The Eagles Prey

'All right, then. Get me out of here.'

'I can't.' Macro looked away, towards the river. 'Sorry. Want me to find you some decent food? Wine?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Eat something. It'll settle your guts.'

'I'm not fucking hungry!' Cato snapped and regretted it at once, knowing that Macro had only meant to offer him some comfort before the next dawn. It wasn't Macro's fault, and in a moment of intuitive understanding he realised that Macro would have had to screw up his moral courage to come and speak to his condemned friend. It was never going to be an easy discussion. Cato looked up. 'Could use a flask of good wine, though.'

'That's the spirit!' Macro clapped him on the back, and rose wearily to his feet. 'I'll see what I can do.'

Macro started to stride away from the condemned men.

'Macro!' Cato called after him, and the veteran looked back over his shoulder. Cato stared at him briefly, his tormented mind churning with dreadful fears. 'Thanks.'

Macro frowned and then nodded before he turned away and marched off. Cato watched him for a moment and then cast his eyes around, taking in the change of guards at the entrance to the Second Legion's camp. The daily routine of army life continued as before, a routine that had locked him in its harsh embrace for nearly two years now and made him a man. Now that same army had cast him out and, at dawn tomorrow, it would kill him. The sentries changed over and the watch-keeping slate was passed to the centurion coming on duty. Cato envied them the endless routine that would keep them occupied throughout the day, while he simply sat on the ground, a prisoner to his thoughts, waiting for it all to end.

The guards on the gate suddenly snapped to attention as a mounted figure emerged from inside the camp. As the horseman came into the bright orange glow of the rising sun, Cato saw that it was the legate. He rode down the side of the camp towards the men of the Third Cohort, who were toiling to excavate their defences. Vespasian glanced at them as he passed by. Then, as he reached the huddled forms of the condemned men, under the guard of two legionaries, the legate fixed his gaze straight ahead and spurred his horse into a trot. A few of the condemned men propped themselves up to watch their commander. They were no longer bound by military discipline now that the legion had disowned them. Yesterday they would have jumped to their feet and stood to attention, saluting as he passed. Today they were criminals, as good as dead, and any display of respect towards the legate would simply be insulting to him.

That's the difference a day makes, Cato thought wryly. For the condemned men at least. Vespasian was free to live his privileged life out to the end, and a few days from now no doubt would have forgotten that Cato and his companions had ever existed. For a moment Cato indulged himself in a wave of bitter contempt for Vespasian, a man he had served loyally and come to admire. So this was how his good service was rewarded. Vespasian, it seemed, was not so very different from the rest of the self-serving class of artistocrats who led the legions. After a show of opposition to Plautius last night he had caved in at the merest hint of a threat to himself, and meekly gone along with the decimation of his men.

Sickened by the sight of the man, Cato spat on the ground. He stared hard at the back of the legate as he rode down the track towards the crossing, heading towards the camp of the general on the far side of the Tamesis.

'Well, Legate, what can I do for you?' Aulus Plautius looked up from his desk and greeted him with a smile. With Narcissus no longer shadowing him the general felt a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free to continue with the campaign, and in a few more months these lands and their unruly tribesmen would be under his control. The army could then take time to consolidate the territory wrested from Caratacus and his dwindling band of allies. The legions could rest and re-equip over the winter, and be ready for a much easier expansion of the province in the following campaign season. The future looked bright for the first time in weeks, and it was going to be a sunny day with a light, cooling breeze. What more could a man ask for? As a result, the general was feeling well disposed towards the world, and the smile stayed on his face as Vespasian saluted then eased himself down into the proffered seat on the other side of the general's desk.

'Can we talk in private, sir?'

The smile quickly faded from Plautius' lips. 'Is it important?'

'I think so.'

'Very well.' Plautius clicked his fingers, and the clerks working at small tables to one side of the tent looked round. The general nodded towards the entrance. 'Leave us. I'll send for you when I've finished with the legate.'

As soon as the last of the clerks had left the tent, Plautius leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on the knuckles of one hand. 'Well? What do you want?'

Vespasian had not been able to sleep the previous night and feared that his mind might be too dull for what lay ahead. He rubbed his chin as he quickly collected his thoughts.

'Sir, we can't execute those men.'

'Why not?'

'It isn't right. You know that as well as I do. They're not the only ones who didn't perform as well as they might during the battle.'

'You're implying what, exactly?'

'It didn't work out as you planned. Caratacus got away from you, and me. We were damn lucky to catch up with him before he could get the rest of his army over the river. Some people might say that we should be thanking my men for stalling them long enough to make that possible.'

'Really?' Plautius replied coolly.'Some men might say that I let them off too lightly after they failed to hold their ground. Some might say that such a narrow front as they had to defend could have been held by a handful of men, provided they had the guts to do it.'

'My men aren't cowards,' Vespasian replied quietly.

'That's not what Maximius said.'

Vespasian paused. He had to be careful now. Maximius was a senior centurion, a man with a long service record, much of which he had spent in the Praetorian Guard. Such men were bound to have powerful friends and patrons in Rome, who would bear a grudge on his behalf. But whatever the risk for his future career, Vespasian felt compelled to act on his principles.

'Maximius may have exaggerated their lack of grit.'

'And why would he do that?'

'For the same reason that we want to go along with his version of events.'

'The reason being?'

'Self-preservation.' Vespasian mentally braced himself for a sharp retort, but the general remained still and silent, waiting for Vespasian to continue. 'Maximius was responsible for the failure of his cohort to reach the crossing in time to defend it properly. We both know that, sir.'

'Yes. And that's why he shares in their punishment. He could just as easily have been selected for decimation as any of his men.'

'True,' Vespasian acknowledged.'But why should they share the blame for his mistake? If anyone has to be disciplined, let it be him alone. We can't let his men be punished for his failings. What kind of example does that set?'

'The kind of example that reminds the rest of the rabble that failure will not be tolerated in the legions under my command.' Plautius spoke with a quiet intensity.'Whenever it is encountered I will act in a swift and merciless manner. You know the saying: "Let them hate, so long as they fear." In some ways, the fact that innocent men are going to their deaths makes the disciplinary lesson even more effective, don't you think?'

Vespasian stared back, feeling contempt well up inside. The general's attitude disgusted him. What had happened to Plautius? A year ago, Vespasian's appeal on moral grounds would have had its effect. Plautius had been hard, but had played fair with his officers and men. But now…?

'This is insupportable, and you know it,' Vespasian said firmly. 'Those men are being used as scapegoats.'