The Eagle's Prey Read online

  The horseman turned his beast around and trotted casually away from the fort, not once looking back over his shoulder. On the gatehouse tower of the fort the officers of the Third Cohort watched him until he disappeared into a copse of trees that grew close to the edge of the marsh.

  Macro, with a wry smile, admired the man’s composure. ‘Now that one had style.’

  Centurion Felix snorted. ‘Style? Let me down there and I’ll teach that bastard about style.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Tullius. ‘You’d just charge in there and teach the natives a lesson, would you?’

  ‘Too bloody right I would!’ Felix turned to the cohort commander. ‘Sir? Let me take my century in there. Find that bastard and take the skin off him, nice and slow.’ He thrust his finger towards the six bodies outside the fort. ‘Just like they did to those men.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool, boy.’ Centurion Maximius sneered at him. ‘You’d really fall for such obvious bait? How the fuck did you ever make it to centurion?’

  Felix coloured, then opened his mouth to protest, but no words emerged. He glanced away from his superior and stared again at the bodies in mute protest.

  Maximius laughed. ‘Who do you suppose those men are? All our patrols are in and none of our men has gone missing.’

  Felix took a moment to work it out. ‘Cato’s lot?’

  Maximius patted him on the shoulder. ‘See? The boy can learn! That’s right. Cato’s men.’

  ‘Oh …’ Felix looked again at the bodies, with a less fraught expression.

  ‘And how much do you suppose I care what Caratacus has done to them? In fact, he’s saving me the job.’ Maximius shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s rather funny when you think about it. He seriously thinks that we might be provoked into action by his little display. Or that we might go easy on the locals.’

  Macro watched him silently, noting the sudden gleam that sparked in Maximius’ eyes. The cohort commander turned to his officers with a smile.

  ‘We can turn this one round rather neatly. We’re not going to go after them and rush into a trap. Even Caratacus must know we’re not that foolish. And we’re not going to go easy on the locals either. Why should we? The more of Cato’s men he kills to make his point the better, as far as we’re concerned. So let’s make an example of that village. Let’s kill ten of them for every one of Cato’s men.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Caratacus and his men will be forced to react. If we’re lucky, we might even draw them out of the marsh and get them to have a go at the fort. We’ll just let them come on, and then slaughter them like dogs, right in front of our ramparts. Let ’em fill up the ditch with their dead. If any of them are stupid enough to surrender, then they’ll be screaming for mercy before I let the bastards die. They’ll never make a fool of Gaius Maximius again. Never!’

  Macro was filled with astonishment at the relish with which his commander spoke the last words. Maximius was suddenly self-conscious, and glanced round at his officers with a quick smile, flashing his stained teeth at them. ‘Come, lads, we’ve got work to do.’ He glanced over his centurions, then his gaze settled on Macro. ‘You’ve got the best job of all, Macro.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get your men formed up. I want you to take them into the village. Round the locals up and select sixty of them – men, women and children. Then take ’em over to that lot,’ he nodded towards the Roman dead. ‘Then kill them. Make it last. I want to hear them scream. Better still, I want Caratacus to hear them scream. When you’re done make sure all the heads are put on poles. Understand?’

  Macro gave a sharp shake of his head.

  ‘What’s so difficult to grasp? You’re not Centurion Felix here …’

  ‘No, sir.’ Macro shook his head again. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘Can’t do it?’ Maximius looked astonished. ‘Bloody hell, man! It’s the easiest thing in the world. What do you think all the bloody training has been about for the last fifteen years of your life? Kill them.’

  ‘No … sir.’

  ‘Kill them. That’s an order.’

  ‘No. I won’t. Like the man said, real soldiers fight men. They don’t massacre women and children.’

  Maximius glared at him, mouth tightly shut and nostrils flared. The other officers and the nearest legionaries stirred uneasily. Macro drew himself up to his full height and stared calmly back. He had said his piece, and braced himself for the counterblast. He was surprised at the calmness that suffused his body. He had felt this way a few times before, when death in battle seemed inevitable. Calmness. Or was it merely resignation? Macro didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. It was simply a moment of curiosity about himself and his motives. Cato would have known the answer, he thought, and could not help smiling at the introspection he normally did not tolerate in his young friend. It was almost as if he had to fill in for the lad when Cato was not there, so used to his company had Macro become.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Maximius asked softly.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Really.’

  ‘I see …’ The cohort commander narrowed his eyes. ‘I had hoped that you, of all my officers, would be loyal to me. I can see now that my trust in you was misplaced. I wonder how deep your treachery runs.’

  ‘Sir, I am no traitor. I’m loyal to the oath I’ve sworn every year since I joined the Eagles.’

  Maximius leaned closer. ‘Is it not part of your oath to obey the orders of a superior officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied evenly. ‘But I question your fitness to command this cohort.’

  Maximius took a sharp breath, then spat out his reply. ‘You dare to question my fitness?’

  ‘I do. If the other centurions have any sense, and the guts to own up to their feelings, they’d say the same.’

