The Eagle's Prophecy Page 10

  Cato looked up in surprise. ‘You’re going out in this weather?’

  ‘Of course I am, lad. Have to set the watch for the night.’

  ‘The watch?’ Cato shook his head. ‘We’re hardly likely to be attacked by a pack of mountain goats.’

  ‘Not goats. Brigands. The people who live in these mountains are pretty lawless. There’s even supposed to be a few hidden settlements inhabited by descendants from the slaves of Spartacus’ army.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, surely.’

  ‘That’s what people say. Personally, I think it’s bollocks. Anyway, I have to set a watch. Better get the men used to the idea.’

  Minucius undid the fastenings on the flap and the other centurions narrowed their eyes as an icy blast of wind gusted into the tent and swelled its sides, straining the seams. Macro shuffled over and struggled to get the pegs back into their slots.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Cato muttered. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in us freezing our balls off while we wait, is there?’

  Cato shrugged and clutched his blanket more tightly about his thin frame. He doubted there would be any sleep for him that night. It was just too uncomfortable, no matter how tired he felt. Soon his teeth were chattering and Macro shot an irritable glance at him before turning round and curling up on a thick bed of branches, inside his waterproof cloak.

  Minucius returned shortly afterwards and nodded a good night at Cato before he took to his makeshift bed, and soon both of the veterans were asleep and snoring loudly.

  ‘Shit,’ Cato muttered, bitter with envy. He shuffled around, trying to find a comfortable position, but lying on either side left the other exposed to the icy chill that somehow reached through the entrance of the tent and clutched at him with frozen fingers. He endured over an hour of this torment, becoming steadily more miserable, before he gave up and rose into a sitting position, hugging his knees tightly to his chest and rubbing his shoulders vigorously to try to get some warmth back into his muscles. Outside, the wind was dying down, only rising to a keen moaning on the occasional gust. But that was small comfort to Cato, shivering in his tent.

  He tried to think about something else, anything else, and his mind turned again to the mysterious scrolls that meant so much to Narcissus. More important, it seemed, than the pirate menace itself. The operation being mounted to deal with the pirates was largely a front, a disguise to hide the real object of Rome’s attention. If that was Narcissus’ game then the scrolls must be worth the lives of a good many men. But what could be so important? Lists of traitors? State secrets from Parthia? It could be anything, Cato decided in frustration.

  The wind died away completely for a moment and the sides of the tent hung limply about him. Then Cato heard a scream–short, shrill and some distance off. It seemed to echo off the mountainside for an instant, and then the wind rose again and the sound was gone. He threw back the blanket from his head and strained his ears to try to catch the sound again. And there it was: a thin tortured cry, just audible above the moaning wind and irregular slap and thud of tent leather. He reached over and shook Macro’s shoulder. There was no response and he shook again, harder this time, and pinched his fingers into the bulk of Macro’s muscles. The older centurion stirred into startled consciousness.

  ‘What? What is it? Where’s my sword?’ His hand immediately went for the blade, then he focused on the dark outline of Cato, squatting beside him.

  ‘Quiet!’ Cato said softly. ‘Just listen!’

  ‘Listen? What for?’

  ‘Shhh! Just listen…’

  Both men stayed still, ears straining, but all that they could hear was the sound of the wind outside. Macro gave up.

  ‘You mind telling me what I’m listening for?’

  ‘I heard a scream.’

  ‘A scream? Up here in the mountains? Sure it wasn’t the wind?’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘Maybe some bacchanalian revelry of the mountain folks then.’

  ‘Quiet! There it is!’

  This time Macro did hear the sound: unmistakably human and carrying with it a clear sense of torment and agony. The scream was abruptly cut off, and Macro felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  ‘Shit. You’re right.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  Macro threw back his blanket and groped for his boots. ‘Check it out, of course. Come on. Bring your sword.’

  ‘What about Minucius?’

  ‘Leave him. I’m not going to look like some jumpy recruit. We’ll just check it out and come back for help if we need it. Let’s go.’

