The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  He turned on to his back and glanced up, squinting as the sun shimmered through the softly rustling leaves above. It was well past noon, and Cato wished that he had slept for longer, having spent the night on watch. After all, there was not much to be awake for. Just the long wait for the scout patrols to come back, and the brief moment of eager anticipation, once they were sighted, that they might have found some food. Followed swiftly by the despairing knowledge that their bellies would remain empty for another night.

  Besides being empty-handed, the scouts brought no news of Caratacus and his warriors, also concealed in this marsh. It was as if the depressing miasma had simply swallowed up the remnants of the native army, as it had Proculus.

  Cato hastily put aside that memory and turned his thoughts back to the plan he had hoped might win them a reprieve and send them back to their comrades in the Second Legion. He had clearly envisaged the scene: the motley column of bedraggled legionaries marching proudly back towards their astonished legate, who would listen in rapt attention as Cato told him where to find Caratacus and his warriors, pinpointed on one of the maps spread across Vespasian's campaign desk. A sweet fantasy, that. He smiled bitterly to himself. Any comfort that vision had once offered him now seemed quite hollow, and the vision mocked him as he lay on his back staring unfocused at the sky above.

  At length he could bear to torment himself no longer, and eased himself up into a sitting position. Looking round the camp he could see the other men, squatting in small groups, talking quietly. One or two glanced back at him as they saw that he was awake, and Cato wondered what they were really discussing as they refused to meet his eyes and looked away. Then he reminded himself that he had given orders that they were to make no unnecessary noise. He was looking for signs of danger all the time now, and if he were not careful it would drive him mad.

  Something was not right…

  Cato looked round the camp again and fixed his gaze on Figulus, sitting under a low bough a short distance away, whittling a fine point on the tip of a slim, relatively straight, shaft of wood. The centurion quickly rose to his feet and strode over towards Figulus.

  'What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on patrol.'

  'Yes, sir.' Figulus nodded.'Someone volunteered to take the patrol instead.'

  'Someone?' Cato glanced round and then stared down at the optio. 'Metellus?'

  'Yes…'

  'Where did he go?' Cato asked with a sickening realisation that he could already guess the answer.

  'Out past that farm we found a few days back. He reckoned that there might be a track leading from the farm towards some larger settlement in the swamp.'

  'That's what he reckoned?' Cato said with bitter irony.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And you believed him?'

  'Why not?' Figulus shrugged. 'He might find something useful, sir.'

  'Oh, he'll find something, all right. You can count on it.' Cato smacked his palm against his thigh. 'Right… get up! You're coming with me. Get us some spears.'

  While his optio quickly rose to his feet and walked over to the weapons stacked in the centre of the camp Cato rubbed his eyes and decided what they must do.

  'Sir?'

  Cato glanced round. Figulus was holding a spear shaft out towards him. He took it, leaned it against his shoulder and then checked that his dagger was securely fastened by the sash tied around his waist.

  'I'm sorry, sir,' Figulus said quietly. 'I didn't think he'd do anything stupid.'

  'Really?' Cato muttered. 'We'll find out soon enough. Come on.'

  He turned and led his optio towards the exit from the camp. As he reached the edge of the small clearing Cato turned to call out to the others over his shoulder.

  'No one leaves the camp. Stay alert.'

  Cato strode down the track into the swamp, mentally mapping the tracks he had used since they had found the camp. If Metellus was making for the farm then he would most likely take the track they had followed the day they killed the pig. It had been one of the few patrols Metellus had been out on. Cato had worried that the man's disrespectful attitude might have caused problems, and had confined him to the camp as often as possible. There was a quicker way to the farm, a narrow track that almost disappeared into the marsh in places. It was hard to follow, but if Cato and Figulus hurried they might yet reach the farm before Metellus, and stop him from doing anything foolish.

  So he hurried on, sacrificing the usual wary caution with which he had moved through this dismal landscape to the need for speed. The sun shone from a clear sky overhead and the swirling clouds of insects that hovered amongst the reeds closed round the sweating Romans as they waded through small stretches of the thick foul-smelling mud between lengths of the track that snaked through the marsh.

