The Eagle's Prey

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato glanced over his shoulder, back down the line of men towards his century bringing up the rear of the column. He frowned.

  ‘Sir, I think my century’s falling behind. Can I go back and chivvy them along?’

  Maximius looked back and then turned his gaze on Cato with a shrewd narrowing of the eyes. For a moment Cato feared that his request would be denied. Then Maximius nodded.

  ‘Very well. Make sure they keep up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted, quickly turned away and strode back down the column of sweating legionaries, under the watchful eye of Maximius.

  ‘Macro?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How well do you know that boy?’

  ‘Well enough, I suppose, sir,’ Macro replied guardedly. ‘At least I’ve known him ever since he joined the Second Legion as a recruit.’

  ‘As long as that?’ Maximius arched his eyebrows. ‘That must be, almost, let me see … two years. My, that is a long time.’

  Even Macro could pick up the heavy helping of sarcasm. He immediately decided that Cato had to be defended, before Maximius settled on a mistaken judgement of the young centurion. First impressions were hard to shake, and the last thing Macro wanted to see was Cato handicapped by some veteran’s prejudice as he made a go of his first legionary command. The legionaries of the Sixth Century, he knew, were still bridling over the appointment of a centurion who was younger than all but a handful of the men. The situation was not helped by Cato’s choice of Figulus for optio. Figulus was only a few months older than his centurion, but at least he had the kind of physique that deters those in the ranks from insubordination. Figulus was safe enough, Macro realised. It was Cato who would be pressured to justify his rapid promotion. Macro knew that Cato, cursed by lack of self-confidence and by driving ambition in equal measure, would do anything to prove he deserved his advancement. Macro had seen the lad’s desperate courage on many occasions. Given half a chance Cato would prove Maximius wrong or die in the attempt. Unless Maximius knew that, and backed off from his snide treatment of his subordinate, then Cato would be a danger to himself.

  Then Macro paused, mid-thought, as something more disturbing occurred to him. What if Maximius recognised that same flaw in Cato and decided to exploit it cruelly?

  Macro cleared his throat, and spoke in what he hoped sounded like a light-hearted tone. ‘Sure he’s young, sir. But he’s learned the trade fast. And he’s got guts.’

  ‘Young!’ Maximius snorted. ‘I’ll say.’

  The other centurions laughed and Macro forced himself to smile along with them as he steeled himself for another attempt to steer Maximius towards a more sensitive treatment of the cohort’s most junior centurion.

  ‘He’s just a bit touchy, sir.‘Macro smiled. ‘You know what it was like at that age.’

  ‘Yes I do. That’s precisely why boys should not be placed in command of men. They lack the necessary temperament, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘In most cases, yes, sir.’

  ‘In your case?’

  Macro thought about this a moment and then nodded. ‘I suppose so. I could never have been a centurion at Cato’s age.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Maximius chuckled. ‘That’s why I’m not convinced by our young centurion.’

  ‘But Cato’s different.’

  Maximius shrugged and turned his gaze along the track ahead of them. ‘We’ll see soon enough.’

  The dust at the end of the column hung in the air and made the men’s mouths feel dry and gritty. That was why Cato’s men had slowly dropped back from the rear of the Fifth Century. He immediately ordered them forward and then kept them in the correct formation with the rest of the cohort, despite the undercurrent of muttered protest that greeted his command.

  ‘Silence!’ Cato shouted. ‘Silence in the ranks there! Optio, take the name of the next man who opens his mouth out of turn.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus saluted.

  Cato stepped away from the track and stood and watched the men closely as his century marched past. His eye was practised enough to distinguish between the good and the bad legionaries, between the veterans and the recruits, between those in good physical condition and those who were in poor health. There was no question that they were all fit; the merciless regime of perpetual training and route marches saw to that. Cato’s eyes glanced over the men’s kit, mentally noting those who had taken every effort to maintain their armour and weapons to the highest standards. He noted the faces of those men whose armour was heavily tarnished; he would have Figulus see to them later. A few days of fatigues might sort them out. If that didn’t work he’d slap some fines on them.

  As the tail of the century tramped by, Cato waited a moment longer, making sure that the lines of his men were even, then he fell in on the track and double-paced to catch up. He was pleased enough with what he had seen so far. There was a handful of obvious bad characters, but the majority looked like good men, conscientious and hardy enough. The only thing that bothered Cato was that he still lacked a firm understanding of their collective spirit. The faces he had scrutinised from the side of the track were largely expressionless, and since he had ordered them to be silent there was little tangible sense of their feelings, only, perhaps, a sullen resentment over the order. Cato thought about changing his mind and letting them talk, which would allow him to gauge their mood a little more readily. But to countermand an order so recently given would only make him look indecisive and irresolute. He’d have to let them resent him for the moment then. That might even help foster his preferred image as a stern disciplinarian who would not brook the slightest hint of insubordination from the men under his command. He’d show that bastard Maximius …

  Which was why he was being so harsh on the men, Cato realised. He was taking out his anger on them, and with that thought he was awash with guilt and self-contempt. There was really no difference between Maximius’ bullying of Cato and Cato’s taking it out on the men of his century. Maximius – it pained him to admit it – was right. He was sulking, and now over eighty good men were suffering the consequences. Unless he grew out of his sensitivity he would be a perpetual burden to his men. Men who must trust him implicitly if they were to overcome the savage ferocity of Caratacus and his horde.

