Cato forced himself on, knowing that to stop would be to invite a merciless death. The sword weighed heavily in his hand, but he tightened his grip and ran on. A mile short of the gateway he came across a narrow stream meandering across the small plain in front of Calleva. Before he realised what was happening Cato stumbled on the loose earth hanging over the edge of the stream and splashed down into the shallow water. The sudden shock of the cold current jolted his senses. With a great effort of will he scrambled on to his knees and looked for his sword which had slipped from his grasp in the fall. The blade glimmered beneath the glassy surface several feet away. Cato was about to reach for it when he heard a horse close by. A shadow wavered on the far side of the stream, and Cato lowered himself back into the water, pressing his body close to the bank just beneath the overhang of loose earth. An instant later there was the breathless champing of a hard-ridden horse immediately above him. A small avalanche of pebbles and loose earth cascaded into the water beside Cato. On the far bank was the faint shadow of the horse and rider, and Cato stilled his breathing. A fluke ripple in the surface of the stream refracted a strong shaft of light on to the blade of his sword and it gleamed brightly in the water for an instant.
But an instant was enough. The rider slid off the back of his horse and jumped down into the stream, right in front of Cato, sending spray into the centurion's face. The warrior waded a few paces downstream towards the sword and then Cato realised he would be seen the moment the man picked up the sword and turned round. There was not time to think. Cato rose and threw himself on the back of the rider as he bent over the sword. The impact drove both men splashing down. The centurion was on top, and he reached forward, searching for the rider's throat. He found it, clenched his fingers round the muscular neck and pressed as hard as he could. The rider thrust himself up, erupting from the water in a cascade of glittering spray, hands clawing behind his head, reaching for Cato's arms. He found them and tried to wrench Cato's grip free, failed and then reached further back, clawing for his attacker's face and eyes. Before he could succeed Cato rammed his knee into the small of the man's back and pulled him sideways into the stream, struggling to push the man's head beneath the surface.
The Briton was too strong for him, and in one convulsive heave he turned over on top of Cato, facing up to the morning sky and pressing back on the body trapped beneath him. The impact drove the breath out of Cato, and he just had the sense to clamp his lips shut before the water closed over his face. But he knew he had little time left. His burning lungs demanded air, and he would be forced to release his grip on the rider and try to force his way to the surface. Out of the corner of his eye something glimmered. The sword. Cato twisted his head and saw that it was within easy reach on the bed of the stream. He released his grip on the man's throat and snatched at his face with his left hand, fingers working towards the man's eyes. His right hand splashed back into the water, grabbed for the handle of the sword, brought the blade round, and then with the last of his fast-ebbing strength he thrust the blade up through the rider's back. The man jerked, in spasm, jerked again, frantically struggling to tear himself free of the blade, which Cato was working furiously up and down in his chest. The thrashing became weaker, and at last Cato heaved the body to one side and burst out of the stream, gasping for air. As he sat coughing and spluttering in the slowly spreading pool of crimson, Cato checked his enemy. The rider lay on his back. The tip of Cato's sword had burst through his heart and right through the front of his chest. Dark red billowed up round the edge of the blade and slowly dissipated in the gentle current. The man's head was tilted back beneath the surface of the water. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky as his hair waved downstream, like the long tendrils of the weeds growing close to the bank.
As soon as Cato had caught his breath he heaved the man on to his side, placed a boot on his back beside the sword handle, and wrenched the blade free. It came out with a fresh gush of blood and Cato immediately pulled himself on to the bank and crept downstream, away from the enemy and roughly in the direction of Calleva. The Durotrigans would notice the riderless horse soon enough and come to investigate. He had briefly considered trying to mount the animal himself, but could not trust himself to do it well. Besides, he was a poor rider while the Durotrigans were experts, and they would run him down long before he got the beast anywhere near the gates of Calleva. So he moved downstream as swiftly and quietly as he could, ears straining for any sign that the body had been detected and the enemy were giving chase. A quarter of a mile later Cato realised he was trembling. He knew he was too tired to go on. He must hide and rest a while; recover some strength and then move on towards the safety of the town.
Safe? Calleva? He chided himself. The cohorts had been destroyed. The only thing standing between the Durotrigans and the Atrebatans were the handful of legionaries serving the depot and Verica's bodyguard. The moment the enemy realised that, Calleva would be at their mercy. He had to get back, gather the survivors up and try to save the town. Then he thought of Macro and Tincommius. Had either of them made it? Were they dead, somewhere out there in the long grass? Food for the carrion birds already spiralling overhead in the late morning sunshine.
Cautiously moving round a bend in the stream Cato came across a fallen tree, wrenched up from the ground years before by some wild storm. The soil round the base of the tree had been pulled up, and badgers had dug themselves a sett amongst the tangle of dead roots. Cato pressed himself into the narrow entrance and hurriedly used his sword to loosen the soil above him. Clods of earth tumbled over the hole, gradually filling it and burying the centurion under a shallow layer of soil. He would be revealed the moment anyone made a close inspection of the twisting roots, but it was the best he could do. He lay still, watching the stream through the small gap he had left, and waited for the long hot day to end.
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cato woke with a start, dislodging the earth he had piled over his body. It was dark and something was snuffling through the dirt close to his face. As the centurion stirred the creature emitted a shrill squeak and scrambled away. An instant later Cato's mind focused with a sharp intensity as he remembered everything that had occurred earlier in the day. Furious with himself for falling asleep, he lay still, listening for any signs of movement, but the only sound he could hear was the stream chuckling over a shallow bed of pebbles. Overhead, through the tangle of dead roots, he could see a few stars behind scattered wreaths of silvery cloud. Cato groped for his sword, and then gently brushed the earth away from his body. He paused a moment to see if he had attracted any attention, and then eased himself out of the entrance of the badger sett. Staying close to the ground, he crawled up the bank and raised his head above the tufts of grass growing along the edge. The landscape was a dark almost featureless mass stretching out on all sides, broken only by the unmistakable silhouettes of trees.
But, there, barely a mile away, was Calleva. Sections of the ramparts were illuminated by blazing faggots that the defenders had hurled down on to the ground in front of the town in an attempt to reveal the presence of any enemies lurking nearby. Even as Cato watched a few more blazing bundles of kindling were raised above the ramparts by tiny figures wielding pitchforks. Then the faggots were thrown over in bright flaring arcs and burst on the ground in showers of sparks.