Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  The arrow fire ceased, but the legionaries remained under cover in case it was a ruse.

  ‘Macro!’ Vitellius called out. ‘Macro! Still with us?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ the centurion shouted out, automatically responding to his superior.

  ‘That’s good. Now look here, Macro, I will have that chest in the long run. You’re trapped where you are and I’ve sent for more men. It’ll take them a while to arrive. We can spend that time sitting here staring at each other or you can give me the chest and I’ll let you and your men go.’

  ‘Fuck off, sir!’ Macro shouted back. ‘If you want it, you’ll have to fight for it!’

  ‘Hear me out, centurion! If you make me wait then there will be no mercy. We will over-run you and you’ll be killed. Give me the chest now and you’ll live. You have my word on it.’

  ‘His word?’ Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘What kind of idiots does he take us for?’

  ‘My thinking exactly, optio,’ replied Macro.

  ‘Macro!’ the tribune called out again. ‘I’ll give you a few moments to talk it over with your men. Then you choose; delay the inevitable and it’s death for all of you, or give me the chest and walk out of here.’

  Macro turned back to his men. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s no way he’s going to let us live,’ Pyrax said firmly. ‘No matter what we decide.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Macro nodded. ‘So what do we do? A charge is out of the question.’

  ‘Unless we can hit them from two sides,’ Cato suggested.

  ‘And how do we achieve that?’

  Cato rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow so he could point out directions as he talked.

  ‘Some of us go back down the track. The grass is long on either side, so if you keep low enough you should be screened. Then, where it dips into the marsh, you swim round in a wide arc until you come back on to the trail behind them. Then we charge from both sides – hopefully the surprise should be enough to put them off their aim for just long enough.’

  Cato finished, but saw that the others were still looking at him expectantly. ‘Sorry, that’s it.’

  ‘That’s a plan?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘Fair enough. It’s that or die, I suppose,’ Macro said. He looked around the surviving members of his squad. ‘Right then, you take Pyrax, Lentulus and Piso. When you get round behind them you charge and make as much noise as you can.’

  Cato shifted with embarrassment. ‘Sorry sir, but someone else has to lead the other party.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t swim.’

  ‘You told Vespasian you could. That night you joined the legion.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was exaggerating, sir. Sorry.’

  ‘Lying, you mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Macro glared at him. ‘Well, that’s just terrific, optio. Now I’ll have to bloody do it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll make sure I learn as soon as we get back to the Legion.’

  ‘Fine.’ Macro unfastened the clasp on his cloak and nodded to the others to do the same. The small party checked that their swords and daggers were firmly attached to their belts, then Macro led them down the track away from the Syrians, closely hugging the ground and slithering along the muddy surface. Once they had eased themselves into the water and swum off into the gloomy mist, Cato risked a quick glance round the side of the cart. The Syrians stood as before and, to one side, the unmistakable shadow of Vitellius sat atop a small mound close to where Pulcher tended their mounts. There was a sudden blur as an arrow flew close by and Cato ducked back down. The three other men, still unwounded, held their draw swords tight in their hands and crouched expectantly.

  For a while it seemed nothing was happening, all was still and quiet as before. As the light failed Cato began to wonder what had become of his centurion. Then Vitellius stood up and called out impatiently.

  ‘Time’s up, centurion. Surrender the chest now or die. What’s it to be?’

  Cato looked round at the other legionaries.

  ‘Well, centurion?’

  ‘Say something!’ one of the men hissed.

  ‘What? Say what?’ Cato asked helplessly.

  ‘Anything, you fool!’

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Vitellius concluded angrily. ‘You’ll bloody well die and like it.’

