The Eagles Prey

Narcissus smiled. There would never be any trouble from Cogidubnus. That man had been bought body and soul, and aped the ways of his Roman masters with a rare enthusiasm. All it had taken was some vague promise of building him a palace as soon as funds allowed.

As Narcissus rode past the side of the Second Legion's marching camp, he saw, a short way off, hundreds of men labouring to erect a stockade. That would be the Third Cohort, he mused with a faint smile of satisfaction. The harsh judgement meted out to those men would act as a fine example to their comrades in the four legions gathered about the crossing. Better still, it would satisfy the armchair generals of the senate back in Rome, who would be pleased to know that the legions still cleaved to the harsh and hardening traditions that had won them an empire that stretched around the limits of the known world.

A small party of men sat to one side, under guard, hands tied behind them. They looked up as the horsemen trotted by. Narcissus realised they were the condemned men, due to be beaten to death by the men of their cohort the following day. Most looked vacant; some were sullen. Then Narcissus started as he found himself looking into a face he had once known well back in the halls and corridors of the imperial palace. He flicked his reins and steered his horse off the track, waving at his escort to keep moving. The bodyguards, silently fell into position on either side and slightly behind the Imperial Secretary.

'Cato…' Narcissus began to smile, but the young centurion just glared back at him, eyes filled with a pitiless fury.'You're to be executed?'

Cato was still for a moment before he nodded, once. Narcissus, so used to deciding the fates of men who were rarely ever more than names or numbers on a writing tablet, was uncomfortable to be confronted with this man he had watched grow from an infant into a gangly youth. The son of a man he had once called friend. Now Cato would die in order to maintain belief in the uncompromising discipline of the legions. In that respect, Narcissus consoled himself, the lad would be dying a martyr's death. Most unfortunate, but necessary.

Narcissus felt he must say something, some kind of valediction that would comfort the young man so that he would understand. But all that came to mind were empty platitudes that would demean both of them.

'I'm sorry, Cato. It had to be done.'

'Why?' Cato replied through clenched teeth. 'We did our duty. You must tell the general. Tell him to change his mind.'

Narcissus shook his head. 'No. That's impossible. I'm sorry, my hands are tied.'

Cato stared at him a moment, then laughed bitterly as he raised his hands to reveal the rope that bound his wrists. Narcissus coloured but could not think of anything further to say. Nothing to comfort this youth, nor to justify the need for his death. Greater destinies than his were at stake, and much as Narcissus had once been genuinely fond of the boy, nothing must come between the Imperial Secretary and his duty to protect and further the Emperor's interests. So Cato must die. Narcissus clicked his tongue and firmly tugged on the reins. The horse snorted and turned back towards the track.

Cato watched him go, a twisted expression of distaste curling his lips. He had hated to beg for a reprieve in front of the others. But it was for them that he made the attempt, he tried to convince himself. Narcissus represented the last chance of an appeal over the general's head. Now he was gone, already lost from sight in the column of horsemen that trotted up the track towards Calleva, kicking up a haze of dust in their wake.

When they were out of sight Cato slumped to the ground and stared at the grass between his bare feet. This time tomorrow, he and the forty other men condemned to death would be led into a loose circle of their comrades and friends from the Third Cohort. They would be carrying heavy wooden clubs, and when the signal was given they would close in and beat the prisoners to death, one by one. Cursed with a vivid imagination, Cato projected the scene inside his head, clear in every terrible detail. The blur of clubs sweeping down, the dull thud and crack of wood on flesh and bone, and the winded gasps and cries of bound men, curled into balls on the blood-drenched ground. Some of the men would soil themselves, to the jeers of their executioners, and when Cato's time came he would have to kneel amid their blood, piss and excrement while he waited for his death to come.

It was shaming, humiliating, and Cato hoped that he would have the strength of spirit to die without a whimper, silently staring his defiance back at his killers. But he knew it would not be like that. He would be dragged, shivering and filthy to the killing ground. He might not beg for mercy, but he would cry out at the first blow, and scream at the rest. Cato prayed that a badly aimed blow struck him on the head early on, so that he was unconscious when his beaten, broken body eventually released his spirit.

That was wishful thinking, he sneered at himself. The executioners would be carefully briefed to make sure that his arms and legs were shattered before they were permitted to break his ribs. Only then would they be allowed to take their clubs to his skull, and end the torment. He felt sick, and bile simmered uneasily in his stomach, so that he was glad that he had not eaten since early the previous day. Memory of the food cooked by Maximius' slave caused him to retch and Cato raised his bound hands to cover his mouth until the impulse to vomit passed.

A hand rested gently on his shoulder. 'You all right, lad?' Cato quickly swallowed the bitter fluid in his mouth and looked round to see Macro looming over him with an uncertain smile on his creased face. A quick glance showed that the rest of the condemned men were too preoccupied to spare him any curious attention. He quickly shook his head.

'Not surprised.' Macro's fingers squeezed his shoulder as the older centurion squatted down beside Cato.'It's a bad business. We've been well and truly shafted. You and this lot most of all… Look here, Cato. I don't know what to say about this. It stinks. I wish there was something I could do to change it. I really do. But…'

'But there's nothing that can be done. I know.' Cato forced himself to smile.'We're here because we're here. Isn't that what the old hands say?'

Macro nodded. 'That's right. But it only applies when the situation's out of our control. This could've been prevented – should have been. Bloody general's screwed up and he wants someone else to carry the blame. Bastard.'

'Yes,' Cato replied softly.'He's a real bastard, all right… You ever seen a decimation carried out before?'

'Twice. Both units deserved it,' Macro recalled. 'Ran, and left the rest of us in the shit. Nothing like this.'

'Don't suppose a decimation has ever been cancelled?' Cato looked up, trying to keep his face expressionless. 'I mean, have you ever heard of one being called off?'

For a moment Macro was tempted to lie. Any shred of comfort he could offer Cato might make the time he had left more bearable. But Macro knew he was a bad liar; he didn't have the skill for such deception. Besides, he owed Cato the truth. That burden was what made friendships count. 'No. Never.'

'I see.' Cato looked down. 'You might have lied to me.'

Macro laughed, and patted Cato on the back. 'Not to you, Cato. Not to you. Ask me for anything else, but not that.'

'All right, then. Get me out of here.'

'I can't.' Macro looked away, towards the river. 'Sorry. Want me to find you some decent food? Wine?'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Eat something. It'll settle your guts.'

'I'm not fucking hungry!' Cato snapped and regretted it at once, knowing that Macro had only meant to offer him some comfort before the next dawn. It wasn't Macro's fault, and in a moment of intuitive understanding he realised that Macro would have had to screw up his moral courage to come and speak to his condemned friend. It was never going to be an easy discussion. Cato looked up. 'Could use a flask of good wine, though.'