When the Eagle Hunts

Cato looked at the great mane of hair on Prasutagus's head and wondered how much the giant recalled of that night back in Camulodunum when, drunk and angry, he had caught up with his cousin drinking in an alehouse full of Romans. Whatever had happened after that night seemed to have worked some change in Boudica and strained her friendship with Macro. Perhaps Nessa had been right. Boudica and Prasutagus might be more to each other than mere cousins.

Of all the Britons that might have offered to help the general, it seemed typical of the perverse fates that governed Cato's life that it had to be Prasutagus and Boudica. This mission was dangerous enough already, Cato reflected, without having to deal with tensions arising out of Macro and Boudica's fling, and the consequent affront to Prasutagus's aristocratic pride in every root and branch of his family.

Then there was Prasutagus's particular knowledge of the Durotriges and the Dark Moon Druids. Nearly every Roman child was reared on garish tales of the Druids and their dark magic, human sacrifices and blood-drenched sacred groves. Cato was no different, and had seen such a grove for himself the previous summer. The terrible atmosphere of the place still endured, in vivid detail, in his memory. If this was the world in which Prasutagus had once immersed himself, then how much of the man was still Druid, and not fully human? What lingering loyalties might Prasutagus harbour for his former masters and fellow initiates? Was his eagerness to aid the general merely a treacherous ploy to deliver two Romans into the hands of the Druids?

Cato reined in his imagination. The enemy would hardly go to such elaborate lengths to capture a mere centurion and his optio. He scolded himself for thinking like a paranoid schoolboy and monstrously inflating his own importance.

It reminded him of a time in the imperial palace, many years earlier, when he had been little more than an infant and had taken a fancy to a small carved ivory spoon he had seen on a banqueting table. It had been easy enough to pinch, and then conceal in the folds of his tunic. In a quiet spot in the garden he had examined it, wondering at the ornate work on the handle with its sinuously twisting dolphins and nymphs. Suddenly he heard shouting and the sound of ru

The Praetorians came closer and closer to the hiding place where Cato trembled biting his lip in case a whimper should attract attention. Then, just as a thick, muscled arm groped into the bush where he crouched, there was a distant shout.

'Caius! They've found him! Come on.'

The hand withdrew, and feet pounded away across the marble flagstones. Cato nearly fainted with relief. As quietly as he could, he slipped back into the palace and replaced the spoon. Then he returned to the small chamber he shared with his father and waited, praying that the spoon's return would be noticed soon and the hue and cry would die away and the world would return to safe normality.

It was late in the evening before his father returned from the offices of the imperial secretariat. By the faint glow of an oil lamp Cato saw the anxious expression in his lined face, and then the grey eyes flickered towards his son, registering surprise that the boy was still awake.

'You should be asleep,' he whispered.

'I couldn't sleep, Daddy. Too much noise. What's happened?' Cato asked as i

His father gave a grim smile in response. 'No. Sejanus will never catch any more traitors now. He's gone.'

'Gone? Left the palace?' A sudden anxiety sparked in Cato's mind. 'Does that mean I can't play with little Marcus any more?'

'Yes… yes, it does. Marcus… and his sister…' His father's face twisted into a grimace at the appalling outrage that had been wrought on the i

'Why?'

'I'll tell you later. In a few days, maybe.'

But his father never did explain. Instead, Cato heard it all from the other slaves in the palace kitchen the following morning. At the news of Sejanus's death, Cato's first reaction was great relief that the previous day's events had had nothing to do with his theft of the spoon. All the anxiety, the dreadful anticipation of capture and punishment lifted from his childish shoulders. That was all that was important to him that morning.

Now, over ten years later, his face burned with embarrassment at the memory. That moment, and several others like it, frequently reached out to torment him into helpless self-loathing. Just as his present self-important fear did, and doubtless would again in the future. He seemed unable to escape these wearing rounds of harsh self-examination and he wondered if he would ever be able to live at ease with himself.

The sky remained a dismal grey for the rest of the day and there was not a whisper of breeze in the forest. The still and silent trees provoked a brooding nervousness in the riders. Cato persuaded himself that in less dangerous circumstances the harsh aesthetics of winter might lend the forest a kind of beauty. But for now, every rustle in the undergrowth or crack of a twig made him jump in his saddle and anxiously scan the shadows.

They followed a bend in the trail and began to pass the spiky tangle of a blackberry thicket. Without warning a great cracking and thrashing sounded from within. Cato and Macro flipped back their capes and drew their swords. The horses and ponies, nostrils flaring and eyes wide with fright, reared and retreated from the brambles. The thicket shook and bulged, and a stag burst out onto the track. Bloodied from numerous scratches and snorting its steamy breath into the clammy air, the stag dipped its antlers at the nearest horse and shook them threateningly.

'Keep clear!' shouted Macro, eyes on the sharp white ends of the antlers. 'Get out of its way!'

In the commotion of wheeling horses and ponies, the stag saw a gap and bounded through it. As the riders strove to control their mounts, the stag pounded into the depths of the forest on the opposite side of the track, kicking up great divots of fallen leaves.

Prasutagus mastered his horse first, then looked round at the Romans and burst into laughter. Macro scowled at him, then noticed he was still holding his short sword, poised and ready to thrust. In a sudden release of tension, he returned the Iceni warrior's laugh and sheathed his sword. Cato followed suit.

Prasutagus muttered something then tugged on his reins and headed down the track again.

'What'd he say?' Macro asked Boudica.

'He's not sure who jumped highest, you or the stag.'

'Very fu

'Better not,' cautioned Boudica. 'He's a bit prickly on the pride front.'

'Is he? Then we've got something in common after all. Now tell him what I said.' Macro's gaze did not waver as he challenged Boudica to defy his will. 'Well, go on then, tell him what I said.'

Prasutagus looked back over his shoulder. 'Come! We go!' he shouted, and then continued in his own tongue, having exhausted his knowledge of Latin.