The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  There was no denying the accented Latin sounded right for the Batavians, and Macro knew the Third mounted were in the area. And yet there was something in the man’s tone that prevented him from risking a reply.

  There was another brief silence before the voice came again, this time with a quavering edge to it. ‘For the love of the gods! If you’re Roman, reply!’

  ‘Sir!’ Cato protested.

  ‘Shut up!’

  With a sudden crackle, the glow from the torch grew bright and flames licked up above the gorse bushes. An inhuman scream cut through the thick, hot air hanging over the marsh.

  ‘What the?’ The sentry reeled back in shock.

  Macro made to grasp him when suddenly a blazing figure burst from round the corner of the path and ran shrieking into the clearing, illuminating the ground about him in a lurid flickering glow. The air reeked of pitch and burned flesh, and the figure tripped and rolled on the ground, still screaming.

  Macro grabbed the sentry and his optio and thrust them back towards the rest of the century. ‘Run!’

  Just behind them the night was rent with savage war cries, followed by the shrill braying of a war horn. Down the track, in the wake of their Batavian captive, poured the Britons, dreadful in the blazing light of the torch raised high by the man at the head of their charge. Cato had time for just one glance, enough to see the Batavian mercifully still on the ground, before he bolted after his centurion. They burst through the silent line of legionaries waiting beyond the red loom of the torch and turned to face the Britons, ready to fight on the instant. But their pursuers had halted momentarily to lay into the line of bodies arranged alongside the track, hacking and slashing at the corpses.

  ‘What the hell?’ wondered Macro.

  ‘They think it’s us, sir! They think they’ve caught us asleep!’

  With a savage shout of dismay the Britons realised their error and turned towards the legionaries lined up across the middle of the small clearing.

  ‘Release javelins at will!’ roared Macro.

  The dark shafts arced in a shallow trajectory straight into the foremost Britons. Hidden by the night, the javelins tore into their victims before they were even aware of the danger; several of the attackers fell and were trampled by the feet of their comrades desperate to get at the Romans. There was barely time for the second volley to be released before the Britons were upon them, screaming their savage war cries. A sharp clatter and clash of weapons and shields rang out, accompanied by the shouts, grunts and cries of men fighting wildly in the darkness.

  ‘Close up! Close up!’ Macro shouted above the din. ‘Keep together!’

  Unless the legionaries could remain distinct from their enemies, there was every chance that Roman would attack Roman.

  Just then the moon began to appear from behind a dark bank of clouds and a thin grey light was thrown on the scene. Macro saw to his relief that his men were managing to keep close enough together to hold off the wave of Britons hacking and slashing at the shield wall. But even as he looked round, a large warrior threw himself between the shields of the men, nearly knocking them to the ground, and hurled himself on the centurion. Macro had only an instant to react and began to roll back to absorb the coming impact.

  ‘Sir!’ Cato shouted from one side, and he swung his weight behind his shield and slammed the boss into the Briton’s side. It was enough and the man crashed to the ground at Macro’s side, badly winded. Macro drew back his sword arm and smashed the pommel up into the Briton’s chin. The man went down with a single grunt, out cold.

  Cato quickly helped his centurion back to his feet and then, shield to the fore, thrust his short sword into the mass of warriors confronting him. The tip of the blade struck home, a man cursed at the injury, and Cato pulled the sword free and struck again.

  The moon was now clear of the clouds and beamed its melancholy light down on the writhing mêlée, reflecting dully on flickering blades, polished helmets and armour. Macro could see that he and his men were badly outnumbered and that even more of these fierce warriors were emerging from the path at the head of the clearing. The legionaries could not hope to last long against these odds and seemed doomed to the same gruesome fate that had befallen the Batavians.

  ‘Fall back! Fall back to the far end of the clearing!’ Macro bellowed above the din of the vicious skirmish. ‘With me!’