  ‘Silence!’ Maximius roared and struck Macro across the face with the back of his fist. The blow was sharp and hard, and Macro saw an explosion of white as he staggered back under the impact. As his vision cleared he tasted blood in his mouth and, raising a hand to his lip he discovered it was split. Blood dripped steadily from his chin as he steadied himself and faced the cohort commander again.

  ‘Centurion Macro is confined to his tent.’ Maximius looked round and sought out a face in the press of men who had drifted closer to witness the extraordinary confrontation. ‘Optio Cordus! Step forward! I’m making you acting centurion in command of Macro’s century.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Cordus smiled.

  ‘You will carry out my orders concerning the villagers. To the letter, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will show no mercy, and none of your predecessor’s lack of backbone.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Cordus flashed a smug sidelong glance at Macro.

  ‘Now escort Macro to his tent, and post a guard outside. He is to speak to no one. Get on with it.’

  Cordus turned to Macro, and the latter, with lips curled in contempt, gave a shrug and turned away from the cohort commander, striding towards the ramp that led down into the fort.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘He’s killed the men who were taken out of here earlier,’ said Cato, once the warriors had chained him back into position and left the pen.

  Figulus nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. Where did they take you, sir?’

  ‘To that farm. The one our friend Metellus visited. Caratacus wanted me to see the bodies.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘He thinks the Third Cohort is responsible for the massacre. I daren’t tell him the truth.’

  ‘I should fucking hope not.’

  Cato smiled briefly. ‘Anyway. I had hoped that I might still talk him round. But I don’t think there’s any real chance of peace any more. He’ll fight us to the end now – however many of his own people and ours have to die in the process.’

  ‘Did you really think he’d ever give in?’ Figulus asked.

  ‘I hoped he would.’

  Figulus shook his head sadly. ‘You don’t kn
ow the Celts very well, sir. Do you? Fighting is in their blood.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe in my blood too. My grandfather was a warrior of the Aedui tribe. The last time they rose in revolt against Rome was shortly before I was born. Even though the tribe had been beaten, he never gave in. Him and the other warriors who survived the last battle. They hid in the forests and continued the fight until they were too old to wield a sword. Then they just starved to death. I can remember finding their bodies, once in a while, when I was a kid and we went hunting in the woods. My grandfather crawled into our village one day, starving and sick. My mother barely recognised him. It’s the first time I ever met him. Anyway, he died. But the last words on his lips – the last thing he ever said – was to utter a curse on Rome and her legions. Caratacus is cut from the same cloth. He’d never have surrendered, sir.’

  ‘Seemed close enough to it the other night.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, sir. It was just a lapse, the faintest shadow of a doubt and nothing more. And now he’ll fight on until he dies.’

  Cato stared at his optio for a moment, before shrugging and looking away. ‘Maybe. But you joined the Eagles. Perhaps he could be persuaded to as well.’

  Figulus laughed softly. ‘My father had seen enough of Rome to know that she would never be beaten. So he served in the auxiliaries and raised me to be as Roman as possible. Perhaps more Roman than most Romans. I doubt my mother’s family would even recognise me any more, let alone consider me one of their own. I joined the Eagles, and I fight for Rome, but I still understand the Celtic mind, and I know Caratacus will never give in to Rome. Never. Mark my words.’

  ‘Then that’s a shame. A man should know when he’s beaten. He should face the facts.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Figulus turned to look at his centurion. ‘Then how about you, sir? Doesn’t look like we’ve any hope of getting out of this place. Are you ready to give in and die?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Cato nodded. ‘He’s got responsibilities. Caratacus holds the fate of many in his hands. I’m just fighting for me. For my survival. I’ll do anything I can to survive.’

  Figulus looked at him a moment, then said, ‘You’re not so different as you’d like to think, sir. He has his people to care about, and you have yours.’ Figulus nodded at the other men in the pen.

  Cato look round at the remaining men squatting against the wicker walls. Most were just staring blankly at the ground between their feet. None of them was talking, and Cato realised they had resigned themselves to death. And there was nothing be could do about it.

  It was different for Caratacus. He could make a difference. That was why he owed it to his people to make peace, while they still respected his will. While they were still prepared to follow him. Unlike these poor men, Cato reflected. They were beyond the boundaries of the normal discipline that bound them to his will. Only Metellus seemed to have any sense of purpose left, however futile the situation seemed. He sat hunched over the chain where it joined his ankle collar, worrying away at it with the edge of a small stone. Cato wondered what the legionary thought he would do if he managed to break the chain. There were still three guards outside the pen, and the pen itself was in the middle of an enemy camp packed with thousands of Celt warriors. Cato shook his head, turned his gaze towards Figulus and spoke very quietly.

  ‘We’ll be joining the others in the near future. Once Caratacus has finished off the Third Cohort.’

  ‘They’re nearby?’

  ‘Yes. I saw Macro and a patrol earlier. Caratacus says they’re camped just outside the marsh. Seems that Maximius is laying into the local villagers with more than usual relish. Caratacus won’t stand by and let it happen. Besides, I get the feeling that his warriors need a victory badly.’

