Cato rose to his feet, face contorting for a moment as he tensed his stiff muscles. Then he looked down at his optio.
‘We need to find more food. We haven’t eaten for days.’
Figulus nodded.
With the dell established as their camp, Cato had led a small party in search of supplies. He had ventured far down the track that wound past the dell, and two miles on they had come across a small island where four sheep had been penned together beside a small daubed hut. The body of an old man lay within. He had been dead some time and they smelled his decay before they found his wizened body. The old man who must have fallen ill and died in his hut, Cato reasoned. The Romans grabbed the pathetic bundle of rags that had been all that he had, and then tried to drive the sheep back towards the dell. Three of the depressingly stupid animals had bolted and disappeared into the marsh, leaving the fading sounds of their bleating and splashing to carry back to the Romans before the oppressive silence closed in once again. The last beast had been slaughtered and roasted over the fire that Cato allowed his men to start only after the last light had faded from the sky. The animal had been a skinny and miserable beast, which explained her refusal to escape with the others. The lean cuts of meat had lasted two days, and now hunger gnawed at the stomachs of his men again and they looked to Cato to solve the problem.
To be sure, there were animals living around them, but so far they had not been able to catch any of the birds, and only once had they seen anything bigger: the hind quarters of a small deer, swiftly disappearing through a tangle of gorse bushes the moment it scented the men. The spears that Cato’s men had taken from the bodies of the Batavians remained unbloodied, and the pained gurglings from the stomachs of Romans threatened to drown out the almost constant booming of a bittern some distance away.
‘I’ll take a party out as soon as there’s enough light,’ Cato said. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something to eat.’
‘What if you don’t, sir?’
Cato looked carefully at the expression on the face of his optio, but sensed no challenge to his authority there, and felt a moment of shame. Figulus had nothing to prove. Not after he had risked his life to help Cato and the others escape. The optio’s current peril was a poor return for the loyalty he had shown his centurion, a fact that only made Cato feel more wretched and guilty. It was a debt he would probably never be able to repay.
But if the loyalty of Figulus was not in doubt, the loyalty of the rest of this sorry band of outcasts most definitely was. Since they had entered the marsh four days earlier Cato had been acutely aware that the distance between them and the legion was more than geographical. The men were only just beginning to realise the true desperation of their situation, and in time they would no longer respond to his rank. When that happened, only Figulus would stand between the centurion and a complete breakdown in authority. If he ever lost the loyalty of his optio Cato was finished. They all were, unless they stuck together and functioned as a unit.
How would Macro have handled things? Cato felt sure his friend would have a much surer grasp of the situation were he here, and he lowered his head to hide his despair before he responded to Figulus’ question.
‘Then I’ll keep taking men out until we do find something to eat. If we find nothing we starve.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it, Optio. That’s all there is for us now.’
‘What happens when winter comes, sir?’
Cato shrugged. ‘I doubt that we’ll last that long …’
‘That depends on you, sir.’ Figulus glanced round, then shuffled round the fading embers so that he was close enough to his centurion not to be overheard. ‘But you had better come up with a plan. The men need something to keep them occupied. To keep them from thinking about what happens next. You’d better come up with something soon, sir.’
Cato opened his hands despairingly. ‘Like what? There’s no kit for them to maintain, no barracks to be ready for inspection, no drilling, no marching and we daren’t get into any fight armed as we are. There’s nothing for us to do but lay low.’ He felt his stomach turn over and a faint gurgling rumble sounded from beneath his filthy tunic. ‘And find something to eat.’
Figulus shook his head. ‘That’s not good enough, sir. You’ve got to do better than that. The men are looking to you.’
‘Do what then?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the centurion. That’s your job. Thing is, whatever we do, we must do it quickly … sir.’
Cato looked up at his optio and gave a faint nod. ‘I need to think. While I’m out hunting, start the men on the shelters.’
‘Shelters, sir?’
