The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  'You can't win,' Cato said gently. 'You must realise that.'

  'Can't win?' Caratacus smiled.'It's been a long year for all of us, Roman. Your legionaries must be weary after so much marching, and fighting.'

  Cato shrugged.'That's our way of life. It's all we know. Even when my people are not at war we train for the next one, every day. Every bloodless training battle our men fight increases their appetite for the real thing. Your people have fought bravely, but they are mainly farmers… amateurs.'

  'Amateurs? Maybe,' the king conceded. 'Yet we have come within a hair's breadth of defeating you. Even a proud Roman must concede that. And we're not beaten yet. My scouts report that your Second Legion is camped to the north of the marsh. Your legate has posted one of his cohorts to the south. Imagine, one cohort! Is he really so arrogant as to think that one cohort will contain me?' Caratacus smiled. 'Your legate needs to be taught a lesson, I think. Maybe soon. We'll show him – and the rest of you Romans – that this war is far from over.'

  Cato shrugged. 'I'll admit that there were times when the success of our campaign looked in doubt. But now…?' He shook his head. 'Now, there can be only defeat for you.'

  Caratacus frowned and looked pained for a moment before he replied.'I'm old enough to be your father and yet you speak as if to a child. Be careful, Roman. The arrogance of youth is not tolerable for very long.'

  Cato looked down.'I'm sorry. I meant no offence. But with all my heart I know you cannot win, and there must be an end to the needless sacrifice of the people of these lands. They would beg it of you.'

  Caratacus raised his fist and jabbed a finger at the centurion. 'Do not presume to speak for my people, Roman!'

  Cato swallowed nervously. 'And who exactly do you speak for? Only a handful of tribes remain loyal to your cause. The rest have accepted their fate, and come to terms with Rome. They are now our allies, not yours.'

  'Allies!' The king spat into the fire in contempt. 'Slaves is what they are. They are less than the dogs who feed on the scraps from my table. To be allied to Rome is to condemn your kingdom to a living death. Look at that fool, Cogidumnus. I hear that your emperor has promised to build him a palace. One worthy of a client king. So he'll condemn his people to become the property of Rome when he dies, just so that he can live out his life in a gilded cage, despised by your emperor and by his own people. That is no way for a king to live.' He gazed sadly into the glowing heart of the fire. 'That's no way for a king to rule… How can he live with such shame?'

  Cato kept silent. He knew what Caratacus said about client kings was true. The story of the growth of the empire was littered with tales of kings who had welcomed client status, and had been so besotted with the baubles laid before them that they became blind to the ultimate fate of their people. Yet what was the alternative, thought Cato. If not a client king, then what? A futile attempt at resistance and then the cold comfort of a mass grave for those kings and their peoples who prized liberty from Rome over life itself. Cato knew he must try to make the king see reason, to end the senseless slaughter that had already drenched these lands in blood.

  'How many of your armies has Rome defeated? How many of your men have died? How many hillforts and villages are now no more than piles of ashes? You must sue for peace, for your people. For their sake…'

  Caratacus shook his head and continued to stare into the fire. For a long time neither man spoke. They had reached an impasse, Cato realised. Caratacus was consumed by the spirit of resistance. The weight of tradition and the warrior codes with which he had been imbued from the cradle unswervingly bore him down the path to tragic self-destruction. Yet he was sensible to the suffering that his course of action implied to others. Cato could see that his point about their needless sacrifice had struck home with the king. Caratacus was imaginative and empathetic enough for that, Cato realised. If only the king would accept that defeat must be inevitable, then the impasse would be broken.

  At length Caratacus looked up, and rubbed his face. 'Centurion, I'm tired. I cannot think. I must talk with you another time.'

