The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  He had been in command of the legion for nearly three years already, and he doubted whether he had distinguished himself enough for his tenure of command to be extended much longer. The cordial relationship he had established with his general over the last two years was dead. Both men regarded each other with open hostility now, and Vespasian was convinced that Aulus Plautius would have him replaced at the earliest opportunity. Under normal circumstances legates were left to command a legion for three to five years, before returning to Rome to further their political careers. But Vespasian had little taste for such ambitions any more. What was the point of high political office in the senate when the real power in Rome was wielded from the imperial palace? Worse still, promotion to any position of real significance depended on currying favour with the Emperor's Imperial Secretary, Narcissus. The thought of toadying up to a freedman, a decadent Greek at that, made Vespasian feel sick. But he was realist enough to know that the old Republican values his grandfather had set so much faith in were largely irrelevant in the modern world. Where before hundreds of senators had once debated the destiny of Rome, now one emperor ruled. That was the reality he must live with.

  From the moment of taking up his appointment to command the Second Legion Vespasian had felt at home. Army life was free of the endless deception and obsequious grovelling that characterised political life in the capital. Serving with the Eagles a man was largely in charge of his own destiny and most men rose through the ranks on merit. There was no intricate weaving of self-interested schemes, and schemes within schemes. Instead, a soldier was given a clear-cut task and left to improvise the best method of carrying out his orders. To be sure, there was a distressing amount of paperwork involved, and Vespasian had never had so little time for rest before in his life. Yet, after the few hours of sleep he managed to snatch, he awoke with a fresh sense of purpose, and a feeling that he was doing something with real value, something that genuinely furthered the destiny of his people, and of Rome itself.

  Flavia would be delighted when the time came for him to quit the legion, he reflected guiltily. His wife had always regarded the post of legate as an unfortunate formality, to be undergone before her husband rose to high office. The discomforts of life in the fortress on the Rhine had put her off the army for ever, and now she waited impatiently at the family home in Rome. Not alone though, Vespasian smiled. She had little Titus to keep her company, and that boy had become quite a handful, if the tactful sentences in her letters were anything to go by. The lad should keep his wife busy. Too busy for her to be occupied by anything else.

  All the quiet joy of the morning faded away as the prospect of a return to the snakepit of politics in Rome loomed in Vespasian's mind. Even here, on the fringe of the known world, surrounded by his soldiers, he felt the tentacles of treachery and peril reaching out from the heart of the Empire to entangle and crush him. There would be no simple life of a soldier for him, Vespasian reflected bitterly. He was a fool to think otherwise. Politics was part of the air that his class breathed and there was nothing he could do to alter that fact.

  A movement on the periphery of his vision drew his attention. Vespasian turned and gazed beyond the rampart below, to where the Third Cohort of his legion had finished demolishing their temporary camp and was forming up into a marching column. The vanguard century followed by the colour party, four more centuries, then a small baggage column, and then the rearguard. Less than four hundred men. The cohort looked small after the vast formations he had watched on the other side of the river, and Vespasian regarded it with a peculiar mixture of intense dislike and hope. They had stained the reputation of his legion and only their obliteration would remove the shame. Obliteration, or some great deed that would redeem them in the eyes of their comrades, and the rest of the army. Therein lay the hope. Either way the problem of the uncomfortable presence of the Third Cohort would be solved.

  If his plan worked and Caratacus emerged from his hiding place to take the bait, Vespasian knew that it was almost certain that Maximius and his men would be crushed without mercy long before their comrades could close the trap on the enemy.

  The legate continued to watch as the centurions called their men to order and then fell into place at the head of each century. The cohort commander made one last inspection of the column and then strode up to the colour party and cupped a hand to his mouth. An instant later the faint sound of the bellowed order to advance carried up to Vespasian, as the column rippled forward.

  'Easy does it, sir,' the optio said quietly to Macro, and nodded towards the camp. 'We're being given the once-over by the legate.'

