Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (54 page)

‘Scratch Nepos from the list,’ said Macro,jerking his thumb along the rampart. ‘He’s back there. Spearthrust went right through him. He didn’t have time to find himself any armour before he got into the fight. Shame.’

‘Yes, a shame,’ Cato repeated slowly.’So only three of us left now, sir. All we have to do is stick with the story we gave out to Cordus. It’s not perfect, but it’s all we’ve got, and there’s nothing anybody can prove beyond what we tell them.’

‘What if Nepos was wrong? What if Maximius is still alive. Or Felix?’

‘They’re dead,’ Cato said firmly.

‘What if they’re not? We should tell the truth. Tell Vespasian that Maximius was endangering the cohort. That we had to restrain him in order to save the men, and to catch Caratacus in this trap.’ A sudden gleam of inspiration burned in the old centurion’s eyes. ‘We won this victory. We made it possible. That’s got to count for something.’

‘No.’ Macro shook his head. ‘No, it won’t. If we tell the truth then we’re admitting mutiny. You know what the general’s like. Even if Vespasian spares us, Plautius bloody well won’t. It’ll be a nice chance to demonstrate what a fine disciplinarian he is. I won’t be put to death for that bastard Maximius. The lad’s right. We have to stick to our story if we want to come out of this alive, and hope that Maximius and Felix are dead.’

Tullius turned his gaze towards Cato and frowned. ‘You seem pretty confident that they are dead.’

Cato returned his stare without any expression on his face, then replied, ‘I don’t see how they could have survived the villagers’ attack. Nepos was sure they’d been killed. That’s good enough for me.’

‘Let’s pray it’s good enough for Vespasian,’ Macro added softly.

Tullius stared over the rampart towards the approaching legion, still hidden from view by the bend in the track. He chewed his lip for a moment and then nodded. ‘All right then . . .we stick by the story. But there’s one last thing we can do to help our cause.’

Macro looked at him suspiciously.’Oh? What’s that then, sir?’

‘Give Caratacus to the legate.’ Centurion Tullius had shifted his gaze to the enemy commander still beleaguered by the crush of men around his chariot and bodyguards. Tullius issued his orders without once turning to look at the other officers.’I want you to take two sections down there and capture him.’

Macro laughed. ‘You what?’

‘I said, take two sections down there and take him prisoner. You and Cato.’

‘That’s madness. You trying to get us killed or something? . . . Oh.’ Macro’s surprised expression turned to a sneer.’That’s it, isn’t it?’

Still Tullius refused to look at them as he spoke with an icy formality. ‘You have your orders. Now be so good as to carry them out. At once.’

Macro glanced round to make sure he would not be overheard. ‘Now listen here, you bastard-’

‘Sir!’ Cato grasped his arm and held him back. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What?’ Macro glared at his friend. ‘Are you mad?’

‘The cohort commander is right, sir. If we can give Caratacus to the legate, then we should be in the clear. Please, sir, let’s get moving before he gets away.’

Macro felt himself being dragged back, and was sure that the world had gone mad. What other explanation could there be for Cato’s connivance with Tullius’ absurd order? As Cato summoned the men that Tullius had allowed for the task, Macro looked at his companion with a deeply concerned expression. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘We have to do it, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘How would it look if we had a blazing row in front of the men? They’re already suspicious enough as it is.’

‘But he’s trying to get us killed.’

‘Of course he is.’ Cato turned to face his friend directly. ‘It makes sense. If we’re dead he can blame the whole thing on us, and never have to worry that his part in Maximius’ death will be revealed. But if we live, and take Caratacus prisoner, then at least he’s got something impressive to throw in front of the legate. Either way, he’s better off than if we all sit and wait for Vespasian to arrive and pass judgement.’

‘What about us?’

‘If we capture Caratacus, then we’re in a better situation too.’ Cato shrugged. ‘If we stay and face the legate empty-handed, then I’d say our chances are less than even.’

Macro stared at him a moment, before replying, ‘I’d hate to come across you on a gambling table.’

Cato frowned. ‘This isn’t a throw of the dice, sir. It’s the logical thing to do under present conditions. It makes most sense.’

