'Silence!' Cato shouted. 'Silence in the ranks there! Optio, take the name of the next man who opens his mouth out of turn.'
'Yes, sir!' Figulus saluted.
Cato stepped away from the track and stood and watched the men closely as his century marched past. His eye was practised enough to distinguish between the good and the bad legionaries, between the veterans and the recruits, between those in good physical condition and those who were in poor health. There was no question that they were all fit; the merciless regime of perpetual training and route marches saw to that. Cato's eyes glanced over the men's kit, mentally noting those who had taken every effort to maintain their armour and weapons to the highest standards. He noted the faces of those men whose armour was heavily tarnished; he would have Figulus see to them later. A few days of fatigues might sort them out. If that didn't work he'd slap some fines on them.
As the tail of the century tramped by, Cato waited a moment longer, making sure that the lines of his men were even, then he fell in on the track and double-paced to catch up. He was pleased enough with what he had seen so far. There was a handful of obvious bad characters, but the majority looked like good men, conscientious and hardy enough. The only thing that bothered Cato was that he still lacked a firm understanding of their collective spirit. The faces he had scrutinised from the side of the track were largely expressionless, and since he had ordered them to be silent there was little tangible sense of their feelings, only, perhaps, a sullen resentment over the order. Cato thought about changing his mind and letting them talk, which would allow him to gauge their mood a little more readily. But to countermand an order so recently given would only make him look indecisive and irresolute. He'd have to let them resent him for the moment then. That might even help foster his preferred image as a stern disciplinarian who would not brook the slightest hint of insubordination from the men under his command. He'd show that bastard Maximius…
Which was why he was being so harsh on the men, Cato realised. He was taking out his anger on them, and with that thought he was awash with guilt and self-contempt. There was really no difference between Maximius' bullying of Cato and Cato's taking it out on the men of his century. Maximius – it pained him to admit it – was right. He was sulking, and now eighty good men were suffering the consequences. Unless he grew out of his sensitivity he would be a perpetual burden to his men. Men who must trust him implicitly if they were to overcome the savage ferocity of Caratacus and his horde.
Not long after noon the track curved towards a small hillock. On its crest stood the raw dark earth of a recently erected rampart. A wooden palisade ran along the top of the earthworks with solid timber towers constructed above the two gates and at each corner of the fort. The distant detail of the structure was lost in the shimmering heat, but beyond the hill there was the glint of the Tamesis, looking cool and inviting to the eyes of sweating legionaries. Cato felt that he had not seen a more serene and peaceful view for months, but sight of the river brought the prospect of the coming battle sharply to mind. Soon enough those quiet waters would be stained with men's blood and their corpses would lay strewn about under the harsh glare of the sun.
As the cohort approached, there was no sign of movement behind the rampart, almost as if the sentries had decided to find some shelter from the sun to enjoy an afternoon nap. Above the fort Cato could see tiny black dots slowly swirling: carrion birds of some kind, he decided. Apart from a few solitary swifts darting high and low, they were the only birds in the clear sky. When the cohort was in long arrow range of the fort and there was still no sign of life, Centurion Maximius halted his men and bellowed out an order for the scouts to mount and move ahead to investigate. With a soft thrumming of hoofs the scouts trotted forwards and started up the gentle incline towards the gatehouse.
'Officers to the front!'
Cato ran forward, his harness jingling loudly as he passed by the silent ranks of each century. He joined the other officers breathing heavily and mopped the perspiration from his brow.
'Something's wrong,' muttered Felix.
Maximius slowly turned towards him. 'Really? Do you think so?'
Felix looked surprised. 'Well, yes, sir. That or they have the worst sentries I've ever encountered. In which case someone's in for a roasting.'
Maximius nodded. 'Well, thank you for your concise appraisal of the situation. Most instructive… you idiot! Of course something's wrong.'
Felix began to stammer something, and then shut his mouth and gazed down at his boots as he scraped one foot across the loose soil. The other centurions turned their gaze on the fort and silently watched the scouts ride up towards the entrance. One of the gates began to swing open slowly.
'Sir!'
'I see it, Antonius.'
A dark shape flitted out of the shadows under the gatehouse into the sunlight. A large dog, one of the hunting beasts the Batavians insisted on taking with them on campaign. It glanced quickly at the approaching horsemen and then turned and bolted down the slope in the opposite direction. For a moment the officers watched it run, sleek back bobbing up and down as it disappeared round the flank of the hill.
'Sir, what's that?' asked Cato, and raised an arm to point at the gatehouse.
The gate had continued to inch open and was now swinging out from the shadows. Something had been fixed to the inside of the gate.
'Oh, shit,' Centurion Felix whispered.
No one replied. They could see it clearly now and for a moment no one spoke. It was the body of a man, nailed to the timbers with a spike through both his palms. He was stripped and had been disembowelled, and his guts hung down over his legs, red and grey and glistening.
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER EIGHT
Centurion Maximius swung round. 'Cohort! Form up. Close order!'
As the men shuffled together and raised their shields Maximius ordered his centurions to rejoin their units. Up by the fort the scouts had spread out across the track and the decurion took three of his men and slowly approached the gate. They paused by the corpse for a moment and had disappeared inside by the time Cato ran up to Figulus at the head of the Sixth Century.
'What's happening, sir?'
'You've got eyes, Optio,' Cato snapped back at him. 'See for yourself.'
While Figulus shaded his brow with his hand and squinted towards the gateway, Cato became aware of several muted exchanges from the men behind him. He shot an angry look over his shoulder.
'Shut your mouths!'
Cato saw one man mutter something to his neighbour and turned round and strode over to him, pointing.
'You! Yes, you! You're on a charge. What's your name?'
'Titus Velius, sir!'
'What the fuck are you doing, talking after I've told you to be silent?' Cato stopped in front of him and leaned forward, glaring into the legionary's face. Velius was a little shorter than Cato, several years older and much more heavily built. He stared over the shoulder of his centurion, expressionless.
'Well?'
'Just saying we're in trouble, sir.' He met Cato's eyes briefly. 'That's all.' Then his gaze reverted to a fixed forward stare.
Cato's nostrils flared as he exhaled angrily. 'Optio!'
'Sir?' Figulus trotted over towards him.
'Put Velius on a charge. Ten days' latrines.'
'Yes, sir.'
Cato stepped back and looked round at his men. 'Next loudmouth I catch speaking out of turn pulls twenty days in the shit!'