The Eagles Prey

'Macro!'

Cato glanced round just into time to see his friend throw himself down, covering his stocky frame with his shield as the horses' hoofs pounded on the dry rutted earth of the track. Instinctively the animals tried to avoid the scarlet shield, and shied to one side, swinging the chariot round. The finely crafted wheel banged up on to Macro's shield, canting the platform over. With a cry the driver pitched forward into the traces as the chariot began to overturn, then the whole lot, horses, driver and chariot, crashed into the small knot of men still fighting it out.

'Shit…' Cato muttered in horror, before he clambered to his feet, snatched up his sword and rushed over to Macro.'Sir!'

'I'm all right.' Macro shook his head and let Cato help him to his feet. 'Shield arm's gone numb, though. Where's Caratacus?'

Cato glanced round, and saw the enemy commander running into the marsh, his shoulder still swathed in a bloody bandage. 'There!'

'Come on.' Macro punched him on the arm. 'After him!'

They crossed the track, ran down the small bank and plunged into the rushes growing at the edge of the solid ground. Brackish water splashed up round their boots, and Cato could clearly see the muddy rippling patches ahead that marked Caratacus' route. 'This way!'

The rushes closed in on each side, dense pale stalks giving a dry rustle as the two men splashed forward. The water deepened, rising up to Cato's knees, and it was no longer possible to see where Caratacus had run.

Cato held up his arm. 'Stop!'

'What the…?'

'Quiet! Listen!'

They stood there, straining to hear any sound from their prey. In the distance the sounds of the legion cutting the remnants of Caratacus' army to pieces drifted through the still air. Individual cries of terror or defiance echoed faintly from afar, but there was no sound close at hand.

'What'll we do?' Macro whispered.

'Split up.' Cato jabbed his sword to the left where there appeared to be a gap in the rushes that might have been made by the passage of a fugitive. 'I'll go that way. You sweep round to the other side. We'll close up on each other if we don't find anything. All right?'

Macro nodded, not even thinking to question the fact that it was his young friend who was giving the orders. The young centurion began to wade off.

'Cato… no foolishness.'

Cato flashed him a quick smile. 'Who? Me?'

Macro watched him disappear amongst the tall stalks and shook his head wearily. Whatever fate was looking after the lad's welfare was working overtime. One day Cato was going to catch her on the hop…

Cato waded forward, the oily water swirling away from his thighs as the centurion eased himself between the rushes. As he approached a patch where they grew more densely his eye caught a flash of red and he looked closer. A smear of blood gleamed on one of the stalks. Cato tightened his grip on his sword and pushed on, carefully feeling his way through the tangle of soft vegetation hidden beneath the dark surface of the water. Behind him the sounds of the battle gradually faded, muffled by the marsh plants stretching out around him. Cato proceeded cautiously, eyes and ears straining to detect the faintest sign or sound of his prey. But there was nothing, just the unnaturally loud buzz and whine of the insects that swirled lethargically around him.

The rushes began to thin and the water became deeper as Cato emerged into a small open expanse of water. Close to him was a small hummock of earth. The remains of an uprooted tree lay across the tiny island, now covered with a luxuriant growth of emerald moss. The island presented a good point to try to get a better sense of the lie of the land, and Cato slowly waded over to it. As he emerged from the water he saw that his boots were covered with a thick black slime that weighed them down as if they were made of lead. He sat down on the tree trunk and reached for a slimy length of branch to help clean the muck from his boots. A bittern boomed from nearby, causing Cato to jump in alarm.

'Bastard bird,' he muttered softly.

An arm shot round his throat and yanked him backwards off the tree trunk. He tumbled back, flailing his hands and letting go of the sword. There was a grunt as he landed on top of someone. Someone built like a brick shit-house. The arm round his throat clenched tighter and behind his head Cato could hear the rasping breath as the man strained with the effort. Cato writhed frantically, trying to free himself, and clawing at the arm, struggling to loosen the grip, in vain.

'Goodbye, Centurion,' a Celt voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Cato jammed his jaw down against his chest and bit down on the tattooed flesh of the forearm. His teeth crunched through skin and muscle, as the man behind suppressed a howl of pain deep in his chest, and tightened his grip. Cato felt the first wave of light-headedness and bit as hard as he could, until his teeth met and his mouth was filled with blood and a warm lump of flesh.

The man gasped in agony but didn't loosen his grip.

Unless he could do something else, Cato knew he was as good as dead. He let one of his hands fall way, and groped behind his back, fingers scrabbling across the fine cloth of the man's leggings. He found the soft yielding package of the man's groin and dug his fingers into the scrotum and squeezed for all he was worth. At the same time he slammed his helmet back and heard the bone in his enemy's nose crunch. With a deep groan the man relaxed his grip for a moment. But that was enough. Cato wrenched the arm away from his neck, thrashed his way to one side and rolled off. He was on his feet in an instant, crouched and ready to fight. Six feet away, beside the tree trunk, was Caratacus, doubled up and groaning as he reached between his legs. Blood was streaming from his nose and arm, and he abruptly threw up when he could bear the agony no longer. He presented no danger to Cato in that state, and the centurion rose to his feet, tenderly massaging his throat as he looked round, saw his sword and went to retrieve it.

When Caratacus had finished being sick he painfully heaved himself round so that his back rested against the tree trunk. He glared at Cato, eyes filled with bitter hatred, until recognition dawned in his expression.

'I know you.'

Cato nodded, and undid the leather ties, heaving the heavy metal helmet from his sweat-drenched scalp. Caratacus grunted.

'The boy centurion… I should have had you killed.'

'Yes. I suppose so.'

'Funny, isn't it,' the king grimaced as he fought off another wave of agony, 'the way things turn out?'

'Funny?' Cato shrugged. 'No, it's not funny. Not even close to it.'

'So much for the Roman sense of humour.'

'There's been too much death for me. I'm sick of it.'

'Only one more to go then, before it's all over.'

Cato shook his head. 'No. You're my prisoner now. I'm taking you back to my legate.'

'Ah,' Caratacus grinned weakly. 'Roman mercy. Finally. I think I'd rather die here than as a sacrifice at your emperor's victory parade.'

'No one's going to sacrifice you.'

'Think I'm stupid?' Caratacus snarled.'You think my people have ever forgotten what your Caesar did to Vercingetorix? I'll not be paraded through your forum, then strangled like some common criminal.'

'It won't happen.'

'You're sure?'

Cato shrugged. 'Not my decision. Come on, let me help you up. But no tricks, understand?'

Cato moved behind him and, gently lifting the king under his good shoulder, raised Caratacus up on to the log. A wave of pain swept through the Briton, and he gritted his teeth until it had passed.

'I'm not moving any further. Let me die here… please Roman.'

Cato stood over him, and stared down at the ruin of the man who had caused Rome so much frustration and fear over the last two years of campaigning. There was no question that he would be treated as a trophy. A quaint bauble for Claudius to dangle in chains for the entertainment of foreign potentates. Until the day that the Emperor tired of him and used him one last time to entertain the mob with some cheap death at the games.