The Eagles Prey

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The men of the Second Legion had spent the night in the open, curled up by their equipment. They slept deeply, exhausted by the rapid marching of the day before, and by the construction of the marching camp. Since their entrenching equipment had been left with the baggage train the men had dug the ditches with their swords and piled up the inner rampart by hand. Roughly cut wooden stakes projected from the outer face of the rampart, and sentries patrolled along each side of the camp.

The men of the Third Cohort were the most exhausted of them all, having had to fight a battle on top of everything else. Yet a handful of them were denied sleep and tossed restlessly on the flattened grass. Some because they could not forget the terrible sights and sensations that had been etched into their minds, others mourned the loss of close friends, cut down in front of their eyes. But for Cato the cause of sleeplessness was anxiety about the days to come, rather than the eventful day that had passed.

The escape of a significant number of the enemy practically guaranteed that the exhausting struggle would continue. Even if Caratacus was not amongst them, then one of his lieutenants was bound to swear the survivors to further resistance to Rome, spurred on by the need to exact revenge for the loss of so many of their comrades. They would ensure that more blood was spilled, and Cato wondered how much more the soil of this land could absorb before it sank into a sea of gore. The image was fanciful and he smiled mirthlessly and turned over, pulling his cloak round his shoulders and resting his head on his greaves.

But worse than the escape of the enemy was the failure of the cohort to do its duty. Centurion Maximius had fouled up badly. He should never have diverted from his mission to chase down the small band that had sacked the supply fort and slaughtered its garrison. He should have made straight for the ford.

Maximius well knew that he would be called to account for this costly error in judgement, and before the cohort had bedded down for the night he had summoned his officers for a quiet meeting, out of earshot of the men.

'There'll be questions asked about today's events,' he had begun, staring intently into the moonlit faces of his centurions. 'I'm counting on you to stick together on this. I'll speak for us, and take whatever blame the legate tries to pin on the Third Cohort.'

His expression had been sincere and Cato had felt a simultaneous wave of relief that the blame would not attach to him, and then a shameful sense of empathy for the cohort commander who could expect to be harshly disciplined. Maximius' career was over. He would be lucky if he was only broken back to the ranks. That in itself was a bad fall from grace. His pay, pension and the privileges due to his present post would all be lost and the men who had suffered punishment at his hands would be seeking to exact a painful revenge when he became their equal.

'I'm sorry I led you to this,' Maximius had continued. 'You're fine men, and you lead fine men. You deserved better.'

There'd been a painful silence before Felix leaned forward and clasped the cohort commander's arm. 'It's been an honour to serve with you, sir.'

'Thank you, lad. I knew I could count on your loyalty. And the loyalty of the rest of you, eh?'

The centurions had murmured their agreement, all except Macro, who stood stiffly and refused to make a sound. If Maximius noticed, he'd made no mention of it as he clasped the arms of his officers and bid them good night.

'Remember, I'll speak for us all…'

Before sunrise the trumpets sounded and all across the marching camp men stirred, muscles stiff. Those with injuries winced at the aching and throbbing from under their dressings. Cato, who had finally fallen asleep only a few hours earlier, did not stir with the others and his men let him sleep on, partly out of kindness but mostly because the longer he slept the longer it would be before his orders stirred them into the daily routine. So it was that Macro came to find him after the sun had risen, tutting as he discovered his lanky friend still asleep under his cape, mouth hanging open and an arm stretched out above the shock of dark curls on his head. Macro shoved his boot into Cato's side and rolled him over.

'Come on! Wakey, wakey! Sun's burning your eyes out.'

'Ohhh…' Cato groaned, squinting up at the clear sky. His gaze drifted across to the grizzled features of his friend and he sat up with a guilty start. 'Shit!'

'You fully awake now?' Macro asked quietly as he glanced around.

Cato nodded, and stretched his shoulders. 'What's up?'

'Plenty. There's a rumour going round that the general has ordered an inquiry into yesterday's cock-up.'

'An inquiry?'

'Shhh! Not so loud. There's also talk that they're going to make an example of whoever is held responsible.'

Cato looked up at him. 'Where'd you hear all this?'

'One of the legate's clerks told me. He had it from someone on the general's staff.'

'Oh, it must be true then,' Cato muttered.

Macro ignored his sarcastic tone. 'Sounds plausible enough to me. They're going to need someone to blame, and it happened on our patch. So watch your back.'

'Maximius went through that last night. He's carrying the responsibility.'

'That's what he said…'

'You don't believe him?'

Macro shrugged. 'I don't trust him.'

'There's a difference?'

'For now. Come on, you'd better get up.'

'The legion's on the march again?' Cato hoped not. His muscles ached terribly, and the prospect of another day's tramping across the land under a blistering hot sun was almost unbearable.

'No. General's sent some mounted cohorts after the enemy. We're to rest here and wait for the baggage trains to come up.'

'Good.' Cato threw back his cape, struggled to his feet and stretched his neck.

Macro nodded over his shoulder. 'Maximius' slave has got breakfast on the go. He's brought some provisions with him. See you over there.'

The centurions of the Third Cohort sat around a small fire over which the slave was frying several thick sausages in olive oil. A jar of warmed mulsum rested close to the fire and a honeyed scent curled up from the spout. The slave had arrived at sunrise and set straight to work, having walked through the night to catch up with his master. The air was filled with the aroma of meat as the pan sizzled and spat. The nearest legionaries looked over with twitching nostrils, knowing that they had several hours to wait before the baggage train arrived with their food.

'Jupiter's balls!' Centurion Tullius growled. 'Will you hurry up with those sausages? I'll start chewing my bloody boot leather if I have to wait much longer.'

'It's nearly ready, master,' the slave replied quietly, well used to the impatience of centurions.

While they waited Cato looked across the river. The far bank was covered with bodies, washed in the rosy glow of sunrise. Above them wheeled a swirling cloud of carrion birds, drawn to the ripe stench of death. Scores of them had already settled to plucking shreds of flesh from the bodies. But even that failed to ruin Cato's appetite when the slave handed him his mess tin, filled with steaming sliced sausage and hunks of bread. The centurions set to the meal and soon the warm food in their bellies had revived their spirits and, mouths full, they began to talk about the battle.

'How was it on the island, Macro?' asked Felix. 'How long did you hold them for?'

Macro thought about it, trying to recall the detail.'An hour or so.'

'You fought them off for an hour?' Felix's jaw dropped in amazement. 'The whole bloody army?'

'Not the whole army, you twat!' Macro jabbed a finger towards the ford. 'They could only take us on a few at a time. And then only after they cleared away the little surprises we'd prepared for them. I doubt we were in contact for a fraction of that time. And that was more than enough.'

Maximius was watching him closely. 'Why did you give way?'