The Eagles Prey c-5 Page 6

  'Yes I do. That's precisely why boys should not be placed in command of men. They lack the necessary temperament, wouldn't you agree?'

  'In most cases, yes, sir.'

  'In your case?'

  Macro thought about this a moment and then nodded. 'I suppose so. I could never have been a centurion at Cato's age.'

  'Me neither,' Maximius chuckled. 'That's why I'm not convinced by our young centurion.'

  'But Cato's different.'

  Maximius shrugged and turned his gaze along the track ahead of them. 'We'll see soon enough.'

  The dust at the end of the column hung in the air and made the men's mouths feel dry and gritty. That was why Cato's men had slowly dropped back from the rear of the Fifth Century. He immediately ordered them forward and then kept them in the correct formation with the rest of the cohort, despite the undercurrent of muttered protest that greeted his command.

  'Silence!' Cato shouted. 'Silence in the ranks there! Optio, take the name of the next man who opens his mouth out of turn.'

  'Yes, sir!' Figulus saluted.

  Cato stepped away from the track and stood and watched the men closely as his century marched past. His eye was practised enough to distinguish between the good and the bad legionaries, between the veterans and the recruits, between those in good physical condition and those who were in poor health. There was no question that they were all fit; the merciless regime of perpetual training and route marches saw to that. Cato's eyes glanced over the men's kit, mentally noting those who had taken every effort to maintain their armour and weapons to the highest standards. He noted the faces of those men whose armour was heavily tarnished; he would have Figulus see to them later. A few days of fatigues might sort them out. If that didn't work he'd slap some fines on them.

  As the tail of the century tramped by, Cato waited a moment longer, making sure that the lines of his men were even, then he fell in on the track and double-paced to catch up. He was pleased enough with what he had seen so far. There was a handful of obvious bad characters, but the majority looked like good men, conscientious and hardy enough. The only thing that bothered Cato was that he still lacked a firm understanding of their collective spirit. The faces he had scrutinised from the side of the track were largely expressionless, and since he had ordered them to be silent there was little tangible sense of their feelings, only, perhaps, a sullen resentment over the order. Cato thought about changing his mind and letting them talk, which would allow him to gauge their mood a little more readily. But to countermand an order so recently given would only make him look indecisive and irresolute. He'd have to let them resent him for the moment then. That might even help foster his preferred image as a stern disciplinarian who would not brook the slightest hint of insubordination from the men under his command. He'd show that bastard Maximius…

  Which was why he was being so harsh on the men, Cato realised. He was taking out his anger on them, and with that thought he was awash with guilt and self-contempt. There was really no difference between Maximius' bullying of Cato and Cato's taking it out on the men of his century. Maximius – it pained him to admit it – was right. He was sulking, and now eighty good men were suffering the consequences. Unless he grew out of his sensitivity he would be a perpetual burden to his men. Men who must trust him implicitly if they were to overcome the savage ferocity of Caratacus and his horde.

  Not long after noon the track curved towards a small hillock. On its crest stood the raw dark earth of a recently erected rampart. A wooden palisade ran along the top of the earthworks with solid timber towers constructed above the two gates and at each corner of the fort. The distant detail of the structure was lost in the shimmering heat, but beyond the hill there was the glint of the Tamesis, looking cool and inviting to the eyes of sweating legionaries. Cato felt that he had not seen a more serene and peaceful view for months, but sight of the river brought the prospect of the coming battle sharply to mind. Soon enough those quiet waters would be stained with men's blood and their corpses would lay strewn about under the harsh glare of the sun.

  As the cohort approached, there was no sign of movement behind the rampart, almost as if the sentries had decided to find some shelter from the sun to enjoy an afternoon nap. Above the fort Cato could see tiny black dots slowly swirling: carrion birds of some kind, he decided. Apart from a few solitary swifts darting high and low, they were the only birds in the clear sky. When the cohort was in long arrow range of the fort and there was still no sign of life, Centurion Maximius halted his men and bellowed out an order for the scouts to mount and move ahead to investigate. With a soft thrumming of hoofs the scouts trotted forwards and started up the gentle incline towards the gatehouse.