  Macro turned to look and saw the distant figure in the watch-tower, taking in the gilded tunic, burnished by the sun's rays, and the red cloak clasped across his shoulders. Even at that distance the broadness of the head and thickness of neck were unmistakable.

  'What's he want then?' the optio muttered.

  Macro gave a soft, bitter laugh. 'Just making sure he's seen the back of us.'

  'Eh?' The optio turned sharply to face Macro and at once the centurion regretted the careless remark. He glanced towards his optio.

  'What do you think, Sentius? The old man's so fond of us that he's come to wave goodbye?'

  The optio blushed and then shot a look over his shoulder. 'Straighten that front rank! You're bloody legionaries, not a bunch of auxiliary arseholes!'

  Macro was not fooled by this attempt by Sentius to cover his embarrassment, but continued to let his optio take it out on the men. There was no harm in keeping the men on their toes. Disgraced they may be, but they were still legionaries, and Macro was determined not to let them forget that for a moment. Still, he was deeply troubled by what lay ahead, and not just because the cohort would be inviting danger. That was part of the job. Maximius had seemed more than a little cold-blooded when he had briefed them the night before. Almost as if this was a chance to wreak a terrible revenge on the distant relatives of those native warriors whom the cohort commander blamed for ruining his reputation.

  There would be a terrible reckoning for the natives when the Third Cohort arrived in the peaceful little valley that stretched alongside the marsh. And not just for the men of the cohort, Macro reflected. If Cato and his comrades fell into the hands of the Britons once the cohort had begun its bloody work then the native warriors would be sure to make every Roman captive die a horrible and lingering death.

  As the cohort marched stolidly along the native track that led away to the west, Macro glanced back at the fortified camp. He could not help wondering if this was the last time he would ever see the rest of the Second Legion.

  He was already certain that he would never see Cato alive again. Pursued by his own side and hiding out from the enemy, the youngster would eventually be found. Cato would then die with a sword in his hand, in the heat of a short bloody skirmish, or be executed in cold blood. He was probably already dead, Macro decided. In which case Macro would soon be joining him in the shadows on the far bank of the Styx.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ' Honorius died during the night,' Figulus muttered as he squatted down beside the smouldering remains of the campfire. Opposite him Cato was sitting on an ancient tree trunk, covered with lichen and bright yellow growths of fungi. Cato clutched one of the Batavian cloaks around his shoulders and tried not to shiver.

  'That's the last of them, then.'

  'Yes, sir.' Figulus nodded, and then stretched his hands over the grey ashes, smiling faintly as the warmth flowed over his fingers.

  'Twenty-eight of us left.' Cato raised his head and looked round the clearing at the huddled forms of his men. A few were already stirring as the thin light shafted through the boughs of the stunted trees. Some coughed and two men talked in low tones, that dropped even further when they noticed the centurion glancing in their direction. The clearing stood in a leafy dell that was surrounded by low hummocks of land on every side. Beyond that lay the marsh, wreathed wi
th mist that rose every night. The fugitives had been lucky enough to stumble on this place the day after their skirmish with the Batavian horsemen. They had left six of their dead with the other bodies and carried the seriously wounded with them, picking their way along meandering trails deep into the marsh. Cato helped his injured as best he could, but one by one they had weakened and died. Honorius had taken a spear deep in the guts. He was strong and had fought grimly to hang on to life, gritting his teeth against the agony of his mortal wound, face glistening with sweat. Now he was still, and Cato could see his body lying stretched out, arms by his sides, as Figulus had left him.

  Cato rose to his feet, face contorting for a moment as he tensed his stiff muscles. Then he looked down at his optio.

  'We need to find more food. We haven't eaten for days.'

  Figulus nodded.

