The Eagles Prey

More and more of the enemy had crossed the river and fell at once on the retreating Romans. Cato, in the front rank of his century, kept his shield aligned with the men on either side of him and slowly sidestepped as blows landed continuously on the curved surface. He kept glimpsing the enemy, and repeatedly thrust his sword out to keep them at bay. Now and then his blade struck a man and there would be a cry of pain, or shout of rage. As the cohort crept away from the ford it too suffered casualties. The wounded men dropped out of line, and the spaces they left were quickly filled by men from the next rank. Those injured who could still walk were shoved through to the centre of the formation, the others were left where they fell, to be butchered the moment their comrades had passed by. Once, this had seemed cold-blooded to Cato. Now he accepted it as a grim necessity of war. Much as he dreaded a disabling wound that would leave him helpless on the ground, Cato knew he could not expect others to sacrifice their lives to save his. That was the harsh code of the legions.

A sharp cry of agony sounded close to his left. Cato did not even glance round, not daring to risk tearing his intent gaze away from the enemy. Yet he was aware of someone on the ground as he sidestepped along with the rest.

'Don't leave me!' a voice called out, shrill with terror. 'For pity's sake, don't leave me!'

A hand suddenly grasped Cato's ankle. 'Sir!'

Cato had to look down quickly. One of his men, a young recruit not much older than Cato himself, lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow. A sword cut had shattered his knee and severed the tendons and muscles attached to his thigh, felling him at once.

'Sir!' the legionary pleaded, tightening his grip. 'Save me!'

'Let go!' Cato snarled at him. 'Let go of me, or so help me, I'll kill you!'

The man stared back in shock, mouth hanging open. Cato was aware that the man to his left had taken a small pace to the left and a gap opened between them.

'Let go!' Cato shouted.

For a brief moment the grip slackened, then tightened again with renewed panic. 'Please!' the man wailed.

Cato had no choice. If he paused a moment longer, one of the enemy warriors was bound to leap into the gap between the centurion and the next man. Gritting his teeth Cato slashed down with his short sword and cut deep into the injured man's forearm, just above the wrist. The fingers loosened and Cato tore his foot away and sidestepped quickly to link up with the next legionary. He heard the injured man scream in agony.

'You bastards!' he choked as his comrades stepped over him. 'You murdering bastards!'

When Cato next looked round at the cohort he saw that they had left the ford behind and were halfway up the gentle slope on which the track followed the course of the Tamesis. The enemy were still swarming around the formation, intent on obliterating the Romans, but now they were no longer reinforced by those who continued to pour across from the far bank. They were already marching past and swinging upriver, making good their chance to escape the pursuing legions of General Plautius. As the cohort clawed up the slope the enemy warriors gradually broke off their attack and stood leaning on their weapons, panting for breath. The track from the ford was scattered with bodies, Britons and Romans, bloody and mutilated by the cuts and thrusts of sword and spear.

At last the cohort was free of the enemy, and Maximius led it up to the top of the rise before he ordered his men to halt. Three hundred paces away the army of Caratacus marched steadily past, making no attempt to close with the cohort. If Caratacus had a mind to wipe them out it could be done in short order, but the native commander could spare them no time.

'Lower shields!' Maximius called out, and all around the exhausted legionaries let their shields rest on the flattened grass as they leaned on them for support and struggled to catch their breath. Down the slope the Britons who had forced Macro and his men back across the ford and then dislodged the rest of the cohort, also rested on their shields. Both sides eyed each other warily for any sign of a renewed will to continue the fight. Neither was willing.

While there was a pause Cato crossed the interior of the formation to find Macro. The veteran centurion was holding out an arm to his optio. Blood welled up from a slash across the bulk of muscle on his forearm and dripped steadily on to the ground.

'Not too serious,' the optio was saying. He reached into his haversack, pulled out a roll of linen and began binding the wound as Macro looked up.

'Ah, Cato!' he gri

'Should you get so old.' Cato grasped Macro's spare hand. 'Good to see you. I was afraid you'd be overwhelmed back at the crossing.'

'We were,' Macro said quietly. 'If there'd been more of us there, we'd have held on.'

Cato glanced round, but Maximius had his back to them and was out of earshot. 'Quite,' he muttered, with a brief nod towards the cohort commander.

Macro leaned closer. 'There's going to be trouble over this. Watch yourself.'

'Officers to me!' Maximius called out.

They came walking over to Maximius, too weary to run. Besides Macro, Tullius and Felix were also wounded, the latter with a deep wound to the face. He was stanching the flow of blood with a bundle of linen that was already drenched. Cato saw the strained look on the cohort commander's face and could guess at the i

'We're safe for the moment. Suggestions?' His voice was harsh and grating.

There was an embarrassed silence and only Macro was prepared to meet his eye.

'Centurion?'

'Yes, sir?'

'Anything you want to say to me?'

'No, sir.' Macro shrugged. 'It can wait.'

Cato looked down towards the ford.'We shouldn't let them get away, sir.'

Maximius rounded on him angrily. 'What do you propose? We charge down there and get stuck into them? Look at the state we're in. How long do you think we'd last?'

'Maybe long enough to make a difference, sir.' Cato stiffened.

'Whatever the cost?' Maximius sneered, but Cato saw a trace of desperation in his expression.

'That's for others to say, afterwards, sir.'

'And easy for you to say now!'

Cato refused to respond. Instead he stared past the cohort commander and watched Caratacus' men march across the ford. His eye travelled back over the enemy forces to the far bank and the dark masses waiting beyond. The sun was low in the sky and the distorted shadows of the enemy made them seem more numerous and frightening. As he watched, the flat blasts of war horns carried across the river and all eyes turned towards the far bank. Men were streaming away from the ford and forming up into a line across a low ridge a third of a mile beyond. Several thousand infantry, with cavalry and chariots on each wing.

'Sir!' Centurion Antonius raised his arm and pointed downstream. 'Look there!'

The officers turned their heads and followed his direction. On the far bank, a mile to the right the head of a dense column of men had appeared.

Macro squinted. 'Ours?'

'Who else?' Cato replied. 'And there's the Second on our side of the river.'

The officers looked back along the track. Sure enough another column of Roman infantry was marching towards them, disappearing from view behind the hill on the far bank. For an instant Cato felt the blood burn in his veins and he faced the cohort commander.

'Sir, there's still time for us to do something. All you have to do is give the order.'