  'Officers to the front!'

  Cato ran forward, his harness jingling loudly as he passed by the silent ranks of each century. He joined the other officers breathing heavily and mopped the perspiration from his brow.

  'Something's wrong,' muttered Felix.

  Maximius slowly turned towards him. 'Really? Do you think so?'

  Felix looked surprised. 'Well, yes, sir. That or they have the worst sentries I've ever encountered. In which case someone's in for a roasting.'

  Maximius nodded. 'Well, thank you for your concise appraisal of the situation. Most instructive… you idiot! Of course something's wrong.'

  Felix began to stammer something, and then shut his mouth and gazed down at his boots as he scraped one foot across the loose soil. The other centurions turned their gaze on the fort and silently watched the scouts ride up towards the entrance. One of the gates began to swing open slowly.

  'Sir!'

  'I see it, Antonius.'

  A dark shape flitted out of the shadows under the gatehouse into the sunlight. A large dog, one of the hunting beasts the Batavians insisted on taking with them on campaign. It glanced quickly at the approaching horsemen and then turned and bolted down the slope in the opposite direction. For a moment the officers watched it run, sleek back bobbing up and down as it disappeared round the flank of the hill.

  'Sir, what's that?' asked Cato, and raised an arm to point at the gatehouse.

  The gate had continued to inch open and was now swinging out from the shadows. Something had been fixed to the inside of the gate.

  'Oh, shit,' Centurion Felix whispered.

  No one replied. They could see it clearly now and for a moment no one spoke. It was the body of a man, nailed to the timbers with a spike through both his palms. He was stripped and had been disembowelled, and his guts hung down over his legs, red and grey and glistening.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Centurion Maximius swung round. 'Cohort! Form up. Close order!'

  As the men shuffled together and raised their shields Maximius ordered his centurions to rejoin their units. Up by the fort the scouts had spread out across the track and the decurion took three of his men and slowly approached the gate. They paused by the corpse for a moment and had disappeared inside by the time Cato ran up to Figulus at the head of the Sixth Century.

  'What's happening, sir?'

  'You've got eyes, Optio,' Cato snapped back at him. 'See for yourself.'

  While Figulus shaded his brow with his hand and squinted towards the gateway, Cato became aware of several muted exchanges from the men behind him. He shot an angry look over his shoulder.

  'Shut your mouths!'

  Cato saw one man mutter something to his neighbour and turned round and strode over to him, pointing.

  'You! Yes, you! You're on a charge. What's your name?'

  'Titus Velius, sir!'

  'What the fuck are you doing, talking after I've told you to be silent?' Cato stopped in front of him and leaned forward, glaring into the legionary's face. Velius was a little shorter than Cato, several years older and much more heavily built. He stared over the shoulder of his centurion, expressionless.

  'Well?'

  'Just saying we're in trouble, sir.' He met Cato's eyes briefl
y. 'That's all.' Then his gaze reverted to a fixed forward stare.

  Cato's nostrils flared as he exhaled angrily. 'Optio!'

  'Sir?' Figulus trotted over towards him.

  'Put Velius on a charge. Ten days' latrines.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Cato stepped back and looked round at his men. 'Next loudmouth I catch speaking out of turn pulls twenty days in the shit!'

  He turned away and scanned the fort once again. The gate had fetched up against the wall of the gatehouse and the man hung motionless. There was no sign of any life beyond the gate and only the slowly wheeling crows broke the awful stillness that hung over the silent ramparts. Cato scanned the surrounding landscape, but not a soul moved in any direction. No enemies, no auxiliary troops and none of the local natives.

  At length the decurion of the scouts emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse and trotted his horse down towards Centurion Maximius, who had advanced a short distance in front of his cohort, impatient to discover what had happened to the garrison of the fort.

  'Well?'

