The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato raised his vine cane towards a pair of soldiers whose complaints had reached his ears. 'Quiet there!'

  The men, tough-looking veterans, fell silent, but briefly eyed their centurion with contempt before turning away. For a moment Cato was filled with cold, bitter rage and was tempted to call them back and punish them for their impudence. Legionaries must always respect the rank, if not the man, and no infraction could be overlooked. But by then the two men had merged with the rest of the century walking away from him and it was too late for Cato to act. He slapped his cane hard into the palm of his left hand, wincing at the pain of this self-inflicted punishment for his hopeless indecision. Macro would have had them by the balls in an instant.

  Cato turned and saw that the other centurions were making their way towards Maximius, while behind him the provost escort stood and waited. Cato strolled over to join them, the self-contempt of a moment earlier turning to anxious curiosity. The centurions gathered in a rough semi-circle about their cohort commander. Maximius was still wearing only his tunic and clearly felt uncomfortable about addressing his fully dressed and armed officers.

  'The legate has taken my deposition. Now he wants to speak to the rest of you individually. The optio here will call for us in order of seniority. None of you is to discuss the evidence you give with anyone. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, sir,' the centurions replied quietly. Tullius raised his hand.

  'Yes?'

  'What about the men, sir?'

  'What about them?'

  'Will any of them be required today?'

  'No. Stand them down. Pass the word that it's going to be a make-and-mend day.'

  Tullius nodded unhappily. Make-and-mend was a rarely granted privilege when the legionaries were permitted time to maintain their equipment, or fashion some trinket, or simply rest and talk or gamble. Much as the men delighted in make and mend, the centurions resented it, grumbling that it softened them and too much of it made the men slack. It did, of course, win a small measure of popularity and good will for the officer who gave the order.

  'Make and mend,' Tullius nodded. 'Yes, sir. Shall I tell them now?'

  'No, you're to go with the optio. I'll tell them.'

  'Yes, sir.' Tullius switched his gaze to the impassive faces of the provosts. Maximius noted his concerned expression and spoke quietly to his officers.

  'It's all right. I did as I said I would earlier. None of you has anything to worry about. Just tell the truth.'

  'Centurion Tullius?' the optio called out, extending his arm towards the provosts. 'If you please, sir?'

  Tullius swallowed nervously. 'Yes, of course.'

  Tullius fumbled with his helmet ties as he strode towards the escort. Then, flanked on either side, he was marched off, crested helmet tucked under his arm. When the escort was out of earshot Centurion Antonius stepped close to his cohort commander.

  'What happened, sir?'

  Maximius stared at him, his blank expression giving nothing away. 'What happened to me is… nothing to do with you. Understand?'

  Antonius looked down. 'Sorry, sir. I just… it's just that I'm worried. Never experienced anything like this before.'

  Maximius' lips relaxed into a slight smile. 'Me neither. Just answer the questions the legate asks you as straight as you can, and remember you're a centurion of the finest bloody legion in the empire. The only things in life that should worry a centurion are barbarians, plagues, wine droughts and insanely jealous women with access to cutlery. Questions -' he shook his head – 'questions will never hurt you.'

  Antonius smiled. So did the others, even Cato, who as a child had lived in the imperial palace long enough to know that the wrong answer to a question could kill a man just as surely as the strongest barbarian warrior.

  All morning and into the afternoon, the centurions waited by the smouldering remains of the fire the slave had built to cook their food. When he returned from his interrogation Macro had taken the whetstone out of his leather haversack and busied himself in sharpening the edges of his short sword. He spoke to no one, not even Cato, and refused to meet the eyes of the other centurions as he concentrated on rasping the stone along the bright shining length of his blade.

  While Antonius was being questioned Tullius and Felix played at dice, and the luck seemed to be going Felix's way to an extent that outraged the laws of probability. The fact that he owned the dice began to feed the suspicion growing in the mind of the normally trustful Tullius. Cato watched them with amusement for a while. He never bet on games of chance, and thought it weak-minded of men who did. When he had lived in Rome, the tiny sums of money he had bet as a boy had always been on the races in the Circus Maximus, and then only after exhaustive study of form.

