Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (41 page)

Some hours later, after a long uncomfortable ride through the hot humid air of the marsh, they came to a small farmstead. Raising his head Cato could see a loose settlement of round huts, surrounded by farmland. Two more warriors were waiting for them and respectfully rose to their feet at their commander’s approach. Caratacus halted his men and gave the order to dismount. Then he disappeared inside one of the huts and for a while all was still. Cato sensed an awful tension in the air as the warriors waited for Caratacus to reappear, and he felt afraid to move for fear of drawing any attention to himself. Instead he hung limply across the horse’s back and waited.

How long it was, he could not say. At last the men stiffened in expectation, and Caratacus was standing beside Cato, knife in hand. The Roman twisted his head and looked up at an awkward angle, trying to gauge the other man’s expression and wondering if this was the last view he would ever have of this life.

Caratacus glared back, eyes narrowed in disgust and hatred. He raised the knife hand towards Cato, and the centurion flinched and shut his eyes tightly.

There was a rasping tear and the length of rope that tied his hands to his ankles beneath the belly of the horse parted and fell away. Cato started to slide forward and just had time to duck his head between his arms before he toppled off and landed heavily on the ground.

‘Get up!’ Caratacus growled.

Cato was winded, but still managed to roll on to his knees and rise awkwardly to his feet. At once Caratacus grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the hut he had entered earlier. The loud buzz and whine of insects filled Cato’s ears and the warm sickly stench of decay hit him like a blow. A powerful shove propelled him through the small doorway and Cato fell into the dim interior. He pitched forward and landed on something cold and soft and yielding. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and as he raised his head Cato saw that he had landed, face first on the bare stomach of a woman, a fringe of pubic hair rasped against his cheek.

‘Shit!’ he cried out, scrambling away from the body. A small pile of sharp flints lay to one side and he stumbled on to them, painfully grazing the palms of his hands as he spread his fingers to cushion the landing, and then tightly clenched his fingers around one of the sharp-edged stones. There were more bodies in the hut, also naked, sprawled amid wide tacky patches of dry blood. It was then that Cato realised where he was, and who had done this terrible deed. ‘Oh shit . . .’

The shock and the stench finally overwhelmed any last vestige of self-control and Cato vomited, spewing acrid gouts of sick on to his knees, until there was nothing left inside him, and the acid fumes wafted up to him and made him retch more. Slowly, he recovered and saw that Caratacus was staring at him from the far side of the hut, staring over the bodies that lay between them.

‘Proud of yourself, Roman?’

‘I - I don’t understand.’

‘Liar!’ The king spat the word out.’You know who did this well enough. This is the work of Rome. This and another hut, filled with bodies of defenceless farmers and their families. This is the work of an empire you said would befriend us.’

‘This is not the work of Rome.’ Cato tried to make himself sound as calm as possible, even though his heart was beating like a drum roll in its mortal terror.’It is the work of madmen.’

‘Roman madmen! Who else would have done this?’ Caratacus raised his fist and stabbed a finger at Cato. ‘Are you accusing my men?’

‘No.’

‘Then who else but your people could . . .would have done this? Only Romans would do this.’ He dared Cato to disagree, and the centurion was aware that denial would cost him his life.

Cato swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, but . . . but they must have been acting outside their orders.’

‘You expect me to believe that? I’ve been receiving reports for days now about the punitive actions your legionaries have been conducting against the people who live in the valley. Flogging women and children, the firing of farms, and scores of killings . . . and now this. When we spoke last night you promised an end to war. I… I nearly believed you. Until now, until I have seen what the Roman peace is truly like. Now I can see it all clearly, and I know what I must do. There will be no peace between us. There can never be peace. So . . .I must fight your people with every fibre of my being while I still draw breath.’

