The Eagles Prey

Maximius instantly rounded on him and stabbed a finger at his chest. 'Don't you dare presume to tell me my duty, Centurion!'

'Sir, I only meant to remind-'

'Shut up!' Maximius screamed down into Macro's face. For a moment the two officers glared at each other, as the men surrounding them looked on in astonishment.

Cato coughed. 'Sir?'

'What?'

'Were there any survivors?'

'None.'

'Any sign of Centurion Porcinus?'

Maximius winced at the mention of his friend's name.'Oh, I found him all right. In fact I kept finding him.'

'I don't understand.'

'Want me to draw you a fucking picture? If I ever catch the bastards who did this, I swear on my family name they'll spend all day dying.'

The distant pounding of hoofs drew the men's attention to the slope below the fort; one of the scouts was galloping towards them. He reined in a short distance from the officers and his mount sprayed them with clods of earth. The scout dropped to the ground at once and breathlessly saluted Maximius.

'Make your report!'

'Sir, we've found them!' The scout jabbed his thumb over his shoulder, north towards the Tamesis. 'Infantry. Heading west along the river, two miles away.'

'How many?' Cato asked.

'Three, maybe four hundred, sir.'

Maximius shot Cato a withering glance before he addressed the scout. 'You're reporting to me, boy.'

'Yes, sir.' The scout was flustered. 'Of course. Sorry, sir.'

The cohort commander nodded sternly. 'Right. Let's have them. Get back to your decurion. I want them followed. Any change of direction, he's to let me know at once. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then go.' Maximius waved him away and turned back to the other officers. As the scout threw himself back over the saddlecloth of his mount and spurred it away, Maximius briefly collected his thoughts. 'It's most likely to be a raiding party.'

'Raiding party?' Cato wondered.

'What else?'

Cato was surprised. 'Well, it's obvious.'

Macro winced at his friend's unusually blunt response.

'Is it? Well, Centurion, do please share your tactical insight with us mere mortals.'

'They must be scouting ahead of Caratacus' army. He's sent them to check the fords.'

'Why attack the fort?'

'Because they might have spotted the scouting force. Maybe Caratacus didn't want anyone left alive to make any report on his movements.'

'Why kill them like they did? Why did they do that then?'

'They're barbarians,' Cato shrugged. 'They can't help themselves.'

'Bollocks! They're murderers… butchers! That's all. And now they'll pay for it.'

'Sir,' Macro intervened, 'what about our orders?'

Maximius ignored him and turned towards the column, filling his lungs. 'Cohort! Prepare to advance!'

'If we leave the ford uncovered and Caratacus makes for it-'

Maximius turned to him with a forced smile. 'Macro, there's time enough to deal with our friends and then secure the ford. Trust me.'

'But the entrenching tools are in the fort, sir.'

'We can return for those afterwards…'

'If we have to come back for them-'

'Damn you, Macro!' Maximius shouted, hands balling into fists. 'Take your century, then. Get the bloody tools and I'll see you at the ford.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Cohort!' Maximius raised his arm and then swept it forward. 'Advance!'

'Third Century!' Macro shouted. 'Fall out of line!'

Macro's men shuffled off the track and the rest of the cohort followed Centurion Maximius as he quick marched across the slope towards the Tamesis. With a brief glance at the back of the cohort commander Macro grasped Cato by the arm.

'Look here. Things are turning to shit. Maximius has lost it. If he tries anything that puts you and the rest of the lads in any danger…'

Cato nodded slowly. 'I'll do what I have to, if it comes to that. See you at the ford.'

'Right. Watch yourself, lad.'

'I always do.' Cato made himself smile, then turned towards his men.

Macro watched his friend drop into line alongside Figulus, then the Sixth Century tramped by and as the rear of the last rank moved off round the hill Macro ordered his men up the slope. Apart from the steady chink and jingle of the men's equipment the only sound was the raw grating cry of the crows fighting over the fresh corpses in the fort.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER NINE

Nearly an hour later the cohort caught up with the Britons. A compact mass of infantry was marching quickly upriver, towards the ford that the cohort had been ordered to defend. From the outset it was clear that they would not reach the ford first, but their leader was a game individual who would at least give it a try and drove his men on as the Romans remorselessly closed in at a tangent. Then the Britons changed their minds and abruptly reversed their direction, heading away from the ford as they made a last desperate bid to escape their pursuers. Maximius gave orders to the decurion in charge of the scouts to skirmish ahead of the enemy column and slow it down.

So the scouts started to dart in, throwing a few of their light javelins at the leading ranks of the Britons, and then galloping back to safety. When this minor distraction failed to have much effect on the enemy's pace the decurion drew up his men and feigned a few charges, forcing the Britons to halt momentarily to brace themselves for the impact. It did not take long for the enemy to see through the feint and they ignored the third charge, forcing the scouts to quickly break off and scurry away to safety. Even so, some time had been bought for Maximius and his men. A little more than an hour after the cohort had left the fort behind them the Britons turned to face their pursuers.

'Cohort… halt!' Maximius bellowed. 'Deploy into line!'

While the five centuries moved quietly into position the Britons formed up into a crude wedge, two hundred paces away, with their backs to the broad sweep of the river. At once they began to beat their weapons against their shields and raised their voices in a cacophony of jeers, contempt and challenges as they worked themselves up into a frenzy. Most of the legionaries had seen this performance many times in the last year and yet the din and the mad capering of their enemies still worked on their nerves as the Romans braced themselves for the 'Celtic rush' that seemed to be the tribes' only tactical manoeuvre.

Cato walked slowly along in front of his men. The Sixth Century was on the left of the Roman line. Some of the younger faces, and a few of the veterans, wore eloquent expressions of doubt and fear, and needed some form of distraction. Cato stopped and turned his back to the enemy.

'I wouldn't worry about that lot!' He had to shout to be heard clearly above the rising roar of the enemy's battle cries. 'In a moment they'll charge us. All we have to do is stand firm, give 'em six inches of the short sword and they'll break in no time. Most of us have been here before and know the form. For the rest of you, once it's all over, you'll wonder what you were ever worried about.' Cato grinned.'Trust me, I'm a centurion!'

A few men laughed, and Cato was glad to see a release of the nervous tension he had marked in some of those faces an instant before.

'You tell 'em, boy!' a voice cried out from somewhere amongst the rear ranks.

Figulus spun round. 'Who said that? Who the fuck said that?' The optio thrust his way through the front line. 'Which one of you pricks just signed his own death warrant?'

'Optio!' Cato called out. 'Get back to your post!'

'Yes, sir!' Figulus glowered at the men around him before shoving back through the broad shields to take his place alongside the century's standard bearer. Cato met his eyes and gave him a slight nod of approval; the optio's intervention had forestalled any wider breach of discipline. Very well, if some of the men didn't want his encouragement they could wait for the charge in silence.

Fortunately patience was not numbered among the Celtic virtues, and with a sudden great roar the natives rippled forward and charged across the open ground towards the still, red line of Roman shields, above which polished helmets glinted in the harsh sunlight. Cato made himself turn round slowly to face the enemy. His keen eyesight took in the myriad details of lime-washed hair, tattoos and swirling patterns painted on to bare, glistening flesh, brilliant reflections shimmering off swords and helmets. Spears jabbed the air and every face amongst them was twisted and strained with savage expressions of rage and bloodlust that were the stuff of nightmares.