The Eagles Prey

'Yes, sir. He's got a lot to answer for all right.' Cordus swatted away a large wasp that had been hovering in front of his eyes.

'Yes, he has.' Macro paused for a moment. 'I suppose you can see why the general had to do it. Order the decimation, I mean.'

'Can you, sir?' Cordus frowned, seemed to think about it a moment, and then shrugged. 'Maybe. But ain't decimation taking it a bit too far?'

'You think so?'

Cordus pursed his lips and nodded. 'Course it is, sir. We fought 'em tooth and nail at the river. There was just too many of them, and we got pushed back. That's the way it goes. Some fights you just can't win. You don't bloody go and throw away forty-odd men to punish a cohort for not achieving the impossible. That's just mental, that is.'

'I suppose. But that doesn't excuse our man from going and setting them free, does it?'

'No. But it makes it understandable.' Cordus looked straight at him. 'Wouldn't you agree, sir?'

'I suppose so. Would you have done it?'

Cordus looked away.'I don't know. I might have done…if someone hadn't beaten me to it. How about you, sir?'

Macro paused a while before he replied. 'It ain't an option for a centurion. It's our job to enforce the discipline, no matter how unfairly it's applied.'

'And if you weren't a centurion, sir?'

'I don't know.' Macro looked away with a pained, guilty expression. 'I don't want to talk about it.'

Cordus glanced at him quickly and then dropped back a pace in deference to Macro's rank. As the patrol wearily continued its march Macro considered Cordus' attitude to the fugitives. If the hardened optio had sympathy for the condemned men, then how many more men in the cohort felt the same way? And Cordus had gone beyond mere sympathy. The optio had hinted at a willingness to have helped the men escape. If that was the common feeling among the men, then the pool of suspects was sufficiently broad to offer Macro some hope of concealment. He felt a momentary lessening of the burden of his complicity in the escape. At least until the fugitives were tracked down.

'That's it?' Macro nodded down the track towards the silent round huts. A faint heat haze wavered across the track and made it look as if the nearest of the huts was floating on a sheet of water.

'Sa!' The guide nodded.

The two men were lying down and peering cautiously through some tufts of grass that grew either side of the track. Ahead of them the track opened out on to a wide area that rose up from the surrounding marsh. The space was covered with barley crops, interspersed with a few pe

Macro ran a hand over the sweaty dark curls plastered to his head. He had taken off his crested helmet and left it with Cordus before creeping ahead with the guide. It had been a huge relief to free his head from the tight, confining discomfort of the helmet and the felt liner that was prone to itch when drenched in perspiration.

He jabbed a finger back down the track, away from the farm. 'Come on!'

Cordus and the others were tense and impatient and looked up expectantly when Macro and the guide returned. Cordus held out the centurion's helmet and Macro pulled on the liner, then the helmet, as he reported what he had seen.

'Nothing's moving. No sign of anyone at all.'

'Think it's a trap, sir?'

'No. If it was a trap, they'd want to lure us in; make it look peaceful and harmless before they sprung their surprise. It just looks deserted.'

'Or abandoned?'

Macro shook his head. 'There are crops, and I saw some animals. We'll enter the farm in close order and stay formed up until it looks safe.'

As the patrol marched between the nearest round huts the legionaries kept their heavy shields up and darted anxious glances at the entrances and towards any place that might conceal an enemy. But the silence persisted and added to the oppressive atmosphere of heat and stillness that smothered the landscape.

Macro raised his hand. 'Halt!'

The patrol shuffled their boots for a moment and then all was quiet. Macro indicated the largest huts.'Search them! Two men each!'

As the legionaries peeled away and began to approach the structures cautiously Macro slumped down on a heavily scored tree stump that served the farmers as a base for log-splitting. He reached for his canteen and was about to pull out the stopper when there was a shout from the nearest hut.

'Over here! Over here!'

A legionary backed out of the dark entrance to the hut, his arm raised to cover his nose and mouth. Macro let go of his canteen, sprang up, and ran over to the man. As he reached the hut a foul stench of decay assaulted his nostrils and he slowed down involuntarily. The legionary turned round as he sensed the centurion's approach.

'Report!'

'Bodies, sir. The hut's full of them.'

Macro eased the legionary to one side, swallowed and then, grimacing at the smell, he ducked his head inside the hut, keeping to one side to let the light penetrate the shadows within. The place was alive with the buzzing of flies and Macro saw perhaps ten bodies heaped like discarded dolls in the centre of the hut. Propping his shield up against the door frame, Macro squeezed inside, stepped over to the corpses and kneeled down, fighting back the urge to vomit. There were three men, one old and wrinkled, and the rest were children, twisted grotesquely and staring sightlessly from unblemished faces beneath the usual tousled hair of Celtic youngsters.

A shadow fell across the faces of the dead and Macro looked back towards the entrance to see Cordus hovering at the threshold.

'Come here, Optio.'

Cordus reluctantly advanced, hand over his mouth, and squatted down beside Macro. 'What happened, sir? Who did this? Caratacus?'

'No. Not him,' Macro shook his head sadly. 'Look at the wounds.'

Each of the dead had been killed with a thrust, or a series of thrusts, the classic killing blow of a legionary's sword. 'Celtic warriors tend to use slashing blows. They let the impact of their heavy blades do the killing.'

Cordus looked at him with a frown. 'So who did this? One of our patrols?'

'No. I don't think so. But it was Romans all the same.'

The two officers exchanged looks filled with sad understanding, then Cordus looked at the bodies again. 'Where are the women?'

Before Macro could reply there was another shout. They rose up and hurried from the foul atmosphere of the hut, greatly relieved to burst back into the cleaner air outside. Macro gulped down several breaths to purge the odour of death from his lungs. A short distance away one of the legionaries was beckoning to Macro with his javelin.

'More bodies, sir. In here!'

Cordus was several paces ahead of him by the time they reached the hut and he glanced quickly inside and, after a short pause, withdrew his head and turned to face the centurion.

'It's the women, sir.'

'Dead?'

Cordus stepped to one side. 'See for yourself, sir.'

With a soul-wearying sense of sadness Macro peered into the hut. In the gloom he saw three naked bodies, one little more than a girl. The older women had bruised faces and all had been killed with the same thrusts. One of them was missing a breast, and a congealed mass of dry blood and butchered tissue sat alongside the mottled skin of the remaining breast. Macro felt a dreadful weight bear down on his heart as he stared at the scene. What had happened here? Only Cato's men could have done this. But surely Cato would not have allowed this? Not the Cato he knew. But that would mean that Cato no longer controlled his men. Or – a dark thought crossed Macro's mind – perhaps the reason for Cato's men being out of control was because Cato was no longer around to command them.