The Eagles Prey

Cato held up his arm. 'Stop!'

'What the…?'

'Quiet! Listen!'

They stood there, straining to hear any sound from their prey. In the distance the sounds of the legion cutting the remnants of Caratacus' army to pieces drifted through the still air. Individual cries of terror or defiance echoed faintly from afar, but there was no sound close at hand.

'What'll we do?' Macro whispered.

'Split up.' Cato jabbed his sword to the left where there appeared to be a gap in the rushes that might have been made by the passage of a fugitive. 'I'll go that way. You sweep round to the other side. We'll close up on each other if we don't find anything. All right?'

Macro nodded, not even thinking to question the fact that it was his young friend who was giving the orders. The young centurion began to wade off.

'Cato… no foolishness.'

Cato flashed him a quick smile. 'Who? Me?'

Macro watched him disappear amongst the tall stalks and shook his head wearily. Whatever fate was looking after the lad's welfare was working overtime. One day Cato was going to catch her on the hop…

Cato waded forward, the oily water swirling away from his thighs as the centurion eased himself between the rushes. As he approached a patch where they grew more densely his eye caught a flash of red and he looked closer. A smear of blood gleamed on one of the stalks. Cato tightened his grip on his sword and pushed on, carefully feeling his way through the tangle of soft vegetation hidden beneath the dark surface of the water. Behind him the sounds of the battle gradually faded, muffled by the marsh plants stretching out around him. Cato proceeded cautiously, eyes and ears straining to detect the faintest sign or sound of his prey. But there was nothing, just the u

The rushes began to thin and the water became deeper as Cato emerged into a small open expanse of water. Close to him was a small hummock of earth. The remains of an uprooted tree lay across the tiny island, now covered with a luxuriant growth of emerald moss. The island presented a good point to try to get a better sense of the lie of the land, and Cato slowly waded over to it. As he emerged from the water he saw that his boots were covered with a thick black slime that weighed them down as if they were made of lead. He sat down on the tree trunk and reached for a slimy length of branch to help clean the muck from his boots. A bittern boomed from nearby, causing Cato to jump in alarm.

'Bastard bird,' he muttered softly.

An arm shot round his throat and yanked him backwards off the tree trunk. He tumbled back, flailing his hands and letting go of the sword. There was a grunt as he landed on top of someone. Someone built like a brick shit-house. The arm round his throat clenched tighter and behind his head Cato could hear the rasping breath as the man strained with the effort. Cato writhed frantically, trying to free himself, and clawing at the arm, struggling to loosen the grip, in vain.

'Goodbye, Centurion,' a Celt voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Cato jammed his jaw down against his chest and bit down on the tattooed flesh of the forearm. His teeth crunched through skin and muscle, as the man behind suppressed a howl of pain deep in his chest, and tightened his grip. Cato felt the first wave of light-headedness and bit as hard as he could, until his teeth met and his mouth was filled with blood and a warm lump of flesh.

The man gasped in agony but didn't loosen his grip.

Unless he could do something else, Cato knew he was as good as dead. He let one of his hands fall way, and groped behind his back, fingers scrabbling across the fine cloth of the man's leggings. He found the soft yielding package of the man's groin and dug his fingers into the scrotum and squeezed for all he was worth. At the same time he slammed his helmet back and heard the bone in his enemy's nose crunch. With a deep groan the man relaxed his grip for a moment. But that was enough. Cato wrenched the arm away from his neck, thrashed his way to one side and rolled off. He was on his feet in an instant, crouched and ready to fight. Six feet away, beside the tree trunk, was Caratacus, doubled up and groaning as he reached between his legs. Blood was streaming from his nose and arm, and he abruptly threw up when he could bear the agony no longer. He presented no danger to Cato in that state, and the centurion rose to his feet, tenderly massaging his throat as he looked round, saw his sword and went to retrieve it.

When Caratacus had finished being sick he painfully heaved himself round so that his back rested against the tree trunk. He glared at Cato, eyes filled with bitter hatred, until recognition dawned in his expression.

'I know you.'

Cato nodded, and undid the leather ties, heaving the heavy metal helmet from his sweat-drenched scalp. Caratacus grunted.

'The boy centurion… I should have had you killed.'

'Yes. I suppose so.'

'Fu

'Fu

'So much for the Roman sense of humour.'

'There's been too much death for me. I'm sick of it.'

'Only one more to go then, before it's all over.'

Cato shook his head. 'No. You're my prisoner now. I'm taking you back to my legate.'

'Ah,' Caratacus gri

'No one's going to sacrifice you.'

'Think I'm stupid?' Caratacus snarled.'You think my people have ever forgotten what your Caesar did to Vercingetorix? I'll not be paraded through your forum, then strangled like some common criminal.'

'It won't happen.'

'You're sure?'

Cato shrugged. 'Not my decision. Come on, let me help you up. But no tricks, understand?'

Cato moved behind him and, gently lifting the king under his good shoulder, raised Caratacus up on to the log. A wave of pain swept through the Briton, and he gritted his teeth until it had passed.

'I'm not moving any further. Let me die here… please Roman.'

Cato stood over him, and stared down at the ruin of the man who had caused Rome so much frustration and fear over the last two years of campaigning. There was no question that he would be treated as a trophy. A quaint bauble for Claudius to dangle in chains for the entertainment of foreign potentates. Until the day that the Emperor tired of him and used him one last time to entertain the mob with some cheap death at the games.

'I spared you, Roman.' Caratacus' eyes were pleading. 'I let you live. So let me choose how I die.'

'You were going to burn me alive.'

'A mere detail.' He raised his hand and gestured towards Cato's sword. 'Please…'

Cato looked down at him. Once the most powerful of kings amongst the tribes of this island, he was now defeated and broken. Quite pitiful… Pity? Cato was surprised at himself. Why should he feel pity for this man who had proved such a pitiless enemy? And yet there was already a peculiar, aching sense of loss in his heart now that the enemy had been brought low. It was tempting to allow him one last dignity, to let him die in peace, and Cato looked down at his sword.

The Briton followed his gaze and nodded.

'Make it quick, Roman.'

Caratacus turned his head away, and clenched his eyes shut. For a moment all was still: the native king waiting silently for his end, and Cato holding the sword tightly in his hand. In the distance the sounds of battle had ended, aside from the shrill screams of the wounded. The insects buzzed in a cloud around the two men, drawn to the warm scent of the bloodied bandage wrapped around Caratacus' shoulder. Then Cato abruptly shook his head and smiled. He relaxed his grip on the sword handle, and with a dextrous twirl he rammed the blade back into its scabbard. Caratacus opened one eye and squinted up at him.