  Not long after noon the track curved towards a small hillock. On its crest stood the raw dark earth of a recently erected rampart. A wooden barricade ran along the top of the earthworks with solid timber towers constructed above the two gates and at each corner of the fort. The distant detail of the structure was lost in the shimmering heat, but beyond the hill there was the glint of the Tamesis, looking cool and inviting to the eyes of sweating legionaries. Cato felt that he had not seen a more serene and peaceful view for months, but sight of the river brought the prospect of the coming battle sharply to mind. Soon enough those quiet waters would be stained with men’s blood and their corpses would lay strewn about under the harsh glare of the sun.

  As the cohort approached, there was no sign of movement behind the rampart, almost as if the sentries had decided to find some shelter from the sun to enjoy an afternoon nap. Above the fort Cato could see tiny black dots slowly swirling: carrion birds of some kind, he decided. Apart from a few solitary swifts darting high and low, they were the only birds in the clear sky. When the cohort was less than a mile from the fort and there was still no sign of life, Centurion Maximius halted his men and bellowed out an order for the scouts to mount and move ahead to investigate. With a soft thrumming of hoofs the scouts trotted forwards and started up the gentle incline towards the gatehouse.

  ‘Officers to the front!’

  Cato ran forward, his harness jingling loudly as he passed by the silent ranks of each century. He joined the other officers breathing heavily and mopped the perspiration from his brow.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ muttered Felix.

  Maximius slowly turned towards him. ‘Really? Do you think so?’ Felix looked surprised. ‘Well, yes, sir. That or they
have the worst sentries I’ve ever encountered. In which case someone’s in for a roasting.’

  Maximius nodded. ‘Well, thank you for your concise appraisal of the situation. Most instructive … you idiot! Of course something’s wrong.’

  Felix began to stammer something, and then shut his mouth and gazed down at his boots as he scraped one foot across the loose soil. The other centurions turned their gaze on the fort and silently watched the scouts ride up towards the entrance. One of the gates began to swing open slowly.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘I see it, Antonius.’

  A dark shape flitted out of the shadows under the gatehouse into the sunlight. A large dog, one of the hunting beasts the Nervanians insisted on taking with them on campaign. It glanced quickly at the approaching horsemen and then turned and bolted down the slope in the opposite direction. For a moment the officers watched it run, sleek back bobbing up and down as it disappeared round the flank of the hill.

  ‘Sir, what’s that?’ asked Cato, and raised an arm to point at the gatehouse.

  The gate had continued to inch open and was now swinging out from the shadows. Something had been fixed to the inside of the gate.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Centurion Felix whispered.

  No one replied. They could see it clearly now and for a moment no one spoke. It was the body of a man, nailed to the timbers with a spike through both his palms. He was stripped and had been disembowelled, and his guts hung down over his legs, red and grey and glistening.

  Chapter Eight

  Centurion Maximius swung round. ‘Cohort! Form up. Close order!’

  As the men shuffled together and raised their shields Maximius ordered his centurions to rejoin their units. Up by the fort the scouts had spread out across the track and the decurion took three of his men and slowly approached the gate. They paused by the corpse for a moment and had disappeared inside by the time Cato ran up to Figulus at the head of the Sixth Century.

  ‘What’s happening, sir?’

  ‘You’ve got eyes, Optio,’ Cato snapped back at him. ‘See for yourself.’

  While Figulus shaded his brow with his hand and squinted towards the gateway, Cato became aware of several muted exchanges from the men behind him. He shot an angry look over his shoulder.

  ‘Shut your mouths!’

  Cato saw one man mutter something to his neighbour and turned round and strode over to him, pointing.

  ‘You! Yes, you! You’re on a charge. What’s your name?’

  ‘Titus Velius, sir!’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, talking after I’ve told you to be silent?’ Cato stopped in front of him and leaned forward, glaring into the legionary’s face. Velius was a little shorter than Cato, several years older and much more heavily built. He stared over the shoulder of his centurion, expressionless.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Just saying we’re in trouble, sir.’ He met Cato’s eyes briefly. ‘That’s all.’ Then his gaze reverted to a fixed forward stare.

  Cato’s nostrils flared as he exhaled angrily. ‘Optio!’

  ‘Sir?’ Figulus trotted over towards him.

  ‘Put Velius on a charge. Ten days’ latrines.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato stepped back and looked round at his men. ‘Next loudmouth I catch speaking out of turn pulls twenty days in the shit!’

  He turned away and scanned the fort once again. The gate had fetched up against the wall of the gatehouse and the man hung motionless. There was no sign of any life beyond the gate and only the slowly wheeling crows broke the awful stillness that hung over the silent ramparts. Cato scanned the surrounding landscape, but not a soul moved in any direction. No enemies, no auxiliary troops and none of the local natives.

