The Eagles Prey

The nearest lookout jabbed his javelin back over his shoulder as he ran and now his warning was clearly audible to every man in the Sixth Century. 'They're coming!'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Cato dropped his canteen and scrambled to his feet, shouting out orders. 'To arms! To arms! Move yourselves!'

All around him legionaries heaved themselves up and grabbed at their liners and helmets, jamming them on and fumbling desperately with the straps they had untied just moments earlier. All the discomforts of heat and thirst fled from their thoughts as the men rushed to arm themselves. From the track came the continual cries of the lookout as he raced back to join his comrades: 'They're coming!'

Shields and spears were snatched up from the dusty track and held ready as the legionaries shuffled into position. Cato drew his sword and punched it into the air to gain his men's attention.

'Sixth Century! Sixth Century, prepare javelins!'

Some of the men had instinctively reached for their short swords and now released the handles and hefted the shafts of their javelins, staring anxiously down the track. Cato turned to watch with them, willing the lookouts to run faster. The first of them came jogging up, blown by the effort of sprinting back to the century under the weight of armour and weapons. He stopped in front of Cato and bent forward, gasping for breath.

'Make your report, man!' Cato snapped.

'Yes… sir.' The lookout forced himself to stand erect and swallowed to clear his mouth of phlegm.'Beg to report…the enemy's approaching, sir. A quarter, perhaps a third of a mile down the track.'

'What's their composition?'

'Cavalry and infantry, sir. There's eight or ten scouts out front. They saw us and rode back to the main force.'

'They'll make their report,' Cato mused. 'Then Caratacus will send them back in strength to beat us up while the main body advances.'

Septimus gave a contemptuous snort.'They're wasting their time. There's nowhere they can deploy here. They'll have to fight us on a narrow front. It's going to hurt them more than it's going to hurt us.'

Cato smiled faintly as he turned to look down the track. There was no point in reminding the optio that even a few thousand Britons might have an outside chance of besting a handful of legionaries. He turned back to the lookout.

'I want you to run back to Centurion Tullius. My compliments to him, and tell him the enemy is in sight. We'll fall back slowly and delay Caratacus for as long as we can. Got that?'

The legionary nodded. Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes as he stared down the track. 'Where's the other lookout?'

The legionary turned to follow the centurion's gaze. 'Decimus was trying to estimate their strength before he followed on. Here he comes, sir.'

A distant figure came scurrying round the bend, head down and heavy shield bobbing as he ran. His comrades began to shout encouragement as Decimus sprinted for all he was worth. Every so often his helmet glinted as he turned to glance back. The first of the enemy horsemen appeared round the bend when Decimus was still a hundred and fifty paces from the rest of the century. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth, shouting alongside the rest of his men as the optio looked on with a frown. Cato guessed that a veteran like Septimus thoroughly disapproved of officers who refused to comport themselves with a cool detachment. Sod him, thought Cato. There was a time and a place for a stiff and unyielding demeanour, and this was not it.

'Run, man! Run! The bastards are right on you!'

Decimus threw down his javelin, but kept hold of his shield and staggered on. Behind him the enemy warriors, more than thirty of them, urged their mounts forward, determined to ride the Roman down before he could reach the safety of the tight line of red shields that stretched across the track. The tips of their spears glittered as they dipped and were lined up on the back of the man fleeing from them.

'He's not going to make it,' Septimus decided. 'They'll have him.'

'No,' Cato replied instantly. 'Come on, Decimus! Run!'

There was not much further for the legionary to cover, but there was even less between him and his pursuers.

'I told you…' There was no mistaking the trace of smugness in the optio's voice, and Cato burned with cold fury at the man's callousness. The horsemen would not have Decimus if there was anything he could do about it. The centurion turned away from the desperate spectacle, towards the rest of his men.

'Front rank! Ready javelins!'

It took a moment for the men to respond, so rapt were they in the fate of their comrade.

'Ready your bloody javelins!' Cato roared at them.

This time his men hefted their weapons, stepped forward two paces and swung their throwing arms back. Decimus saw the movement and faltered briefly before he hurled himself towards the line of shields. Right behind him the Britons whooped with cruel glee as they realised that there was no chance now that their prey would escape them, still thirty paces from his comrades.

'Decimus!' Cato shouted to him. 'Drop down!'

Realisation of the centurion's intention suddenly dawned in the legionary's terrified expression and he threw himself forward on to the track, rolled a short distance to one side and covered his body with his shield as best he could as Cato shouted an order to the front rank.

'Javelins… loose!'

There was a chorus of explosive grunts and ten dark shafts curved through the air, passing over Decimus and striking the horsemen immediately behind him with a series of dull thuds as the sharp points punched into the flesh of men and beasts alike. At once the air was split by the agonised whinnies of two mounts and the snorts from the others as they tried to swerve away from the stricken horses. One man was down, pierced clean through his breast, and he crashed down on top of Decimus, splintering the javelin shaft with a loud crack. He quivered for an instant, then died.

The impetus of the charge had been broken, and the enemy milled round the stricken tangle of the writhing, wounded horses. Decimus saw his chance at once, heaved the body off his shield, scrambled to his feet and threw himself towards the front rank of the century, abandoning his shield.

'Come on!' Cato desperately beckoned to him. 'Make a gap!'

Two of the men shuffled aside and Decimus made for the space that had appeared between their shields. Just as he reached his comrades, Cato glimpsed something blur through the air behind Decimus and then the legionary tumbled forward into the Roman ranks with a cry of pain. Cato pushed his way over to Decimus and kneeled down. The shaft of a light javelin pierced through the back of his leg, just above the top of his boot, and blood welled up where the thin iron head had entered the flesh.

'Shit! That hurts!' Decimus hissed through clenched teeth.

Glancing up, Cato saw that the horsemen had withdrawn a short distance down the track and were re-forming, ready to charge again.

Septimus loomed over them, glanced at the javelin and nodded to Cato. 'Hold him!'

Taking a firm grasp of the shaft, and ensuring that the angle was right he suddenly pulled the javelin out as Decimus howled with agony. The point came free and there was a rush of blood from the puncture. The optio examined it quickly, then wrenched the legionary's neck cloth away and bound the wound tightly.

'Serves you bloody well right!' Septimus snapped.'Shouldn't have dropped your shield. How many times have you been told that in training?'

Decimus winced. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Now get up. You're useless to us with that leg. Get back to the cohort.'

The legionary looked to Cato, who nodded his assent. With gritted teeth Decimus struggled to his feet and limped through the lines of his comrades. He started down the track, leaving a trail of small splashes of blood from the sodden dressing.

A voice shouted, 'Here they come again!'

Cato raised his shield and pushed forward into the front rank. Septimus hurriedly took up position to the extreme right of the century. Cato glanced round, saw that his men were grimly prepared for the next charge by the enemy horsemen. Just behind him the century's standard-bearer had drawn his sword and was leaning forward expectantly.