  With the dell established as their camp, Cato had led a small party in search of supplies. He had ventured far down the track that wound past the dell, and two miles on they had come across a small island where four sheep had been penned together beside a small daubed hut. The body of an old man lay within. He had been dead some time and they smelled his decay before they found his wizened body. The old man must have fallen ill and died in his hut, Cato reasoned. The Romans grabbed the pathetic bundle of rags that had been all that he had, and then tried to drive the sheep back towards the dell. Three of the depressingly stupid animals had bolted and disappeared into the marsh, leaving the fading sounds of their bleating and splashing to carry back to the Romans before the oppressive silence closed in once again. The last beast had been slaughtered and roasted over the fire that Cato allowed his men to start only after the last light had faded from the sky. The animal had been a skinny and miserable beast, which explained her refusal to escape with the others. The lean cuts of meat had lasted two days, and now hunger gnawed at the stomachs of his men again and they looked to Cato to solve the problem.

  To be sure, there were animals living around them, but so far they had not been able to catch any of the birds, and only once had they seen anything bigger: the hind quarters of a small deer, swiftly disappearing through a tangle of gorse bushes the moment it scented the men. The spears that Cato's men had taken from the bodies of the Batavians remained un-bloodied, and the pained gurglings from the stomachs of Romans threatened to drown out the almost constant booming of a bittern some distance away.

  'I'll take a party out as soon as there's enough light,' Cato said. 'I'm sure we'll find something to eat.'

  'What if you don't, sir?'

  Cato looked carefully at the expression on the face of his optio, but sensed no challenge to his authority there, and felt a moment of shame. Figulus had nothing to prove. Not after he had risked his life to help Cato and the others escape. The optio's current peril was a poor return for the loyalty he had shown his centurion, a fact that only made Cato feel more wretched and guilty. It was a debt he would probably never be able to repay.

  But if the loyalty of Figulus was not in doubt, the loyalty of the rest of this sorry band of outcasts most definitely was. Since they had entered the marsh four days earlier Cato had been acutely aware that the distance between them and the legion was more than geographical. The men were only just beginning to realise the true desperation of their situation, and in time they would no longer respond to his rank. When that happened, only Figulus would stand between the centurion and a complete breakdown in authority. If he ever lost the loyalty of his optio Cato was finished. They all were, unless they stuck together and functioned as a unit.

  How would Macro have handled things? Cato felt sure his friend would have a much surer grasp of the situation were he here, and he lowered his head to hide his despair before he responded to Figulus' question.

  'Then I'll keep taking men out until we do find something to eat. If we find nothing we starve.'

  'That's it?'

  'That's it, Optio. That's all there is for us now.'

  'What happens when winter comes, sir?'

  Cato shrugged. 'I doubt that we'll last that long…'

  'That depends on you, sir.' Figulus glanced round, then shuffled round the fading embers so that he was close enough to his centurion not to be overheard.'But you had better come up with a plan. The men need something to keep them occupied. To keep them from thinking about what happens next. You'd better come up with something soon, sir.'

  Cato opened his hands despairingly. 'Like what? There's no kit for them to maintain, no barracks to be ready for inspection, no drilling, no marching and we daren't get into any fight armed as we are. There's nothing for us to do but lay low.' He felt his stomach turn over and a faint gurgling rumble sounded from beneath his filthy tunic. 'And find something to eat.'

  Figulus shook his head.'That's not good enough, sir. You've got to do better than that. The men are looking to you.'

  'Do what then?'

  'I don't know. You're the centurion. That's your job. Thing is, whatever we do, we must do it quickly… sir.'

  Cato looked up at his optio and gave a faint nod. 'I need to think. While I'm out hunting, start the men on the shelters.'

  'Shelters, sir?'

  'Yes. We're staying put for the moment. Might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible. Besides,' Cato nodded to the men, 'it'll keep them occupied.'

