Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (28 page)

‘Not very homely,’ Figulus grunted.

Cato had to breathe deeply and compose himself before he could respond. ‘No . . . but it’s all we’ve got. We’re going to have to get used to it for a while yet.’

‘What then, sir?’

‘Then?’ Cato chuckled bitterly before he replied in an undertone, ‘There probably won’t be a then, Figulus. We’ll be living from moment to moment, always in danger of being discovered by either side and ending up dead . . .unless we can win a reprieve.’

‘Reprieve?’ Figulus snorted. ‘How’s that going to happen, sir?’

‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Cato. ‘Best not build the men’s hopes up too soon. I’ll tell you when I’ve had a chance to think things through in detail. Let’s keep moving.’

Ahead on the slope the track forked, one arm bending left, round the edge of the marsh and quickly lost to view in the haze that hung over everything and merged with the patchwork of mist still clinging to the dampest dips and folds in the ground. The other fork followed a track less rutted and worn that led straight into the heart of the marsh.

‘Keep to the right-hand path!’ Cato shouted out as he dropped out of line and turned towards Figulus. ‘Keep ‘em moving. Don’t let them rest until you are at least a quarter of a mile inside the marsh.’

‘Yes, sir. Where are you going?’

‘Just checking back over the hill; make sure we’re not being followed. Keep a good look out for me. I don’t fancy being lost in that marsh all on my own.’

Figulus smiled. ‘See you later then, sir.’

They parted company, Figulus leading the bedraggled fugitives west towards the unwelcoming sprawl of the wetlands, Cato turning back towards the ridge they had just crossed. He was not sure why he felt he had to go back for one last look. Perhaps he was driven by the need to stop and think, to plan the next step. Perhaps he just needed a rest and one last look at the world before he was plunged into a life of concealment and terrible deprivation. Whatever the motive, he walked slowly back up the slope, heart heavy with the hopelessness of his situation. What if there was no hope of redemption? What if he was doomed to spend what remained of his life running in fear of his discovery and capture by his own people? Was such a life worth living? Even if they managed to survive being caught between what was left of Caratacus’ army and the legions in the immediate future, the legions were bound to take control of the southern part of the island before the year was out. Then they would have ample time to search out and destroy any last settlements that dared to defy the rule of Rome. At some point the surviving fugitives would be discovered and hauled off to a place of execution - however dimly the military authorities would recall their crime.

If that was to be his fate then Cato decided he would rather risk everything now in an attempt to win back the favour of General Plautius and Legate Vespasian, and the rescinding of his death sentence. The alternative was too awful to contemplate at any length, and he hoped that he would make the others realise that when the time came to outline his plan. He would call only for volunteers, since he no longer had the authority of the army to enforce his orders. Faith in his ability to command was all the authority Cato possessed now. Figulus had seen that at once, but at least the optio had the presence of mind to realise that some kind of order must be maintained if the small band of men was to survive, and that Cato was the best man to provide that order . . . for the present at least.

His mind was so preoccupied by thought of the future that Cato had reached the crest of the hill before he was aware of it, and found himself looking back across the drizzle-shrouded landscape they had hurriedly crossed shortly before.

He saw the scattered screen of cavalry at once, perhaps twenty men, stretched across the landscape with a gap of fifty paces between each horse. They were no more than two miles away, and heading at a tangent across the direction Cato and his band had taken. Cato dropped to the ground, heart beating with renewed pace as he waited to see if he had been spotted. He cursed himself for not approaching the skyline of the ridge in a far more cautious manner. Exhaustion was no excuse when it endangered the lives of his companions.

‘Fool!’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Bloody fool . . .’

As he watched there was no sign that the scouts had seen the distant figure of their prey. They must have been intent on scouring the ground directly in front of them for any sign of the fugitives’ passage. Their progress was unhurried and they walked their horses across the gently rolling grassland, pausing only to search through each copse they encountered. On their current course Cato calculated that they would miss him by a wide margin and his strained nerves began to relax a little. He wondered if these men had encountered Pollius. Had the veteran raised a sword to his pursuers after all? Or had he heeded Cato’s call to turn his weapon on himself rather than lash out at his former comrades? Perhaps he had decided to try to find some place of concealment and had been passed by. Cato found himself hoping that the man had been found and forced to divulge the false trail Cato had set for Pollius to pass on. The horsemen were certainly heading in that general direction.

When the nearest rider was no more than a mile away from him Cato saw a sudden flurry of movement halfway along the line of mounted men. One had dropped to the ground and was beckoning to his comrades. As word was passed each way along the line the men wheeled their mounts in and trotted towards the growing cluster of men and animals. Cato strained his eyes to try to see more clearly what was happening below him. Most of the men had dismounted and their officer was conferring with the man who had made the discovery. As he stared at them, Cato realised that these men were not legionary scouts. The cut of their capes and the kite shields slung across their backs showed that they were from an auxiliary cohort and a cold chill of realisation burst through Cato’s veins as he picked out the dull gleam of a bear’s head standard.

‘Batavians . . .’

The ruthless Germanic tribe had provided General Plautius with a number of hard-fighting but reckless cohorts of cavalry. The Batavians had won a fearsome reputation at the crossing of the Mead Way a year earlier, and had promptly cut down every prisoner that came their way in a fit of bloodlust - one of several such fits, Cato recalled with a growing sense of dread. They would show no mercy to their prey if they came upon Cato and his men. The tensions between the men of the legions and the Batavians went way beyond the usual inter-unit rivalry that was to be found in most armies. Men had died when bands of off-duty Romans and Germans had clashed in Camulodunum.

