Simon Scarrow - The Eagles Prey

With a savage cry one of the enemy, a dark-haired brute with a blue tattoo of a horse across his chest, charged at Cato, swinging his sword down towards the crest of the centurion's helmet. Cato swung his sword up at an angle and parried the blow away from his head, letting it rattle and scrape its way down his shield. The wild strike had exposed the enemy's side and Cato slammed his sword home into the man's ribs, breaking two apart as the point of the sword drove through flesh and muscle to pierce the man's heart. Blood pumped from the wound after Cato wrenched the blade back. He poised for another strike, but the man was finished, and slumped to his knees, muttered a curse and then toppled on to his back.

Cato turned and saw the back of a man fighting one of his legionaries. This was no formal fencing match, but a fight to the death, and he plunged his sword into the man's spine without a moment's hesitation.

'Watch it!' Cato shouted as the legionary nodded his thanks, then his face turned to an agonised expression of surprise as a spearhead erupted through his throat, tearing a metal plate free from the leather straps that bound the segmented armour together. The legionary lurched forward and over, wrenching the spear from the grip of the man behind him. Dodging round his mortally wounded comrade, Cato leaped at the unarmed man and slashed at his eyes, blinding him and almost severing his nose. The warrior screamed as his hands clutched at his face. Cato quickly turned and looked for another foe.

The fight was going their way. Most of the bodyguard were down, and the survivors were having to take more than one Roman at a time. Macro finished his man off and, glancing round, he caught Cato's eye.

'Let's get him.'

Cato nodded and they edged away from the last act of the unequal melee, then turned towards the chariot. Caratacus shouted an order to his driver and stepped back off the platform. With a crack of the reins the two horses reared and plunged forwards. Cato felt a blow to his side as Macro thrust him out of the path of the chariot and he rolled off the track into the crushed grass along the edge.

'Macro!'

Cato glanced round just into time to see his friend throw himself down, covering his stocky frame with his shield as the horses' hoofs pounded on the dry rutted earth of the track. Instinctively the animals tried to avoid the scarlet shield, and shied to one side, swinging the chariot round. The finely crafted wheel banged up on to Macro's shield, canting the platform over. With a cry the driver pitched forward into the traces as the chariot began to overturn, then the whole lot, horses, driver and chariot, crashed into the small knot of men still fighting it out.

'Shit…' Cato muttered in horror, before he clambered to his feet, snatched up his sword and rushed over to Macro.'Sir!'

'I'm all right.' Macro shook his head and let Cato help him to his feet. 'Shield arm's gone numb, though. Where's Caratacus?'

Cato glanced round, and saw the enemy commander running into the marsh, his shoulder still swathed in a bloody bandage. 'There!'

'Come on.' Macro punched him on the arm. 'After him!'

They crossed the track, ran down the small bank and plunged into the rushes growing at the edge of the solid ground. Brackish water splashed up round their boots, and Cato could clearly see the muddy rippling patches ahead that marked Caratacus' route. 'This way!'

The rushes closed in on each side, dense pale stalks giving a dry rustle as the two men splashed forward. The water deepened, rising up to Cato's knees, and it was no longer possible to see where Caratacus had run.

Cato held up his arm. 'Stop!'

'What the…?'

'Quiet! Listen!'

They stood there, straining to hear any sound from their prey. In the distance the sounds of the legion cutting the remnants of Caratacus' army to pieces drifted through the still air. Individual cries of terror or defiance echoed faintly from afar, but there was no sound close at hand.

'What'll we do?' Macro whispered.

'Split up.' Cato jabbed his sword to the left where there appeared to be a gap in the rushes that might have been made by the passage of a fugitive. 'I'll go that way. You sweep round to the other side. We'll close up on each other if we don't find anything. All right?'

Macro nodded, not even thinking to question the fact that it was his young friend who was giving the orders. The young centurion began to wade off.

'Cato… no foolishness.'

Cato flashed him a quick smile. 'Who? Me?'

Macro watched him disappear amongst the tall stalks and shook his head wearily. Whatever fate was looking after the lad's welfare was working overtime. One day Cato was going to catch her on the hop…

Cato waded forward, the oily water swirling away from his thighs as the centurion eased himself between the rushes. As he approached a patch where they grew more densely his eye caught a flash of red and he looked closer. A smear of blood gleamed on one of the stalks. Cato tightened his grip on his sword and pushed on, carefully feeling his way through the tangle of soft vegetation hidden beneath the dark surface of the water. Behind him the sounds of the battle gradually faded, muffled by the marsh plants stretching out around him. Cato proceeded cautiously, eyes and ears straining to detect the faintest sign or sound of his prey. But there was nothing, just the unnaturally loud buzz and whine of the insects that swirled lethargically around him.

The rushes began to thin and the water became deeper as Cato emerged into a small open expanse of water. Close to him was a small hummock of earth. The remains of an uprooted tree lay across the tiny island, now covered with a luxuriant growth of emerald moss. The island presented a good point to try to get a better sense of the lie of the land, and Cato slowly waded over to it. As he emerged from the water he saw that his boots were covered with a thick black slime that weighed them down as if they were made of lead. He sat down on the tree trunk and reached for a slimy length of branch to help clean the muck from his boots. A bittern boomed from nearby, causing Cato to jump in alarm.

'Bastard bird,' he muttered softly.

An arm shot round his throat and yanked him backwards off the tree trunk. He tumbled back, flailing his hands and letting go of the sword. There was a grunt as he landed on top of someone. Someone built like a brick shit-house. The arm round his throat clenched tighter and behind his head Cato could hear the rasping breath as the man strained with the effort. Cato writhed frantically, trying to free himself, and clawing at the arm, struggling to loosen the grip, in vain.

'Goodbye, Centurion,' a Celt voice whispered hoarsely in his ear.

Cato jammed his jaw down against his chest and bit down on the tattooed flesh of the forearm. His teeth crunched through skin and muscle, as the man behind suppressed a howl of pain deep in his chest, and tightened his grip. Cato felt the first wave of light-headedness and bit as hard as he could, until his teeth met and his mouth was filled with blood and a warm lump of flesh.

The man gasped in agony but didn't loosen his grip.

Unless he could do something else, Cato knew he was as good as dead. He let one of his hands fall way, and groped behind his back, fingers scrabbling across the fine cloth of the man's leggings. He found the soft yielding package of the man's groin and dug his fingers into the scrotum and squeezed for all he was worth. At the same time he slammed his helmet back and heard the bone in his enemy's nose crunch. With a deep groan the man relaxed his grip for a moment. But that was enough. Cato wrenched the arm away from his neck, thrashed his way to one side and rolled off. He was on his feet in an instant, crouched and ready to fight. Six feet away, beside the tree trunk, was Caratacus, doubled up and groaning as he reached between his legs. Blood was streaming from his nose and arm, and he abruptly threw up when he could bear the agony no longer. He presented no danger to Cato in that state, and the centurion rose to his feet, tenderly massaging his throat as he looked round, saw his sword and went to retrieve it.