Simon Scarrow - When the Eagle hunts

'Best change right now,' said Vespasian. 'Your horses and pack animals are ready.'

They dropped their bundles and stripped down to their loincloths. Under the curious gaze of Boudica, Cato hurriedly covered himself with a fresh tunic and pulled his mail shirt over the top. He slipped into his harness, attached the sword and dagger scabbards and reached for his military cloak.

'No!' Vespasian interrupted the gesture. 'Not that. Wear those.' He indicated a pair of grimy brown cloaks, well worn and spattered with mud. 'Best not look too much like a pair of squaddies when you reach Durotrigan territory.

And wear these thongs round your heads.'

He handed them two lengths of leather, broad at the front and tapering at the ends. 'The Greeks wear them to hold their hair back. Your military cut is an instant giveaway, so keep these on, and your hoods up, and you might just pass muster as a couple of Greeks – from a distance. Just don't try and engage anyone in conversation.'

'All right, sir.' Macro grimaced at the thong, then tied it round his head. Prasutagus watched Macro while Boudica grinned at Cato.

'Somehow you look more convincing as a Greek slave than you've ever done as a legionary.'

'Thank you. Much appreciated.'

'Save it for later,' ordered Vespasian. 'Come with me.'

He beckoned to Prasutagus and led them outside. Over at the tethering posts stood four horses with plain blankets spread across their bacls, covering the legion's brand.

Saddlepacks hung over each flank, and to one side stood two ponies carrying more provisions.

'Right then, you'd best'be off. The watch officer on the gate is expecting you, so you can slip out without some idiot shouting a challenge.' The legate looked them over one last time and then quickly slapped Macro on the shoulder. 'Good 'Thank you, sir.'

Macro took a breath and threw his leg up over his horse, swinging his body after it. Agraceless moment of subdued curses followed before he was properly seated and had a good grasp of the reins. Being taller, Cato managed to mount his horse with a little more style.

Prasutagus muttered something to Boudica and Macro swung round. 'What did he say?'

'He wondered if it might be better if you and your optio travelled on foot.'

'Oh really? Well, you tell him-'

' That's enough, Centurion I' Vespasian snapped. ' Just go.'

The Iceni warrior and woman mounted with familiar ease and turned their horses towards the camp gate. Behind them, Macro and Cato tugged on the long reins of the pack animals and followed on. As the hooves thudded on the frosted mud of the track, Cato took a last look over his shoulder. But Vespasian was already marching back towards the warmth of his quarters and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

Ahead loomed the gate, and at their approach a quiet order was given. The locking bar squealed back into its receiver and one gate swung inwards. As they passed through, a handful of legionaries watched them in silence, curious but obedient to the strict instructions not to utter a word. Beyond. the ramparts, Prasutagus twitched his reins and led them down the slope towards the forest from which the Druids had emerged with the fleet prefect several days earlier.

Without his helmet and shield, and the comforting security of the camp around him, Cato suddenly felt horribly exposed. This was worse than going into battle. Much worse.

Ahead lay enemy territory. And the enemy was unlike any other that the Romans had faced. Looking to the west, where the land was so dark it almost merged with the night, Cato wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, or was the blackness there made yet more black by the shadows of the Druids of the Dark Moon?

By the time the sun had risen above the milky horizon into a dull grey sky, they had passed deep into the forest. They rode along a well-used trail that wound past the gnarled trunks of aged oak trees whose twisted branches showed even more starkly as the light increased. Some of the highest boughs were well nested, and the raw croaking call of crows filled the air as the dark birds watched the small party passing beneath with greedy speculative eyes.

The forest floor was covered with dark, dead leaves. The snow had almost disappeared and the air felt cold and damp. The gloomy atmosphere was oppressive and Cato glanced anxiously from side to side, alert for any sign of the enemy. He rode at the rear, with only a pack pony behind him, rustling through the damp laves. Immediately ahead was the other pony, tethered to Macro's saddle.

The centurion himself, bare-headed and swaying uneasily atop his cavalry mount, seemed unconcerned by the dismal surroundings. He had far more interest in the woman ahead of him. Boudica wore her hood up and, as far as Cato was aware, had not looked back since they had left the camp.

This puzzled him; he had assumed that Boudica would be keen to see Macro once again. But there had been a marked coolness in her attitude to them both during the previous evening's briefing. And now this long silence since they had left camp. At the front rode Prasutagus, looming larger than ever on the saddle of the biggest horse that could be found for him. He led the way at a calm, unhurried pace, nonchalantly regarding the track ahead. He had ignored them at the briefing, only listening and speaking to the legate through Boudica.

Cato looked at the great t mane of hair on Prasutagus's head and wondered how much the giant recalled of that night back in Camulodunum When, drunk and angry, he had caught up with his cousin/drinking in an alehouse full of Romans. Whatever had happened after that night seemed to have worked some change, in Boudica and strained her friendship with Macro. Pbrhaps Nessa had been right.

Boudica and Prasutagus might be more to each other than mere cousins.

Of all the Britons that might have offered to help the general, it seemed typical of the perverse fates that governed Cato's life that it had to be Pr-asutagus and Boudica. This mission was dangerous enough already, Cato reflected, without having to deal with tensions arising out of Macro and Boudica's fling, and the consequent affront to Prasutagus's aristocratic pride in every root and branch of his family.

Then there was Prasutagus's particular knowledge of the Durotriges and the Dark Moon Druids. Nearly every Roman child was reared on garish tales of the Druids and their dark magic, human sacrifices and blood-drenched sacred groves.

Cato was no different, and had seen uch a grove for himself the previous summer. The terrible atmosphere of the place still endured, in vivid detail, in his memory. If this was the world in which Prasutagus had once immersed himself, then how much of the man was still Druid, and not fully human?

What lingering loyalties might Prasutagus harbour for his former masters and fellow initiates? Was his eagerness to aid the general merely a treacherous ploy to deliver two Romans into the hands of the Druids?

Cato reined in his imagination. The enemy would hardly go to such elaborate lengths to capture a mere centurion and his optio. He scolded himself for thinking like a paranoid schoolboy and monstrously inflating his own importance.

It reminded him of a time in the imperial palace, many years earlier, when he had been little more than an infant and had taken a fancy to a small carved ivory spoon he had seen on a banqueting table. It had been easy enough to pinch, and then conceal in the folds of his tunic. In a quiet spot in the garden he had examined it, wondering at the ornate work on the handle with its sinuously twisting dolphins and nymphs. Suddenly he heard shouting and the sound of running feet. He chanced a look round the side of a bush and saw a squad of Praetorians run from the doors of the palace into the garden and begin searching the topiary.