  He parried a blow to one side and retreated a step. To both sides his men rippled back and gave ground, slowly moving into the neck of the clearing. It was just as well, since they could not have held the full width of the clearing for much longer. Slowly, slowly they inched back either side of the path, forming a tight knot, three, then four, ranks deep, against which the superior weight of the Britons ceased to have a significant impact. Now it became the kind of dense hand-to-hand fighting in which Roman equipment and training excelled, and the thrusts of the short swords began to claim more victims than the unwieldy blades favoured by the natives. Even so, the sheer volume of enemy numbers would eventually guarantee a British victory. Macro glanced anxiously about the dwindling ranks of his men.

  ‘Keep falling back! Back!’

  By the time they reached the edge of the clearing the skirmish was being fought on a narrow front, and the surviving Romans instinctively compacted three shields across the path to provide a solid obstacle to the pursuing Britons.

  ‘Rear five men stay with me!’ shouted Macro. ‘Cato! Get the others along that track as fast as you can. Head for the river and go downstream.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But what about you?’ the optio called out anxiously. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ll be along, Optio. Now go!’

  As the rest of the century ran off down the path, Macro looked round at his companions’ pale faces and grinned. He thrust his sword out into the mass on the other side of his shield. ‘Right, lads! Let’s make this one count. They’ll not forget the Second Legion in a hurry.’

  As he raced down the track, Cato tried not to step on the last man’s heels. Every instinct drove him to flee as fast as he could from the sounds of the fight behind. Yet he burned with shame as well, and would have turned and run back to his centurion’s side were it not for Macro’s express order and the responsibility he now carried for these survivors of the Sixth Century. When the sound of the fighting had grown faint, Cato shouted out an order to halt, and quickly pushed through to the front of the century. He could not trust the man in the lead to pay heed to the location of the moon in relation to the river; he might just blunder off into the marsh.

  Having got his bearings, and now no longer able to hear any sound of the centurion’s last stand at the clearing, Cato ordered the century to follow him at the trot. It was dangerous to run in the dark, there were too many irregularities in the path and too many twisted roots. Far better to move at a pace they could sustain for a while yet. Jangling and chinking, the legionaries wound their way along the path in the pale moonlight and Cato was relieved to find that the track grew steadily wider and followed a generally straight line – evidence that the track was now manmade and therefore led somewhere.

  A distant shout from the track behind them revealed that the Britons had taken up the chase. Cato extended his stride, snatching at breaths as he pounded along. He frequently glanced back to make sure the men were still with him. All at once he thought he heard what he was searching for: the sound of water rippling along the banks of a river. Then he was sure of the sound.

  ‘The river, lads!’ he shouted, gasping hard to draw in enough breath to be heard. ‘We’ve made the river.’

  The track twisted slightly to one side and then there it was, the great Tamesis, flowing seaward and glistening with reflected moonlight. The track abruptly gave out on to a smooth expanse of mud and Cato felt it giving way beneath his feet, sucking at his boots.

  ‘Halt! Halt!’ he cried out. ‘Stay on the track!’

  As the century waited, gasping in the warm air, Cato poked the ground ahead with his sword
tip. The blade passed into it with almost no resistance. The shouts on the track were drawing nearer and Cato looked up in terror.

  ‘What the fuck’re we going to do, Optio?’ someone called out. ‘They’ll be on us in a minute.’

  ‘Swim for it!’ someone suggested.

  ‘No!’ Cato replied firmly. ‘There’s no question of swimming anywhere. It’d be useless. They’d pick us off easily.’

  He was gripped by a moment of paralysing indecision, before fresh shouting from the Britons stirred him. This time the shouting came not from the track but much closer, just along the river. He scanned the river bank until he saw a man shouting and jabbing a spear at them. Two more men squelched through the mud to join him. Beyond them, not fifty paces away, was a mass of large shell shapes hauled up from the river’s edge.