  'What do they eat when Roman's off the menu?' Figulus muttered as he angrily swatted a horsefly that was gorging itself on his neck.

  Cato glanced back. 'If we don't stop Metellus in time, then there'll be a lot more Romans on the menu. Come on!'

  They had been going for nearly two hours, when Cato realised that the landscape around him was wholly unfamiliar. From the position of the sun, he knew they must be headed in roughly the right direction, but they should have come across the farm long before now. They must have missed it, passed it by, and failed to find Metellus. It was with a sinking heart that Cato was helping his optio out of a deep patch of mud when he glanced back the way they had come and froze.

  'What is it, sir?'

  Cato just stared for a moment longer and then pointed. 'Look there…'

  Figulus stepped up on to the earth bank and straightened, following the direction indicated by his centurion. At first he didn't see anything unusual, then a faint smudge blossomed in the distance.

  'I see it.'

  As they watched the smoke thickened into a thin grey column that trailed up into the clear sky. The base of the column pointed unerringly to its source.

  Cato glanced round at the sun, still well above the horizon. 'There's still an hour or two of light left. Too much. We have to get back, quick as we can.'

  He plunged back into the mud they had just extricated themselves from and with a sigh of exhaustion and resignation Figulus turned and followed his centurion. The march back was twice as hard, as Cato forced them on as fast as he could manage, heedless of the burning weariness in his weakening limbs, all the while staring anxiously at the thin haze of smoke that, in the fading light, seemed never to get any closer.

  They could hear the squealing of the pigs long before they emerged from the track through the marsh and ran the final distance through the trees towards the camp, breathless and leaden-limbed. The sun was now no more than a burnished disc of coppery fire low on the horizon behind them, and they pursued their long distorted shadows into the small clearing that formed their camp. There, beside the smoking remains of the fire, lay two spitted piglets. Tethered to one of the trees the sow looked on in terror, squealing for its young with shrill relentless cries. The surviving piglets clustered round her trotters, pink snouts nuzzling their mother for comfort.

  The men were bent over the roast pigs, eating, and one by one they gazed up guiltily as they became aware of the officers' return. One of them nudged Metellus and he slowly rose to his feet as Cato and Figulus came panting up towards the fire. The legionary forced a smile on to his face, bent down and picked up a hunk of meat from the small pile he had carved. He straightened up and held it out towards his centurion.

  'There, sir. Lovely strip of belly. Try it.'

  Cato stopped several feet short of the fireplace, and stood leaning on the shaft of his spear, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.

  'You… bloody fool.' He glared round at his men. 'All of you… fools. That fire can be seen… for miles.'

  'No.' Metellus shook his head.'There's no one near enough to see it. No one, sir. Not any more.'

  Cato looked at the legionary.'Where did you get the meat?'

&
nbsp; 'That farm we found the other day, sir.'

  'Those people…?' Cato felt sick. 'What happened?'

  Metellus grinned. 'Don't worry, sir. They'll be telling no tales. I took care of that.'

  'All of them?'

  'Yes, sir.' Metellus' brow creased into a frown. 'Of course.'

  One of the other men chuckled. 'Only after we'd had a bit of fun with the women first, sir.'

  Cato bit his lip and lowered his head so that the men would not see his expression. He swallowed and fought to regain control over his breathing, even though his heart still pounded in his chest and his limbs were trembling from exhaustion and rage. It was all too much for Cato, and for a moment the temptation to renounce the last vestiges of his authority over these men was overwhelming. If they wanted to destroy themselves, then let them draw the attention of every enemy warrior for miles. What did he care? He had done his best to win them an extra measure of life, against all the odds. And this was how they repaid him. Then there was the smell of the meat, wafting down into the empty pit of his stomach so that it groaned and rumbled in keen anticipation of the feast. Cato felt a cold wave of self-contempt and anger as his weakness washed across him. He was a centurion. A centurion of the Second Legion at that. He'd be damned if he was going to let all that stand for nothing.

