The Eagles Prey

'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.'

Cato glanced towards him, brows clenched together, and then he lowered his spear as he looked back at Metellus, and spat on the ground beside the legionary.'All right then, Optio. He's yours. See to it at once.'

As soon as he had uttered the words Cato turned away, in case the glimmer of tears at the corner of his eyes betrayed his strained emotions. He strode off to the side of the clearing and made his way to a small grassy mound that looked out across the marsh.

Behind him Figulus hauled Metellus to his feet. 'Time to teach you a lesson, I think.'

The optio pulled his sword out of his waistband and tossed it to one side, and raised his fists. Metellus eyed him warily and then smiled. The optio was tall and broad, typical traits of the Celtic blood that flowed through him. Metellus was leaner, but had been ruthlessly hardened by the years he had served with the Eagles. The contest would pit brawn against experience, and Figulus could see that Metellus fancied his chances as he lowered his body into a crouch and waved the optio towards him.

Metellus took a pace forwards and with a wild roar the legionary launched himself into the attack. He never made it. Figulus threw his right fist forward in a blur and there was a soft crunch as it slammed into the legionary's face. Metellus dropped heavily to the ground, motionless, knocked out in one blow. Figulus delivered a swift kick to the prone figure, then rounded on the other legionaries.

He smiled, and said softly, 'Anyone else here want to fuck with authority?'

The night passed quietly. Cato took an early watch, sitting in the dark shadows under a tree and keeping watch over the milky wet sheen of the surrounding marsh, bathed in the silvery glow of a bright crescent moon. Down in the camp all was silent, the men having quietly gone to rest under the brooding menace of the optio's gaze. The confrontation had ended for now, but Cato knew that the officers and men would be at each other's throats at the slightest provocation from now on. The ties of training and tradition that still bound them together were unravelling far faster than he had anticipated, and soon all that would remain would be a band of wild men desperate to survive each other, as much as survive the hostile territory that surrounded them.

He had failed, Cato judged himself. He had failed his men, and there was no shame greater than that. And as a result of his failure they would all die in this forsaken wasteland at the heart of a barbarian island.

Despite his tortured reflections on his failure, Cato shut his eyes almost as soon as he had curled up on the ground. He was far too tired to be afflicted by those edgy dreams that usually plague troubled minds, and fell into a deep, dark sleep.

A hand shook him awake and, after a moment's disorientation, Cato sat up and squinted into the face that loomed over him. 'Figulus. What is it?'

'Shhh!' the optio whispered. 'I think we've got company.'

The shroud of sleep slipped from Cato at once and instinctively he reached for his sword. Around them a thin mist wreathed the camp, and obscured any detail beyond twenty or thirty paces away. A light dew beaded Cato's filthy tunic and the air smelled of damp earth. 'What's happening?'

'Sentries say they can hear men moving close by. Sent for me at once.'

'And?'

'I heard it too. Lots of men.'

'Right. Wake the others. Quietly.'

'Yes, sir.'

As the hulking mass of the optio glided away into the mist, Cato rose to his feet and padded softly across to the path that led up from the clearing to the small hummock where the sentries kept watch. When he reached them, Cato crouched down. He didn't have to ask them to report; the air was filled with the faint clinking of equipment and muffled voices softly passing on instructions that Cato could not quite make out. Even as he crouched, straining his ears, the sounds came closer, all around them.

'We're surrounded,' whispered one of the legionaries, turning to Cato. 'What do we do, sir?'