Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (25 page)

‘Here. Take the knife and get busy cutting the others loose. You’ve got to get out of here.’

‘And go where?’

‘As far from here as possible. Somewhere you can’t be found.’

‘And then?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘How far do you think a handful of unarmed men are going to get?’

‘Not unarmed.’ Macro shook the sack. ‘I’ve got you some blades. Enough to go round.’

Cato looked up from cutting the bonds around his ankles. ‘That’s your plan?’

‘You got a better one? It’s that or you stay here and die in the morning.’

‘Some choice.’ Cato shook his head. Execution tomorrow, or inevitable death at the hands of search parties, or the enemy? The situation had not got much better in the last few moments, and now Figulus would join the list of the condemned. Macro too, if his part in this was discovered. The thongs around his ankles parted and Cato rubbed his skin vigorously.

‘What now?’

‘Head west. To the marshes. It’s your only chance.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Macro told the men to stay down and keep still while he and Figulus cut their bonds. The legionaries rubbed their ankles and wrists, painfully flexing limbs as they waited. All the time they glanced round anxiously for any sign that their escape attempt had been discovered. The centurion handed each man a sword or dagger from the sack of weapons, until he had run out. The man who had been raving just lay on the ground after he had been cut loose. He refused to accept the sword Macro offered him.

‘Take it!’ Macro whispered fiercely. ‘Pick the bloody thing up! You’ll need it.’

The legionary turned away, curled into a ball, and started moaning, rising to a shrill keening sound. Macro quickly looked over his shoulder towards the glistening lines of tents, but there was no movement there. He turned back to the man on the ground and savagely swung his boot between the legionary’s shoulder blades. The man stiffened and cried out. At once Macro kneeled over him, snatching up the sword that lay on the muddy ground. He pressed the tip into the flesh under the man’s chin.

‘Shut it! One more sound and it’ll be the last thing you do.’

The legionary jerked his head back, eyes wide with panic as his hands scrabbled for purchase on the ground as he tried to get away from Macro.

‘Keep still!’ the centurion hissed furiously. ‘Keep still!’

‘Leave him, sir!’ Cato whispered. ‘Just leave him.’

Macro glared at the man for a moment and then eased himself up into a standing position, turning towards Cato. ‘He can’t be left behind. He might tell them that I was involved. You’ll have to take him.’

Cato nodded, and Macro quietly sheathed his sword. ‘Get him up then.’

‘Sir, you’d better get out of here.’

‘As soon as you’re away. Come on, let’s head for the palisade.’

‘But that’ll bring us out opposite the main camp.’

‘Better than having to pick your way across our tent lines. You’re bound to be noticed, especially with this worthless piece of shit.’ Macro jabbed his toe into the man whimpering at their feet. Cato looked down and for a moment took pity on the man racked by terror. He reached over and gently shook the legionary’s shoulder.

‘What’s your name, soldier?’

The man turned his head towards the voice and Cato caught a dim glimpse of jagged teeth in a coarsely shaped mouth. ‘Proculus . . . Proculus Secundus.’

‘You call me “sir” when we talk, Proculus. Understand?’

‘Y-yes, sir.’

‘You have to get on your feet.’ Cato spoke in a low voice, trying to inject as much iron into his words as possible. ‘We’re not leaving anyone behind to die. Now, up.’

He firmly pulled the man’s forearm and helped him to his feet, handing Proculus the sword Macro had dropped by his side a moment ago. ‘There. Now hold it steady . . . Better?’

‘Yes, sir. I guess so.’

‘Good.’ Cato patted the heavily muscled shoulder. ‘Now let’s go.’

The newly liberated men rose up from the ground and followed Macro as the centurion padded over the ground towards the rampart. Cato glanced left and right, but saw no sign of anyone along the length of the small rampart.

Macro pointed to the base of the rampart. ‘You should be able to get over the palisade and ditch without anyone noticing. Anyone in this camp, at least.’

