The Eagles Prey

Cato shrugged. He doubted that he and Maximius had anything in common. The cohort commander's disdain for the young centurion had become evident to Cato over the few days that they had served together. What was more painful was the thought that the other centurions of the cohort, apart from Macro, might share the sentiment.

An order barked out from the smothering darkness, commanding the men to stand to attention, and Cato recognised Figulus' voice. As iron-nailed boots stamped to the dry ground with a rippling thud like distant thunder, Maximius hurried over from the brazier to join his officers.

'Must be the legate! Stand to.'

Maximius strode two paces to the front and stiffened like a rod. Behind him the other centurions stood in a line, shoulders back, chins raised and arms held tightly to their sides. Then all was quiet, apart from the champing and stamping of the horses. The sounds of several marching men approaching reached the centurions at the gatehouse and moments later Vespasian and a handful of staff officers emerged from the gloom and into the orange glow of the braziers. The legate strode up to the centurions and returned their salute.

'Your men look well turned out, and keyed up for a fight, Maximius.'

'Yes, sir. They can't wait to get stuck in, sir.'

'Glad to hear it!' Vespasian stepped closer to the cohort commander and lowered his voice. 'You've got your orders, and you know the importance of your role in today's fight.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any last questions?'

'None, sir.'

'Good man.' Vespasian reached out his hand and they clasped each other's forearms. 'One last battle. By the end of the day it should all be over. May the gods be with you today, Centurion.'

'And with you, sir.'

Vespasian smiled and then turned to face east, where the first hint of light was filtering up from the horizon. 'Time for you to get moving. I'll share a jar of wine with you and your men tonight.'

The legate stepped back and led his staff officers up the wooden steps on to the walkway above the gate.

Maximius turned to his centurions. 'Back to your units! Prepare to march.'

Cato and Macro saluted and trotted away from the gate, back down the column of silent men. Cato could pick out the highly polished shield bosses gleaming dully as he passed by; Maximius had given an order for the water-proofed leather shield covers to be left in the men's tents to reduce the burden they had to carry. It had better not rain, thought Cato, well remembering the awful weight of a water-logged shield.

Macro peeled off when they reached the Third Century and gave a quick parting nod to Cato as the youngster made his way to the rear of the column where Optio Figulus waited beside the standard of the Sixth Century. As yet the long staff carried only one decoration beside the unit's square identity pendant: a round disc with a profile of the Emperor Claudius stamped upon it, awarded to every century in the army of General Plautius following the defeat of Caratacus outside Camulodunum nearly a year ago.

Cato smiled bitterly to himself. A year ago. And here they were again, ready to do battle with Caratacus once more. For the last time. Even if there was a victorious outcome to the coming battle Cato was almost certain that the Roman legions would still not have heard the last of Caratacus. A year in this barbarous island had taught him one thing above all else: these Britons were too foolish to know the meaning of defeat. Every army they had sent against the Eagles had been bloodily defeated. And yet the Britons still fought on doggedly, no matter how many of them were cut down. For their sake, and the sake of their women and children, Cato hoped that the day's battle would finally break their will to resist.

Cato filled his lungs. 'Sixth Century will prepare to advance.'

There was a grating scrape in the darkness as his men lifted their shields from the ground and shouldered their javelins, a few grunts as they shuffled the weight around and then silence.

From the front of the column Cato heard the order given to open the gates and, with a protesting creak from the wooden hinges, the thick timbers were pulled inwards and a dark hole yawned beneath the illuminated gatehouse. Maximius bellowed out the order for the cohort to advance. The column rippled forward in a steady cadence as each century moved off after a short delay to leave a sufficient gap between units. Then Antonius shouted the order for the Fifth Century to march. As the rear rank stepped away before Cato he silently counted five paces and then called out.

'Sixth Century! Advance!'

Then he was leading his men forward, Figulus a pace to his side and a pace behind. Then came the century's standard and then the column of eighty men who were his first legionary command. Not one man on the sick list. Cato looked over his shoulder and for a moment his heart filled with pride. These were his men. This was his century. His eyes sca

As the cohort marched under the gatehouse, the legate unsheathed his sword and stabbed it into the thi

'To victory! To victory! To Mars!'

'Draw swords!' Maximius bellowed from the front of the column, and with a rattling rasp of metal the wicked short stabbing swords of the legionaries flickered up and they returned the legate's cry with a full-throated roar as they invoked the blessing of the god of war. The cheers continued until the cohort had left the ramparts of the camp in the distance, silhouetted against the coming light of day.

Cato took one last look over his shoulder and then turned his gaze along the track to where Maximius led his men towards the battle that would seal the fate of Caratacus and his warriors once and for all.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER SEVEN

With sunrise it was clear that the day would be breathless and hot. There was not even a hint of haze in the smooth cerulean heaven. The cohort trudged steadily along the supply track, the iron nails on the legionaries' boots kicking up the loose dust that covered the wagon ruts. Equipment jingled on harnesses and there was a steady, rhythmless rapping of javelin shafts and scabbards on the inside of the men's shields. A short distance to the right, the men of the cavalry squadron led their mounts parallel to the legionaries. The centurions marched at the head of the cohort, summoned there by Maximius.

'Keep 'em in step, at a nice steady pace,' he explained. 'No need to rush things. Don't want to exhaust the men.'

Macro silently disagreed. There was every reason to be in position as speedily as possible. The legate had made it quite clear that everyone must be ready in time to trap Caratacus. True, the Third Cohort should easily reach the ford just after noon, but if it had been his cohort Macro would have marched them hard, arrived early, immediately set up the defences, and only then stand the men down while they waited for the enemy to arrive. Sooner a wide margin for error than a narrow one, he decided. All those years of hard service with the Eagles had taught him that much at least. But then, it wasn't his cohort and it wasn't his job to question the order of his superior. So Macro kept his mouth shut and nodded with the other centurions in response to Maximius' last remark.

'Once we reach the auxiliary fort we'll pick up the entrenching tools and give the men a short rest.'

'Which unit do the auxiliaries belong to, sir?' Cato asked.

'The First Batavians – Germans, born and bred. They're good lads.' Maximius smiled.'And they're in good hands. Mate of mine commands them. Centurion Porcinus, ex-Praetorian Guardsman, like me.'