05 The Eagles Prey

by Scarrow, Simon

  For a moment Macro was tempted to lie. Any shred of comfort he could offer Cato might make the time he had left more bearable. But Macro knew he was a bad liar; he didn’t have the skill for such deception. Besides, he owed Cato the truth. That burden was what made friendships count. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato looked down. ‘You might have lied to me.’

  Macro laughed, and patted Cato on the back. ‘Not to you, Cato. Not to you. Ask me for anything else, but not that.’

  ‘All right, then. Get me out of here.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Macro looked away, towards the river. ‘Sorry. Want me to find you some decent food? Wine?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Eat something. It’ll settle your guts.’

  ‘I’m not fucking hungry!’ Cato snapped and regretted it at once, knowing that Macro had only meant to offer him some comfort before the next dawn. It wasn’t Macro’s fault, and in a moment of intuitive understanding he realised that Macro would have had to screw up his moral courage to come and speak to his condemned friend. It was never going to be an easy discussion. Cato looked up. ‘Could use a flask of good wine, though.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Macro clapped him on the back, and rose wearily to his feet. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Macro started to stride away from the condemned men.

  ‘Macro!’ Cato called after him, and the veteran looked back over his shoulder. Cato stared at him briefly, his tormented mind churning with dreadful fears. ‘Thanks.’

  Macro frowned and then nodded before he turned away and marched off. Cato watched him for a moment and then cast his eyes around, taking in the change of guards at the entrance to the Second Legion’s camp. The daily routine of army life continued as before, a routine that had locked him in its harsh embrace for nearly two years now and made him a man. Now that same army had cast him out and, at dawn tomorrow, it would kill him. The sentries changed over and the watch-keeping slate was passed to the centurion coming on duty. Cato envied them the endless routine that would keep them occupied throughout the day, while he simply sat on the ground, a prisoner to his thoughts, waiting for it all to end.

  The guards on the gate suddenly snapped to attention as a mounted figure emerged from inside the camp. As the horseman came into the bright orange glow of the rising sun, Cato saw that it was the legate. He rode down the side of the camp towards the men of the Third Cohort, who were toiling to excavate their defences. Vespasian glanced at them as he passed by. Then, as he reached the huddled forms of the condemned men, under the guard of two legionaries, the legate fixed his gaze straight ahead and spurred his horse into a trot. A few of the condemned men propped themselves up to watch their commander. They were no longer bound by military discipline now that the legion had disowned them. Yesterday they would have jumped to their feet and stood to attention, saluting as he passed. Today they were criminals, as good as dead, and any display of respect towards the legate would simply be insulting to him.

  That’s the difference a day makes, Cato thought wryly. For the condemned men at least. Vespasian was free to live his privileged life out to the end, and a few days from now no doubt would have forgotten that Cato and his companions had ever existed. For a moment Cato indulged himself in a wave of bitter contempt for Vespasian, a man he had served loyally and come to admire. So this was how his good service was rewarded. Vespasian, it seemed, was not so very different from the rest of the self-serving class of artistocrats who led the legions. After a show of opposition to Plautius last night he had caved in at the merest hint of a threat to himself, and meekly gone along with the decimation of his men.

  Sickened by the sight of the man, Cato spat on the ground. He stared hard at the back of the legate as he rode down the track towards the crossing, heading towards the camp of the general on the far side of the Tamesis.

  ‘Well, Legate, what can I do for you?’ Aulus Plautius looked up from his desk and greeted him with a smile. With Narcissus no longer shadowing him the general felt a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free to continue with the campaign, and in a few more months these lands and their unruly tribesmen would be under his control. The army could then take time to consolidate the territory wrested from Caratacus and his dwindling band of allies. The legions could rest and re-equip over the winter, and be ready for a much easier expansion of the province in the following campaign season. The future looked bright for the first time in weeks, and it was going to be a sunny day with a light, cooling breeze. What more could a man ask for? As a result, the general was feeling well disposed towards the world, and the smile stayed on his face as Vespasian saluted then eased himself down into the proffered seat on the other side of the general’s desk.

