The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER SIX

It was still dark as the cohort prepared to move off. Two braziers either side of the gatehouse illuminated the head of the column, but the glow cast by the gently licking flames carried only as far down the Praetorian way as the First Century. The rest of the men were shrouded in the clammy air of the pre-dawn. Cato, standing with the other centurions by the gate, could hear only the muted exchanges and dull clunk and clatter of equipment of nearly five hundred men getting ready to march into battle. On the open ground, to one side of the gate, stood the mounted contingent that was to accompany the cohort – thirty men under the command of a decurion, lightly armed and trained for scouting and courier duties rather than battle. The horses waited expectantly, ears twitching and hoofs gently scraping the ground as their dismounted riders kept firm hands on the reins. From further off came the muffled sounds of other legionaries rousing; quiet curses amid the coughs and groans of men stretching sleep-stiffened bodies.

'Not long now, lads!' Centurion Maximius called out as he warmed his back against one of the braziers, and cast a huge wavering shadow across the nearest line of tents.

'He's up for it,' Macro remarked quietly.

Cato yawned. 'Wish I was.'

'Lose much sleep?'

'Had to finish the accounts before I turned in.'

'Accounts?' Centurion Felix shook his head in disbelief. 'On the eve of a battle? Are you mad?'

Cato shrugged and Felix turned to Macro. 'You've known him a while, haven't you?'

'Man and boy.'

'He always been like that?'

'Oh, yes! Bit of a perfectionist, our Cato. Never goes into a fight unless his records are sorted. Nothing worse than being killed with a bit of paperwork on your mind. Some peculiar religious thing he picked up from the palace officials. Something to do with his shadow being doomed to walk the earth until the accounts are completed, audited and filed. Only then can his spirit rest in peace.'

'Is that true?' Centurion Antonius asked, wide-eyed.

'Why do you ask?' Macro turned towards him with a horrified expression. 'You haven't gone and left your paperwork half done?'

Cato sighed. 'Just ignore him, Antonius. Taking the piss is Centurion Macro's stock in trade.'

Antonius glanced from Cato to Macro and narrowed his eyes. 'Fucking idiot…'

'Oh, yes? Had you going there for a moment, didn't I? So who's the idiot?'

'You were at the palace?' Felix said, turning to Cato. 'The imperial palace?'

Cato nodded.

'So what's the story, Cato?'

'Not much to say. I was born and raised in the palace. My father was a freedman on the general staff. He arranged most of the entertainments for Tiberius and Caligula. Never knew my mother. She didn't live long after giving birth to me. When my father died I was sent to join the legions, and here I am.'

'Must be a bit of a comedown, after the palace.'

'In some ways,' Cato admitted. 'But life in the palace could be every bit as dangerous as here in the legions.'

'Funny,' Felix smiled and nodded towards Maximius.'That's just what he said.'

'Really?' Cato muttered. 'Can't seem to remember the Praetorian Guard ever having a hard time of it, Sejanus and his cronies excepted.'

'You were there then?' Felix's eyes lit up. 'Was it as bad as they say?'

'Worse.' Cato's expression hardened as he recalled the fall of Sejanus. 'Hundreds were slaughtered. Hundreds. Including his kids… They used to play with me when they visited the palace. The Praetorians took them away and butchered them. That's the kind of battle most of them get to fight.'

Macro frowned at the harsh tone in his friend's voice and nodded towards the cohort commander.'Be fair, lad. He wasn't there when it happened.'

'No. I suppose not.'

'And the Guard did all right by us outside Camulodunum. That was a bloody tough fight.'

'Yes. All right. I won't mention it again.'

'You know,' Tullius spoke quietly, 'Maximius might have known your father. You should ask him some time. You might have something in common.'

Cato shrugged. He doubted that he and Maximius had anything in common. The cohort commander's disdain for the young centurion had become evident to Cato over the few days that they had served together. What was more painful was the thought that the other centurions of the cohort, apart from Macro, might share the sentiment.

An order barked out from the smothering darkness, commanding the men to stand to attention, and Cato recognised Figulus' voice. As iron-nailed boots stamped to the dry ground with a rippling thud like distant thunder, Maximius hurried over from the brazier to join his officers.

'Must be the legate! Stand to.'