  ‘There! Boats! Let’s go!’ Cato shouted. He dragged his foot from the mud and planted it ahead of him where it sank past the ankle and into the grip of the foul, stinking mud. The rest of the century plunged after him and, grunting with desperate exertion, struggled towards the vessels Cato had seen. The slime squelched and sucked at their legs, and the more exhausted stumbled and were almost immersed in the filth. The three Britons watched their approach, shouting out for their comrades at the top of their voices. Glancing back, Cato saw the red glow of the torch weaving towards them and dragged himself on, forcing his legs to push their way through the mud.

  Then there was a shout of triumph from behind as their pursuers reached the end of the track and caught sight of their prey stuck in the river mud. Without an instant’s hesitation the Britons plunged after them, the torch bearer leading the way. The flickering red glow glimmered off the slick surface of the mud and threw the wavering shadows of Romans and Britons alike far and wide. Every sinew of his heart and body strained as Cato urged himself and his men on, calling on them to hold their shields to the rear in case their pursuers had any throwing spears.

  The mud became more shallow and solid underfoot as they reached the three Britons guarding the boats. Cato struggled to get a firm footing in the slippery mud and he made for the nearest of them – an old man in rough clothes and carrying only a hunting spear. He made a two-handed thrust at Cato’s body and the optio swiftly parried, deflecting the tip down into the mud, allowing the impetus of the thrust to overbalance the Briton, who was then perfectly positioned for a swift strike to his back. With a deep groan as the air was forced from his lungs, the man went face down into the mud and Cato slithered over the top of him towards the two remaining guards. They were only boys, and one look at the filthy Roman making for them with lips unconsciously drawn back in a snarl was more than enough. Clutching their spears they turned and ran, past the ranks of boats they were supposed to protect and off into the night. For the first time Cato could see the vessels clearly; they were small, wood-framed and skin-covered, and might hold three or four men each. They looked light and flimsy, but they were now the only chance the Sixth Century had of escaping annihilation.

  Cato turned round, gasping for breath, and saw that his men were emerging from the deeper mud behind him. A short distance beyond, the British warriors came on, struggling almost knee-deep through the disturbed morass left by their quarry. The torch bearer was doing his best to keep his torch held high, and the flickering glare lit up the faces of the Britons in a terrifying red glow. One of the Romans had waded into deeper mud than his comrades and was being rapidly overhauled by his pursuers.

  ‘Slash the sides of those boats,’ Cato shouted to his men. ‘But save ten for us!’

  The legionaries pressed past him and set about the skin sides of the nearest boats, working quickly along the river bank. Cato stepped back towards the last Roman still struggling through the river mud, now identifiable in the mix of moonlight and the glow of the torch.

  ‘Pyrax! Hurry, man! They’re right behind you.’

  The veteran glanced quickly over his shoulder as he strained to pull his leg from the mud, but the suction was too great and his last reserves of energy were nearly spent. He tried once again, cursing in accompaniment to his efforts, and with a loud sucking plop the foot came free and he planted it as far ahead of him as he could, shifted his weight and tried to extract his rear foot. But the effort required to make any further progress was too much for him and he stood for a moment, an expression of dread and frustration etched on his face. His eyes met Cato’s.

  ‘Come on, Pyrax! Move!’ Cato screamed at him in desperation. ‘That’s an order, soldier!’

  Pyrax stared a moment before his face relaxed into a grim smile. ‘Sorry, Optio. Guess you’ll just have to put me on a charge.’

  ‘Pyrax . . .’

  The legionary braced himself as firmly as he could in the mud, and twisted round to face the Britons who were several feet away but struggling forward ferociously to get at him. Appalled, Cato watched from a short distance, quite helpless to intervene, as Pyrax fought his last battle, stuck in the foul-smelling mud, screaming out his defiance to the end. In the orange cast of the torch, Cato saw the first Briton swing his sword at Pyrax’s head. Pyrax blocked it with his shield, before thrusting back with his own sword. But the difference in reach between the weapons meant that he could not strike his opponent.

  ‘Come on, you bastards!’ Pyrax shouted. ‘Come and get me!’