‘If you say so, lad. If we’re going, we might as well get on with it.’

The battered gates were thrown open and the two sections, with Macro and Cato at their head, marched out in a tight formation. They trod carefully over the tangle of bodies, dead and living, that sprawled before the Roman defences. A few of the enemy injured still attempted to resist, and Macro had to dodge to one side to avoid a feeble slash at his leg. He swivelled round, sword drawn back ready to strike and saw his assailant, a little boy, lying propped up against the corpse of a huge warrior. The boy held a dagger in one hand and the hand of the dead giant in the other. A javelin head had ripped a gaping hole in the boy’s chest and his torso was covered in a glistening coating of blood. Macro shook his head, lowered his sword and rejoined the formation.

As they picked their way towards the enemy commander the bodies began to thin out, the footing became more reliable and they increased their pace towards Caratacus and his bodyguard.

‘Halt!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Form wedge on me!’

Cato took up position at his friend’s shoulder and the rest of the men fanned out on each side with a small reserve of six men inside the wedge to give body to its initial penetration of the enemy line. The enemy scattered ahead of them, no longer willing to fight, even though they outnumbered the small Roman formation. Only Caratacus and his bodyguard stood firm. The enemy commander raised his arm and shouted an order. His bodyguard moved forward and formed up across the track. Cato counted twenty-two of them. An almost even contest then, and a true test of each side’s élite fighting men. The contrasts in size, equipment and appearance could not have been more marked. The bodyguards were all huge men, tattooed with ornate swirling patterns. Each carried a long sword or spear, an oval shield and most had helmets and chain-mail armour. As the Romans approached the Celts roared out their battle cries, insults and cries of defiance. Beyond them Caratacus looked on with a haughty expression of pride in his men.

Macro caught the expression as well and raised the point of his sword towards the enemy commander.

‘That’s right, mate!’ he called out. ‘We’re coming for you!’

Caratacus sneered. Macro laughed and glanced back at his men. ‘Be ready to charge the moment I give the word. Go in hard and stick it to ‘em!’

The two sides were no more than twenty paces apart and Cato felt sure that Macro must order them to charge now, while there was still time, but the veteran centurion continued the approach at a measured pace for a moment longer. The tension shattered as Caratacus screamed an order and his men launched themselves forwards.

‘Charge!’ Macro roared, and Cato broke into a run.

An instant later the two small bands collided with a chorus of thuds and grunts and a sharp ringing of clashing blades. The Roman formation cleaved a passage through the loose enemy line and the legionaries turned outwards to fight the enemy warriors. The impact had borne a handful to the ground and they were killed before they could recover their breath and climb back on their feet. The Roman formation disintegrated after the charge, and around him Cato saw Romans and warriors locked in a series of duels.

With a savage cry one of the enemy, a dark-haired brute with a blue tattoo of a horse across his chest, charged at Cato, swinging his sword down towards the crest of the centurion’s helmet. Cato swung his sword up at an angle and parried the blow away from his head, letting it rattle and scrape its way down his shield. The wild strike had exposed the enemy’s side and Cato slammed his sword home into the man’s ribs, breaking two apart as the point of the sword drove through flesh and muscle to pierce the man’s heart. Blood pumped from the wound after Cato wrenched the blade back. He poised for another strike, but the man was finished, and slumped to his knees, muttered a curse and then toppled on to his back.

Cato turned and saw the back of a man fighting one of his legionaries. This was no formal fencing match, but a fight to the death, and he plunged his sword into the man’s spine without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Watch it!’ Cato shouted as the legionary nodded his thanks, then his face turned to an agonised expression of surprise as a spearhead erupted through his throat, tearing a metal plate free from the leather straps that bound the segmented armour together. The legionary lurched forward and over, wrenching the spear from the grip of the man behind him. Dodging round his mortally wounded comrade, Cato leaped at the unarmed man and slashed at his eyes, blinding him and almost severing his nose. The warrior screamed as his hands clutched at his face. Cato quickly turned and looked for another foe.