  With a roar of fighting rage, Macro and his four men rose up from the shadows immediately behind the line of archers and raced down the track. The noise momentarily surprised Cato as well, but he recovered in an instant and was up on his feet running for the nearest Syrian, shouting at his party to follow. As he saw Cato running towards him, teeth bared in a feral war face, the Syrian dropped his bow and reached for the cleaver at his side. He fumbled as he unsheathed the blade and it fell to the ground. Cato shouted as loud as he could and the man ran for it leaving his weapon lying in the mud. Cato thrust his sword at the Syrian’s back but the point barely penetrated the cloak and caught him in the buttock instead. The man yelped and sprinted down the track as fast as his feet could carry him, frantically weaving round Macro and the others who were mercilessly despatching his comrades.

  Frustrated by the enemy’s escape, Cato turned wildly about to look for another foe and saw Pulcher heaving Vitellius up into the saddle.

  ‘Over here!’ Cato cried out. ‘Don’t let him get away! Quick!’

  Without waiting for the others, Cato dashed towards Pulcher, sword raised high above his head. At the last moment, Pulcher turned and drew his weapon, faster than Cato would have believed possible.

  Firmly standing his ground, the stocky legionary aimed the tip of the blade squarely at Cato’s throat. Cato instinctively tried to dodge the blade and, to his horror, found his feet losing their grip on the slimy peat. He went down on his knees, sliding in under Pulcher’s blade and thrusting up into his guts as hard as he could. His momentum slammed him into Pulcher’s legs and both went down in a sprawling heap. Cato pulled himself clear with unbloodied sword still in hand. The thrust had not penetrated Pulcher’s armour, only winded him badly, and now he rolled away fighting for breath. Before Cato could finish him off, a sudden swish through the air, close to his ear, caused him to duck. Vitellius loomed above him, raising his sword arm. When it came, Cato had just enough time to raise his sword to parry a jarring blow.

  ‘Here! Quickly!’ he cried out.

  Vitellius was about to move in for the kill when several shouts close at hand alerted him. Swearing bitterly, he charged his horse at Cato. The optio dived to one side, but not fast enough to avoid being sent sprawling by a blow from the animal’s flank as it swept past, and he crumpled to the ground.

  With hooves sliding and slithering in the mud, the horse weaved through the loose line of legionaries and pounded down the track, past the cart where the wounded mule still bellowed its pain, and on into the gathering gloom.

  Macro hurried over to Cato and hauled him on to his feet.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Will be . . . once I get my breath back. Did we get them?’

  ‘Near enough. Five down and three did a runner. Shame we didn’t get that bastard Vitellius.’

  Cato quickly looked about but there was no sign of Pulcher either.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato drew in a deep lungful of air and felt his chest. Aside from bruises all seemed in order. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘There’s no point in going after him, if that’s what you mean. We have to get the chest back to Vespasian as soon as possible. Before the tribune comes after us with more men.’

  Once the legionaries had harnessed four of the horses up to the cart, the others were tethered to the back, along with the remaining mule. Concerned that the other mule might attract unwelcome attention with its hoarse bellowing, Macro had led the animal down to the side of the marsh, cut its throat and tipped it into the mire. With the wounded loaded aboard the cart, the small party began to retrace its steps along the track towards the edge of
the marsh. Night closed in around them as they drove the horses onwards, grateful that they no longer had to labour at hauling the cart out of every muddy rut along the way.

  As they neared the edge of the marsh and could see the dark swell of land rising up above the mist, Macro heard the sound of a horse approaching behind them.

  ‘Halt,’ he called out softly. ‘Grab your shields and spears and follow me.’

  He led them back down the track a small distance and detailed four men to hide each side in an extended line to be sure of providing the approaching rider with no means of escape. Cato lay down close to the ground, too tired by the day’s action to be anxious any more. Moments later the dark shape of a rider and horse loomed out of the mist and cantered into the middle of the trap.

  ‘Now!’ Macro shouted, and eight shadows detached themselves from the grass on either side of the track and converged on the horseman. Startled by the sudden movement, the horse reared, whinnying in terror, and the rider struggled to regain control of his mount before tumbling to the ground. Macro pounced on him, slamming a punch into his face before hauling the man to his feet.