  Figulus rose to his feet with a sigh of frustration and turned away, walking over to the side of the clearing where he drew his short sword and slumped back down on the ground. He fished about for the small rock he had tucked in the torn strip of cloth he used as a waistband and began to run it along the edge of the blade in a slow deliberate, grating rhythm. Cato watched for a moment, terribly tempted to shout at him and order him to stop making that irritating noise, but managed with difficulty to restrain himself. Figulus had been right, he realised at once. Soldiers without duties to occupy them were without purpose. And with no purpose it was only a matter of time before they degenerated into brigands.

  But what could he achieve with twenty-eight men, armed only with swords, and the few shields and spears they had recovered from the Batavian dead? Mere survival seemed to be the limit of their capacity for action, and Cato sank further into the dark mire of depression.

  Before the sun had burned off the mist hanging over the marsh, Cato picked four men to go with him to scout for food. He chose Proculus among them. The man had taken to holding his knees and rocking back and forth the moment he was without any task to do. It was wearing badly on the nerves of the other legionaries and Cato judged that it would be best for all of them if Proculus was out of the camp for several hours. They took the best of the Batavian spears and tucked daggers into the backs of their waistbands. Cato left Figulus with orders to get on with the shelters and led his small party out of the clearing, along the track that wound between two drumlins and down into the marsh. Dark still water, pierced by tall reeds, closed in around the broken track, and the air quickly became thick with the smell of decay and the drowsy whine of insects.

  The track was one they had used several times before and they were familiar with its twisting course for the first few miles. Although clearly man-made, it was seldom used and almost disappeared from time to time as grassy tussocks struggled to reclaim it. With Cato in front, and Proculus immediately behind him, the Romans picked their way along, eyes and ears straining for signs of life. From time to time the track dipped down, and was covered with oily water or a soft layer of black mud, which the legionaries had to wade through with muted curses and a great many squelching and sucking sounds that Cato imagined could be heard from miles off. Once it crossed over a far larger track that stretched north and south and seemed to be the native tribes' main route across the desolate marshland. The Romans scurried across the track, nervously glancing both ways to make sure they had not been seen by anyone passing through the marsh.

  For the best part of two hours, by Cato's estimation, they continued along the path, eventually coming to the furthest poi
nt they had yet explored. Here the path opened on to a strip of firm land covered with dense thickets of gorse. The mist had lifted and only a few patches still spread over the depressing landscape. The sun beat down on the marsh and the air was thick and suffocating. Cato's tunic was stuck to his back with sweat and the prickling effect on his skin was maddening.

  'We'll rest and then go back,' he decided.

  One of the men shook his head. 'But we haven't found anything to eat yet, sir.'

  'Then we'll try again later, Metellus.' Cato forced himself to smile. Struggling through the marsh was a dispiriting business, but it least it kept his men occupied. 'This evening, perhaps.'

  The legionary opened his mouth to protest further but he swallowed his words as Cato's smile fell and a gaunt, threatening determination glinted in the centurion's eyes. They stared at each other for an instant, and the other men watched, tense and expectant. Then Metellus looked down and nodded.

  'Whatever you say, sir,' he muttered.

  'Yes, that's right. Whatever I say… Now find some shade and get some rest. I'll keep watch. Then we'll head back to the camp. If we're lucky we might find something on the way.'

  The others looked at him with doubtful and bitter expressions, and Cato shrugged wearily. 'Just get some rest then.'

  Leaving his men to find some shelter from the sun Cato eased through some bushes, down to where the marsh began. He kneeled down, bent over the water and cupped some of the water in his palm. It had a brown tinge and a brackish smell. Some of the men back in camp had drunk from the marshes close to the dell and had had loose bowels ever since and were steadily weakening. Cato sniffed the water suspiciously, but his throat was parched and he ran a tacky tongue over his dry lips as he weighed up the risk. Then, feeling that death by thirst was no better than any other way, Cato drank the water and cupped his hand down for more, several times, until he was sated. He stood up and went back to join the others, slipping quietly through the gorse thicket. Three of his men were already asleep, one of them snoring loudly, and Proculus was sitting in the dappled shade of a bush, rocking gently.