The Eagles Prey

'Keep to the right-hand path!' Cato shouted out as he dropped out of line and turned towards Figulus. 'Keep 'em moving. Don't let them rest until you are at least a quarter of a mile inside the marsh.'

'Yes, sir. Where are you going?'

'Just checking back over the hill; make sure we're not being followed. Keep a good look out for me. I don't fancy being lost in that marsh all on my own.'

Figulus smiled. 'See you later then, sir.'

They parted company, Figulus leading the bedraggled fugitives west towards the unwelcoming sprawl of the wetlands, Cato turning back towards the ridge they had just crossed. He was not sure why he felt he had to go back for one last look. Perhaps he was driven by the need to stop and think, to plan the next step. Perhaps he just needed a rest and one last look at the world before he was plunged into a life of concealment and terrible deprivation. Whatever the motive, he walked slowly back up the slope, heart heavy with the hopelessness of his situation. What if there was no hope of redemption? What if he was doomed to spend what remained of his life ru

If that was to be his fate then Cato decided he would rather risk everything now in an attempt to win back the favour of General Plautius and Legate Vespasian, and the rescinding of his death sentence. The alternative was too awful to contemplate at any length, and he hoped that he would make the others realise that when the time came to outline his plan. He would call only for volunteers, since he no longer had the authority of the army to enforce his orders. Faith in his ability to command was all the authority Cato possessed now. Figulus had seen that at once, but at least the optio had the presence of mind to realise that some kind of order must be maintained if the small band of men was to survive, and that Cato was the best man to provide that order… for the present at least.

His mind was so preoccupied by thought of the future that Cato had reached the crest of the hill before he was aware of it, and found himself looking back across the drizzle-shrouded landscape they had hurriedly crossed shortly before.

He saw the scattered screen of cavalry at once, perhaps twenty men, stretched across the landscape with a gap of fifty paces between each horse. They were no more than two miles away, and heading at a tangent across the direction Cato and his band had taken. Cato dropped to the ground, heart beating with renewed pace as he waited to see if he had been spotted. He cursed himself for not approaching the skyline of the ridge in a far more cautious ma

'Fool!' he muttered through clenched teeth. 'Bloody fool…'

As he watched there was no sign that the scouts had seen the distant figure of their prey. They must have been intent on scouring the ground directly in front of them for any sign of the fugitives' passage. Their progress was unhurried and they walked their horses across the gently rolling grassland, pausing only to search through each copse they encountered. On their current course Cato calculated that they would miss him by a wide margin and his strained nerves began to relax a little. He wondered if these men had encountered Pollius. Had the veteran raised a sword to his pursuers after all? Or had he heeded Cato's call to turn his weapon on himself rather than lash out at his former comrades? Perhaps he had decided to try to find some place of concealment and had been passed by. Cato found himself hoping that the man had been found and forced to divulge the false trail Cato had set for Pollius to pass on. The horsemen were certainly heading in that general direction.

When the nearest rider was no more than a mile away from him Cato saw a sudden flurry of movement halfway along the line of mounted men. One had dropped to the ground and was beckoning to his comrades. As word was passed each way along the line the men wheeled their mounts in and trotted towards the growing cluster of men and animals. Cato strained his eyes to try to see more clearly what was happening below him. Most of the men had dismounted and their officer was conferring with the man who had made the discovery. As he stared at them, Cato realised that these men were not legionary scouts. The cut of their capes and the kite shields slung across their backs showed that they were from an auxiliary cohort and a cold chill of realisation burst through Cato's veins as he picked out the dull gleam of a bear's head standard.

'Batavians…'

The ruthless Germanic tribe had provided General Plautius with a number of hard-fighting but reckless cohorts of cavalry. The Batavians had won a fearsome reputation at the crossing of the Mead Way a year earlier, and had promptly cut down every prisoner that came their way in a fit of bloodlust – one of several such fits, Cato recalled with a growing sense of dread. They would show no mercy to their prey if they came upon Cato and his men. The tensions between the men of the legions and the Batavians went way beyond the usual inter-unit rivalry that was to be found in most armies. Men had died when bands of off-duty Romans and Germans had clashed in Camulodunum.

The leader of the patrol strode clear of his men. He braced his shoulders and rubbed his stiff backside as he sca

Cato scrambled back from the crest and as soon as he was sure it was safe he rose to his feet and turned to run back along the track towards the marsh. A half-mile ahead of him he could see the small figures of his comrades entering the faint mist that had begun to lie across the track. As he ran he frequently glanced down to make sure of his footing, and every so often he saw the unmistakable outline of a legionary boot imprinted in the mud. Those footprints would lead the Batavians straight to them – they were already doing so, Cato realised with a sickening feeling.

As if this bloody rain hadn't made life miserable enough for the Roman fugitives, it was now conspiring to point them out to the Batavians, and when the pursuers inevitably caught up with their prey they would butcher them without mercy.

05 The Eagles Prey