Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (39 page)

Maximius sensed the ironic tone straight away and dismissed Tullius with a curt word of command. As soon as there was no one near enough to overhear their conversation he turned back to Macro.

‘What exactly were you and Tullius talking about?’

‘Like he said, sir, it was a professional disagreement.’

‘I see.’ Maximius stared hard at Macro and chewed on his bottom lip. ‘Nothing to do with that traitor we’re looking for, then?’

Macro felt his pulse quicken and prayed that there was no sign of guilt written into the expression on his face as he replied, ‘No, sir.’

‘We’re not getting very far with that line of inquiry, are we, Macro?’

‘We, sir?’

‘Of course.’ Maximius glanced round suspiciously and then lowered his voice so that it was barely more than a whisper. ‘Who else can I trust in this matter, Macro? Tullius is an old woman. Felix and Antonius are too young to be trusted with secrets, and uncovering secrets. You’re the only one of my officers I can rely on. I want this traitor identified and brought to me in chains. You’re the perfect man for the job, Macro.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Just talk to the men. Nice and easy. Don’t push for information. Say as much as you need to, nothing more, and just listen. Then report back to me.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right then.’ Maximius turned round and nodded towards the last patrol standing at ease by the gate. ‘I want you to take them out today. The guide says there’s a few small farms to the east. They might be worth checking out. After all, Cato’s lot will need food. If there’s any sign that the locals have been harbouring them, you know what to do. Make an example of them.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The optio there, Cordus, is from Felix’s century. He’s a good man, you can rely on him. Now you understand your orders?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The cohort commander paused a moment to look intently at Macro. ‘Report everything to me when you return - everything.’

Macro saluted. ‘I understand, sir.’

‘Good luck, then.’

At noon Macro gave the order for the patrol to halt. Sentries were posted at each end of the track and the rest of the men gratefully slumped down on to the ground and reached for their canteens. The sky was a piercing blue, except for a scattering of puffy clouds drifting slowly away to the south of the marsh. Macro craved some shadow and looked at them longingly. The sunshine beat down on the still air that hung over the marshland and every man in the patrol was sweating heavily. The felt liner inside his helmet was drenched and Macro could feel beads of sweat running down his forehead, and dripping on to his cheeks. The heat was exhausting and the men had grumbled about their lot all morning, until Macro had lost his patience and ordered them to shut up. Thereafter they had marched along in silence, growing steadily more surly as the guide led them along the narrow winding paths, through rank-smelling shallows and thickets of gorse without encountering any sign of habitation.

‘Cordus!’ Macro waved him over. ‘Ask him how much further we have to go.’

The optio nodded and strolled over to the native guide. He was a short man, thickset and clad in a rough woollen tunic and leggings. He was barefoot, and bare-headed and the length of leather tied loosely as a collar had chafed his skin and left a weeping red welt around his fat neck. The guide was a metalsmith and depended for his livelihood on the strength in his arms, not his legs, and had suffered even more than the armour-clad legionaries from the morning’s march. Although he had claimed to know the route to the farms scattered amid the marsh, Macro suspected that he had nearly lost the way on several occasions. The fact that his family were held hostage in a small cage in the Roman camp had been more than an adequate incentive for him to find the right trail again as speedily as possible. But now he looked spent, squatting on the ground, chest heaving for breath and looking longingly at the canteen his Roman guard was drinking from.

The man started with a small cry of alarm as Cordus poked him with the tip of his boot. With a cringe he looked over his shoulder, squinting up at the optio as Cordus gave a little jerk of the man’s lead and forced him to struggle to his feet.

Cordus spoke to him in the smattering of Celtic he had picked up in Camulodunum while the Second Legion had been quartered there the previous winter. Between Cordus’ accent and the native’s unfamiliarity with the dialect it took a while for the question to be understood, and then the guide was pointing down the track and gabbling away in his own tongue until Cordus snapped irritably at him, yanking the leather lead to cut off the man’s anxious stream of speech. He let the Briton drop down on to the ground and tossed the leash back to the legionary in charge of the guide before turning round and heading back to Macro.