  A little apart from the others, Maximius sat with his back to his men and his officers, staring down towards the ford and the field of corpses beyond. Cato felt sorry for him, in spite of the harsh way the cohort commander had treated him in the short time they had served together. A ruined soldier, especially one as respected as a senior centurion, was indeed a pitiful sight, and if the inquiry did ruin Maximius he would be too old to achieve anything else in his life. In a few years he would take the meagre pension of a legionary and eke out his days in some veterans' colony, drinking and reminiscing. A centurion's retirement, by contrast, offered a chance for further service and advancement as a magistrate. At the moment Maximius had little prospect of such a future.

  He shifted his gaze from the cohort commander, and looked down towards the inviting water of the river. Antonius was still being questioned, and once he was done it would be Felix's turn. So there was time for Cato to have a swim. He stripped down to his tunic and turned to Macro.

  'Going for a swim. You coming?'

  Macro paused in his work and looked up with an amused expression. 'You, swim?'

  'Well, I'm getting better at it.'

  'Better at it? As opposed to not totally useless at it?'

  Cato frowned. 'Are you coming, or not?'

  Macro carefully sheathed his sword.'I think I'd better come. Make sure you don't get out of your depth.'

  'Ha – fucking – ha.'

  As they set off towards the camp entrance nearest the river, Maximius called after them, 'Make sure you're not too long.'

  Cato nodded and as he turned back Macro glanced at him and raised his eyebrows with a weary expression. 'I sometimes wish we were back with those native lads in Calleva. That was nice simple soldiering with no bloody superiors looking over your shoulder the whole time.'

  'I seem to remember you saying you couldn't wait to get back to serving with the legion?'

  'That was before this cock-up. Trust our bloody luck to get saddled with Maximius. I wouldn't put him in charge of a soup kitchen.'

  'He seems competent enough to me. Harsh, too harsh sometimes. But he seems to know what he's doing.'

  'What do you know about it?' Macro shook his head. 'Couple of months in the job and you still can't tell what's right from what's shite. And look at the others. Tullius is getting on. Don't know how he managed to keep up with you yesterday – guess he must be tougher than he looks,' Macro conceded. 'But Felix and Antonius are too young, too inexperienced for the job.'

  'Five and ten years older than me,' Cato pointed out.

  'True. And it shows sometimes. But at least you've got brains and a good eye for the ground. If we hadn't had so many casualties in the last year there'd be better men available for promotion than those two jokers.'

  Macro stopped talking as they passed by the gate guards, standing to attention in the hot sunshine. The two centurions were passed through on their own authority and then they began strolling down the slight slope towards the river. The summer grass was long and dry, and rustled against their legs as they headed to a spot a few hundred paces upriver of the ford and away from the bodies that still choked the river. Unfortunately the fluky breeze was billowing from the other direction and, every so often, as the nearby willows toss
ed their long locks of leaves, the sickening stench of dead men wafted over them.

  The two centurions found a place where the bank sloped gently into the water and stripped off their tunics and untied their boots. Macro charged into the water and threw himself forward in a dive, sending a sheet of spray into the air. He surfaced almost at once, shaking the drops from his dark cropped hair.

  'Shit, that's cold!' He turned and swam a few powerful strokes into the river. Cato waited for him to get clear of the bank and then waded a few paces out. In contrast to the exhausting heat of the summer's day the water felt icy and he tentatively tiptoed out towards Macro, arms raised and wincing as the current lapped across his stomach. Further out Macro turned round, treading water, and laughed.

  'You bloody old woman! Come on in!'

  Cato gritted his teeth and relaxed his knees, dropping to the surface. There was a moment of shock, a gasp at the cold water that clenched his chest, then he struck out towards his friend. The strokes were clumsy and he struggled to keep his face out of the water as he floundered towards Macro.

