Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (35 page)

‘Wait . . . sir.’

Cato turned to give his companion a cold look. ‘Get your hand off me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better. What is it?’

Figulus nodded towards the farmer and his family, just as the eldest child’s laughter shrilled out in the warm afternoon air. ‘There’s only one man there.’

‘Only the one we can see,’ Cato agreed cautiously.

‘All right then, sir. Even if there’s another inside the hut, we can still take ‘em.’

‘No.’

‘Kill them, hide the bodies and take our pick of the animals.’ The optio fixed his gaze on the sow, grunting contentedly in her pen. ‘That lot could feed us for a week, sir.’

‘I said no. We can’t risk it. Now let’s go.’

‘What risk?’

‘The moment anyone comes visiting and finds the place deserted, they’ll raise the alarm. The locals will be all over us. So, we don’t take the risk. Understand me, Optio?’

There was no mistaking the centurion’s tone, and Figulus nodded and carefully crawled back, away from the small farmstead into the reeds. When they rejoined the small party of hunters Cato had brought along, the piglet had already been gutted and impaled on one of the spears for the march back to the camp. At the sound of their approach Cato was glad to see them stop gloating over their kill and snatch up their weapons. The tense expressions relaxed as their officers emerged from the marsh and stood, dripping, on the narrow track. Metellus looked at him hopefully.

‘Any sign of more of these, sir?’

‘More than you can imagine,’ Figulus smiled.’There’s a nice little-’

Cato instantly whirled round on his subordinate.’Shut your mouth! There’s nothing there that concerns us. Got it? Nothing

. . . Now let’s get this back and eat.’

The men looked on curiously until Cato snapped at them to pick up their kill and sent one man forward and left one behind to make sure they were not followed. They marched back to the camp in silence, stopping only to cover up any blood that dripped from the swaying carcass of the piglet that might lead the farmer after them, once he discovered that one of his pigs had slipped out of its pen.

As soon as the last skeins of pink light had faded from the horizon, Cato gave permission for Metellus to light a small fire. The rest of his band sat in wide-eyed hunger, impatiently waiting for the fire to die down enough to allow them to roast the splayed pig over the red glow and grey ashes of the embers. Soon the rich aroma of cooking meat and the sharper tang of the fat fizzing down into the fire filled the men’s nostrils, and they moistened their lips in expectation. At the earliest possible moment Cato ordered Metellus to remove the meat from the fire and start cutting portions for the men. The legionary eagerly sawed away at the tough skin and then sliced through the meat, which oozed red juices as the blade cut it away from the bones underneath. Then, one by one, the men sat round the fire, hot meat cupped in their filthy hands as they tore at it with their teeth. Only now and then would they meet each other’s gaze and exchange a contented smile or wink as the warm pork quickly filled their stomachs.

Cato waited until the last man had taken his share, then nodded to Metellus. ‘You first.’

The legionary nodded and hacked off a length of loin he had been saving for himself and then moved aside for his centurion. As he pulled out his knife Cato saw that the best cuts had gone and he had to content himself with a chunk of flesh sawn off from around the back of the piglet’s neck. Then he sat with the others and lifted the meat to his mouth. At once, the aroma was irresistible and he sank his teeth in with all the eagerness of a street beggar tearing at the scraps fallen from a rich man’s feast. He smiled at the thought. Right now Cato would be more than happy to change places with the meanest pauper on the streets of Rome. They at least were not living in perpetual fear of being hunted down and killed like dogs.

As the fire slowly died down the men finished their first hunks of meat and returned to the rapidly cooling carcass to pick at what was left. For a moment Cato considered ordering them to leave the meat alone. There was no telling when the next meal would come their way, and once the effects of gorging themselves had worn off, the men would soon return to the bitter agony of hunger clawing at their guts. But there was an expression of desperation in the faces of the men crouched around the body of the pig, worrying away at it with the points of their knives and the scrabbling tips of their fingers. Looking at them Cato decided that any order to restrain their appetite might be the last order he would ever give. It made good sense to save the food, to make it last a few more days at least. But hunger had driven the men beyond good sense and he must handle them more carefully than ever if they were to have any hope of survival. So the last of the small pig was greedily consumed and next morning all that was left below the faintly grinning jaws was bone and gristle. The head and trotters they cooked the next night, and Cato refused to take his share in order that the scraps went as far as possible. Then there was nothing, and hunger crept back upon them like a thief.

That was two days ago, Cato thought as he woke up, and winced at the ache in his empty belly. He was lying on his side in the shade of one of the trees that ringed their spartan camp.

He turned on to his back and glanced up, squinting as the sun shimmered through the softly rustling leaves above. It was well past noon, and Cato wished that he had slept for longer, having spent the night on watch. After all, there was not much to be awake for. Just the long wait for the scout patrols to come back, and the brief moment of eager anticipation, once they were sighted, that they might have found some food. Followed swiftly by the despairing knowledge that their bellies would remain empty for another night.

Besides being empty-handed, the scouts brought no news of Caratacus and his warriors, also concealed in this marsh. It was as if the depressing miasma had simply swallowed up the remnants of the native army, as it had Proculus.

Cato hastily put aside that memory and turned his thoughts back to the plan he had hoped might win them a reprieve and send them back to their comrades in the Second Legion. He had clearly envisaged the scene: the motley column of bedraggled legionaries marching proudly back towards their astonished legate, who would listen in rapt attention as Cato told him where to find Caratacus and his warriors, pinpointed on one of the maps spread across Vespasian’s campaign desk. A sweet fantasy, that. He smiled bitterly to himself. Any comfort that vision had once offered him now seemed quite hollow, and the vision mocked him as he lay on his back staring unfocused at the sky above.