  The decurion looked badly shaken. 'They're all dead, sir.'

  'All? The entire unit?'

  'I suppose so, sir. Didn't count 'em but there must be over a hundred bodies in there. Most don't look like they died quickly.'

  Maximius looked towards the fort for a moment before he gave his orders to the decurion. 'Take your men. Find the tracks of whoever did this. Find out where they went and report back to me at once.'

  The decurion saluted, wheeled his horse about and trotted back towards his men, ordering them to form up. Maximius marched steadily towards the gate and entered the fort.

  Once the scouts had galloped off to the north, on the trail of the enemy, the men of the cohort waited quietly in the baking sunshine, watching anxiously for the cohort commander to reappear. A long time passed, maybe a quarter of an hour, by Cato's estimate, and at length he slapped his thigh in frustration.

  'Think something's happened to him, sir?' Figulus asked quietly.

  'I hope not. But he'd better get out of there soon. We can't afford to be delayed. He's got his orders.'

  'Shouldn't someone go and check on him?'

  Cato looked along the column, picking out the other centurions. Macro was looking his way and raised his hands in a gesture of frustration.

  'You're right,' Cato replied. 'Someone has to find him. Stay here.'

  Cato trotted forward. Felix and Antonius eyed him with surprised expressions as he passed by. He stopped when he reached Macro.

  'Taking his bloody time!' Macro grumbled.

  'I know. We have to get moving.'

  'We need the trenching tools from the fort.'

  'Then we should be getting them and moving on to the ford. Someone has to go up there…'

  While Macro scratched his chin and considered the situation, they were joined by Centurion Tullius, an anxious expression on his weathered features.

  'What do you think we should do?'

  Macro looked at Tullius in surprise. As the senior officer present Tullius should be making decisions, not asking for advice, or worse still, opinions. The old centurion looked hopefully at the other two officers, waiting for them to say something.

  'Someone has to go up there,' Cato said, at length.

  'He told us to stay with our centuries.'

  'Look,' said Macro, 'we can't fuck about here all day. We've got to get to that ford. Someone has to fetch Maximius. Right now.'

  'Yes. But who?'

  'Who cares?' Macro replied. 'You go.'

  'Me?' Tullius looked frightened by the idea. He shook his head. 'No. I'd better stay with the cohort. If it's a trap I'll be needed here. You go, Cato. You'd better double up there right away.'

  Cato didn't wait to show an expression of distaste, but turned towards the fort and began to run up the slope. Almost at once a figure emerged from the gate and Maximius came striding down the track. He saw the gathering of centurions at once and started towards them angrily. The three centurions steeled themselves for his wrath.

  'What the hell is this? Who told you to leave your units?'

  'Sir,' Cato protested, 'we were concerned for your safety.'

  'And we're running behind schedule,' added Macro. 'We should be heading for the ford by now, sir.'

  Maximius instantly rounded on him and stabbed a finger at his chest. 'Don't you dare presume to tell me my duty, Centurion!'

  'Sir, I only meant to remind-'

  'Shut up!' Maximius screamed down into Macro's face. For a moment the two officers glared at each other, as the men surrounding them looked on in astonishment.

  Cato coughed. 'Sir?'

  'What?'

  'Were there any survivors?'

  'None.'

  'Any sign of Centurion Porcinus?'

  Maximius winced at the mention of his friend's name.'Oh, I found him all right. In fact I kept finding him.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Want me to draw you a fucking picture? If I ever catch the bastards who did this, I swear on my family name they'll spend all day dying.'

  The distant pounding of hoofs drew the men's attention to the slope below the fort; one of the scouts was galloping towards them. He reined in a short distance from the officers and his mount sprayed them with clods of earth. The scout dropped to the ground at once and breathlessly saluted Maximius.

  'Make your report!'

  'Sir, we've found them!' The scout jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, north towards the Tamesis. 'Infantry. Heading west along the river, two miles away.'

  'How many?' Cato asked.

