The Eagle's Prey

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Optio, you first. Get down into the ditch and head towards the corner of the camp. Stay low.’

  Figulus nodded, and then eased himself through the gap, dropping at once on to his stomach and crawling down the steep incline into the defence ditch. Cato thrust the next man forward, and one by one they crept through and down, and then spread out along the ditch. Cato was the last man to leave. He turned towards Macro and they clasped hands clumsily. Cato realised that there was every chance that he would not live to see his friend again, and the thought of not having the reassuringly powerful and weathered figure of Macro at his side filled him with anxiety. But he had to be strong. Whatever future this small band of fugitives had, they would be depending upon him. Cato forced himself to smile at the dark, glistening features squatting opposite.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Macro nodded, and then gently thrust Cato into the gap. ‘Get going. You must be as far away from here as possible before they discover you’ve escaped.’

  ‘Right.’

  Cato slithered down the muddy slope. He glanced back at the palisade, but Macro had gone. Cato eased himself forward and crawled along the line of men lying in the ditch, smeared with mud. All around them the rain hissed into the grass and drops struck the water pooling in the ditch with tiny explosions. At length Cato drew up alongside Figulus and pointed towards the corner of the cohort’s fortifications. With the centurion in the lead the condemned men slithered along. When Cato reached the corner he slowly raised his head and looked around carefully, straining his eyes to pick up any signs of the sentries on the walls of the main camp. A few indistinct shapes moved slowly along the ramparts, but he felt sure that it was dark enough that they would not be detected if they moved slowly and carefully. The only danger was Proculus. The man might well panic and give his comrades away. Cato glanced over his shoulder at Figulus.

  ‘We’ll head out this way. The grass is long enough to give us some cover. Pass the word for everyone to follow me and stay low.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I want you to stick with Proculus.’ Cato lowered his voice so that there was no chance the other men would hear him. ‘If he panics, silence him.’

  ‘Silence him?’

  ‘Do whatever you have to. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato turned away, took a last look along the ramparts, then fixed his gaze on the large copse of oak trees he had noticed earlier in the day when foraging parties had set out to find firewood. Then he eased himself forward into the grass and slowly advanced on hands and knees, ears and eyes straining for any sign of danger. Behind him, the first of the legionaries emerged from the ditch and crept after him. One by one the condemned men followed on as stealthily as possible, hearts pounding. Figulus brought up the rear, thrusting Proculus ahead of him. The latter was terrified and stopped at the slightest threatening sound, dropping down to hug the earth in his trembling embrace before a swift prod from Figulus’ swordpoint started him forward again.

  Cato had covered nearly two-thirds of the distance to the copse when he paused and raised his head to look back towards the camp of the Second Legion. Still no alarm. He was about to move forward again when he sensed a vibration beneath his splayed fingers.

  ‘Stop!’ he hissed. ‘Get down!’

  The men stilled as the order was passed back and then Cato strained his ears to discover the source of the vibrations, growing ever stronger. Around him the rain pattered down steadily and the low wind made a faint roar in his ears as it ruffled the tips of the long blades of grass. Then a dark shape appeared around the edge of the copse they were making for. Another joined it, quickly followed by a steady stream of other shapes. The sound of a horse whinnying carried across the plain towards the men hiding in the grass. Cato eased himself down as he strained his eyes to pick out any detail. The horsemen suddenly altered course, seemingly heading directly towards Cato.

  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, hand instantly going to the handle of the sword he had stuck in his belt. Then he realised they couldn’t have been spotted by the horsemen. It was far too dark for that. Nevertheless … ‘Stay down! Pass it on. Stay down, but have your swords ready to hand. No one makes a move before I do.’

  The legionaries flattened, hugging the earth, as the order was hurriedly whispered back down the thin column. Cato turned back towards the horsemen, no more than two hundred paces away. At least two squadrons of scouts, he calculated. More than enough to wipe them out. And still they came on, heading for the camp, wholly unaware of the presence of the escaped prisoners – for the next few moments at least, Cato thought bitterly, as he pressed himself down, his cheek juddering from the growing vibration as horses’ hoofs pounded closer.

  At the rear of the column Figulus thrust his hand forwards and grabbed a fold of Proculus’ tunic.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Stay down!’

  ‘No! No. We must run. Run for it!’

  Proculus started to rise up from the grass, kicking out at the arm that grasped his tunic. ‘Let go!’

  Figulus glanced at the approaching horsemen, and instinctively rose up behind Proculus. He threw himself forward, smothering the man as the two of them crashed back to the ground. The optio slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of the legionary’s head and Proculus went limp at once. Figulus took no chances and lay across the inert body, sword poised at the man’s throat as the horsemen rumbled towards them.

