Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (30 page)

‘And if we’re spotted, sir?’

‘You do nothing unless I give the order. Nothing at all.’

Figulus nodded, turned away and ran over to his men, rustling through the long blades of grass and scattering drops of beaded rainwater in his wake. Cato glanced quickly after him, and saw that his men had trampled some of the undergrowth down in their bid to find a hiding place. It was too late to do anything about that now and Cato ran to join the men on the other side of the track. Only the shaking of a tall clump of bulrushes showed where some men were still adjusting their positions.

‘Keep still, damn you!’ Cato called out.

The brown heads of the bulrushes quickly ceased moving as Cato found himself a spot between two of his men and dropped down on one knee. He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Figulus!’

A head popped up thirty paces away on the opposite side of the track. ‘Sir?’

‘Remember what I said. Not until I give the order!’

‘Right!’ Figulus ducked back down, leaving Cato to run a last glance over his band of fugitives. Nearby he could see a handful of his men, laying flat, clearly straining to hear the first sounds of the approaching Batavians. Cato too cocked his head and waited, and found himself praying that the horsemen had lost their tracks and were even now starting to search in a new direction. As he waited his heart beat as fast as ever, and the rhythmic pounding in his ears made it hard to listen. As the drizzle continued to patter down softly on the surrounding foliage everything remained still in the gloomy haze that hid the sky from view. Time passed slowly and the tension increased.

Then, just when Cato had begun to believe that the Batavians had passed them by, he heard the faint chink of riding tackle and loose equipment. Then, the dull thump and thud of hoofs on the track. Glancing round at his men, Cato was furious to see that a handful had raised their heads to look for the source of the sound.

‘Down!’ he whispered furiously, and they dropped out of sight. Cato was the last to go to ground, and he pressed himself into the soft, peaty earth and waited, sword gripped tightly, head turned towards the track, and heart beating like a muffled drum. So great was the tension in his muscles that Cato felt a tremor shaking his leg and there was nothing he could do to still the limb. Muffled, but harsh, guttural voices drifted through the damp air until a sharp word of command stilled the Batavians’ tongues. Then there was quiet, broken only by the faint champing of the horses, and Cato realised that the commander of the squadron had paused to listen for any signs of his prey.

For a while there were only the sounds of nature in the clammy air and Cato, who would have normally relished the gentle rhythm of the rain, felt strained beyond all endurance. He was horribly tempted to jump to his feet and give the order to charge, rather than endure any more waiting, but instead he gritted his teeth and clenched his hand into a fist, letting the nails bite painfully into his palms. He hoped that Figulus was made of stronger stuff and would not be so badly tempted. It was in the nature of the optio to fight, and Cato was not sure how far he could trust Figulus to control his fierce Celtic blood.

At last the Batavian commander barked an order and his patrol trotted forward along the track, no more than ten paces from where Cato lay motionless, breathing as softly as he could. From the sound of the hoofs it was clear that two or three men had been sent ahead to scout the trail, then the main body entered the marsh at a steady pace. If the goddess Fortuna smiled kindly on them today, the Batavians might march right through them and be none the wiser. Cato offered a quick prayer to the goddess and promised her a votive javelin if he ever survived this nightmare.

The rumble of hoofs slowly passed by. There was a chorus of shouts. Cato tensed every muscle, ready to spring up and throw himself upon the Batavians at the first sign their ruse had been discovered. Then it dawned on him that of course their pathetic attempt at evasion had been detected. The same tracks that had led the horsemen here would have disappeared further down the track and that could only mean one thing to the Batavians.

Any moment now . . .

Cato glimpsed a shadowy presence to his left and turned his head. One of the horsemen was walking a short distance off the track, his back angled towards Cato, no more than six feet away, as he lifted his tunic and slackened the cord that held his leggings up. The man grunted and a deeper spatter could be heard above the gentle rain. Suddenly the noise stopped. Cato saw the man quickly lean forward and then he spun round, a cry of alarm already on his lips.