  As they emerged from the tent they saw that the snow had stopped falling, and a thick blanket of white covered all the tents and the wagons. A pair of sentries stood watch at each end of the camp site and stamped their feet to keep them from going numb. The wind had died down to a flukey breeze, and overhead thin shreds of silvery cloud flitted across the bright points of star constellations.

  ‘This way,’ Macro said quietly, and softly crunched through the snow towards the nearest sentry. The man stiffened as he noticed the officers approaching.

  ‘Halt! Advance and be recog—’

  ‘Shut up. If you don’t know who we are yet you never will. You’re supposed to be keeping watch for people approaching the camp, you dozy bastard, not those moving around inside it.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cato cut in.

  ‘Yes, it bloody does,’ Macro grumbled. ‘If he can’t keep a decent watch he’s no use to anyone, even the marines.’

  Cato ignored him and concentrated his attention on the sentry. ‘Did you hear anything a moment ago?’

  ‘Hear what, sir?’

  ‘A man’s voice, a scream.’

  The sentry looked wary. ‘I might have.’

  ‘Don’t fuck about, son.’ Macro poked him in the chest. ‘Did you hear something, or didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But only for a moment. I might have imagined it. Thought it came from over there.’ He gestured towards the rising mass of the hill behind the camp site. ‘Up the hill, or more likely round the other side, I should think, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t you raise the alarm?’

  ‘For something I might have heard, or imagined, sir?’

  ‘You don’t take risks with other people’s lives, lad. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Want me to call out the rest of the men?’

  ‘No,’ said Macro. ‘We’ll investigate. If we’re not back by the next change of watch, then you can raise the alarm. It’s probably nothing to wet yourself over–just a wolf or something. Now get back on watch.’

  The recruit saluted and turned to face away from the camp site.

  Macro pointed up the side of the hill. ‘That way, I think. Let’s go.’

  When they were out of earshot of the sentry Cato nudged him. ‘A wolf?’

  ‘Might be. I’ve heard them sound like that before.’

  They reached the foot of the slope and waded through a drift until they came to the treeline, where a dense forest stretched up the slope. Very little snow had penetrated the heavy lower branches and the air was thick with the scent of pine. The incline was steep and they had to scrabble up on hands and feet, weaving between the tree trunks, making little sound as their boots trod on generations of dead pine needles. Sheltered from the breeze and warmed by their exertions, they emerged panting and sweating from the far side of the trees. By the loom of the snow they could see that there was a low craggy outcrop above them, and then the crest of the hill. Cato glanced back and saw the camp site some distance below them, hardly recognisable as tents and wagons under a thick blanket of snow. The scream came again, much more distinct this time, and the two centurions looked at each other.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Sounds like some poor bastard’s being given a hard time of it.’ Macro took a deep breath and climbed towards t
he rocks. Cato followed, stepping into the deep footprints Macro had left in the snow. The rocks were loosely jumbled and there were sufficient handholds and ledges to make it easy going, and moments later Macro lent a hand to Cato and heaved him up on to a flat slab that overlooked the gorge the convoy had wound its way up that afternoon. Below them the road turned round the mass of the hill and rose up the other side.

  They both saw the fire at once, a small glittering yellow glow at the edge of the road no more than a hundred paces below them. Four horses were tethered nearby, and the shapes of three men sitting on a fallen tree trunk close to the fire. A fourth was leaning over the end of the tree trunk and an agonised wail carried up the slope. The man stepped back towards the fire and revealed a fifth man, stripped to his waist and bound to the tree trunk. By the wan glow of the fire Macro and Cato could see black marks across his chest. The source of the marks was quickly apparent when the man who had been standing over him moved to the fire and lowered the tip of his sword into the heart of the small blaze.

  Cato turned to his friend. ‘I’ve seen that man before. The one tied to the tree. He’s that merchant.’

  ‘Merchant?’

  ‘The one from Hispellum…What do you think’s going on? Who are those men?’