  Almost at the last moment the column edged fractionally away from the men in the grass and began to pass down the side of the prone figures, no more than twenty feet away. Cato’s head was turned to the side and he hardly breathed as he stared at the dark shapes of men huddled inside their cloaks as they urged their mounts back towards the promise of a dry tent and shelter from the rain and wind. The column pounded along, quite oblivious to the legionaries, yet it seemed to Cato that the last of the horsemen would never pass them. Just when he felt an almost overwhelming urge to rise up and throw himself upon the mounted scouts, the tail of the column galloped by. Cato watched the back of the last horseman, watched him ride on towards the camp, and he drew a deep breath and released some of the tension that had wound his muscles up as tight as a quartermaster’s purse. He waited until the end of the scout column was far enough away that he could not make out any details before he passed the word for his men to continue towards the copse.

  It took the best part of an hour before Figulus joined the others crouching in the dark shadows beneath the dripping boughs of the oak trees. Proculus was conscious again, but groggy, and he made no protest as the optio thrust him towards the others. Cato looked back towards the fortress, but there was no sign that the alarm had been raised yet. By his reckoning they had no more than four hours under the cover of night: enough to put perhaps as much as ten miles between themselves and the first of the pursuers. The fringe of the marsh, as far as he could recall, was at least fifteen miles away. It would be a close thing.

  And then what?

  The perils and uncertainties of the future weighed down on Cato’s heart like a sack of rocks. If they were caught by their own side, execution would follow swiftly, and a stoning, or being beaten to death would be the least of the agonies an angry General Plautius would visit on them. A slow, agonising death by crucifixion was more than likely. And if the enemy got to them first the Romans would be sure to suffer some barbaric torment: burning alive, flaying or being thrown to the dogs. And if they managed to evade both sides, then they would hide in the marshes, reduced to eating anything they could find or steal. A lingering starvation then, until winter killed them off.

  For a moment Cato was tempted to turn round and accept the least terrible of these fates. But then he cursed himself for being a weak-minded fool. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. And he would cling on to life for all he was worth; for even the worst of lives was better than the endless oblivion of death. Cato had little faith in the afterlife vouchsafed by Mithras, the mysterious god fro
m the east who had found so much secret favour with the men of the legions. Death was final and absolute, and the only thing that mattered was to defy its cold embrace until the very last breath whispered from his lungs.

  Cato shrugged off his morbid reflections and stood up, his wet body trembling as the keen breeze bit into his flesh.

  ‘On your feet!’ he called out, and without waiting for the others to obey his order, the centurion turned away from the camp and struck out towards the gloomy haven of the marshes to the west.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Macro was wide awake when the alarm was sounded. He had not been able to sleep since he returned to his tent. That was something of a first for Macro, who, like most veterans, usually dropped into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the bolster. But the situation was far from usual. Cato was out there, with the most slender chance of survival, and Macro himself was in considerable danger. The moment the quartermaster’s assistants were discovered bound and gagged in the equipment tent it would be clear that someone had aided the prisoners’ escape. If they discovered his involvement then he would be standing in for the those who had been facing execution. There was little doubt in his mind about that. Rank and exemplary battle record notwithstanding, Macro would be killed.

  Now the first faint tinge of light washed the sky a dull grey through the gap in his tent flaps. It was still raining, not as heavily as during the night, but still a steady tapping on the leather over his head and a wet rustling sound from outside. A shout sounded in the distance, calling the duty century to arms. A squad of men ran past his tent, dark silhouettes against the strengthening light, feet slithering and squelching in the mud.

  Macro decided that he had better get outside and be seen to be responding to the alarm. His survival depended on him acting as if he was as surprised as the rest. He swung his feet over the side of the camp bed and reached for his boots. As his fingers closed on the well-seasoned leather he paused, let go of them and quickly ducked out of the tent.

  ‘You!’ He pointed to one of the men running past. ‘What’s all the bloody racket about?’

  The legionary stopped, stood to attention, breathing heavily. ‘The prisoners, sir.’

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘They’ve gone, sir. Escaped.’

  ‘Bollocks! How could they?’

  The legionary shrugged helplessly. He had no idea, and couldn’t be expected to know the details.

  Macro nodded. ‘Very well then. Carry on.’

  ‘Sir!’ The legionary saluted, then turned back towards his standard, slowly being waved from side to side in the distance, above the ridges of the line of tents. Macro watched him go, noting the difficulty the man had in making any speedy process over the glutinous mud that surrounded the tents. That was good. Anything that might slow down the pursuit of Cato and his men. Ducking back inside his tent Macro hurriedly laced on his boots and swept up his heavy cape. The folds of wool had only recently been greased and would keep most of the water out. Cato’s men had no such comfort and would be shivering in the sodden tunics, he realised with a momentary pang of conscience. But there had been no time to grab anything more than the weapons, and that had been a big enough risk for him and Figulus to take. Cato would have to make do and be thankful that he was alive at least, Macro reflected as he strode off to join the men gathering around the standard.

  Centurion Maximius came trotting up to join his officers, his cloak bundled under his arm.

  ‘What’s the alarm?’

  Tullius, commanding the duty century, stiffened his back and stepped forward. ‘Prisoners have escaped, sir.’

  ‘Escaped?’ Maximius was astonished. ‘That’s not possible. Show me.’