‘Yes. We’re staying put for the moment. Might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible. Besides,’ Cato nodded to the men, ‘it’ll keep them occupied.’
Figulus rose to his feet with a sigh of frustration and turned away, walking over to the side of the clearing where he drew his short sword and slumped back down on the ground. He fished about for the small rock he had tucked in the torn strip of cloth he used as a waistband and began to run it along the edge of the blade in a slow deliberate, grating rhythm. Cato watched for a moment, terribly tempted to shout at him and order him to stop making that irritating noise, but managed with difficulty to restrain himself. Figulus had been right, he realised at once. Soldiers without duties to occupy them were without purpose. And with no purpose it was only a matter of time before they degenerated into brigands.
But what could he achieve with twenty-eight men, armed only with swords, and the few shields and spears they had recovered from the Batavian dead? Mere survival seemed to be the limit of their capacity for action, and Cato sank further into the dark mire of depression.
Before the sun had burned off the mist hanging over the marsh, Cato picked four men to go with him to scout for food. He chose Proculus among them. The man had taken to holding his knees and rocking back and forth the moment he was without any task to do. It was wearing badly on the nerves of the other legionaries and Cato judged that it would be best for all of them if Proculus was out of the camp for several hours. They took the best of the Batavian spears and tucked daggers into the backs of their waistbands. Cato left Figulus with orders to get on with the shelters and led his small party out of the clearing, along the track that wound between two drumlins and down into the marsh. Dark still water, pierced by tall reeds, closed in around the broken track, and the air quickly became thick with the smell of decay and the drowsy whine of insects.
The track was one they had used several times before and they were familiar with its twisting course for the first few miles. Although clearly man-made, it was seldom used and almost disappeared from time to time as grassy tussocks struggled to reclaim it. With Cato in front, and Proculus immediately behind him, the Romans picked their way along, eyes and ears straining for signs of life. From time to time the track dipped down, and was covered with oily water or a soft layer of black mud, which the legionaries had to wade through with soft curses and a great many squelching and sucking sounds that Cato imagined could be heard from miles off. Once it crossed over a far larger track that stretched north and south and seemed to be the native tribes’ main route across the desolate marshland. The Romans scurried across the track, nervously glancing both ways to make sure they had not been seen by anyone passing through the marsh.
For the best part of two hours, by Cato’s estimation, they continued along the path, eventually coming to the furthest point they had yet explored. Here the path opened on to a strip of firm land covered with dense thickets of gorse. The mist had lifted and only a few patches still spread over the depressing landscape. The sun beat down on the marsh and the air was thick and suffocating. Cato’s tunic was stuck to his back with sweat and the prickling effect on his skin was maddening.
‘We’ll rest and then go back,’ he decided.
One of the men shook his head. ‘But we haven’t found anything to eat yet, sir.’
/> ‘Then we’ll try again later, Metellus.’ Cato forced himself to smile. Struggling through the marsh was a dispiriting business, but it least it kept his men occupied. ‘This evening, perhaps.’
The legionary opened his mouth to protest further but he swallowed his words as Cato’s smile fell and a gaunt, threatening determination glinted in the centurion’s eyes. They stared at each other for an instant, and the other men watched, tense and expectant. Then Metellus looked down and nodded.
‘Whatever you say, sir,’ he muttered.
‘Yes, that’s right. Whatever I say … Now find some shade and get some rest. I’ll keep watch. Then we’ll head back to the camp. If we’re lucky we might find something on the way.’
The others looked at him with doubtful and bitter expressions, and Cato shrugged wearily. ‘Just get some rest then.’
