Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (34 page)

After an hour’s steady marching the column followed the track around the forest and turned up the slope of the small hillock Maximius had chosen for their camp. To their left, across the stream, on a gentle rise, sprawled a large village comprised of the usual round huts, together with smaller structures for stables and storage. Smoke eddied gently from the vents of a number of the huts. A few figures moved on the palisade that surrounded the village and Macro noted that the gates were closed.

‘Officers on me!’ Maximius bellowed.

When all his centurions and optios had gathered the cohort commander removed his helmet, mopped his brow with the felt liner and began his briefing. The rest of the men began work on the area marked out for the camp by the surveyors. A screen of sentries spread out around the crown of the hill, while their comrades began to swing their pickaxes, breaking up the ground for the ditch and rampart.

‘Tullius!’

‘Sir?’

‘I want an extra ditch dug around the camp. Make sure that the ground between the ditches is sown with caltrops. Have some Lilies dug into the ground as well.’

Tullius nodded approvingly. The small pits with sharpened stakes at their centre would be a useful additional defence.

‘Yes, sir. I’ll pass the word to the surveyor.’

‘No. You’ll see to it yourself. I want it done properly. I also want a fortified gateway thrown across the main track where it comes out of that marsh. See that it’s taken care of the moment our camp is erected.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now then,’ Maximius cleared his throat, and focused his attention on the optios.’You know why we’re here. The general and the legate want those men brought back. They’re out there in the marsh, as far as we know. You optios will be running regular patrols into the marsh. We don’t know the tracks and paths through the marsh, but,’ Maximius smiled,’we should be able to persuade some of the locals to act as guides a little bit later. In the meantime, despite the fact it looks quiet round here, we should be prepared at all times for an attack in strength.’

Some of the officers exchanged looks of surprise. There had been no indication of trouble as they marched down the valley, and the farmers that lived here probably wielded nothing more deadly than a scythe.

Maximius smirked at their expressions. ‘I can see that some of you think I’m being over cautious. Maybe, but don’t forget that Caratacus still has a few men left, wherever he is . . .’

Quite enough men, thought Macro. At least enough to wipe out the cohort.

‘You don’t have to worry about the locals. And you don’t have to worry about creating any good relations with them. In fact,’ Maximius paused to lend weight to his next words, ‘I want you to treat them in a way that makes it painfully clear that Rome is here to stay, and that they are absolutely beholden to our will and at our mercy. You will punish any sign of resistance as harshly as you can . . . Do you understand?’

Heads nodded, and there was a murmur of assent.

‘Good. Because if I see any of you going soft on the natives, or showing one shred of compassion or sympathy, then that man will have me to answer to, directly. And I will personally kick his balls through the top of his skull. Clear? Now then, all we need to do is set the tone . . .’

Half an hour later the First Century set off down the slope with Maximius at the head of the column, accompanied by all the optios and Centurions Macro, Antonius and Felix. Tullius, the most senior officer after Maximius, was left to oversee the construction of the camp, and watched anxiously as the small column tramped towards the native village on the far side of the stream. A trampled and churned funnel of earth on each side of the gentle current indicated the presence of a crossing point, and Maximius and his men splashed through the shallows with a loud churning of spray before they emerged dripping on the far bank and started up a worn track towards the flimsy palisade that surrounded the village.

As they approached Macro could see several faces peering at them either side of the gate, and for a moment he wondered if the villagers would make any attempt at resisting the heavily armed Roman column. He raised his hand and let it rest on the pommel of his short sword, ready to draw the weapon the instant there was any sign of trouble. Around him, Macro sensed the growing tension amongst the other officers, and as they came within slingshot range of the gate Maximius gave the order to halt. For a moment he glanced over the defences, then turned to Macro.

‘What do you think?’

Macro saw that there was still only a handful of natives watching them, and none of them appeared to be armed.

‘Seems safe enough, sir.’

Maximius scratched his neck.’Then why’s the gate still shut, I wonder?’ He turned towards the front rank of the column. ‘I’ll send some men forward, just in case . . .’

‘No need, sir.’ Macro nodded past him. ‘Look.’

The gates were swinging inwards, and a short distance inside the village stood a group of men. At their head was a tall, thin figure with flowing white hair. He leaned on a staff and remained quite still.

Centurion Felix moved closer to Macro. ‘Welcoming committee, do you think?’

‘If it is, then it won’t be for long,’ Macro replied quietly.

Satisfied that there was no sign of danger Maximius gave the order for the column to approach. As he fell under the shadow of the palisade the man with the staff finally moved, striding purposefully forward to meet his visitors at the threshold of his village. He started to make a speech in a rich deep voice.

‘Stop!’ Maximius raised a hand and called back over his shoulder. ‘Interpreter! On me!’

A legionary doubled forward, one of the recent replacements from Gaul. Macro saw that he had the same Celtic features as the villagers he was about to question. The legionary stood to attention between Centurion Maximius and the elderly native.

‘Find out what he wants to say, and tell him to keep it brief,’ Maximius snapped.

As the legionary translated the terse request the village chief looked confused at first, and then frowned. When he replied, there was no mistaking the bitter tone of his words.

‘Sir,’ the legionary turned to Maximius, ‘he merely wanted to welcome you to the valley and assure you that he, and his people, will offer you no harm. He had wanted to offer you the hospitality of his hut, and a chance to buy supplies from his farmers. But he says he is surprised. He had heard that Rome was a great civilisation, yet her representatives are so lacking in civility …’

‘He said that, did he?’

‘Yes, sir. Exactly that.’

