The Eagles Prey

'Get 'em!' Cato screamed as he jumped up. 'Get up and get 'em!'

The man nearest him continued to turn, one hand wrenching at the handle of his sword, the other still holding his penis. Cato threw himself into the man, his blade thrusting into his stomach an instant before Cato crashed into him and sent the Batavian sprawling back into the long grass. All around, the grimy forms of the legionaries rose up and sprinted towards the wheeling confusion of men and horses. Beyond them Cato glimpsed Figulus and his men racing in from the far side of the track. The commander of the Batavians recovered from the surprise like a true professional and had his sword in his hand even as he bellowed his orders. But there was no time for orders; all was chaos, a seething melee of mud-stained furies, and the large-framed bodies of the horsemen struggling to control their panicked horses while they fought for their lives. Even though they had the advantage of numbers and surprise the legionaries carried only an assortment of blades, while their foes had shields, helmets and chain-mail vests. They also had long-bladed cavalry swords, which they now swept through the air in swooshing deadly arcs at the unprotected bodies of the men rushing amongst them.

Cato glimpsed a glint of light to his side and ducked down just as a blade cut through the air where his head had been a moment before and he felt the rush of air through the top of his scalp as the sword flashed over him. The sharp musty stench of horses filled his nostrils as he glanced up at the man who had tried to kill him. The momentum of the blade had twisted him round in his saddle. Before he could reverse the swing Cato hacked at his elbow, shattering the joint with a dull crack. The Batavian screamed and his nerveless fingers released the sword. Hands grabbed at his cloak and he was dragged down into the mud and killed under a hail of sword-blows and the stamping hoofs of his own horse.

'Kill them!' Figulus roared above the din of clashing weapons, the harsh cries of fighting men and the shrill whi

One of the legionaries, just in front of Cato, could not get round his comrades to reach the rider and was thrusting his dagger into the neck of the rider's mount instead. Jets of blood sprayed out from the glossy black hide below the bedraggled mane. There was a roar of anguish and rage as the rider saw what was being done to his horse and his sword slashed forward, cutting through the legionary's throat and spine in an instant and sending the head leaping from the man's shoulders in a hot explosion of blood.

'Don't let any get away!' Cato called out, as he quickly glanced round to find a new target. Several of the Batavians were down, one pi

'You!' He grabbed a man by the arm, and turned to look for some more. 'And you two! With me.'

The small party backed out of the fight and Cato led them round the fringe until they reached the track leading out of the marsh.

'Spread across the track. Don't let any of them get past!'

The men nodded, and held their blades ready. Further down the track the fight was coming to an end, and the legionaries had had the better of it. Only six of the Batavians still lived, clustered together, and still mounted as they warded off the lightly armed men who danced warily around them, short blades thrusting at any horse or human flesh that came within reach. Cato could see the danger at once. As soon as these men realised that their only chance lay in flight, they would pack together and charge the legionaries, trusting to the weight and impetus of their mounts to carry them through.

'Don't just stand there!' he shouted. 'Figulus! Get stuck in!'

An instant later one of the Batavians screamed out his battle cry, and it was taken up at once by the other five. They raised their swords high, kicked in their heels and their mounts surged forward. The legionaries nearest to them scattered, diving for safety rather than risk being trampled. Those further back moved aside more deliberately and poised for a strike as the horsemen galloped past. The Batavians ignored the men who posed no danger. They were intent on escape, not going down in a desperate fight in some far-flung marsh at the ends of the earth. So they covered their bodies with their large oval shields, hunched down and spurred their horses on.

The narrow width of the track meant that only two horses could gallop side by side and the Batavians slowed down as they jostled for position. At once, the more daring amongst the legionaries dodged forward and thrust their blades into the sides of the horses, or aimed at the bare legs between the leather breeches and the boots of the horsemen. A horse, stabbed in the flank, swerved round across the track and blocked the three horses immediately behind it. They crashed into the wounded animal and it stumbled back and rolled on to its side. At the last moment the rider threw himself clear and landed heavily at the feet of a group of legionaries. They hacked him to death at once. The other three desperately regained control of their mounts and tried to pick a path round the injured beast, but it was already too late. Their momentum had gone, and the surrounding legionaries rushed in, plucked them from their saddles and butchered them on the ground.

All this Cato saw in a blur of motion; then his eyes fixed on the two Batavians who had led the charge, and still came on, teeth-bared and eyes wide with desperation as they spurred their mounts forward. Cato saw a cavalry sword on the ground close by and snatched it up, the blade's weight and balance unfamiliar in a hand used to the feel of a short sword. On either side of him he sensed his men shrinking back from the horses pounding down the track towards them.

'Hold still! Don't let them escape!'

A moment before the Batavians were upon him, Cato raised the sword and sighted along its length to the glistening chest of the nearest horse, and braced himself. The horse galloped on to the point, which ripped through its hide, tore through its muscle and pierced the heart. Cato had thrown his weight behind the sword and the shock of the impact now hurled him to one side. He landed heavily in the long grass beside the track, the wind driven from his lungs.

The blinding white that had exploded through his head when he struck the ground faded into a cloud of swirling white sparks. Then it cleared and Cato was staring straight up, the grey sky fringed with dark blades of grass. He couldn't breathe and his mouth opened, lungs straining for air. There was a ringing sound in his ears, and when Figulus leaned over him, with a concerned expression, Cato could not comprehend what the optio was saying to him at first. Then the words quickly became audible as the ringing died away.