  He called out for the guard and the man who had escorted Cato from the pen ducked into the hut. The king indicated, with a brief nod of his head, that he had finished with the Roman, and Cato was roughly hauled to his feet and shoved out into the darkness. He glanced back, and before the leather curtain slipped back across the entrance he had one final sight of the king: leaning forward, his head cradled in his hands, locked in a posture of solitude and despair.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ' He'll get us all killed.' Centurion Tullius nodded towards the cohort commander. Maximius was briefing the optios in charge of the day's patrols. Each officer commanded twenty men and had a native assigned to them to act as a guide. Every one of them was a prisoner, iron collars chained to the belt of legionary guards. Since their children were being held hostage it was unlikely that they would offer any resistance, or attempt to escape or betray their Roman masters. But Maximius was taking no chances. He had few enough men as it was. Centurion Tullius tapped his vine cane against the side of his greave, making a dull clattering noise. Macro glanced down irritably.

  'Do you mind?'

  'What? Oh, sorry!' Tullius lifted the cane, tucked it under his arm and glanced back towards the cohort commander. 'I thought we were here to find Cato and the others. Had no idea we were going to try and stir up a bloody revolt as well. Couldn't have done a better job if he had tried…the bastard.'

  'Perhaps that's just what he's been ordered to do,' Macro wondered aloud.

  'What do you mean?'

  Macro shrugged. 'I'm not really sure. Not yet. Just seems to be an odd way to get the locals to help us.'

  'Odd?' The old centurion shook his head. 'You weren't there when we ran those natives down by the river. He really lost his head.' Tullius lowered his voice. 'He was like a man possessed – wild, dangerous and cruel. He should never have been given a command. As long as he's running the Third Cohort, we're in deep trouble. He's already disgraced us. My service is nearly up, Macro. Two more years to my discharge. I've earned it – spotless record – until now. Even if he doesn't get us killed, the decimation is going to ruin our careers. You and the other centurions are still on the young side, still got years to go. What chance of promotion do you think you'll have with that on your records? I'm telling you, as long as that bastard's in command we're in the deepest of shit.' He looked away from Macro, towards the distant cohort commander and continued softly, 'If only something would happen to him.'

  Macro swallowed nervously and stiffened his back. 'I'd be careful what I said if I was you. He's dangerous, all right, but so is that kind of talk.'

  Tullius looked closely at the other centurion.'You do think he's dangerous then?'

  'He might be. But you really scare me. What are you suggesting, Tullius? A sharp dagger in his back on a dark night?'

  Tullius gave a short, unconvincing, laugh.'It's happened before.'

  'Oh, yes,' Macro snorted,'I know. And I also know what can happen to the men of those units that are held responsible. I don't fancy ending my days in some imperial mine. And what if he was killed? You'd be in command.' Macro gave the other man a hard stare. 'Frankly, I don't think you're up to the job.'

  Tullius looked down before Macro could see the pained expression in his eyes. 'You're probably right… I could have done it once, years ago. But I was never given the chance.'

  Quite, thought Macro, and his lips curled in contempt.

  Tullius looked up. 'Macro, you could take command.'

  'No.'

  'Why not? I'm sure the men would follow you. I'd follow you.'

  'I said no.'

  'All we need to do is make sure that Maximius' death doesn't look suspicious.'

  Macro's hand shot out and grabbed the older man by the shoulder. He shook Tullius to emphasise his words. 'I said no. Got that? One more word out of you and I'll hand you over to Maximius myself. I'll
even volunteer for the job of executioner.' He let his hand slip back to his side. 'Don't ever talk to me about this again.'

  'But why?'

  'Because he's our commander. It's not our job to question him, just obey his orders.'

  'And if he gives us orders that'll get us killed? What then?'

  'Then…' Macro shrugged, 'then we die.'

  Tullius looked at him with a startled expression. 'You're as mad as he is.'

  'Maybe. But we're soldiers, not senators. We're here to do as we're told and fight – there's no debating the issue. That's what we signed up to when we joined the Eagles. We swore an oath, you and me. That's all there is to it.'

  Tullius stared at him, then jabbed a finger into Macro's chest. 'Then you are mad.'

  'Gentlemen!'

  They both turned round in alarm at the sound of Maximius' voice. He had finished his briefing and started towards them without the two officers being aware of their superior's approach. At the sight of their surprised and alarmed expressions a frown flitted over Maximius' face before he smiled genially.