  Figulus was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘From what I saw on our way in here, our lads are going to be outnumbered five or six to one, sir.’

  ‘About that,’ Cato agreed. ‘If they’re caught by surprise it’ll be over very quickly.’

  ‘Yes … there’s not much we can do about it, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Cato was tired, and the powerlessness of their situation bore down on him like a great weight. Even conversation was too much effort. Looking round he sensed the same despondency and despair in the rest of his men. They too knew the end was coming and were contemplating their deaths with the same quiet desperation as their centurion.

  As the night fell over the enemy camp, fires flared up in the open spaces between huts. Soon the smell of roasting pork wafted through the palisade to add to the torment of those chained inside.

  ‘I could murder a pig,’ Metellus grumbled, and a few of the men raised an ironic laugh.

  Cato frowned and snapped back at the legionary, ‘That’s the reason why we’re here in the first place. You and your bloody stomach …’

  As the evening wore on the enemy camp took on the spirit of celebration. The warriors feasted, and from the sounds of their revelry it soon became evident that they were drinking themselves into a raging frenzy. The air was thick with slurred singing, punctuated by roars of laughter. The prisoners in the pen listened sullenly to the drunken din, and Cato wondered if they were being saved to provide some bloody entertainment later on. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled with icy terror at the recollection of the men he had once seen thrown alive to hunting dogs at the court of King Verica of the Atrebatan tribe. Was that preferable to being imprisoned in a wicker cage and roasted over a fire? That had been the fate, so Cato had heard, of some other prisoners who had fallen into enemy hands. There would be little mercy for Romans amongst the tribesmen who had suffered such grievous losses against the legions in battle.

  ‘Bastard Romans …’ A voice muttered in Celtic just the other side of the wicker wall. ‘Why have we got to guard them all night?’

  ‘Yes,’ someone else chimed in. ‘Why us?’

  ‘Why us?’ a voice mimicked him. An older man from the sound of it, Cato decided. ‘Because you’re little boys, and I’m stuck here to make sure that you don’t create any mischief, when I should be over there with the rest of the lads getting a skinful.’

  There was clear resentment in the man’s tone. Cato felt a racing light-headedness as his mind grasped at a plan that formed even as the older guard finished his grumbling and fell silent.

  He drew a breath and called out in Celtic, ‘Hey, guard! Guard!’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Roman!’ the older man snapped back.

  ‘What’s the party for?’

  There was a low chuckle. ‘The party? Why, that’s being held in honour of all the Roman heads our warriors are going to take tomorrow!’

  ‘Oh, right … So only your warriors are feasting then. Not your women, or your children … not you.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Roman!’ the older guard shouted. ‘Before I come in there and shut it for you. For ever!’

  There was a pause before one of the youths continued, ‘Why can’t we have a drink?’

  ‘You want a drink, eh?’ the older warrior replied. ‘You really want a drink?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ the youth shot back indignantly.

  ‘Me too,’ his friend added.

  ‘Well then,’ the warrior lowered his voice into a conspiratorial tone. ‘You two stay here, and I’ll go over and see what I can find for us.’

  ‘What about the prisoners?’

  ‘Them? They’re quiet enough. Just keep a close eye on them until I get back.’

  ‘How long’ll you be?’

  ‘Long as it takes,’ the warrior chuckled, as he turned and strode away towards the raucous festivities.

  Inside the pen Cato felt his pulse quicken, and twisted round, groping with his tied hands for a small gap in the wicker weave behind his head. He thrust his fingers in and gently prised two thick lengths apart, just wide enough for him to see outside. A short distance away the
warrior was just disappearing behind a hut. Beyond him the gently sloping thatched roofs of the surrounding huts were rimmed with a bright glow from the fires, and here and there sparks swirled up into the night. Cato strained his neck and pressed his face closer to the gap. To one side he could just see the two boys who had been left on guard. They were armed with war spears and stood close to the pen, their features sketched in by soft strokes of light from the loom of the fires. Boys they may be, but they looked quite capable of killing a man if they needed to. Cato turned back and grasped his optio’s arm.

  Figulus had not been asleep, but lost in thought and he stirred anxiously. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Shhh!’ Cato tightened his grip. ‘Be quiet. One of the guards has gone.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Now’s our chance. Now, or never.’

  ‘What you going to do about these?’ Figulus raised his hands and nodded at the leather thongs binding his wrists.

  Cato ignored him and, reaching down, he pulled up the hem of his tunic and started groping around inside his soiled loincloth. Figulus looked at him and shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose there’s always time for one last—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Cato struggled for a moment and then withdrew his hands, and opened one palm to reveal a small flint with a sharp edge chipped on to one side. ‘Give me your hands.’

  Figulus reached over and Cato at once started to saw on the tough leather thongs.

  ‘Where did you get that, sir?’

  ‘The farm. Thought it might come in useful. Now, keep still.’