When the Eagle Hunts

Chapter Thirty-Two

A crescent moon had risen when Prasutagus and Cato left the forest and started out for the Great Fortress. A brisk wind carried thin strands of moon-silvered cloud across the star-sprinkled darkness. Prasutagus and Cato ran across the meadows surrounding the ramparts, going to ground and crawling as soon as the clouds cleared the moon again. The imminent arrival of the first elements of the Second Legion had meant that all surrounding flocks of sheep had been driven up into the hill fort, and Cato was grateful that the nervous animals were not around to give them away; the pale light cast by the moon was bad enough.

About two hours later, as near as Cato could estimate it, they reached the far side of the Great Fortress. Prasutagus led him directly towards the black mass of the first rampart. The faint sound of singing and cheering drifted down from the plateau on top of the hill fort. Ahead of Cato, Prasutagus crept forwards, constantly looking right and left as the ground began to slope up onto the first rampart.

He paused, and then threw himself down, and Cato did likewise, eyes and ears straining. Then Cato saw them: two men, silhouetted against the starry sky, patrolling along the top of the first rampart. Their conversation carried down the slope and the light-hearted tone suggested they were not being as diligent in their duties as they should. Clearly, the harsh discipline of sentry duty in the legions did not apply here. When the patrol had passed by, they rose from the ground and began scrambling up the grassy slope of the rampart. The gradient was severe and Cato was soon panting with the exertion of the climb, wondering how much harder this would be in full armour and with a full equipment load should the Second Legion launch an attack on the hill fort.

They reached the top of the rampart and dropped flat again. Now that he was actually on the defences, Cato was even more in awe of their scale. A narrow track ran along the first rampart, stretching out on either side as far as he could see in the moonlight. On the other side, the ground fell away steeply to form a deep trench, before rising up again to the second rampart. At the bottom of the trench there was a strange cross-hatching pattern which Cato could not quite make out. Then he realised what it was. A band of sharpened stakes, set into the ground at different angles lay in wait to impale any attacker who made it this far. No doubt the trench between the second and third ramparts contained more of the same wicked points.

'Go!' Prasutagus whispered.

Crouching low, they crossed the patrol path and half ran, half slid down the other side of the rampart, taking care to slow their descent as they neared the sharp points at the bottom. The stakes had been cleverly arranged, so that a man who managed to negotiate one stake would find himself immediately facing the point of another. Any attempt by a group to rash through would result in a bloodbath, and Cato prayed that Vespasian had the sense not to attempt a direct assault. If he survived this night it was vital that he warn the legate of the dangers that faced his legionaries.

With only their cloaks to hamper them, Prasutagus and Cato quietly picked their way through the stakes and began scaling the second rampart. It was only slightly smaller than the first, and Cato's limbs ached by the time they reached the top. Now they could see the palisade on top of the third and final rampart. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but Cato estimated the wooden wall to be at least ten feet in height; more than enough to hold back any enemy foolhardy enough to attempt a direct attack. A quick glance either way along the path revealed no enemies and they slipped over and down the other side to where more stakes waited for them at the bottom. Once through, Prasutagus did not start up the final slope, but edged along its base for a while, continually looking up towards the palisade.

They smelt the drain before they saw it; a foul odour of human waste and decaying food slops. The ground underfoot squelched and became slippery as they crept on. Dark pools of filth had collected around the stakes. Soon the pools gave way to a stinking swamp of ordure that filled the trench and glistened in the moonlight. An immense heap of rubbish and sewage grew out of it, like a huge cone with its base in, and overflowing, the trench, and its summit blending into a narrow gully leading up to the palisade high above them.

Prasutagus caught the optio's arm and pointed at the gully. Cato nodded and they began the ascent towards the hill fort's last line of defence. The higher they climbed, the more pungent the stench. The air became so thick with it that Cato choked, feeling bile rise in this throat. Desperately he fought the urge to vomit in case the sound attracted attention. At last they reached the palisade and rested beside the reeking gully. A small wooden structure had been built over the head of the gully and projected a little way from the wall. In its base was a small square opening through which the rubbish and sewage was tipped. There was no sign of life on the palisade above, only the distant din of the Durotriges drinking themselves into a stupor. Prasutagus eased himself down into the gully, making sure of his footing on the slimy ground. He positioned himself directly below the opening, grabbed the base of the palisade in front of him, and beckoned to Cato.

