The Eagles Prey

'No one leaves the camp. Stay alert.'

Cato strode down the track into the swamp, mentally mapping the tracks he had used since they had found the camp. If Metellus was making for the farm then he would most likely take the track they had followed the day they killed the pig. It had been one of the few patrols Metellus had been out on. Cato had worried that the man's disrespectful attitude might have caused problems, and had confined him to the camp as often as possible. There was a quicker way to the farm, a narrow track that almost disappeared into the marsh in places. It was hard to follow, but if Cato and Figulus hurried they might yet reach the farm before Metellus, and stop him from doing anything foolish.

So he hurried on, sacrificing the usual wary caution with which he had moved through this dismal landscape to the need for speed. The sun shone from a clear sky overhead and the swirling clouds of insects that hovered amongst the reeds closed round the sweating Romans as they waded through small stretches of the thick foul-smelling mud between lengths of the track that snaked through the marsh.

'What do they eat when Roman's off the menu?' Figulus muttered as he angrily swatted a horsefly that was gorging itself on his neck.

Cato glanced back. 'If we don't stop Metellus in time, then there'll be a lot more Romans on the menu. Come on!'

They had been going for nearly two hours, when Cato realised that the landscape around him was wholly unfamiliar. From the position of the sun, he knew they must be headed in roughly the right direction, but they should have come across the farm long before now. They must have missed it, passed it by, and failed to find Metellus. It was with a sinking heart that Cato was helping his optio out of a deep patch of mud when he glanced back the way they had come and froze.

'What is it, sir?'

Cato just stared for a moment longer and then pointed. 'Look there…'

Figulus stepped up on to the earth bank and straightened, following the direction indicated by his centurion. At first he didn't see anything unusual, then a faint smudge blossomed in the distance.

'I see it.'

As they watched the smoke thickened into a thin grey column that trailed up into the clear sky. The base of the column pointed unerringly to its source.

Cato glanced round at the sun, still well above the horizon. 'There's still an hour or two of light left. Too much. We have to get back, quick as we can.'

He plunged back into the mud they had just extricated themselves from and with a sigh of exhaustion and resignation Figulus turned and followed his centurion. The march back was twice as hard, as Cato forced them on as fast as he could manage, heedless of the burning weariness in his weakening limbs, all the while staring anxiously at the thin haze of smoke that, in the fading light, seemed never to get any closer.

They could hear the squealing of the pigs long before they emerged from the track through the marsh and ran the final distance through the trees towards the camp, breathless and leaden-limbed. The sun was now no more than a burnished disc of coppery fire low on the horizon behind them, and they pursued their long distorted shadows into the small clearing that formed their camp. There, beside the smoking remains of the fire, lay two spitted piglets. Tethered to one of the trees the sow looked on in terror, squealing for its young with shrill relentless cries. The surviving piglets clustered round her trotters, pink snouts nuzzling their mother for comfort.

The men were bent over the roast pigs, eating, and one by one they gazed up guiltily as they became aware of the officers' return. One of them nudged Metellus and he slowly rose to his feet as Cato and Figulus came panting up towards the fire. The legionary forced a smile on to his face, bent down and picked up a hunk of meat from the small pile he had carved. He straightened up and held it out towards his centurion.

'There, sir. Lovely strip of belly. Try it.'

Cato stopped several feet short of the fireplace, and stood leaning on the shaft of his spear, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.

'You… bloody fool.' He glared round at his men. 'All of you… fools. That fire can be seen… for miles.'

'No.' Metellus shook his head.'There's no one near enough to see it. No one, sir. Not any more.'

Cato looked at the legionary.'Where did you get the meat?'

'That farm we found the other day, sir.'

'Those people…?' Cato felt sick. 'What happened?'

Metellus grinned. 'Don't worry, sir. They'll be telling no tales. I took care of that.'

'All of them?'

'Yes, sir.' Metellus' brow creased into a frown. 'Of course.'

One of the other men chuckled. 'Only after we'd had a bit of fun with the women first, sir.'

Cato bit his lip and lowered his head so that the men would not see his expression. He swallowed and fought to regain control over his breathing, even though his heart still pounded in his chest and his limbs were trembling from exhaustion and rage. It was all too much for Cato, and for a moment the temptation to renounce the last vestiges of his authority over these men was overwhelming. If they wanted to destroy themselves, then let them draw the attention of every enemy warrior for miles. What did he care? He had done his best to win them an extra measure of life, against all the odds. And this was how they repaid him. Then there was the smell of the meat, wafting down into the empty pit of his stomach so that it groaned and rumbled in keen anticipation of the feast. Cato felt a cold wave of self-contempt and anger as his weakness washed across him. He was a centurion. A centurion of the Second Legion at that. He'd be damned if he was going to let all that stand for nothing.

'Sir?'

Cato raised his head and looked down on Metellus. The legionary was holding out some meat to him, and nodded at it with a placating smile. It was that sense of being treated as a petulant child that made Cato decide what he must do. He forced himself to look beyond the meat to the legionary who had so selfishly endangered them all.

'You fool! What good is that if we're dead tomorrow – the moment they find us?'

Metellus did not reply, just stared back – in surprise at first, but then his expression changed to one of sullen insubordination, and he dropped the hunk of pork back on to the ground.

'Please yourself, sir.'

Cato swiftly swung the butt of his spear and thrust it into Metellus' chest, knocking the legionary back, into the arms of the men squatting behind him, still eating. Immediately a chorus of angry complaints rent the tense atmosphere.

'Silence!' Cato shouted, his voice cracking with anger.'Shut your bloody mouths!' He glared at them, daring them to defy him, and then turned his gaze back on Metellus. 'And you – you piss-poor excuse for a soldier… you're on a charge!'

Metellus' eyebrows rose for an instant, then he suddenly laughed.'A charge! You're putting me on a charge, are you, sir?'

'Shut up!' Cato roared back at him, drawing the butt of the spear back to strike another blow. 'Shut up! I'm in command here!'

Metellus was still laughing. 'That's priceless, that is! And what punishment would you have me do, sir? Empty the latrines? Pull an extra guard duty on the main gate?' He waved a hand at the clearing. 'Look around you. There's no camp here. No ramparts to defend. No barracks to clean. No latrine to empty… nothing. Nothing left for you to command. Except us. Face up to it, boy.'

Cato shifted his grip on the spear shaft and spun it round, so that its point hovered no more than a foot away from the legionary's throat. Around him the others stopped eating and reached for the handles to their knives and swords, watching the centurion intently.

For a moment everyone was still, muscles tensed and hearts pounding as the sow continued her high-pitched shrieking from the side of the clearing.

Then Figulus slowly stepped forward and gently pushed the tip of Cato's spear down. 'I'll deal with this piece of shit, sir.'