The Eagle's Prey Page 13

  ‘How was it on the island, Macro?’ asked Felix. ‘How long did you hold them for?’

  Macro thought about it, trying to recall the detail. ‘An hour or so.’ ‘You fought them off for an hour?’ Felix’s jaw dropped in amazement.

  ‘The whole bloody army?’

  ‘Not the whole army you twat!’ Macro jabbed a finger towards the ford. ‘They could only take us on a few at a time. And then only after they cleared away the little surprises we’d prepared for them. I doubt we were in contact for a fraction of that time. And that was more than enough.’

  Maximius was watching him closely. ‘Why did you give way?’

  ‘Once they’d opened a gap in the barricade what else could we do? And I’ll tell you something else,’ Macro waved a length of sausage at him to emphasise the point. ‘Those bastards are starting to pick up a few tricks from us now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Tullius.

  ‘They only went and formed a testudo when they came in for the second attack!’

  ‘A testudo?’ Tullius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true! Ask any of my men. That’s why we had to fall back. We had no way of stopping that. If we’d stayed they’d have cut us to pieces in short order.’

  ‘Same as the rest of us on the river bank,’ Maximius said thoughtfully.

  ‘We had to give ground or fall where we stood. Wouldn’t have taken ’em long to carve us up.’

  The other centurions glanced at each other warily, and ate their food in silence until Antonius looked up.

  ‘Oi! Slave!’

  ‘Yes, master?’

  ‘Any more sausage there?’

  ‘Yes, master. There’s one left.’ He looked to Maximius, waiting for instruction. ‘Master Maximius … sir?’

  ‘What?’ Maximius looked round irritably. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The sausage, sir.’ The slave nodded towards Centurion Antonius, who was holding out his mess tin.

  Maximius smiled and nodded his assent. ‘Let him have it. He’s a growing boy and needs his food.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Antonius beamed, eyes greedily fixed on the skillet the slave swung towards him. He thrust his mess tin forwards, caught the edge of the pan and the sausage jumped over the rim into the fire.

  ‘Fucking shit!’ Antonius glared at the sausage spitting in the heart of the fire and everyone else laughed.

  ‘Consider that a sacrifice!’ Maximius grinned. ‘An offering to … which god shall we honour?’

  ‘Fortuna,’ Macro said seriously. ‘We need all the luck we can get. Right now.’

  He nodded over Maximius’ shoulder and the centurions turned to look at a squad of soldiers marching down the sleeping lines of the men of the Third Cohort.

  ‘Provosts!’ Felix spat into the fire. ‘Trust them to go and ruin a decent breakfast.’

  They fell silent as the squad marched up, led by an optio from the legate’s personal bodyguard. They halted a short distance from the group sitting round the fire. The optio stepped forward.

  ‘Centurion Maximius, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re to come with us. The general wants to question you.’

  ‘I see.’ Maximius bowed his head for a moment, as if composing himself, then he nodded. ‘All right … All right, then. Let’s go.’

  He set his mess tin down and rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his soiled and bloodied tunic. He forced a smile on to his face. ‘I’ll see you lads a bit later. Tullius?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get the cohort up for me. Ready for duty. I’ll do an inspection as soon as I get back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The optio nodded towards the small collection of tents in the centre of the camp.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Maximius responded with a trace of irritation at the optio’s manner.

  The centurions silently watched as their cohort commander was marched away between the double file of provosts. Maximius stiffened his back and strode forward as if he was on the parade ground.

  ‘Poor bastard,’ Cato said softly enough that only Macro heard him.

  ‘This is the end of the road for him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro muttered. ‘If there’s any justice.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The optio and the provosts returned with Maximius just over an hour later. Tullius had carried out his orders and the legionaries were formed up ready for inspection. In the short time that they had been allowed, the men had struggled to make the best of their appearance. As Tullius caught sight of their commander approaching he bellowed out the order to call them to attention and the men stamped their feet together and stiffened their backs, staring fixedly ahead. The centurions stood to the front of their men, and to each side of them stood their optio and standard-bearer. As Maximius and his escort approached, Cato could see that he looked strained and shaken by his questioning. He acknowledged Tullius’ formal greeting with a nod and then, without even looking at the men, he quietly ordered Tullius to dismiss them.

  ‘Cohort! Fall out!’

  The men turned and filed back towards their sleeping lines and Cato noted their discontented expressions and the faint grumblings of resentment at being roused and rushed into preparing for an inspection. That was the army way, he knew. Moments of frenzied activity, often for no better reason than to keep the men on their toes, ready to respond to any demand on the instant. But right now they were still tired and hungry, and their resentment was understandable. Even so …

  Cato raised his vine cane towards a pair of soldiers whose complaints had reached his ears. ‘Quiet there!’

  The men, tough-looking veterans, fell silent, but briefly eyed their centurion with contempt before turning away. For a moment Cato was filled with cold, bitter rage and was tempted to call them back and punish them for their impudence. Legionaries must always respect the rank, if not the man, and no infraction could be overlooked. But by then the two men had merged with the rest of the century walking away from him and it was too late for Cato to act. He slapped his cane hard into the palm of his left hand, wincing at the pain of this self-inflicted punishment for his hopeless indecision. Macro would have had them by the balls in an instant.

