Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (33 page)

‘Shit!’ Metellus shouted. ‘Shit, we’ve got it!’

The legionary started forward but Cato slapped his arm across the man’s chest, stopping him. ‘Wait!’

Metellus made to sweep his centurion’s arm aside when Cato jabbed his other hand towards Proculus, floundering in the mud as he tried to steady himself for a spearthrust.

‘Look!’ Cato shouted. ‘It’s not safe. Just wait!’

Proculus, up to his knees in the glutinous filth, reached forward and thrust the spear into the deer’s throat, wrenched the blade free and struck again. With one final terrified squeal the deer’s head slumped down into the mud and its tongue lolled out. The tanned chest heaved a few more times and was still. Blood coursed from its wounds and spread brilliantly across the disturbed mud.

Proculus raised the spear over his head and whooped with triumph and delight, then turned towards his comrades with a wide grin, and then frowned as he saw their intent expressions.

‘He’s sinking,’ Metellus said quietly.

Proculus looked down and saw that the black mud had now engulfed his thighs and dark water oozed around the bottom of his ragged tunic. With a huge effort he tried to lift one of his legs, but the effort only led to him sinking a little further into the mud. He turned to his comrades, the first trace of fear etched into his expression.

‘Help me.’

‘Your spear!’ Cato gestured towards him.’Reach out for us.’ Proculus grasped the shaft, just behind the iron head and stretched out, offering the base of the weapon towards his comrades. Cato extended his arm as far as it would go, fingers straining to reach the end of the shaft, but there was still a small gap.

He turned back to Metellus. ‘Take my arm, and hold it tight.’

With Metellus anchoring him to the bank Cato took a tentative step onto the cracked surface of the mud and at once his foot sank in several inches. He leaned forward again, fingers in contact with the wavering end of the spear shaft. He clenched his fingers around the hard wood and began to pull. Along the length of the spear he could see Proculus’ knuckles, white with the strain of clutching on to this slender lifeline. Beyond that the wide terrified eyes fixed on the centurion.

‘Hold on!’ Cato grunted through his teeth.’Hold on, man!’

For a moment he felt the spear shift towards him, and then there was no more movement, no matter how hard he strained to pull Proculus back to the bank. He closed his eyes and made one last, intense effort, to no avail, and relaxed his muscles.

‘This isn’t working.’ Cato glanced round quickly and snapped out some fresh orders. ‘We need some matting. Cut some branches. Toss them on the mud. Do it!’

As he and the others pulled their daggers out and began to saw at the slender branches of the gorse, Proculus looked about him with a growing sense of horror. The mud sucked him down steadily and was now oozing around his waist. Beyond him the deer, still in death, was sinking more slowly, and already the head was hidden from sight, only a stiff ear breaking the surface of the oily water on the surface of the mud.

‘Get me out of here!’ Proculus pushed down at the mud, then tried to sweep it away from his waist.

‘Keep still, you fool!’ Cato hissed. ‘You’re only making yourself sink faster. Keep still!’

The gorse branches were tougher than Cato had expected and still not one length had been cut free. He drew his knife arm back and stamped down on the sinewy white pulp he had tried to saw through, but the branch just gave way beneath him and did not snap.

‘Shit!’

Cato resumed sawing, with increased desperation as he glanced over at Proculus, now up to his chest.

‘There!’ One of the men grunted, and threw a branch down on to the mud by the bank, and immediately began to saw at another.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Proculus cried out. ‘Faster, you bastards! Faster!’

The dagger cut through the branch by Cato’s hand and he turned and tossed it down on top of the first one, glancing across towards the trapped legionary.

‘Oh no . . .’ Cato whispered. Only the man’s head and shoulders were above the surface now, his arms stretched out across the mud towards his comrades. Proculus still held the spear tightly in his right hand. With a gurgle he sank a little further and some of the oily water spilt into his mouth.

‘Oh, shit!’ Proculus gurgled. ‘Save me!’

