The Eagles Prey

'Seize the day,' he muttered, and then gave a small bitter laugh. 'Bollocks.'

There was no poignant appreciation of the world on his senses, no thrill of life, just a smouldering anger at the injustice of it all, and a hatred for Centurion Maximius so intense that he could feel it burning through his veins. Maximius would live on, free to redeem himself eventually for his failure at the river crossing, while Cato would be ferried across an altogether different river, never to return, never to prove himself innocent of the charge for which he was being executed.

As night fell, and the rhythms of rain and wind continued unabated, Cato lay on the ground, shivering miserably as he succumbed to wave upon wave of depressing thoughts and images. Around him, most of the prisoners were equally silent. A few talked in quiet, subdued tones, and one man suffered occasional states of tearful delirium after the sun had got to work on his shredded nerves during the afternoon. Every so often he would call out for his mother, and slowly subside in a choking babble. Further off Cato could detect that the rest of the Third Cohort was subdued, quietly sheltering in their tents. The only sounds of happiness drifted over the rampart of the Second Legion's camp; the odd cries of triumph or disappointment from men playing dice, some faint chorused refrains from songs, and the shouted challenges from men on sentry duty. A hundred paces, and a world away.

Overhead, through a break in the clouds, the stars pricked out of a velvet moonless sky, reminding him of his paltry insignificance when measured against the scale of the world about him. He had almost come to some kind of acceptance of his fate when the first watch was changed. A quick blast of trumpets from the legion's camp marked the passing of the second hour of the night and the two legionaries assigned to guard the condemned men waited impatiently to be relieved. The rain pattered off their helmets as they pulled greased cloaks tightly about their shoulders.

'They're late,' one of them growled. 'Who's it supposed to be again?'

'Fabius Afer and Nipius Kaeso, new boys.'

'Fucking recruits,' the first man spat on the ground. 'Can't move for recruits these days. Bastards don't know their arses from their elbows.'

'Right enough, Vassus. Someone should give 'em a good kicking. Wasn't for them pansies the bloody cohort wouldn't be in this mess.'

'Yeah, a good kicking's what they need. Look, here they come.'

Two figures emerged from the darkness and the sound of their boots swishing through the grass could just be heard above the wind and rain.

'What the fuck kept you?'

'The shits!' a voice cried back, and there was a short laugh from his companion as they strode up to relieve their comrades.

'Hang on,' Vassus muttered, squinting at the looming shapes. 'There's no way that big one's Kaeso or Afer. Who's that?'

'Change of detail!'

'Who is it?'

Vassus was leaning his helmet forward to inspect the new arrivals when a fist shot out of the darkness and connected with his jaw with a loud crack. There was a blinding flash of light in his skull and then he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

'What the…? It's Fig-' His friend's hand instantly dropped to grasp the handle of his sword, but before it had rasped more than a hand's breadth from its scabbard he too was felled, thudding to the ground with a grunt of exhaled air.

'Ouch!' Figulus whispered as he shook his hand. 'Bugger's got a jaw like a rock.'

'Certainly dropped like one.' Macro set down a large sack, and there was a dull clatter of metal from within.'I'd hate to be on the receiving end of your fist.'

Figulus chuckled. 'Just like those shits we dropped outside the quartermaster's tent.'

'Right. Very funny. But this one recognised you. You know what that means?'

'I know, sir. Can we get on with it?'

'Yes… Cato!' Macro called out softly. 'Cato! Where are you?'

Several of the prone figures on the ground had wriggled upright as they realised something out of the ordinary was going on. A ripple of nervous excitement spread through the prisoners, voices muttered anxiously.

'Quiet there!' Macro whispered as loud as he dared. 'That's better… Cato!'

'Here! Over here!'

'Keep it down, lad!' Macro picked his way over towards the voice and squinted his eyes to see the unmistakably tall and thin frame of his friend. 'Want the whole bloody world to hear? Provosts will be down on us like a shot.'

'What are you doing here?' Cato sounded astonished.

'Can't you guess? You and the rest of this lot are going to escape. With Figulus.'

'Figulus?'

'He was seen by the sentries. He has to go with you. You're going to make a run for it. You and any others who want to get out of here.'

'Make a run for it?' Cato whispered. 'Are you mad?'

'As a March hare. But then so are the twats who put you here. So we're quits.' Macro drew his dagger. 'Get your hands up where I can reach 'em. Don't want to go and cut your wrist.'

Cato at once raised his arms, paused, then lowered them again. 'No.'

'What?' Macro replied loudly, provoking an angry hiss from Figulus, who was bent over another of the prisoners, carefully sawing through their bonds. Desperate figures clustered round the optio, tied arms raised up to him.

Cato shook his head. 'I said no. You can't do this, Macro. What if they find out you helped us escape?'

'Helped? I did a little more than that, I think.'

'You'll never get away with it.'

'Just give me your hands.'

'No. Think about it. Where would we go? What happens to you if we get recaptured, and they make someone talk? They'd kill you too. Leave us, while you've got a chance.'

Macro shook his head. 'Too late for that. Now get your hands up.'

Cato reluctantly did as he was told, and Macro grabbed his wrists, fingers groping for the thongs. He found them, carefully slipped the tip of the blade underneath and began to saw. Moments later the thongs parted and Cato rubbed his wrists.

'Here. Take the knife and get busy cutting the others loose. You've got to get out of here.'

'And go where?'

'As far from here as possible. Somewhere you can't be found.'

'And then?'

'Fuck knows.'

'How far do you think a handful of unarmed men are going to get?'

'Not unarmed.' Macro shook the sack. 'I've got you some blades. Enough to go round.'

Cato looked up from cutting the bonds around his ankles. 'That's your plan?'

'You got a better one? It's that or you stay here and die in the morning.'

'Some choice.' Cato shook his head. Execution tomorrow, or inevitable death at the hands of search parties, or the enemy? The situation had not got much better in the last few moments, and now Figulus would join the list of the condemned. Macro too, if his part in this was discovered. The thongs around his ankles parted and Cato rubbed his skin vigorously.

'What now?'

'Head west. To the marshes. It's your only chance.'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Macro told the men to stay down and keep still while he and Figulus cut their bonds. The legionaries rubbed their ankles and wrists, painfully flexing limbs as they waited. All the time they glanced round anxiously for any sign that their escape attempt had been discovered. The centurion handed each man a sword or dagger from the sack of weapons, until he had run out. The man who had been raving just lay on the ground after he had been cut loose. He refused to accept the sword Macro offered him.

'Take it!' Macro whispered fiercely. 'Pick the bloody thing up! You'll need it.'

The legionary turned away, curled into a ball, and started moaning, rising to a shrill keening sound. Macro quickly looked over his shoulder towards the glistening lines of tents, but there was no movement there. He turned back to the man on the ground and savagely swung his boot between the legionary's shoulder blades. The man stiffened and cried out. At once Macro kneeled over him, snatching up the sword that lay on the muddy ground. He pressed the tip into the flesh under the man's chin.