The Eagle's Prophecy

by Simon Scarrow

  For a while Cato revelled in the sense of Olympian detachment he felt as he gazed down on the bay at the foot of the mountain rising up opposite his position. Tiny figures swarmed around three ships drawn up on the beach. They had been rolled on to one side and wedged so that an expanse of their underside was clearly exposed. Smoke coiled up from fires twinkling further up the beach and Cato guessed that the pirates must be applying a fresh layer of tar to the bottom of the ships. His gaze slowly travelled along the thin strip of land that linked the beach to the citadel at the end. That was the only viable approach to the citadel since on the other three sides it was protected by sheer rocky cliffs. The landward side was defended by a solid-looking masonry wall with a gatehouse, from which a timber bridge projected across a defence ditch. Behind the wall, a jumble of whitewashed houses climbed up to the highest point of the rocky spur, where a small tower nestled above the sea, twinkling at the foot of the cliff. The pirates must have seized the citadel, or perhaps it had been abandoned long ago. In any case, Telemachus had chosen an excellent location for his base of operations, in every respect save that there was no alternative route out of the bay should an enemy block its entrance. Hence the need for a lookout station with such commanding views of the approaches to the pirate base, Cato realised. The pirates would need plenty of warning if they were to make a clean escape from the bay.

  Gazing out to sea Cato caught sight of the tiny triangle of a sail several miles away; some merchant ship no doubt keeping a wary eye out for pirates, blissfully ignorant that they were sailing right by the hidden pirate lair. He was suddenly aware that had he and Macro not intervened, the lookouts would already be signalling the presence of the merchant ship and thereby sealing her fate. He smiled at the thought that there was one prize Telemachus and his pirates were never going to seize.

  As the sun climbed to its zenith it grew so warm that Cato discarded his cloak and set it down beside the boulder as he kept watch. Then, shortly before noon, he heard a voice cry out. He drew his sword and tensed up, but quickly realised the sound had not come from down the slope, but from the other direction, towards the lookouts’ shelter. Cato turned round and scanned the plateau. Almost at once he saw a dark shape rise up from the ground and his heart leaped in his chest. There was another cry, a plaintive mixture of pain and a call for help. Then Cato realised that it was the wounded man, sitting up in the latrine ditch.

  ‘Shit!’ Cato hissed through clenched teeth. He should have killed him earlier. Now he would have to, before the man recovered enough to become a danger, or called out to warn his comrades. But he just watched in horrified fascination as the man tried to climb out of the ditch, lost his grip and slipped back down, out of sight with a cry of pain and frustration. A moment later his head rose over the rim and he tried to pull himself out of the ditch again.

  A distant braying caught Cato’s ears and he tore his gaze away from the latrine ditch and stared down the slope. At first he could see nothing. Then a man appeared on the track where it crossed the spur. He was leading a mule with two large baskets slung either side. Another mule appeared behind him, then three men carrying spears. Cato felt a sick feeling of dread wreath its way round his stomach as he watched the men slowly climb up the track. There were too many of them. He eased himself back behind the boulder and was about to make for the shelter to set it ablaze when he stopped and looked at the base of the rock more closely, struck by a sudden inspiration. Placing the palms of his hands against the rough surface of the boulder he braced his legs and pushed steadily. For an instant nothing happened, then he felt it shift a little and small pebbles from around its base rattled down the path.

  There was another cry from the man in the latrine, louder now. If Cato didn’t silence him the men on the track would hear him long before they reached the plateau. Cato took a last glance down the slope to gauge their pace and then turned to run back towards the shelter. He ran on to the latrine and slowed to a walk a few steps from the edge of the trench. The sun had heated the mixture of ordure, urine and blood to ripe odour and Cato felt his stomach tighten. The wounded man was still crying out as Cato leaned cautiously over the trench.

  ‘Quiet!’ he said harshly in Greek.

  The man looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Then he opened his mouth and screamed out.

