Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (42 page)

‘Is that what it looked like?’

Macro paused a moment to reflect, but after what he had seen at the farm, there was little doubt in his mind. ‘No.’

‘So Cato, or some of his men, have gone native. Or at least they’re pretty desperate. That’s good. Should make them easier to deal with, when the time comes.’

Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘When the time comes, sir? I thought that was the reason we were here.’

‘And so it is!’ Maximius laughed lightly. ‘Although it has been a good opportunity to teach the locals how to behave.’

Macro stared at him. If the brutality of the last few days was a lesson to the natives, then what exactly had they learned about their new masters? That Rome was as cruel and brutal as any horde of barbarians. That, Macro reflected cynically, was hardly likely to foster good relationships with the locals over that vital period when Roman laws and Roman rule were being established in the new province. The local tribe was getting brutalised by Maximius on the one hand and raided and massacred by Cato and his fugitives on the other. All of which could only strengthen their resolve to aid Caratacus and his warriors. Maximius had done a blinding job of bolstering support for the enemy all right.

And as for Cato . . . for a moment Macro could not think. He was sure that he had known Cato well, but the massacre at the farm was the work of another kind of man. The two memories did not sit well together. But then again, not much made sense to him at the moment. The decimation of the cohort as punishment for being pushed aside by overwhelming odds. The perverseness of fate for selecting the blameless Cato for execution when it was Maximius who bore the responsibility for the escape of Caratacus. Now this unaccountable cruelty of Maximius towards the natives of this valley, matched only by Cato’s heartless slaughter of the farmers and their families. It was as if reason itself had been driven from the world. With a chilling sense of foreboding it occurred to Macro that he lived at the whim of maniacs.

Maniacs like Centurion Maximius, who was grinning at him now. ‘I tell you, Macro, it’s all working out very nicely indeed. Soon the locals won’t even be able to take a shit without wondering how we’ll react. They’ll hate us more than they’ve hated anything before in their miserable lives. If they find Cato and the others before we do, then you can be sure they’ll show those bastards even less mercy than we will.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro cleared his throat uneasily. ‘As you say, it’s working out well.’

‘And once Cato’s been seen to, we can attend to Caratacus.’

Macro struggled to hide his astonishment. Tracking down a few pathetic fugitives was one thing. Taking on the likes of Caratacus was just this side of lunacy. A nasty thought abruptly intruded on his surprise, and he looked more closely at his commander and attended his words with a heightened concentration.

Maximius smiled. ‘If we can deliver Caratacus to the general, then we’ll be allowed to rejoin the legion. We’ll be the legate’s blue-eyed boys. You and me.’

‘What about the others? Tullius, Felix and Antonius?’

‘Tullius is an old woman,’ Maximius sneered. ‘And the others are young fools. Thank the gods they lacked the guile and treachery of that bastard Cato. You’re the only one I ever had any confidence in, Macro. Only you.’

‘Uh . . .’ Macro flushed. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure your confidence in me has not been misplaced. But I think you judge the other officers too harshly. They’re good men.’

‘You think so?’ Maximius frowned.’I doubt it. I’m surprised you can’t see their faults too, unless . . . unless you’re on their side.’

Macro made himself laugh. ‘We’re all on the same side, sir.’

Maximius did not respond, and there was a tense pause as the cohort commander scrutinised his subordinate. Then he relaxed a little.’Of course you’re right, Macro. Pardon me. I just had to be sure of your loyalty. Now then, on to other business, the real reason you were assigned to lead that patrol. Did you speak to anybody? Did you discover anything about the traitor who freed Cato?’

‘Not really, sir. From what I heard it could have been any of the men. No one is particularly happy to be hunting down their comrades, especially when they don’t believe they should have been condemned in the first place. Sorry, sir.’ Macro shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

‘That’s all,’ Maximius repeated mockingly. ‘That is not all, Centurion. Not by a long way.’

Macro felt the familiar chill of anxiety, and tried not to let his guilt show. ‘Sir?’