  'Just as well I decided to come!' Macro smiled as Cato stopped and trod water close by. 'You need more than a bit of practice.'

  'And when do I ever get the chance?'

  'Come on, I'll show you.'

  Macro tried his best to teach his friend the rudiments of a good style, and Cato tried to make the most of it, handicapped by the fear of having the water close over his head for even an instant. At length Macro gave up and they sat in the shallows, the river flowing around their midriffs as the sun warmed their backs.

  'I could get used to this,' Cato murmured.

  'I wouldn't…'

  Cato turned towards his friend. 'Why? Did someone say anything I should know about?'

  'No. It's just that the legate seemed to be in a hurry. I think he's keen to get this inquiry sorted out as soon as possible and get after Caratacus. He's got a reputation to save.'

  'Surely not? It wasn't his fault that the cohort wasn't in position in time to stop Caratacus crossing.'

  'True, but the cohort is from his legion. Some of the mud's going to stick to the legate. You can be sure of that. It's too good an opportunity for his rivals to waste.'

  'Rivals?'

  'Oh, come on, Cato! Don't be so bloody thick. Vespasian's made praetor, and it hasn't been an easy route to reach that rank. Someone told me he got passed over the first time he went up for one of the aedile posts. Every step of the way there are more senators chasing fewer posts. That lot would stab their children in the eyes if it would help their chances of climbing the next rung. If someone on the general's staff doesn't try and pin this mess on the legate it'll be a miracle. Which means -' Macro looked sadly at Cato – 'which means that Vespasian will look for any way he can find to fix the blame on someone else.'

  'Our cohort?'

  'Who else?'

  'Poor old Maximius.'

  'Maximius?' Macro laughed bitterly.'What makes you think he'll get the blame?'

  Cato was surprised. 'He said he would. He said it was his responsibility.'

  'And you believe him?'

  'Yes,' Cato said seriously.'If he hadn't gone after those raiders, he-'

  'No, you idiot. Do you believe that he would take the responsibility for it?'

  Cato considered the situation for a moment. 'He said he would. He seemed to be straight enough about that.'

  'And what makes you think that he won't operate on the same basis as the legate? There's a lot at stake for Maximius too, even though he's not running for high office. He's a senior centurion, right?'

  Cato nodded.

  'Same thing applies to him as Vespasian. The next grade up for Maximius is an appointment to the First Cohort of the legion. Five jobs and nine applicants. Doesn't take a genius to work out that there's going to be a spot of competition from the other cohort commanders. If Maximius falls by the wayside, they'll not shed too many tears. So, Maximius will be doing his level best to pass the blame on to someone else. And who do you think that'll be?'

  'You?'

  'Spot on,' Macro said gloomily.'The problem is, that's where the chain of command ends. I don't get the chance to pass the blame on. Unless, of course, I try and pin it on Caratacus, who shouldn't have bloody well been there in the first place.'

  'You could try-'

  'Shut up, Cato. There's a good lad.' Macro rose out of the river and splashed back towards his tunic, spread on the bank. 'Let's get back to the camp. It'll be your turn for questioning soon.'

  'Yes,' Cato replied, following him on to the river bank. 'Better figure out what I'm going to say.'

  'Don't try anything clever, for my sake, eh? Just play it straight.'

  Cato shrugged. 'As you wish.'

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ' At ease,' Vespasian commanded, and Cato planted his feet apart, in line with his shoulders, and gripped his hands behind his back. He was standing inside the legate's personal quarters, at the heart of the small network of tents that made up the Second Legion's field headquarters. The side panels had been drawn up to admit the afternoon breeze and the ends of Vespasian's thinning hair occasionally stirred as he reclined in his chair. At his side, on a stool, sat a clerk with several thin waxed slates resting on his knees.