Cato dropped his knife and took a step towards the branches lying on the mud.

‘No!’ Metellus grabbed his arm. ‘It’s too late . . .’

Cato shook the arm free and turned back towards Proculus, and saw that the man’s head tipped back, eyes wide with terror as the mud slid remorselessly up the bridge of his nose. Then there was just the top of his head, and his arm raised up, fingers clawing at the air. The head sank out of sight, leaving a dim pool of dark water that bubbled for a few moments and was then still. To one side Proculus’ hand rose above the mud, fingers tightly clenched. Then, slowly, they relaxed and the hand gradually flopped forward from the wrist.

For a moment all was still and silent as the men on the bank gazed at the spot where their comrade’s head had been.

‘Fuck . . .’ one of the men breathed.

Cato slumped on to the grass, and the others slowly sat down each side of him. As they stared, the mud slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to swallow up the carcass of the deer, and all they could do was watch with a mixture of shocked grief for Proculus, and a gnawing hunger at the sight of the gradually disappearing deer. Eventually it too was swallowed up as the foul water closed over the bloodied hide, and then there was nothing.

At length Cato stood up and tucked his dagger back into his waistband. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Go?’ Metellus frowned as he looked up at his centurion. ‘Go where, sir?’

‘Back to the camp.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘We have to get moving,’ Cato said patiently. ‘The mist has lifted. We might be seen.’

‘Doesn’t matter, sir,’ Metellus replied with a despairing weariness.’Sooner or later, this fucking marsh is going to kill us all.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Third Cohort reached the valley two days after leaving the camp by the Tamesis. Maximius gave the order to pitch tents and dig a defensive rampart as the light faded to the west. Before them lay a shallow vale no more than two miles across and perhaps eight miles in length. Beyond a broken line of foothills, the marsh stretched out as far as the eye could see - a dismal patchwork of stunted trees and reeds, broken only by dark expanses of water and the occasional copse atop hummocks of ground that rose above the marsh like the backs of great sea creatures.

From the small watch-tower erected over the camp gate Centurion Macro had a good view down the valley and could see dozens of faint trails of smoke rising up above the gentle slopes. Closer to the camp he could pick out the small clusters of round huts, and a dim haze hanging over a small forest halfway down the valley indicated a settlement of some size. All very peaceful, he mused. In the next few days that would change.

There was a rattle of iron studs on wood and a moment later Maximius’ head appeared above the planking of the watch-tower. He hauled himself up and mopped his glistening brow on the back of a forearm.

‘Hot work!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But it was worth pushing the men on so we got here before nightfall.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied, casting a glance at the legionaries still labouring to finish the last section of ditch and rampart on one side of the camp. The men of the picket line stood in a thin screen a hundred paces out from the ditch. Most were leaning on their shields in postures of absolute exhaustion. If the enemy were to attack now, or this night, the men of the cohort would be too weary to mount a good defence of their camp. To be fair to Maximius, it was the kind of decision that plagued most commanders: a trade-off between a good position and the fighting readiness of the men. At least, when the morning came, the Third Cohort would only have a short distance left to march and would be fit and ready to meet any threat that emerged from the marshes.

Centurion Maximius was staring down the valley in the direction of the hidden settlement. He raised his arm and pointed.’See that small hill there, to one side of the forest, over that stream?’

Macro followed his direction and nodded.

‘That looks like the best spot to set up a more permanent camp. Good views on all sides and a supply of water to hand. Should suit us well, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro was getting tired of the rhetorical attempts to instigate a conversation. If Maximius wanted to talk then he was better off seeking the company of the ever-eager-to-please Centurion Felix. Besides, Macro was not sure that he trusted himself to speak with Maximius, burdened as he was with the knowledge that he had been the one to free Cato and the others. Maximius was still looking for the one responsible and so Macro was naturally wary of any attempt to trick him into even the smallest admission of complicity or guilt.

