The Eagles Prey

'Maybe,' Cato replied grudgingly. 'But it's not going to do us much good, is it?'

'No…'

The cheering and acclamation went on for a long time before the native warriors had had their fill and returned to their training and other duties.

The sun dipped down below the top of the wall and threw the prisoners into shadow. This was the time their guards entered the byre and gave them a basket of scraps. The men slowly stirred in anticipation of the chance to try to stave off the aching agony of their hunger. Cato found himself licking his lips and watching the gate that opened into the byre. They were kept waiting a little longer than usual and for a moment Cato feared that there would be no food this evening. Then there was the gentle clink from the chain that fastened the door and it was shoved open. A pale shaft of light stretched across the stinking heap of ordure in the byre, then a shadow passed over it and Cato looked up to see a large warrior looming over them, glaring round at the grimy creatures chained to each other.

'Which of you has the highest rank?'

Even if the accent was thick the Latin was good enough to understand, and Cato made to raise his arm. At once Figulus restrained him with a warning shake of the head and prepared to volunteer himself. But Cato spoke first.

'Me!'

The warrior looked round at Cato and raised his eyebrows. 'You? I asked for your commander, not your goat-herder. Now which of you is it?'

Cato flushed angrily and cleared his throat to reply as clearly as possible.'I am Centurion Quintus Licinius Cato, commanding the Sixth Century, Third Cohort of the Second Legion Augusta. I hold the senior rank here!'

The warrior could not help smiling at the umbrage he had provoked. He looked Cato up and down and laughed, before he continued in his own tongue.

'I had no idea the men of your legions were led by little boys. Why, you look barely old enough to shave.'

'Maybe,' Cato replied in Celtic. 'But I'm old enough to know you Britons are full of shit. How else could I have cut so many of you down?'

The warrior's smile faded and he fixed the young centurion with a cold glare. 'I'd watch your tongue, boy. While you still have one. You're the one who's up to his neck in shit, not me. You'd do well to remember that.'

Cato shrugged. 'What did you want me for anyway?'

The warrior bent down, undid the shackle around Cato's ankle and slipped the collar off the centurion's leg. Then he hauled Cato roughly to his feet and snarled into his face, 'Someone wants to see you, Roman.'

Cato wanted to recoil from the bared teeth and wide eyes of the barbarian, and he knew that the man wanted him to flinch, to show some sign of fear. Cato was equally aware that his men were watching him closely; in fear, yes, but also to see if he could face up to the enemy.

'Fuck you.' Cato spoke in Latin. A smile flickered across his lips and then he spat into the warrior's face. His mouth had been dry and it was more air than spittle that struck the warrior. Even so, it had the desired effect and Cato doubled up as the man slammed a fist into his stomach. He sank to his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath, but Cato's ears rang with the cries of support and defiance from the legionaries. The warrior grabbed the centurion by the hair and yanked him back to his feet.

'How fu

He threw Cato out of the byre and as he followed he noticed a guard approaching with the basket of food for the prisoners. As the guard neared the entrance to the byre the warrior suddenly lashed out with his fist and knocked the basket flying, scattering the scraps all around. At once a handful of chickens scurried over from beside the nearest hut and began to peck at the stale morsels. The warrior nodded in satisfaction before he turned back to the startled guard. 'No food for the Romans today.'

The guard nodded and warily bent down to retrieve the basket as the warrior clamped a hand round Cato's arm and dragged him away into the heart of the camp. The evening meal was being prepared and the smells of cooking filled the air, tormenting Cato even as he slowly caught his breath. Despite the agony in his stomach he was still aware enough to keep looking around as he was hauled through the camp. There were many warriors here, tough-looking men who looked up as the warrior passed through them with his prisoner. Cured meat hung from racks, and grain pits were filled almost to the brim. These men clearly had the will and supplies to continue the fight and act as a cadre around which further resistance to Rome could be built. If the legions were ever to bring this island under the control of the Emperor then these men had to be utterly destroyed, Cato realised. Not that it was his problem any more. He was no longer a Roman soldier. Indeed, it was almost certain that he would not be anything in the near future. Perhaps he was even now being dragged to his execution – a sacrifice for some druid ritual of the night.

At length, as darkness closed round the camp, Cato was shoved through the opening of one of the larger huts, and with his hands still tied together, he fell awkwardly on to the rushes strewn across the floor. Rolling on to his side, Cato saw a small fire crackling at the centre of the hut. Sitting on a stool behind the fire was a large man with sandy hair tied back from his face. He was wearing a simple tunic and leggings that emphasised the bulk of muscle they covered. Solid arms, ending in long interlaced fingers, supported a bearded jaw. A thick moustache curved down either side of compressed lips. The glow of the fire revealed the face of a man in his late thirties with a prominent brow and broad forehead. A gold torc glinted around his neck, and Cato recognised the design at once. He felt a wave of terrible apprehension.

'Where did you get that torc?' he snapped in Celtic.

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise and he tilted his head with a look of bemusement.

'Roman, I don't think I had you brought here to discuss your taste in jewellery.'

Cato struggled to his knees and forced himself to calm down. 'No, I don't imagine you did.'

The binding around his wrists was uncomfortable, and Cato eased his backside on to the ground, sitting cross-legged, so that he could rest his arms. Then he examined the other man more closely. He was clearly a warrior, and had about him the composed aura of a natural commander of men. The torc was identical to the one that Macro wore about his thick neck. Macro had taken it from the body of Togodumnus, a prince of the powerful Catuvellaunian tribe and brother of Caratacus. Cato gave a brief bow of his head.

'I assume you are Caratacus, King of the Catuvellaunians?'

'At your service.' The man bowed his head with mock modesty. 'I had that honour, until your Emperor Claudius decided our island would make a nice addition to his collection of other people's lands. Yes, I was a king – once. Still am, although my kingdom has shrunk to this small island in the marsh, and my army is made up of those few warriors who survived our last encounter with the legions. And you are?'

'Quintus Licinius Cato.'

The king nodded.'I gather your people prefer to be known by the last of the names they list.'

'Amongst our friends.'

'I see.' A faint smiled flickered across Caratacus' face. 'Very well, since the last name's the easiest to use, you'll have to consider me a friend, for now.'

Cato did not reply, and kept his face clear of expression as he sensed some kind of trap.

'Cato it is then,' the king decided.

'Why have you sent for me?'

'Because I willed it,' Caratacus replied imperiously, stiffening his back and staring down his nose at Cato. Then he relaxed and smiled. 'Are you Romans so accustomed to asking impertinent questions?'