Maximius strode two paces to the front and stiffened like a rod. Behind him the other centurions stood in a line, shoulders back, chins raised and arms held tightly to their sides. Then all was quiet, apart from the champing and stamping of the horses. The sounds of several marching men approaching reached the centurions at the gatehouse and moments later Vespasian and a handful of staff officers emerged from the gloom and into the orange glow of the braziers. The legate strode up to the centurions and returned their salute.

'Your men look well turned out, and keyed up for a fight, Maximius.'

'Yes, sir. They can't wait to get stuck in, sir.'

'Glad to hear it!' Vespasian stepped closer to the cohort commander and lowered his voice. 'You've got your orders, and you know the importance of your role in today's fight.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any last questions?'

'None, sir.'

'Good man.' Vespasian reached out his hand and they clasped each other's forearms. 'One last battle. By the end of the day it should all be over. May the gods be with you today, Centurion.'

'And with you, sir.'

Vespasian smiled and then turned to face east, where the first hint of light was filtering up from the horizon. 'Time for you to get moving. I'll share a jar of wine with you and your men tonight.'

The legate stepped back and led his staff officers up the wooden steps on to the walkway above the gate.

Maximius turned to his centurions. 'Back to your units! Prepare to march.'

Cato and Macro saluted and trotted away from the gate, back down the column of silent men. Cato could pick out the highly polished shield bosses gleaming dully as he passed by; Maximius had given an order for the water-proofed leather shield covers to be left in the men's tents to reduce the burden they had to carry. It had better not rain, thought Cato, well remembering the awful weight of a water-logged shield.

Macro peeled off when they reached the Third Century and gave a quick parting nod to Cato as the youngster made his way to the rear of the column where Optio Figulus waited beside the standard of the Sixth Century. As yet the long staff carried only one decoration beside the unit's square identity pendant: a round disc with a profile of the Emperor Claudius stamped upon it, awarded to every century in the army of General Plautius following the defeat of Caratacus outside Camulodunum nearly a year ago.

Cato smiled bitterly to himself. A year ago. And here they were again, ready to do battle with Caratacus once more. For the last time. Even if there was a victorious outcome to the coming battle Cato was almost certain that the Roman legions would still not have heard the last of Caratacus. A year in this barbarous island had taught him one thing above all else: these Britons were too foolish to know the meaning of defeat. Every army they had sent against the Eagles had been bloodily defeated. And yet the Britons still fought on doggedly, no matter how many of them were cut down. For their sake, and the sake of their women and children, Cato hoped that the day's battle would finally break their will to resist.

Cato filled his lungs. 'Sixth Century will prepare to advance.'

There was a grating scrape in the darkness as his men lifted their shields from the ground and shouldered their javelins, a few grunts as they shuffled the weight around and then silence.

From the front of the column Cato heard the order given to open the gates and, with a protesting creak from the wooden hinges, the thick timbers were pulled inwards and a dark hole yawned beneath the illuminated gatehouse. Maximius bellowed out the order for the cohort to advance. The column rippled forward in a steady cadence as each century moved off after a short delay to leave a sufficient gap between units. Then Antonius shouted the order for the Fifth Century to march. As the rear rank stepped away before Cato he silently counted five paces and then called out.

'Sixth Century! Advance!'

Then he was leading his men forward, Figulus a pace to his side and a pace behind. Then came the century's standard and then the column of eighty men who were his first legionary command. Not one man on the sick list. Cato looked over his shoulder and for a moment his heart filled with pride. These were his men. This was his century. His eyes scanned the dim features of the front ranks and Cato felt that nothing in this life could be better than being centurion of the Sixth Century of the Third Cohort of the Second Legion Augusta.

As the cohort marched under the gatehouse, the legate unsheathed his sword and stabbed it into the thinning darkness of the sky.

'To victory! To victory! To Mars!'

'Draw swords!' Maximius bellowed from the front of the column, and with a rattling rasp of metal the wicked short stabbing swords of the legionaries flickered up and they returned the legate's cry with a full-throated roar as they invoked the blessing of the god of war. The cheers continued until the cohort had left the ramparts of the camp in the distance, silhouetted against the coming light of day.

Cato took one last look over his shoulder and then turned his gaze along the track to where Maximius led his men towards the battle that would seal the fate of Caratacus and his warriors once and for all.

05 The Eagles Prey