‘If that’s how the men feel, then they’re as good as traitors themselves.’ Maximius grasped his jaw in the palm of a hand and stroked the bristles on his chin nervously, gazing down into his lap. ‘If they think they can get away with that, they’re in for a great big bloody surprise. I’ll show them . . . It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with their kind. Oh no, but I showed ‘em what I was made of then, and I’ll do the same again now. No one’s going to make a fool out of me and get away with it.’

Macro kept quite still during and after this outburst, trying not to draw any attention to himself while Maximius perceived threats in every corner. Then the cohort commander glanced up with a small start as he became aware of Macro’s presence again. He shook off the spell and smiled warmly.

‘You’d best get some rest, Macro. You’re going to need it over the next few days if we’re going to show those scum we mean business.’

Macro was uncomfortably aware that he was not sure which scum Maximius was referring to and he nodded in response as the cohort commander waved a hand towards the flap of his tent.

Macro quickly rose from his seat, anxious to quit the scene. ‘Good night, sir.’

He turned and strode away, ducking outside into the cool evening air, breathing its freshness in eagerly. Two clerks were working on trestle tables to one side of the entrance to the tent. One was filling a lamp with oil, to provide illumination when the last glow from the western horizon had died away. Macro made for the tent lines of his century and as he did so a figure passed him in the twilight. Optio Cordus saluted as he marched by. A few paces further on Macro glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see the optio enter the cohort commander’s tent.

‘Curious,’ Macro said softly to himself.

Why should Maximius want to debrief Cordus as well? Didn’t he trust Macro enough to let him recount the details of the patrol?

Then it hit him, and Macro gave a bitter smile. Of course he was not trusted. Macro had not been sent on the patrol to sound out the men. He had been sent on the patrol to be sounded out by Cordus. Which meant that Maximius trusted him enough to suspect that he was the traitor. Plots within plots, Macro sighed. It was clear that during his service with the Praetorian Guard Maximius had spent far too much time in close proximity to the endless intrigue of the Imperial Palace. Well, if he saw plotters on every side, then let him. That was to Macro’s advantage: safety in numbers. With this vaguely comforting thought Macro returned to his tent, checked that his optio had nothing to report, undressed and then collapsed on to his bed and quickly fell asleep.

The following morning the enemy sent the Roman occupiers of the valley a clear message of defiance. As the dawn mist cleared it revealed six frames that had been set up a short distance from the fort. On each frame a man had been tied, spread-eagled in the tattered remains of their army tunics. Each was gagged securely so that their death agonies had not been overheard by the Roman sentries on watch during the night. Every one of them had been gutted; skin and muscle peeled back and pegged to their sides to expose the raw, red meat and bone of the chest cavity. Their guts lay beneath their feet, where they had fallen, and glistened in dull grey and purple heaps. Each man had been castrated and his genitals hung from a thong around his neck.

A horseman was waiting beside the frames. He remained, still and silent, as the alarm was raised inside the fort. The palisade above the rampart was quickly lined by fully armed troops. Still he waited, until a cluster of red crests appeared amongst the gleaming bronze and iron helmets on the wall. Then with a quiet word to his beast he edged closer so that all might hear his words.

‘Romans! Romans! I bring you a warning from my king, Caratacus.’ He swept his arm out, round and back towards the bodies in a dramatic gesture. ‘He offers you this example of what will happen to any Romans who fall into our hands if you dare to harm any more of the people of this valley, or those who dwell in the marsh beyond.’ The messenger paused, and continued in a voice that dripped with contempt. ‘My king wonders what kind of men wage war on women and children. If there are real warriors amongst you, then let them seek us out and fight us man to man. We grow weary of waiting for you to come and face us in battle. We had heard that the men of the Second Legion were the very best in General Plautius’ army. Prove it, or forever wither before the scorn and pity of better men!’

The horseman turned his beast around and trotted casually away from the fort, not once looking back over his shoulder. On the gatehouse tower of the fort the officers of the Third Cohort watched him until he disappeared into a copse of trees that grew close to the edge of the marsh.

