Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey by Simon Scarrow

licking flames carried only as far down the Praetorian way as the First Century. The rest of the men were shrouded in the clammy air of the pre-dawn. Cato, standing with the other centurions by the gate, could hear only the muted exchanges and dull clunk and clatter of equipment of nearly five hundred men getting ready to march into battle. On the open ground, to one side of the gate, stood the mounted contingent that was to accompany the cohort - thirty men under the command of a decurion, lightly armed and trained for scouting and courier duties rather than battle. The horses waited expectantly, ears twitching and hoofs gently scraping the ground as their dismounted riders kept firm hands on the reins. From further off came the muffled sounds of other legionaries rousing; quiet curses amid the coughs and groans of men stretching sleep-stiffened bodies.
    ‘Not long now, lads!’ Centurion Maximius called out as he warmed his back against one of the braziers, and cast a huge wavering shadow across the nearest line of tents.
    ‘He’s up for it,’ Macro remarked quietly.
    Cato yawned. ‘Wish I was.’
    ‘Lose much sleep?’
    ‘Had to finish the accounts before I turned in.’
    ‘Accounts?’ Centurion Felix shook his head in disbelief. ‘On the eve of a battle? Are you mad?’
    Cato shrugged and Felix turned to Macro. ‘You’ve known him a while, haven’t you?’
    ‘Man and boy.’
    ‘He always been like that?’
    ‘Oh, yes! Bit of a perfectionist, our Cato. Never goes into a fight unless his records are sorted. Nothing worse than being killed with a bit of paperwork on your mind. Some peculiar religious thing he picked up from the palace officials. Something to do with his shadow being doomed to walk the earth until the accounts are completed, audited and filed. Only then can his spirit rest in peace.’
    ‘Is that true?’ Centurion Antonius asked, wide-eyed.
    ‘Why do you ask?’ Macro turned towards him with a horrified expression. ‘You haven’t gone and left your paperwork half done?’
    Cato sighed. ‘Just ignore him, Antonius. Taking the piss is Centurion Macro’s stock in trade.’
    Antonius glanced from Cato to Macro and narrowed his eyes. ‘Fucking idiot . . .’
    ‘Oh, yes? Had you going there for a moment, didn’t I? So who’s the idiot?’
    ‘You were at the palace?’ Felix said, turning to Cato. ‘The imperial palace?’
    Cato nodded.
    ‘So what’s the story, Cato?’
    ‘Not much to say. I was born and raised in the palace. My father was a freedman on the general staff. He arranged most of the entertainments for Tiberius and Caligula. Never knew my mother. She didn’t live long after giving birth to me. When my father died I was sent to join the legions, and here I am.’
    ‘Must be a bit of a comedown, after the palace.’
    ‘In some ways,’ Cato admitted. ‘But life in the palace could be every bit as dangerous as here in the legions.’
    ‘Funny,’ Felix smiled and nodded towards Maximius.’That’s just what he said.’
    ‘Really?’ Cato muttered. ‘Can’t seem to remember the Praetorian Guard ever having a hard time of it, Sejanus and his cronies excepted.’
    ‘You were there then?’ Felix’s eyes lit up. ‘Was it as bad as they say?’
    ‘Worse.’ Cato’s expression hardened as he recalled the fall of Sejanus. ‘Hundreds were slaughtered. Hundreds. Including his kids . . . They used to play with me when they visited the palace. The Praetorians took them away and butchered them. That’s the kind of battle most of them get to fight.’
    Macro frowned at the harsh tone in his friend’s voice and nodded towards the cohort commander.’Be fair, lad. He wasn’t there when it happened.’
    ‘No. I suppose not.’
    ‘And the Guard did all right by us outside Camulodunum. That was a bloody tough fight.’
    ‘Yes. All right. I won’t mention it again.’
    ‘You know,’ Tullius spoke quietly, ‘Maximius might have known your father. You should ask him some