The fight was going their way. Most of the bodyguard were down, and the survivors were having to take more than one Roman at a time. Macro finished his man off and, glancing round, he caught Cato’s eye.

‘Let’s get him.’

Cato nodded and they edged away from the last act of the unequal mêlée, then turned towards the chariot. Caratacus shouted an order to his driver and stepped back off the platform. With a crack of the reins the two horses reared and plunged forwards. Cato felt a blow to his side as Macro thrust him out of the path of the chariot and he rolled off the track into the crushed grass along the edge.

‘Macro!’

Cato glanced round just into time to see his friend throw himself down, covering his stocky frame with his shield as the horses’ hoofs pounded on the dry rutted earth of the track. Instinctively the animals tried to avoid the scarlet shield, and shied to one side, swinging the chariot round. The finely crafted wheel banged up on to Macro’s shield, canting the platform over. With a cry the driver pitched forward into the traces as the chariot began to overturn, then the whole lot, horses, driver and chariot, crashed into the small knot of men still fighting it out.

‘Shit . . .’ Cato muttered in horror, before he clambered to his feet, snatched up his sword and rushed over to Macro.’Sir!’

‘I’m all right.’ Macro shook his head and let Cato help him to his feet. ‘Shield arm’s gone numb, though. Where’s Caratacus?’

Cato glanced round, and saw the enemy commander running into the marsh, his shoulder still swathed in a bloody bandage. ‘There!’

‘Come on.’ Macro punched him on the arm. ‘After him!’

They crossed the track, ran down the small bank and plunged into the rushes growing at the edge of the solid ground. Brackish water splashed up round their boots, and Cato could clearly see the muddy rippling patches ahead that marked Caratacus’ route. ‘This way!’

The rushes closed in on each side, dense pale stalks giving a dry rustle as the two men splashed forward. The water deepened, rising up to Cato’s knees, and it was no longer possible to see where Caratacus had run.

Cato held up his arm. ‘Stop!’

‘What the . . .?’

‘Quiet! Listen!’

They stood there, straining to hear any sound from their prey. In the distance the sounds of the legion cutting the remnants of Caratacus’ army to pieces drifted through the still air. Individual cries of terror or defiance echoed faintly from afar, but there was no sound close at hand.

‘What’ll we do?’ Macro whispered.

‘Split up.’ Cato jabbed his sword to the left where there appeared to be a gap in the rushes that might have been made by the passage of a fugitive. ‘I’ll go that way. You sweep round to the other side. We’ll close up on each other if we don’t find anything. All right?’

Macro nodded, not even thinking to question the fact that it was his young friend who was giving the orders. The young centurion began to wade off.

‘Cato . . . no foolishness.’

Cato flashed him a quick smile. ‘Who? Me?’

Macro watched him disappear amongst the tall stalks and shook his head wearily. Whatever fate was looking after the lad’s welfare was working overtime. One day Cato was going to catch her on the hop . . .

Cato waded forward, the oily water swirling away from his thighs as the centurion eased himself between the rushes. As he approached a patch where they grew more densely his eye caught a flash of red and he looked closer. A smear of blood gleamed on one of the stalks. Cato tightened his grip on his sword and pushed on, carefully feeling his way through the tangle of soft vegetation hidden beneath the dark surface of the water. Behind him the sounds of the battle gradually faded, muffled by the marsh plants stretching out around him. Cato proceeded cautiously, eyes and ears straining to detect the faintest sign or sound of his prey. But there was nothing, just the unnaturally loud buzz and whine of the insects that swirled lethargically around him.

The rushes began to thin and the water became deeper as Cato emerged into a small open expanse of water. Close to him was a small hummock of earth. The remains of an uprooted tree lay across the tiny island, now covered with a luxuriant growth of emerald moss. The island presented a good point to try to get a better sense of the lie of the land, and Cato slowly waded over to it. As he emerged from the water he saw that his boots were covered with a thick black slime that weighed them down as if they were made of lead. He sat down on the tree trunk and reached for a slimy length of branch to help clean the muck from his boots. A bittern boomed from nearby, causing Cato to jump in alarm.