  Cato turned and saw that the other centurions were making their way towards Maximius, while behind him the provost escort stood and waited. Cato strolled over to join them, the self-contempt of a moment earlier turning to anxious curiosity. The centurions gathered in a rough semicircle about their cohort commander. Maximius was still wearing only his tunic and clearly felt uncomfortable about addressing his fully dressed and armed officers.

  ‘The legate has taken my deposition. Now he wants to speak to the rest of you individually. The optio here will call for us in order of seniority. None of you is to discuss the evidence you give with anyone. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the centurions replied quietly. Tullius raised his hand.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about the men, sir?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Will any of them be required today?’

  ‘No. Stand them down. Pass the word that it’s going to be a make-and-mend day.’

  Tullius nodded unhappily. Make and mend was a rarely granted privilege when the legionaries were permitted time to maintain their equipment, or fashion some trinket, or simply rest and talk or gamble. Much as the men delighted in make and mend, the centurions resented it, grumbling that it softened them and too much of it made the men slack. It did, of course, win a small measure of popularity and good will for the officer who gave the order.

  ‘Make and mend,’ Tullius nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I tell them now?’

  ‘No, you’re to go with the optio. I’ll tell them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tullius switched his gaze to the impassive faces of the provosts. Maximius noted his concerned expression and spoke quietly to his officers.

  ‘It’s all right. I did
as I said I would earlier. None of you has anything to worry about. Just tell the truth.’

  ‘Centurion Tullius?’ the optio called out, extending his arm towards the provosts. ‘If you please, sir?’

  Tullius swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Tullius fumbled with his helmet ties as he strode towards the escort. Then, flanked on either side, he was marched off, crested helmet tucked under his arm. When the escort was out of earshot Centurion Antonius stepped close to his cohort commander.

  ‘What happened, sir?’

  Maximius stared at him, his blank expression giving nothing away. ‘What happened to me is … nothing to do with you. Understand?’

  Antonius looked down. ‘Sorry, sir. I just … it’s just that I’m worried. Never experienced anything like this before.’

  Maximius’ lips relaxed into a slight smile. ‘Me neither. Just answer the questions the legate asks you as straight as you can, and remember you’re a centurion of the finest bloody legion in the empire. The only things in life that should worry a centurion are barbarians, plagues, wine droughts and insanely jealous women with access to cutlery. Questions —’ he shook his head – ‘questions will never hurt you.’

  Antonius smiled. So did the others, even Cato, who as a child had lived in the imperial palace long enough to know that the wrong answer to a question could kill a man just as surely as the strongest barbarian warrior.

  All morning and into the afternoon, the centurions waited by the smouldering remains of the fire the slave had built to cook their food. When he returned from his interrogation Macro had taken the whetstone out of his leather haversack and busied himself in sharpening the edges of his short sword. He spoke to no one, not even Cato, and refused to meet the eyes of the other centurions as he concentrated on rasping the stone along the bright shining length of his blade.

  While Antonius was being questioned Tullius and Felix played at dice, and the luck seemed to be going Felix’s way to an extent that outraged the laws of probability. The fact that he owned the dice began to feed the suspicion growing in the mind of the normally trustful Tullius. Cato watched them with amusement for a while. He never bet on games of chance, and thought it weak-minded of men who did. When he had lived in Rome, the tiny sums of money he had bet as a boy had always been on the races in the Circus Maximus, and then only after exhaustive study of form.

  A little apart from the others, Maximius sat with his back to his men and his officers, staring down towards the ford and the field of corpses beyond. Cato felt sorry for him, in spite of the harsh way the cohort commander had treated him in the short time they had served together. A ruined soldier, especially one as respected as a senior centurion, was indeed a pitiful sight, and if the inquiry did ruin Maximius he would be too old to achieve anything else in his life. In a few years he would take the meagre pension of a legionary and eke out his days in some veterans’ colony, drinking and reminiscing. A centurion’s retirement, by contrast, offered a chance for further service and advancement as a magistrate. At the moment Maximius had little prospect of such a future.

  He shifted his gaze from the cohort commander, and looked down towards the inviting water of the river. Antonius was still being questioned, and once he was done it would be Felix’s turn.. So there was time for Cato to have a swim. He stripped down to his tunic and turned to Macro.

  ‘Going for a swim. You coming?’

  Macro paused in his work and looked up with an amused expression. ‘You, swim?’

  ‘Well, I’m getting better at it.’

  ‘Better at it? As opposed to not totally useless at it?’

  Cato frowned. ‘Are you coming, or not?’

  Macro carefully sheathed his sword. ‘I think I’d better come. Make sure you don’t get out of your depth.’

  ‘Ha — fucking – ha.’

  As they set off towards the camp entrance nearest the river, Maximius called after them, ‘Make sure you’re not too long.’

  Cato nodded and as he turned back Macro glanced at him and raised his eyebrows with a weary expression. ‘I sometimes wish we were back with those native lads in Calleva. That was nice simple soldiering with no bloody superiors looking over your shoulder the whole time.’

