Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (55 page)

‘Bastard bird,’ he muttered softly.

An arm shot round his throat and yanked him backwards off the tree trunk. He tumbled back, flailing his hands and letting go of the sword. There was a grunt as he landed on top of someone. Someone built like a brick shit-house. The arm round his throat clenched tighter and behind his head Cato could hear the rasping breath as the man strained with the effort. Cato writhed frantically, trying to free himself, and clawing at the arm, struggling to loosen the grip, in vain.

‘Goodbye, Centurion,’ a Celt voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Cato jammed his jaw down against his chest and bit down on the tattooed flesh of the forearm. His teeth crunched through skin and muscle, as the man behind suppressed a howl of pain deep in his chest, and tightened his grip. Cato felt the first wave of light-headedness and bit as hard as he could, until his teeth met and his mouth was filled with blood and a warm lump of flesh.

The man gasped in agony but didn’t loosen his grip.

Unless he could do something else, Cato knew he was as good as dead. He let one of his hands fall way, and groped behind his back, fingers scrabbling across the fine cloth of the man’s leggings. He found the soft yielding package of the man’s groin and dug his fingers into the scrotum and squeezed for all he was worth. At the same time he slammed his helmet back and heard the bone in his enemy’s nose crunch. With a deep groan the man relaxed his grip for a moment. But that was enough. Cato wrenched the arm away from his neck, thrashed his way to one side and rolled off. He was on his feet in an instant, crouched and ready to fight. Six feet away, beside the tree trunk, was Caratacus, doubled up and groaning as he reached between his legs. Blood was streaming from his nose and arm, and he abruptly threw up when he could bear the agony no longer. He presented no danger to Cato in that state, and the centurion rose to his feet, tenderly massaging his throat as he looked round, saw his sword and went to retrieve it.

When Caratacus had finished being sick he painfully heaved himself round so that his back rested against the tree trunk. He glared at Cato, eyes filled with bitter hatred, until recognition dawned in his expression.

‘I know you.’

Cato nodded, and undid the leather ties, heaving the heavy metal helmet from his sweat-drenched scalp. Caratacus grunted.

‘The boy centurion . . . I should have had you killed.’

‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘Funny, isn’t it,’ the king grimaced as he fought off another wave of agony, ‘the way things turn out?’

‘Funny?’ Cato shrugged. ‘No, it’s not funny. Not even close to it.’

‘So much for the Roman sense of humour.’

‘There’s been too much death for me. I’m sick of it.’

‘Only one more to go then, before it’s all over.’

Cato shook his head. ‘No. You’re my prisoner now. I’m taking you back to my legate.’

‘Ah,’ Caratacus grinned weakly. ‘Roman mercy. Finally. I think I’d rather die here than as a sacrifice at your emperor’s victory parade.’

‘No one’s going to sacrifice you.’

‘Think I’m stupid?’ Caratacus snarled.’You think my people have ever forgotten what your Caesar did to Vercingetorix? I’ll not be paraded through your forum, then strangled like some common criminal.’

‘It won’t happen.’

‘You’re sure?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Not my decision. Come on, let me help you up. But no tricks, understand?’

Cato moved behind him and, gently lifting the king under his good shoulder, raised Caratacus up on to the log. A wave of pain swept through the Briton, and he gritted his teeth until it had passed.

‘I’m not moving any further. Let me die here . . . please Roman.’

Cato stood over him, and stared down at the ruin of the man who had caused Rome so much frustration and fear over the last two years of campaigning. There was no question that he would be treated as a trophy. A quaint bauble for Claudius to dangle in chains for the entertainment of foreign potentates. Until the day that the Emperor tired of him and used him one last time to entertain the mob with some cheap death at the games.

‘I spared you, Roman.’ Caratacus’ eyes were pleading. ‘I let you live. So let me choose how I die.’

‘You were going to burn me alive.’

‘A mere detail.’ He raised his hand and gestured towards Cato’s sword. ‘Please . . .’