‘Well?’

‘He reckons we should be there within the hour, sir.’

‘Shit . . .’ Macro mopped his brow as he tried to work out the timing. An hour there, say two hours looking over the small cluster of farms and then six hours’ march back to the fort. It would be dusk before they made it back - if they were lucky. Blundering about in the marsh after dark was a pretty dire prospect. Macro took a quick swig from his canteen and wearily rose to his feet.’Get ‘em up, Optio! We’re on the move again.’

There was a chorus of groans and angry muttering from all sides.

‘Shut your fuckin’ mouths!’ Cordus shouted, ‘or I will personally kick your teeth out the back of your arses! Up! Up!’

Macro made a mental note of approval as the optio strode up and down the path, lashing out at any man who was slow to stir. Cordus was exactly the kind of optio Macro approved of. Not perhaps as bright as Cato had been, but a firm advocate of the kind of harsh discipline that pushed the men on. The thought of Cato was an unwelcome reminder of the purpose of the patrol. Macro compressed his lips and unconsciously started drumming the tip of his vine cane on the hard earth of the path. If they did find Cato and the others, what then? The orders were to take them alive, if possible. But alive they posed a threat to Macro. He would not put it past some of those legionaries to try to strike a deal to reveal the name of the man who set them free in exchange for a more lenient sentence. Some bloody fool was bound to try it on, and the moment Maximius was aware that such a deal was on offer he’d either agree and then, renege on the deal later, or bring in the torturers and get the information out of the hapless prisoner one way or another.

On the other hand, if Macro gave the orders to have them disposed of here in the marsh, questions would be asked. And it wouldn’t take a genius to guess at the reasons behind his desire to have them silenced quickly.

Besides, Macro was not sure that he cared to have Cato and Figulus killed if they fell into his hands. It was a wretched situation in every way and he had yet to carry out the subtle orders Maximius had issued him with before he set out.

As the patrol continued along the path behind the overweight guide Macro fell into step beside Cordus.

‘Hot work.’

The optio raised his eyebrows. ‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Could do with a swim when we get back,’ Macro said thoughtfully, as his subordinate tried to work out if this was a statement or an invitation.

‘A swim, sir. Right . . . that’s just what we all need.’

Macro nodded.’Especially after a day beating a path through this shitty marsh. If we ever find those bastards, I’ll make ‘em regret the day they ever decided to go on the run.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cordus spat on the ground to clear his throat. ‘Them, and that bastard who helped ‘em escape in the first place.’

Macro glanced at him quickly. ‘Whoever he is.’

‘Yes, sir. He’s got a lot to answer for all right.’ Cordus swatted away a large wasp that had been hovering in front of his eyes.

‘Yes, he has.’ Macro paused for a moment. ‘I suppose you can see why the general had to do it. Order the decimation, I mean.’

‘Can you, sir?’ Cordus frowned, seemed to think about it a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Maybe. But ain’t decimation taking it a bit too far?’

‘You think so?’

Cordus pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Course it is, sir. We fought ‘em tooth and nail at the river. There was just too many of them, and we got pushed back. That’s the way it goes. Some fights you just can’t win. You don’t bloody go and throw away forty-odd men to punish a cohort for not achieving the impossible. That’s just mental, that is.’

‘I suppose. But that doesn’t excuse our man from going and setting them free, does it?’

‘No. But it makes it understandable.’ Cordus looked straight at him. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, sir?’

‘I suppose so. Would you have done it?’

Cordus looked away.’I don’t know. I might have done . . .if someone hadn’t beaten me to it. How about you, sir?’

Macro paused a while before he replied. ‘It ain’t an option for a centurion. It’s our job to enforce the discipline, no matter how unfairly it’s applied.’

‘And if you weren’t a centurion, sir?’

