Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (17 page)

Looking round at the rest of the century, Cato could see the same strained expressions etched on every face. Even when Centurion Hortensius called a halt to the march at the end of the afternoon, the men would have to begin the back-breaking work of preparing a marching camp. The prospect of having to tackle the frozen soil with his pickaxe filled Cato with dread. As so often before, he cursed himself for being in the army and his imagination dwelt on the relative comforts of the life he had previously enjoyed as a slave in the imperial palace in Rome.

Just as he surrendered to the need to shut his eyes and savour the image of a neat little desk close by the warm, flickering glow of a brazier, Cato was snapped back to reality by a sudden cry. Figulus had stumbled and fallen and was scrabbling to retrieve his scattered equipment. Gratefully dropping out of the column, Cato dumped his pack and helped Figulus back onto his feet.

'Pick up your stuff and get back in line.'

Figulus nodded and reached for his yoke.

'Sweet mother! What the fuck is going on here?' Hortensius bawled as he raced down the column towards the two men. 'You ladies are not being paid by the fucking hour! Optio, is he one of yours?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then why aren't you giving him a bloody kicking?'

'Sir?' Cato blushed. 'A kicking?' He looked up the column towards Macro, in the hope of support from his centurion. But Macro was veteran enough to know when not to intervene in a confrontation and did not even glance back.

'Deaf as well as dumb?' Hortensius roared into his face. 'Only dead soldiers are allowed to fall out of line in my cohort, understand? Any other bastard who gives it a try will fucking wish he was dead! Get it?'

'Yes, sir.'

To one side, Figulus quickly continued hooking his equipment to the yoke. The senior centurion spun round. 'Did I say you could move?'

Figulus shook his head and the senior centurion's vine cane instantly lashed out and smashed onto the side of the legionary's helmet with a sharp clang. 'Can't hear you! You've got a bloody mouth. Use it!'

'Yes, sir,' Figulus snapped back, clenching his teeth against the ringing pain in his head. He dropped his equipment and stood to attention. 'No, sir. You did not say I could move.'

'Right! Now pick up your shield and javelin. Leave the rest. Next time you'll think twice about dropping your equipment.'

Figulus burned with the injustice of the order. It would cost him several months' pay to replace the equipment. 'But, sir. I was tired, I couldn't help it.'

'Couldn't help it!' Hortensius shouted. 'Couldn't help it? YOU CAN FUCKING HELP IT! One more word out of you and I'll cut your hamstrings and leave you here for the Druids. Now get back in line!'

Figulus snatched up his fighting equipment, and with a pained glance at his yoke and his scattered belongings, ran back towards the gap in the Sixth Century where he had been marching. Hortensius turned his wrath back onto Cato. He leaned closer, speaking in a menacing whisper.

'Optio, if I have to step in and discipline your men for you again I swear it'll be you I beat senseless and leave for the enemy. How do you think it looks to the other men if you bloody go and act like his nursemaid? Before you know it, they'll all be dropping like flies and whining that they're too tired. You've got to make 'em too terrified to even think of resting. Do that and you can save their lives. But if you piss around like I just saw you do, every straggler the enemy slaughters will be down to you. Got it?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I fucking hope so, sunshine. Because if there's one thing —'

'Enemy in sight!' a distant voice called out, and from beyond the head of the cohort one of the horsemen from the cavalry squadron was galloping down the line, looking for Hortensius. The beast slewed to a halt in front of the centurion. To the side, on the track, the men of the cohort continued to march past as no order to halt had been given, but the horseman's cry had raised every head and the men looked around for sign of the enemy.

'Where?'

'Ahead, across the track, sir.' The cavalry scout pointed up the track to where it curved round a low forested hill. The rest of the squadron, tiny dark figures set against the snowy landscape, were forming up in a line at the point where the track began to bend round the hill.

'How many?'

'Hundreds, sir. And they've got chariots and some heavy infantry.'