  ‘Can we talk in private, sir?’

  The smile quickly faded from Plautius’ lips. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Very well.’ Plautius clicked his fingers, and the clerks working at small tables to one side of the tent looked round. The general nodded towards the entrance. ‘Leave us. I’ll send for you when I’ve finished with the legate.’

  As soon as the last of the clerks had left the tent, Plautius leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on the knuckles of one hand. ‘Well? What do you want?’

  Vespasian had not been able to sleep the previous night and feared that his mind might be too dull for what lay ahead. He rubbed his chin as he quickly collected his thoughts.

  ‘Sir, we can’t execute those men.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It isn’t right. You know that as well as I do. They’re not the only ones who didn’t perform as well as they might during the battle.’

  ‘You’re implying what, exactly?’

  ‘It didn’t work out as you planned. Caratacus got away from you, and me. We were damn lucky to catch up with him before he could get the rest of his army over the river. Some people might say that we should be thanking my men for stalling them long enough to make that possible.’

  ‘Really?’ Plautius replied coolly.’Some men might say that I let them off too lightly after they failed to hold their ground. Some might say that such a narrow front as they had to defend could have been held by a handful of men, provided they had the guts to do it.’

  ‘My men aren’t cowards,’ Vespasian replied quietly.

  ‘That’s not what Maximius said.’

  Vespasian paused. He had to be careful now. Maximius was a senior centurion, a man with a long service record, much of which he had spent in the Praetorian Guard. Such men were bound to have powerful friends and patrons in Rome, who would bear a grudge on his behalf. But whatever the risk for his future career, Vespasian felt compelled to act on his principles.

  ‘Maximius may have exaggerated their lack of grit.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘For the same reason that we want to go along with his version of events.’

  ‘The reason being?’

  ‘Self-preservation.’ Vespasian mentally braced himself for a sharp retort, but the general remained still and silent, waiting for Vespasian to continue. ‘Maximius was responsible for the failure of his cohort to reach the crossing in time to defend it properly. We both know that, sir.’

  ‘Yes. And that’s why he shares in their punishment. He could just as easily have been selected for decimation as any of his men.’

  ‘True,’ Vespasian acknowledged.’But why should they share the blame for his mistake? If anyone has to be disciplined, let it be him alone. We can’t let his men be punished for his failings. What kind of example does that set?’

  ‘The kind of example that reminds the rest of the rabble that failure will not be tolerated in the legions under my command.’ Plautius spoke with a quiet intensity.’Whenever it is encountered I will act in a swift and merciless manner. You know the saying: “Let them hate, so long as they fear.” In some ways, the fact that innocent men are going to their deaths makes the disciplinary
lesson even more effective, don’t you think?’

  Vespasian stared back, feeling contempt well up inside. The general’s attitude disgusted him. What had happened to Plautius? A year ago, Vespasian’s appeal on moral grounds would have had its effect. Plautius had been hard, but had played fair with his officers and men. But now…?

  ‘This is insupportable, and you know it,’ Vespasian said firmly. ‘Those men are being used as scapegoats.’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to use them in that way? To let them die to save your reputation?’ Another line of argument suddenly occurred to Vespasian. ‘One of the condemned men is Centurion Cato. Do you realise that?’

  ‘I know,’ the General nodded.’I know that well enough. But it doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Doesn’t make any difference?’ Vespasian could not hide his astonishment, or his anger. ‘You know his record well enough. We can’t afford to throw away men of his calibre.’

  ‘Then what would you have me do?’ Plautius looked up. ‘What if I spared him now? What if he was allowed to live while his men were executed? Just think how that would look to the rest. One rule for them, another for centurions. We’ve had a mutiny in this army already. How many officers lost their lives in that one? Do you really think we’d survive another? If the rankers die, then Cato must die with them.’

