The Eagles Prey

Cato smiled at the thought. That would be the end of any meaningful resistance to Roman rule, and both sides could get on with the task of turning this barbaric backwater into a civilised province. He had had his fill of killing the native warriors, who had far more courage than sense. They were good men and, given the right kind of leadership, they would become firm and valuable allies of Rome. All this was possible once Caratacus was defeated… Then the smile faded from Cato's lips.

The enemy would only be defeated if Vespasian arrived in time to crush them against the Third Cohort's defences. As Antonius had suggested, it was possible that Vespasian would not arrive in time. Indeed it was possible that the legate was not even marching towards them. It was even possible that Figulus might not have reached the Second Legion, let alone managed to persuade Vespasian to lead his men along a narrow track through the heart of an enemy-controlled marsh.

Cato realised that all along he had been counting on the legate's willingness to take calculated risks to achieve significant results. Then Cato wished he had gone north to find the legate himself, not trusting his optio to make the case for him. But that would have meant sending Figulus back to the cohort and the much harder task of persuading Maximius to take on the enemy, or finding a way of replacing the cohort commander, if he proved obdurate. Cato could not be in two places at once and did not trust anyone else to do either job for him. It was just the kind of intractable problem that made being an officer such a nightmare. Indecision was bad enough, but endless hypothesising after the event was pure torture. If only he could accept the consequences of his decisions, thought Cato, and just get on with it. Like Macro.

He tried to push further thought aside. He trotted to the front of his century, and continued a hundred paces beyond, to scan the route ahead. The track followed the high ground, such as it was, and skirted round the dismal pools and mires that stretched out on both sides. Where the land was dry, stunted trees and clumps of gorse clustered together. Beyond that, sweeping expanses of rushes restricted the view, so that there would be little warning of the enemy's approach. Cato irritably slapped his thigh with a clenched fist. The tense frustration simmered in his breast as he led his men deeper into the marsh, all the while expecting the next turn of the track to bring them face to face with Caratacus and his warriors.

As soon as Cato estimated they had marched half a mile, he ordered the Sixth Century to halt. The unit changed from column to line, six deep with a front of twelve men across the width of the track, their flanks covered by dense growths of prickly gorse that would tear the skin off any man who tried to force his way through. Two men were sent two hundred paces further along the track to keep watch.

Cato turned to his men, briefly recalling the first time he had stood before them as their newly appointed centurion. He remembered many of the hard-bitten faces before him and felt a new sense of confidence that they would acquit themselves well when they confronted the enemy.

'Stand down!' he ordered. 'But stay in place.'

Cato squinted up at the bright sky and felt the sweat pricking out under his heavy military tunic, which in turn was weighed down by his scale armour. His throat felt thick and his lips were dry and rough to the tip of his tongue.

'You can take a good drink from your canteens. Chances are we'll be too busy later on for you to use them.'

Some of the men chuckled at that, but most stared ahead steadfast until Septimus had bellowed the order to fall out. The men laid down their shields and javelins and squatted down on the hard dry earth of the track. Some reached for their canteens at once, while others undid their neck cloths and wiped away the sweat that was streaming down their faces.

Septimus approached Cato.'Can the lads take their helmets off, sir?'

Cato glanced up the track. All seemed quiet enough and there was no sign of any alarm from the two lookouts.

'Very well.'

Septimus saluted and turned back to the resting men.'Right lads, the centurion says you can remove helmets. Just keep 'em handy.'

There were groans of relief all round as the men fumbled with the leather ties and lifted the heavy, cumbersome helmets from their heads. The felt linings were so soaked with perspiration that they stuck to the heads of the legionaries and had to be peeled off separately. Underneath, drenched hair stuck to their scalps as if they had just emerged from a steam room at the baths.

Cato took a last look towards the lookouts and then slumped down on the track a short distance in front of his men. His fingers worked at the straps of his helmet and then he lifted it off and lowered it into his lap, brushing his fingers over the thin layer of dust that coated the top of the helmet. He set it down beside him and reached for the canteen slung from his sword belt. Cato had just eased the stopper out of the neck of the canteen and had raised it halfway to his lips when there was a distant shout. At once he turned to stare up the track, along with several of his men. One of the lookouts was ru

The nearest lookout jabbed his javelin back over his shoulder as he ran and now his warning was clearly audible to every man in the Sixth Century. 'They're coming!'

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Cato dropped his canteen and scrambled to his feet, shouting out orders. 'To arms! To arms! Move yourselves!'

All around him legionaries heaved themselves up and grabbed at their liners and helmets, jamming them on and fumbling desperately with the straps they had untied just moments earlier. All the discomforts of heat and thirst fled from their thoughts as the men rushed to arm themselves. From the track came the continual cries of the lookout as he raced back to join his comrades: 'They're coming!'

Shields and spears were snatched up from the dusty track and held ready as the legionaries shuffled into position. Cato drew his sword and punched it into the air to gain his men's attention.

'Sixth Century! Sixth Century, prepare javelins!'

Some of the men had instinctively reached for their short swords and now released the handles and hefted the shafts of their javelins, staring anxiously down the track. Cato turned to watch with them, willing the lookouts to run faster. The first of them came jogging up, blown by the effort of sprinting back to the century under the weight of armour and weapons. He stopped in front of Cato and bent forward, gasping for breath.

'Make your report, man!' Cato snapped.

'Yes… sir.' The lookout forced himself to stand erect and swallowed to clear his mouth of phlegm.'Beg to report…the enemy's approaching, sir. A quarter, perhaps a third of a mile down the track.'

'What's their composition?'

'Cavalry and infantry, sir. There's eight or ten scouts out front. They saw us and rode back to the main force.'

'They'll make their report,' Cato mused. 'Then Caratacus will send them back in strength to beat us up while the main body advances.'

Septimus gave a contemptuous snort.'They're wasting their time. There's nowhere they can deploy here. They'll have to fight us on a narrow front. It's going to hurt them more than it's going to hurt us.'

Cato smiled faintly as he turned to look down the track. There was no point in reminding the optio that even a few thousand Britons might have an outside chance of besting a handful of legionaries. He turned back to the lookout.