'I see.' Hortensius nodded, and bellowed the order to halt the cohort. He turned back towards the scout. 'Tell your decurion to keep them under observation. Let me know the moment they make a move.'

The scout saluted, wheeled his horse round and pounded back towards the distant figures of the squadron, hooves spraying snow into the faces of the infantry as he passed.

Hortensius cupped his hands. 'Officers! To me!'

'Not much light left,' Cato muttered, gazing anxiously at the sky.

Macro nodded but kept his eyes on the thick line of enemy warriors barring the track ahead where it passed through a narrow vale. Unusually for the Britons, these men stood still and silent, heavy infantry drawn up in the centre, light infantry to each side and a small force of chariots on each flank. Well over a thousand men, he estimated. Set against the four hundred and fifty effectives of the Fourth Cohort the odds did not look good. The cavalry squadron was no longer with them; Hortensius had ordered them to slip round the enemy and make best speed to the legion's headquarters and beg the legate to send out a relief column. The legion was nearly twenty miles distant but the scouts should reach them during the night, if all went well.

The cohort had another problem as it stood to in a hollow box astride the track. In the centre, ringed by half a century of nervous legionaries, squatted the prisoners taken at the settlement. They were excited, and craned their necks for sight of their comrades, whispering urgently to one another until a harsh shout and a brutal blow of a shield stilled their tongues. But it was like damming an irresistible current and as soon as one section was silenced, the whispering flowed elsewhere.

'Optio!' Hortensius shouted to the officer in charge of the prisoners. 'Get 'em to shut their fucking mouths! Kill the next Briton who opens his trap.'

'Yes, sir!' The optio turned back to the prisoners and drew his sword, daring them to utter a sound. His posture was eloquent enough and the natives shrank back in sullen silence.

'What now, I wonder,' said Macro.

'Why don't they attack us, sir?'

'No idea, Cato. No idea.'

As the light in the sky thinned and the gloom of late afternoon thickened, the two forces stood in silent confrontation. Each waited for the other to surrender to the imperative need to do something to end me tension wearing away at their nerves. Macro, veteran though he was, found that he was rapping his fingers on the rim of his shield and was only made aware of it by the curious sidelong glance of his optio. He withdrew his hand, cracked his fingers loudly enough to make Cato wince, and rested his palm on the handle of his sword.

'Well, I've never seen the like before,' he began conversationally. 'The Durotriges must either have the best self-control I've ever seen in a Celtic tribe or they're even more nervous of us than we are of them.'

'Which do you think it is, sir?'

'I don't think I'd bet much on them being scared.'

As he spoke, the enemy line parted to let a handful of men through. With a thrill of terror Cato saw that their leader wore an antlered headpiece and that he and his mounted followers were swathed in the same black robes they had worn before the ramparts of the Second Legion when their leader had beheaded the navy prefect, Maxentius. With a slow, deliberate and menacing gait, the Druids walked their horses up towards the cohort and gently reined in, just out of javelin range. For a moment the only movement came from their horses gently pawing the ground. Then their leader raised a hand.

'Romans! I would speak with your leader!' The accent was marked, betraying the Druid's Gallic origins. His deep voice echoed flatly off the snow-covered slopes of the vale. 'Send him forward!'

Macro and Cato turned to look at Hortensius. His lips curled with contempt for an instant, before realisation of the cohort's peril restored his self-control. The nearest men saw him swallow, stiffen his spine and then step out from the cohort's ranks and stride confidently towards the Druids. As he watched, Cato felt a cold tingle of dread at the back of his neck. Surely Hortensius would not be so foolish as to risk ending up like Maxentius? Cato leaned forward, biting on his lip.

'Easy, lad,' Macro said in a low growl. 'Hortensius knows what he's about. So don't let your feelings show — you'll make the womenfolk nervous.' He tipped his head towards the nearest men of the Sixth Century and those within earshot grinned. Cato blushed, and stood still, forcing all expression from his face as he watched Hortensius approach the Druids.