  ‘Shut up!’ Cato hissed at him. He jabbed a finger at the man and then pressed it to his lips. ‘Shhhh! Be a good pirate and keep your bloody mouth shut!’

  The man continued screaming and Cato drew his finger across his throat. ‘Shut up, or else! Understand?’

  Cato glanced back at the boulder in desperation. The man was going to get him killed if he continued making this racket. Then he realised. It was him or the man. Simple as that. Cato drew his sword and stood over the latrine for a moment.

  ‘Sorry. But you wouldn’t listen.’

  At the last moment the man raised both hands, clenched together in a begging motion. He shut his eyes and turned his face away from Cato as the glinting blade slashed down into his throat. Cato straightened up as blood gushed out. The man writhed and spluttered for a moment. Cato waited until he was sure the man was quite dead and would pose no further danger, then he turned away. He ran back to the shelter, sheathed his sword and took a firm hold of one of the doorposts, pulling it towards him. It shifted a little and Cato pushed it the other way, then pulled it back. He strained his muscles to work it free and finally it erupted from the ground and he tumbled back as the roof of the shelter fell in. Snatching up the stout post, Cato raced back to the boulder, heart pounding from his exertions.

  When he reached the boulder he glanced back down the slope and was shocked to see the enemy no more than fifty paces from the place where he killed the first of the lookouts. Cato crouched down and shoved the doorpost under the base of the boulder, ramming it home as far as he could, before he dragged a large rock into place beneath the post to act as a fulcrum. Then he crept to the side of the boulder and peered cautiously around the edge until he could see the track. Already the scraping clop of the mules carried easily to his ears and then he could hear the voices of the pirates, breathless, but still bantering in the easy humorous tone of men who had no thought of imminent danger.

  They climbed steadily towards the plateau and Cato wondered one last time if he was being a fool, and whether he should run for it even now. After all, the pirates had had a long weary climb up from the foot of the mountain and would be too tired to continue the pursuit for long. If Cato moved now, and doubled quietly round them he could still make his way along the edge of the plateau without being detected and follow Macro’s trail down the far slope. Then he forced himself to take a grip on his fears. It was only natural that, in this moment just before a fight, his racing mind would fall victim to doubts. He must remember how much was riding on what happened in the next few moments. If he failed, these men would raise the alarm that would allow the pirates to escape and find another base from which to prey upon merchant shipping. Many more lives would be lost. Worst of all, Narcissus would redouble his efforts to find and seize the precious scrolls, no matter how many sailors and marines it cost. Cato must not run from the fight. Moreover, he must not fail.

  The man leading the mules stepped into view and Cato eased himself back and grasped the end of the doorpost in both hands. He leaned his weight on the end of the post and waited as the mules passed the boulder.

  As their driver stepped on to the plateau he caught sight of Cato over the rim of the boulder and his mouth dropped open in surprise. An explosive grunt ripped through Cato’s clenched teeth as he thrust his weight down on the end of the doorpost. For an instant the boulder wavered, grinding stones to gravel beneath its mass, then it eased forward, gathered momentum and toppled down on to the track. A sharp scream was abruptly cut short as the great mass of stone crushed a pirate with a deep thud. The rutted path stopped the boulder from falling any further down the slope and it slammed to the ground, sending up a small sh
ower of pebbles and dust.

  Cato snatched up one of the spears and he turned on the mule-driver. The man carried no weapon and threw his hands up, screaming at Cato in Latin.

  ‘No! Spare me! Spare me!’

  Cato paused, taking in the thick white calluses ringing the man’s wrists. Then he pointed at the ground and shouted, ‘Get down and don’t make a move, if you want to live!’

  The man dropped the leash of his mule and threw himself on to the path. The mule paid no attention to its master and simply stared at the boulder with terrified eyes and flaring nostrils. A short distance behind it the second mule’s back had been broken by the boulder. The stricken animal was on its side, front legs thrashing on the loose surface, while its back legs lay crushed and inert. Behind the second mule the bottom half of one of the pirates protruded from beneath the boulder, his head and upper torso flattened to a pulp. Beside him sat one of his companions, staring in shock at a broken leg, the sharp white splinter of bone thrusting through the torn and bloody flesh of his shin.

