Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (24 page)

General Plautius nodded.

Macro frowned. 'Like we were rewarded after we got that pay chest back —'

'You mentioned a small party, sir,' Cato quickly interrupted. 'I take it the centurion and I won't be alone in this.'

'No. There are two others, Britons, who know the area. They'll act as your guides.'

'I see.'

'One of them is a woman,' the general intervened. 'She will be your interpreter. The other was once a Druid initiate, in the order of the Dark Moon.'

'The same as those bastards we ran into then,' said Macro. 'How can we be sure this one can be trusted, sir?'

'I don't know that we can trust him. But he's the only one I could find who knows the area well and was willing to guide Romans inside Durotrigan territory. He's aware of the risks. If he, and the woman, get discovered in the service of Rome then they'll surely be killed.'

'Unless they were to lead us into a trap, sir. Hand the Druids two more hostages to bargain with.'

Plautius gave the centurion a grim smile. 'If they were prepared to murder a prefect of the navy to make a point then I doubt they would bother to treat two rankers as hostages. Centurion, make no mistake about this; if you're taken by the enemy the very best you can hope for is a quick death.'

'Put like that, sir, I'm not sure that I want to volunteer me and the lad for this mission of yours. It'd be plain madness.'

Plautius said nothing, but Cato could see that he was gripping the arms of his chair so hard that the tendons on his arm stood out like knotted wooden rods. When his fury had subsided a little, he spoke in a strained voice.

'This isn't easy for me, Centurion. The Druids are holding my family… Have you got a family?'

'No, sir. Families get in the way of soldiering.'

'I see. Then you can have little idea how much this affair torments me and how demeaning I find it having to ask you and the optio to find them for me.'

Macro pressed his lips tightly together to bite off his instinctive response. Then his usual calmness under pressure reasserted itself. 'Permission to speak freely, sir?'

The general's eyes narrowed. 'Depends what you want to say.'

'Very well, sir.' Macro lifted his chin and stiffened to attention, still and silent.

'All right, Centurion. Speak freely.'

'Thank you, sir. I understand what you're saying all right.' His tone was brittle with fatigue and ill-concealed contempt. 'You're in a fix and you want me and my optio to stick our necks out for you. And because we're plebs, we're expendable. What chance have we got wandering around in the middle of enemy territory with a bloody woman and some quack magician? You're sending us to our deaths, and you know it. But at least you will have tried something, to make yourself feel better. Meanwhile, the lad and I will have been parted from our heads, or burned alive. Does that sum the situation up… sir?'

Cato blanched at the uncharacteristic outburst, and glanced anxiously at the senior officers. The outraged expression on Vespasian's face was far less frightening than the dark gleam blazing in the eyes of the general.

'I volunteer to go, sir!' Cato blurted out.

The other three looked at him in surprise, instantly diverted from the tense confrontation that could only have ended in disaster for Macro. Cato quickly licked his lips and nodded to emphasise his words.

'You?' The general's eyebrows rose.

'Yes, sir. Let me go. I'll do the best I can.'

'Optio,' Vespasian said. 'I don't doubt your courage, and your intelligence. And you have a certain amount of resourcefulness. All that I can't deny. But I think it's too much to ask of one man.'

'Barely a man at that,' added the general. 'I won't send a boy to do a man's job.'

'I'm no boy,' Cato replied coldly. 'I've been a soldier for over a year now. I've been decorated once already, and I've proved my reliability. Sir, if you really think this mission has almost no chance of success, then surely the loss of one man is better than the loss of two or more?'

'You don't have to do this,' Macro muttered.

'Sir, my mind's made up. I'll go.'

Macro glared at Cato. The boy was mad, quite mad; he was bound to come a cropper at the first obstacle. The thought of Cato, undeniably bright and courageous but still a little naive and rough around the edges, in the hands of some devious Briton and his woman filled Macro with dismay. Damn the boy! Damn him! There was no way he could leave the lad to his own devices.

'All right then!' Macro turned back to the general. 'I'll go. If we're going to do it, might as well do it properly.'

'Thank you, Centurion,' the general said quietly. 'You will not find me ungrateful.'

'If we return.'

Plautius merely shrugged.

Before the situation could degenerate again, Vespasian stood up and shouted an order for more wine to be fetched. Then he stepped between his general and the two rankers and motioned towards some seats to one side of the tent.

'You must be tired. Sit down and we'll have something to drink while I pass the word for our British scouts. Now that you've agreed to go, it's best that you meet them. Time's short; there are only twenty-two days before the Druids' deadline. You'll leave tomorrow, at dawn.'

Macro and Cato walked over to the seats and eased their tired bodies down onto the comfortable cushions.

'What the fuck was that all about?' Macro whispered angrily.

'Sir?'

'What have I told you about volunteering? Don't you listen to a bloody word I say?'

'What about the pay chest, sir? You volunteered us for that.'

'No I bloody didn't! Bloody legate ordered me to do that one. But even he wouldn't have the heart to order anyone to do this. What the fuck have you got us into?'

'You didn't have to volunteer, sir. I said I'd go alone.'

Macro snorted with contempt at the idea, and shook his head in despair at the alacrity with which his optio seemed to embrace the chance to die a grim and lonely death in some dark corner of a barbarian field. Cato, for his part, wondered what else he could have done in the circumstances. The Roman army did not tolerate the sort of insubordination Macro had displayed — and to a general no less. What the hell had come over him? Cato cursed his centurion and himself in equal measure. He had said the first thing that had entered his mind and now felt sick at the prospect of venturing into the land of the Druids, sick at the certainty of his own death. Beyond that there was only a cold anger directed at that part of him which had so wanted to spare the centurion the wrath of his general.

