The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Macro grabbed Tullius by the shoulder.'Get out there and deal with him.'

'What shall I say?'

'Anything. Just don't let him get inside the tent. If he does, it's all over for us.'

Tullius swallowed nervously, then steadied himself for an instant and ducked outside.

'Cordus! There you are. What the hell kept you?'

'I-I was in the village, sir.' The tone was aggrieved, verging on insolent.'Like you ordered. The natives have started on the ditch, sir.'

'Good job. Well done. Now we've got work to do. The cohort's on the move. Your orders are to pass the word for all units to assemble, fully equipped.'

'All the men, sir?'

'That's what Maximius said.'

'Who's going to oversee the natives?'

'Send them back to the village, and release all the hostages.'

'Release the-' Cordus' voice started to rise, before he took control of his frustration. 'Yes, sir. I'll see to it.'

'Good. Once that's done, take your century down to the track that leads into the marsh. Start work on strengthening the existing gateway. We need to prepare it for an attack in strength. I want the rampart higher and the ditch dug deeper, and wider. We have to be able to defend it.'

'Defend it from who, sir?'

'The enemy. Who else? It seems that Caratacus plans to attack after all. Now carry out your orders.'

'Yes, sir…But first, I must report to Centurion Maximius. Excuse me, sir.'

Inside the tent Macro and Cato exchanged anxious glances, and Cato tightened his grip on the cohort commander's sword.

'Make your report later!' Tullius snapped. 'Carry out your orders, or I'll have you on a bloody charge.'

'I don't think so, sir,' Cordus replied quietly. 'We'll see what Maximius has to say about this.'

'On whose authority do you think I give these orders?' Tullius shouted back. 'Get out of my sight, you jumped-up little prick! Go, before I have you for gross insubordination.'

There was a pause, during which Cato and Macro stood quite still, tense and strained. Then Cordus gave way.

'Yes, sir.'

'And take these guards with you. Maximius wants every man at work on the defences as soon as they're kitted up. Better find a cart and take all the entrenching tools you can carry with you.'

'Yes, sir… as Centurion Maximius commands.'

'That's right. Now get moving.'

Cordus called the guards to attention, ordered them to turn about, and then marched towards the main gate. The leather flaps were swept aside and Centurion Tullius walked unsteadily into the headquarters tent. He slumped down in a chair to one side of the desk.

'Well done, sir,' Cato said with a smile.'A fine performance. He'll be out of the way when we make our move. Are there any other officers who might give us problems?'

'No.' Tullius puffed out his cheeks. 'Maximius has really pissed most of them off. He's been playing up to the men for weeks now, and undermining our authority over them. The optios would be glad to see the back of him. But they'd never support a mutiny.'

'Then we won't give them one, sir,' Cato smiled encouragingly. 'If we can keep them busy, it'll all be over, one way or another, before they ever know the cohort is under a new commander.'

Trumpets began to sound the assembly across the fort and from outside the tent came the muffled sounds of the men gathering their equipment and bundling out of their tents to run to the assembly point just inside the main gate.

Cato leaned towards Tullius. 'You'd better go and take charge, sir.'

'Yes, yes, of course. Antonius, come with me.' The old centurion looked up at Cato. 'I'll send for you and Macro as soon as Cordus has left the fort.'

Macro shifted uneasily. 'If anyone asks, and they will, then you'd better have a good reason for reinstating us. At least, you'd better be able to convince the men that it was Maximius' idea.'

'Tell them the truth, sir,' Cato added. 'Tell them that Caratacus is coming and that the cohort requires every available man under arms to fight the enemy. And that's the only reason Maximius has agreed to release us, temporarily.'

'Right…' Tullius looked doubtful.'Come on, Antonius.'

Macro waited until the two centurions had left the tent before he turned to Cato. 'Doesn't exactly make you feel hopeful, does it?'

Cato shrugged.'With the odds that I've faced in recent days, right now I feel like I'm well ahead of the game.'

'Ever the bloody optimist,' Macro grunted.