  At length the decurion of the scouts emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse and trotted his horse down towards Centurion Maximius, who had advanced a short distance in front of his cohort, impatient to discover what had happened to the garrison of the fort.

  ‘Well?’

  The decurion looked badly shaken. ‘They’re all dead, sir.’

  ‘All? The entire unit?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir. Didn’t count ’em but there must be over a hundred of them in there … dead. Most don’t look like they died quickly.’

  Maximius looked towards the fort for a moment before he gave his orders to the decurion. ‘Take your men. Find the tracks of whoever did this. Find out where they went and report back to me at once.’

  The decurion saluted, wheeled his horse about and trotted back towards his men, ordering them to form up. Maximius marched steadily towards the gate and entered the fort.

  Once the scouts had galloped off to the north, on the trail of the enemy, the men of the cohort waited quietly in the baking sunshine, watching anxiously for the cohort commander to reappear. A long time passed, maybe a quarter of an hour, by Cato’s estimate, and at length he slapped his thigh in frustration.

  ‘Think something’s happened to him, sir?’ Figulus asked quietly.

  ‘I hope not. But he’d better get out of there soon. We can’t afford to be delayed. He’s got his orders.’

  ‘Shouldn’t someone go and check on him?’

  Cato looked along the column, picking out the other centurions. Macro was looking his way and raised his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  ‘You’re right,’ Cato replied. ‘Someone has to find him. Stay here.’

  Cato trotted forward. Felix and Antonius eyed him with surprised expressions as he passed by. He stopped when he reached Macro.

  ‘Taking his bloody time!’ Macro grumbled.

  ‘I know. We have to get moving.’

  ‘We need the trenching tools from the fort.’

  ‘Then we should be getting them and moving on to the ford. Someone has to go up there …’

  While Macro scratched his chin and considered the situation, they were joined by Centurion Tullius, an anxious expression on his weathered features.

  ‘What do you think we should do?’

  Macro looked at Tullius in surprise. As the senior officer present Tullius should be making decisions, not asking for advice, or worse still, opinions. The old centurion looked hopefully at the other two officers, waiting for them to say something.

  ‘Someone has to go up there,’ Cato said, at length.

  ‘He told us to stay with our centuries.’

  ‘Look,’ said Macro, ‘we can’t fuck about here all day. We’ve got to get to that ford. Someone has to fetch Maximius. Right now.’

  ‘Yes. But who?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Macro replied. ‘You go.’

  ‘Me?’ Tullius looked frightened by the idea. He shook his head. ‘No. I’d better stay with the cohort. If it’s a trap I’ll be needed here. You go, Cato. You’d better double up there right away.’

  Cato didn’t wait to show an expression of distaste, but turned towards the fort and began to run up the slope. Almost at once a figure emerged from the gate and Maximius came striding down the track. He saw the gathering of centurions at once and started towards them angrily. The three centurions steeled themselves for his wrath.

  ‘What the hell is this? Who told you to leave your units?’

  ‘Sir,’ Cato protested, ‘we were concerned for your safety.’

  ‘And we’re running behind schedule,’ added Macro. ‘We should be heading for the ford by now, sir.’

  Maximius instantly rounded on him and stabbed a finger at his chest. ‘Don’t you dare presume to tell me my duty, Centurion!’

  ‘Sir, I only meant to remind—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Maximius screamed down into Macro’s face. For a moment the two officers glared at each other, as the men surrounding them looked on in astonishment.

  Cato coughed. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Were there any survivors?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Any sign of Centurion Porcinus?’

  Maximius winced at the mention of his friend�
��s name. ‘Oh, I found him all right. In fact I kept finding him.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Want me to draw you a fucking picture? If I ever catch the bastards who did this, I swear on my family name they’ll spend all day dying.’

  The distant pounding of hoofs drew the men’s attention to the slope below the fort; one of the scouts was galloping towards them. He reined in a short distance from the officers and his mount sprayed them with clods of earth. The scout dropped to the ground at once and breathlessly saluted Maximius.

  ‘Make your report!’

  ‘Sir, we’ve found them!’ The scout jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, north towards the Tamesis. ‘Infantry. Heading west along the river, two miles away.’

  ‘How many?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Three, maybe four hundred, sir.’

  Maximius shot Cato a withering glance before he addressed the scout. ‘You’re reporting to me, boy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The scout was flustered. ‘Of course. Sorry, sir.’

  The cohort commander nodded sternly. ‘Right. Let’s have them. Get back to your decurion. I want them followed. Any change of direction, he’s to let me know at once. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go.’ Maximius waved him away and turned back to the other officers. As the scout threw himself back over the saddlecloth of his mount and spurred it away with wild shouts of command, Maximius briefly collected his thoughts. ‘It’s most likely to be a raiding party.’

  ‘Raiding party?’ Cato wondered.

  ‘What else?’

  Cato was surprised. ‘Well, it’s obvious.’

  Macro winced at his friend’s unusually blunt response.

  ‘Is it? Well, Centurion, do please share your tactical insight with us mere mortals.’