The leader of the patrol strode clear of his men. He braced his shoulders and rubbed his stiff backside as he scanned the surrounding landscape. Cato instinctively pressed himself down as the man’s face turned fully towards his position on the ridge. It was absurd, he reassured himself; no one could have seen him in that poor light and at that distance. The Batavian leader swung round and waved his arms. The men on the ground quickly mounted and formed a loose column as they waited for orders. Their leader swung himself across the back of his horse and pulled on the reins. With a wave of his arm the small column edged forwards and then broke into a steady trot. A moment later it was clear to Cato that they were heading almost directly towards him. He had no idea what they could have seen lying on the ground, but whatever it was the Batavians had correctly deduced the direction the fugitives had taken.

Cato scrambled back from the crest and as soon as he was sure it was safe he rose to his feet and turned to run back along the track towards the marsh. A half-mile ahead of him he could see the small figures of his comrades entering the faint mist that had begun to lie across the track. As he ran he frequently glanced down to make sure of his footing, and every so often he saw the unmistakable outline of a legionary boot imprinted in the mud. Those footprints would lead the Batavians straight to them - they were already doing so, Cato realised with a sickening feeling.

As if this bloody rain hadn’t made life miserable enough for the Roman fugitives, it was now conspiring to point them out to the Batavians, and when the pursuers inevitably caught up with their prey they would butcher them without mercy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

General Plautius walked slowly across the area where the prisoners had been held, under the anxious gaze of his officers. Not only were the centurions of the Third Cohort present, but also Legate Vespasian, his senior tribunes, the Second’s camp prefect, and the senior staff of the other three legions who had been expecting to attend an execution this morning. Only a few of them talked, in tones so muted that they were only just audible above the steady patter of raindrops. The rest watched the army’s commander with fixed expressions as they huddled under the shelter of their cloaks. The heat from their bodies was making the fat used to waterproof the coats give off a thick musty smell that Vespasian had always found quite sickening. It reminded him of the mule tannery owned by his uncle in Reate. Vespasian recalled both the foul oily stench that hung over the steaming workshops and the oath he had taken never to enter into any business that had anything to do with the wretched animals.

Focusing his mind back on the present Vespasian glanced towards Maximius and the other officers of the Third Cohort. It was hard not to feel sorry for them - the other centurions. They had been poorly led and the harsh punishments that had befallen them had not been deserved. Maximius, despite his years of experience, just lacked the necessary moral fibre and cool-headedness required of a cohort commander. A classic example of overpromotion and the consequences that follow from the dangerous elevation of a man who was simply not up to the job. Vespasian bitterly regretted ever having accepted him into the Second Legion, and he wondered how many of the officers that stood beside the cohort commander would have their careers blighted by the events of the last few days. There were some good men there, the legate mused. Tullius was old and would complete his term of service in two years’ time. But he had experience and a steady enough nerve, and would never let his comrades down. Centurion Macro was as dependable as they came, and was, in so many ways, the ideal centurion: brave, resourceful and tough as old leather. Unimaginative perhaps, but in a centurion that was a positive virtue. The other two Vespasian was less certain about. Only recently promoted, Antonius and Felix had excellent records and were highly commended for promotion to the centurionate by the Second’s camp prefect. Remembering their stumbling performance in the disciplinary hearing Vespasian wondered if Sextus had been bribed to recommend them. They had proved themselves as legionaries, but were they ready to prove themselves as centurions?

The missing officer, Centurion Cato, was the last of Maximius’ men that Vespasian considered. He had deliberately put off thinking about the young man in the hope that General Plautius would have finished his inspection of the ground before Vespasian got round to thinking about Cato. Cato’s career was over, and soon - very soon - his life would be over as well. That thought troubled Vespasian deeply, for he had quickly come to realise that there were few men of Cato’s calibre in his legion, or indeed in any other legion. In the two years since the youngster had joined the Second, Vespasian had watched him mature into an officer of outstanding courage and intelligence. He made mistakes, for sure, but he learned from them every time, and knew how to get the best out of the men he commanded. Men like Cato, provided they lived long enough, were the brains and backbone of the professional army, and could expect to end their careers in one of the top jobs: chief centurion, camp prefect or, if they were truly exceptional, the prefecture of the legions in Egypt - the highest military post available to men outside the exclusive senatorial class in Rome.

Provided they weren’t snuffed out by the fortunes of war, or the exigencies of Emperor Claudius’ reputation-building first.

Vespasian caught a movement over by the rampart and looked up with a start. He had been so lost in thought that he had momentarily lost track of the general’s movements and was surprised to see that he had reached the gap in the palisade. The legate told himself he would have to watch that. Letting his attention wander in the presence of superiors was a dangerous habit.

General Plautius bent down to look at the gap for a moment, then straightened up and leaned carefully over the palisade to inspect the ditch on the far side. At length he turned round slowly and paced back towards his officers.

Sextus leaned closer to his legate and growled in a low voice, ‘Now we’re for it.’

The general stopped several paces from the silent officers and let his eyes wander over them until they came to rest on Vespasian.

‘Every single one?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And no sign of them?’

‘Not yet, sir. But I’ve sent all my scouts and my Batavian mounted cohort out to look for the prisoners. They’ll report as soon as they find anything.’

‘I’d imagine they would,’ Plautius replied with scything sarcasm. ‘Otherwise there’s not much point them being out in this weather, is there?’

‘Er, no, sir.’ Vespasian made himself steady his gaze, fighting off the temptation to glance down, or away from his commander. ‘Not much.’

‘So, forty-odd men just happened to escape without anyone in this camp, or the Second Legion’s main camp, noticing. Strikes me as rather unlikely. Which implies two possibilities. Either your lookouts are as blind as Tiresias, or . . . the prisoners were permitted to escape. Either way, your men are responsible for this situation, Legate.’