The Eagle's Prey

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I hope I won’t disappoint you, sir,’ Cato replied, tight-lipped as he bit back on his injured pride.

  ‘You’d better not.’ The smile faded from Maximius’ face. ‘There’s a lot riding on this for all of us, from the general right down to the legionaries in the front rank. We carry it off and there’ll be more than enough glory to go round. We fuck it up and you can be sure that the people back in Rome won’t ever forgive us. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Antonius and Felix answered at once.

  ‘That’s good. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll join me in a toast …’ Maximius reached under the table and lifted a small wine jar from the shadows. ‘It ain’t the best vintage, but think of it as a taster of the spoils to come. So I give you, the Emperor, Rome and her legions. Jupiter and Mars, bless them all, and grant bloody defeat and death to Caratacus and his barbarians!’

  Maximius pulled the stopper out of the jar, grasped the handle and, letting the jar lie across his bent arm, he raised its rim to his lips and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of wine. Cato watched as a red bead trickled from the corner of the cohort commander’s lips and ran down his cheek. Maximius lowered the jar and passed it to Tullius, and one by one the centurions echoed the toast and sealed their oath by sharing the wine. When Macro’s turn came, he took rather more mouthfuls than was required and then handed the jug to Cato as he wiped his lip on the back of his other hand.

  As he lifted the jug and repeated the toast, Cato sensed every eye in the tent on him and he pursed his lips as the first trickle of wine came down the rough earthenware neck of the jar towards his mouth. As the liquid flowed over his tongue Cato resisted the impulse to gag at the sharp, burning vinegary taste. Even in the poorest quarters of Camulodunum Cato had never tasted such a rancid wine. He forced himself to take another mouthful and then lowered the jar.

  ‘There!’ Maximius retrieved the jar, stopped it up and placed it back under the table. ‘Tomorrow then, gentlemen. Tomorrow we show the rest of the army what a cohort can achieve.’

  Chapter Six

  It was still dark as the cohort prepared to move off. Two braziers either side of the gatehouse illuminated the head of the column, but the glow cast by the gently licking flames carried only as far down the Praetorian way as the First Century. The rest of the men were shrouded in the clammy air of the pre-dawn. Cato, standing with the other centurions by the gate, could hear only the muted exchanges and dull clunk and clatter of equipment of nearly five hundred men getting ready to march into battle. On the open ground, to one side of the gate, stood the mounted contingent that was to accompany the cohort – thirty men under the command of a decurion, lightly armed and trained for scouting and courier duties rather than battle. The horses waited expectantly, ears twitching and hoofs gently scraping the ground as their dismounted riders kept firm hands on the reins. From further off came the muffled sounds of other legionaries rousing; quiet curses amid the coughs and groans of men stretching sleep-stiffened bodies.

  ‘Not long now, lads!’ Centurion Maximius called out as he warmed his back against one of the braziers, and cast a huge wavering shadow across the nearest line of tents.

  ‘He’s up for it,’ Macro remarked quietly.

  Cato yawned. ‘Wish I was.’

  ‘Lose much sleep?’

  ‘Had to finish the accounts before I turned in.’

  ‘Accounts?’ Centurion Felix shook his head in disbelief. ‘On the eve of a battle? Are you mad?’

  Cato shrugged and Felix turned to Macro. ‘You’ve known him a while, haven’t you?’

  ‘Man and boy.’

  ‘He always been like that?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Bit of a perfectionist, our Cato. Never goes into a fight unless his records are sorted. Nothing worse than being killed with a bit of paperwork on your mind. Some peculiar religious thing he picked up from the palace officials. Something to do with his shadow being doomed to walk the earth until the accounts are completed, audited and filed. Only then can his spirit rest in peace.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Centurion Antonius asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Macro turned towards him with a horrified expression. ‘You haven’t gone and left your paperwork half done?’

  Cato sighed. ‘Just ignore him, Antonius. Taking the piss is Centurion Macro’s stock in trade.’

