The Eagle's Prey

by Simon Scarrow

  Vespasian ran a quick eye over the honour guard and nodded his satisfaction at the turnout. One or two spots of mud above their mudcaked boots, but that was acceptable. He turned to the optio.

  ‘Very good. You can dismiss them now.’

  ‘Sir!’ The optio saluted, turned smartly towards his men and bawled out the order as if he was on the parade ground and not standing within easy earshot. The men stamped to attention and as soon as the formalities were completed they hurried away to find shelter.

  The legate swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly. The five centurions pulled themselves up and pushed their shoulders back.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I trust all the preparations have been made.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir …’

  Vespasian sensed the man’s hesitation at once. ‘But?’

  Macro glanced sidelong and saw Centurion Maximius roll his head helplessly. ‘Sir, I regret to report that the prisoners have escaped.’

  For a moment the legate froze, a frown etched on his broad forehead, then the horse turned its head and jerked the reins still held in his hand, breaking the spell.

  ‘Escaped? How many?’

  ‘All of them, sir,’ Maximius replied with a flinch.

  ‘All? That’s bullshit, Centurion. How could all of them have escaped? They were under guard, weren’t they?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The guards were overpowered by some accomplices, sir. They tied ’em up, set the prisoners free and slipped out through the ramparts.’

  ‘You’ve sent some men after them, I trust?’

  Maximius shook his head faintly. ‘Only just discovered it, sir. The alarm was raised at first light.’

  The legate clenched a fist at his side. He shut his eyes tightly for an instant as he fought down the rage that had been provoked by the cohort commander’s confession. Then: ‘Don’t you think it might be wise to send some men to look for them right now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At once, sir. Tullius, see to it immediately.’

  As the centurion trotted off to carry out the order Vespasian clicked his fingers and beckoned to his senior tribune. The officer immediately slid down from his saddle and trotted over.

  ‘Plinius, did that scout patrol have anything unusual to report?’

  Tribune Plinius thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Right, well, I want you to return to the camp and get them all back into the saddle. They’re to sweep south, west and east of the river. If they find any of the deserters they must make every effort to bring them back alive to face punishment. If they resist, the scouts have my permission to kill them on the spot. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go and see to it.’

  The tribune ran back to his horse, threw himself across its back and yanked the reins round, spurring his mount towards the main camp. The hoofs flung back thick gouts of mud at the legate and the centurions of the Third Cohort, and Macro flinched as a clod splattered on his cheek.

  ‘Pardon me, sir.’

  Macro glanced round and saw the man he had detailed to report on the number of men in the cohort’s camp.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s only one man unaccounted for. That’s Optio Figulus. All the rest of the legionaries and slaves are here in the camp.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Macro raised his dark eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s not all. We found some of the quartermaster’s assistants tied up in the equipment tent. Some weapons are missing, sir.’

  ‘Very well, you can go.’

  Macro swapped a quick look of dismay with Centurion Maximius.

  ‘Problem, Centurion Macro?’ asked Vespasian. ‘That is to say, yet one more problem to add to the catalogue of cock-ups for this morning?’

  Macro nodded. ‘Yes, sir. It appears that only Figulus has deserted with the others. But our sentries claim that they were jumped by two men. Seems that the second man is still in the camp.’

  ‘He’d better be found then,’ Vespasian said quietly. ‘I think that General Plautius will want someone’s head in compensation. Rather this accomplice than one of your heads, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?’

  There was no reply to that and the centurions faced their legate with drained and despairing expressions. Behind them Tullius was leading a squad of men through the gap that had been torn in the palisade, and fully armed they slithered in an ungainly fashion down into the ditch on the far side and followed the marks left by the prisoners that led towards the corner of the camp.

  Vespasian shook his head. ‘This is a sorry state of affairs, Centurion Maximius. Not only are you in the deepest shit for this complete and utter balls-up, you’ve dragged me into it as well … Thanks.’

  There was nothing Maximius could say. What use was an apology, and to even utter one would worsen the burden of shame that lay on his shoulders. So he stared mutely back at his legate until the latter wearily turned round and mounted his horse. Vespasian looked down at the centurions with a sneer on his lips.

  ‘I’m going to break the news to the general, before he can march the cohorts from the other legions across the river to witness punishment. I somehow doubt that Aulus Plautius is going to take the bad news in his stride. You’d better make sure your affairs are in order.’

  Vespasian swung his horse away, and urged it back through the gate and down the muddy track towards the main camp. His escort of staff officers set off after him. As they rounded the corner of the legion’s camp a squadron of the mounted scouts came galloping the other way. They slewed round and rode along the gap between the two camps, towards the place where Tullius and his men were following the passage of the men through the long grass towards the copse of oak trees. A distant movement on a slight rise visible beyond the main camp drew Macro’s eye and he saw the dark shapes of another squadron galloping up the slope, fanning out as they scouted the land to the west.

  ‘We’d better hope they find Cato and the others quickly,’ Centurion Felix muttered. ‘Which direction do you think they’ve gone?’

  ‘West,’ Antonius said with certainty. ‘Or south-west. It’s the only direction that makes sense.’

