When the Eagle Hunts

Chapter Thirty-Five

It seemed as if he was shimmering between a deep, thoughtless dream and moments of painful, sharp, reality. There was no sense of the passage of time, none at all, just disconnected fragments of experience. The sound of plaintive cries on all sides, their source invisible in the dark. The vague outline of a man's back sitting on a bench above his head. The smell of mules. Beneath Cato, wheels rumbled, jarred and the moment faded and blackness returned. Later, he felt hands gently rolling him onto his front. Something was removed from round his chest, and a man, his voice distant, sucked in his breath.

'Messy Mostly muscle damage. The blade struck a rib, which stayed intact, mercifully. If it had shattered…'

'Yes?'

'Fragments might have penetrated his right lung, there'd be infection and finally, er, death, sir.'

'But he will recover?'

'Oh yes… In all probability, that is. He's lost quite a lot of blood, but he seems to have a strong enough constitution, and I have had considerable experience of dealing with wounds like this, sir.'

'You've considerable experience of sickle wounds?'

'No, sir. Lacerations resulting from sharp edges. Sickle wounds are something of a rarity. Not your usual choice of battlefield armament, if I may be so bold as to generalise, sir.'

'Just look after him, and make sure he goes into quarters appropriate to his rank when you reach Calleva.'

'Yes, sir. Orderly! Drain the wound and change the dressing!'

'I'd really rather you changed the dressing and, er, drained the wound.'

'Yes, sir! At once, sir.'

Cato felt someone probing his back, halfway down, and then an agonising prickling sensation. He tried to protest, but merely murmured and then lost consciousness.

His next awakening was as gradual as the passage of a shadow across a sundial. Cato was aware of a faint light through his eyelids. He heard sounds – the muffled hubbub of a busy street. Snatches of human voices speaking a language he did not understand. The pain in his back had subsided into a steady throb, as if some giant with fists the size of boulders was roughly kneading his flesh. As Cato thought of the wound, he remembered the Chief Druid wielding his shining sickle, and opened his eyes with a start. He tried to turn onto his back. The dull throb at once turned into a searing, stabbing agony. Cato cried out and slumped back onto his chest.

Footsteps thudded on wooden flooring and a moment later Cato sensed a presence behind him.

'Awake, I see! And earnestly trying to rip open your back. Tsk!'

Fingers gently probed the area around the wound. Then the man walked to the other side of the bed and knelt down. Cato saw the olive features and dark oiled hair of the eastern empire. The man wore the black tunic of the medical corps, trimmed with blue. A surgeon then.

'Well, Centurion. Despite your efforts the drain is still in place. You'll no doubt be delighted to hear that there's almost no pus this morning. Excellent. I'll have that closed up and bandaged in a moment. How do you feel?'

Cato moistened his lips. 'Thirsty,' he croaked.

'I imagine you are,' smiled the surgeon. 'I'll have some heated wine sent to you before we put the stitches in. Wine mixed with a few rather interesting herbs – you won't notice a thing, and you'll sleep like the dead.'

'I hope not,' Cato whispered.

'That's the spirit! Soon have you back on your feet.' The surgeon rose. 'Now if you'll excuse me I have some other patients that need my attention. Our legate seems to want to keep me fully occupied.'

Before Cato could ask any questions the surgeon had gone, his footsteps receding at a fast pace. Keeping his head still, Cato squinted at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a small cell with walls of timber and plaster. From the damp smell, the plaster must be quite fresh. In the corner sat a small chest. His armour, with its distinctive phalerae, lay on the ground beside the chest. Cato smiled at the sight of the medallions – he had been awarded those by Vespasian himself, after saving Macro's life back in Germania… But where was Macro now? Then Cato remembered the terrible wound his centurion had suffered. Surely he must have died. But didn't someone say he had survived? Cato tried to remember, but the effort defeated him. Someone slipped a hand under his head and gently raised it. Cato smelt the sweet, spicy vapour of the heated wine and parted his lips. The wine was not too hot, and Cato slowly drained the cup held in the medical orderly's hand. The warmth spread out from his belly, through his body and he soon felt pleasantly sleepy as his head eased back onto the coarse material of the bolster. While his mind slowly drifted off, Cato, with a soldier's delight in small luxuries, smiled at the fact that he had been given an entire room to himself. Wait until Macro found out.

When he next woke up, Cato was still lying on his front. He could hear the shouts and bustle of many men. The orderly had just changed the soiled bedding, and cleaned his patient. He smiled as Cato's eyes flickered open and fixed on him.

'Morning, sir.'

Cato's tongue felt thick, and he nodded his head slightly to return the greeting.

