The Eagles Prey

'Cato!' Tullius shouted from the palisade,just above the gate. 'Battering ram coming up! Get your men up against the gate. Bolster it up!'

'Yes, sir! Sixth Century, sheathe swords! Follow me!'

Cato led them over the loose earth to the cart, then pressed his shield against the side of the cart and leaned into it. Men followed suit on either side, and when the surface was covered, the rest pushed up against the backs of their comrades. The hacking sounds from the far side abruptly ceased and a rising roar of cheers filled Cato's ears.

'Brace yourselves!' he called out, and gritted his teeth.

The next moment there was a massive crash from the far side of the gate and Cato reeled back from it as if he had been kicked by a maddened mule. As soon as he recovered his balance he threw his weight forwards again, and felt the reasurring pressure from behind as his men struggled back into position.

'Here it comes again!' someone shouted, and again the men of the Sixth Century were hurled back. But the gate still held.

Overhead Cato heard Tullius bellowing above the din,'Use everything you've got! Hit them! Kill the bastards!'

The ram struck the gate five more times, and on the last blow Cato saw a timber splintered inwards. One of his men screamed as a long splinter shot into his cheek, just below the eye and tore open the flesh. The legionary reached for the splinter and tugged it out, gritting his teeth. Blood gushed down his face and spattered across his armour, and he threw himself back against the gate. Brave, thought Cato, wondering for an instant how he would have reacted to such an injury. Then he focused on the gate and realised, with a sinking feeling of horror, that it would withstand only a few more blows from the battering ram before it burst apart.

Another blow came, further splintering the damaged timber, but Cato sensed that the blow had not been as forceful. Then he thought that the enemy cheers from the track had died down, though it was hard to be sure since his heart pounded in his chest and his head rang with the heavy throb of the blood pulsing through him. There was more cheering now, and it took Cato a moment to realise that those were Roman cheers. Cheers, catcalls and shouts of contempt.

'They must have pulled back!' one of Cato's men shouted.

'Quiet there!' Septimus shouted. 'Stay in position!'

The cheering continued, and there were no more blows from the battering ram. Cato waited a moment longer until he was satisfied that it was safe, then ordered his men to fall back to their reserve position. They stood panting and tired, but desperately relieved that the defences held, and that they themselves were still alive.

'Centurion Cato!' Tullius called down from the rampart.

Cato took a quick breath and forced himself to stand erect before he replied. 'Sir?'

'Your men have had their rest. You're relieving Antonius. Get your men up here as soon as the Fifth Century get off the wall.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Rest?' one of Cato's men muttered. 'Who's he fucking kidding?'

Some of the other legionaries started grumbling and Septimus wheeled round on them. 'Shut your mouths! Save it for the bloody natives!'

The grumbling stopped, but the air of sullen resentment hung over them like a shroud. As the men of the Fifth Century filed down from the rampart and passed Cato, he saw that many of them were wounded, some barely able to stay on their feet.

'Bad up there?' one of Cato's men asked.

'They're bloody crazy,' came the reply from the dazed optio of the Fifth Century. 'Never seen anything like it. Just threw themselves at the wall like they wanted to die… bloody madmen.'

'Optio!' Cato beckoned him closer. 'Where's Centurion Antonius?'

'Dead…'

'Dead, sir!' Cato snapped at him. 'It's "sir" when you're addressing a superior officer!'

The optio stiffened to attention. 'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

Cato nodded, then leaned closer and continued softly,'You're in command now, Optio. You set the standard. Don't let your men down.'

'No, sir.'

Cato stared at him for a moment, to make sure that his nerve had steadied. 'Carry on.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Cato!' Tullius bellowed. 'What are you waiting for! Get your arse up here!'

'At once, sir!'

The men of the Sixth Century hefted their shields and followed Cato up on to the rampart. He was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he looked over the palisade. The optio's comment about the madness of the enemy was fully borne out. They lay heaped before the palisade. A great tangle of bloodied limbs, shields and weapons stretched from the rampart in a rough triangle, with its apex on the track that led into the marsh. Here and there the injured still moved. Cato watched a man with a javelin in his spine claw his way back to his comrades re-forming for the next assault a hundred paces down the track. He dragged his nerveless legs a short distance from the mound of bodies before his strength gave out and he collapsed on the hard earth of the track, his gleaming torso heaving from the effort.

'A welcome sight.'

Cato tore his gaze away from the crippled enemy warrior. Tullius had thrust his way through the defenders and had observed the young centurion's shock at the bloody vista before the defences.

Cato stared at him, and nodded dumbly. Tullius looked down the track and shook his head in wonder. 'Looks like they'll be having another go any moment now. You'd better get your men ready.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted and glanced along the palisade towards the thin line of men that stretched out towards the redoubt where he could see Macro smiling as he did the rounds of his men, giving them a slap of encouragement on the shoulder as he passed by. He caught sight of Cato and flashed him a brief thumbs-up. Cato nodded, and turned his mind to his immediate duty. He saw a number of legionaries sprawled along the line of the palisade. They would be a hazard to have underfoot when the next attack came.

'Get those bodies off the rampart!'

There was no sense of ceremony as his men heaved their comrades' corpses down the slope, limbs flopping loosely as they tumbled. As soon as the task was complete Cato ordered them to stand to and his men faced the enemy, swords drawn. As he walked down the line Cato was pleased to see that there was no sign of fear in their expressions, just the resigned determination of seasoned veterans. They would hold their position and fight until they were cut down, or the enemy gave way. Cato was pleased by their composure, but the pleasure was tinged with regret. If only Vespasian and General Plautius could see them now. The shame of decimation was behind them, and they would sell their lives like heroes. Unless the legate arrived in time the only witnesses to their valour would be the enemy. And the native warriors were so insanely intent on obliterating the cohort that they would be insensible to the courage of the Romans. Cato smiled to himself. It was a strange thing, this life in the legions. Two years he had served under the Eagles, and yet each battle always felt like the first and last. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to the peculiar intensity of sensation that went with every battle.

'Man approaching!'

The voice was distant, and Cato could not place the direction at first. Then, as he saw heads turn to glance back behind the wall, he followed suit and saw the lookout Macro had posted waving his arm to attract attention and then point back towards the column of smoke that marked the site of the fort. No one moved. One man represented no threat, just a source of curiosity, and they waited for further information about the approaching figure.

The lookout turned his back to them for a while and then called out, 'One of ours!'

An icy tingle of dread rippled up Cato's spine. Supposing it was Maximius? Or Felix? Their arrival would result in his death just as surely as an enemy sword-thrust. Then he angrily told himself that such a fear was wholly baseless. He already knew who that man must be, long before he ran over the brow of the hill and staggered down towards the rampart.