A light rasp of leather made Cato look up. A slave had entered the tent, carrying a bronze tray with six goblets and a slender bronze jug filled with red wine. The slave set the tray down and, at a nod from Vespasian, filled the goblets without spilling a drop. Cato was watching him and so he did not see the Britons enter the tent until they had almost reached the table. The former Druid initiate was huge, and towered over the Roman officers. At his side was a tall woman in a dark riding cloak with the hood pulled back to reveal a tightly braided arrangement of red hair. The general nodded a greeting and Vespasian unconsciously straightened his shoulders as he looked over the woman appreciatively.

'Fuck me!' Macro whispered as the woman turned slightly and they saw her face. 'Boudica!'

She heard her name and looked towards them, eyes widening in surprise. Her companion turned to follow her gaze.

'Oh no!' Cato shrank back from the giant's withering glare. 'Prasutagus!'

Chapter Twenty

When Cato woke he had a nagging headache that pounded against the inside of his forehead. It was dark outside and only a faint chink showed where the tent flap had fallen shut but not been tied. With no idea of the time, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. It was futile; thoughts and images crept back from the margins of his consciousness, refusing to be disregarded. He had still not recovered from the sleepless nights of march and battle, and now he was about to embark on this crazy new venture, just when he should be resting his body. Despite his anxieties after last night's lengthy briefing, he had fallen asleep very quickly once he had curled up under his blanket. The other men of his section were already out for the count, with Figulus grumbling away to himself amid his dreams as usual.

By the time the men of the Sixth Century rose at dawn, their centurion and his optio would have left the camp. That would be the least of the changes to their immediate world. It would be the last morning that they would rise as comrades within the same unit. The Sixth Century was to be broken up and what remained of its men distributed to the other centuries in the cohort to make good their losses.

Macro had been mortified when Vespasian informed him. The Sixth Century had been his ever since he had been promoted to the centurionate and Macro had developed the customary fierce pride and protectiveness typical of an officer's first command. Since landing in Britain he and his men had fought numerous bloody battles and bitter skirmishes together. Many had been killed, others crippled and sent back to Rome for early discharge. The gaps in the ranks had been filled with a stream of new recruits. Few of the faces remained from the original eighty men he had faced on the parade ground for the first time a year and a half ago. But while men came and went, the century — his century — had endured, and Macro had come to regard it as an extension of himself, responsive to his will, and he was proud of its hard-fighting efficiency in battle. To lose the Sixth Century felt like losing a child and Macro was angry and bereft.

But what else could be done? the legate had reasoned with him. The century could not be left leaderless while it waited for its commander to return, and the other centuries needed seasoned replacements. General Plautius had already drawn on all of the replacements earmarked for the legions in Britain and no more would be forthcoming for several months. When the mission was over and Macro returned to the legion, he would be given the first command that fell vacant.

Cato had glanced at Macro, and the centurion had shrugged regretfully. The army was no respecter of well-forged teams and there was nothing to be done if the legate had made up his mind.

'What about my optio, sir?' Macro had asked. 'If we make it back.'

Vespasian had looked at the tall, slender youth for a moment, and then nodded. 'He'll be looked after. Perhaps a temporary post on my staff while we wait for a vacancy on the optios' list.'

Cato had tried not to let his disappointment show; being posted to a different century to Macro's was not an appealing prospect. It had taken months to win the centurion's grudging respect and to convince him that he was worthy of the rank of optio. When he had joined the legion, Cato, a former imperial slave, had been the target of bitter resentment and much jealousy because of his instant promotion, for which he had the Emperor himself to thank. Cato's father had served with distinction on the imperial staff, and when he died, Emperor Claudius had freed the boy and sent him to join the eagles, with a kindly lift onto the first rang of the promotional ladder. It had been a well-meant gesture, but no one as lofty as the Emperor had any inkling of the bitterness with which men at the bottom of society reacted to blatant nepotism.

Cato was loath to recall his early experiences of life in the Second Legion: the harsh discipline of the drill instructors, laid more heavily upon him than any of the other recruits; the bullying at the hands of a cruel ex-convict named Pulcher; and perhaps worst of all the frank disapproval of his centurion. That had hurt him more than anything else, and driven him to prove himself on every possible occasion. Now, that struggle for recognition of his worth would begin all over again. In addition, he had a certain personal regard for Macro, at whose side he had fought through the most terrible battles of the campaign so far. It would not be easy to adjust to the style of another centurion.

Vespasian had noticed the optio's expression and tried to offer him some words of comfort. 'Never mind. You can't carry on being an optio forever. Someday, sooner than you think perhaps, you will have a century of your own.'

That he spoke to the lad's inmost ambitions, Vespasian had no doubt. Every young man he had ever known dreamed of honour and promotion, however unlikely they knew it to be. But this one just might make it. He had proved his courage and his intelligence, and with a little help from someone placed high enough to make a difference, he would be sure to serve the empire well.

Since there was little chance of either himself or Macro ever returning to the Second Legion, these kindly words from Vespasian had a distinctly hollow ring. They were so typical of the well-worn encouragement that all commanders offer to those facing certain death, and Cato had felt contempt for himself for having been momentarily taken in by the legate's guile. The bitterness of the thought stayed with him through the night.

'Fool!' he muttered to himself, turning over on his bracken-filled bedroll. He pulled the thick army blanket tightly about him and round his head to keep the chill out. Once again he tried to get to sleep, banishing all thought from his mind and once again the subtle wiles of insomnia nudged his mind back to the previous night's encounter.