Cato saw the wild expression, the fists clenched so tightly that knuckles stuck out like bare bones, and the tight line about Caratacus’ jaw, and knew that there was now no hope of peace while Caratacus lived. His own life was forfeit, and so were those of the men still being held in the pen back at the enemy camp. All because Metellus could not control his desire for a decent meal. For an instant Cato hoped that Metellus would be amongst the first to die, and that his death would be long and lingering to compensate for all the suffering his appetite had brought to the world. It was sad that this bitter thought should be his last, Cato smiled, but there was no helping it. He looked up at Caratacus and resigned himself to death.

Before the enemy commander could act the sound of voices - anxious and alarmed - reached the ears of the two men in the hut and both turned towards the small entrance. Caratacus ducked and hurried outside, momentarily darkening the hut as he squeezed under the lintel. Then Cato rose up, took a last glimpse at the corpses, and followed his captor.

‘What is it?’ Caratacus called out to his men. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Roman patrol, sire.’ One of the warriors thrust an arm out, pointing down the track that led into the farmstead. ‘Maybe twenty men, on foot.’

‘How far away?’

‘Half a mile, no more than that.’

‘They’ll have cut us off before we can ride out of here,’ Caratacus said. ‘Does anyone know if there’s another way off this farm?’

‘Sire,’ one of his bodyguards cut in, ‘I know this land. It’s almost entirely surrounded by mud flats and marsh. We’d never get the horses through it.’

Caratacus smacked his hand against his thigh in frustration. ‘All right then. Get the horses. Take ‘em to the far side of the farm and keep them out of sight. They mustn’t make a sound, understand?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then go!’

The warrior shoved a companion ahead of him and both men ran towards the horses tethered to a rail in the middle of the ground between the huts. Caratacus beckoned the other three men. ‘Take the prisoner, and follow me.’

Cato was grasped by the shoulder and pulled along in the wake of the enemy leader. Caratacus led the small party across the farm buildings, ducked between two animal pens and ran towards the only part of the farmland that seemed to rise any appreciable height above the surrounding landscape. A stunted copse grew on the low crown of the slope just over a hundred paces away and Caratacus led them towards the trees at a brisk pace. Cato knew this was a chance to wrench himself free and try to escape. He felt his pulse quicken and his muscles tensed. He tried to brace himself for the decisive moment and he briefly imagined how it would happen, and just as briefly saw himself cut down by a sword as he tried to make for the safety of his comrades. He might be under sentence of death, but he might yet redeem himself by passing on the information about the location of the enemy camp.

By the time these thoughts had raced through his mind it was already too late. They were close to the trees and the man holding Cato’s shoulder tightened his grip painfully and thrust the centurion towards the shadows beneath the low boughs of the nearest tree. Cato tripped over a root and thudded down on the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. With a sickening rage of self-loathing he knew he had missed his chance to escape.

As if reading the Roman’s mind the man who had been ordered to guard him rolled Cato on to his front and, wrenching his hair back the Briton slapped the flat of his dagger blade against the throat of his captive.

‘Shhh!’ the warrior hissed. ‘Or I’ll slit you from ear to ear. Got it?’

‘Yes,’ Cato quietly replied through gritted teeth.

‘Good. Keep still.’

They lay still, peering through the long grass that grew under the outermost branches of the trees, and waited. Not for long. Cato saw the red of a legionary shield emerge round a bend in the track. For a moment he felt a desperate longing for the company of his own people. The scout trotted forward, glancing round at the huts as he reached the centre of the farm. The legionary stopped, looked round cautiously, head cocked to one side as if listening, then he backed away, turned, and ran off.

Shortly afterwards the patrol marched into the village, and Cato picked out the crests of a centurion’s helmet, and that of an optio. The two officers led their men into the loose circle of huts and halted the patrol. Then the centurion barked out a few orders, sending men running to search the nearest huts. He unbuckled the strap beneath his helmet and lifted it from his head. Cato took a sharp intake of breath as the dark hair and high forehead of Macro came into view. What the hell was Macro doing with such a small patrol? Cato’s heart rose at the sight of his friend and he lifted his head to see better. The blade at his throat slid round so that the edge rested on his skin and rasped painfully.