'All the same, there's one last thing I need to sort out before Tullius sends for us.'

'What's that?'

'We need Nepos to stay here and keep an eye on Maximius and Felix. If you keep watch for a moment, sir, I'll give him his orders.'

'All right.' Macro crept over to the tent flap and peered cautiously outside. There was no one close at hand, just distant figures visible through the gaps in the lines of tents. They were forming up, making ready to march out of the fort. Macro glanced back towards Cato and saw his young friend talking earnestly with Nepos, speaking quietly. Macro could not catch what was being said. The legionary seemed to be listening intently and shook his head.

'You have to!' Cato snapped at him, then glanced quickly at Macro. He turned back to the legionary and dropped his voice as he continued. Eventually Nepos nodded slowly when Cato had finished issuing his orders. The centurion patted Nepos on the arm and gave him a few last words of encouragement before he turned and made his way quietly across the tent to join Macro.

'Nepos doesn't look happy.'

Cato shot him a searching glance and then shrugged. 'He's not keen on staying behind.'

'So I noticed.'

'Hardly surprising,' Cato smiled.'Being left alone when the rest of the cohort is leaving the fort.

'Frankly,' Macro muttered, 'I'm not sure who's going to have the better deal. Any possibility that Nepos might want to swap duties?'

Cato gave a dry laugh as he glanced back towards Nepos, ducking quietly back into the cohort commander's sleeping quarters. 'Oh, I should think there's every possibility of that.'

Once the cohort had formed up behind the main gate, Centurion Tullius passed on the orders from the cohort commander and told the men that Centurion Felix had volunteered to find the legate and inform him of the Third Cohort's situation. Tullius explained that since the cohort was well under strength, Maximius had decided that every available man should be readied for the coming fight. Accordingly, Macro had been given command of the Fourth Century, Felix's unit, and Cato would be once again marching at the head of the Sixth Century. On cue, the two officers emerged from between the lines of tents behind Tullius and were presented to the men of the cohort. The astonishment of the legionaries was short-lived as Tullius gave the order to march at once and, century by century, the men of the cohort tramped out of the fort and headed towards the track leading into the marsh.

Optio Septimus, who Maximius had appointed to replace Figulus, kept pace alongside Cato. From time to time he glanced at his centurion with a surly and hostile expression that Cato could well understand. He had been enjoying his first taste of command, and had relinquished it with a barely tolerable show of bad feeling. Cato decided that the best way of dealing with the resentment was to keep the man occupied.

'The men are straggling, Septimus! Close 'em up!'

The optio dropped out of line and started to scream abuse at the men marching past him, striking out with his staff at any legionary who permitted a gap to open up between himself and the man ahead of him. The blows were unnecessarily savage, but Cato forced himself not to intervene. The last thing the century needed now was a confrontation between its officers. He would have to let Septimus vent his frustration and anger on the men for now. As long as they hated Septimus, they might be inclined towards a better relationship with their newly reappointed centurion.

It felt strange to Cato to be once again commanding the men he had led into battle at the crossing on the Tamesis. Last time they had failed to hold the enemy back and Cato had suffered decimation as a result. This time failure would lead to the death of them all. And if they survived the coming hours? Cato smiled grimly to himself. However things turned out, he was still a condemned man and faced execution, or, if he was spared, it was most likely that he would still be disgraced and dismissed from the army. With a stab of anger he cast thought of the future aside. He must keep his mind on the present.

The men's surprise at Cato's temporary reprieve was all the more heightened because it had been on the orders of the cohort commander, so ruthless and fanatic in his hunt for the condemned men in recent days. As Cato had appeared at the assembly area, most had looked at him in wonder, but a few faces conveyed resentment and – worse – suspicion. Certainly, his grimy visage, matted hair and straggly beard sat poorly upon the face of a man with the rank of centurion. He had recovered his scaled armour and harness from the cohort's quartermaster, a source of yet more resentment, since the man had been hoping to sell the equipment for a tidy sum. But the ill feeling of others was no more than a faint shadow cast across the sense of contentment that Cato felt. To be back in his armour, with a good sword at his side and a stout shield on his arm felt natural and comforting. Almost as if the previous weeks of misery, hardship and peril had been washed away like a layer of dust in a summer shower.