  'Three, maybe four hundred, sir.'

  Maximius shot Cato a withering glance before he addressed the scout. 'You're reporting to me, boy.'

  'Yes, sir.' The scout was flustered. 'Of course. Sorry, sir.'

  The cohort commander nodded sternly. 'Right. Let's have them. Get back to your decurion. I want them followed. Any change of direction, he's to let me know at once. Understand?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then go.' Maximius waved him away and turned back to the other officers. As the scout threw himself back over the saddlecloth of his mount and spurred it away, Maximius briefly collected his thoughts. 'It's most likely to be a raiding party.'

  'Raiding party?' Cato wondered.

  'What else?'

  Cato was surprised. 'Well, it's obvious.'

  Macro winced at his friend's unusually blunt response.

  'Is it? Well, Centurion, do please share your tactical insight with us mere mortals.'

  'They must be scouting ahead of Caratacus' army. He's sent them to check the fords.'

  'Why attack the fort?'

  'Because they might have spotted the scouting force. Maybe Caratacus didn't want anyone left alive to make any report on his movements.'

  'Why kill them like they did? Why did they do that then?'

  'They're barbarians,' Cato shrugged. 'They can't help themselves.'

  'Bollocks! They're murderers… butchers! That's all. And now they'll pay for it.'

  'Sir,' Macro intervened, 'what about our orders?'

  Maximius ignored him and turned towards the column, filling his lungs. 'Cohort! Prepare to advance!'

  'If we leave the ford uncovered and Caratacus makes for it-'

  Maximius turned to him with a forced smile. 'Macro, there's time enough to deal with our friends and then secure the ford. Trust me.'

  'But the entrenching tools are in the fort, sir.'

  'We can return for those afterwards…'

  'If we have to come back for them-'

  'Damn you, Macro!' Maximius shouted, hands balling into fists. 'Take your century, then. Get the bloody tools and I'll see you at the ford.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Cohort!' Maximius raised his arm and then swept it forward. 'Advance!'

  'Third Century!' Macro shouted. 'Fall out of line!'

  Macro's men shuffled off the track and the rest of the cohort followed Centurion
Maximius as he quick marched across the slope towards the Tamesis. With a brief glance at the back of the cohort commander Macro grasped Cato by the arm.

  'Look here. Things are turning to shit. Maximius has lost it. If he tries anything that puts you and the rest of the lads in any danger…'

  Cato nodded slowly. 'I'll do what I have to, if it comes to that. See you at the ford.'

  'Right. Watch yourself, lad.'

  'I always do.' Cato made himself smile, then turned towards his men.

  Macro watched his friend drop into line alongside Figulus, then the Sixth Century tramped by and as the rear of the last rank moved off round the hill Macro ordered his men up the slope. Apart from the steady chink and jingle of the men's equipment the only sound was the raw grating cry of the crows fighting over the fresh corpses in the fort.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER NINE

  Nearly an hour later the cohort caught up with the Britons. A compact mass of infantry was marching quickly upriver, towards the ford that the cohort had been ordered to defend. From the outset it was clear that they would not reach the ford first, but their leader was a game individual who would at least give it a try and drove his men on as the Romans remorselessly closed in at a tangent. Then the Britons changed their minds and abruptly reversed their direction, heading away from the ford as they made a last desperate bid to escape their pursuers. Maximius gave orders to the decurion in charge of the scouts to skirmish ahead of the enemy column and slow it down.

  So the scouts started to dart in, throwing a few of their light javelins at the leading ranks of the Britons, and then galloping back to safety. When this minor distraction failed to have much effect on the enemy's pace the decurion drew up his men and feigned a few charges, forcing the Britons to halt momentarily to brace themselves for the impact. It did not take long for the enemy to see through the feint and they ignored the third charge, forcing the scouts to quickly break off and scurry away to safety. Even so, some time had been bought for Maximius and his men. A little more than an hour after the cohort had left the fort behind them the Britons turned to face their pursuers.