  'Sir?'

  Cato raised his head and looked down on Metellus. The legionary was holding out some meat to him, and nodded at it with a placating smile. It was that sense of being treated as a petulant child that made Cato decide what he must do. He forced himself to look beyond the meat to the legionary who had so selfishly endangered them all.

  'You fool! What good is that if we're dead tomorrow – the moment they find us?'

  Metellus did not reply, just stared back – in surprise at first, but then his expression changed to one of sullen insubordination, and he dropped the hunk of pork back on to the ground.

  'Please yourself, sir.'

  Cato swiftly swung the butt of his spear and thrust it into Metellus' chest, knocking the legionary back, into the arms of the men squatting behind him, still eating. Immediately a chorus of angry complaints rent the tense atmosphere.

  'Silence!' Cato shouted, his voice cracking with anger.'Shut your bloody mouths!' He glared at them, daring them to defy him, and then turned his gaze back on Metellus. 'And you – you piss-poor excuse for a soldier… you're on a charge!'

  Metellus' eyebrows rose for an instant, then he suddenly laughed.'A charge! You're putting me on a charge, are you, sir?'

  'Shut up!' Cato roared back at him, drawing the butt of the spear back to strike another blow. 'Shut up! I'm in command here!'

  Metellus was still laughing. 'That's priceless, that is! And what punishment would you have me do, sir? Empty the latrines? Pull an extra guard duty on the main gate?' He waved a hand at the clearing. 'Look around you. There's no camp here. No ramparts to defend. No barracks to clean. No latrine to empty… nothing. Nothing left for you to command. Except us. Face up to it, boy.'

  Cato shifted his grip on the spear shaft and spun it round, so that its point hovered no more than a foot away from the legionary's throat. Around him the others stopped eating and reached for the handles to their knives and swords, watching the centurion intently.

  For a moment everyone was still, muscles tensed and hearts pounding as the sow continued her high-pitched shrieking from the side of the clearing.

  Then Figulus slowly stepped forward and gently pushed the tip of Cato's spear down. 'I'll deal with this piece of shit, sir.'

  Cato glanced towards him, brows clenched together, and then he lowered his spear as he looked back at Metellus, and spat on the ground beside the legionary.'All right then, Optio. He's yours. See to it at once.'

  As soon as he had uttered the words Cato turned away, in case the glimmer of tears at the corner of his eyes betrayed his strained emotions. He strode off to the side of the clearing and made his way to a small grassy mound that looked out across the marsh.

  Behind him Figulus hauled Metellus to his feet. 'Time to teach you a lesson, I think.'

  The optio pulled his sword out of his waistband and tossed it to one side, and raised his fists. Metellus eyed him warily and then smiled. The optio was tall and broad, typical traits of the Celtic blood that flowed through him. Metellus was leaner, but had been ruthlessly hardened by the years he had served with the Eagles. The contest would pit brawn against experience, and Figulus could see that Metellus fancied his chances as he lowered his body into a crouch and waved the optio towards him.

  Metellus took a pace forwards and with a wild roar the legionary launched himself into the attack. He never made it. Figulus threw his right fist forward in a blur and there was a soft crunch as it slammed into the legionary's face. Metellus dropped heavily to the ground, motionless, knocked out in one blow. Figulus delivered a swift kick to the prone figure, then rounded on the other legionaries.

  He smiled, and said softly, 'Anyone else here want to fuck with authority?'

  The night passed quietly. Cato took an early watch, sitting in the dark shadows under a tree and keeping watch over the milky wet sheen of the surrounding marsh, bathed in the silvery glow of a bright crescent moon. Down in the camp all was silent, the men having quietly gone to rest under the brooding menace of the optio's gaze. The confrontation had ended for now, but Cato knew that the officers and men would be at each other's throats at the slightest provocation from now on. The ties of training and tradition that still bound them together were unravelling far faster than he had anticipated, and soon all that would remain would be a band of wild men desperate to survive each other, as much as survive the hostile territory that surrounded them.