‘Right then.’ Maximius pressed his lips together for a moment as he fixed the native with a look of utter contempt. ‘That’s enough of this bollocks. Tell him that if I want his bloody hospitality then I’ll take it, as and when I like. Tell him he and the rest of his people will do exactly what I say, if they want to live.’

Once the legionary had finished, the locals looked at each other in shock.

Then the cohort commander pointed at the small crowd behind the chief.

‘That woman, and those brats. They his family?’

The chief nodded after the translation.

‘Macro, seize them! Take five sections and prepare to escort ‘em back to our camp. There’ll be a few more in a moment.’

‘Seize them?’ Macro was almost as shocked as the villagers. ‘Why, sir?’

‘Hostages. I want these savages to co-operate.’

Macro felt torn between his distaste for what Maximius was doing and his duty to obey orders. ‘Surely . . . surely there’s other ways we can win them round, sir?’

‘Win them round?’ Maximius snorted. ‘I don’t give a steaming shit about them. Got that? Now carry out your orders, Centurion!’

‘Yes . . . sir.’ Macro summoned forty men from the head of the column and strode briskly up to the chief’s family. He hesitated a moment and then pulled a woman and her three children out from the rest and firmly steered them in between the two lines of legionaries. At once there was a chorus of angry shouts from the villagers. The woman twisted in Macro’s grip and looked back at the chief. The old man took a pace forward, stopped and clenched and unclenched his fists helplessly, and as she cried something to him, he grimaced and shook his head. Once there was a screen of legionaries between the woman and the rest of the villagers Macro released her arm, looked her in the eyes and pointed to the ground. ‘Stay!’

Centurion Maximius turned to his translator. ‘Tell him, I want one child from each family in the village brought here to me right now. If anyone tries to conceal their children, then I’ll crucify the entire family. Make sure he understands that.’

The angry grumbling from the villagers turned to a groan of horror and despair as the words were translated. Some of the men started to shout at the Romans, faces wild with rage and hatred. The chief dared not let the confrontation develop a moment longer and hastily stepped into the narrowing space between the villagers and the edgy legionaries. He raised his arms and tried to calm his people down. A while later the noise had subsided to a low undercurrent of bitterness mixed with the sobbing of many of the women and children.

‘Tell him to get a move on!’ Maximius snapped. ‘Before I have to make an example to prove I mean what I say!’

The villagers moved to carry out his orders and as Macro watched with a growing sense of disgust and pity, the families brought out their children and handed them into the rough grasp of the legionaries. Nearly thirty of them stood cowering between the lines of Romans, hemmed in by their broad shields and cowed by their humourless expressions. Some of the children screamed and wailed, writhing in the iron grasp of the soldiers.

‘Shut them up!’ Maximius bawled out.

One of the optios raised his fist and punched a young boy, no more than five, in the side of the head. At once his screaming sobs ceased as he collapsed, stunned. A woman shrieked and leaped forward, ducking between two legionaries, and making for the child lying sprawled on the ground.

‘Leave that brat alone!’ Centurion Maximius stormed over to her. The woman, crouched over her son, turned her head to look up at the Roman officer. Macro saw that she was young, no more than twenty, and had piercing dark brown eyes and rich golden blonde hair in two plaits. Her face contorted into a look of contempt and she spat on Maximius’ boot. There was a rasp of steel, a glint of a blade biting through the air, a wet crunch and then a thud as the woman’s head hit the earth and rolled towards the chief. Her child, recovering from the blow, was drenched with jets of his mother’s blood and screamed.

‘Oh shit …’Macro muttered. Then he felt a warm spurt on his shin and he stepped back quickly.

For a moment there was only the sound of the boy’s shrieks, until Maximius kicked the corpse over, away from the child and leaned down to wipe his blade on her tunic. He sheathed it and stood erect, glaring round at the villagers. A man stumbled forward through the crowd, hands balled into fists, teeth-clenched, but was instantly restrained by several of his people, holding him back as he writhed in their hands. Maximius sneered at him, then pointed a finger at the small crowd.

‘Tell them, that’s what will happen to anyone who defies me. There will be no warning,just death. Tell the chief he’s to come with us when we leave. I will give him a list of our needs back at the camp.’

The First Century turned about and, with a terrified mob of screaming children pressed together between the legionaries, the column marched away from the village, back down the slope towards the stream. The villagers followed them through the gate, and a short distance down the slope, numbed into silence by their despair. Macro felt sick, and tore his gaze away from them as he glanced around the valley. Was this the same valley that had been so easy on his eyes as he marched down its length only a brief while before? The age-long serenity of this valley of farmers had been bloodily shattered in the space of a few hours by the men of Rome. Nothing would be the same here ever again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The men were beginning to be openly resentful of him, and Cato wondered how long it would be before the sentiment turned into something far more deadly. They had been hiding in the marsh for ten days now, and the lack of food left a gnawing agony in their bellies that preoccupied their minds above all else. The last meal they had eaten had been some days earlier - a small pig that they had found wandering along a narrow path. When the animal had been speared and killed, Cato had heard someone calling out nearby and, creeping forwards with Figulus, he discovered a small farm on a patch of arable ground that barely rose above the level of the surrounding marsh. There were two or three families working the land from a huddle of small huts. Outside the nearest hut sat a young man and his plump wife, playing with two small children, one of them not yet on his feet. To one side of the hut there were two pens, one with chickens and the other contained a large sow and several suckling pigs. There was a small opening in the side of the pig-pen.

‘That explains our find,’ the optio whispered. ‘Now, if only one or two more get it into their heads to go and explore the wide world, we can eat like kings.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up. They’ll miss that pig soon. We’d better get out of here.’

As Cato made to shuffle back his optio grasped him on the shoulder.