The Eagle's Prey Read online

  Macro had ordered half of his century to seed the ford with small sharpened stakes, and the men had hacked lengths of wood from the trees growing on the river banks and were busy driving them into the shingle, struggling against the pull of the current as they thrust the stakes in, angled towards the enemy shore. If the Britons were forced to use this ford the stakes would not stop them crossing, but might at least injure a few and slow down the rest.

  Macro’s next line of defence was the small island, on which twenty men toiled to construct a rough barricade at the water’s edge. A dense tangle of branches and gorse had been dragged across from the south bank and piled up across the track in a line that extended either side of the shallows. Stout timbers had been pounded into the earth to brace the tangle, and other branches had been trimmed and sharpened and thrust in amongst the gorse to deter any attackers. It wasn’t much to look at, Macro decided, but it was the best they could do with the time and materials available.

  He had not discovered many trenching tools back in the sacked auxiliary fort. The Britons had been almost as thorough in their destruction of material as they had been of the garrison. A smouldering pyre of shields, slings, javelins and other equipment had been discovered inside the headquarters courtyard. Some of the tools at the periphery of the fire were salvageable, and a quick search through the timber barrack blocks had revealed some more picks and shovels, but Macro had come away with barely enough to equip half his century, let alone the rest of the cohort. Macro hoped that the cohort commander’s thirst for revenge had been quickly satisfied. The Third Century would not be able to defend the crossing alone should the enemy appear in force.

  Besides, Macro thought angrily, Maximius had no bloody business chasing the small raiding party down in the first place. It was not in his orders. The protection of the ford should have been his priority. The cohort needed to be in position shortly after noon, yet three hours later still only Macro and his century were preparing to defend the crossing. The enemy might appear at any moment, and if they did then the crossing must fall into their hands.

  Macro glanced back over his shoulder, scanning the southern bank for any sign of Maximius and the rest of the cohort.

  ‘Come on … come on, you bastard.’ Macro slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  A faint shout from the northern bank drew his attention and Macro turned round. One of the men carrying a bundle of freshly cut stakes was waving to attract his attention.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There, sir. Up there!’ The man pointed behind him. On the far side of the river the track rose up from the edge of the ford and disappeared over the crest of a small hill. Standing on the crest was a small figure, waving his javelin to and fro – the signal that the enemy had been sighted.

  At once Macro brushed through the gap that had been left in the barricade and splashed down into the ford. He kept to the right, still unseeded with stakes to allow the defenders access to the crossing. The water closed around him, dragging at his legs as Macro thrust his way across to the far bank, throwing up sparkling cascades of spray as he emerged. A number of his men paused in their work, distracted by the alarm.

  ‘Get back to work!’ Macro shouted. ‘You keep at it until I tell you otherwise!’

  He didn’t pause but ran on, puffing up the slope to where his lookout was watching the landscape to the north. By the time that he had reached the man the centurion was exhausted and was fighting for breath as he followed the direction of the lookout’s javelin.

  ‘There, sir.’

  Macro squinted. Just over two miles away the track led into the dense greenery of a forest. Emerging from the trees was a screen of mounted scouts, and a few chariots. They were fanning out ahead of the line of march and galloping for the high ground to scan the way ahead. A moment later a dense column of infantry began to flow down the track out of the forest.

  ‘Is that Caratacus then, sir?’

  Macro glanced at the legionary, recalling that the young man was one of the raw recruits who had only just been posted to the legion. He looked tense and excited. Perhaps too excited, Macro thought.

  ‘Too early to say for certain, lad.’

  ‘Should we get back to the others, sir?’

  ‘It’s Lentulus, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary seemed surprised that his centurion knew his name and was mildly flattered to be individually addressed by someone as august as a centurion.

  ‘Keep a cool head, Lentulus. You’re supposed to observe and keep track of events, not worry yourself about them. A lookout has to be calm. That’s why I picked you for this duty.’ It was a bald lie. Macro could have chosen anyone for the job, but the recruit was green enough to take it at face value, seemed to take a firm grip on his nerves and drew himself up.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Just do your job, lad.’

  Lentulus nodded and then turned back to keep watch on the enemy. They stood in silence for a while and Macro raised a hand to shade his eyes. More and more men spilled out of the forest. At length he was satisfied that this had to be the main column of the enemy.

  ‘Looks like you’re right,’ Macro said quietly. ‘Looks like Caratacus is making a run for our crossing.’

  ‘Oh, shit …’

  ‘And we’re shortly going to be right up to our necks in it.’ Macro lowered his hand and punched the recruit on the shoulder. ‘Bet you didn’t think it would ever be as exciting as this!’

  ‘Well, no, sir.’

  ‘I want you to stay here for as long as it’s safe. I’m assuming the enemy will come straight down the track towards us. But if he doesn’t, if he turns off and heads away, I want to know at once. And keep an eye out for any sign of General Plautius following them up. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Then keep watching them. Stay low; there’s no point in attracting attention to yourself.’ Macro pointed a finger at him. ‘And no heroics. Give yourself plenty of time to get back to the century.’