They crept up the inner slope and when they reached the short wooden stakes driven into the top of the earth rampart Macro turned and waved his hand down. There was a short, almost silent commotion as the men stumbled into each other, then Macro turned back to the palisade. Grasping one of the stakes in both hands, he worked it forward and backwards, while the veins bulged on his neck. At last, with a soft tearing sound, he ripped the stake out of the compacted turf. The second stake came out quickly and was gently lowered to the ground alongside the first. Cato glanced round anxiously, wiping the rain from his brow as he scanned the lines of tents for any sign of alarm. But the legionaries of the Third Cohort slept on, quite oblivious to the escape attempt of the condemned men. The next stake came out and there was a gap large enough for a man to squeeze through. Cato turned and sought out the looming hulk of Figulus.

‘Optio, you first. Get down into the ditch and head towards the corner of the camp. Stay low.’

Figulus nodded, and then eased himself through the gap, dropping at once on to his stomach and crawling down the steep incline into the defence ditch. Cato thrust the next man forward, and one by one they crept through and down, and then spread out along the ditch. Cato was the last man to leave. He turned towards Macro and they clasped hands clumsily. Cato realised that there was every chance that he would not live to see his friend again, and the thought of not having the reassuringly powerful and weathered figure of Macro at his side filled him with anxiety. But he had to be strong. Whatever future this small band of fugitives had, they would be depending upon him. Cato forced himself to smile at the dark, glistening features squatting opposite.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Macro nodded, and then gently thrust Cato into the gap. ‘Get going. You must be as far away from here as possible before they discover you’ve escaped.’

‘Right.’

Cato slithered down the muddy slope. He glanced back at the palisade, but Macro had gone. Cato eased himself forward and crawled along the line of men lying in the ditch, smeared with mud. All around them the rain hissed into the grass and drops struck the water pooling in the ditch with tiny explosions. At length Cato drew up alongside Figulus and pointed towards the corner of the cohort’s fortifications. With the centurion in the lead the condemned men slithered along. When Cato reached the corner he slowly raised his head and looked around carefully, straining his eyes to pick up any signs of the sentries on the walls of the main camp. A few indistinct shapes moved slowly along the ramparts, but he felt sure that it was dark enough that they would not be detected if they moved slowly and carefully. The only danger was Proculus. The man might well panic and give his comrades away. Cato glanced over his shoulder at Figulus.

‘We’ll head out this way. The grass is long enough to give us some cover. Pass the word for everyone to follow me and stay low.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want you to stick with Proculus.’ Cato lowered his voice so that there was no chance the other men would hear him.’If he panics, silence him.’

‘Silence him?’

‘Do whatever you have to. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato turned away, took a last look along the ramparts, then fixed his gaze on the large copse of oak trees he had noticed earlier in the day when foraging parties had set out to find firewood. Then he eased himself forward into the grass and slowly advanced on hands and knees, ears and eyes straining for any sign of danger. Behind him, the first of the legionaries emerged from the ditch and crept after him. One by one the condemned men followed on as stealthily as possible, hearts pounding. Figulus brought up the rear, thrusting Proculus ahead of him. The latter was terrified and stopped at the slightest threatening sound, dropping down to hug the earth in his trembling embrace before a swift prod from Figulus’ swordpoint started him forward again.

Cato had covered nearly two-thirds of the distance to the copse when he paused and raised his head to look back towards the camp of the Second Legion. Still no alarm. He was about to move forward again when he sensed a vibration beneath his splayed fingers.

‘Stop!’ he hissed. ‘Get down!’

The men stilled as the order was passed back and then Cato strained his ears to discover the source of the vibrations, growing ever stronger. Around him the rain pattered down steadily and the low wind made a faint roar in his ears as it ruffled the tips of the long blades of grass. Then a dark shape appeared around the edge of the copse they were making for. Another joined it, quickly followed by a steady stream of other shapes. The sound of a horse whinnying carried across the plain towards the men hiding in the grass. Cato eased himself down as he strained his eyes to pick out any detail. The horsemen suddenly altered course, seemingly heading directly towards Cato.