  ‘Right into the heart of enemy territory?’ Felix shook his head. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Where else can they go? If they go east they’ll be picked up by our lads at some point. If not, they’ll be seen and reported by our allied tribes. West is their only chance. Besides, there’s that bloody great marsh in that direction. Best place to hide out.’

  ‘Bollocks! They’d be throwing themselves right into the hands of Caratacus, and you know what that lot do to any Romans they capture.’

  ‘I still say it’s their best chance,’ Antonius said firmly, then turned to Macro. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Macro stared at him in silence, then made himself look casually towards the horsemen disappearing over the crest of the hill beyond the main camp. He cleared his throat, so as not to give away the terrible anxiety that gnawed away at him from inside. ‘West. Like you say, it’s their best chance. Their only chance.’

  Felix sniffed his contempt at this judgement, and turned towards Maximius. ‘What about you, sir. What do you think?’

  ‘Think?’ Maximius looked round with a distant expression, and frowned. ‘What do I think? I think that it doesn’t bloody matter what direction they’ve gone. The damage is done and we’ve all had it. Every officer in this cohort will have this on their record like a scar. That’s what I think.’

  He glared at the three centurions with a bitter curl of his lips. His eyes fixed on Macro last of all. ‘I tell you what else I think. If I ever find out who helped those bastards to escape, then I’ll have the cunt skinned alive. In fact, I’ll do it myself.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘We’ll have to leave him,’ Cato said quietly.

  Figulus shook his head. ‘We ca
n’t. If they catch him, they’ll make him talk. And then they’ll execute him.’

  The optio paused and looked over his shoulder at the legionary sitting on a rock beside the stream, nursing his ankle. It was the same rock the man had fallen off a short while before; glistening and slippery in the rain. A too-hurried step and the exhausted soldier had tumbled over. The landing had wrenched his ankle so badly he had cried out in agony the moment he had attempted to put any weight back on the joint. There was no question of him continuing on foot. Daylight had found them little more than eight miles from the camp, by Cato’s calculation, with the edge of the marsh still as much as six miles away. The legate would be sure to send out the scouts to hunt them down the instant there was enough light to track them by. They would have to run for it if they were to make good their escape. There was no way the injured man could be carried, not without slowing them down, at the risk of all their lives.

  Cato fixed the optio with his eyes. ‘We’re not taking him with us. We can’t afford to. He has to look after himself now, understand?’

  ‘It’s not right, sir,’ Figulus replied. ‘I’ll not be party to his death.’

  ‘He was dead anyway. You and Macro bought him a few more hours of life. I’ve made my decision, Optio. Now don’t question my orders again.’

  Figulus returned his gaze in silence for a moment. ‘Orders? We’re not soldiers any more, sir. We’re deserters. What makes you think I have to obey—’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Cato snapped back at him. ‘You’ll do as I say, Optio! Whatever happens I’m still the ranking officer here. Don’t you forget it, or I’ll kill you where you stand.’

  Figulus stared at him in astonishment, before he nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  Cato realised that his heart was beating wildly and his fists were clenched. He must look like a complete fool, he chided himself. Exhaustion and the dread of being caught and dragged back to the camp and executed had worn his nerves to shreds. He had to be strong if he was going to survive this ordeal, and bring these men through it with him. He already had a plan half formed in his mind, albeit one that was wildly ambitious and optimistic. But then men clinging on to life, as if from a precipitous cliff, are wont to embrace even the most unrealistic chance of salvation. The metaphor had jumped into Cato’s mind and the idea that the hand of a god would pluck them all to safety almost made him laugh at himself with scorn. The temptation was almost irresistible and in that temptation he recognised the danger of a paralysing hysteria that would kill them all if he surrendered to it.

  Cato rubbed his eyes and then squeezed his optio’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Figulus. I owe my life to you and Macro. We all do. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this mess. You don’t deserve it.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir. I understand,’ Figulus smiled weakly. ‘Truth is, I’m having a hard time coming to terms with it myself. If I’d known it’d work out like this … What are we going to do about him?’

  ‘We’ll leave him. He’s a dead man, and he knows it. We just have to be certain he goes down fighting, or makes sure he isn’t captured alive.’ Cato straightened up, clearing his throat. ‘You take the others on. I’ll have a word with him and follow you.’

  ‘A word?’ Figulus looked at him sharply. ‘Just a word, mind.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘Trust a centurion? After ending up in this situation? Don’t push your luck, sir.’

  Cato smiled. ‘I’ve been pushing it ever since I joined the legion. Fortune hasn’t let me down yet.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything, sir.’

  ‘Maybe. Now get ’em moving. And keep up the pace.’

  Figulus nodded. ‘Same direction?’

  Cato thought a moment and looked round at the landscape. ‘No. Start heading south, towards that crest there. Once the last man is over it, and out of sight, turn back to the original direction. I’ll explain later. Get going.’

  While the optio rounded up the exhausted men sitting scattered in the long grass beside the stream, Cato went over to the injured man.

  ‘You’re one of Tullius’ men, aren’t you?’

