The Eagles Conquest

'Roman,' he muttered in a coarse accent. 'If I ever get rid of these chains… '

'You won't,' sneered Vitellius. 'Consider them an extension of your body, for whatever is left of your life.' He struck the prisoner again, slamming his fist into the man's midriff, causing him to double over and gasp for air.

'I don't think he's going to cause me any trouble now, Decurion. Continue watering the horses until we get back.' 'Back from… Yes, sir.'

Vitellius grasped the leather thongs between Briton's iron wrist collars and roughly hauled him down the trail, dragging him savagely when he stumbled. When they had turned a corner and were out of sight and earshot of the prisoner column, Vitellius stopped and pulled the man upright.

'You can stop the acting now, I didn't hit you that hard.'

'Hard enough, Roman,' the Briton grunted. 'And if we ever meet again, you'll pay for that blow.'

'Then I must make sure we don't meet again,' replied Vitellius, and drew his dagger. He raised the tip so that it was poised barely a finger's breadth from the Briton's throat. The Briton showed no sign of fear, merely a cold contempt for an enemy who would do such an unmanly thing as threaten a bound prisoner. Vitellius sniffed at the other's expression. Then the blade dropped and he sawed briefly at the thongs until they parted. He stepped back from the freed Briton.

'You're sure you remember the message?'

'Yes.'

'Good. I'll send a man to you when I'm ready. Now then.' Vitellius flicked the dagger and caught it by the blade, handle towards the other man. 'Make it look good.'

The Briton took the knife and slowly smiled, then suddenly smashed the tribune in the face with his spare hand. With a grunt the tribune dropped to his knees, only to be hauled up, spun round and have the tip of the blade jabbed into the small of his back.

'Easy there!' he whispered.

'This has to look convincing, remember?'

With one arm locked round the tribune's throat and the other holding the dagger to the back of his erstwhile captor, the Briton pushed him back up the trail towards the column. As soon as the decurion was aware of his superior's plight, he scrambled to his feet.

'To arms!'

'Hold back!' Vitellius managed to choke out. 'Or he'll kill me!'

The decurion waved his arms at the cavalrymen rushing up with spears levelled for action. 'Stop! He's got the tribune.'

'The horse!' shouted the British chieftain. 'Get me his horse. Now! Or he dies,'

Vitellius yelped as the point bit into his flesh. At the sound the decurion hurried across to the horse and untethered it, offering the reins to the Briton.

The other Britons had risen to their feet at the sight of the confrontation and were surging forward for a better view, some shouting encouragement.

'Get them back on the ground!' bellowed the decurion and after a moment of hesitation the cavalrymen herded their prisoners back.

The chieftain didn't waste the chance, With a kick and a thrust he hurled Vitellius on top of the decurion, grabbed the reins and leaped onto the horse. He folded low on the animal's back and with a savage kick spurred it back down the trail. By the time the decurion had returned to his feet, the Briton had rounded the corner and was gone, only the fading sound of the horse's hoof beats lingering. The other Britons cheered.

'Shut that lot up!' roared the decurion, before turning to help Vitellius back to his feet. He seemed shaken and scared, but unharmed beyond that.

'Close escape, sir.'

'For him or for me?' Vitellius responded bitterly. The decurion was just smart enough not to reply.

'Want me to go after him, sir?'

'No. No point. He probably knows his way in the dark better than us.

Besides, we can't afford to send any of the guards off on some wild chase. No, I'm afraid he's got clean away.'

'Perhaps he'll run into some of our men,' the decurion said hopefully. 'I doubt it.'

'Shame about your horse, sir.'

'Yes, one of my better mounts. Still, there's no need to worry about me, Decurion. I'll have your horse until we reach the camp.'

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cato had been trying to avoid all thought of the centurion's fate. Macro was probably dead. Pyrax was dead. Many of his comrades in the Sixth Century were dead. But the thought of Macro lying cold and still out there in the marshes was impossible to accept. Although a cold, logical part of his mind reiterated that Macro could not have escaped death, Cato found himself imagining all kinds of ways in which he could have survived. He might be out there now, injured or unconscious, helpless, waiting for his comrades to come and find him. He might even have been taken prisoner. But then, the image of the slaughtered Batavians flashed before Cato's mind. There would be no prisoners, no sparing of the wounded.

The optio sat up and rested his arms on his knees. He gazed at the remains of the century sleeping around him. Of the eighty men who had disembarked from the invasion fleet, only thirty-six remained. Another dozen were injured and might be expected to return to duty over the next weeks. That meant the century had lost over thirty dead in the last ten days.

Cato was acting centurion for the moment – until the headquarters staff merged the century with another, or received replacements to bring it back up to strength. Either way Cato would not be in command for more than a few days. For that he was thankful, even as he despised himself for feeling relieved by the prospect of surrendering his authority. Though he felt he had grown into manhood over this last year, there was still a residual anxiety that he had not developed the special qualities that qualified a man for command. He would be a poor replacement for Macro, and he knew that the men would share that view. Until he reverted to the status of optio he would try his best to lead them as well as he could, following in the bold striding footsteps of Macro.

Earlier that night, when Cato and his small flotilla had emerged from the river, they had alarmed the sentries who had not been expecting any Romans to arrive from that direction. Anticipating such a reaction, Cato had responded quickly and loudly to the sentry's challenge. After the bedraggled soldiers had clambered from the muddy shoreline into the camp, safe at last, Cato had been escorted to the headquarters tent to make his report.

A mass of lamps and small fires marked the location of the Second Legion's headquarters, while all around stretched the long dark lines of the resting soldiers. Cato was shown into a large tent within which clerks pored over their paperwork on long trestle tables. One of them beckoned to him and Cato stepped forward.

'Unit?' The clerk looked up from his scroll, pen poised above the inkwell.

'Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.'

'Ah! Macro's lot.' The clerk dipped his pen and started to write. 'Where is he?'

'I don't know. Still somewhere in the marsh.'

'What happened?'

Cato tried to explain in a way that left open the question of Macro's fate, but the clerk shook his head sadly as he regarded the youngster standing before him. 'Are you his optio?'

Cato nodded.

'Well, you aren't any more then. You're acting centurion until further notice. What's your strength?'

'Thirty odd of us left, I think,' replied Cato.

'Exactly, please,' said the clerk. Then he looked up and saw that the young soldier was at the end of his tether, eyes red and head drooping even as he stood there. The clerk continued in a more kindly tone, 'Sir, I need the exact number, please.'

This gentle reminder of his new responsibility caused Cato to straighten up and focus his mind.

'Thirty-six. I've got thirty-six men left.'