The image of some passing Durotrigan pausing to take a dump on the proud Icenian's head struck Cato, and he was unable to stifle a snort of laughter. Prasutagus looked at him in fury and jabbed a hand up at the opening.

'Sorry,' whispered Cato, as he scrambled over. 'Nerves.'

'Take cloak off,' ordered Prasutagus.

Cato undid the clasp and let Boudica's cloak drop. Suddenly stark naked in the cold air, he shivered violently.

'Up!' Prasutagus hissed. 'On me.'

Cato placed both his hands on the warrior's shoulders and pulled himself up until his knees rested each side of Prasutagus's head. Then he reached for the rim of the opening with one hand. Beneath him, Prasutagus grunted with the strain of keeping himself upright, and for an instant swayed alarmingly. Cato threw his arms up and grasped the wooden frame. Slowly he heaved himself up, until he managed to throw an elbow over the rim, then quickly swayed up a foot. The rest was easy, and he lay panting on the wooden boards, staring into the heart of the fortress stretching out before him.

Nearby was a wide expanse of hastily erected animal pens, filled with sheep and pigs, quietly rooting around the slops that had been left in a pile just inside each pen. A handful of peasants were busy forking winter feed into a large enclosure containing horses. Far off to the right lay an assortment of thatched roundhouses, grouped either side of an enormous hut, eerily lit by the glow of a big fire burning in the wide open space in front. A large crowd sat in groups about the blaze, drinking and cheering on a pair of giant warriors who were wrestling in front of the flames, their efforts casting long dancing shadows on the ground. As Cato watched, one of them was thrown and a roar erupted from the spectators.

Away to the left was a separate enclosure. An interior palisade stretched across the plateau, pierced by one gate only. On each side of the gate a brazier cast bright pools of light. Four Druids, armed with long war spears, warmed themselves by the braziers. Unlike their Durotrigan allies, they were not drinking, and looked alert.

Cato ducked his head back through the opening.

'Back soon. Wait here!'

'Goodbye, Roman.'

'I'll be back,' Cato whispered angrily.

'Goodbye, Roman.'

Cautiously Cato rose to his feet and walked down the short ramp from the palisade and in among the animal pens. A few sheep looked up as he passed, eyeing him with the habitual suspicion of a species whose relationship with man was comestibly one-sided. Cato saw a wooden pitchfork lying by a pen and bent down to pick it up. His heart was pounding, and every sinew in his body urged him to turn and flee. It took all his willpower to keep on moving, slowly working his way round towards the enclosure guarded by the Druids, while keeping as far from the peasants as possible. If anyone tried to engage him in conversation he was lost. Cato stopped at each pen, as if to check on the animals, occasionally pitching in some fresh feed. If the animals were momentarily puzzled by the extra rations, they quickly got over the shock and tucked in.

The gate to the Druid enclosure was open and through it Cato could make out a number of smaller huts, and more Druids crouched around small fires, all swathed in their black cloaks. But the gateway was small, so the view was limited. Cato worked his way as close to the gate as he dared, moving along the line of the pens until he was fifty paces from the enclosure. Every so often he risked a glance towards the gate trying not to make it obvious that he was looking. At first the guards ignored him, but then one of them must have decided Cato had lingered too long. The guard lifted his spear and slowly walked over.

Cato turned to the nearest pen, as if he had not seen the man, and leaned on his pitchfork. His heart beat wildly, and he was aware of a tremor in his arms that had nothing to do with the cold. He should make a run for it, he thought, and could almost feel the cold shaft of steel at the end of the Druid's spear flying through the night to take him in the back as he fled. The thought filled his mind with terror. Yet what if the man spoke to him? The end would surely be the same.

He could hear the Druid's footfall now, then the man called out to him. Cato shut his eyes and swallowed, then turned as casually as he could. This would really test Prasutagus's disguise; never before in his life had Cato felt so Roman.