  'You two look like you're about to knock seven shades out of each other!'

  Tullius forced out a weak laugh, and Macro made himself smile as the older centurion replied,'A minor disagreement, sir. No more than that.'

  'Good. What were you disagreeing about?'

  'Nothing really, sir. Nothing worth mentioning.'

  'I'll be the judge of that.' Maximius smiled again. 'So tell me.'

  Tullius glanced at Macro and flapped a hand in the air between them. 'A difference of opinion, sir, a professional difference of opinion. I was saying that we'd have finished the enemy off a lot sooner if we'd had some of the Praetorian Guard units fighting alongside us.'

  'I see.' Maximius looked searchingly at his subordinate's expression before turning to look at Macro. 'And what does Centurion Macro think?'

  'He thinks the Guard are a bunch of idle wasters, sir,' Tullius chipped in before Macro could respond.

  Maximius raised a hand. 'Quiet. I think Macro can speak for himself. Well, what do you think?'

  Macro shot Tullius a withering glance before he replied, acutely bitter at the situation Tullius had forced on him. 'They're good men, sir. Good men, but, er, they must go soft after spending too long in Rome… sir.'

  'And you think the men of the legions are a tougher proposition then?'

  Macro shrugged his shoulders helplessly. 'Well, yes, sir. I suppose so… yes.'

  'Bollocks!' Maximius spat back. 'There's no comparison. Your Guardsman is the finest soldier in the Empire, bar none. I should know. I served with them long enough. Tullius is right. If Claudius had left a few of 'em behind when he buggered off back to Rome last year, it'd all be over by now. The Guard would have sorted Caratacus out in double time.' He glared at Macro, breathing hard through flared nostrils. 'I thought an officer with your experience would have known that. There's no comparison between a Guardsman and your bog-standard legionary.'

  'Yes, sir.' Macro coloured. He was tempted to defend himself. To answer back and justify the words Tullius had put in his mouth. To tell Maximius about the balls-up at the battle outside Camulodunum a year earlier that had nearly cost his vaunted Guards their lives. But Macro could not trust himself to continue the discussion: once his spirit of defiance was up there was no telling how indiscreet he would become. Best to let the cohort commander's umbrage wash over him like one of the flotsam-bloated waves that rolled over the shore at his childhood home just outside Ostia. Macro stiffened his back and stared into his superior's face. 'As you say, sir. There's no comparison.'

  Maximius sensed the ironic tone straight away and dismissed Tullius with a curt word of command. As soon as there was no one near enough to overhear their conversation he turned back to Macro.

  'What exactly were you and Tullius talking about?'

  'Like he said, sir, it was a professional disagreement.'

  'I see.' Maximius stared hard at Macro and chewed on his bottom lip. 'Nothing to do with that traitor we're looking for, then?'

  Macro felt his pulse quicken and prayed that there was no sign of guilt written into the expression on his face as he replied, 'No, sir.'

  'We're not getting very far with that line of inquiry, are we, Macro?'

  'We, sir?'

  'Of course.' Maximius glanced round suspiciously and then lowered his voice so that it was barely more than a whisper. 'Who else can I trust in this matter, Macro? Tullius is an old woman. Felix and Antonius are too young to be trusted with secrets, and uncovering secrets. You're the only one of my officers I can rely on. I want this traitor identified and brought to me in chains. You're the perfect man for the job, Macro.'

  'Yes, sir.' Macro nodded. 'What exactly do you want me to do?'

  'Just talk to the men. Nice and easy. Don't push for information. Say as much as you need to, nothing more, and just listen. Then report back to me.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Right then.' Maximius turned round and nodded towards the last patrol standing at ease by the gate. 'I want you to take them out today. The guide says there's a few small farms to the east. They might be worth checking out. After all, Cato's lot will need food. If there's any sign that the locals have been harbouring them, you know what to do. Make an example of them.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The optio there, Cordus, is from Felix's century. He's a good man, you can rely on him. Now you understand your orders?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The cohort commander paused a moment to look intently at Macro. 'Report everything to me when you return – everything.'

