The Eagles Conquest

Cato slapped at his cheek and caught a knuckle on his cheek guard. 'Shit!'

'Nice to see the little buggers go for a younger vintage once in a while,' commented Macro and waved a swarm of midges away from his face. 'Won't be sorry to be shot of this lot and have a swim in that river.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Cato with feeling. He could think of nothing more he would like to do than cast off his heavy, uncomfortable equipment that chafed so badly on his weeping burns and plunge into the cool flowing current of a river. The image conjured up was so desirable that for a moment Cato was quite transported from his immediate troubles, and the mental return to them was that much more painful as a consequence. 'Should we try and reach the river tonight, sir?'

Macro rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands as he mentally debated the available courses of action. The prospect of staying put in this clearing overnight with the spirits of the newly dead creeping about the place made his flesh tingle with revulsion and terror. The river could not be that far, but in this marsh any progress along the narrow paths would be dangerous in the dark. A sudden thought struck him. 'Isn't there a moon tonight?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Right. Then we rest here until the moon rises enough to let us see where we're going. We'll take our chances on this path. It seems to be heading in the right direction. Detail two sentry watches and pass the word to the lads to try and get as much sleep as they can.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted and strode off to give the orders. On his return he discovered his centurion lying on his back, eyes closed, snoring with the raucous grumble of a man deeply asleep. With an affectionate smile Cato slumped down on the opposite side of the path, removed his helmet and laid it with his other equipment. For a while he watched the sunset paint the sky in livid shades of orange, red, violet and finally indigo. Then, after he had changed the watch, he also lay down, and tried to surrender to his own exhaustion. But the pain down his side, the merciless whine of insects, the droning from the flies, the rumbling snores of the centurion and the prospect of encountering any comrades of the dead Britons opposite ruined any immediate prospect of sleep. And so Cato lay uncomfortable, exhausted and angry at himself for not sleeping. The snoring from nearby had long since ceased to have any endearing quality and the young optio could quite happily have smothered his centurion long before the moon made its first appearance amidst the scattered clouds of the night sky.

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Twenty-Two

'Optio!' hissed a voice.

Cato's eyes flickered open. A dark shape loomed against the star pricked night sky. A hand was grasping his blistered arm, shaking him, and Cato nearly howled with agony but just managed to bite it off in time. He snapped upright, fully awake.

'What is it?' Cato whispered. 'What's happening?'

'Sentry reports movement.' The shape pointed to the end of the clearing near the track by which they had entered at dusk. 'Should we wake the centurion?'

Cato looked over towards the source of the snoring. 'I think we'd better. Just in case they hear us before we see them.'

As Cato hastily strapped his helmet on and picked up his equipment, the legionary woke Macro as quietly as he could. Not an easy task due to the depth of the centurion's slumber, and even when Macro came round he seemed to be breaking out of a fairly powerful dream.

'Because it's MY fucking tent!' grumbled the centurion. 'That's why!'

'Sir! Shhh!'

'W-what? What's up?' Macro jerked upright and immediately reached for his sword in a swift reflex action. 'Report!'

'We've got company, sir!' Cato called out softly as he crept over to the centurion. 'Sentry says he can hear movement.'

Macro was on his feet in an instant, his other hand automatically fastening his helmet strap. 'Get the lads formed up across the clearing, but keep' em as quiet as you can. We might want to avoid this one.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato crept off towards the sleeping legionaries and Macro quietly lifted his shield and made his way past the line of bodies, grateful that the drone from the flies had diminished with the coming of night. He almost missed the sentry in the darkness as the man was standing to one side of the track, completely still, straining to detect sounds from further down the narrow path.

'Sir!' the sentry whispered so quietly that had Macro not been listening so intently he might have missed it. As it was, the sudden sound caused him to flinch in surprise. He recovered in an instant, and silently crouched down beside the sentry.

'What is it, laddie?'

'Please, sir, there's nothing now. But I swear I heard something just a moment ago.'

'What did you hear, exactly?'

'Voices, sir. Very low, but not far off. Talking very quiet like.'

'Ours or theirs?'

The sentry paused for a moment before replying.

'Spit it out!' Macro whispered angrily. 'Ours or theirs?'

'I-I can't be sure, sir. It was mostly something I couldn't quite make out. But then again there was something that sounded like Latin.'

The centurion sniffed dismissively. He squatted in silence, straining his ears to detect the slightest sound from the direction of the path which bent out of sight a scant thirty feet from his position. The sounds from the clearing were all too audible even though the men tried to form up as quietly as possible. But, at last, they were still, and Macro renewed his concentration. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the occasional sound of frogs croaking. A dark shape drew close from the direction of the clearing.

'Psst!' hissed Macro. 'Over here, Cato.'

'Any sign of them, sir?'

'Fuck all. Seems our boy here just got a little too carried away with his imagination.'

It was a common enough fault in sentries, particularly on active service.

Darkness heightened a man's reliance on one sense, and imagination went to work on even the slightest noise for which there was no immediate interpretation.

'Shall I stand the century down, sir?'

Macro was about to reply when a sudden rustle, as of a bush caught and quickly released, turned their blood to ice. There was no question about the sentry's report now, and they squatted motionless in the warm night air, muscles tensed and ready for action. A faint orange glow flickered from round the corner of the track, and sparks pierced the gaps in the foliage as someone bearing a torch approached down the track.

'Ours?' Cato asked. 'Quiet!' Macro whispered.

'Who's there?' a voice suddenly called out from the direction of the torch. Cato felt a wave of relief sweep over him, and nearly laughed at the abrupt easing of tension. He made to rise but Macro grabbed his wrist.

'Keep still!'

'But, sir, you heard him. It's one of ours.' 'Shut up and keep still!' Macro hissed.

'Who's there?' repeated the voice. There was a pause, followed by what might have been a quick exchange of words in low whispers. Then the voice continued, 'I'm Batavian. Third Cohort of horse! If you're Roman, make yourself recognised!'

There was no denying the accented Latin sounded right for the Batavians, and Macro knew the Third mounted were in the area. And yet there was something in the man's tone that prevented him from risking a reply.

There was another brief silence before the voice came again, this time with a quavering edge to it. 'For the love of the gods! If you're Roman, reply!'

'Sir!' Cato protested. 'Shut up!'

With a sudden crackle, the glow from the torch grew bright and flames licked up above the gorse bushes. An inhuman scream cut through the thick, hot air hanging over the marsh.

'What the?' The sentry reeled back in shock.

Macro made to grasp him when suddenly a blazing figure burst from round the corner of the path and ran shrieking into the clearing, illuminating the ground about him in a lurid flickering glow. The air reeked of pitch and burned flesh, and the figure tripped and rolled on the ground, still screaming.