The Eagles Prey

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 know 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 he 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 he 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.'

'You had it hidden there all the way back?' Figulus grinned. 'Must have been uncomfortable.'

'You can't imagine… Now shut up and hold still.'

Cato concentrated on cutting through the optio's bonds, fingers gripped tightly round the smooth side of the flint as the sharp edge snagged and tore at the twisted strips of leather. He worked fast, conscious that the older warrior might return at any moment, despite the lure of drink and food. The first thong parted and Cato concentrated on the remaining two. The second went soon after, with a sharp cry of pain from Figulus as the flint slipped and cut into his skin.

'What's that?' Cato heard one of the guards say.

'What?'

'Sounded like someone in there's hurt.'

His companion gave a nasty chuckle. 'If that's what they sound like now, I can hardly wait to hear them once the druid gets his hands on them. Sit down, get some rest. You'll need it tomorrow.'

'Right.'

Cato breathed deeply and continued, taking care this time not to harm his comrade as he worked away at the last strip. As the flint bit into the leather, Figulus strained his muscles to part the thong, and the bone-hard tension in the strip of leather made Cato's work far easier. A moment later the optio's wrists flew apart as the thong snapped.

'Now me,' Cato whispered, passing him the flint.'Be quick!'

Figulus worked at the bonds in a frenzied blur of movement and soon Cato's hands and feet were free. As he rubbed at his sore wrists Cato nodded to the others and the optio crept round the pen to the next man and began work. Once the circulation had eased and he felt his hands would not betray him when he went into action, Cato turned round and peered through the gap in the wicker wall again. The two remaining guards were squatting on the ground just outside the entrance to the pen, staring wistfully towards the sounds of the distant revelry.

When the last of the men was free Cato beckoned to them. There were only twelve of them left, and one of those was so racked and weakened by diarrhoea that he could barely stand up.

'There's no time for details, men,' Cato whispered urgently. 'We must have a go at the two sentries outside. As soon as we get the gate open we rush 'em. After that, we'll make for the edge of the village.'

'And go where?' Metellus interrupted. 'Place is surrounded by water. There's only one way out.'

'There's a few boats over that way.' Cato pointed to the southern side of the camp. 'I saw them when we approached the entrance to this place. We'll take those.'

'Then what, sir?'

Cato looked at him directly. 'We have to warn the cohort, and get a message to Vespasian.'

For a moment Cato feared that Metellus would protest, but the legionary gave a faint nod of acceptance.

'Right then, let's move. When the gate opens, you move – fast.'

Cato turned, and worked his way over the puddles and heaps of filth towards the inside of the gate. It was fastened by a stout wooden bolt on the outside, a short distance from the top. While the others crouched down, silent and tense and ready to spring, Cato slowly rose up to the full extent of his height, peering over the gate at the dark backs of the two guards. He reached a hand over the top of the wooden frame and groped down for the peg that fastened the gate. While his eyes remained fixed on the guards Cato's fingers crept down the rough surface of the wood until his arm was fully extended. Then he took a breath and rose up on the tips of his toes. This time the very tips of his fingers brushed the top of the peg. Cato strained to reach further but could gain no purchase on the wood shaft, and finally he withdrew and slumped back behind the gate with a sharp intake of breath.

'Shite,' he mouthed. 'Can't reach it.'

'Try again,' Figulus urged him. 'On my back.'

The optio dropped on to his hands and knees and leaned gently against the inside of the gate. Cato placed a boot on the optio's shoulder and gently raised himself up again, ignoring the grunt of pain from Figulus as the iron studs of Cato's boot bit into his flesh. This time Cato could see clearly over the top of the gate and he carefully reached down to the peg and gently took up the strain. It had been firmly jammed into the receiver and he gritted his teeth and strained to pull it free. Then, at last, it shifted a little, then a little more. But this time it turned slightly with a faint squeak. Cato's hand froze and his eyes flickered up towards the guards, just in time to see a head turn towards him.

There was an instant of terrible stillness as the boy looked at the gate in puzzlement. Then he snatched up his spear, scrabbled round and shouted at this comrade, 'They're escaping! Up! Stop 'em!'

Cato threw both arms over the gate, grasped the peg and wrenched it free with all his strength. The peg shot out of its receiver and the gate crashed open as the legionaries behind it surged forward, clambering over Figulus and sending Cato flying forwards. He crashed to the ground at the feet of the guard who had spotted him, and rolled on to his side, arm raised, ready to protect himself. He saw the young warrior towering above, dark against the starry sky, and saw him draw back his spear to strike at his helpless enemy. Before the iron tip began to thrust down a dark shape flew over Cato, crashed into the boy and knocked him to the ground. More dark shapes fell upon the guard and there was a horrible gurgling choking sound, a brief thrashing of limbs and then silence. As Cato regained his feet he saw the other guard running away, towards the glow that rimmed the nearest huts.

'Stop him!' Cato hissed.

Close by, Metellus snatched up the first guard's spear and sprinted forward. Then he realised the boy would reach his comrades before he could catch him. The legionary stopped, threw back his spear arm, sighted the back of the guard twenty paces ahead, and hurled it forward. Cato missed the flight of the spear in the darkness, but a moment later there was a thud, and explosive gasp of breath, and the native boy pitched forward. Metellus ran forward to make sure that his enemy was finished, and wrenched the spearshaft from the back of the dead boy.

