The Eagles Prey

Antonius smiled. So did the others, even Cato, who as a child had lived in the imperial palace long enough to know that the wrong answer to a question could kill a man just as surely as the strongest barbarian warrior.

All morning and into the afternoon, the centurions waited by the smouldering remains of the fire the slave had built to cook their food. When he returned from his interrogation Macro had taken the whetstone out of his leather haversack and busied himself in sharpening the edges of his short sword. He spoke to no one, not even Cato, and refused to meet the eyes of the other centurions as he concentrated on rasping the stone along the bright shining length of his blade.

While Antonius was being questioned Tullius and Felix played at dice, and the luck seemed to be going Felix's way to an extent that outraged the laws of probability. The fact that he owned the dice began to feed the suspicion growing in the mind of the normally trustful Tullius. Cato watched them with amusement for a while. He never bet on games of chance, and thought it weak-minded of men who did. When he had lived in Rome, the tiny sums of money he had bet as a boy had always been on the races in the Circus Maximus, and then only after exhaustive study of form.

A little apart from the others, Maximius sat with his back to his men and his officers, staring down towards the ford and the field of corpses beyond. Cato felt sorry for him, in spite of the harsh way the cohort commander had treated him in the short time they had served together. A ruined soldier, especially one as respected as a senior centurion, was indeed a pitiful sight, and if the inquiry did ruin Maximius he would be too old to achieve anything else in his life. In a few years he would take the meagre pension of a legionary and eke out his days in some veterans' colony, drinking and reminiscing. A centurion's retirement, by contrast, offered a chance for further service and advancement as a magistrate. At the moment Maximius had little prospect of such a future.

He shifted his gaze from the cohort commander, and looked down towards the inviting water of the river. Antonius was still being questioned, and once he was done it would be Felix's turn. So there was time for Cato to have a swim. He stripped down to his tunic and turned to Macro.

'Going for a swim. You coming?'

Macro paused in his work and looked up with an amused expression. 'You, swim?'

'Well, I'm getting better at it.'

'Better at it? As opposed to not totally useless at it?'

Cato frowned. 'Are you coming, or not?'

Macro carefully sheathed his sword.'I think I'd better come. Make sure you don't get out of your depth.'

'Ha – fucking – ha.'

As they set off towards the camp entrance nearest the river, Maximius called after them, 'Make sure you're not too long.'

Cato nodded and as he turned back Macro glanced at him and raised his eyebrows with a weary expression. 'I sometimes wish we were back with those native lads in Calleva. That was nice simple soldiering with no bloody superiors looking over your shoulder the whole time.'

'I seem to remember you saying you couldn't wait to get back to serving with the legion?'

'That was before this cock-up. Trust our bloody luck to get saddled with Maximius. I wouldn't put him in charge of a soup kitchen.'

'He seems competent enough to me. Harsh, too harsh sometimes. But he seems to know what he's doing.'

'What do you know about it?' Macro shook his head. 'Couple of months in the job and you still can't tell what's right from what's shite. And look at the others. Tullius is getting on. Don't know how he managed to keep up with you yesterday – guess he must be tougher than he looks,' Macro conceded. 'But Felix and Antonius are too young, too inexperienced for the job.'

'Five and ten years older than me,' Cato pointed out.

'True. And it shows sometimes. But at least you've got brains and a good eye for the ground. If we hadn't had so many casualties in the last year there'd be better men available for promotion than those two jokers.'

Macro stopped talking as they passed by the gate guards, standing to attention in the hot sunshine. The two centurions were passed through on their own authority and then they began strolling down the slight slope towards the river. The summer grass was long and dry, and rustled against their legs as they headed to a spot a few hundred paces upriver of the ford and away from the bodies that still choked the river. Unfortunately the fluky breeze was billowing from the other direction and, every so often, as the nearby willows tossed their long locks of leaves, the sickening stench of dead men wafted over them.

The two centurions found a place where the bank sloped gently into the water and stripped off their tunics and untied their boots. Macro charged into the water and threw himself forward in a dive, sending a sheet of spray into the air. He surfaced almost at once, shaking the drops from his dark cropped hair.

'Shit, that's cold!' He turned and swam a few powerful strokes into the river. Cato waited for him to get clear of the bank and then waded a few paces out. In contrast to the exhausting heat of the summer's day the water felt icy and he tentatively tiptoed out towards Macro, arms raised and wincing as the current lapped across his stomach. Further out Macro turned round, treading water, and laughed.

'You bloody old woman! Come on in!'

Cato gritted his teeth and relaxed his knees, dropping to the surface. There was a moment of shock, a gasp at the cold water that clenched his chest, then he struck out towards his friend. The strokes were clumsy and he struggled to keep his face out of the water as he floundered towards Macro.

'Just as well I decided to come!' Macro smiled as Cato stopped and trod water close by. 'You need more than a bit of practice.'

'And when do I ever get the chance?'

'Come on, I'll show you.'

Macro tried his best to teach his friend the rudiments of a good style, and Cato tried to make the most of it, handicapped by the fear of having the water close over his head for even an instant. At length Macro gave up and they sat in the shallows, the river flowing around their midriffs as the sun warmed their backs.

'I could get used to this,' Cato murmured.

'I wouldn't…'

Cato turned towards his friend. 'Why? Did someone say anything I should know about?'

'No. It's just that the legate seemed to be in a hurry. I think he's keen to get this inquiry sorted out as soon as possible and get after Caratacus. He's got a reputation to save.'

'Surely not? It wasn't his fault that the cohort wasn't in position in time to stop Caratacus crossing.'

'True, but the cohort is from his legion. Some of the mud's going to stick to the legate. You can be sure of that. It's too good an opportunity for his rivals to waste.'

'Rivals?'

'Oh, come on, Cato! Don't be so bloody thick. Vespasian's made praetor, and it hasn't been an easy route to reach that rank. Someone told me he got passed over the first time he went up for one of the aedile posts. Every step of the way there are more senators chasing fewer posts. That lot would stab their children in the eyes if it would help their chances of climbing the next rung. If someone on the general's staff doesn't try and pin this mess on the legate it'll be a miracle. Which means -' Macro looked sadly at Cato – 'which means that Vespasian will look for any way he can find to fix the blame on someone else.'

'Our cohort?'

'Who else?'

'Poor old Maximius.'

'Maximius?' Macro laughed bitterly.'What makes you think he'll get the blame?'

Cato was surprised. 'He said he would. He said it was his responsibility.'

'And you believe him?'

'Yes,' Cato said seriously.'If he hadn't gone after those raiders, he-'