Almost.

'Sir!'

Cato looked up and saw a runner approaching from the head of the column, which had just started to cross the crest of a small hill. The centurion stepped out to one side as the runner drew up by the Sixth Century.

'Sir, Centurion Tullius sends his compliments, and says that Cordus and his men are in sight.'

Cato could not help smiling at the thinly veiled warning, and then he nodded to the messenger.'Thank him for me, and let Tullius know I am aware of the situation.'

The messenger frowned at the oddness of Cato's reply.'Sir?'

'Just tell him exactly what I said.'

'Yes, sir.' The legionary saluted and turned away, running alongside the cohort back towards Centurion Tullius at the head of the column. Cato felt a stab of anxiety over the need to leave the cohort in the hands of the old officer. There had been no other way of handling things. It was risky enough removing Maximius from the scene. Any attempt by Macro or Cato to take charge of the cohort was doomed to failure, so Tullius it must be, if the men were not to have their credulity stretched too far.

As the tail end of the cohort crossed the brow of the hill Cato glanced ahead and saw the distant figures of Cordus and his men toiling away as they widened the ditch across the path that led right through the heart of the marsh. The acting centurion was wearing a red cloak to distinguish himself from his men, and Cato idly wondered if he had pilfered it from Macro's stores, slipping into the centurion's clothes as readily as he had assumed Macro's command. It was an unworthy thought and Cato was angry at himself for giving it expression. Cordus was merely obeying orders. The fact that he took great satisfaction in obeying the cohort commander was immaterial, Cato told himself.

The newly arrived centuries were deployed either side of the track before they were ordered to down shields and javelins and head over to the cart to be issued with picks and shovels.

Their officers set them to work at once on the ditch and rampart.

'Not your men, Cato,' Tullius called out as the Sixth Century marched up. 'I want you to advance ahead of the cohort. Take up position half a mile along the track. You may need to buy us time to finish the defences. As soon as you see the enemy, send a runner back to let me know.'

'Yes, sir. How long should we hold them for?'

'As long as you can. If we complete the work before Caratacus arrives I'll send a runner to recall you. Then just leave a small picket and fall back here with the rest of your men. Understand?'

Cato nodded. Behind Tullius' shoulder he saw Cordus striding over towards them. As soon as the acting centurion recognised Cato he faltered for an instant.

'What the hell is he doing here?'

Tullius glanced round angrily. 'Is that question addressed to me?'

Cordus tore his gaze away from Cato and then noticed Macro beyond, as his former centurion began to bellow orders to the legionaries of the Fourth Century. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Cordus turned back to Tullius. 'What's going on here? Where's Centurion Maximius, sir?'

Tullius nodded back in the direction of the fort.'He sent us ahead. Said he'd be along directly.'

'Oh really?' Cordus looked round at the other officers and caught the eye of Antonius. 'Where's Maximius?'

Antonius glanced at Tullius, for reassurance, before he replied. 'Like he said, back at the fort.'

'The fort…I see. So while we're about to take on a force many times our size, the commander of the cohort is attending to a few details back in the fort. Is that about it… sir?'

Cato could see that Antonius would help them no further, and that Tullius could not carry it off for much longer. So he stepped in front of Cordus, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

'You've got your orders, Cordus. Get back to work.'

The acting centurion eyed him with open contempt. 'I don't take orders from condemned men, let alone condemned boys.'

Cato stepped closer, drawing his sword at the same time, pressing the point into the armpit of the other man – all of it hidden from the surrounding legionaries by the folds of the two officers' capes. Cato's face was no more than a few inches from the pockmarked flesh of Cordus, and he could smell the rank acid stink of cheap wine on the older man's breath.

