'Well?' Macro said impatiently. 'What's it say?'

Knowing his centurion's intolerances, Cato thought quickly. 'It's a gift from Germanicus, for his services.' 'Germanicus? The Germanicus?'

'I suppose so, sir. There's no more detail than that.'

'I had no idea the old boy was so well-connected. That deserves another toast. '

Cato reluctantly handed him the amphora, and winced as Macro guzzled more of the vintage wine. The amphora felt disappointingly light when he got it back. Rather than lose the balance of his bequest to the belly of his centurion, Cato toasted Bestia again and gulped down as much as he could handle in one go.

Macro belched. 'W -well, Bestia must have performed a pretty heroic deed to win that little beauty. A sword from Germanicus! That's quite something, quite something.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato agreed quietly. 'It must have been.' 'Look after that blade, lad. It's priceless.'

'I will, sir.' Cato was beginning to feel the effects of the wine in the hot, close confines of the tent, and suddenly craved fresh air. 'I think we should leave him now, sir. Let him rest in peace.'

'He's dead, Cato. He's not asleep.'

'Figure of speech. Anyway, I need to get out of here, sir. I need to be outside.'

'Me too.' Macro flipped the linen shroud back over Bestia and roll owed the optio outside. The rain had stopped and, as the clouds were clearing away, the stars flickered dully in the humid atmosphere. Cato drew in deep lungfuls of air. He was feeling the wine more than ever and wondered if he would suffer the indignity of being sick.

'Let's get back to our tent and finish the amphora,'.Macro said cheerily.

'We owe the old boy that at least.' 'Do we?' Cato replied bleakly.

'Of course we do. Old army tradition. That's how we mourn our dead.' 'A tradition?'

'Well, it is now.' Macro smiled woozily. 'Come on, let's go.' Holding tightly to his new sword in its scabbard, Cato relinquished control of the amphora and the pair of them steered an uncertain course back through the neat lines of tents to those of their own century.

At dawn the next morning, when Bestia's pyre was ignited, the centurion and optio of the Sixth Century in the Fourth Cohort gazed on with bleary eyes. The entire Second Legion was formed up to witness the event, and faced the pyre on three sides while the legate, the camp prefect, tribunes and other senior officers stood at attention on the fourth side. Vespasian had chosen his position well, upwind from the pyre in the light airs wafting across the British landscape. Directly opposite, the first tendrils of thick oily smoke, laden with the odour of burning fat, wafted across the legionaries standing at attention. A chorus of coughing broke out around Macro and his optio, and a moment later Cato's rather too delicate stomach clenched like a fist, and he doubled over and vomited the disturbed contents of his guts all over the grass at his feet.

Macro sighed. Even from beyond the shadows of death Bestia had the capacity to make his men suffer.

The Eagles Conquest

'The problem, gentlemen, is that hillock over there.' The general pointed across the river with his baton, and the eyes of his senior officers followed the direction indicated. In addition to the commanders of the four legions, amongst the cluster of scarlet cloaks were Plautius' staff officers. Vespasian was finding it hard not to be amused by the amount of dazzling gilt that was adorning the burnished breastplate of his brother Sabinus, who was enjoying the honorific rank of prefect of horse. Almost as garish was the amount of gold being worn by the British exile accompanying Plautius. Adminius had been forced to flee his kingdom by his brother, Caratacus, and had joined the Roman army to act as a guide and negotiator. If Rome triumphed, his title and lands would be restored to him, although he would rule as a client king of Rome, with all the obligations that entailed: a poor reward for betraying his people. Vespasian shifted his scornful gaze from the Briton back to the river.

The far bank sloped up to a low ridge that ran alongside the river. The crest had been crudely fortified, and even as they watched, the tiny figures of the Britons toiled furiously to improve their initial efforts. Already a substantial ditch had been dug around the crossing point, with the spoil being added to the rampart behind. A crude palisade was being erected on top of the ramp, with the redoubt at each end, beyond which the ground became marsh.

'You may have noticed that this stretch of the river is tidal,' Plautius continued. 'And if you look close to the far bank you can see that Caratacus has been laying submerged obstacles on the river bed. Is the tide flooding or ebbing, Tribune Vitellius?"

The general's latest staff officer was caught on the hop and Vespasian couldn't help smiling with satisfaction as Vitellius' usual smug expression fell prey to doubt and then embarrassment. The tribune was on secondment from the Second Legion as a reward for his recent heroics. This experience on the general's staff was an opportunity to make a name for himself, and ease the way for any future military career. For a moment it looked as if the tribune would try and bluff it, but then honesty won the day although, in perfect keeping with his character, Vitellius could not resist an attempt at damage limitation through evasion.

'I'll find out, sir.'

'Is that "I'll find out, sir" as in "I don't know, sir"?' Plautius asked drily.

'Yes, sir.'

'Then see to it immediately,' ordered Plautius. 'And from now on remember that it's your job to know these things. There'll be no excuses in future. Understand?'

'Yes, sir!' Vitellius snapped as he saluted and fled the scene. 'You just can't get the staff these days,' Plautius muttered.

The other officers present exchanged knowing smiles. It was unfair to expect a staff officer to be aware of the tidal conditions of a river he had only just encountered. But unless staff officers could be made to worry about each and every possible factor influencing the execution of a campaign, they were useless. A staff advancement might be worth seeking, but the individuals concerned had all manner of crosses to bear.

Straining his eyes, Vespasian could just make out a series of ominous black tips protruding from the water's surface. Sharpened wooden stakes, driven into the river bed, and quite capable of impaling an infantryman or disembowelling a horse. The attackers would be forced to negotiate the crossing cautiously under volleys of slingshot and arrows from the enemy even before they emerged from the river and encountered the ditch and rampart.

'We could cover the assault with artillery, sir,' Vespasian suggested. 'The bolt-throwers would force them to keep their heads down, while the catapults took down the palisade.'

Plautius nodded. 'I have considered that. The prefect of engineers reckons that the range is too great – we'd have to use the smallest calibre of missile, not enough to do the required damage. I think we have to discount the possibility of a direct assault on its own. By the time any heavy infantry could cross the river and form up we'd have too many casualties. Furthermore, the front itself is too narrow for sheer force to carry the day. Our men would be exposed to fire from three sides as they approached the ditch. No, I'm afraid we must be a little more sophisticated. '

'Do we have to cross here, sir?' asked Sabinus. 'Can't we just march upriver until we find an easier crossing?'

'No,' the general replied patiently. 'If we march upriver, Caratacus can shadow us every step of the way and oppose any crossing we attempt. It might be days, weeks even, before we get across. Then he simply falls back to the Tamesis and we repeat the whole process all over again. And time is on his side, not ours. Every day more men will be joining his army. Every day we give him makes our chances of taking Camulodunum before autumn less likely. And unless Camulodunum falls, we won't be able to secure the alliance of those tribes still neutral. We must fight Caratacus here, and now.'