  Antonius glanced from Cato to Macro and narrowed his eyes. ‘Fucking idiot …’

  ‘Oh, yes? Had you going there for a moment, didn’t I? So who’s the idiot?’

  ‘You were at the palace?’ Felix said, turning to Cato. ‘The imperial palace?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘So what’s the story, Cato?’

  ‘Not much to say. I was born and raised in the palace. My father was a freedman on the general staff. He arranged most of the entertainments for Tiberius and Caligula. Never knew my mother. She didn’t live long after giving birth to me. When my father died I was sent to join the legions, and here I am.’

  ‘Must be a bit of a comedown, after the palace.’

  ‘In some ways,’ Cato admitted. ‘But life in the palace could be every bit as dangerous as here in the legions.’

  ‘Funny,’ Felix smiled and nodded towards Maximius. ‘That’s just what he said.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato muttered. ‘Can’t seem to remember the Praetorian Guard ever having a hard time of it, Sejanus and his cronies excepted.’

  ‘You were there then?’ Felix’s eyes lit up. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’

  ‘Worse.’ Cato’s expression hardened as he recalled the fall of Sejanus. ‘Hundreds were slaughtered. Hundreds. Including his kids … They used to play with me when they visited the palace. The Praetorians took them away and butchered them. That’s the kind of battle most of them get to fight.’

  Macro frowned at the harsh tone in his friend’s voice and nodded towards the cohort commander. ‘Be fair, lad. He wasn’t there when it happened.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘And the Guard did all right by us outside Camulodunum. That was a bloody tough fight.’

  ‘Yes. All right. I won’t mention it again.’

  ‘You know,’ Tullius spoke quietly, ‘Maximius might have known your father. You should ask him some time. You might have something in common.’

  Cato shrugged. He doubted that he and Maximius had anything in common. The cohort commander’s disdain for the young centurion had become evident to Cato over the few days that they had served together. What was more painful was the thought that the other centurions of the cohort, apart from Macro, might share the sentiment.

  An order barked out from the smothering darkness, commanding the men to stand to attention, and Cato recognised Figulus’ voice. As iron-nailed boots stamped to the dry ground with a rippling thud like distant thunder, Maximius hurried over from the brazier to join his officers.

  ‘Must be the legate! Stand to.’

  Maximius strode two paces to the front and stiffened like a rod. Behind him the other centurions stood in a line, shoulders back, chins raised and arms held tightly to their sides. Then all was quiet, apart from the champing and stamping of the horses. The sounds of several marching men approaching reached the centurions at the gatehouse and moments later Vespasian and a handful of staff officers emerged from the gloom and into the orange glow of the braziers. The legate strode up to the centurions and returned their salute.

  ‘Your men look well turned out, and keyed up for a fight, Maximius.’

  ‘Yes, sir. They can’t wait to get stuck in, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it!’ Vespasian stepped closer to the cohort commander and lowered his voice. ‘You’ve got your orders, and you know the importance of your role in today’s fight.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any last questions?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’ Vespasian reached out his hand and they clasped each other’s forearms. ‘One last battle. By the end of the day it should all
be over. May the gods be with you today, Centurion.’

  ‘And with you, sir.’

  Vespasian smiled and then turned to face east, where the first hint of light was filtering up from the horizon. ‘Time for you to get moving. I’ll share a jar of wine with you and your men tonight.’

  The legate stepped back and led his staff officers up the wooden steps on to the walkway above the gate.

  Maximius turned to his centurions. ‘Back to your units! Prepare to march.’

  Cato and Macro saluted and trotted away from the gate, back down the column of silent men. Cato could pick out the highly polished shield bosses gleaming dully as he passed by; Maximius had given an order for the water-proofed leather shield covers to be left in the men’s tents to reduce the burden they had to carry. It had better not rain, thought Cato, well remembering the awful weight of a water-logged shield.

  Macro peeled off when they reached the Third Century and gave a quick parting nod to Cato as the youngster made his way to the rear of the column where Optio Figulus waited beside the standard of the Sixth Century. As yet the long staff carried only one decoration beside the unit’s square identity pendant: a round disc with a profile of the Emperor Claudius stamped upon it, awarded to every century in the army of General Plautius following the defeat of Caratacus outside Camulodunum nearly a year ago.