Macro, with a wry smile, admired the man’s composure. ‘Now that one had style.’

Centurion Felix snorted.’Style? Let me down there and I’ll teach that bastard about style.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Tullius. ‘You’d just charge in there and teach the natives a lesson, would you?’

‘Too bloody right I would!’ Felix turned to the cohort commander. ‘Sir? Let me take my century in there. Find that bastard and take the skin off him, nice and slow.’ He thrust his finger towards the six bodies outside the fort.’Just like they did to those men.’

‘Don’t be such a fool, boy.’ Centurion Maximius sneered at him. ‘You’d really fall for such obvious bait? How the fuck did you ever make it to centurion?’

Felix coloured, then opened his mouth to protest, but no words emerged. He glanced away from his superior and stared again at the bodies in mute protest.

Maximius laughed. ‘Who do you suppose those men are? All our patrols are in and none of our men has gone missing.’

Felix took a moment to work it out. ‘Cato’s lot?’

Maximius patted him on the shoulder. ‘See? The boy can learn! That’s right. Cato’s men.’

‘Oh . . .’ Felix looked again at the bodies, with a less fraught expression.

‘And how much do you suppose I care what Caratacus has done to them? In fact, he’s saving me the job.’ Maximius shook his head and smiled.’It’s rather funny when you think about it. He seriously thinks that we might be provoked into action by his little display. Or that we might go easy on the locals.’

Macro watched him silently, noting the sudden gleam that sparked in Maximius’ eyes. The cohort commander turned to his officers with a smile.

‘We can turn this one round rather neatly. We’re not going to go after them and rush into a trap. Even Caratacus must know we’re not that foolish. And we’re not going to go easy on the locals either. Why should we? The more of Cato’s men he kills to make his point the better, as far as we’re concerned. So let’s make an example of that village. Let’s kill ten of them for every one of Cato’s men.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Caratacus and his men will be forced to react. If we’re lucky, we might even draw them out of the marsh and get them to have a go at the fort. We’ll just let them come on, and then slaughter them like dogs, right in front of our ramparts. Let ‘em fill up the ditch with their dead. If any of them are stupid enough to surrender, then they’ll be screaming for mercy before I let the bastards die. They’ll never make a fool of Gaius Maximius again. Never!’

Macro was filled with astonishment at the relish with which his commander spoke the last words. Maximius was suddenly self-conscious, and glanced round at his officers with a quick smile, flashing his stained teeth at them. ‘Come, lads, we’ve got work to do.’ He glanced over his centurions, then his gaze settled on Macro. ‘You’ve got the best job of all, Macro.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get your men formed up. I want you to take them into the village. Round the locals up and select sixty of them - men, women and children. Then take ‘em over to that lot,’ he nodded towards the Roman dead.’Then kill them. Make it last. I want to hear them scream. Better still, I want Caratacus to hear them scream. When you’re done make sure all the heads are put on poles. Understand?’

Macro gave a sharp shake of his head.

‘What’s so difficult to grasp? You’re not Centurion Felix here . . .’

‘No, sir.’ Macro shook his head again. ‘I can’t do it.’

‘Can’t do it?’ Maximius looked astonished. ‘Bloody hell, man! It’s the easiest thing in the world. What do you think all the training has been about for the last fifteen years of your life? Kill them.’

‘No . . . sir.’

‘Kill them. That’s an order.’

‘No. I won’t. Like the man said, real soldiers fight men. They don’t massacre women and children.’

Maximius glared at him, mouth tightly shut and nostrils flared. The other officers and the nearest legionaries stirred uneasily. Macro drew himself up to his full height and stared calmly back. He had said his piece, and braced himself for the counterblast. He was surprised at the calmness that suffused his body. He had felt this way a few times before, when death in battle seemed inevitable. Calmness. Or was it merely resignation? Macro didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. It was simply a moment of curiosity about himself and his motives. Cato would have known the answer, he thought, and could not help smiling at the introspection he normally did not tolerate in his young friend. It was almost as if he had to fill in for the lad when Cato was not there, so used to his company had Macro become.