‘Get ‘em!’ Cato screamed as he jumped up. ‘Get up and get ‘em!’

The man nearest him continued to turn, one hand wrenching at the handle of his sword, the other still holding his penis. Cato threw himself into the man, his blade thrusting into his stomach an instant before Cato crashed into him and sent the Batavian sprawling back into the long grass. All around, the grimy forms of the legionaries rose up and sprinted towards the wheeling confusion of men and horses. Beyond them Cato glimpsed Figulus and his men racing in from the far side of the track. The commander of the Batavians recovered from the surprise like a true professional and had his sword in his hand even as he bellowed his orders. But there was no time for orders; all was chaos, a seething mêlée of mud-stained furies, and the large-framed bodies of the horsemen struggling to control their panicked horses while they fought for their lives. Even though they had the advantage of numbers and surprise the legionaries carried only an assortment of blades, while their foes had shields, helmets and chain-mail vests. They also had long-bladed cavalry swords, which they now swept through the air in swooshing deadly arcs at the unprotected bodies of the men rushing amongst them.

Cato glimpsed a glint of light to his side and ducked down just as a blade cut through the air where his head had been a moment before and he felt the rush of air through the top of his scalp as the sword flashed over him. The sharp musty stench of horses filled his nostrils as he glanced up at the man who had tried to kill him. The momentum of the blade had twisted him round in his saddle. Before he could reverse the swing Cato hacked at his elbow, shattering the joint with a dull crack. The Batavian screamed and his nerveless fingers released the sword. Hands grabbed at his cloak and he was dragged down into the mud and killed under a hail of sword-blows and the stamping hoofs of his own horse.

‘Kill them!’ Figulus roared above the din of clashing weapons, the harsh cries of fighting men and the shrill whinnying of the horses. ‘Kill ‘em all!’

One of the legionaries, just in front of Cato, could not get round his comrades to reach the rider and was thrusting his dagger into the neck of the rider’s mount instead. Jets of blood sprayed out from the glossy black hide below the bedraggled mane. There was a roar of anguish and rage as the rider saw what was being done to his horse and his sword slashed forward, cutting through the legionary’s throat and spine in an instant and sending the head leaping from the man’s shoulders in a hot explosion of blood.

‘Don’t let any get away!’ Cato called out, as he quickly glanced round to find a new target. Several of the Batavians were down, one pinned beneath his horse as its hoofs lashed at the air. It tried to fight its way back on to its feet, oblivious to the screams of agony that were coming from beneath it. Cato worked his way round the animal, and then, to one side, the black-crested helmet of the Batavian commander rose up in front of him. The man’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Cato and he threw back his arm to cut the centurion down. As the blade began to slash down the Batavian’s horse stumbled to one side and the blow missed. The Batavian shouted at his animal and yanked the reins to bring it round towards Cato. For an instant his back was to the Roman, and Cato jumped forward, grabbed the hem of the man’s tunic and tried to wrench him from the saddle. For a moment the Batavian commander held his balance, clenching his thighs against the high saddle horns. Then another Roman grabbed his left arm and pulled him away from Cato. The instant he had recovered his balance, the Batavian hacked through the legionary’s arm. As his comrade screamed Cato gritted his teeth and slammed his sword low into the Batavian’s back, cutting through the chain mail and into his spine. Instantly, his legs spasmed and went limp, and he slid helplessly off his horse, arms flailing, as he thudded down on to the track. Cato stepped forward and cut the man’s throat, then crouching low he forced a way along the track, towards the edge of the marsh.

‘You!’ He grabbed a man by the arm, and turned to look for some more. ‘And you two! With me.’

The small party backed out of the fight and Cato led them round the fringe until they reached the track leading out of the marsh.

‘Spread across the track. Don’t let any of them get past!’