  'Just to make sure you understand the situation,' the legate began brusquely,'the general is conducting an inquiry into the events of yesterday. It is his contention that his orders were not obeyed and that as a consequence of this the enemy was permitted to escape the field with several thousand warriors including, as far as we know, Caratacus himself. Had the enemy been held at the ford then the entire army would have been forced to surrender and we would have been spared the butchery that occurred as they tried to escape. As a result, the campaign against Caratacus has been unnecessarily prolonged and the Empire has lost captives to the value of millions of sesterces. Do you understand the gravity of the situation, Centurion Gaius Licinius Cato?'

  He paused, and from the toneless delivery of the short speech Cato realised he must have said exactly the same thing to the other five centurions he had interviewed. Cato understood the situation well enough but the formality with which he had been addressed by the legate had added a sense of menace to proceedings. He coughed to clear his throat.

  'Yes, sir. I understand.'

  'Good. Now, Centurion, I require you to describe, to the best of your understanding, the movements and actions of the Third Cohort yesterday. Try to keep it paced so that the clerk can keep up. It is vital that his record is as accurate as possible.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Cato concentrated his mind and began a detailed account of the march of the cohort towards the supply fort, the scene they found there, the orders for Macro's century to find what tools they could from the fort and then head to the ford and start preparing defences while they waited for the rest of the cohort to arrive, once they had finished chasing down and destroying the raiders. He did not flinch from describing Maximius' orders to blind the prisoners. He broke off his account to ask a question.

  'Has anyone been sent to find the prisoners, sir?'

  'Yes. A squadron of scouts went out this morning to find them and put them out of their misery.'

  'Oh…'

  'Please continue.'

  Cato described how the cohort had marched as fast as they could towards the ford, and that they had broken into a run once they spied the enemy assaulting Macro's century; how they had seen Macro's cohort falling back, and then quickly outlined the attempt made to hold the near side of the crossing before they were driven back and desperately fought their way to safety in the direction of the rest of the Second Legion.

  When he had finished Vespasian nodded and reached down to the clerk's slate to read back over Cato's evidence. He paused a few times to check it against other slates that Cato realised must be the results of the previous interviews. At length Vespasian took up a blank slate and a stylus and care
fully made some notes before he looked up at Cato again.

  'Just a few questions, Centurion. Then you can go.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'At the fort, when Centurion Maximius gave the order to pursue the raiders, did you or any other officer point out that this was a breach of the orders your cohort had been given?'

  'Not me, sir. It's not for me to question the word of a cohort commander. The others clearly felt the same, sir. Except Macro. He tried to point out that our orders required us to move to the ford by a specified time, and we were already behind schedule.'

  Vespasian raised an eyebrow. 'But you'd left the marching camp in plenty of time. Why the delay?'

  'Troops seemed to be marching slower than I'd have liked, sir.'

  'Did anyone else notice?'

  'Someone might have made a comment. I can't recall.'

  'Did Maximius notice?'

  'I don't know, sir.'

  'Very well.' The legate scribbled a note and ran his finger down the slate to his next question. 'Did Maximius give any reasons for his order to go after the raiders?'

  'He didn't have to, sir. He's the cohort commander.'

  'Very well. In your view, why did the cohort commander ignore Centurion Macro and go after the raiders?'

  Cato knew that he was stepping on to much more sensitive ground now and would have to think carefully about his responses before he put them into words for the legate.

  'I suppose he was upset by the massacre of the fort's garrison.'

  'He must have seen dead men before?'

  'Yes, but one – the commander of the fort – was a friend – a good one, it seemed.'

  'Are you saying that he disobeyed his orders on emotional grounds?'

  Cato froze. If he answered yes then his evidence might be damning. 'I don't know, sir. It's possible that Centurion Maximius was concerned that the raiders might have posed a danger to the cohort if they moved against us while we attempted to defend the ford. He might have wanted to remove that threat.'

  'He might have,' Vespasian repeated. 'But you couldn't know that if he never said anything about such a danger.'