  The third pirate was unharmed, but momentarily frozen in horror as he stared at his companions. But he saw Cato the instant the Roman stumbled round the edge of the boulder, spear grasped tightly, drawn back and ready to thrust. The pirate hesistated for no more than an instant before he turned and sprinted back down the track, scrambling as he struggled to retain his balance.

  ‘Bastard!’ Cato cursed him, and jumped over the injured pirate as he chased the fleeing man. Cato knew the pirate must not be allowed to escape at any cost, and he threw himself down the slope. The pirate did not have much of a start, but Cato realised that he would never catch the man while burdened with the spear. He slithered to a stop, breathing heavily, drew back the spear, sighted along its length and threw it with all his strength. It flew in a low trajectory straight for the man’s back and even as he turned his head to glance at his pursuer, the iron head slammed into him, behind his left shoulder blade, piercing flesh and bone before it tore through his heart and ripped out through the front of his chest. The impact threw him forward and sideways and he cartwheeled down the path before falling into an inert heap on the side of the mountain.

  Cato leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Then he strode down to the body to check that the man was dead. Sightless eyes stared up at the sky and there was no movement to indicate any sign of life. As Cato turned back up the slope there was a piercing cry as the wounded pirate tried to defend himself from the mule-driver. The latter had picked up a heavy stone and even as Cato watched he slammed it down on the pirate’s head. The man grunted and collapsed on the track. Leaning over him the mule-driver swung the rock down again and again, until it came up stained red, and dripping blood and brains.

  Cato drew his sword and approached the mule-driver cautiously, speaking quietly. ‘I think you got him all right.’

  He nodded at the pulverised tangle of hair and skull beneath the mule-driver, and the man glanced down before he returned his gaze to Cato, eyes wide with horror and fear.

  ‘Stay back!’

  Cato stopped, and after a moment he sheathed his sword. ‘There. You see, I mean you no harm.’ He raised his hands. ‘See?’

  The mule-driver stared at him, his thin chest heaving, then he lowered his arms and tossed the bloody rock to one side and slumped down beside the man he had killed. But still he watched Cato warily.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Centurion Cato. I’m with the Ravenna fleet. We’re here to deal with the pirates.’

  The mule-driver stared at Cato in silence, and then his shoulders heaved up and huge choking sobs racked his bony chest as he slumped forwards, cradling his head in his hands. Cato crept closer, tentatively reached out and gently squeezed the mule-driver’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s over. You’re free of them now.’

  The man nodded, or he might have been shuddering. Cato could not tell and he tried to find some more words to comfort the mule-driver. ‘You’re free. You’re not their slave any more.’

  ‘Slave!’ The man shook Cato’s hand from his shoulder and turned round with a wild expression of rage and bitterness. ‘Slave! I’m not a slave. I’m a Roman…a Roman!’

  Cato stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know…What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’ The man stiffened his back and stared at Cato with as much haughty disdain as he could summon up in his pitiful state. ‘My name is Caius Caelius Secundus.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Night had fallen by the time the yacht reached the fleet and moored alongside Vespasian’s flagship. The fleet was anchored in a bay a short distance down the coast from the looming mass of the mountain where the pirates had established their lookout station. The fleet lay close to the shore in complete darkness since Vespasian had forbidden the lighting of any fires or lamps. The troops on the beach had erected a marching camp for the night and were huddled in their tents, eating their rations cold. Macro waited for the crew to secure the yacht to the trireme with their boathooks, then he clambered up the rungs of the quinquireme’s side ladder on to the deck and was immediately escorted to the aft cabin by a junior tribune.

  The new prefect was sitting at a small table and eating a bowl of barley gruel by the wan light of a single oil lamp that could be permitted in his cabin. He looked up as someone knocked on the door and hurriedly swallowed before answering.

  ‘Come!’

