The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  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 nodded, 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 seen 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. There were no stragglers, since every man knew that death would be waiting on any who fell behind. 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 hea
vily, 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.'

  'What then, sir?'

  'Then?' Cato chuckled bitterly before he replied in an undertone, 'There probably won't be a then, Figulus. We'll be living from moment to moment, always in danger of being discovered by either side and ending up dead…unless we can win a reprieve.'

  'Reprieve?' Figulus snorted. 'How's that going to happen, sir?'

  'I'm not sure,' admitted Cato. 'Best not build the men's hopes up too soon. I'll tell you when I've had a chance to think things through in detail. Let's keep moving.'

  Ahead on the slope the track forked, one arm bending left, round the edge of the marsh and quickly lost to view in the haze that hung over everything and merged with the patchwork of mist still clinging to the dampest dips and folds in the ground. The other fork followed a track less rutted and worn that led straight into the heart of the marsh.

  'Keep to the right-hand path!' Cato shouted out as he dropped out of line and turned towards Figulus. 'Keep 'em moving. Don't let them rest until you are at least a quarter of a mile inside the marsh.'

  'Yes, sir. Where are you going?'

  'Just checking back over the hill; make sure we're not being followed. Keep a good look out for me. I don't fancy being lost in that marsh all on my own.'

  Figulus smiled. 'See you later then, sir.'

  They parted company, Figulus leading the bedraggled fugitives west towards the unwelcoming sprawl of the wetlands, Cato turning back towards the ridge they had just crossed. He was not sure why he felt he had to go back for one last look. Perhaps he was driven by the need to stop and think, to plan the next step. Perhaps he just needed a rest and one last look at the world before he was plunged into a life of concealment and terrible deprivation. Whatever the motive, he walked slowly back up the slope, heart heavy with the hopelessness of his situation. What if there was no hope of redemption? What if he was doomed to spend what remained of his life running in fear of his discovery and capture by his own people? Was such a life worth living? Even if they managed to survive being caught between what was left of Caratacus' army and the legions in the immediate future, the legions were bound to take control of the southern part of the island before the year was out. Then they would have ample time to search out and destroy any last settlements that dared to defy the rule of Rome. At some point the surviving fugitives would be discovered and hauled off to a place of execution – however dimly the military authorities would recall their crime.

  If that was to be his fate then Cato decided he would rather risk everything now in an attempt to win back the favour of General Plautius and Legate Vespasian, and the rescinding of his death sentence. The alternative was too awful to contemplate at any length, and he hoped that he would make the others realise that when the time came to outline his plan. He would call only for volunteers, since he no longer had the authority of the army to enforce his orders. Faith in his ability to command was all the authority Cato possessed now. Figulus had seen that at once, but at least the optio had the presence of mind to realise that some kind of order must be maintained if the small band of men was to survive, and that Cato was the best man to provide that order… for the present at least.

  His mind was so preoccupied by thought of the future that Cato had reached the crest of the hill before he was aware of it, and found himself looking back across the drizzle-shrouded landscape they had hurriedly crossed shortly before.

  He saw the scattered screen of cavalry at once, perhaps twenty men, stretched across the landscape with a gap of fifty paces between each horse. They were no more than two miles away, and heading at a tangent across the direction Cato and his band had taken. Cato dropped to the ground, heart beating with renewed pace as he waited to see if he had been spotted. He cursed himself for not approaching the skyline of the ridge in a far more cautious manner. Exhaustion was no excuse when it endangered the lives of his companions.

  'Fool!' he muttered through clenched teeth. 'Bloody fool…'

  As he watched there was no sign that the scouts had seen the distant figure of their prey. They must have been intent on scouring the ground directly in front of them for any sign of the fugitives' passage. Their progress was unhurried and they walked their horses across the gently rolling grassland, pausing only to search through each copse they encountered. On their current course Cato calculated that they would miss him by a wide margin and his strained nerves began to relax a little. He wondered if these men had encountered Pollius. Had the veteran raised a sword to his pursuers after all? Or had he heeded Cato's call to turn his weapon on himself rather than lash out at his former comrades? Perhaps he had decided to try to find some place of concealment and had been passed by. Cato found himself hoping that the man had been found and forced to divulge the false trail Cato had set for Pollius to pass on. The horsemen were certainly heading in that general direction.

  When the nearest rider was no more than a mile away from him Cato saw a sudden flurry of movement halfway along the line of mounted men. One had dropped to the ground and was beckoning to his comrades. As word was passed each way along the line the men wheeled their mounts in and trotted towards the growing cluster of men and animals. Cato strained his eyes to try to see more clearly what was happening below him. Most of the men had dismounted and their officer was conferring with the man who had made the discovery. As he stared at them, Cato realised that these men were not legionary scouts. The cut of their capes and the kite shields slung across their backs showed that they were from an auxiliary cohort and a cold chill of realisation burst through Cato's veins as he picked out the dull gleam of a bear's head standard.

  'Batavians…'

  The ruthless Germanic tribe had provided General Plautius with a number of hard-fighting but reckless cohorts of cavalry. The Batavians had won a fearsome reputation at the crossing of the Mead Way a year earlier, and had promptly cut down every prisoner that came their way in a fit of bloodlust – one of several such fits, Cato recalled with a growing sense of dread. They would show no mercy to their prey if they came upon Cato and his men. The tensions between the men of the legions and the Batavians went way beyond the usual inter-unit rivalry that was to be found in most armies. Men had died when bands of off-duty Romans and Germans had clashed in Camulodunum.

  The leader of the patrol strode clear of his men. He braced his shoulders and rubbed his stiff backside as he scanned the surrounding landscape. Cato instinctively pressed himself down as the man's face turned fully towards his position on the ridge. It was absurd, he reassured himself; no one could have seen him in that poor light and at that distance. The Batavian leader swung round and waved his arms. The men on the ground quickly mounted and formed a loose column as they waited for orders. Their leader swung himself across the back of his horse and pulled on the reins. With a wave of his arm the small column edged forwards and then broke into a steady trot. A moment later it was clear to Cato that they were heading almost directly towards him. He had no idea what they could have seen lying on the ground, but whatever it was the Batavians had correctly deduced the direction the fugitives had taken.

  Cato scrambled back from the crest and as soon as he was sure it was safe he rose to his feet and turned to run back along the track towards the marsh. A
half-mile ahead of him he could see the small figures of his comrades entering the faint mist that had begun to lie across the track. As he ran he frequently glanced down to make sure of his footing, and every so often he saw the unmistakable outline of a legionary boot imprinted in the mud. Those footprints would lead the Batavians straight to them – they were already doing so, Cato realised with a sickening feeling.

  As if this bloody rain hadn't made life miserable enough for the Roman fugitives, it was now conspiring to point them out to the Batavians, and when the pursuers inevitably caught up with their prey they would butcher them without mercy.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  General Plautius walked slowly across the area where the prisoners had been held, under the anxious gaze of his officers. Not only were the centurions of the Third Cohort present, but also Legate Vespasian, his senior tribunes, the Second's camp prefect, and the senior staff of the other three legions who had been expecting to attend an execution this morning. Only a few of them talked, in tones so muted that they were only just audible above the steady patter of raindrops. The rest watched the army's commander with fixed expressions as they huddled under the shelter of their cloaks. The heat from their bodies was making the fat used to waterproof the coats give off a thick musty smell that Vespasian had always found quite sickening. It reminded him of the mule tannery owned by his uncle in Reate. Vespasian recalled both the foul oily stench that hung over the steaming workshops and the oath he had taken never to enter into any business that had anything to do with the wretched animals.