‘Shit!’ he hissed, hand instantly going to the handle of the sword he had stuck in his belt. Then he realised they couldn’t have been spotted by the horsemen. It was far too dark for that. Nevertheless . . . ‘Stay down! Pass it on. Stay down, but have your swords ready to hand. No one makes a move before I do.’

The legionaries flattened, hugging the earth, as the order was hurriedly whispered back down the thin column. Cato turned back towards the horsemen, no more than two hundred paces away. At least two squadrons of scouts, he calculated. More than enough to wipe them out. And still they came on, heading for the camp, wholly unaware of the presence of the escaped prisoners - for the next few moments at least, Cato thought bitterly, as he pressed himself down, his cheek juddering from the growing vibration as horses’ hoofs pounded closer.

At the rear of the column Figulus thrust his hand forwards and grabbed a fold of Proculus’ tunic.

‘For fuck’s sake! Stay down!’

‘No! No. We must run. Run for it!’

Proculus started to rise up from the grass, kicking out at the arm that grasped his tunic. ‘Let go!’

Figulus glanced at the approaching horsemen, and instinctively rose up behind Proculus. He threw himself forward, smothering the man as the two of them crashed back to the ground. The optio slammed the pommel of his sword into the side of the legionary’s head and Proculus went limp at once. Figulus took no chances and lay across the inert body, sword poised at the man’s throat as the horsemen rumbled towards them.

Almost at the last moment the column edged fractionally away from the men in the grass and began to pass down the side of the prone figures, no more than twenty feet away. Cato’s head was turned to the side and he hardly breathed as he stared at the dark shapes of men huddled inside their cloaks as they urged their mounts back towards the promise of a dry tent and shelter from the rain and wind. The column pounded along, quite oblivious to the legionaries, yet it seemed to Cato that the last of the horsemen would never pass them. Just when he felt an almost overwhelming urge to rise up and throw himself upon the mounted scouts, the tail of the column galloped by. Cato watched the back of the last horseman, watched him ride on towards the camp, and he drew a deep breath and released some of the tension that had wound his muscles up as tight as a quartermaster’s purse. He waited until the end of the scout column was far enough away that he could not make out any details before he passed the word for his men to continue towards the copse.

It took the best part of an hour before Figulus joined the others crouching in the dark shadows beneath the dripping boughs of the oak trees. Proculus was conscious again, but groggy, and he made no protest as the optio thrust him towards the others. Cato looked back towards the fortress, but there was no sign that the alarm had been raised yet. By his reckoning they had no more than four hours under the cover of night: enough to put perhaps as much as ten miles between themselves and the first of the pursuers. The fringe of the marsh, as far as he could recall, was at least fifteen miles away. It would be a close thing.

And then what?

The perils and uncertainties of the future weighed down on Cato’s heart like a sack of rocks. If they were caught by their own side, execution would follow swiftly, and a stoning, or being beaten to death would be the least of the agonies an angry General Plautius would visit on them. A slow, agonising death by crucifixion was more than likely. And if the enemy got to them first the Romans would be sure to suffer some barbaric torment: burning alive, flaying or being thrown to the dogs. And if they managed to evade both sides, then they would hide in the marshes, reduced to eating anything they could find or steal. A lingering starvation then, until winter killed them off.

For a moment Cato was tempted to turn round and accept the least terrible of these fates. But then he cursed himself for being a weak-minded fool. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. And he would cling on to life for all he was worth; for even the worst of lives was better than the endless oblivion of death. Cato had little faith in the afterlife vouchsafed by Mithras, the mysterious god from the east who had found so much secret favour with the men of the legions. Death was final and absolute, and the only thing that mattered was to defy its cold embrace until the very last breath whispered from his lungs.