  He had failed, Cato judged himself. He had failed his men, and there was no shame greater than that. And as a result of his failure they would all die in this forsaken wasteland at the heart of a barbarian island.

  Despite his tortured reflections on his failure, Cato shut his eyes almost as soon as he had curled up on the ground. He was far too tired to be afflicted by those edgy dreams that usually plague troubled minds, and fell into a deep, dark sleep.

  A hand shook him awake and, after a moment's disorientation, Cato sat up and squinted into the face that loomed over him. 'Figulus. What is it?'

  'Shhh!' the optio whispered. 'I think we've got company.'

  The shroud of sleep slipped from Cato at once and instinctively he reached for his sword. Around them a thin mist wreathed the camp, and obscured any detail beyond twenty or thirty paces away. A light dew beaded Cato's filthy tunic and the air smelled of damp earth. 'What's happening?'

  'Sentries say they can hear men moving close by. Sent for me at once.'

  'And?'

  'I heard it too. Lots of men.'

  'Right. Wake the others. Quietly.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  As the hulking mass of the optio glided away into the mist, Cato rose to his feet and padded softly across to the path that led up from the clearing to the small hummock where the sentries kept watch. When he reached them, Cato crouched down. He didn't have to ask them to report; the air was filled with the faint clinking of equipment and muffled voices softly passing on instructions that Cato could not quite make out. Even as he crouched, straining his ears, the sounds came closer, all around them.

  'We're surrounded,' whispered one of the legionaries, turning to Cato. 'What do we do, sir?'

  Cato recognised the man: Nepos, one of Metellus' cronies from the night before. It was tempting to point out to the man that this situation was the consequence of his lack of self-control the day before. But there was no time or point in dwelling on the blame for their perilous situation.

  'Fall back. We get back to the camp…and hope they pass us by. Whoever they are.'

  He led the sentries back down the track and when they reached the clearing Cato saw that the rest of his men were assembled, weapons in hand and waiting for his orders.

  'There's nowhere to hide,' Cato
said quietly, 'and there's only one way into this clearing. If we try and break out across the marsh, we'll just get stuck and hunted down. Best to stand ready, keep silent, and hope that they can't see us in this mist.'

  The legionaries stood in a small ring, facing out, ears and eyes straining to discern the slightest sight or sound through the grey veil that surrounded them. Soon they could all hear the sounds of men moving a short distance away, the rustling of bushes and snapping of twigs under careless footfalls.

  'What are we standing here for?' Metellus hissed. 'I say we make a run for it.'

  Cato turned on him. 'And I say I'll cut your throat if you make another sound. Got that?'

  Metellus looked at him, then nodded and turned back towards the growing sounds of the approaching men, spreading out all around them.

  Cato's eyes flickered from the grey outline of one tree to the next, and soon he thought he caught fleeting glimpses of the wraithlike forms of men moving through the trees. Gradually the sounds subsided and then there was silence, broken only by the rustling of the piglets, stirring beside the slumbering form of the sow.

  'Romans!' a voice called out of the mist in Latin, and Cato quickly turned towards the sound. 'Romans! Throw down your arms and surrender!'

  Cato drew a breath and called out 'Who's there?'

  The voice answered at once, 'I speak for Caratacus! He demands you drop your weapons and surrender. Or else, you die.'

  'Who's he trying to fool?' Figulus muttered. 'We're dead either way. At least it'll be quick and less painful if we fight. Might take a few of them bastards with us as well.'

  Cato could only nod at the prospect of the imminence of his death. It had come to this at last, and he felt his spine and neck clenched in the grasp of an icy fist. He was afraid, he reflected in some small rational part of his mind. At the very end he was afraid to die when it came down to it. But Figulus was right. Die he must, and right here and now, if he were to spare himself the lingering torment of a death at the hands of barbarians.

  'Romans! Surrender. You have the word of Caratacus that you will not be harmed!'