The Eagles Prey

Cato wanted to recoil from the bared teeth and wide eyes of the barbarian, and he knew that the man wanted him to flinch, to show some sign of fear. Cato was equally aware that his men were watching him closely; in fear, yes, but also to see if he could face up to the enemy.

'Fuck you.' Cato spoke in Latin. A smile flickered across his lips and then he spat into the warrior's face. His mouth had been dry and it was more air than spittle that struck the warrior. Even so, it had the desired effect and Cato doubled up as the man slammed a fist into his stomach. He sank to his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath, but Cato's ears rang with the cries of support and defiance from the legionaries. The warrior grabbed the centurion by the hair and yanked him back to his feet.

'How funny was that, Roman? Next time I'll crush your balls like eggs. Then you'll never get to speak like a man again. Let's go.'

He threw Cato out of the byre and as he followed he noticed a guard approaching with the basket of food for the prisoners. As the guard neared the entrance to the byre the warrior suddenly lashed out with his fist and knocked the basket flying, scattering the scraps all around. At once a handful of chickens scurried over from beside the nearest hut and began to peck at the stale morsels. The warrior nodded in satisfaction before he turned back to the startled guard. 'No food for the Romans today.'

The guard nodded and warily bent down to retrieve the basket as the warrior clamped a hand round Cato's arm and dragged him away into the heart of the camp. The evening meal was being prepared and the smells of cooking filled the air, tormenting Cato even as he slowly caught his breath. Despite the agony in his stomach he was still aware enough to keep looking around as he was hauled through the camp. There were many warriors here, tough-looking men who looked up as the warrior passed through them with his prisoner. Cured meat hung from racks, and grain pits were filled almost to the brim. These men clearly had the will and supplies to continue the fight and act as a cadre around which further resistance to Rome could be built. If the legions were ever to bring this island under the control of the Emperor then these men had to be utterly destroyed, Cato realised. Not that it was his problem any more. He was no longer a Roman soldier. Indeed, it was almost certain that he would not be anything in the near future. Perhaps he was even now being dragged to his execution – a sacrifice for some druid ritual of the night.

At length, as darkness closed round the camp, Cato was shoved through the opening of one of the larger huts, and with his hands still tied together, he fell awkwardly on to the rushes strewn across the floor. Rolling on to his side, Cato saw a small fire crackling at the centre of the hut. Sitting on a stool behind the fire was a large man with sandy hair tied back from his face. He was wearing a simple tunic and leggings that emphasised the bulk of muscle they covered. Solid arms, ending in long interlaced fingers, supported a bearded jaw. A thick moustache curved down either side of compressed lips. The glow of the fire revealed the face of a man in his late thirties with a prominent brow and broad forehead. A gold torc glinted around his neck, and Cato recognised the design at once. He felt a wave of terrible apprehension.

'Where did you get that torc?' he snapped in Celtic.

The man's eyebrows rose in surprise and he tilted his head with a look of bemusement.

'Roman, I don't think I had you brought here to discuss your taste in jewellery.'

Cato struggled to his knees and forced himself to calm down. 'No, I don't imagine you did.'

The binding around his wrists was uncomfortable, and Cato eased his backside on to the ground, sitting cross-legged, so that he could rest his arms. Then he examined the other man more closely. He was clearly a warrior, and had about him the composed aura of a natural commander of men. The torc was identical to the one that Macro wore about his thick neck. Macro had taken it from the body of Togodumnus, a prince of the powerful Catuvellaunian tribe and brother of Caratacus. Cato gave a brief bow of his head.

'I assume you are Caratacus, King of the Catuvellaunians?'

'At your service.' The man bowed his head with mock modesty. 'I had that honour, until your Emperor Claudius decided our island would make a nice addition to his collection of other people's lands. Yes, I was a king – once. Still am, although my kingdom has shrunk to this small island in the marsh, and my army is made up of those few warriors who survived our last encounter with the legions. And you are?'

'Quintus Licinius Cato.'

The king nodded.'I gather your people prefer to be known by the last of the names they list.'

'Amongst our friends.'

'I see.' A faint smiled flickered across Caratacus' face. 'Very well, since the last name's the easiest to use, you'll have to consider me a friend, for now.'

Cato did not reply, and kept his face clear of expression as he sensed some kind of trap.

'Cato it is then,' the king decided.

'Why have you sent for me?'

'Because I willed it,' Caratacus replied imperiously, stiffening his back and staring down his nose at Cato. Then he relaxed and smiled. 'Are you Romans so accustomed to asking impertinent questions?'

'No.'

'I thought not. From what I've heard, your emperors don't take kindly to being addressed directly by the common folk.'

'No.'

'But we're not in Rome now, Cato. So speak freely. More freely than you might amongst your own.'

Cato bowed his head. 'I will try to.'

'Good. I'm curious to know exactly what you and your comrades were doing camped in the marsh. If you had been armed legionaries I would have had you killed at once. But for your appalling appearance and handful of weapons you would be dead. So tell me, Roman, who are you? Deserters?' He looked at Cato hopefully.

Cato shook his head. 'No. We are condemned men. Unjustly condemned.'

'Condemned for what?'

'For letting you and your men here fight their way over the river crossing.'

Caratacus' eyebrows rose a fraction. 'You were with those men on the far bank?'

'Yes.'

'Then it was you who trapped my army. By Lud! Those men on the island fought us like devils. So few, but so deadly. Hundreds of my warriors fell to them. Were you there, Roman?'

'Not on the island. That unit was commanded by a friend of mine. I was with the main body on the far bank.'

Caratacus seemed to stare right through Cato as he recalled the battle. 'You almost had us. If you had held your ground a little longer we'd have been caught and crushed.'

'Yes.'

'But how could you hold against an army? You held us for as long as you could. No commander could ask for more of his men. Surely your General Plautius did not condemn you for failing to achieve the impossible?'

Cato shrugged.'The legions will brook no failure. Someone had to be called to account.'

'You and those others then? That's bad luck. What was your fate?'

'We were condemned to be beaten to death.'

'Beaten to death? That's harsh… though perhaps no harsher than the fate in store for you as my prisoner.'

Cato swallowed. 'And what fate would that be?'

'I haven't decided. My druids need to prepare a blood sacrifice before we return to the fight. A few of your men should appease our gods of war nicely. But, as I said, I haven't decided yet. Right now, I just wanted to see what you men of the legions are like. To understand my enemy better.'

'I'll tell you nothing,' Cato said firmly. 'You must know that.'

'Peace, Roman! I do not mean to torture you. I merely wish to discover more about the manner of the men who fill your ranks. I have tried to speak to your gentlemen officers, the handful of tribunes who have fallen into our hands. But two killed themselves before I could question them. The third was cold, haughty and contemptuous, and told me I was a barbarian pig, and that he would die rather than suffer the indignity of talking with me.' Caratacus smiled. 'He had his wish. We burned him alive. He kept control of himself almost to the end. Then he screamed and wailed like a baby. But I got nothing out of him, except for contempt of the deepest and most vile kind. I doubt I will learn much from your betters, Cato. In any case, it is the men in your legions I want to know about – to understand them; to know a little more about the men against whom my warriors were dashed to pieces, like waves on a rock.' He paused, then stared directly at Cato. 'I want to know more about you. What is your rank, Cato?'