'Never speak that way to a superior officer again,' Cato said softly through clenched teeth, and prodded with the point of his sword. Cordus flinched and bit down on his pain as the blade pierced his flesh. Cato smiled, and whispered,'Next time you give me, or any of the other centurions, one word of insolence, I swear by all the gods, that I will gut you. Do you understand me? Don't talk, just nod.'

Cordus stared back, eyes burning with cold fury, then he dipped his head, once.

'Good.' Cato slowly withdrew his blade and gently pushed the other man back with his spare hand.'Now get back to your unit, and carry out your orders.'

Cordus reached under his armpit and winced as he glared at the young centurion. Cato stared back, then nodded his head towards the defences. Cordus took the hint.

'Very well, sir.'

'That's better. Now go.'

Cordus retreated a few paces before he turned and strode quickly towards the men of the Third Century. He did not look back, and Cato watched him long enough to make sure that Cordus did as he was told. Tense and trembling Cato turned towards Tullius and Antonius.

'Well done, lad.' A smile flickered across Tullius' worn features. 'That's him dealt with.'

'Only for now, sir,' Cato replied. 'We'll have to keep an eye on him. He could cause us problems. Which reminds me, where are Maximius' guards?'

'By the supply cart.'

Cato glanced over to the cart and saw the six men standing beside it, shields grounded and spears leaning against their shoulders. 'I'll take them with me, if you don't mind, sir.'

'What for?' Tullius frowned. 'We need every man here.'

'They've sworn an oath to protect the cohort commander. If Cordus gets close to them, he might persuade them to back him, next time he tries to confront us.'

'You think he will?' Antonius asked.

'If Caratacus doesn't arrive by the time we've finished our defences, then the men will have time on their hands, and they'll do what they normally do in such circumstances: talk. Given the presence of me and Macro, and the absence of Maximius, I should think we've given them plenty to talk about.'

Antonius looked down at his boots. 'We're fucked.'

'Any way you look at it,' Cato smiled. 'Now, sir, the guards?'

'You take them,' Tullius said. 'I don't need them. Now you and your men had better get down that track.'

The Sixth Century trudged through the posts of the gateway. On either side legionaries paused to watch them as they passed, and then hurriedly returned to work as their officers screamed at them for stopping. Macro was standing on top of the rampart and waved briefly to Cato as he directed his men to start pounding in the stakes of wood they had brought from the fort to act as a makeshift palisade. The gateway was set back from the rest of the rampart, which angled in towards it, so that any attackers would be subjected to fire from three sides if they made any attempt to assault the gate. As his century marched out from the lines of defence, the ground on either side of the track gave way to patches of mud, then still expanses of dark water from which the pale yellow stalks of clumps of rushes rose up, their feathered heads hanging motionless in the hot still air.

When they reached the first bend in the track Cato stopped to look back at the rest of the cohort and marked the distance to the gateway. It was essential that he was familiar with the topography. If the enemy came upon them before they were recalled by Tullius, then Cato and his men would be making a fighting withdrawal. The weight of their armour and equipment made it impossible for them to outpace the enemy, who would be thirsting for Roman blood in any case. They would have a short head start on Caratacus and the Britons, and then the Sixth Century would have to fight nearly every step of the way back to the cohort frantically struggling to complete the defences. It would be a close thing – if they made it. But if their sacrifice bought Tullius and the others enough time to complete the defences, the Third Cohort might be able to hold off Caratacus and his force. Long enough, at least, for Vespasian to march across the marsh and close the trap on the enemy and crush them.

Cato smiled at the thought. That would be the end of any meaningful resistance to Roman rule, and both sides could get on with the task of turning this barbaric backwater into a civilised province. He had had his fill of killing the native warriors, who had far more courage than sense. They were good men and, given the right kind of leadership, they would become firm and valuable allies of Rome. All this was possible once Caratacus was defeated… Then the smile faded from Cato's lips.

