When the Eagle Hunts

'All right, then. But watch you don't break the trunk.'

'Eh?' Prasutagus looked up with an uncomprehending frown.

Cato pointed at the slender breadth of the trunk. 'Be careful.'

Prasutagus playfully shook the trunk to test it, nearly dislodging Cato, and then nodded.

Cato gritted his teeth in irritation. He looked east, beyond the scouts, straining his eyes for the first sign of the main body of the Second Legion.

It was nearly an hour later before the vanguard emerged from the distant haze of rolling hills and forest. A faint rippling glitter marked the first of the cohorts as the sun caught on polished helmets and weapons. Slowly, the head of the distant legion resolved itself into a long column, like a many-scaled serpent languidly slithering across the landscape. Mounted staff officers cantered up and down each side of the column, ensuring that nothing held up the regular, disciplined pace of the advance. On each flank, some distance from the legion, more scouts guarded against any surprise attack from the enemy. Towards the rear trundled the dark mass of the baggage and artillery trains, then finally the afterguard cohort. Cato was surprised by the size of the artillery train. It was far larger than the usual complement for one legion. Somehow the legate must have wangled himself some reinforcements. Good, thought Cato, as he glanced across at the hill fort. They would be sorely needed.

'It's time we had a word with Vespasian,' Cato muttered, then tapped Prasutagus on the head with his boot. 'Down, boy!'

They hurried from the crest of the hill to find Boudica, and Cato told her the news. Then, they cautiously emerged from the forest and made their way east towards the approaching legion. They passed a handful of small hovels, where in more peaceful times peasant farmers eked out a living growing crops and raising sheep and pigs, maybe even cattle. Now they were empty, all the farmers, their families, and their animals sheltering inside the Great Fortress from the terrifying invaders who marched under the wings of their gold eagles.

Cato and his companions passed the place where the Druids' wagon had been taken a few days earlier, and saw that there was still blood, dry and dark, encrusted on the wagon ruts. Once again Cato thought of Macro, and felt uneasy about the prospect of discovering the centurion's fate when they reached the legion. It seemed impossible that Macro could die. The latticework of scars the centurion bore on his skin, and his boundless confidence in his indestructibility, bore testimony to a life that, while fraught with danger, was peculiarly charmed. It was easy to visualise Macro old and bent in some veterans' colony many years from now, endlessly recounting tales of his army days and yet not too old to get drunk and enjoy a geriatric punch-up. It was almost impossible to imagine him cold and dead. And yet that wound to his head, with all its appalling severity, threatened the worst. Cato would find out soon enough, and dreaded it.

The scouts appeared as they were crossing the trestle bridge. A cocky looking decurion – all fresh plumes and knee-high soft leather boots – cantered down the slope towards them, flanked by half of his squadron. The decurion drew his sword and bellowed the order to charge.

Cato pushed himself in front of Boudica and waved his arms. Beside him, Prasutagus looked puzzled and turned round to see who the cavalry could possibly be charging. A short distance from the bridge the decurion reined in and raised his sword to slow his men, clearly disappointed that the three ragged vagabonds weren't going to put up a fight.

'I'm Roman!' Cato cried out. 'Roman!'

The decurion's horse came to a halt inches from Cato's face, and the animal's breath stirred his hair.

'Roman?' The decurion frowned, looking Cato over. 'I don't believe it!'

Cato looked down and saw Prasutagus's swirling patterns through the open front of his tunic, and then touched his face, realising that it, too, must still bear the remains of the disguise he wore the previous night.

'Oh, I see. Forget this stuff, sir. I'm the optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort. On a mission for the legate. I need to speak to him at once.'

'Oh, really?' The decurion was still far from convinced but he was too junior to bear the responsibility of making a decision about this miserable looking wretch and his two companions. 'And these are Romans too, I suppose?'

'No, Iceni scouts, working with me.'

'Hmmm.'

'I need to speak to the legate urgently,' Cato reminded him.

'We'll see about that when we get back to the legion. For now, you'll mount up with my men.'

Three rather unhappy scouts were detailed for the task and grudgingly helped Cato and the others up behind them. The optio reached his arms round his rider and the man growled.

'Keep your hands on me saddle horn, if you know what's good for you.'

Cato did as he was told, and the decurion wheeled the small column and led them back up the slope at the trot. As they crested the hill, Cato smiled at the progress the legion had already made, despite having arrived here only an hour before. Ahead of them, at least a mile away, he could see the usual screen of skirmishers. Behind them the main body of the legion was toiling to construct a marching camp, already piling the soil from the outer ditch inside the perimeter where it was packed down to make a defence rampart. Beyond the camp, the legion's vehicles were still trundling into position. But there were no surveyors marking the ground around the hill fort.

'No circumvallation?' Cato asked. 'Why?'

'Ask your mate, the legate, when you speak to him,' the scout grumbled.

For the rest of the short ride Cato kept his silence and, with more difficulty, his balance. The decurion halted the scout patrol just inside the area marked out for one of the legion's four main gates. The duty centurion rose from his camp desk and strode over. Cato recognised him by sight, but didn't know his name.

'What on earth have you got there, Manlius?'

'Found 'em heading for the hill fort, sir. Young lad there reckons he's Roman.'

'Oh, does he?' The duty centurion smiled.

'Speaks good Latin anyway, sir.'

'Make a valuable slave then.' The centurion gri

Cato saluted. 'Optio Quintus Licinius Cato reporting, sir. Returning from a mission for the legate.'

The centurion looked closely at Cato, then clicked his fingers as he made the co

'Macro is my centurion, yes, sir.'

'Poor bastard.'

Cato felt a chill course through him, but before he could ask after Macro, the duty centurion ordered the decurion to report directly to headquarters and waved the patrol through. They trotted up the wide avenue between rows of tent markers set out for the legionaries to erect their goatskin tents the moment the camp's ditch and rampart were complete. In the middle of the site the legate's headquarters tent was already standing, and several horses belonging to the staff officers were tethered to a makeshift rail. The decurion halted his patrol and dismounted, signalling Cato and the others to follow suit.

'This lot want to see the legate,' he a

'Wait here.'

Moments later an exhausted Cato, Boudica and Prasutagus were ushered inside by Vespasian's private secretary. At first Cato blinked. It was quite hard adjusting from the hardships of the last days to the luxury of the accommodation afforded the commander of the Second Legion. Floorboard sections had been laid down, and on them, in the centre of the tent, was Vespasian's large campaign table, surrounded by padded stools. A small brazier glowed in each corner, warming the interior of the tent nicely. On a low table to one side lay a platter of cold meats and a glass jug half filled with wine. Behind his desk Vespasian finished signing a form and handed it back to a clerk with a quick dismissal. Then he looked up, smiled a greeting and waved his hand towards the stools on the other side of the table.