Leaving his men to find some shelter from the sun Cato eased through some bushes, down to where the marsh began. He kneeled down, bent over the water and cupped some of the water in his palm. It had a brown tinge and a brackish smell. Some of the men back in camp had drunk from the marshes close to the dell and had had loose bowels ever since and were steadily weakening. Cato sniffed the water suspiciously, but his throat was parched and he ran a tacky tongue over his dry lips as he weighed up the risk. Then, feeling that death by thirst was no worse than anything else, Cato drank the water and cupped his hand down for more, several times, until he was sated. He stood up and went back to join the others, slipping quietly through the gorse thicket. Three of his men were already asleep, one of them snoring loudly, and Proculus was sitting in the dappled shade of a bush, rocking gently.
Cato was about to offer him some words of comfort when Proculus froze, staring intently back down the path they had come along. Cato turned to look and saw a small deer craning its neck, delicate muzzle twitching in the air. As the centurion stood quite still and stared, the deer ambled on to the path and lowered its head, snuffling from side to side in the long grass. Proculus reached out towards Metellus but Cato raised a finger in warning. The instant Metellus awoke from sleep he was bound to scare the deer off.
So the two men remained quite still, staring wide-eyed and ravenous at the deer as it casually approached. Now Cato could hear the soft thud of its small hoofs on the dry earth and he tightened his grip on the shaft of the cavalry spear, taking up the full weight. The deer paused when it reached the open area, ears twitching at the snoring sound. It stamped one of its front hoofs, waited and stamped again. When nothing moved it waited a little longer and stepped into the space between Cato and Proculus. Then the deer stopped again and turned its finely profiled face away from Cato to stare intently at the frozen Proculus.
Cato eased his throwing arm up and back and sighted along the iron spearhead towards the tan body of the deer. Over the ridge of the animal’s back he could see Proculus’ face. With a sick feeling of suppressed rage Cato realised that the man was directly in the path of the spear. If the animal moved then Proculus would take the weapon right in the chest.
‘Shit …’ Cato mouthed.
The deer represented a few days of meat for his men. Without it they would starve, and soon be too weak to hunt. Then there would just be a slow lingering death. But if he threw and missed he would surely kill Proculus. Cato prayed to Diana to move the deer on. Just a couple of steps, that was all. But the deer was still as a statue. Only its flanks swelled and fell slightly as it breathed. Cato caught Proculus’ despairing expression opposite him and the legionary nodded faintly.
With a grunt Cato hurled the spear forward in a swift flat trajectory. The explosive sound of his effort startled the deer and it jumped nervously into the air. There was a dull whack as the spear bit home, bursting through the hide, through muscle and lodging in the heavy bone beneath the animal’s rump. With a shrill bleat of agony and terror the deer crashed down, but almost immediately started to struggle back to its feet.
‘Get him!’ Cato shouted, rushing forwards.
Proculus scrambled towards the deer with clawing outstretched hands. The other legionaries stirred from their sleep in alarm and snatched for their weapons.
‘Get him!’ Cato shouted again. ‘Before he gets away!’
The deer had regained its feet and turned aside from Proculus and then crashed through the nearest gorse, trailing the spear from its rear end as blood, bright and hot, welled up from the wound. The shaft caught in the thicket and spun the animal’s back legs round so that it nearly rolled over. But the deer managed to right itself and stumbled on in a desperate blind panic. Proculus was on his feet and threw himself after the beast, with Cato only a few paces behind. The other men were up now and eagerly joined the chase.
‘Proculus! Don’t let it get away, man!’
With a loud chorus of snapping and rustling the wounded deer thrust itself away from its pursuers, but the spear shaft snagged and held it back at every turn so that Proculus, scratched and bleeding, closed on the beast. Then the gorse parted, there was a short patch of grass and the ground gave way to a flat expanse of dark, cracked earth. The deer braced itself and leaped forward, arcing up and then crashing down with a soft thud ten feet away. Its hoofs sank through the cracked mud and it struggled forward another step and was stuck. Proculus saw his chance and leaped after the deer, landing in the mud, breaking through the crust and sinking almost knee-deep in the mire beneath. Grunting with effort he dragged one foot out, threw it forward and tried to lift the other, but the suction was too much for him. Ahead of him the deer flailed in a widening circle of foul-smelling mud and the shaft of the spear momentarily swung back, within reach of Proculus. At once he grabbed the shaft, held it firmly and wrenched it free, just as Cato and the others stumbled on to the grassy bank.
