aiding Rome.

'Wonder who'll get Bestia's job?' Macro mused. 'Be interesting to see who Vespasian will pick.'

'Any chance of you, sir?'

'Hardly, my lad!' Macro snorted. His young optio had not long been a member of the Second Legion and was not wise to the promotion procedures of the army. 'I'm out of the running for that job. Vespasian has to choose from the surviving centurions of the First Cohort. They're the best officers in the legion. You must have several years of excellent service behind you before you get considered for promotion to the First Cohort. I'll be in command of the Sixth Century of the Fourth Cohort for a while yet, I think. Bet there are some pretty anxious men in the First Cohort's mess tonight. You don't get a chance to make chief centurion every day. '

'Won't they be grieving, sir? I mean, Bestia was one of their own.' 'I guess so.' Macro shrugged. 'But that's the fortune of war. Anyone of us could have been for the Styx crossing. Just happened to be Bestia's turn. Anyway, he had had his time in this world. Two years from now he'd only have been going quietly mad in some dull veterans' colony. Better him than someone with something to look forward to, like most of the other poor sods who've copped it so far. And now, as it happens, there are quite a few vacancies to be filled in the centurionate.' Macro smiled at the prospect. He had been a centurion for only a few weeks longer than Cato had been a legionary and had been the most junior centurion in the legion. But the Britons had killed two of the centurions in the Fourth Cohort, which meant that he was now officially fourth in seniority, with the happy prospect of having two newly appointed centurions to lord it over. He looked up and grinned at his optio.

'If this campaign goes on for a few more years, even you might make centurion! '

Cato smiled at the back-handed compliment. Chances were that the island would be conquered well before anyone credited him with enough experience and maturity to be promoted to the centurionate. At the tender age of seventeen that prospect was years away. He sighed and held out the wax tablet he had been working on.

'The effective strength report, sir.'

Macro ignored the tablet. Barely able to read and write, he was of the opinion that attempting either was best avoided if at all possible; he depended heavily on his optio to ensure that the Sixth Century's records were kept in order. 'Well?'

'We've got six in the field hospital – two of those aren't likely to survive. The senior surgeon told me that three of the others will have to be discharged from the army. They're to be conveyed to the coast this afternoon. Should be back in Rome by the end of the year.'

'And then what?' Macro shook his head sadly. 'A pro-rata retirement gratuity and the rest of their lives spent begging on the streets. Some life to look forward to.'

Cato nodded. As a boy he had seen the disabled veterans scrabbling for a pittance in the filthy alcoves of the forum. Having lost a limb or suffered a disabling wound, such a lifestyle was all that was open to most of them. Death might well have been a more merciful outcome for such men. A sudden image of himself mutilated, condemned to poverty, and an object of pity and ridicule caused Cato to shudder. He had no family to fall back on. The only person who cared for him outside the army was Lavinia. She was far from him now, on the road to Rome with the other slaves in the household of Lady Flavia, wife of the Second Legion's commander. Cato could not hope that, if the worst happened, Lavinia would be able to love a cripple. He knew he could not bear her pity, or her staying with him out of any misguided sense of duty.