  Lentulus nodded and squatted down, keeping his eyes on the approaching enemy. The centurion turned and walked a few paces back down towards the ford, and stopped to scan the south bank of the Tamesis. There was no sign of life close to the track on the far side and nothing to be seen as he scanned left along the bank. Then a far-off glint caught his eye and Macro stared hard in that direction. He made out a faint shimmering glitter against the green and brown landscape, and a slight haze hanging in the air about it. That had to be the Third Cohort, still a good three miles from the ford.

  Caratacus was going to reach the crossing first.

  Lentulus was still in earshot and Macro gritted his teeth to avoid any explosive outpouring of expletives as he silently invoked every curse in his repertoire and directed it at the distant – too distant – column of the cohort crawling across the hot shimmering landscape towards the ford. He took a last longing look, and then trotted back down the slope towards the Tamesis.

  As he approached the ford Macro slowed down to catch his breath. No sense in making the lads even more anxious, he decided. Best to try to keep a veneer of calmness and confidence.

  ‘That’s enough work!’ he called out to the men still embedding the stakes in the shingle. ‘Get back to the island and kit up! We’ve got company.’

  The legionaries abandoned the remaining stakes and let them flow downriver with the current as they splashed along the safe path towards the gap in the barricade.

  ‘Don’t run!’ Macro bellowed angrily. ‘If anyone gets caught on one of the stakes I’ll leave them there for the Britons.’

  With a great effort of will, bolstered by fear of their centurion’s wrath, the legionaries slowed down.

  Macro followed them at a more measured pace, keeping a wary eye out for the tips of the stakes they had planted. Glancing ahead he could see more of his men forming up behind the barricade, hurriedly strapping on helmets and hefting their shiel
ds and javelins from where they had been left beside the worn and rutted track that crossed over the back of the little island. As Macro emerged dripping from the river, he glanced round at his men and then fixed his gaze on a tall, wiry legionary.

  ‘Fabius!’

  ‘Sir!’ The man snapped to attention as Macro strode up to him.

  ‘Get your armour off. I need a runner.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius quickly undid the leather ties of his segmented armour as Macro explained.

  ‘Centurion Maximius is approaching along the south bank. He’s nearly three miles away. You run to him as fast as you can. You tell him that Caratacus is making for this ford. Tell him to send a rider to the legate at once to let him know what’s happening. No, wait …’ Macro could visualise how that part of the message would be received by the touchy cohort commander. ‘Tell him, I respectfully suggest that he sends a rider to the legate. Finally, tell him that Caratacus is closer to the ford than he is and that he must get the cohort here as quick as possible. Quicker!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius grinned as he struggled out of the armour and laid it down on the track.

  ‘Well, what’re you waiting for?’ Macro growled. ‘Move yourself!’

  Fabius turned and ran down to the river, plunging into the ford. Macro watched him for a moment before turning back to the rest of his men. Most had finished arming and stood ready for orders. He waited until the last man had tied his chinstraps; no easy feat under the impatient gaze of all his comrades and commanding officer. At last the legionary looked up with a guilty expression and pulled himself up into a stiff posture of readiness. Macro cleared his throat.

  ‘Stand to!’

  ‘The legionaries grounded their shields and spears and gathered in a compact line across the track and under the willows.

  ‘In less than an hour Caratacus and his army are going to come pouring down the track towards the ford. Right behind them should be General Plautius, with his sword right in their backside.’

  A few of the men chuckled at the crude image and Macro indulged it a moment before continuing.

  ‘The rest of the cohort is on the way. I saw it from the top of the hill there. I’ve sent Fabius to hurry them along and they should reach us before the enemy gives us much grief. Not that we’re going to need ’em, of course! The Third Century can hold its own with the best of them. It’s only a few days that we’ve served together, but I’ve lived with the Eagles long enough to know quality when I see it. You’ll do. It’s those poor bastards on the other side I feel sorry for! They can only attack us on a narrow front, and only then after they’ve impaled themselves on our stakes and the barricade. If they’re really lucky, and I’m feeling generous, I might just spare them a little more bloodshed and accept Caratacus’ surrender.’

  Macro smiled, and to his relief his men smiled back.

  ‘However, the Britons are a mad lot, and might not see sense. If they really want to cross the river, they will. We can only buy time. I’m not in the business of creating martyrs, so if we’ve done our bit and it looks like they’re going to break through I’ll give the order to fall back. If I do, I don’t want any heroics. You get over to our side of the ford as fast as you can, then you head downriver towards the cohort. Understand?’

  Some of the men nodded.

  ‘I can’t fucking hear you!’ Macro shouted.

  ‘YES, SIR!’

  ‘That’s better. Now form up facing the river!’

  His men turned round and shuffled forward until they lined the makeshift defences facing the north bank of the Tamesis. Macro ran his eyes over his small command in their tarnished armour and dusty and stained red tunics. The men were formed up in three lines that stretched along the length of the small island. Eighty men against twenty, maybe thirty thousand barbarians. Macro, like most soldiers, was a gambler, but never had he known such unfavourable odds. Despite his attempt to bolster the confidence of his men he knew that they were as good as dead. If only Maximius had arrived at the ford in time to defend it properly, things might have been different.