'You look much better today,' continued the orderly. 'Thought you was a goner when they brought you in, sir. Must've been a clean wound that Druid gave you.'

'Yes,' Cato replied, trying not to remember. 'Where am I?'

The orderly frowned. 'Here, sir. Here being the new hospital block in the new fort that's been thrown up in Calleva. Quick work. Just hope it don't fall down around our ears.'

'Calleva,' repeated Cato. That was days away from the hill fort. He must have been out for the entire journey. 'What's all the fuss?'

'More casualties coming in from the legion. Seems the legate has turned over another of them hill forts. We're out of space and the surgeon's tearing his greasy hair out trying to reorganise things…' The orderly's voice trailed away.

'And it would make my life a lot easier if my staff got on with their work instead of gossiping with the customers.'

'Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir. I'll be on me way.' The orderly hurried from the room and the surgeon came round the bed to speak to Cato. He smiled his bedside smile.

'You're looking chipper!'

'So I've been told.'

'Well now. I've got some good news and some bad news. Good news is your wound's healing nicely. I imagine you'll be up and about in a month or so.'

'A month!' Cato groaned at the prospect.

'Yes. But not all of it will have to be spent lying on your stomach.'

Cato stared at the surgeon for a moment. 'And the good news is?'

'Ha ha!' The surgeon chuckled obsequiously. 'Well then, the thing is we're a bit pressed for space, and while I'd normally not dream of imposing on my officer patients, I'm afraid you're going to have to share.'

'Share?' Cato frowned. 'Who with?'

The surgeon leaned closer, looking over Cato's shoulder in the direction of the doorway. 'He's a bit of a sod. Grumbles all the time, but I'm sure he'll respect your privacy and pipe down a bit. Sorry, but there's nowhere else I can stick him.'

'Does he have a name?' muttered Cato.

Before the surgeon could reply, there was a commotion at the door and muttered curses.

'Watch it, you bloody fools!' growled a familiar voice. 'This isn't a bloody battering ram you're playing with.'

More muttered curses followed.

'Who's this you've landed me with? If he talks in his sleep I'll have your balls off.'

The orderlies struggled round the end of Cato's bed and set their patient down with a thump on the bed next to him.

'Oi! Careful, you hopeless wankers. I've got your number!'

Cato looked over, smiling fondly. Centurion Macro looked as white as a toga, his face pallid and gaunt beneath the tightly bound bandage. But there he was, very much alive and on form. With Macro snoring in the same room, he'd never get another decent night's sleep.

'Hello, sir.'

'Hello yourself!' Macro snapped back, then his eyes blinked wider and he propped himself up on an elbow, grinning with unrestrained pleasure at the sight of his optio. 'Well, I'll be buggered! Cato! Well, I… I… It's good to see you again, lad!'

'You too, sir. How's the head?'

'Hurts like hell! An every-hour-of-every-day hangover.'

'Nasty.'

'And you? What happened?'

'Druid stuck a sickle in my back!'

'Get away! A sickle in the back? That's bollocks, that is!'

'Centurion Macro,' interrupted the surgeon. 'This patient needs his rest. You mustn't excite him. Now, please settle down – and I'll see to it that you get some wine.'

At the promise of wine, Macro clamped his mouth shut. The surgeon and the orderlies left the room. Only when he was sure that they were out of earshot did he turn to Cato and continue in a whisper, 'Heard you got the general's wife and son – minus a finger, I'm told, but otherwise intact. Bloody good job! Should be a gong or two coming our way'

'That would be nice, sir,' Cato replied wearily. He wanted more sleep, but the sheer pleasure of seeing his centurion again made him smile.

'What's up?'

'Nothing, sir. Just glad to see you still with us. I really thought you'd had it.'

'Dead? Me?' Macro sounded offended. 'Take more than some bloody Druid with an attitude to top me! Wait till I have another crack at those bastards. They'll think twice before they wave a sword in my direction again, I can tell you.'

'Glad to hear it.' Cato's eyelids suddenly felt very heavy; he knew there was one more thing that needed saying, but for the moment it eluded him. Beside him Macro was complaining about being confined to bed, and if he heard the surgeon tell him to sleep one more time he'd have the man's guts for garters. Then Cato remembered.

'Excuse me, sir.'

'Yes?'

'Can I beg a favour of you?'

'Of course you can, lad! Name it.'

'Could you make sure that I get to sleep first, before you try?'

Macro glared at him a moment, then angrily launched his bolster across the gap at his companion.

A few days later they had visitors. Cato had been shifted round and lay on his back, still bandaged, but much more comfortable. A board lay between the edge of his bed and Macro's and they were playing dice, at Macro's insistence. The run of the luck had been going Cato's way all morning, and the piles of pebbles they were using as stakes were very uneven. Macro looked ruefully at Cato's latest cast of the dice and at the few remaining pebbles before him.

