Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (26 page)

Cato shrugged off his morbid reflections and stood up, his wet body trembling as the keen breeze bit into his flesh.

‘On your feet!’ he called out, and without waiting for the others to obey his order, the centurion turned away from the camp and struck out towards the gloomy haven of the marshes to the west.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Macro was wide awake when the alarm was sounded. He had not been able to sleep since he returned to his tent. That was something of a first for Macro, who, like most veterans, usually dropped into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the bolster. But the situation was far from usual. Cato was out there, with the most slender chance of survival, and Macro himself was in considerable danger. The moment the quartermaster’s assistants were discovered bound and gagged in the equipment tent it would be clear that someone had aided the prisoners’ escape. If they discovered his involvement then he would be standing in for those who had been facing execution. There was little doubt in his mind about that. Rank and exemplary battle record notwithstanding, Macro would be killed.

Now the first faint tinge of light washed the sky a dull grey through the gap in his tent flaps. It was still raining, not as heavily as during the night, but still a steady tapping on the leather over his head and a wet rustling sound from outside. A shout sounded in the distance, calling the duty century to arms. A squad of men ran past his tent, dark silhouettes against the strengthening light, feet slithering and squelching in the mud.

Macro decided that he had better get outside and be seen to be responding to the alarm. His survival depended on him acting as if he was as surprised as the rest. He swung his feet over the side of the camp bed and reached for his boots. As his fingers closed on the well-seasoned leather he paused, let go of them and quickly ducked out of the tent.

‘You!’ He pointed to one of the men running past. ‘What’s all the bloody racket about?’

The legionary stopped, stood to attention, breathing heavily. ‘The prisoners, sir.’

‘What about ‘em?’

‘They’ve gone, sir. Escaped.’

‘Bollocks! How could they?’

The legionary shrugged helplessly. He had no idea, and couldn’t be expected to know the details.

Macro nodded. ‘Very well then. Carry on.’

‘Sir!’ The legionary saluted, then turned back towards his standard, slowly being waved from side to side in the distance, above the ridges of the line of tents. Macro watched him go, noting the difficulty the man had in making any speedy process over the glutinous mud that surrounded the tents. That was good. Anything that might slow down the pursuit of Cato and his men. Ducking back inside his tent Macro hurriedly laced on his boots and swept up his heavy cape. The folds of wool had only recently been greased and would keep most of the water out. Cato’s men had no such comfort and would be shivering in sodden tunics he realised, with a momentary pang of conscience. But there had been no time to grab anything more than the weapons, and that had been a big enough risk for him and Figulus to take. Cato would have to make do and be thankful that he was alive at least, Macro reflected as he strode off to join the men gathering around the standard.

Centurion Maximius came trotting up to join his officers, his cloak bundled under his arm.

‘What’s the alarm?’

Tullius, commanding the duty century, stiffened his back and stepped forward. ‘Prisoners have escaped, sir.’

‘Escaped?’ Maximius was astonished. ‘That’s not possible. Show me.’

Tullius turned towards the open area where the prisoners had been held, and his men stumbled back to clear a path for the officers. They marched up to the holding area and approached the two sentries that Figulus had knocked out. They were sitting on the ground, drinking from the canteens of the men who had set them free.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Maximius bawled out. ‘On your bloody feet!’

The two men clambered up stiffly and stood to attention with the other legionaries as the officers strode up to them. The cohort commander ignored them at first, casting his gaze on the flattened grass where the prisoners had been held. He took three quick paces, bent down and snatched up some severed lengths of leather from the ground, then glanced at them closely before holding them up for the other officers to see.

‘These have been cut.’

Macro swallowed and nodded. ‘Someone must have given them a hand.’

‘So it would seem.’ Maximius turned back towards the two sentries. ‘Vassus, what happened here?’

The older legionary stared straight ahead, not meeting the cohort commander’s gaze.

‘Well?’ Maximius said quietly. ‘Out with it.’

‘Sir, me and the lad here, we were surprised. They jumped us out of the darkness, like.’

‘They? How many were there?’

‘Two, sir!’ The younger sentry piped up. ‘Bloody big they were too.’

‘Did you recognise them?’

‘It was dark, sir . . .’ the older man replied. ‘Couldn’t say for sure.’

His companion’s eyes widened. ‘We recognised one of them, sir. Figulus.’

‘Optio Figulus?’ The cohort commander scratched his jaw. ‘Cato’s optio. That makes some sort of sense. What about the other man?’

Macro forced himself to keep quite still as he waited for the veteran to reply.

‘Didn’t get a good look at him, sir. He was shorter than Figulus, but then most men are, sir.’

‘I see.’ Maximius looked round at Macro. ‘I want a strength return for the entire cohort. Find out who else is missing. Now!’

Macro turned away and began to look for the cohort’s trumpeter. As he expected, the man had joined the standard of the duty century and the broad arc of his bronze instrument was held ready in his grip. Macro strode up to him.

‘Sound the assembly!’

As the deep notes blasted across the rows of tents, the remaining men of the cohort started to pile out into the daylight, and scrambled across the mud to join the ranks mustering along the inside of the rampart. The centurions formed up in front of their men while their optios carried out a quick head count. Macro took charge of Cato’s century now that it had lost both its centurion and now its acting centurion.

A short time later the officers reported back to Maximius.

‘Only Figulus missing? But the sentries said there were two.’

‘Seeing double, perhaps?’ Macro smiled. ‘Under the influence.’

‘Didn’t look drunk to me,’ Centurion Tullius muttered.

‘No,’ agreed Maximius. ‘They weren’t. So it looks as if one of the men who helped the prisoners escape stayed behind. He’s still here.’