  The tribune swung the door open and ducked his head under the low lintel. ‘Centurion Macro’s returned, sir.’

  ‘Show him in.’

  The tribune stepped to one side and ushered the centurion into Vespasian’s presence. Macro stood stiffly to attention.

  ‘At ease. Where’s Centurion Cato?’

  ‘He’s keeping the enemy under observation, sir.’

  Vespasian leaned across the table, eyes glinting with eager anticipation. ‘You found them, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Their fleet and their base. Not ten miles from here. I’ll show you on the map, sir.’

  Vespasian cleared the bowl and cup from his table as Macro wrestled Cato’s map from beneath his cloak and tunic. He laid it on the desk and carefully unfolded it, then both men leaned over it for a closer look in the weak light. Macro indicated the peak of the mountain he and Cato had climbed that morning.

  ‘The enemy have a lookout station up here, sir. We came across it by accident this morning and had to kill the men stationed there.’

  Vespasian glanced sidelong at the centurion. ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Just three, sir.’

  ‘Just three.’ Vespasian smiled. ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘We had the drop on them, sir. When surprise is on your side it makes life a lot easier.’

  ‘True enough. Please continue.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro moved his finger across the map to the bay at the foot of the mountain opposite the lookout station. ‘That’s where they are, sir. We counted twenty-three ships: two triremes, eight biremes, nine liburnians and four smaller vessels.’

  Vespasian pursed his lips. ‘That’s quite a fleet they’ve built up. This Telemachus must be something of an inspirational leader.’

  Macro nodded. ‘We found that out the hard way, sir.’

  ‘Yes…What else did you see?’

  ‘They’ve got a fortified citadel on this spit of rock here, sir. Steep cliffs on three sides and a pretty substantial wall and ditch facing the mainland.’

  ‘Nothing we can’t deal with,’ Vespasian decided. ‘The priority is taking and destroying their ships. Afterwards we can deal with their citadel in good time.’

  Macro looked at the prefect. ‘I imagine that’s where Telemachus will be keeping the scrolls, sir. We’ll have to be careful there. Can’t risk a fire, sir.’

  ‘You have a point.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘There’ll be no incendiaries used in any bombardment and I’ll give the marines strict orders not to set fire to anything when we brea
k into the defences.’

  ‘Can you trust them, sir? They’re marines, after all, not legionaries. There’s not the same discipline.’

  ‘Then it’s up to us legionaries to set them an example, right, Centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Macro smiled. Vespasian was a cool one. That kind of comment from almost any other member of the senatorial class would have been taken as a glib piece of rhetoric to win over the common soldiery. But, somehow, Macro felt that this man meant it. Vespasian had the common touch, all right. He had experienced the life and the trials of his men, as far as his senior rank allowed. That’s why the Second Legion Augusta had fought so hard for him in the British campaign and had carved out quite a reputation for itself in the process. Macro realised that this was the source of his own sense of loyalty to Vespasian. He was a man to follow.

  Vespasian was looking thoughtfully at the map and as he stroked his broad forehead Macro realised the commander was exhausted. More than any man in the fleet. One of the many burdens of high rank, he supposed. As Vespasian examined the map Macro found that he was reminded of Cato, whose endless mental activity seemed to be shared by the prefect of the Ravenna fleet. For a moment Macro envied both men the capacity for such elaborate thinking. It was a talent you either had, or hadn’t, and Macro fully accepted that he was not gifted in that manner. For him, soldiering was a far more direct and immediate experience, and he liked it that way, even as he knew that it meant that he was unlikely to rise much beyond his present rank. The alternative, the endless deliberation of Cato and his like, struck Macro as being more of a curse than a blessing.

  Vespasian tapped the map. ‘Well, we’ve got them, provided we close the trap swiftly. There’s only one problem–the approach to this bay. Thanks to you and Centurion Cato we can get close without them knowing it, but the moment the fleet appears round the side of this mountain they’re bound to see us. They’ll have a good hour to make sail and prepare their defences. We need to find a way of getting closer before they’re aware of the danger.’