The Eagles Prey

He jabbed a finger back down the track, away from the farm. 'Come on!'

Cordus and the others were tense and impatient and looked up expectantly when Macro and the guide returned. Cordus held out the centurion's helmet and Macro pulled on the liner, then the helmet, as he reported what he had seen.

'Nothing's moving. No sign of anyone at all.'

'Think it's a trap, sir?'

'No. If it was a trap, they'd want to lure us in; make it look peaceful and harmless before they sprung their surprise. It just looks deserted.'

'Or abandoned?'

Macro shook his head. 'There are crops, and I saw some animals. We'll enter the farm in close order and stay formed up until it looks safe.'

As the patrol marched between the nearest round huts the legionaries kept their heavy shields up and darted anxious glances at the entrances and towards any place that might conceal an enemy. But the silence persisted and added to the oppressive atmosphere of heat and stillness that smothered the landscape.

Macro raised his hand. 'Halt!'

The patrol shuffled their boots for a moment and then all was quiet. Macro indicated the largest huts.'Search them! Two men each!'

As the legionaries peeled away and began to approach the structures cautiously Macro slumped down on a heavily scored tree stump that served the farmers as a base for log-splitting. He reached for his canteen and was about to pull out the stopper when there was a shout from the nearest hut.

'Over here! Over here!'

A legionary backed out of the dark entrance to the hut, his arm raised to cover his nose and mouth. Macro let go of his canteen, sprang up, and ran over to the man. As he reached the hut a foul stench of decay assaulted his nostrils and he slowed down involuntarily. The legionary turned round as he sensed the centurion's approach.

'Report!'

'Bodies, sir. The hut's full of them.'

Macro eased the legionary to one side, swallowed and then, grimacing at the smell, he ducked his head inside the hut, keeping to one side to let the light penetrate the shadows within. The place was alive with the buzzing of flies and Macro saw perhaps ten bodies heaped like discarded dolls in the centre of the hut. Propping his shield up against the door frame, Macro squeezed inside, stepped over to the corpses and kneeled down, fighting back the urge to vomit. There were three men, one old and wrinkled, and the rest were children, twisted grotesquely and staring sightlessly from unblemished faces beneath the usual tousled hair of Celtic youngsters.

A shadow fell across the faces of the dead and Macro looked back towards the entrance to see Cordus hovering at the threshold.

'Come here, Optio.'

Cordus reluctantly advanced, hand over his mouth, and squatted down beside Macro. 'What happened, sir? Who did this? Caratacus?'

'No. Not him,' Macro shook his head sadly. 'Look at the wounds.'

Each of the dead had been killed with a thrust, or a series of thrusts, the classic killing blow of a legionary's sword. 'Celtic warriors tend to use slashing blows. They let the impact of their heavy blades do the killing.'

Cordus looked at him with a frown. 'So who did this? One of our patrols?'

'No. I don't think so. But it was Romans all the same.'

The two officers exchanged looks filled with sad understanding, then Cordus looked at the bodies again. 'Where are the women?'

Before Macro could reply there was another shout. They rose up and hurried from the foul atmosphere of the hut, greatly relieved to burst back into the cleaner air outside. Macro gulped down several breaths to purge the odour of death from his lungs. A short distance away one of the legionaries was beckoning to Macro with his javelin.

'More bodies, sir. In here!'

Cordus was several paces ahead of him by the time they reached the hut and he glanced quickly inside and, after a short pause, withdrew his head and turned to face the centurion.

'It's the women, sir.'

'Dead?'

Cordus stepped to one side. 'See for yourself, sir.'

With a soul-wearying sense of sadness Macro peered into the hut. In the gloom he saw three naked bodies, one little more than a girl. The older women had bruised faces and all had been killed with the same thrusts. One of them was missing a breast, and a congealed mass of dry blood and butchered tissue sat alongside the mottled skin of the remaining breast. Macro felt a dreadful weight bear down on his heart as he stared at the scene. What had happened here? Only Cato's men could have done this. But surely Cato would not have allowed this? Not the Cato he knew. But that would mean that Cato no longer controlled his men. Or – a dark thought crossed Macro's mind – perhaps the reason for Cato's men being out of control was because Cato was no longer around to command them.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Over the following days Caratacus sent for Cato almost every evening, and continued with his curious interrogation. On the second night he offered Cato some food, and before the centurion could help it he had snatched up a leg of lamb and was about to sink his teeth into the meat when he paused. The scent of it wafted up to his nose and tormented him for a moment, before he lowered his arm and set the meat down on the wooden platter Caratacus had pushed across the floor towards him.

'What's the matter, Roman? Afraid I'd poison you?'

That thought had never occurred to Cato as the gnawing hunger had taken over his senses an instant before.

'No. If my men go hungry, then so must I.'

'Really?' Caratacus looked amused. 'Why?'

Cato shrugged. 'A centurion has to share the privations of his men, or he'll never earn their respect.'

'How would they ever find out? You're hungry. Eat it.'

Cato looked at the leg of lamb again and felt his gums moisten in anticipation. His imagination of the flavour of the meat was almost overwhelming in its intensity and the power of the temptation to yield suddenly filled him with shocking self-knowledge. He was weak, a man without control over his own body. How quickly his will began to crumble against the urge to indulge himself. He clenched his fists tightly behind his back and shook his head.

'Not while my men go hungry…'

'Suit yourself, Centurion.' Caratacus reached down, grasped the shank and tossed the leg towards a hunting dog curled up against the side of the hut. The joint deflected off the ground and struck the animal on the muzzle. The yelp of surprise was quickly stifled as the dog seized the joint in its huge jaws and, holding the end down with a shaggy paw, it began to chew. Cato felt sick with hunger and despair at the sight of the long pink tongue slathering over the meat. He tore his gaze away and turned back towards the enemy commander. Caratacus was watching him closely, with wry amusement.

'I wonder how many of your centurions would have turned that down.'

'All of them,' Cato replied quickly, and Caratacus laughed.

'I find that hard to believe. I think you are not as typical of your kind as you make out, Roman.'

Cato assumed that this was some kind of compliment, and that realisation made him feel like even more of a sham.

'I'm not typical. Most centurions are far better soldiers than me.'

'If you say so,' Caratacus smirked. 'But if you are the worst of them, then I must fear for my cause.' He tore off a small strip of meat from another joint and began to chew slowly, gazing abstractedly into the shadows between the roof supports of the hut. 'I find myself wondering if we will ever be able to better such men. I have seen thousands upon thousands of my best warriors die on your swords. The cream of a generation. We shall never see their like again. The great muster of the tribes will soon be no more than a memory of the few who still live and fight at my side. As for the rest…the lamentation of their wives and mothers fills the land and yet their deaths have bought no victory, only honour. If our fight is futile, then what is the value of an honourable death? No more than a gesture.'