‘Maybe not, sir,’ said Macro. ‘Could’ve been one of the slaves.’

‘Yes . . . that’s true. Send someone to do a head count of the slaves.’

While they waited Macro noticed that his superior was eyeing the coming dawn with an anxious expression. Then he realised why, and quickly glanced towards the main camp.

‘Won’t be long until the legate arrives.’

Maximius snorted and let out a bitter little laugh. ‘The legate, the general and the first cohorts of each of the legions. We’re going to be a laughing stock.’

‘I doubt the legate will be laughing,’ Centurion Tullius added. ‘He’s going to have our balls for breakfast.’

Macro nodded. ‘If we’re lucky.’

Just then the trumpets sounded from across the river, announcing the change of watch that marked the official opening of the day. An instant later a louder blast rang out from the Second Legion’s trumpeters. Maximius and his officers exchanged nervous looks; the cohorts selected to witness punishment would be hurriedly pulling on their tunics and wriggling into their armour. Allowing time for them to form up and cross the river and then take position on the open ground outside the ramparts of the Second Legion, Maximius and his men had little more than half an hour before the truth was out. Then the wrath of the senior officers in the army would crash down on them like an avalanche of granite.

‘Legate approaching!’ the optio on the main gate called out. ‘Honour guard, stand to!’

Maximius’ shoulders sagged. No reprieve then: he would have to face Vespasian now. For a moment Macro felt sorry for him, and a little bit ashamed for engineering the escape. But then he recalled that the cohort commander bore the sole responsibility for their disgrace and the condemning of Cato and the others to an undeserved death. Macro’s expression hardened as a bitter contempt for the senior centurion clenched round his heart.

The optio on the gate shouted an order for it to be opened and then hurried down to take up position in front of the section that lined the route into the small camp. The timbers creaked as the gates were hauled inwards, and the legate and a few of his staff were visible as they rode up the muddy approach to the camp.

Maximius wiped his fringe to one side and blinked away some raindrops. ‘Better get it over with. Come on.’

The centurions of the Third Cohort steadily picked their way over towards the gate, weighed down by a palpable sense of dread over the legate’s reaction to the news of the condemned men’s escape. Around them the rain fell in a desultory manner; just enough to make them miserably uncomfortable, complementing the gloomy mood nicely.

Vespasian ran a quick eye over the honour guard and nodded his satisfaction at the turnout. One or two spots of mud above their mud-caked boots, but that was acceptable. He turned to the optio.

‘Very good. You can dismiss them now.’

‘Sir!’ The optio saluted, turned smartly towards his men and bawled out the order as if he was on the parade ground and not standing within easy earshot. The men stamped to attention and as soon as the formalities were completed they hurried away to find shelter.

The legate swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly. The five centurions pulled themselves up and pushed their shoulders back.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. I trust all the preparations have been made.’

‘Well, yes, sir . . .’

Vespasian sensed the man’s hesitation at once. ‘But?’

Macro glanced sidelong and saw Centurion Maximius lower his head helplessly. ‘Sir, I regret to report that the prisoners have escaped.’

For a moment the legate froze, a frown etched on his broad forehead, then the horse turned its head and jerked the reins still held in his hand, breaking the spell.

‘Escaped? How many?’

‘All of them, sir,’ Maximius replied with a flinch.

‘All? That’s bullshit, Centurion. How could all of them have escaped? They were under guard, weren’t they?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘So?’

‘The guards were overpowered by some accomplices, sir. They tied ‘em up, set the prisoners free and slipped out through the ramparts.’

‘You’ve sent some men after them, I trust?’

Maximius shook his head faintly.’Only just discovered it, sir. The alarm was raised at first light.’

The legate clenched a fist at his side. He shut his eyes tightly for an instant as he fought down the rage that had been provoked by the cohort commander’s confession. Then:’Don’t you think it might be wise to send some men to look for them right now?’

‘Yes, sir. At once, sir. Tullius, see to it immediately.’

As the centurion trotted off to carry out the order Vespasian clicked his fingers and beckoned to his senior tribune. The officer immediately slid down from his saddle and trotted over.

‘Plinius, did that scout patrol have anything unusual to report?’

Tribune Plinius thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Right, well, I want you to return to the camp and get them all back into the saddle. They’re to sweep south, west and east of the river. If they find any of the deserters they must make every effort to bring them back alive to face punishment. If they resist, the scouts have my permission to kill them on the spot. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then go and see to it.’

The tribune ran back to his horse, threw himself across its back and yanked the reins round, spurring his mount towards the main camp. The hoofs flung back thick gouts of mud at the legate and the centurions of the Third Cohort, and Macro flinched as a clod splattered on his cheek.

‘Pardon me, sir.’

Macro glanced round and saw the man he had detailed to report on the number of men in the cohort’s camp.

‘Yes?’

‘There’s only one man unaccounted for. That’s Optio Figulus. All the rest of the legionaries and slaves are here in the camp.’

‘You’re sure?’ Macro raised his dark eyebrows.

‘Yes, sir. That’s not all. We found some of the quartermaster’s assistants tied up in the equipment tent. Some weapons are missing, sir.’

‘Very well, you can go.’

Macro swapped a quick look of dismay with Centurion Maximius.

‘Problem, Centurion Macro?’ asked Vespasian. ‘That is to say, yet one more problem to add to the catalogue of cock-ups for this morning?’

Macro nodded. ‘Yes, sir. It appears that only Figulus has deserted with the others. But our sentries claim that they were jumped by two men. Seems that the second man is still in the camp.’