  Tullius turned towards the open area where the prisoners had been held, and his men stumbled back to clear a path for the officers. They marched up to the holding area and approached the two sentries that Figulus had knocked out. They were sitting on the ground, drinking from the canteens of the men who had set them free.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Maximius bawled out. ‘On your bloody feet!’

  The two men clambered up stiffly and stood to attention with the other legionaries as the officers strode up to them. The cohort commander ignored them at first, casting his gaze on the flattened grass where the prisoners had been held. He took three quick paces, bent down and snatched up some severed lengths of leather from the ground, then glanced at them closely before holding them up for the other officers to see.

  ‘These have been cut.’

  Macro swallowed and nodded. ‘Someone must have given them a hand.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Maximius turned back towards the two sentries. ‘Vassus, what happened here?’

  The older legionary stared straight ahead, not meeting the cohort commander’s gaze.

  ‘Well?’ Maximius said quietly. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘Sir, me and the lad here, we were surprised. They jumped us out of the darkness, like.’

  ‘They? How many were there?’

  ‘Two, sir!’ The younger sentry piped up. ‘Bloody big they were too, sir.’

  ‘Did you recognise them?’

  ‘It was dark, sir …’ the older man replied. ‘Couldn’t say for sure.’

  His companion’s eyes widened. ‘We recognised one of them, sir. Figulus.’

  ‘Optio Figulus?’ The cohort commander scratched his jaw. ‘Cato’s optio. That makes some sort of sense. What about the other man?’

  Macro forced himself to keep quite still as he waited for the veteran to reply.

  ‘Didn’t get a good look at him, sir. He was shorter than Figulus, but then most men are, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Maximius looked round at Macro. ‘I want a strength return for the entire cohort. Find out who else is missing. Now!’

  Macro turned away and began to look for the cohort’s trumpeter. As he expected, the man had joined the standard of the duty century and the broad arc of his bronze instrument was held ready in his grip. Macro strode up to him.

  ‘Sound the assembly!’

  As the deep notes blasted across the rows of tents, the remaining men of the cohort started to pile out into the daylight, and scrambled across the mud to join the ranks mustering along the inside of the rampart. The centurions formed up in front of their men while their optios carried out a quick head count. Macro took charge of Cato’s century now that it had lost both its centurion and now its acting centurion.

  A short time later the officers reported back to Maximius.

  ‘Only Figulus missing? But the sentries said there were two.’

  ‘Seeing double, perhaps?’ Macro smiled. ‘Under the influence.’

  ‘Didn’t look drunk to me,’ Centurion Tullius muttered.

  ‘No,’ agreed Maximius. ‘They weren’t. So it looks as if one of the men who helped the prisoners escape stayed behind. He’s still here.’

  ‘Maybe not, sir,’ said Macro. ‘Could’ve been one of the slaves.’

  ‘Yes … that’s true. Send someone to do a head count of the slaves.’

  While they waited Macro noticed that his superior was eyeing the coming dawn with an anxious expression. Then he realised why, and quickly glanced towards the main camp.

  ‘Won’t be long until the legate arrives.’

  Maximius snorted and let out a bitter little laugh. ‘The legate, the general and the first cohorts of each of the legions. We’re going to be a laughing stock.’

  ‘I doubt the legate will be laughing,’ Centurion Tullius added. ‘He’s going to have our balls for breakfast.’

  Macro nodded. ‘If we’re lucky.’

  Just then the trumpets sounded from across the river, announcing the change of watch that marked the official opening of the day. An instant later a louder blast rang out from the Second Legion’s trumpeters. Maximius and his officers exchanged nervous looks; the cohorts selected to witness punishment would be hurriedly pulling on their tunics and wriggling into their armour.
Allowing time for them to form up and cross the river and then take position on the open ground outside the ramparts of the Second Legion, Maximius and his men had little more than half an hour before the truth was out. Then the wrath of the senior officers in the army would crash down on them like an avalanche of granite.

  ‘Legate approaching!’ the optio on the main gate called out. ‘Honour guard, stand to!’

  Maximius’ shoulders sagged. No reprieve then: he would have to face Vespasian now. For a moment Macro felt sorry for him, and a little bit ashamed for engineering the escape. But then he recalled that the cohort commander bore the sole responsibility for their disgrace and the condemning of Cato and the others to an undeserved death. Macro’s expression hardened as a bitter contempt for the senior centurion clenched round his heart.

  The optio on the gate shouted an order for it to be opened and then hurried down to take up position in front of the section that lined the route into the small camp. The timbers creaked as the gates were hauled inwards, and the legate and a few of his staff were visible as they rode up the muddy approach to the camp.

  Maximius wiped his fringe to one side and blinked away some raindrops. ‘Better get it over with. Come on.’

  The centurions of the Third Cohort steadily picked their way over towards the gate, weighed down by a palpable sense of dread over the legate’s reaction to the news of the condemned men’s escape. Around them the rain fell in a desultory manner; just enough to make them miserably uncomfortable, complementing the gloomy mood nicely.