The men gathered around Cato in the darkness, breathing hard and eagerly waiting for his orders, flushed with exultation at their escape and the prospect that they might yet live. They looked to him, and for a moment Cato felt paralysed by the responsibility for these men's lives. Then the moment passed and he looked round.

'Get their weapons. Then put the bodies in the pen.'

Figulus took the other spear and after a brief rummage over the corpses two men had spears and one held a dagger. The guards were then bundled into the pen and then Cato shut the gate, found the peg, and quickly jammed it back into place.

'Good. Now let's go.' Cato turned away from the pen and was about to lead his men off, when a voice called towards them. He spun round, eyes darting from hut to hut until they fixed on a shadow walking uncertainly towards them from the direction of the feast.

'You're in luck boys!' The voice was slurred but Cato still recognised it as that of the older man who had left his young charges alone earlier on. 'I got you some drink!'

He held up a stoppered jar as he walked unsteadily towards the pen. Then he stopped, lowered the jar and stared. 'Boys?'

'Get him!' Cato called out, starting forward. 'Before the bastard brings 'em running.'

The warrior threw his jar towards Cato and turned to sprint away, screaming out as he ran. He had sufficient head start that Cato knew it was futile to go after him.

'Shit!' he breathed.

'Now what?' Figulus muttered. 'We fight our way out?'

'No chance,' said Metellus. 'They'll be all over us any moment.'

Cato turned to his men. 'We split up. Go like hell, and no heroics, whatever you see or hear. Someone has to warn Maximius. Metellus, take your friends that way. Figulus and the others will come with me. Best of luck.'

Cato made a quick salute to Metellus and the four men who stood with him and then turned and ran, crouching low, towards the southern side of the enemy camp. Already the sounds of revelry had died away and now the faint clatter of equipment and urgent shouts revealed that the enemy were alerted.

Metellus shouted from the direction of the pen,'They're on to us! Let's go lads, this way!'

As Cato ran in the opposite direction, weaving between the huts, he heard the cries of Metellus and his men become more distant and then drowned out by the shouts of the warriors who hunted them down. The narrow ways that twisted between the huts soon disorientated Cato and he had to stop a moment to try to get his bearings, while Figulus and the others glanced round anxiously.

'Where's Lucius?' someone whispered. 'And Severus? They were behind me just now.'

A figure rose up and took a pace back the way they had come.

'Stay where you are!' Cato hissed.'They'll have to take their own chances now. Like Metellus and the others.'

'But, sir-'

'Quiet man!' Cato glanced round at the huts, then up at the pattern of stars in the night sky. 'It's this way… I think.'

'You think?' one of the men muttered.

Cato felt a wave of rage well up inside him. 'Shut up. This way, then. Let's go.'

Shortly afterwards they were through the last of the huts and racing down a low bank towards the edge of the water. The stars shone brilliantly in the night sky and their reflections shimmered off the oily smooth surface of the water that surrounded the camp.

Figulus grasped his arm. 'Over there!'

Cato followed the direction the optio indicated and saw the dark shapes of small boats drawn up on the shore fifty paces away.

'That'll do us. Come on.'

They ran down along the edge of the water until they came to the boats, over a dozen of them. From one came the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, and Figulus looked towards Cato and drew a finger across his throat. Cato shook his head. There'd already been enough killing and it seemed abhorrent to slaughter a pair of lovers into the bargain. As it was, the moans and groans and cries of passion were sufficiently loud to cover any sounds made by Cato and his men as they eased two of the craft into the water and pushed them out until the cold water reached their thighs.

'Optio,' Cato whispered.

'Sir?'

'Take that man. Get away from here any way you can. Then go north. Find Vespasian and tell him where this camp is, and tell him that Caratacus is about to move against the Third Cohort.'

'What about you, sir?'

'I'm going to warn Maximius.'

Figulus shook his head wearily. 'It's your funeral.'

'Maybe. But there's far more lives at stake than his. Just make sure you find Vespasian. If he's quick he might just save the Third Cohort, and force Caratacus to fight.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then go.' Cato reached out his hand and the two men exchanged a forearm grasp. 'Good luck, Optio.'

'You too, sir. I'll see you back at the legion.'

'Yes… go.'

There was a good deal of splashing as the Romans clambered aboard the two boats. A dark shape rose from one of the craft on the river bank and a string of foul Celtic oaths followed them into the darkness as the four men paddled away. Once they had put some distance between them and the island camp Cato glanced back over his shoulder. There was a faint glimmer that silhouetted the roofs of some of the huts, and the wavering spark of torches being carried amongst the huts. But no sign of pursuit.

'We did it, sir!' the legionary with Cato laughed. 'We escaped from those bastards.'

Cato strained his eyes. 'It's Nepos, isn't it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, Nepos, we're not out of trouble yet. So do me the favour of keeping your damn mouth shut, and paddle for all for you're worth.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato took one last look back, and wondered briefly if Metellus had found a way out. Of all the condemned men who had escaped with him, only a handful now remained. And on their shoulders rested the lives of hundreds of comrades, who were completely unaware of the attack that Caratacus was about to unleash on them.

05 The Eagles Prey