The cohort commander turned to face his subordinate and scrutinised his expression silently for a moment. Macro was uncomfortably aware of Maximius’ gaze but was unsure how to respond, and simply kept his mouth shut and stared ahead, as if taking in the lay of the land the cohort would have to march through the next morning.

‘You don’t like me very much, do you?’

Macro had to face the man now and affected a puzzled frown. ‘Sir?’

‘Oh, come now!’ the cohort commander smiled. ‘You’ve made little secret of your disapproval of me since your appointment to the Third Cohort.’

Macro was startled. Had he really been that transparent? That was very worrying. What else had Maximius seen in him? For an instant he felt a chill of fear spread across the back of his neck. Maximius must be trying to play some trick on him, to test him, maybe to trap him, and Macro’s mind reeled in panic.

‘Sir, I meant no disrespect! It’s just my way. I’m . . . I’m not very good with people.’

‘Bollocks. That’s not what I’ve been told. You’re a natural leader. Anyone can see that.’ Maximius’ eyes narrowed.’Maybe that’s it. You think you’re better than me.’

Macro shook his head.

‘What’s this? Too afraid to speak?’

Macro was furious and snapped back his reply. ‘I’m not afraid, sir! What do you really want? What do you want me to say, sir?’

‘Easy, Centurion! Easy . . .’ Maximius gave a light laugh. ‘Just wondered what you were thinking, that’s all. No harm intended.’

No harm . . . Macro felt a bitter contempt for his superior. Good soldiers never played these kinds of games. Only madmen and politicians, and he wasn’t sure there was much difference between the two.

‘Anyway, I wanted a little talk with you. You’ve known Cato for a while, haven’t you?’

‘Ever since he joined the Second, sir.’

‘I know. I’ve looked at the records. So then, you would be the best person to consult about his plans.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir.’

Maximius nodded thoughtfully.’But you knew the man. I’d value your thoughts on the matter. What do you think Cato will do? He may be dead already. But let’s suppose he’s still alive. What would he do now? Well?’

‘I . . . I really have no idea, sir.’

‘Come on, Macro! Think about it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to cover for him.’

Macro almost forced himself to laugh, then knew at once that the laughter would sound hollow and fool no one, least of all his nervous commander. ‘Sir, you must know my record. You must know that I play by the rules and have no sympathy for any man who breaks them, let alone one who dumps me and the rest of my comrades in the shit. In my book, Cato’s got it coming to him. As for what he might do now, I can only guess. I never got to know him well enough to anticipate his actions.’ Macro knew that was true enough, and he resisted the urge to smile as he continued. ‘He could do anything. Cato might try and make a play for Caratacus himself.’

‘That’s absurd. He’d never stand a chance.’

‘He knows that, sir. But the army is the only family Cato has got. Without us, he’s nothing. He’d do anything to earn his place back in the legion. That’s why I’m sure he’s out there in the marsh somewhere, biding his time and waiting for the right opportunity. Why, he’s probably watching us right now … And he wouldn’t be the only one, sir. Look there!’

Macro nodded down towards the nearest farmstead. A small number of figures were looking towards the fort from behind some low hayricks barely a quarter of a mile away. The distant figures just watched and made no movement.

‘Want me to send out a patrol to scare ‘em off, sir?’

‘No.’ Maximius stared hard at the farmers. ‘That can wait until tomorrow. In the meantime let the locals spread word of our arrival, and let them sweat. We want to generate all the fear and anxiety we can.’

The next morning the cohort broke camp and marched down the valley. Macro was aware of being watched every step of the way. Occasionally he would glance round and catch sight of a face disappearing behind a tree, or dropping out of sight amid one of the fields of crops they passed by. His long years of experience had given him a good eye for the ground and he scrutinised any good sites for an ambush as they marched along. But there was no ambush, not one act of defiant hostility as the legionaries tramped along through the peaceful valley.