  ‘Not sure. Brigands, most likely. But I’m not going to sit here and let them carry on with that.’ Macro looked over the ground and thought for a moment. ‘It’d take too long to go back and rouse the others. By the time we got ’em back up here that poor bastard will be finished. Besides, with that bunch of marines on our hands there’d be no question of surprising them. They’d kill him, get on their horses and slip away long before we could get down the slope.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato nodded slowly. ‘So, what you’re saying is that it’s down to us.’

  ‘Got it in one, lad.’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

  They eased themselves down from the rock slab, and then followed the crags along until they came to a thick growth of trees that stretched down to the road, just as the prisoner cried out again.

  ‘Please! Please, no more!’ The wail carried clearly up the slope to the two centurions. ‘I swear I don’t know anything!…Please! No!’

  A tormented shriek cut through the night, and spurred Macro and Cato on. They moved into the shadows of the trees and half-scrambled, half-slid down beneath the snow-laden boughs of the trees. They kept the fire in sight, and it twinkled through tangled skeins of slender pine branches as they descended. At length Macro stopped and put out an arm to warn Cato that they were close enough. Through the trees, no more than fifty paces away, the four men and their prisoner were clearly visible in the flickering firelight.

  Macro drew his sword and took a step forward.

  ‘Wait!’ Cato hissed. ‘You’re not just going to charge in there.’

  ‘What else?’ Macro whispered. ‘The two of us are hardly going to surround them.’

  ‘No,’ Cato muttered. ‘We should have gone back for help.’

  ‘Too late for that now.’

  ‘All right then. We’ll go in. But let’s try and even the odds first. See there.’ Cato pointed out a shallow fold in the ground beside the road, and Macro realised that it was the snow-covered drainage ditch. It passed close by the fallen tree trunk, and the men sitting there had their backs to the road.

  Macro sheathed his sword and nodded. ‘Looks good enough for me.’

  They crept down through the trees and when they reached the open ground beside the road, both men crouched low and crunched softly across the snow until they reached the ditch, and then lowered themselves on to their stomachs. With Macro in the lead they cautiously crept forward, fighting back the urge to move more quickly when a fresh chorus of screams cut the air. They passed the edge of the trees, and drew level with the orange hue of the fire.

  ‘Keep down,’ Macro whispered over his shoulder. He eased his sword from its scabbard, took a deep breath, and slowly raised his head. Over the lip of the ditch he could see the silhouettes of the three men sitting on the tree trunk. They were silent, just watching the fourth man as he bent over the prisoner, who was invisible from the ditch. Macro mouthed a curse. The fourth man was facing them. He would see them the moment they rose up from the ditch.

  Macro lowered his head and watched in frustration, until he felt a gentle tug on his foot. Glancing back, he saw Cato open his hand questioningly. Macro shook his head, then eased himself down until he could whisper to Cato without any risk of being overheard.

  ‘We have to wait. Watch me. When I give the signal we get up, quiet as we can, and move on them. You strike when I strike. Not before.’

  ‘Right,’ Cato breathed.

  They lay in the snow, swords in hand, waiting for their chance. As the snow melted beneath him Cato felt it soaking into his tunic, and chilling the bare skin beneath. He started to shiver again, even though his heart was pounding with terror and excitement. Ahead of him, Macro was still as a rock; only his eyes followed the movement by the tree trunk. The torturer continued his grisly work, and they could catch everything he was saying to his victim.

  ‘Come on, man! You’ll tell us in the end. Make no mistake, though. You will die, but you can make it easier on yourself. Much easier.’

  ‘I swear I know nothing,’ the victim choked. ‘I don’t know what you’re looking for. I swear it!’

  There was a pause before the questioner spoke again, in a low voice that dripped with menace. ‘Time, I think, to fry your balls off. Let’s see if that loosens your bloody tongue.’

  He backed away, turned towards the fire and leaned forward to place his sword blade in among the coals. Macro tensed his muscles and waved a hand at Cato. Then both men rose into a low crouch, swords held ready, and stepped softly towards the tree trunk. The snow creaked under each footfall, and Cato placed each step as carefully and as slowly as he could, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the man in front of him. He was aware of the dark mass of Macro to his left, easing towards the man at the other end of the trunk. Then he caught a scent of woodsmoke, horse-flesh and the sharper tang of burned meat, and fought down the bile in his stomach.