  Cato smiled bitterly to himself. A year ago. And here they were again, ready to do battle with Caratacus once more. For the last time. Even if there was a victorious outcome to the coming battle Cato was almost certain that the Roman legions would still not have heard the last of Caratacus. A year in this barbarous island had taught him one thing above all else: these Britons were too foolish to know the meaning of defeat. Every army they had sent against the Eagles had been bloodily defeated. And yet the Britons still fought on doggedly, no matter how many of them were cut down. For their sake, and the sake of their women and children, Cato hoped that the day’s battle would finally break their will to resist.

  Cato filled his lungs. ‘Sixth Century will prepare to advance.’

  There was a grating scrape in the darkness as his men lifted their shields from the ground and shouldered their javelins, a few grunts as they shuffled the weight around and then silence.

  From the front of the column Cato heard the order given to open the gates and, with a protesting creak from the wooden hinges, the thick timbers were pulled inwards and a dark hole yawned beneath the illuminated gatehouse. Maximius bellowed out the order for the cohort to advance. The column rippled forward in a steady cadence as each century moved off after a short delay to leave a sufficient gap between units. Then Antonius shouted the order for the Fifth Century to march. As the rear rank stepped away before Cato he silently counted five paces and then called out.

  ‘Sixth Century! Advance!’

  Then he was leading his men forward, Figulus a pace to his side and a pace behind. Then came the century’s standard and then the column of eighty men who were his first legionary command. Not one man on the sick list. Cato looked over his shoulder and for a moment his heart filled with pride. These were his men. This was his century. His eyes scanned the dim features of the front ranks and Cato felt that nothing in this life could be better than being centurion of the Sixth Century of the Third Cohort of the Second Legion Augusta.

  As the cohort marched under the gatehouse, the legate unsheathed his sword and stabbed it into the thinning darkness of the sky.

  ‘To victory! To victory! To Mars!’

  ‘Draw swords!’ Maximius bellowed from the front of the column, and with a rattling rasp of metal the wicked short stabbing swords of the legionaries flickered up and they returned the legate’s cry with a fullthroated roar as they invoked the blessing of the god of war. The cheers continued until the cohort had left the ramparts of the camp in the distance, silhouetted against the coming light of day.

  Cato took one last look over his shoulder and then turned his gaze along the track to where Maximius led his men towards the battle that would seal the fate of Caratacus and his warriors once and for all.

  Chapter Seven

  With sunrise it was clear that the day would be breathless and hot. There was not even a hint of haze in the smooth cerulean heaven. The cohort trudged steadily along the supply track, the iron nails on the legionaries’ boots kicking up the loose dust that covered the wagon ruts. Equipment jingled on harnesses and there was a steady, rhythmless rapping of javelin shafts and scabbards on the inside of the men’s shields. A short distance to the right, the men of the cavalry squadron led their mounts parallel to the legionaries. The centurions marched at the head of the cohort, summoned there by Maximius.

  ‘Keep ’em in step, at a nice steady pace,‘he explained. ‘No need to rush things. Don’t want to exhaust the men.’

  Macro silently disagreed. There was every reason to be in position as speedily as possible. The legate had made it quite clear that everyone must be ready in time to trap Caratacus. True, the Third Cohort should easily reach the ford just after noon, but if it had been his cohort Macro would have marched them hard, arrived early, immediately set up the defences, and only then stand the men down while they waited for the enemy to arrive. Sooner a wide margin for error than a narrow one, he decided. All those years of hard service with the Eagles had taught him that much at least. But then, it wasn’t his cohort and it wasn’t his job to question the order of his superior. So Macro kept his mouth shut and nodded with the other centurions in response to Maximius’ last remark.

  ‘Once we reach the auxiliary fort we’ll pick up the entrenching tools and give the men a short rest.’

  ‘Which unit do the auxiliaries belong to, sir?’ Cato asked.

