When Centurion Macro and his young subordinate, Optio Cato arrive on the shores of Britain to take part in the Emperor Claudius' invasion in AD 43, Macro knows the desperately outnumbered Roman army will be facing one of the toughest campaigns ever. Meanwhile, a sinister organization is secretly betraying the brave men of the legions. When assassination rumors coincide with the Emperor's arrival, the soldiers realize they are up against a force more ruthless than the Britons, and that time is running out if they are to prevent Claudius's glorious victory from turning to disaster. “Scarrow manages to summon up in this exhilarating tale all the glory and the gore that characterized life in the Roman legions. Outstanding military history from a relatively new master of the genre.” ― Booklist “Good, clean, intelligent fun.” ― Kirkus Reviews “...nonstop action.” ― Publishers Weekly Simon Scarrow teaches at City College in Norwich, England. He has in the past run a Roman history program, taking parties of students to a number of ruins and museums across Britain. He lives in Norfolk, England, and writes novels featuring Macro and Cato. His books include Under the Eagle and The Eagle's Conquest . The Eagle's Conquest A Novel By Simon Scarrow St. Martin's Griffin Copyright © 2004 Simon Scarrow All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312305345 Chapter One _______________ ‘I don’t think I fancy the odds on the tall one,’ muttered Centurion Macro. ‘Why’s that, sir?’ ‘Look at him, Cato! The man’s all skin and bones. Won’t last long against the opposition.’ Macro nodded to the other side of the makeshift arena where a short, thickset prisoner was being armed with a buckler and short sword. The man took the unfamiliar weapons reluctantly and eyed up his opponent. Cato looked over to the tall, thin Briton, naked except for a small leather loin guard. One of the legionaries assigned to arena duties thrust a long trident into his hands. The Briton hefted the trident experimentally and adjusted his grip for the best balance. He seemed to be a man who knew his weapons and moved with a certain amount of poise. ‘I’ll bet on the tall one,’ Cato decided. Macro swung round. ‘You mad? Look at him.’ ‘I have looked, sir. And I’ll back my judgement with money.’ ‘Your judgement?’ The centurion’s eyebrows rose. Cato had only joined the legion the winter before, a fresh-faced youth from the imperial household in Rome. A legionary for less than a year and already throwing his judgements about like a veteran. ‘Have it your own way then.’ Macro shook his head and settled down to wait for the fight to begin. It was the last bout of the day’s games laid on by the legate, Vespasian, in a small dell in the middle of the Second Legion’s marching camp. Tomorrow the four legions and their support troops would be on the march again, driven on by General Plautius in his determination to seize Camulodunum before autumn closed in. If the enemy capital fell, the coalition of British tribes, led by Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, would be shattered. The forty thousand men under Plautius were all that Emperor Claudius could spare for the audacious invasion of the misty isles off the coast of Gaul. Every man in the army was aware that they were greatly outnumbered by the Britons. But as yet the enemy were dispersed. If the Romans could only strike quickly at the heart of British resistance before the imbalance in numbers weighed against the legions, victory would be within their grasp. The desire to push forward was in all their hearts, although the tired legionaries were grateful for this day’s rest and the entertainment provided by the fights. Twenty Britons had been paired against each other, armed with a variety of weapons. To make things more interesting the pairs had been picked by lot out of a legionary helmet and a handful of the bouts had been entertainingly unbalanced. Like this last one appeared to be. The legion’s eagle-bearer was acting as master of ceremonies and strode out to the centre of the arena, arms waving for silence. The eagle-bearer’s assistants rushed to take final bets and Cato sat back down beside his centurion, having got odds of five to one. Not good, but he had staked a month’s pay and if the man won, Cato would make a tidy sum. Macro had bet on the muscle-bound opponent with sword and buckler. Much less money, at much tighter odds, reflecting the assessment of the fighters. ‘Quiet! Quiet there!’ the eagle-bearer bellowed. Despite the holiday atmosphere, the automatic grip of discipline exerted itself over the gathered legionaries. Within moments over two thousand shouting, gesticulating soldiers stilled their tongues, and sat waiting for the bout to begin. ‘Last fight, then! On my right I give you a swordsman, well-built, and a skilled warrior, or so he claims.’ The crowd howled with derision. If the Briton was so bloody good, why the hell was he here fighting for his life as their prisoner? The swordsman snee