His guard thrust his face close to Cato’s and whispered fiercely. ‘One more move, Roman, and you die.’

Cato could only watch from afar, in an agony of despair and helplessness as the Romans searched the huts, and Macro glanced round, his gaze sweeping right over Cato and the other men still and hidden just inside the fringe of the copse. There was a muffled shout and Macro turned and hurried inside a large hut. He emerged shortly afterwards, in response to another shout and made his way to the very hut that Cato had been kneeling in shortly before. This time it was longer before he emerged, and Macro walked slowly from the dark entrance, a knuckled fist held to his mouth. For a moment all was quite still, as Macro paused and stared at the ground, shoulders slumped wearily. Then, as Cato and the warriors either side of him watched silently, Macro looked up, stiffened his back and shouted out a string of orders. The men of the patrol trotted over to him, closed ranks and stood facing the copse, waiting for the command to move.

‘Patrol!’ Macro’s parade-ground shout carried clearly to Cato, and the men either side of him tensed up, sword hands immediately reaching for their weapons. Macro’s mouth opened wide and the sound reached them an instant later. ‘Advance!’

The patrol tramped forward towards the concealed men, and Caratacus glanced towards the man still holding the knife at Cato’s throat.

‘When I say . . . kill him.’

The patrol marched up to a small hut, turned round it and began to head off down the track that led away from the farmstead. Caratacus let out a sibilant breath of relief and the warriors’ tension eased off as the Roman patrol marched away. Cato could only stare at the backs of the legionaries with a terrible longing.

As they reached the edge of the farm, Macro stopped out of line and let his men file past as he gazed back towards the silent huts one last time. Then he turned away, and moments later the scarlet horse-hair crest of his helmet dipped out of sight behind a thicket of gorse. Cato lowered his head on to his arms and shut his eyes, fighting back waves of black emotions that threatened to engulf him and shame him in front of these barbarians.

A shadow came between him and the sunlit farmland beyond the copse.

‘Get up!’ Caratacus snapped. ‘Back to the camp. I’ve got something special in mind for you and your men.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

‘So they’re still around, then?’ mused Centurion Maximius. He looked past Macro, through the tent flap and into the dusk beyond. The sun had just set and he pulled one of the parchment maps across the desk and smoothed it out between himself and Macro. ‘This farmstead you were taken to was about . . . here.’

Macro looked down at the spot the cohort commander indicated and nodded.

‘Right. Then we can assume they’re somewhere close by. No more than half a day’s march, I’d say.’

‘Why’s that, sir?’ asked Macro. He waved his hand across the map in a broad sweep around the tiny sketch that marked the farm’s location. ‘They could be anywhere.’

‘That’s true, but not likely.’ Maximius smiled. ‘Think about it. They’re hiding. They won’t venture too far simply because they want to avoid natives and Romans alike. They have no access to guides, so they won’t be familiar with the paths, and will fear getting themselves lost, or cut off from each other. They’ll return to their lair each night, so we can narrow the search to the area around this farm. Assuming it was them who massacred the farmers.’

‘Had to be, sir. Injuries were almost certainly caused by short swords. In any case, it’s hardly likely that Caratacus and his men would go round bumping off their own people.’

‘No . . .’ Maximius tapped his finger on the simple sketch of the farm. ‘But it seems a little strange. I didn’t have much time to get to know Cato, but massacre, and rape? Doesn’t seem like his style.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Macro added quietly. ‘I don’t think he can be responsible for this.’

‘Well, somebody was.’ The cohort commander looked up.’I thought you knew him well?’

‘I thought I did, sir.’

‘Could Cato really have done this?’

‘No . . . I don’t know . . . I really don’t know. Might have been raiding for food, raised the alarm and then had to mix it with the locals. They got into a fight, and had to put them all to the sword.’