  ‘The First Nervanians — Germans, born and bred. They’re good lads.’ Maximius smiled. ‘And they’re in good hands. Mate of mine commands them. Centurion Porcinus, ex-Praetorian Guardsman, like me.’

  ‘First Nervanian?’ Macro thought for a moment. ‘Didn’t they get a good pasting in the marshes on the Tamesis, last summer?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘Thought so.’ Macro nodded, and jerked a thumb at Cato. ‘We were there. Had to do some tidying up after them. Made a bit of a hash of it, chasing down some of the locals. Got lost in the marsh and pretty much cut to pieces. Ain’t that right, Cato?’

  ‘Er, yes. I suppose so.’ Cato was watching Maximius carefully and saw the cohort commander frown. ‘But they fought well enough.’

  Macro turned to him with a surprised expression and Cato quickly shook his head.

  ‘They did fight well,’ Maximius growled. ‘They were a credit to their commander. Lost over half their number and Porcinus still kept them at it. As I said, they’re in good hands.’

  ‘Well,’ Macro sniffed. ‘If he’s a good commander, then why …?’

  Cato was staring hard at his friend and finally Macro got the point. He paused, looked at Maximius quickly, and cleared his throat.

  ‘Why what?’ Maximius prompted him in a harsh tone.

  ‘Er, why … why didn’t the general honour him?’

  ‘You know the score, Macro. Some centurions just happen to get on the wrong side of our generals and legates. While some others —’ Maximius glanced towards Cato – ‘just seem to get everything handed to them on a plate. That’s the way of the world. Wouldn’t you agree, Centurion Cato?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato forced himself to smile. ‘Just one of the profession’s iniquities.’

  ‘Iniquities?’ Maximius repeated in a mocking tone. ‘Now there’s a fine word. Know any more like that, son?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You got any other smart words you want to use on me?’

  ‘Sir, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Rest easy!’ Maximius grinned, too widely, and raised his hand. ‘No harm done, lad, and no offence taken, eh? You can’t help it if you’ve spent most of your life with your nose stuck in a book, instead of doing proper soldiering, can you?’

 
Cato looked down to hide the anger flushing through his face. ‘No, sir. And I aim to make up for it.’

  ‘Of course you do, lad.’ Maximius winked at Antonius and Felix. ‘A boy’s got to learn, after all.’

  ‘After all what, sir?’ Cato looked round at his commander. Maximius smiled at the determined glint in the young officer’s eyes. He slapped Cato on the shoulder.

  ‘Figure of speech, son. That’s all it was.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir.’ Cato gave a small nod. ‘Might I get back to my men now?’

  ‘No need to sulk, Cato.’

  There was a tense beat as Cato tried to control a new flush of anger. He realised well enough that Maximius was baiting him, trying to force him into some kind of petulant display in front of the other centurions. It was so tempting to bite back, to defend his achievements, to point out the medallions he wore on his harness. Unfortunately, Maximius, Macro and Tullius each carried more sets than he did. Antonius and Felix had yet to win any decorations for bravery and Cato would merely offend them as the other three centurions laughed at his bratish arrogance. Any attempt at a put-down would be taken as insubordination and only make the situation worse. Yet to do nothing would make him look like a weakling, and merely invite further lacerating remarks from Maximius. Bullying was a prerogative of rank, and Cato realised it was something he would just have to put up with. Unfair as it was, few of his fellow centurions would side with him. A man had to pay his dues and put up with all the petty slights and cruel taunts, with no possibility of being able to respond. Any man who succumbed to that temptation was as good as broken. All Cato could do was weather the torment and accept the … iniquity – he smiled bitterly to himself – of the situation.

  With a flash of insight he realised that was just another way the army had of toughening up its men. The discomforts of army life were as much mental as physical, and he’d better get used to it, because if he didn’t then men like Maximius would break Cato as surely as night follows day. Very well, if he couldn’t afford to outwit his commander, and couldn’t bear to be the butt of his humour then Cato must keep as far away from Maximius as possible.