  The legionary looked up. His face was weathered, like old leather, and fringed with thinning grey curls. Cato guessed he must have been only a few years short of completing his enlistment. It was a harsh play of fate to have picked such a man out for execution.

  ‘Yes, sir. Vibius Pollius.’ The man saluted. He glanced round at the others, on their feet and already moving off. ‘You’re going to leave me behind, aren’t you?’

  Cato nodded slowly. ‘Sorry. We can’t afford to be slowed down. If there was any other way …’

  ‘There ain’t. I understand that, sir. No hard feelings.’

  Cato squatted down on a nearby slab of rock that rose proud of the rushing stream.

  ‘Look here, Pollius. There’s no sign of any pursuit yet. If you go to ground and nurse that ankle, you might be able to find us later. You look like the kind of man I could use. Just keep out of sight until that leg’s better. Then head south-west.’

  ‘Thought we were going to hide in the marshes, sir.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘No. It’s not safe. If we get caught by Caratacus’ men they’ll make the prospect of a quick execution look like a lucky break.’

  They shared a quick smile before Cato continued, ‘Figulus reckons our chances might be better if we look to the Dumnonians. Seems that some of them are related to Figulus’ tribe back in Gaul. He knows a bit of their tongue and might talk ’em into taking us in. Just make sure that you mention his name if you come across any of their tribesmen.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir. Soon as this leg gets better.’ Pollius slapped his thigh. Cato nodded thoughtfully. ‘If it doesn’t get better …’

  ‘Then I’ll have to join you next time round. Don’t worry, sir. I won’t let them take me alive. You have my word.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me, Pollius.’ Cato slapped him on the shoulder, burning inside with shame at having deceived the unfortunate veteran. ‘Just be sure that if they do take you alive, you don’t breathe one word about where we’re headed. Or Macro’s part in this.’

  Pollius drew the sword from his belt. ‘This’ll keep ’em off for a bit. If it doesn’t, then I’ll be sure to use it so they don’t get a chance to make me talk, sir.’

  Given that the man was facing an almost certain death, one way or another, Cato weighed his next words carefully. ‘By all means defend yourself. But remember, the men who’ll be sent to hunt us down will only be soldiers obeying orders. They’re not the ones who forced us into this. Do you see what I mean?’

  Pollius looked down at his sword, and nodded sadly. ‘Never thought I’d ever have to turn this on myself. I always thought falling on your sword was a hobby of your senators and the like.’

  ‘You must be going up in the world.’

  ‘Not from where I’m sitting.’

  ‘Right … I have to go now, Pollius.’ Cato grasped the man’s spare hand and squeezed it firmly. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you later. A few days from now.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, sir.’

  Cato laughed, then stood up and without another word he broke into a run, following Figulus and the others, already a short distance away. He glanced back once, just before the place they had crossed the stream disappeared from view behind a fold in the ground. Pollius had hauled himself up on to the bank above the stream and sat with the point of the sword stuck in the ground between his open legs. He rested both hands on the pommel, and then lowered his chin on to his hands and sat looking back the way they had come. Cato realised at that moment that his attempt at deception had been unnecessary. Pollius was ready to die, and was determined to ensure that happened before he breathed one word that might betray his companions. Even so, Cato refused to deny the need for the extra insurance. Even the most honourable of men, with the most honourable of intentions, were sometimes caught unaware. Cato had see
n enough of the handiwork of the Second Legion’s torturers to know that only the most exceptional of men could deny them the information they sought. And Pollius was only a man at the end of the day.

  The rain gradually subsided into a light drizzle as the morning wore on, but the gloomy overcast remained in place and denied the fugitives any warming ray of sunshine. Cato and Figulus drove them on, alternately running and then walking, mile by mile towards the distant marshes that offered the best chance of evading the inevitable patrols sent to hunt them down. The rain had washed off most of the mud from the night before but the men were still streaked with grime and reduced to shivering as the sweat chilled on them when they slowed to a walk. With no canteens the only chance to slake their thirst had been at the stream where they had left Pollius behind, and Cato found that his tongue felt increasingly big and tacky as the relentless pace continued. Despite their weariness, not one of the other men dropped out of line. There were no stragglers, since every man knew that death would be waiting on any who dropped out of the line of march. Cato was relieved at this, since he was certain that no amount of cajoling or physical punishment could lift a man who had reached the end of his endurance.

  As he trotted on, breathing heavily, and fighting the stitch that stabbed at his side, Cato tried to keep some sense of the passing time. With no sun crossing the sky to mark the passage of the hours he could only roughly estimate their progess, so that it might have been close to noon when they crossed over a low ridge and beheld, barely a mile ahead, the fringe of the vast area of flat land that sprawled towards the distant horizon. The poor light lent the dismal vista an even more gloomy aspect, and the fugitives gazed down on the endless mix of reeds, narrow waterways and scattered hummocks of land, with their stunted trees and thick growths of hawthorn and gorse.

  ‘Not very homely,’ Figulus grunted.

  Cato had to breathe deeply and compose himself before he could respond. ‘No … but it’s all we’ve got. We’re going to have to get used to it for a while yet.’