  ‘Well now!’ He laughed. ‘What a fucking surprise it is to see you again, sir.’

  Vitellius wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand. ‘Get your hands off me, centurion!’

  ‘Get my hands off you?’

  ‘You have to let me go. I’ve got to get back to the Legion.’

  ‘Listen, you bastard, if you think—’

  ‘There’s no time for this!’ Vitellius shouted. ‘There’s a bloody army coming down the track. Nearly rode right into them. I don’t think they saw me, but they’ll be here soon. I have to tell Vespasian!’

  ‘He’s lying, sir,’ Pyrax growled. ‘Kill him, and let’s go.’

  ‘Wait!’ Cato interceded. ‘We don’t even know what he was after yet.’

  Pyrax raised his sword. ‘Who needs to know?’

  ‘Lower that sword legionary!’ Macro ordered. ‘Now!’

  ‘Please!’ Vitellius begged. ‘You have to let me go. I have to warn Vespasian. We’ve found Togodubnus! If that column surprises the legion we’ll lose thousands. Thousands of our comrades.’

  ‘Comrades!’ Pyrax spat at him. ‘Comrades don’t fucking kill each other.’

  For a moment they stood in silence, a tableau of crisis and indecision, Vitellius on his knees, Macro with his fist twisted into the tribune’s cloak, a look of bitter contempt etched on his face.

  ‘If there is a column,’ Cato said softly, ‘the legate has to be warned.’

  ‘There’s no fucking enemy column!’ Pyrax thumped the butt of his spear down. ‘He’s just trying to save his skin.’

  ‘Then why ride back towards us?’

  ‘He got lost. Why are we even wasting time on this?’ Pyrax turned to Macro. ‘Kill him, sir!’

  Macro glared down at the tribune for a moment, face hardening into a look of pure disgust and resentment at the predicament the tribune’s reappearance had placed him in. Then he thrust his fist hard against Vitellius’s chest and the tribune went down flat on his back in the mud.

  ‘Go and warn the Legion. But, make no mistake, when this is all over I’ll see to it that the general himself knows what you did here. I’m sure he’ll be most keen to find out why a senior officer should want to kill his own men to get hold of that chest. Now go! Go, you bastard, before I change my mind.’

  Vitellius scrambled to his feet, jumped on to his horse’s back and snatched the reins back from the legionary who stood at the beast’s side. Without any delay he kicked his heels in and raced up the track, past the cart, and disappeared into the night.

  ‘Right then! Let’s move. If he’s told us the truth, there’s no time to waste. Let’s move!’

  ‘Of course he’s not telling the truth!’ Pyrax snorted.

  ‘You questioning my decision?’ Macro asked coldly.

  ‘I’m telling you, we should have killed him.’

  ‘You call me sir when you address me, legionary!’

  ‘Quiet!’ Cato raised his hand. ‘Listen!’

  The small party froze, every ear straining in the direction Cato pointed. For a moment there was nothing to disturb the soft sounds of the night. Then came a distant whinny, then another, accompanied by the unmistakable crack of a whip as someone shouted a Celtic curse.

  From somewhere on the track not far behind them.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  It was clear that the Britons would be upon them before they even made the ridge. There was no hope of outrunning the enemy, that much was evident to Macro as he frantically scanned the immediate area, and found a faint possibility of hope.

  ‘Over there!’ He thrust his arm out to one of the larger folds in the land away to the left of the track. In the dim light of a new moon the mist forming in the dip had a cold luminosity that was far from welcoming, but it offered the only hope of quick concealment. ‘Get the cart off the track, quick as you fucking can!’

  As the men turned the horses into the long grass and hurried across the slope towards the hollow, Macro followed and tried to conceal the worst of the grooves the cart had crushed into the wet grass. Praying that the marks would be missed in the dark, and fearing that the Britons might march into view at any moment, Macro dashed after the cart which had reached the rim of the dip and was being man-handled down the reverse slope. The thrumming of shod hooves in the near distance spurred him on and when he reached the dip he threw himself down and lay there for a moment, panting.