  ‘So spare them all!’

  ‘And look like a squeamish weakling?’ Plautius shook his head. ‘I think not, Vespasian. You must see that. If I condemn men one day and pardon them the next it’ll be the first step down the road to completely losing our authority over our soldiers. And not just them - the plebs as well. Fear is what holds them all in check, and what better way of focusing their minds on blind obedience than fear of punishment, even if they are quite blameless? That’s how it works, Vespasian. That’s how it has always worked. That’s why our class rules Rome . . . But I forgot,’ Plautius smiled. ‘You’re one of the new men. You and your brother. In time, when you’ve grown used to wearing the broad stripe, you’ll fully understand what I mean.’

  ‘I understand it well enough right now,’ Vespasian replied, ‘and it disgusts me.’

  ‘It goes with the rank. Get used to it.’

  ‘Rank?’ Vespasian chuckled bitterly. ‘Oh, it’s rank all right.’

  He felt a weariness that went beyond tired muscles, a weariness that sapped his very soul. He had been raised by a father for whom Rome and everything it stood for represented the best of all worlds. It was his father’s legacy to inspire the same devotion to duty and service to Rome in his two sons. Ever since Vespasian had embarked on a political career, little by little that faith had been chipped away, as a sculptor strikes away shards of stone. But what remained was no proud monument, merely a shrine to selfishness, steeped in the blood of those who were sacrificed, not for the greater good, but for the narrow self-interest of a select circle of cynical cold-blooded aristocrats.

  ‘Enough!’ Plautius slapped a hand down on the desk, making the slates jump and rattle. ‘You forget yourself, Legate! Now hear me.’

  For an instant both men stared across the table at each other with an implacable sense of estrangement, and Vespasian knew he had lost. Not only the attempt to save the lives of his men, but also any admission to the higher reaches of society in Rome. He lacked the necessary ruthlessness. The general’s brow creased with anger as he addressed his subordinate.

  ‘Hear me. There will be no pardon. The men will die, and by their deaths they will serve as an example to their comrades. That is an end to it. I will not tolerate any further discussion of the matter. Never mention this to me again. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then the execution will take place at dawn tomorrow. In front of the First Cohorts of all four legions. Find out who amongst your men are the closest friends and companions of the condemned. They will be the executioners. If any one of them demurs or protests in any way then they will be crucified, the moment the executions have concluded.’ Plautius eased himself back and took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Now, you have your orders, Legate. You are dismissed.’

  Vespasian rose stiffly to his feet and saluted. Before he turned away from the general, he was tempted to try one last time - one final appeal to justice and reason, despite everything that had been said. Then he saw the deathly cold glint of iron resolve in Plautius’ eyes and he knew that, worse than a waste of time, it would be positively dangerous to breathe another word.

  So he turned and marched out of the tent, into the fresh air, as fast as the decorum of his ill-fitting rank allowed.

  05 The Eagles Prey

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  There was a cool shaded patch of grass under one of the willow trees growing along the river bank, and Macro rustled through the thin flowing branches and sat down heavily. He had left his optio, Publius Sentius, to oversee the men as they set up their tents. Centurion Felix had suggested that the officers go for a swim in the river, but despite the glaring heat of the day neither Macro nor any of the others had felt it appropriate with their condemned comrades sitting in full view. Maximius had busied himself with every aspect of setting up a separate camp; anything to give the impression of a stoic professional continuing with his duties, whatever the circumstances. But whatever efforts he had driven the men to since dawn, they still moved with a heavy lethargy that made no secret of their mood. The Third Cohort was in the depths of gloom and the silent and still presence of those men awaiting execution loomed over them. Particularly those who had been detailed to carry out the execution: twenty men, under the command of Centurion Macro.

  When the legate had given the orders, Macro had immediately refused, horrified by the prospect of clubbing his friend Cato to death.