The men nodded, and held their blades ready. Further down the track the fight was coming to an end, and the legionaries had had the better of it. Only six of the Batavians still lived, clustered together, and still mounted as they warded off the lightly armed men who danced warily around them, short blades thrusting at any horse or human flesh that came within reach. Cato could see the danger at once. As soon as these men realised that their only chance lay in flight, they would pack together and charge the legionaries, trusting to the weight and impetus of their mounts to carry them through.

‘Don’t just stand there!’ he shouted. ‘Figulus! Get stuck in!’

An instant later one of the Batavians screamed out his battle cry, and it was taken up at once by the other five. They raised their swords high, kicked in their heels and their mounts surged forward. The legionaries nearest to them scattered, diving for safety rather than risk being trampled. Those further back moved aside more deliberately and poised for a strike as the horsemen galloped past. The Batavians ignored the men who posed no danger. They were intent on escape, not going down in a desperate fight in some far-flung marsh at the ends of the earth. So they covered their bodies with their large oval shields, hunched down and spurred their horses on.

The narrow width of the track meant that only two horses could gallop side by side and the Batavians slowed down as they jostled for position. At once, the more daring amongst the legionaries dodged forward and thrust their blades into the sides of the horses, or aimed at the bare legs between the leather breeches and the boots of the horsemen. A horse, stabbed in the flank, swerved round across the track and blocked the three horses immediately behind it. They crashed into the wounded animal and it stumbled back and rolled on to its side. At the last moment the rider threw himself clear and landed heavily at the feet of a group of legionaries. They hacked him to death at once. The other three desperately regained control of their mounts and tried to pick a path round the injured beast, but it was already too late. Their momentum had gone, and the surrounding legionaries rushed in, plucked them from their saddles and butchered them on the ground.

All this Cato saw in a blur of motion; then his eyes fixed on the two Batavians who had led the charge, and still came on, teeth-bared and eyes wide with desperation as they spurred their mounts forward. Cato saw a cavalry sword on the ground close by and snatched it up, the blade’s weight and balance unfamiliar in a hand used to the feel of a short sword. On either side of him he sensed his men shrinking back from the horses pounding down the track towards them.

‘Hold still! Don’t let them escape!’

A moment before the Batavians were upon him, Cato raised the sword and sighted along its length to the glistening chest of the nearest horse, and braced himself. The horse galloped on to the point, which ripped through its hide, tore through its muscle and pierced the heart. Cato had thrown his weight behind the sword and the shock of the impact now hurled him to one side. He landed heavily in the long grass beside the track, the wind driven from his lungs.

The blinding white that had exploded through his head when he struck the ground faded into a cloud of swirling white sparks. Then it cleared and Cato was staring straight up, the grey sky fringed with dark blades of grass. He couldn’t breathe and his mouth opened, lungs straining for air. There was a ringing sound in his ears, and when Figulus leaned over him, with a concerned expression, Cato could not comprehend what the optio was saying to him at first. Then the words quickly became audible as the ringing died away.

‘Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?’

‘Stop . . .’ Cato wheezed, and tried to draw another breath.

‘Stop? Stop what, sir?’

‘Stop . . . bloody shouting . . . in my face.’

Figulus smiled, then reached an arm round Cato’s shoulders and eased the centurion up into a sitting position. Scattered along the track were bodies and splashes of blood. Several horses were down, some still writhing feebly. The others had run off, riderless. Only one remained on its feet, nuzzling the body of the Batavian commander.

‘The last one?’ Cato turned back to Figulus.

‘He got away. He’ll be heading back to the legion as fast as Mercury himself.’

‘Shit . . . how many did we lose?’

Figulus’ smile faded. ‘A third, maybe a half of the men. Killed and wounded. Some of the wounded will die, or we’ll have to leave them. Comes to the same thing.’

‘Oh . . .’ Cato suddenly felt very cold, as the post-battle shock gripped his body, as it always did, and he trembled.

‘Come on, sir,’ said Figulus.’On your feet. We’ll sort this lot out and find somewhere safe to rest, until it gets dark.’