When the Eagle Hunts

A hand grasped Cato's shoulder and shook him roughly. His eyes flickered open and his body, stiffened at the sudden waking.

'Shhh!' Macro hissed from the darkness. 'Keep it quiet! It's time to go. Got your equipment?'

Cato nodded, then realised that it was still too dark for Macro to see him. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Then let's go.'

Still tired, and reluctant to quit the relative warmth of the tent, Cato shivered as he quietly crept outside, dragging the bundle he had prepared before going to sleep. Wrapped inside a spare tunic was his mail armour and leather harness, together with sword and dagger. Helmet, shield and everything else would be collected by the headquarters staff and kept safe from pilfering until they returned. Cato had little doubt that they would become someone else's property in the near future.

As he followed Macro through the dark lines of tents towards the stables, fear of what lay ahead began to unravel his determination to see the mission through. It was tempting to make himself trip over a guy rope and fake a twisted ankle. In the darkness it might pass for a credible excuse. But he could imagine the contemptuous doubt that Macro and the legate would be sure to feel, if not express. This shaming prospect made him dismiss the plan and tread more warily in case the accident happened for real. Besides, he couldn't let Macro go blundering about in the depths of enemy territory with only Prasutagus and Boudica for company. It would be all too easy for the Iceni warrior to slit Macro's throat while he slept. But not so easy if they took turns to watch over each other. There really was no way out of this, he concluded glumly. If only Macro hadn't been so rude to the general, then he wouldn't have had to intervene. Now they were both for the chop, thanks to Macro.

Grumbling silently to himself, Cato forgot to pay attention to where he was putting his feet. The guy rope caught his shin and he tumbled head first with a sharp cry. Macro whipped round.

'Quiet! You want to wake up everyone in the fucking camp?'

'Sorry, sir,' Cato whispered as he struggled back to his feet, the heavy bundle in both arms.

'Don't tell me, you've gone and twisted your ankle.'

'No, sir! Of course not!'

Someone stirred inside the tent. 'Who's there?'

'No one,' snapped Macro. 'Get back to sleep… Come on, lad, and watch your step.'

Beside the horse pen, a dim light glimmered inside the large tent where the riding tack and cavalry weapons were stored. Cato followed Macro through the flap into the dull glow of a hanging oil lamp. Prasutagus, Boudica and Vespasian stood waiting.

'Best change right now,' said Vespasian. 'Your horses and pack animals are ready.'

They dropped their bundles and stripped down to their loincloths. Under the curious gaze of Boudica, Cato hurriedly covered himself with a fresh tunic and pulled his mail shirt over the top. He slipped into his harness, attached the sword and dagger scabbards and reached for his military cloak.

'No!' Vespasian interrupted the gesture. 'Not that. Wear those.' He indicated a pair of grimy brown cloaks, well-worn and spattered with mud. 'Best not look too much like a pair of squaddies when you reach Durotrigan territory. And wear these thongs round your heads.'

He handed them two lengths of leather, broad at the front and tapering at the ends. 'The Greeks wear them to hold their hair back. Your military cut is an instant giveaway, so keep these on, and your hoods up, and you might just pass muster as a couple of Greeks – from a distance. Just don't try and engage anyone in conversation.'

'All right, sir.' Macro grimaced at the thong, then tied it round his head. Prasutagus watched Macro while Boudica gri

'Somehow you look more convincing as a Greek slave than you've ever done as a legionary.'

'Thank you. Much appreciated.'

'Save it for later,' ordered Vespasian. 'Come with me.'

He beckoned to Prasutagus and led them outside. Over at the tethering posts stood four horses with plain blankets spread across their backs, covering the legion's brand. Saddlepacks hung over each flank, and to one side stood two ponies carrying more provisions.

'Right then, you'd best be off. The watch officer on the gate is expecting you, so you can slip out without some idiot shouting a challenge.' The legate looked them over one last time and then quickly slapped Macro on the shoulder. 'Good luck!'

'Thank you, sir.'

Macro took a breath and threw his leg up over his horse, swinging his body after it. A graceless moment of subdued curses followed before he was properly seated and had a good grasp of the reins. Being taller, Cato managed to mount his horse with a little more style.

Prasutagus muttered something to Boudica and Macro swung round. 'What did he say?'

'He wondered if it might be better if you and your optio travelled on foot.'

'Oh really? Well, you tell him -'

'That's enough, Centurion!' Vespasian snapped. 'Just go.'

The Iceni warrior and woman mounted with familiar ease and turned their horses towards the camp gate. Behind them, Macro and Cato tugged on the long reins of the pack animals and followed on. As the hooves thudded on the frosted mud of the track, Cato took a last look over his shoulder. But Vespasian was already marching back towards the warmth of his quarters and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

Ahead loomed the gate, and at their approach a quiet order was given. The locking bar squealed back into its receiver and one gate swung inwards. As they passed through, a handful of legionaries watched them in silence, curious but obedient to the strict instructions not to utter a word. Beyond the ramparts, Prasutagus twitched his reins and led them down the slope towards the forest from which the Druids had emerged with the fleet prefect several days earlier.

Without his helmet and shield, and the comforting security of the camp around him, Cato suddenly felt horribly exposed. This was worse than going into battle. Much worse. Ahead lay enemy territory. And the enemy was unlike any other that the Romans had faced. Looking to the west, where the land was so dark it almost merged with the night, Cato wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, or was the blackness there made yet more black by the shadows of the Druids of the Dark Moon?

Chapter Twenty-One

By the time the sun had risen above the milky horizon into a dull grey sky, they had passed deep into the forest. They rode along a well-used trail that wound past the gnarled trunks of aged oak trees whose twisted branches showed even more starkly as the light increased. Some of the highest boughs were well nested, and the raw croaking call of crows filled the air as the dark birds watched the small party passing beneath with greedy speculative eyes. The forest floor was covered with dark, dead leaves. The snow had almost disappeared and the air felt cold and damp. The gloomy atmosphere was oppressive and Cato glanced anxiously from side to side, alert for any sign of the enemy. He rode at the rear, with only a pack pony behind him, rustling through the damp leaves. Immediately ahead was the other pony, tethered to Macro's saddle. The centurion himself, bare-headed and swaying uneasily atop his cavalry mount, seemed unconcerned by the dismal surroundings. He had far more interest in the woman ahead of him. Boudica wore her hood up and, as far as Cato was aware, had not looked back since they had left the camp.

This puzzled him; he had assumed that Boudica would be keen to see Macro once again. But there had been a marked coolness in her attitude to them both during the previous evening's briefing. And now this long silence since they had left camp. At the front rode Prasutagus, looming larger than ever on the saddle of the biggest horse that could be found for him. He led the way at a calm, unhurried pace, nonchalantly regarding the track ahead. He had ignored them at the briefing, only listening and speaking to the legate through Boudica.