At length he could bear to torment himself no longer, and eased himself up into a sitting position. Looking round the camp he could see the other men, squatting in small groups, talking quietly. One or two glanced back at him as they saw that he was awake, and Cato wondered what they were really discussing as they refused to meet his eyes and looked away. Then he reminded himself that he had given orders that they were to make no unnecessary noise. He was looking for signs of danger all the time now, and if he were not careful it would drive him mad.

Something was not right . . .

Cato looked round the camp again and fixed his gaze on Figulus, sitting under a low bough a short distance away, whittling a fine point on the tip of a slim, relatively straight, shaft of wood. The centurion quickly rose to his feet and strode over towards Figulus.

‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on patrol.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Figulus nodded.’Someone volunteered to take the patrol instead.’

‘Someone?’ Cato glanced round and then stared down at the optio. ‘Metellus?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Where did he go?’ Cato asked with a sickening realisation that he could already guess the answer.

‘Out past that farm we found a few days back. He reckoned that there might be a track leading from the farm towards some larger settlement in the swamp.’

‘That’s what he reckoned?’ Cato said with bitter irony.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Why not?’ Figulus shrugged. ‘He might find something useful, sir.’

‘Oh, he’ll find something, all right. You can count on it.’ Cato smacked his palm against his thigh. ‘Right . . . get up! You’re coming with me. Get us some spears.’

While his optio quickly rose to his feet and walked over to the weapons stacked in the centre of the camp Cato rubbed his eyes and decided what they must do.

‘Sir?’

Cato glanced round. Figulus was holding a spear shaft out towards him. He took it, leaned it against his shoulder and then checked that his dagger was securely fastened by the sash tied around his waist.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Figulus said quietly. ‘I didn’t think he’d do anything stupid.’

‘Really?’ Cato muttered. ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Come on.’

He turned and led his optio towards the exit from the camp. As he reached the edge of the small clearing Cato turned to call out to the others over his shoulder.

‘No one leaves the camp. Stay alert.’

Cato strode down the track into the swamp, mentally mapping the tracks he had used since they had found the camp. If Metellus was making for the farm then he would most likely take the track they had followed the day they killed the pig. It had been one of the few patrols Metellus had been out on. Cato had worried that the man’s disrespectful attitude might have caused problems, and had confined him to the camp as often as possible. There was a quicker way to the farm, a narrow track that almost disappeared into the marsh in places. It was hard to follow, but if Cato and Figulus hurried they might yet reach the farm before Metellus, and stop him from doing anything foolish.

So he hurried on, sacrificing the usual wary caution with which he had moved through this dismal landscape to the need for speed. The sun shone from a clear sky overhead and the swirling clouds of insects that hovered amongst the reeds closed round the sweating Romans as they waded through small stretches of the thick foul-smelling mud between lengths of the track that snaked through the marsh.

‘What do they eat when Roman’s off the menu?’ Figulus muttered as he angrily swatted a horsefly that was gorging itself on his neck.

Cato glanced back. ‘If we don’t stop Metellus in time, then there’ll be a lot more Romans on the menu. Come on!’

They had been going for nearly two hours, when Cato realised that the landscape around him was wholly unfamiliar. From the position of the sun, he knew they must be headed in roughly the right direction, but they should have come across the farm long before now. They must have missed it, passed it by, and failed to find Metellus. It was with a sinking heart that Cato was helping his optio out of a deep patch of mud when he glanced back the way they had come and froze.

‘What is it, sir?’

Cato just stared for a moment longer and then pointed. ‘Look there . . .’

Figulus stepped up on to the earth bank and straightened, following the direction indicated by his centurion. At first he didn’t see anything unusual, then a faint smudge blossomed in the distance.

‘I see it.’

As they watched the smoke thickened into a thin grey column that trailed up into the clear sky. The base of the column pointed unerringly to its source.

Cato glanced round at the sun, still well above the horizon. ‘There’s still an hour or two of light left. Too much. We have to get back, quick as we can.’

He plunged back into the mud they had just extricated themselves from and with a sigh of exhaustion and resignation Figulus turned and followed his centurion. The march back was twice as hard, as Cato forced them on as fast as he could manage, heedless of the burning weariness in his weakening limbs, all the while staring anxiously at the thin haze of smoke that, in the fading light, seemed never to get any closer.

They could hear the squealing of the pigs long before they emerged from the track through the marsh and ran the final distance through the trees towards the camp, breathless and leaden-limbed. The sun was now no more than a burnished disc of coppery fire low on the horizon behind them, and they pursued their long distorted shadows into the small clearing that formed their camp. There, beside the smoking remains of the fire, lay two spitted piglets. Tethered to one of the trees the sow looked on in terror, squealing for its young with shrill relentless cries. The surviving piglets clustered round her trotters, pink snouts nuzzling their mother for comfort.

The men were bent over the roast pigs, eating, and one by one they gazed up guiltily as they became aware of the officers’ return. One of them nudged Metellus and he slowly rose to his feet as Cato and Figulus came panting up towards the fire. The legionary forced a smile on to his face, bent down and picked up a hunk of meat from the small pile he had carved. He straightened up and held it out towards his centurion.

‘There, sir. Lovely strip of belly. Try it.’

Cato stopped several feet short of the fireplace, and stood leaning on the shaft of his spear, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.

‘You . . . bloody fool.’ He glared round at his men. ‘All of you . . . fools. That fire can be seen . . . for miles.’

‘No.’ Metellus shook his head.’There’s no one near enough to see it. No one, sir. Not any more.’