‘I don’t know.’ Macro looked away with a pained, guilty expression. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

Cordus glanced at him quickly and then dropped back a pace in deference to Macro’s rank. As the patrol wearily continued its march Macro considered Cordus’ attitude to the fugitives. If the hardened optio had sympathy for the condemned men, then how many more men in the cohort felt the same way? And Cordus had gone beyond mere sympathy. The optio had hinted at a willingness to have helped the men escape. If that was the common feeling among the men, then the pool of suspects was sufficiently broad to offer Macro some hope of concealment. He felt a momentary lessening of the burden of his complicity in the escape. At least until the fugitives were tracked down.

‘That’s it?’ Macro nodded down the track towards the silent round huts. A faint heat haze wavered across the track and made it look as if the nearest of the huts was floating on a sheet of water.

‘Sa!’ The guide nodded.

The two men were lying down and peering cautiously through some tufts of grass that grew either side of the track. Ahead of them the track opened out on to a wide area that rose up from the surrounding marsh. The space was covered with barley crops, interspersed with a few penned areas where sheep stretched out in whatever shade they could find, fat flanks rising and sinking as the beasts rested. It was a good place to have settled, Macro realised. Hidden away from the rest of the world, and from the eyes of any raiding parties from hostile tribes. If it became necessary, the narrow track leading into the farmland could be barricaded to discourage any raiders. But there had been no one left to watch the track, and there was no sign of life from the huts.

Macro ran a hand over the sweaty dark curls plastered to his head. He had taken off his crested helmet and left it with Cordus before creeping ahead with the guide. It had been a huge relief to free his head from the tight, confining discomfort of the helmet and the felt liner that was prone to itch when drenched in perspiration.

He jabbed a finger back down the track, away from the farm. ‘Come on!’

Cordus and the others were tense and impatient and looked up expectantly when Macro and the guide returned. Cordus held out the centurion’s helmet and Macro pulled on the liner, then the helmet, as he reported what he had seen.

‘Nothing’s moving. No sign of anyone at all.’

‘Think it’s a trap, sir?’

‘No. If it was a trap, they’d want to lure us in; make it look peaceful and harmless before they sprung their surprise. It just looks deserted.’

‘Or abandoned?’

Macro shook his head. ‘There are crops, and I saw some animals. We’ll enter the farm in close order and stay formed up until it looks safe.’

As the patrol marched between the nearest round huts the legionaries kept their heavy shields up and darted anxious glances at the entrances and towards any place that might conceal an enemy. But the silence persisted and added to the oppressive atmosphere of heat and stillness that smothered the landscape.

Macro raised his hand. ‘Halt!’

The patrol shuffled their boots for a moment and then all was quiet. Macro indicated the largest huts.’Search them! Two men each!’

As the legionaries peeled away and began to approach the structures cautiously Macro slumped down on a heavily scored tree stump that served the farmers as a base for log-splitting. He reached for his canteen and was about to pull out the stopper when there was a shout from the nearest hut.

‘Over here! Over here!’

A legionary backed out of the dark entrance to the hut, his arm raised to cover his nose and mouth. Macro let go of his canteen, sprang up, and ran over to the man. As he reached the hut a foul stench of decay assaulted his nostrils and he slowed down involuntarily. The legionary turned round as he sensed the centurion’s approach.

‘Report!’

‘Bodies, sir. The hut’s full of them.’

Macro eased the legionary to one side, swallowed and then, grimacing at the smell, he ducked his head inside the hut, keeping to one side to let the light penetrate the shadows within. The place was alive with the buzzing of flies and Macro saw perhaps ten bodies heaped like discarded dolls in the centre of the hut. Propping his shield up against the door frame, Macro squeezed inside, stepped over to the corpses and kneeled down, fighting back the urge to vomit. There were three men, one old and wrinkled, and the rest were children, twisted grotesquely and staring sightlessly from unblemished faces beneath the usual tousled hair of Celtic youngsters.