Cato looked down at him. Once the most powerful of kings amongst the tribes of this island, he was now defeated and broken. Quite pitiful . . . Pity? Cato was surprised at himself. Why should he feel pity for this man who had proved such a pitiless enemy? And yet there was already a peculiar, aching sense of loss in his heart now that the enemy had been brought low. It was tempting to allow him one last dignity, to let him die in peace, and Cato looked down at his sword.

The Briton followed his gaze and nodded.

‘Make it quick, Roman.’

Caratacus turned his head away, and clenched his eyes shut. For a moment all was still: the native king waiting silently for his end, and Cato holding the sword tightly in his hand. In the distance the sounds of battle had ended, aside from the shrill screams of the wounded. The insects buzzed in a cloud around the two men, drawn to the warm scent of the bloodied bandage wrapped around Caratacus’ shoulder. Then Cato abruptly shook his head and smiled. He relaxed his grip on the sword handle, and with a dextrous twirl he rammed the blade back into its scabbard. Caratacus opened one eye and squinted up at him.

‘No?’

‘Sorry. Not this time. You’re worth more to me alive.’ Caratacus opened the other eye, looked hard at Cato, and then shrugged. ‘Fair enough. It would have been a nice end. Still, you might live to regret sparing me.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Cato stepped away from him, cupped his hands to his mouth, drew a deep breath and called out, ‘Macro! Macro! Over here!’

When they emerged from the marsh, the sun was low on the horizon, and washing some low puffs of clouds in a brilliant red. They carried Caratacus between them, one arm over each of their shoulders. Gasping for breath under his weight they splashed out of the rushes, struggled up the grassy banks and deposited the Briton by his upturned chariot, before slumping down to rest beside him. Behind them a column of legionaries was trudging towards the gate.

‘Here.’ Macro pulled the stopper out of his canteen and passed it to Cato. The young centurion raised it to his lips, and then noticed that Caratacus was watching him closely. Cato lowered the canteen and passed it to his prisoner, who tipped it up and eagerly swallowed several mouthfuls.

Macro was angry. ‘What did you do that for? Letting some hairy-arsed barbarian clap his lips on my canteen. You’re going soft, lad.’

‘We want him in good condition.’

‘A bit of thirst won’t kill him.’

‘No.’

Macro turned to look at him. ‘Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?’

‘Just tired.’

‘Well, you’d better perk yourself up, lad. We’ll need our wits about us when we report to the legate.’ Macro looked more searchingly at Cato and saw that his friend was close to exhaustion, covered in filth, and still sporting the straggly growth of beard that he picked up as a fugitive hiding in this stinking marsh. Cato’s tunic was little more than a rag and the harness and belts hung loosely on his gaunt frame.

Macro clicked his tongue.

‘What?’

‘Just thinking. The legate’s going to have a hard time working out which one of you is the barbarian.’

‘Very fucking funny.’

‘Heads up! Here he comes now.’

The two centurions wearily clambered to their feet at the sound of approaching horses. The legate, with his tribunes, approached along the side of the track. At sight of the two bloodied and mud-stained officers standing to attention Vespasian reined in. Macro he recognised at once, but the thin, bearded youth caused him to frown for a moment, before his eyes widened in astonishment.

‘Centurion Cato . . .? Bloody hell, it is you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your optio told me you were still alive. He turned up, with a few others, at the camp. Told me quite a story.’ The legate shook his head. ‘It’s hard to believe.’

‘I know, sir.’ Cato smiled, and stepped aside to reveal the sullen-faced prisoner sitting by the remains of his chariot. ‘We’ve got something for you, sir. May I present Caratacus, King of the Catuvellaunians.’

‘Caratacus?’ Vespasian stared down at the man for a moment. Then he dropped his reins, swung himself down from his mount and approached his enemy. ‘This is Caratacus?’

The native king looked up and nodded faintly.

‘Then it’s over,’ Vespasian said quietly. ‘It’s all over at last.’