‘Shit!’ Metellus shouted. ‘Shit, we’ve got it!’
The legionary started forward but Cato slapped his arm across the man’s chest, stopping him. ‘Wait!’
Metellus made to sweep his centurion’s arm aside when Cato jabbed his other hand towards Proculus, floundering in the mud as he tried to steady himself for a spearthrust.
‘Look!’ Cato shouted. ‘It’s not safe. Just wait!’
Proculus, up to his knees in the glutinous filth, reached forward and thrust the spear into the deer’s throat, wrenched the blade free and struck again. With one final terrified squeal the deer’s head slumped down into the mud, its tongue lolled out. The tanned chest heaved a few more times and was still. Blood coursed from its wounds and spread brilliantly across the disturbed mud.
Proculus raised the spear over his head and whooped with triumph and delight, then turned towards his comrades with a wide grin, and then frowned as he saw their intent expressions.
‘He’s sinking,’ Metellus said quietly.
Proculus looked down and saw that the black mud had now engulfed his thighs and dark water oozed around the bottom of his ragged tunic. With a huge effort he tried to lift one of his legs, but the effort only led to him sinking a little further into the mud. He turned to his comrades, the first trace of fear etched into his expression.
‘Help me.’
‘Your spear!’ Cato gestured towards him. ‘Reach out for us.’
Proculus grasped the shaft, just behind the iron head and stretched out, offering the base of the weapon towards his comrades. Cato extended his arm as far as it would go, fingers straining to reach the end of the shaft, but there was still a small gap.
He turned back to Metellus. ‘Take my arm, and hold it tight.’
With Metellus anchoring him to the bank Cato took a tentative step onto the cracked surface of the mud and at once his foot sank in several inches. He leaned forward again, fingers in contact with the wavering end of the spear shaft. He clenched his fingers around the hard wood and began to pull. Along the length of the spear he could see Proculus’ knuckles, white with the strain of clutching on to this slender lifeline. Beyond that the wide terrified eyes fixed on the centurion.
�
�Hold on!’ Cato grunted through his teeth. ‘Hold on, man!’
For a moment he felt the spear shift towards him, and then there was no more movement, no matter how hard he strained to pull Proculus back to the bank. He closed his eyes and made one last, intense effort, to no avail, and relaxed his muscles.
‘This isn’t working.’ Cato glanced round quickly and snapped out some fresh orders. ‘We need some matting. Cut some branches. Toss them on the mud. Do it!’
As he and the others pulled their daggers out and began to saw at the slender branches of the gorse, Proculus looked about him with a growing sense of horror. The mud sucked him down steadily and was now oozing around his waist. Beyond him the deer, still in death, was sinking more slowly, and already the head was hidden from sight, only a stiff ear breaking the surface of the oily water on the surface of the mud.
‘Get me out of here!’ Proculus pushed down at the mud, then tried to sweep it away from his waist.
‘Keep still, you fool!’ Cato hissed. ‘You’re only making yourself sink faster. Keep still!’
The gorse branches were tougher than Cato had expected and still not one bit had been cut free. He drew his knife arm back and stamped down on the sinewy white pulp he had tried to saw through, but the branch just gave way beneath him and did not snap.
‘Shit!’
Cato resumed sawing, with increased desperation as he glanced over at Proculus, now up to his chest.
‘There!’ One of the men grunted, and threw a branch down on to the mud by the bank, and immediately began to saw at another.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Proculus cried out. ‘Faster, you bastards! Faster!’
The dagger cut through the branch by Cato’s hand and he turned and tossed it down on top of the first one, glancing across towards the trapped legionary.
The Eagle's Prey Page 24