The senior centurion stopped a short distance from the horsemen and stood with his feet planted apart, his hand on the pommel of his sword. The two sides conversed, but the words were too faint to make out. The exchange was brief. The horsemen remained where they were while Hortensius moved back several paces, before slowly turning and making his way to the safety of the cohort. Once inside the wall of shields, he called for his officers. Macro and Cato trotted over to join the others, all of them burning to know what had passed between Hortensius and the dark Druids.

'They say they'll let us march on unhindered,' Hortensius paused, and gave his officers a wry smile, 'provided we set our prisoners free.'

'Bollocks.' Macro spat on the ground. 'They must think we were born yesterday.'

'My sentiments exactly. I told 'em I might release their mates only when we were behind the walls of the Second Legion's camp. They weren't impressed with that, and suggested a compromise. That we free the prisoners once we're in sight of the camp.'

The officers considered the offer, each weighing up the likelihood of the cohort being able to reach the camp, unencumbered by prisoners, before the Britons reneged on the deal and tried to cut them to pieces.

'There'll be plenty of chances to take more prisoners later in the campaign,' one of the centurions suggested, and then stopped speaking as Hortensius laughed and shook his head.

'That bastard Diomedes has stitched us up nicely!'

'Sir?'

'They don't want that sorry lot over there!' Hortensius jabbed his thumb towards the Britons squatting on the ground. 'They're talking about the Druids we took back at the settlement. The ones that little shit Diomedes killed.'

Chapter Fifteen

'Back to your units.' Hortensius gave the order quietly. 'Tell them to prepare to advance. As soon as I give the signal.'

The officers trotted over to their centuries. Cato glanced over at the Druids waiting for Hortensius's response to their offer. They'd get their answer soon enough, he reflected, and found himself desperately hoping the cohort would manage to kill them before they could wheel their mounts and escape.

The men of the Sixth Century had forgotten their exhaustion and listened intently as Macro and his optio passed down the line, quietly readying the men for the order to advance. Even in the dying light Cato could see the determined glint in the eyes of the legionaries as they checked their helmet ties and made sure of their grip on their shields and javelins. This would be a straight fight, unlike the mad rush of the trap they had sprung in the ruined settlement. Neither side would have the advantage of surprise. Nor would tactical skill play a part. Only training, equipment and raw courage would determine the outcome. The Fourth Cohort would cut its way through the Britons, or be cut to pieces in the attempt.

The Sixth Century formed the left-hand side of the front face of the box formation. To its right was the First Cohort, and three other cohorts formed the sides and rear of the box. The last cohort acted as reserve, with half its strength guarding the prisoners. Macro and Cato moved to the centre of the front rank of their century and waited for Hortensius to give the order. On the track ahead of them the Druids were now aware that something was amiss. They craned their necks to peer over the wall of shields for any sign of their comrades. The leader kicked his heels and urged his mount closer to the legionaries. He raised one hand to cup his mouth.

'Romans! Give us your response! Now, or die!'

'Fourth Cohort!' Hortensius roared. 'Advance!'

The cohort stepped forward, booted feet crunching over the frozen snow as they closed on the silent mass of the Durotriges waiting for them. As the wall of shields moved forward, the Druids wheeled their mounts and galloped back to the safety of their followers. Behind the metal trim of his shield, Cato's eyes scanned the dark figures barring the cohort's route, and then looked longingly beyond them to where the track led towards the safety of the Second Legion's camp. His right hand tightened its grip round the handle of his sword and the blade rose to the horizontal poise.

As the distance closed between the two sides, the Druids barked out orders to the Durotrigan warriors. With a crack of reins and cries of instruction and encouragement to their horses, the charioteers on the flanks began to move further out, ready to charge down on any gaps that opened in the Roman formation. Axles squeaked and the heavy wheels rumbled as the chariots moved off under the anxious gaze of the legionaries. Cato tried to reassure himself that they had little to fear from these outdated weapons. As long as the Roman lines held firm, the chariots could be regarded as little more than an unpleasant distraction.