  Two spearmen waded in range and thrust at the trapped legionary, aiming for the gaps between his shield and his body. On the third attempt one succeeded and Pyrax cried out as the tip was buried deep in his hip. His guard slipped, the shield dropped to one side and instantly the second spearman thrust into his armpit. Pyrax stood quite still for a moment, then his sword dropped from his hand and he slumped into the mud. He looked towards Cato one last time, head drooping, and blood spurted from his open mouth.

  ‘Run, Cato . . .’ he choked.

  Then the Britons closed in, hacking and stabbing at Pyrax’s body as Cato stood frozen in horror. Then, recovering himself, he turned and ran for his life, slithering over the treacherous mud towards the handful of boats that the rest of the century had pushed into the river. He made for the nearest one, and splashed into the shallows as the first of the Britons pursuing him emerged from the deeper mud, screaming his war cry. Cato dropped his shield and reached for the side of the boat. He gripped it firmly, causing the flimsy craft to tilt dangerously.

  ‘Careful, Optio! You’ll have us over.’

  He struggled to clamber over the side. The three men already in the boat leaned the opposite way to keep it level and only a little water spilled in as Cato rolled into the bottom, causing the craft to rock alarmingly. Suddenly another pair of hands grasped the side and the boat tipped again, revealing the snarling face of a British warrior, a triumphant gleam in his wild wide eyes. There was a swish through the air and a glint of moonlight on Cato’s blade, followed by a soft crunch as the sword cut through the Briton’s hand just below the wrist. The man bellowed with pain; the severed hand splashed into the river and he fell back with it.

  ‘Get us out of here!’ shouted Cato. ‘Move!’

  The legionaries thrust their paddles into the river, straining awkwardly to move the unfamiliar craft away from the river bank. Cato knelt in the stern, watching as the Britons plunged into the river behind him, but the gap between them widened and eventually the enemy gave up, shouting with enraged frustration. Some of the quicker-witted made for the remaining boats, before discovering the tears and rents in the sides that rendered them useless. The gap between Cato’s small flotilla and the river bank steadily grew until the Britons were small figures milling about in the shrinking loom of their torch which cast a glittering trail of dancing reflections out towards the Romans.

  ‘What now, Optio?’

  ‘Eh?’ Cato turned round, momentarily dazed by their terrible flight.

  ‘Which way should we head, sir?’

  Cato frowned at this formal mode of address, before it dawned on him that he was now in command of the century
, and it was to him the men would look for order and salvation.

  ‘Downriver,’ he muttered, then raised his head towards the other craft. ‘Head downriver! Follow us.’

  By the light of the moon the string of little craft steadily paddled with the slow current. When the torch on the river bank was finally lost from view round the first bend they came to, Cato slumped down against the stern of the boat and let his head roll back, wearily gazing up at the face of the moon. Now that they were out of immediate danger, his first thought was for Macro. What had happened to him? The centurion had stayed and fought to save his men without a moment’s hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He had bought Cato and the others enough time to escape, but was that at the cost of his life? Cato looked back upriver, wondering if there was any way Macro might have escaped as well. But how? His throat tightened. He cursed himself and struggled to contain his emotions in front of the other men in the boat.

  ‘Hear that?’ someone said. ‘Stop paddling.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Cato shook himself free of his thoughts.

  ‘Thought I heard trumpets, sir.’

  ‘Trumpets?’

  ‘Yes, sir . . . There! Hear it?’

  Cato heard nothing above the lapping of the water and the splash of paddles from the boats behind them. Then, carried upriver on the warm night air, came the faint sound of brass notes. The melody was quite unmistakable to the ears of any legionary. It was the assembly signal of the Roman army.

  ‘They’re our trumpets,’ muttered Cato.

  ‘Hear that?’ the legionary called out to the other boats. ‘It’s our side, lads!’

  The men of the century cheered the sound and bent themselves to their paddles with renewed strength. Cato knew that he really should order them to still their tongues, for the sake of discipline as much as any danger posed by other craft on the river tonight, but a great weight clamped down on his heart. Macro was dead. He could not stifle his feelings and tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto his filthy armour. He turned away to hide his grief from the men.