The enemy would only be defeated if Vespasian arrived in time to crush them against the Third Cohort's defences. As Antonius had suggested, it was possible that Vespasian would not arrive in time. Indeed it was possible that the legate was not even marching towards them. It was even possible that Figulus might not have reached the Second Legion, let alone managed to persuade Vespasian to lead his men along a narrow track through the heart of an enemy-controlled marsh.

Cato realised that all along he had been counting on the legate's willingness to take calculated risks to achieve significant results. Then Cato wished he had gone north to find the legate himself, not trusting his optio to make the case for him. But that would have meant sending Figulus back to the cohort and the much harder task of persuading Maximius to take on the enemy, or finding a way of replacing the cohort commander, if he proved obdurate. Cato could not be in two places at once and did not trust anyone else to do either job for him. It was just the kind of intractable problem that made being an officer such a nightmare. Indecision was bad enough, but endless hypothesising after the event was pure torture. If only he could accept the consequences of his decisions, thought Cato, and just get on with it. Like Macro.

He tried to push further thought aside. He trotted to the front of his century, and continued a hundred paces beyond, to scan the route ahead. The track followed the high ground, such as it was, and skirted round the dismal pools and mires that stretched out on both sides. Where the land was dry, stunted trees and clumps of gorse clustered together. Beyond that, sweeping expanses of rushes restricted the view, so that there would be little warning of the enemy's approach. Cato irritably slapped his thigh with a clenched fist. The tense frustration simmered in his breast as he led his men deeper into the marsh, all the while expecting the next turn of the track to bring them face to face with Caratacus and his warriors.

As soon as Cato estimated they had marched half a mile, he ordered the Sixth Century to halt. The unit changed from column to line, six deep with a front of twelve men across the width of the track, their flanks covered by dense growths of prickly gorse that would tear the skin off any man who tried to force his way through. Two men were sent two hundred paces further along the track to keep watch.

Cato turned to his men, briefly recalling the first time he had stood before them as their newly appointed centurion. He remembered many of the hard-bitten faces before him and felt a new sense of confidence that they would acquit themselves well when they confronted the enemy.

'Stand down!' he ordered. 'But stay in place.'

Cato squinted up at the bright sky and felt the sweat pricking out under his heavy military tunic, which in turn was weighed down by his scale armour. His throat felt thick and his lips were dry and rough to the tip of his tongue.

'You can take a good drink from your canteens. Chances are we'll be too busy later on for you to use them.'

Some of the men chuckled at that, but most stared ahead steadfast until Septimus had bellowed the order to fall out. The men laid down their shields and javelins and squatted down on the hard dry earth of the track. Some reached for their canteens at once, while others undid their neck cloths and wiped away the sweat that was streaming down their faces.

Septimus approached Cato.'Can the lads take their helmets off, sir?'

Cato glanced up the track. All seemed quiet enough and there was no sign of any alarm from the two lookouts.

'Very well.'

Septimus saluted and turned back to the resting men.'Right lads, the centurion says you can remove helmets. Just keep 'em handy.'

There were groans of relief all round as the men fumbled with the leather ties and lifted the heavy, cumbersome helmets from their heads. The felt linings were so soaked with perspiration that they stuck to the heads of the legionaries and had to be peeled off separately. Underneath, drenched hair stuck to their scalps as if they had just emerged from a steam room at the baths.

Cato took a last look towards the lookouts and then slumped down on the track a short distance in front of his men. His fingers worked at the straps of his helmet and then he lifted it off and lowered it into his lap, brushing his fingers over the thin layer of dust that coated the top of the helmet. He set it down beside him and reached for the canteen slung from his sword belt. Cato had just eased the stopper out of the neck of the canteen and had raised it halfway to his lips when there was a distant shout. At once he turned to stare up the track, along with several of his men. One of the lookouts was running down the track towards them. Cato could see that the other man was still watching something further off. A moment later, he turned and sprinted hard after his companion.

The nearest lookout jabbed his javelin back over his shoulder as he ran and now his warning was clearly audible to every man in the Sixth Century. 'They're coming!'

05 The Eagles Prey