The Eagles Prey

'Drop your weapons! Drop them, or die!'

The warriors' eyes turned towards him, some filled with defiance, some with hope. Still the legionaries closed in on them, and the warriors retreated, splashing into the shallows of the Tamesis, then wading out until water reached their waists.

'Throw your weapons down!' Cato ordered. 'Do it!'

At once one of the warriors turned and tossed his sword out into deeper waters. Another followed suit, and then the rest threw down their weapons and stood in the slow current watching the Romans anxiously.

Cato turned down the line of the cohort, cupping a hand to his mouth. 'Halt! Halt!'

The centuries slowed and then stood still, a few paces short of the river bank. Cato saw the cohort commander break away from the end of the first cohort and come trotting down the line towards him.

'What do you think you're doing?' Maximius barked as he reached Cato.

'I told them to surrender, sir.'

'Surrender?' Maximius raised his eyebrows in frank astonishment. 'Who said anything about taking prisoners?'

Cato frowned.'But, sir, I thought you wanted prisoners…'

'After what they did? What the hell were you thinking?'

'I was trying to save lives, sir. Ours as well as theirs.'

'I see.' Maximius glanced round at the Sixth Century and leaned closer to their centurion before he continued quietly. 'This is no time for noble sentiments, young Cato. We can't afford to burden ourselves with prisoners. Besides, you didn't see what they did to the men back in the fort. My friend Porcinus… They have to die.'

'Sir, they're unarmed. They've surrendered. It wouldn't be right. Not now.'

'Wouldn't be right?' Maximius laughed and shook his head. 'This isn't a game. There aren't any rules here, Cato.'

There was no mercy in the commander's eyes, and Cato desperately tried another tack.

'Sir, they might have valuable intelligence. If we send them to the rear for interrogation-'

'No. I can't afford to detach men for guard duties.' Maximius drew his lips back in a faint smile. He turned round to Cato's men. 'Get them out of there! Get 'em out and bind their hands. Use strips from their clothing.'

The men of the Sixth Century lay their shields down and started dragging the Britons out of the river. The prisoners were thrown face first on to the ground, their arms pinned to their backs as the legionaries bound them securely. When the last of them had been dealt with, Maximius stood over them with a look of bitter satisfaction. Cato stood to one side, relieved that they had been spared.

'That's them sorted, sir. Won't be giving us any more problems today.'

'No.'

'And we can come back for them later, sir.'

'Yes.'

'I suppose they might try to escape, but they won't get far.'

'No, they won't. Not after we've dealt with them.'

'Sir?' Cato felt a chill ripple up through the hairs on the back of his neck.

Maximius ignored him, and turned to the men of the Sixth Century. 'Blind them.'

Figulus frowned, not sure that he had heard right.

'I said blind them. Put their eyes out. Use your daggers.'

Cato opened his mouth to protest, but was too horrified to find the right words. While he paused the cohort commander sprang towards Figulus, snatched the optio's dagger from its scabbard and leaned over the nearest prisoner.

'Here, like this…'

There was a piercing shriek of the purest terror and agony that Cato had ever heard and he felt his stomach knot, as if he would throw up. The cohort commander worked his sword arm about, and then slowly stood up, a bitter look etched on his face as he turned round. At his side his arm hung loose, blood dripping from the dagger that was tightly clenched in his fist. Behind him the Briton writhed on the ground, still screaming as blood gushed from his eye sockets and spattered the grass around his head.

'There!' Maximius handed the dagger back to Figulus. 'That's how it's done. Now get on with it.'

Figulus regarded him with horror, then looked to Cato pleadingly.

Maximius glared at the optio. 'Why, you-'

'Optio!' Cato shouted. 'You have your orders. Carry them out!'

'Yes…' Figulus nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He turned to the nearest men. 'Get the blades out. You heard the centurion!'

As the men started on their bloody work and the hot afternoon was pierced by terrible screams, Maximius nodded his satisfaction.

'We're done here then. Soon as your lot have finished the cohort moves on to the ford.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied. 'Best move quickly then.'

'Yes. We had.' Maximius suddenly looked worried, and spun round and strode off towards his men. The last of the prisoners was quickly dealt with and the men of the Sixth Century cleaned their blades and retrieved their shields and javelins before forming up at the end of the small Roman column. The cohort had suffered only seven dead, and a handful of men had been injured. Their wounds were bound and they headed back towards the shelter of the fort. The rest of the cohort waited for Maximius to give the order to march, and then they tramped forward, along the bank towards the ford.

Behind them the pitiful cries and screams of the prisoners faded slowly, accompanied by the shrill calls of the crows who were already wheeling above the battleground as they sought out fresh pickings amongst the dead and dying that littered the bright green grass below.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TEN

The ford was situated at a point where the Tamesis narrowed to less than half its usual width. In the middle of the river was a small island with a handful of willows growing either side of the track. The end of their long branches dipped down into the current and provided a green glimmering shade. Centurion Macro looked longingly at the shade as he mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hairy forearm. In a fleeting moment of fancy Macro imagined himself resting on his back under the willow, boots off and feet trailing in the cool water of the Tamesis. It was tempting… too tempting. He frowned and strode across the tiny island towards the north bank of the river. There was a shallow stretch of shingle over which the current swept, its disturbed surface glittering in the sunlight.

As soon as the Third Century had reached the ford, Macro had waded across to test the depth. The water came up to his waist when he reached the deepest part between the small island and each bank. Although his footing was firm enough the current was strong and might easily sweep away anyone who was careless as they crossed. Macro posted one section on the far bank to keep watch for the enemy and immediately set about preparing his defences. It was, perhaps, a hundred paces to the far bank and the width of the ford was no more than ten paces. Either side of the shingle bar the depth increased quickly and the riverbed was soft and covered with long reeds that slowly waved like hair beneath the surface of the river.

Macro had ordered half of his century to seed the ford with small sharpened stakes, and the men had hacked lengths of wood from the trees growing on the river banks and were busy driving them into the shingle, struggling against the pull of the current as they thrust the stakes in, angled towards the enemy shore. If the Britons were forced to use this ford the stakes would not stop them crossing, but might at least injure a few and slow down the rest.