  ‘It’s an order, Centurion,’ the legate had said firmly. ‘You can’t refuse. That’s not an option.’

  ‘Why me, sir?’

  ‘Orders.’ Vespasian looked up sadly.’Just make sure he doesn’t suffer for too long . . . understand?’

  Macro nodded. A sharp heavy blow to the head should render Cato unconscious and save him the agonies of having his bones shattered and crushed. The very thought of it made Macro’s stomach tighten uncomfortably.

  ‘And the rest of the lads, sir?’

  ‘No. Just Cato. We go easy on the men and the general will simply stop it and get someone else to finish the job.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro nodded. If there was any real chance of being merciful to all of the condemned men he would have taken it without hesitation. But the legate was right: they could get away with only one small act of mercy.

  ‘It’s a bad situation, Centurion. For all of us. But at least this way Cato is spared the worst.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now go and select the men for the execution party.’

  Macro had saluted quickly and bowed out of the tent, glad to get back outside and breathe the clean, pure air into his lungs. He had never before been asked to do anything that so revolted against his notions of what was right and wrong. An image of Cato, bound and kneeling at his feet, flashed through Macro’s mind. The lad raised his eyes to meet his friend’s as Macro raised his club . . .His blood chilled at the thought, and Macro slapped his fist against his thigh and marched back to the camp of the Third Cohort.

  The men he selected were mostly from Cato’s century, burly veterans who could be counted on not to flinch from the dreadful duty they had been ordered to perform. Even now they were busy preparing the pick handles they would use. The wood had to be of the right length and weight to ensure that the blows could be delivered with sufficient force to do mortal damage. The men went about their work pragmatically enough and Macro, veteran as he was, could not help wondering at the casual way they bent to the task as if it were no different to any other duty asked of them. He had been hanging around Cato for too long, he decided with a grim smile. Before the lad had turned up Macro had never
questioned any aspect of army life. But now he was beginning to see things with fresh eyes and it discomforted him. Perhaps, after Cato was dead and cremated, he could get on with life. Slip back into the easy oblivion of carrying out duties and ducking the bigger questions in life.

  Dead and cremated . . .

  Someone as sharp and lively as Cato? It wasn’t right, thought Macro. It just wasn’t right. The legate must be mad to carry this through. Mad, perhaps, and cowardly, insofar as he had off-loaded the dirty work on to Macro, and Macro would never forgive him for that.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered. He was angry at the legate, and angry with himself for ever befriending Cato in the first place. Macro snapped off a length of branch, and methodically began to strip the leaves away from the slender stem of willow. On the far side of the Tamesis a party of men from the other legions were stripping off their tunics and wading into the water. The brown tan of their faces, arms and legs contrasted sharply with the gleaming whiteness of torsos and thighs. Their cries of shock at the coldness of the water, and the whooping and laughter of horseplay as they splashed each other, carried flatly across the surface of the water. It made Macro angrier still, and he glanced over them to where the men of the auxiliary cohorts were filling in the last of the funeral pits, piled high with the heat-ripened dead. The cold and dead existing side by side with the vital lives of the young and carefree. Macro tore off another strip of willow branch and shredded its leaves furiously.

  Then he was aware of someone walking down to the river bank about fifty paces upstream. The huge frame of Figulus squatted down in the grass, a length of straw tilting from the Gaul’s lips as he gazed into the river. Figulus slowly looked round and then fixed on the centurion sitting beneath the willow, and he rose to his feet, hesitated a moment and then walked towards Macro.

  ‘Shit,’ the centurion whispered to himself.

  Macro was tempted to tell Figulus to get lost. He had come down to the river to get some time to think things through alone, and the prospect of talking to the optio made his heart feel leaden. Then he realised that Figulus too must be dreading Cato’s fate. Macro relented and made himself smile as Figulus approached him. The optio stiffened and saluted.