  The afternoon dragged on. Macro allowed his men to sit on the ground. Now that all activity had ceased across the ford the scene looked quite idyllic. Macro smiled. Cato would have loved this; it would have touched the lad’s poetic sensibility. To Macro’s left the sun was long past its zenith and bathed the scene in an angled glare that intensified the colours of the landscape and flashed brilliantly off the surface of the river. But despite the serenity of nature, a tension stretched through the air like the torsion ropes of a catapult, and Macro was aware that his senses were straining to catch any sight or sound of the enemy.

  Perhaps half an hour had passed when a small figure came pelting down the track towards the ford. Before Lentulus had reached the river’s edge a party of horsemen burst over the crest of the hill behind and charged down the near slope. Lentulus looked over his shoulder as he ran into the shallows.

  ‘Keep to your left!’ Macro shouted. ‘Keep to the left!’

  If Lentulus heard him, he gave no sign of it, and plunged into the river. He charged headlong, kicking up sheets of spray, and then suddenly pitched forward with a shrill cry. A groan rippled through the men on the island as Lentulus struggled to his feet, blood gushing from his thigh. The legionary looked down at his injury in horror. Then the splashing of the enemy horsemen behind him made him glance back as he staggered towards his comrades. The Britons picked their way forward towards the legionary thrashing through the waist-deep water. Lentulus’ wound must have cut a major blood vessel, Macro realised, for he seemed quickly to become faint. Then slowly he collapsed to his knees, head bowed forward so that only his torso was above the water. The horsemen hung back, watching the Roman for a moment. Then they turned round carefully and returned to the far bank.

  For a while both sides watched Lentulus in silence as his head rolled from side to side. A thin red slick flowed downstream from his body. At last he collapsed sideways, and disappeared, his body dragged down by the weight of his armour.

  ‘Poor sod,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Silence in the ranks!’ Macro shouted. ‘Silence!’

  The awful tension became evermore taut and strained for the legionaries as they waited for the main body of the enemy to arrive, though they did not have to wait long. At first there was the sound of a faint rumbling that grew steadily louder and more distinct. Then a haze thickened over the crest of the hill where the track disappeared from sight. At last the silhouettes of standards, spears, then helmets and the bodies of men came into sight, all along the top of the hill.

  Macro’s eyes ran along the vanguard of Caratacus’ army, taking in the sight of thousands of men pouring down the slope towards the ford. Then he turned to the opposite bank and looked for any sign of Maximius and the rest of the cohort. But across the placid surface of the Tamesis all was quite still.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Are you certain Macro said it was the main enemy force?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the runner replied.

  ‘Right, get over to the decurion.’ Maximius pointed out the column of mounted men out to their left flank. ‘Tell him to send word of the enemy column to Vespasian, at once. Go!’

  As the runner saluted and made off towards the scouts Maximius summoned his centurions. Immediately they came trotting up along the halted column and he waited until Cato, who had furthest to run, had joined them before he told them the news.

  ‘Caratacus is making for our ford. He’s got a head start. Look over there.’ The cohort commander pointed to the far side of the river. A faint haze that Cato had not noticed before stretched out low over the far bank of the Tamesis.

  ‘Where’s Macro?’ asked Tullius.

  ‘He’s at the ford, preparing his defences.’

  ‘Defences? He’s going to make a stand?’ Tullius raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

  ‘Those were the orders given to the cohort.’

  ‘Yes, but, sir, it’s su
icide.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, since we’re going to join him.’

  Antonius and Felix exchanged a look of surprise.

  Cato edged forward. ‘We’d better get moving, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, Cato. All of you, get-back to your units. We’ll move at double time. No stopping for stragglers.’

  The centurions were running back to their men as Maximius bellowed the order for the cohort to advance at quick pace. The column rolled forward with a fast-paced rhythm of tramping boots. Glancing to his side Maximius saw the runner Macro had sent him trotting back from the mounted scouts. Beyond him was a small plume of dust swirling round the figure of a man bent low over his horse. As the runner fell into step beside him to wait for orders Maximius glanced round, appraising his condition.

  ‘You ready to run back to Macro?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the runner replied, his chest heaving as he strained for breath.

  The cohort commander lowered his voice. ‘If he’s still there when you get back to the ford tell him we’re on our way as fast we can go. And, if he’s not there, you come straight back and warn us. Understand?’

  ‘Not there?’ the runner said softly. ‘Sir, do you mean—’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Maximius snapped. ‘Now go!’

  The runner saluted and ran off along the track towards the ford. Maximius glanced over his shoulder and saw that the five centuries had all gathered speed and were moving steadily. He filled his lungs and then shouted the order to increase the pace to a slow run. The men had drilled for this many times and could keep it up for an hour at a time. By then they should have reached Macro. If there was time Maximius must let them catch their breath before throwing them into the fight if they were to perform well enough to make a difference.