The legate stared in wonder at his defeated enemy: the man who had fought the legions every step of the way, almost from the moment Claudius’ Eagles had first landed on these shores. Then he looked to the two officers who had captured the enemy commander. For once, adequate words failed him.

‘Good job.’

‘Good job?’ Macro looked astonished. ‘Is that it?’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Cato interrupted him. ‘We’re just doing our duty.’

‘Of course you were. I wouldn’t expect any less of you two.’ Vespasian smiled. ‘And believe me, Centurion Cato, I’ll try to make damn sure that everyone knows about this.’

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

‘This makes for very difficult reading.’ Vespasian tapped a thick finger on the parchment roll on the desk in front of him. ‘I assume you gentlemen know what this is?’

Cato resisted the impulse to glance sideways at Macro and nodded. ‘Centurion Tullius’ report, sir?’

‘Exactly.’ Vespasian looked out over the camp of the Second Legion. Neat rows of goatskin tents stretched out all around, and beyond that the comforting sight of the ramparts of a camp constructed in the face of the enemy. Even though Caratacus and the remainder of his army had been obliterated the legate was not a complacent man. He was aware that some of his peers might accuse him of being overcautious. Ironic, given the mad dash he had led through the heart of the marsh that day. But on the whole Vespasian was very content to be cautious. Careful even. Particularly with his men’s lives.

Outside, a crescent moon bathed the world in pale silver-blue light and stars twinkled benignly in the heavens. Their distant diamond coldness was contrasted here on earth by the campfires glittering like living rubies. Despite having fought an engagement earlier in the day, his men were happy enough, and the lilt of their conversation, punctuated by bouts of hard laughter, drifted over the camp. It occurred to him that this was what peace felt like. After the best part of two seasons of the bloodiest campaigning his men could remember.

The only immediate reminder of the day’s conflict was the sharp odour from the smouldering remains of fires. The smell wafted over from the silent outline of the Third Cohort’s abandoned fort, a short distance away. The palisade had been repaired by the legate’s engineers, and an internal ditch added to secure Caratacus and hundreds of his men, being held prisoner. Vespasian would have liked to have made an example of the villagers who had sacked the camp, but the natives had run off at the sight of the legion, though only after they had torched the headquarters and a few of the men’s tent lines. Little enough damage considering the opportunity that an abandoned camp had presented to the vengeful natives.

Abandoned, that is apart from the cohort commander and one of his centurions. They had paid the price for lingering in the camp to complete an urgent dispatch, or so the report of the senior surviving officer claimed - corroborated by the two men who stood to attention in front of the legate’s campaign table.

Vespasian picked up the scroll and tapped it against his chin as he regarded the two centurions, and thought the matter over. The fact that Tullius had submitted his report written on a scroll, rather than the usual wax tablets, indicated that he wanted a permanent record of events kept in the archive. That in itself was suspicious; the preferred option of men out to cover their backs.

Vespasian tossed the report on the desk. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe a word of it, gentlemen. So tell me, what really happened?’

Cato answered for them. ‘It’s as Tullius says, sir. We were offered the chance to fight.’

‘With no prospect of remission of punishment?’

‘With respect, sir,’ Macro bowed his head,’when your mates’ lives are on the line, you don’t stop to argue the terms. You just fight.’

‘That I can accept. But this business about Maximius staying behind to finish some paperwork . . . What was it? Ah yes, a dispatch to me.’

Cato shrugged. ‘That’s how it happened, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir?’

‘That would be a most refreshing change, Centurion. Go on.’

‘I suspect the cohort commander knew we were heading into a pretty hopeless fight. I think he was looking for a way out.’

‘I see. And Centurion Felix?’

‘Maybe he was trying to save Felix. Maximius had his favourites, sir.’

Vespasian smiled. ‘And then there’s you two. A fugitive on the run from military justice, and an officer who refused to obey an order. I’d say he was within his rights not to bestow any favours on the pair of you. Wouldn’t you agree?’