  The torturer straightened up and raised his blade, glowing a dull red against the dark background of the hill. He turned round and froze as he caught sight of the two shapes beyond the tree trunk.

  ‘What the fu—’

  ‘Get ’em!’ Macro bellowed, and threw himself forward, kicking up snow as he thrust the point of the sword into the back of the man in front of him. Cato didn’t have time to brace himself and just stretched out an arm and launched an attack on his man as the latter began to turn round. Cato’s point went high, and straight into the man’s ear with a wet crunch. The head snapped to one side under the impact of the blow and he crumpled over. The man in the middle leaped up and back from the tree trunk. He had his sword out in an instant, raising the blade to counter any attack. The torturer stood by his side, eyes flickering left and right. He smiled.

  ‘There’s only two of them. We can take ’em.’

  Having cut down half the opposition, Macro and Cato paused on their side of the tree trunk. The surprise of the attack was gone. Now it was a straight paired duel. Without taking his gaze from the other men, Macro called out to Cato, ‘The one with the hot blade’s yours. I’ll take the other bastard.’

  Cato nodded and moved round the edge of the tree trunk, crouched low and ready to spring into an attack. He didn’t get the chance. With a roar, the man with the glowing sword charged at him. The tip of the sword slashed through the air in a bright sparkling arc and Cato just had time to thrust his blade up to parry the blow, and the glowing tip glanced off his handle and landed in the snow with a sputtering hiss. Cato recovered quickly and thrust at the man’s chest, but the torturer was too quick for him and recovered from his attack, lurching backwards so that Cato’s point met only thin air. The two men paused to size each other up, and Cato was dimly aware of Macro slash
ing away at the other man, but dare not shift his gaze from his immediate foe.

  The torturer waved his free hand at Cato. ‘Come on, boy, if you think you’re good enough.’

  Cato sneered. He wasn’t going to fall for the bait that easily. ‘Fuck you.’

  The man laughed, then his face froze into an intense and deadly concentration. He quickly stepped forward and feinted. Cato knew he was being tested and flinched slightly, but kept his blade still. The man grunted, and then launched a real attack; a whirling series of slashes and cuts, forcing Cato backwards, towards the tree trunk as he desperately countered each blow with a sharp ring as the blades connected, sending jarring waves of pain down his arm. Then he felt the bark against the back of his thigh and knew there was no further retreat. The attacker came on with renewed frenzy. Then, with a guttural shout of rage and triumph, the man smashed Cato’s sword down on to to the top of the tree trunk and made to cut his blade up and sideways into Cato’s face. But it had lodged in the wood and his arm shuddered as the blade refused to budge. He frowned. Without thinking, Cato lashed out with his left fist and caught the man on the bridge of his nose, crunching bone and dazing him. Cato felt his blade trapped beneath that of his foe, and released his grip before slamming his right fist into the man’s face, following that with a flurry of blows that sent the man reeling back, step by step until he collapsed into the snow.

  Only then did he glance up and see how his friend was doing. But Macro needed no help. His man was already down, and the centurion was standing over him, one foot braced on his enemy’s chest as he wrenched the blade out from between the man’s ribs.

  Macro glanced round. ‘You all right, lad?’

  ‘Not a scratch.’ Cato turned round and went to retrieve his blade. A hand shot out and grabbed his ankle and he sprawled on the ground. He turned on his side at once and lashed out with his foot. The man he had stabbed in the ear snarled at him through clenched teeth, even as he glared at Cato with a strange unfocused expression. But his grip was as firm as a vice and his fingers locked painfully around the flesh of Cato’s ankle. Cato kicked out with his free boot, bringing the iron studs down on the man’s knuckles. Still he held on, blood streaming from the gouged flesh. Beyond him Cato could see that the torturer had scrambled back on to his feet. He looked at Cato, then Macro, and turned and ran towards the horses.