The Eagles Prey

'What is it, Tribune?'

'Even if Caratacus does emerge from the swamp to attack the Third Cohort, we'll probably fail to catch him. He'll simply throw a rearguard at us, to buy time for the rest of his men to slip back into hiding. Then we're back where we started, minus one cohort, of course.'

'Yes, that's a possibility,' Vespasian nodded thoughtfully. 'If that's the case, we'll just have to starve him out. Either way, if we act now, he's had it. The virtue of forcing him into a battle is that we can finish him off as soon as possible, and stop him trying to whip up any more support from the tribes who are still outside of our control.' Vespasian turned back to the general. 'And it gives Maximius and his men something useful to do, while they're being punished.'

The general frowned.'With luck, they'll be taken care of by Caratacus.'

'Yes, sir. I don't expect they will survive when Caratacus comes for them. Not after what they will have done to his people.'

'I see.' General Plautius scratched his cheek as he weighed up the legate's plan. 'Make sure he understands the need to be as cruel as possible.'

Vespasian smiled. 'Given the mood he and his men are in, I doubt I'll have much persuading to do. I should think he'll be only too keen to take it out on the natives.'

'Very well then.' Plautius stood back from the table and stretched his back. 'I'll have my staff draft the orders immediately.'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

'Batavians?' Figulus looked towards the crest of the ridge, as if expecting their pursuers to ride into sight at any moment. He turned back to his breathless centurion. 'How many of them did you see, sir?'

Cato gulped for air before he could reply. 'No more… no more than a squadron… less… coming this way. Get the men under cover.'

Figulus took a last glance back up the track and then turned to issue the orders, calling out to the legionaries in a low voice, as if the Batavians might hear him even now. The men hurried from the track, scattering a small distance into the long grass and stunted bushes that grew on either side. Crouching down, they drew their swords and daggers and held them in clenched fists. On the track only Cato and Figulus remained, the centurion bent over as he fought to catch his breath.

'Are we going to take them on?' asked Figulus.

Cato glanced up at the optio as if the man were mad. 'No! Not unless we have to. It's not worth the risk.'

'We outnumber them, sir.'

'They're better armed, and they're mounted. We wouldn't stand a chance.'

Figulus shrugged. 'We might, if we caught them on this track. And we could use those horses to carry some of the men.'

'They'd be more trouble than they're worth in these marshes.'

'In that case, sir,' Figulus smiled, 'we could always eat them.'

Cato shook his head in despair. Here they were, on the verge of being found and hunted down, and his optio was thinking about food. He drew a last deep breath and straightened up.

'We'll avoid a fight if we can. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'll go with the men on this side of the track. You're on the other. You keep 'em down and keep 'em silent until you hear from me.'

'And if we're spotted, sir?'

'You do nothing unless I give the order. Nothing at all.'

Figulus nodded, turned away and ran over to his men, rustling through the long blades of grass and scattering drops of beaded rainwater in his wake. Cato glanced quickly after him, and saw that his men had trampled some of the undergrowth down in their bid to find a hiding place. It was too late to do anything about that now and Cato ran to join the men on the other side of the track. Only the shaking of a tall clump of bulrushes showed where some men were still adjusting their positions.

'Keep still, damn you!' Cato called out.

The brown heads of the bulrushes quickly ceased moving as Cato found himself a spot between two of his men and dropped down on one knee. He cupped a hand to his mouth. 'Figulus!'

A head popped up thirty paces away on the opposite side of the track. 'Sir?'

'Remember what I said. Not until I give the order!'

'Right!' Figulus ducked back down, leaving Cato to run a last glance over his band of fugitives. Nearby he could see a handful of his men, laying flat, clearly straining to hear the first sounds of the approaching Batavians. Cato too cocked his head and waited, and found himself praying that the horsemen had lost their tracks and were even now starting to search in a new direction. As he waited his heart beat as fast as ever, and the rhythmic pounding in his ears made it hard to listen. As the drizzle continued to patter down softly on the surrounding foliage everything remained still in the gloomy haze that hid the sky from view. Time passed slowly and the tension increased.

Then, just when Cato had begun to believe that the Batavians had passed them by, he heard the faint chink of riding tackle and loose equipment. Then, the dull thump and thud of hoofs on the track. Glancing round at his men, Cato was furious to see that a handful had raised their heads to look for the source of the sound.

'Down!' he whispered furiously, and they dropped out of sight. Cato was the last to go to ground, and he pressed himself into the soft, peaty earth and waited, sword gripped tightly, head turned towards the track, and heart beating like a muffled drum. So great was the tension in his muscles that Cato felt a tremor shaking his leg and there was nothing he could do to still the limb. Muffled, but harsh, guttural voices drifted through the damp air until a sharp word of command stilled the Batavians' tongues. Then there was quiet, broken only by the faint champing of the horses, and Cato realised that the commander of the squadron had paused to listen for any signs of his prey.

For a while there were only the sounds of nature in the clammy air and Cato, who would have normally relished the gentle rhythm of the rain, felt strained beyond all endurance. He was horribly tempted to jump to his feet and give the order to charge, rather than endure any more waiting, but instead he gritted his teeth and clenched his hand into a fist, letting the nails bite painfully into his palms. He hoped that Figulus was made of stronger stuff and would not be so badly tempted. It was in the nature of the optio to fight, and Cato was not sure how far he could trust Figulus to control his fierce Celtic blood.

At last the Batavian commander barked an order and his patrol trotted forward along the track, no more than ten paces from where Cato lay motionless, breathing as softly as he could. From the sound of the hoofs it was clear that two or three men had been sent ahead to scout the trail, then the main body entered the marsh at a steady pace. If the goddess Fortuna smiled kindly on them today, the Batavians might march right through them and be none the wiser. Cato offered a quick prayer to the goddess and promised her a votive javelin if he ever survived this nightmare.

The rumble of hoofs slowly passed by. There was a chorus of shouts. Cato tensed every muscle, ready to spring up and throw himself upon the Batavians at the first sign their ruse had been discovered. Then it dawned on him that of course their pathetic attempt at evasion had been detected. The same tracks that had led the horsemen here would have disappeared further down the track and that could only mean one thing to the Batavians.

Any moment now…

Cato glimpsed a shadowy presence to his left and turned his head. One of the horsemen was walking a short distance off the track, his back angled towards Cato, no more than six feet away, as he lifted his tunic and slackened the cord that held his leggings up. The man grunted and a deeper spatter could be heard above the gentle rain. Suddenly the noise stopped. Cato saw the man quickly lean forward and then he spun round, a cry of alarm already on his lips.