When the Eagle Hunts

The Romans shuddered with distaste at the thought of subjecting the dead to gradual decay. It was one of the more disgusting practices employed by the less civilised nations of the world. Cremation was a neat and tidy end to corporeal existence.

'Back to your units. We leave at once.'

The sun inscribed a shallow parabola across a clear sky on the second day of the cohort's march back to the Second Legion. The previous night had been spent in a hastily erected marching camp and despite the exhausting effort of breaking up the frozen ground to make the ditch and i

Without any rest periods to relieve the pressure of the hard yoke poles on the men's shoulders, the march was an agony. The men in the ranks grumbled about their officers in increasingly bitter undertones as they forced themselves to place one foot in front of the other. Not many had slept since the night before the attack on the Durotriges. By early afternoon on the second day, as the sun began to dip towards the smudgy grey of the winter horizon, Cato wondered how much longer he could bear the strain. His collarbone was being rubbed raw under its burden, his eyes were stinging with weariness and every pace sent shooting pains up from the soles of his feet.

Looking round at the rest of the century, Cato could see the same strained expressions etched on every face. Even when Centurion Hortensius called a halt to the march at the end of the afternoon, the men would have to begin the back-breaking work of preparing a marching camp. The prospect of having to tackle the frozen soil with his pickaxe filled Cato with dread. As so often before, he cursed himself for being in the army and his imagination dwelt on the relative comforts of the life he had previously enjoyed as a slave in the imperial palace in Rome.

Just as he surrendered to the need to shut his eyes and savour the image of a neat little desk close by the warm, flickering glow of a brazier, Cato was snapped back to reality by a sudden cry. Figulus had stumbled and fallen and was scrabbling to retrieve his scattered equipment. Gratefully dropping out of the column, Cato dumped his pack and helped Figulus back onto his feet.

'Pick up your stuff and get back in line.'

Figulus nodded and reached for his yoke.

'Sweet mother! What the fuck is going on here?' Hortensius bawled as he raced down the column towards the two men. 'You ladies are not being paid by the fucking hour! Optio, is he one of yours?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then why aren't you giving him a bloody kicking?'

'Sir?' Cato blushed. 'A kicking?' He looked up the column towards Macro, in the hope of support from his centurion. But Macro was veteran enough to know when not to intervene in a confrontation and did not even glance back.

'Deaf as well as dumb?' Hortensius roared into his face. 'Only dead soldiers are allowed to fall out of line in my cohort, understand? Any other bastard who gives it a try will fucking wish he was dead! Get it?'

'Yes, sir.'

To one side, Figulus quickly continued hooking his equipment to the yoke. The senior centurion spun round. 'Did I say you could move?'

Figulus shook his head and the senior centurion's vine cane instantly lashed out and smashed onto the side of the legionary's helmet with a sharp clang. 'Can't hear you! You've got a bloody mouth. Use it!'

'Yes, sir,' Figulus snapped back, clenching his teeth against the ringing pain in his head. He dropped his equipment and stood to attention. 'No, sir. You did not say I could move.'

'Right! Now pick up your shield and javelin. Leave the rest. Next time you'll think twice about dropping your equipment.'

Figulus burned with the injustice of the order. It would cost him several months' pay to replace the equipment. 'But, sir. I was tired, I couldn't help it.'

'Couldn't help it!' Hortensius shouted. 'Couldn't help it? YOU CAN FUCKING HELP IT! One more word out of you and I'll cut your hamstrings and leave you here for the Druids. Now get back in line!'

Figulus snatched up his fighting equipment, and with a pained glance at his yoke and his scattered belongings, ran back towards the gap in the Sixth Century where he had been marching. Hortensius turned his wrath back onto Cato. He leaned closer, speaking in a menacing whisper.

'Optio, if I have to step in and discipline your men for you again I swear it'll be you I beat senseless and leave for the enemy. How do you think it looks to the other men if you bloody go and act like his nursemaid? Before you know it, they'll all be dropping like flies and whining that they're too tired. You've got to make 'em too terrified to even think of resting. Do that and you can save their lives. But if you piss around like I just saw you do, every straggler the enemy slaughters will be down to you. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I fucking hope so, sunshine. Because if there's one thing -'

'Enemy in sight!' a distant voice called out, and from beyond the head of the cohort one of the horsemen from the cavalry squadron was galloping down the line, looking for Hortensius. The beast slewed to a halt in front of the centurion. To the side, on the track, the men of the cohort continued to march past as no order to halt had been given, but the horseman's cry had raised every head and the men looked around for sign of the enemy.

'Where?'

'Ahead, across the track, sir.' The cavalry scout pointed up the track to where it curved round a low forested hill. The rest of the squadron, tiny dark figures set against the snowy landscape, were forming up in a line at the point where the track began to bend round the hill.

'How many?'

'Hundreds, sir. And they've got chariots and some heavy infantry.'

'I see.' Hortensius nodded, and bellowed the order to halt the cohort. He turned back towards the scout. 'Tell your decurion to keep them under observation. Let me know the moment they make a move.'

The scout saluted, wheeled his horse round and pounded back towards the distant figures of the squadron, hooves spraying snow into the faces of the infantry as he passed.

Hortensius cupped his hands. 'Officers! To me!'

'Not much light left,' Cato muttered, gazing anxiously at the sky.

Macro nodded but kept his eyes on the thick line of enemy warriors barring the track ahead where it passed through a narrow vale. Unusually for the Britons, these men stood still and silent, heavy infantry drawn up in the centre, light infantry to each side and a small force of chariots on each flank. Well over a thousand men, he estimated. Set against the four hundred and fifty effectives of the Fourth Cohort the odds did not look good. The cavalry squadron was no longer with them; Hortensius had ordered them to slip round the enemy and make best speed to the legion's headquarters and beg the legate to send out a relief column. The legion was nearly twenty miles distant but the scouts should reach them during the night, if all went well.