'Don't suppose you could sub me a few of yours if I lose this one?'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied, clamping his jaws together to stop a yawn escaping.

'Good of you, lad!' Macro smiled, swept the dice up into his cupped hands and shook them. 'Come on! Centurion needs new boots…'

He opened his hands, the dice dropped, tumbled over and came to rest.

'Six! Pay up, Cato!'

'Oh, well done, sir!' Cato smiled in relief.

The door opened and they looked round as Vespasian stepped into the room, clutching a woollen bundle to his chest. The legate waved a hand at them as both men ridiculously tried to straggle towards some equivalent of coming to attention.

'Relax.' Vespasian smiled. 'It's a private visit. Aside from being diverted from the campaign to sort out a little problem Verica is having with his subjects. I brought some people to see you before they head back home.'

He stood aside to allow Boudica and Prasutagus to enter. The Iceni warrior had to duck under the doorframe, and seemed to take up a rather larger portion of the room than was really fair. He smiled broadly at the two Romans in their beds.

'Ha! Sleepyheads!'

'No, Prasutagus old son,' replied Macro. 'We've been injured. But I suppose you wouldn't know about that. Being built like a bloody rock and all.'

When Boudica translated, Prasutagus roared with laughter. In the close confines of the room the sound was deafening, and Vespasian flinched. Prasutagus finally got control of himself and beamed down at Cato and Macro. Then he said something to Boudica, and the words came hesitantly, as if he was embarrassed.

'He wants you to know he feels a brother bond with you,' Boudica translated. 'If you ever want to join our tribe, he'll consider it an honour.'

Macro and Cato exchanged an awkward look, before Vespasian leaned over them, whispering anxiously.

'For Jupiter's sake, watch what you say. That's quite an honour he's suggesting. We don't want to offend our Iceni allies. Understand?'

The two patients nodded, then Macro replied.

'Tell him that's, er, very kind of him. If we ever quit the legions then I'm sure we'll look him up.'

Prasutagus beamed happily, and Vespasian puffed his cheeks and relaxed.

'Anyway,' Macro continued, 'when are you heading off?'

'Soon as we leave you,' replied Boudica.

'Camulodunum?'

'No. Back to our tribe.' Boudica looked down at her hands. 'We've got to prepare for our wedding.'

'Sa!' Prasutagus nodded happily, placing his paw on Boudica's shoulder.

'I see.' Macro forced a smile. 'Congratulations. I wish you both well.'

'Thank you,' said Boudica. 'That means a lot to me.'

A difficult silence thickened uncomfortably, before Vespasian stirred.

'Sorry. I meant to tell you straightaway. The general sends his greetings to all four of you. In fact, what he said was, he trusts that the mission you undertook to rescue his family will be emblematic of the relations between Rome and her Iceni allies. Plautius does not think any reward he could give you would do justice to the great deed you have done… Anyway, that was the gist of the message.'

Macro winked at Cato and smiled bitterly.

'I think he really meant it,' Vespasian continued. 'I really do. I dread to reflect on what might have happened if they'd been killed. The whole invasion would have degenerated into a massive effort to wreak vengeance on the Druids. Not that he'd ever admit it. And while he might not have provided you with a reward, he did authorise me to arrange a decoration, and organise a little adjustment in rank.'

Vespasian laid the bundle he was holding on the end of Macro's bed and carefully unwrapped the folds. First out came two phalerae, ebony inlaid with gold and silver, one each for Macro and Cato.

While Cato reverently handled the medallion, his legate continued unwrapping the bundle.

'One last thing, for you, Optio.' The legate suddenly drew up, smiling to himself.

'Sir?'

'Nothing. I just realised that's the last time I can call you that.'

Cato frowned, not yet understanding. Vespasian flicked back the last fold of wool to reveal a helmet, with a transverse crest, and a vine stick.

'Got them from the supplies this morning,' Vespasian explained. 'As soon as Plautius confirmed the promotion. I'll put them over in the corner with the rest of your kit, if that's all right.'

'No, sir,' replied Cato. 'Pass them to me, please, sir. I'd like to see them.'

The legate smiled as he handed them over. 'Of course you would.'

Cato raised the helmet up in both hands and stared at it, swelling with pride and emotion. So much so that he had to cuff away a tear that was moistening in the corner of his eye.

'Hope it fits,' said Vespasian. 'But if it doesn't, take it back to stores and demand one that does. I doubt those officious clerks will be giving you much grief from now on, Centurion Cato.'