  ‘I seem to remember you saying you couldn’t wait to get back to serving with the legion?’

  ‘That was before this cock-up. Trust our bloody luck to get saddled with Maximius. I wouldn’t put him in charge of a soup kitchen.’

  ‘He seems competent enough to me. Harsh, too harsh sometimes. But he seems to know what he’s doing.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Macro shook his head. ‘Couple of months in the job and you still can’t tell what’s right from what’s shite. And look at the others. Tullius is getting on. Don’t know how he managed to keep up with you yesterday – guess he must be tougher than he looks,’ Macro conceded. ‘But Felix and Antonius are too young, too inexperienced for the job.’

  ‘Five and ten years older than me,’ Cato pointed out.

  ‘True. And it shows sometimes. But at least you’ve got brains and a good eye for the ground. If we hadn’t had so many casualties in the last year there’d be better men available for promotion than those two jokers.’

  Macro stopped talking as they passed by the gate guards, standing to attention in the hot sunshine. The two centurions were passed through on their own authority and then they began strolling down the slight slope towards the river. The summer grass was long and dry, and rustled against their legs as they headed to a spot a few hundred paces upriver of the ford and away from the bodies that still choked the river. Unfortunately the fluky breeze was billowing from the other direction and, every so often, as the nearby willows tossed their long locks of leaves, the sickening stench of dead men wafted over them.

  The two centurions found a place where the bank sloped gently into the water and stripped off their tunics and untied their boots. Macro charged into the water and threw himself forward in a dive, sending a sheet of spray into the air. He surfaced almost at once, shaking the drops from his dark cropped hair.

  ‘Shit, that’s cold!’ He turned and swam a few powerful strokes into the river. Cato waited for him to get clear of the bank and then waded a few paces out. In contrast to the exhausting heat of the summer’s day the water felt icy and he tentatively tiptoed out towards Macro, arms raised and wincing as the current lapped across his stomach. Further out Macro turned round, treading water, and laughed.

  ‘You bloody old woman! Come on in!’

  Cato gritted his teeth and relaxed his knees, dropping to the surface.

  There was a moment of shock, a gasp at the cold water that clenched his chest, then he struck out towards his friend. The strokes were clumsy and he struggled to keep his face out of the water as he floundered towards Macro.

  ‘Just as well I decided to come!’ Macro smiled as Cato stopped and trod water close by. ‘You need more than a bit of practice.’

  ‘And when do I ever get the chance?’

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Macro tried his best to teach his friend the rudiments of a good style, and Cato tried to make the most of it, handicapped by the fear of having the water close over his head for even an instant. At length Macro gave up and they sat in the shallows, the river flowing around their midriffs as the sun warmed their backs.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ Cato murmured.

  ‘I wouldn’t …’

  Cato turned towards his friend. ‘Why? Did someone say anything I should know about?’

  ‘No. It’s just that the legate seemed to be in a hurry. I think he’s keen to get this inquiry sorted out as soon as possible and get after Caratacus. He’s got a reputation to save.’

  ‘Surely not? It wasn’t his fault that the cohort wasn’t in position in time to stop Caratacus crossing.’

  ‘True, but the cohort is from his legion. Some of the mud’s going to stick to the legate. You can be sure of that. It’s too g
ood an opportunity for his rivals to waste.’

  ‘Rivals?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Cato! Don’t be so bloody thick. Vespasian’s made praetor, and it hasn’t been an easy route to reach that rank. Someone told me he got passed over the first time he went up for one of the aedile posts. Every step of the way there are more senators chasing fewer posts. That lot would stab their children in the eyes if it would help their chances of climbing the next rung. If someone on the general’s staff doesn’t try and pin this mess on the legate it’ll be a miracle. Which means —’ Macro looked sadly at Cato – ‘which means that Vespasian will look for any way he can find to fix the blame on someone else.’

  ‘Our cohort?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Poor old Maximius.’

  ‘Maximius?’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘What makes you think he’ll get the blame?’

  Cato was surprised. ‘He said he would. He said it was his responsibility.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato said seriously. ‘If he hadn’t gone after those raiders, he—’

  ‘No, you idiot. Do you believe that he would take the responsibility for it?’

  Cato considered the situation for a moment. ‘He said he would. He seemed to be straight enough about that.’

  ‘And what makes you think that he won’t operate on the same basis as the legate? There’s a lot at stake for Maximius too, even though he’s not running for high office. He’s a senior centurion, right?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘Same thing applies to him as Vespasian. The next grade up for Maximius is an appointment to the First Cohort of the legion. Five jobs and nine applicants. Doesn’t take a genius to work out that there’s going to be a spot of competition from the other cohort commanders. If Maximius falls by the wayside, they’ll not shed too many tears. So, Maximius will be doing his level best to pass the blame on to someone else. And who do you think that’ll be?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Spot on,’ Macro said gloomily. ‘The problem is, that’s where the chain of command ends. I don’t get the chance to pass the blame on. Unless, of course, I try and pin it on Caratacus, who shouldn’t have bloody well been there in the first place.’