When the Eagle Hunts

Cato ran towards the voice. Near the remains of a stone animal pen the legionary was standing by a large pit, covered with a hide cover. He had drawn back one side and was pointing down with his javelin.

'There, sir. Have a look at this.'

Cato joined him and looked into the pit. It was ten feet or so across and as deep as a man. The earth along the edges was loose. In the gloom he saw a pile of dried haunches of meat, scores of grain baskets, some Greek silverware and a few small chests. It was clear that the pit had been dug recently, no doubt to store the spoils the raiders had selected. They had covered the pit with the tarpaulin to keep wild animals out. Cato slipped off his shield and lowered himself down by the chests. He flipped open the lid of the nearest one. Inside he found a selection of Celtic ornaments fashioned from silver and bronze. He picked up a mirror and flipped it over, admiring the fine workmanship of the spiralling patterns on the reverse. He placed it back in the chest and took in the assorted torcs, necklaces, cups and other vessels, all of the highest craftsmanship. Little of this would have been used by the inhabitants of Noviomagus. It would have been gained from trade with native tribes and stockpiled during the winter before it was shipped to Gaul where a high price could be fetched by agents of dealers in Rome. Now the Durotriges had seized and hidden it, no doubt intending to pick it up on their way back from raiding deep into the territory of the Atrebates.

Cato trembled as he realised the full implication. He slammed down the lid of the chest and scrambled out of the pit.

'Find the others, and get them to the centre of the village as fast as possible. I'm going on ahead to find the centurion. Get moving!'

Cato hurried through the brittle remains of the burned-out buildings where only the stoutest timbers and blackened stone walls still stood. He heard Macro calling out orders, and made for his centurion's voice. Emerging between the walls of two of the more substantial buildings arranged around the heart of Noviomagus, he caught sight of Macro, and a few of his men, standing beside what looked like a covered well, about ten feet across. A waist-high stone parapet encircled it and the whole was covered with a conical hide roof. Strangely, the roof had been left intact by the raiders, apparently the one thing they had not tried to destroy.

'Sir!' Cato called out as he ran towards them. Macro looked up from the well, a distracted expression on his face. Seeing Cato, he stiffened his posture and strode to meet him.

'Found anything?'

'Yes, sir!' Cato could not restrain his nervous excitement as he made his report. 'There's a pit filled with spoils near the main gate. They must be intending to come back this way. Sir, we might have a chance to spring a trap on them!'

Macro nodded solemnly, apparently unmoved by the prospect of ambushing the raiders. 'I see,' he said.

Cato's impulse to run on about his discovery was stilled by the peculiar deadness in the face of his superior.

'What's the matter, sir?'

Macro swallowed. 'Did you find any bodies?'

'Bodies? No, sir. None. It's a fu

'Yes.' Macro pursed his lips and jabbed a thumb towards the well. 'Then I guess they must all be in there.'

Chapter Ten

In the failing light Centurion Hortensisus formed a dull silhouette, almost devoid of detail as he leaned his hands on the stonework and peered into the well. Macro and his men hung back, keeping as far from any lingering spirits of the dead as possible. Diomedes sat alone, his back against the blackened stonework of a ruined building. His head was bowed, face buried in his arms, body wracked with grief.

'He's taking it a bit hard,' muttered Figulus.

Cato and Macro exchanged a look. Both had seen the twisted pile of mutilated bodies that almost filled the well. Given the extent of the settlement, there must have been hundreds of them. What horrified Cato more than anything was that no living thing had been spared. The tangle of bodies included even the villagers' dogs and sheep, as well as women and children. The raiders had made it clear what fate would befall those who sided with Rome. The young optio had reeled before the dark vision in the well, and had felt a chilling pang of horror and despair as his eyes fell on the face of a young boy, barely more than an infant, sprawled on top of the heap. Beneath a wild thatch of straw-blond hair, a pair of startling blue eyes stared up in wide-eyed terror. The boy's mouth hung open to reveal tiny white teeth. He had been killed with a spear thrust to the chest and his coarse wool top was stained black with dried blood. Recoiling from the charnal pit, Cato had turned, bent over and thrown up.

Now, half an hour later, he felt cold and weary with the profound sorrow of those who have seen the utter grimness of life for the first time. Violent death was something he had lived with ever since he had joined the eagles. That was barely more than a year ago. So little time, he reflected. The army had succeeded in hardening him without his really being aware of it, but in the face of the bloody handiwork of the Druids of the Dark Moon cult, he was consumed with horror and despair. And as his mind tried to come to terms with the actions of men who so outraged every civilised standard, a steadily swelling urge to wreak savage revenge upon them threatened to overwhelm him. The image of the boy's face flashed through his mind once more and instinctively his hand twisted and tightened on the pommel of his sword. Now the same Druids had their hands on a Roman family, no doubt destined for the same fate as the inhabitants of Noviomagus.

Macro noticed the movement. For a moment he was almost moved to place a fatherly hand on his optio's shoulder and try to comfort him. He had grown used to the optio's presence and tended to forget that Cato lacked experience of the absolute brutality of war. It was hard to believe that the clumsy bookworm who had turned up with the other bedraggled recruits back in Germany was the same man as the scarred junior officer standing silently beside him. The lad had already won his first decoration for bravery; the polished phalera gleamed on the optio's harness. There was no doubting his courage and intelligence, and if he survived the harsh life of the legions for long enough, a good future lay ahead of him. Yet he was still little more than a boy, inclined to a painful degree of self-consciousness that Macro could not understand. Any more than he could understand the depths of the lad's occasional moods, when he seemed to shrink into himself and wrap himself up in a tangle of unfathomable threads of thought.

Macro shrugged. If the boy would only stop thinking so much, he'd find life a lot easier. Macro had little time for introspection, it merely confused the issue and prevented a man from doing things. Best left to those idle intellectuals back in Rome. The sooner Cato accepted that, the happier he'd be.

Figulus was still tutting at Diomedes's shameless display of emotion. 'Bloody Greeks! They turn everything into a drama. Too much tragedy and not enough comedy in their theatres, that's their problem.'

'The man's lost his family,' Macro said quietly. 'So do him a favour before he overhears you, and fucking shut up.'

'Yes, sir.' Figulus waited a moment, and then casually wandered off, as if looking for something else to divert his attention while the century waited for orders.

Centurion Hortensius had seen enough, and briskly strode over to join Macro.

'Bloody mess in there,'

'Yes, sir.'

'Best get your lads to fill it in. We haven't got time for a proper burial. Anyway, I don't know what the drill is for the local version.'