No more than ten paces away the Druid shouted something at him, and jabbed his spear towards the distant hutments of the Durotriges. Cato stood and stared, wide-eyed, and tightened his grip on the pitchfork. The Druid shouted again and paced towards Cato angrily. When Cato stood, fixed to his ground and trembling, the Druid roughly swung him round and kicked him on the backside, launching him away from the enclosure towards the peasants tending the other animals. There was a chorus of harsh laughter from the other guards at the gate as Cato scrambled away on all fours. At the sight of his buttocks, the Druid thrust his spear after the youngster, and only just missed as Cato found his feet and sprinted off. The Druid shouted something after him, provoking another roar of laughter from his comrades, and then turned and went back to his post.

Cato ran on, through the pens, until he was sure he was out of sight of the Druids. Squatting down, he struggled to get his breath, terrified yet exhilarated by his escape. He had found the Druid enclosure easily enough, but now he had to find some way into it. He rose and peered over the pens, through the steamy breath rising from the closely packed animals, towards the wall of the enclosure. Unless his eyes deceived him, it bowed out slightly, and the gate was slightly over to one side. If he could approach along the foot of the hill fort's palisade on the far side of the bulge, he might find a way over the wall, out of sight of the Druids on the gate.

Cato worked his way back through the pens towards the drain, until he was two hundred feet away from the guards. The ground around the pens was devoid of grass, and presented an expanse of churned up mud. Cato dropped to his stomach and, hugging the ground, began to inch his way around the pens to where the wall of the enclosure butted up against the palisade. The wooden stakes had been shortened so that they would end-flush against those of the palisade. There, if anywhere, would be a place he might find a way into the enclosure.

Cato forced himself to move slowly, making no swift movement that might catch the eye of the guards. If they caught him again there would be no horseplay this time. It seemed to take hours, but at last Cato was beyond the curve of the enclosure, out of sight of the guards and he could risk a quick rush over to the angle in the walls. With a last quick check towards them, he rose to his feet and ran the remaining distance to where the wall met the palisade, crouching down and pressing himself into the shadow at its base. Then another glance round. No sign he had been seen. He crept up the ramp to the palisade and looked over the top of the wall.

Inside the enclosure there were scores of Druids, not merely the handful he had been able to glimpse by their fires. Many were asleep on the ground, and Cato assumed there were yet more in the huts lining the inside of the enclosure. Several others were awake, at work on timber structures that were not unlike the frames of legionary catapults. The Druids were evidently fashioning their own crude form of artillery. His eyes searched the enclosure, but the general's wife and son might be in any of the huts. Refusing to give way to despair, Cato scanned the huts once more. He had almost given up when he saw the cage. Beside one of the bigger huts, half concealed in the shadow cast by the overlapping thatch, was a small wicker cage, with wooden bars fastened across the entrance. Behind the bars, just visible in the pale moonlight, were two faces, watching the Druids at their work. Guards stood either side with their spears grounded.

Cato's heart sank at the sight of the wretched prisoners. There was no way to get to them, no way at all. The moment he tried to pull himself up and over the wall he would be seen. Even if, by the most incredible miracle, he wasn't, then how could he alone get them out of the cage? Fate had seen fit to permit him to advance this far in his attempt, and now no further.

Cato lowered himself, knowing there was no way he could reach the hostages without getting himself killed. He had always known this was a fool's errand, but the confirmation of it was no less hard to bear. There was nothing more he could do. He had to leave at once.

He made his way back to the drain hole as carefully as he had approached the enclosure. When Cato was sure that he was unobserved, he leaned through the opening.

'Prasutagus…' he whispered.

A shadow rose from the slope and slid towards him. When the Iceni warrior had positioned himself beneath the hole, Cato dropped down, missed his grip and tumbled towards the gully. A powerful fist closed about his ankle and yanked him to a stop, scarcely a foot above the turds and urine trickling down the steep sides of the gully. Prasutagus swung him back onto the grass and collapsed beside him a moment later.

'Thanks,' Cato panted. 'Really thought I was in deep shit there.'

'You find them?'

'Yes,' Cato replied bitterly, 'I found them.'