  Macro saluted. 'I understand, sir.'

  'Good luck, then.'

  At noon Macro gave the order for the patrol to halt. Sentries were posted at each end of the track and the rest of the men gratefully slumped down on to the ground and reached for their canteens. The sky was a piercing blue, except for a scattering of puffy clouds drifting slowly away to the south of the marsh. Macro craved some shadow and looked at them longingly. The sunshine beat down on the still air that hung over the marshland and every man in the patrol was sweating heavily. The felt liner inside his helmet was drenched and Macro could feel beads of sweat running down his forehead, and dripping on to his cheeks. The heat was exhausting and the men had grumbled about their lot all morning, until Macro had lost his patience and ordered them to shut up. Thereafter they had marched along in silence, growing steadily more surly as the guide led them along the narrow winding paths, through rank-smelling shallows and thickets of gorse without encountering any sign of habitation.

  'Cordus!' Macro waved him over. 'Ask him how much further we have to go.'

  The optio nodded and strolled over to the native guide. He was a short man, thickset and clad in a rough woollen tunic and leggings. He was barefoot, and bare-headed and the length of leather tied loosely as a collar had chafed his skin and left a weeping red welt around his fat neck. The guide was a metalsmith and depended for his livelihood on the strength in his arms, not his legs, and had suffered even more than the armour-clad legionaries from the morning's march. Although he had claimed to know the route to the farms scattered amid the marsh, Macro suspected that he had nearly lost the way on several occasions. The fact that his family were held hostage in a small cage in the Roman camp had been more than an adequate incentive for him to find the right trail again as speedily as possible. But now he looked spent, squatting on the ground, chest heaving for breath and looking longingly at the canteen his Roman guard was drinking from.

  The man started with a small cry of alarm as Cordus poked him with the tip of his boot. With a cringe he looked over his shoulder, squinting up at the optio as Cordus gave a little jerk of the man's lead and forced him to struggle to his feet.

  Cordus spoke to him in the smattering of Celtic he had picked up in Camulodunum while the Second Legion had been quartered there the previous winter. Between Cordus' accent and the native's unfamiliarity with the dialect it took a while
for the question to be understood, and then the guide was pointing down the track and gabbling away in his own tongue until Cordus snapped irritably at him, yanking the leather lead to cut off the man's anxious stream of speech. He let the Briton drop down on to the ground and tossed the leash back to the legionary in charge of the guide before turning round and heading back to Macro.

  'Well?'

  'He reckons we should be there within the hour, sir.'

  'Shit…' Macro mopped his brow as he tried to work out the timing. An hour there, say two hours looking over the small cluster of farms and then six hours' march back to the fort. It would be dusk before they made it back – if they were lucky. Blundering about in the marsh after dark was a pretty dire prospect. Macro took a quick swig from his canteen and wearily rose to his feet.'Get 'em up, Optio! We're on the move again.'

  There was a chorus of groans and angry muttering from all sides.

  'Shut your fuckin' mouths!' Cordus shouted, 'or I will personally kick your teeth out the back of your arses! Up! Up!'

  Macro made a mental note of approval as the optio strode up and down the path, lashing out at any man who was slow to stir. Cordus was exactly the kind of optio Macro approved of. Not perhaps as bright as Cato had been, but a firm advocate of the kind of harsh discipline that pushed the men on. The thought of Cato was an unwelcome reminder of the purpose of the patrol. Macro compressed his lips and unconsciously started drumming the tip of his vine cane on the hard earth of the path. If they did find Cato and the others, what then? The orders were to take them alive, if possible. But alive they posed a threat to Macro. He would not put it past some of those legionaries to try to strike a deal to reveal the name of the man who set them free in exchange for a more lenient sentence. Some bloody fool was bound to try it on, and the moment Maximius was aware that such a deal was on offer he'd either agree and then, renege on the deal later, or bring in the torturers and get the information out of the hapless prisoner one way or another.