  The slope was steep and the cart was well below the level of the mist that covered the ground in a thick unbroken layer. Ordering the others to stay with the wagon and make sure the animals and the injured remained silent, Cato scrambled up the slope to join the centurion.

  ‘We were lucky there, sir. Wagon nearly went over when we came down this.’ He thumped the slope.

  ‘Really?’ Macro said, and yawned before he could help it. Then he flipped himself over and propped his chin up with his hands. ‘Keep down, and do nothing . . . absolutely nothing. On my orders only.’

  Cato nodded and lay as still as he could, waiting nervously for the enemy to emerge from the swamp. And then, suddenly, a small column of cavalry emerged into the dim moonlight barely a hundred paces away, a blend of man and horse in the dark shadows. Cato was surprised to see British cavalry since Caesar had claimed that they preferred to use their animals for chariots. Either the Great General was wrong or the Britons had finally discovered the value of cavalry. The horsemen fanned out on either side of the track and trotted up towards the ridge. The left-flank scout passed within twenty paces of their hiding place and Macro and his optio pressed themselves into the ground, hardly daring to breathe. Their tired eyes strained to detect any sign that the passage of their cart across the slope had been discovered. But the scout passed by without breaking his pace.

  From the swamp came the sound of jingling and a dark mass of chariots and infantry spilled out on to the track and snaked their way up the slope. The chatter of their queer lilting language carried softly to the ears of the terrified Romans and Cato found himself comparing the sound favourably with the harshness of the German he had grown used to. A sharp order was given as a chariot passed down the line, and the column obediently fell silent until the chariot had passed beyond the line of scouts and over the brow of the hill, then laughter rippled down the line and they continued talking as before.

  There seemed to be no end to the soldiers streaming from the marsh, and now the head of the dark mass had passed over the hill. On and on they came, until at long last the rearguard emerged from the swamp. Macro and Cato watched as the last ranks of the enemy marched over the crest of the hill and merged into its dark silhouette as they passed out of sight down the reverse slope.

  ‘How many do you think there were, sir?’ Cato whispered, as if afraid his words might yet carry to the ears of the Britons.

  Macro looked down at the small stones he was cl
utching in his hand and quickly counted them up. ‘Say the equivalent of twenty cohorts, that’s . . .’

  ‘Nine thousand!’ Cato whistled.

  Macro silently did the necessary maths for himself and nodded. ‘More than enough for Vespasian to worry about. Not to mention the chariot force. If that lot gets the drop on the legate . . . ’

  ‘Then it’s up to Vitellius.’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro replied simply. ‘Vitellius . . . Look, we’d better get moving. With that lot on the scene we’d better abandon the cart. Bury the chest here, lose the cart somewhere else and use the horses to circle round the column and rejoin the legion.’

  ‘Bury the chest? After all we’ve been through?’

  ‘You want it to be captured? Or worse, you want to be captured with it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well then, we’ll have to leave it here and return for it, if we ever get back to the Second in one piece.’

  It was clear that the horse was badly winded and would drop if he drove it any further. Vitellius swerved off the track and dismounted in the shadows of an ancient grove whose leaf-laden branches stretched out on all sides. While his mount snorted and gasped at the cool night air, Vitellius cursed in anger and frustration. That bloody chest had nearly been in his hands. An emperor’s ransom – enough to fund the most lavish of political careers; an endless source for buying the favours of senators and soldiers alike. Maybe enough to buy him the loyalty of the Praetorian Guard. Certainly the services of the Praetorian agent Pulcher had been reasonably priced and the man had been sufficiently impressed by gold to rid himself of any inconvenient principles. And buying the services of the Syrians earlier that day had been easy, once Vitellius had passed himself off as a close friend of Scribonianus.