Read Online Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest by Simon Scarrow - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
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their stomachs as they prepared themselves for the attack. He had been in their boots a few times in his youth, and now thanked the gods for being a general. True, there were now other fears and anxieties, but no longer the physical terror of hand-to-hand battle.
Glancing to the left, upriver, he stared hard into the forested river banks that all but swallowed up the silvered surface of the water, only permitting a gleam here and a glitter there. Somewhere in that rolling wilderness lay the Second Legion, moving down towards the enemy flank. Plautius frowned as he failed to detect any sign of movement. Provided Vespasian kept a cool head and arrived within the time the general had allowed, then victory over Caratacus was assured. But if Vespasian was delayed for any reason, the main assault might well be beaten back and the Batavians, isolated on the wrong side of the river, would be cut to pieces.
It all depended on Vespasian.
Chapter Nine
Small ripples glimmered outwards from where the horse’s muzzle dipped into the river. It was a small horse but sturdy and well cared for, as the sheen on its flanks indicated. A thick woven saddlecloth lay strapped across its back, and on its far side the rim of a shield was visible.
Cato turned back to his men and waved his hand down to keep them quite still. Then he slowly rose, hidden behind the huge bulk of the oak tree’s trunk, and peered over towards the horse. Holding his breath, as if it might be audible, he scanned the surrounding scene for any further signs of life. But there was none, only the horse. Cato cursed silently; where was its rider? The horse was tethered. He had to be nearby. Cato tightened his grip on the shaft of his javelin.
From no more than a few feet away someone coughed, and before a startled Cato could react, a man stood up on the other side of the tree trunk, facing away from him and pulling up his coarse woollen breeches. ‘Oh shit!’ Cato went to raise his spear.
The man spun round, eyes glaring, teeth bared under a red moustache.
His lime-washed hair bristled in matted spikes beneath a bronze helmet. For an instant both men were still, staring at each other in numbed surprise. The Briton reacted first. He grabbed Cato by the shoulder straps, and with one powerful heave dragged him bodily across the trunk and threw him down on the loose shingle of the river bank. The impact drove the air from Cato’s lungs. Suddenly a fist smashed into his mouth, and the world went blinding white. There were shouts, vision returned and he saw the Briton standing over him, sword half drawn, glaring back across the tree trunk. Then the man was gone, shingle rattling in his wake as friendly hands hauled Cato up.
‘You all right?’
‘Don’t let him get away!’ gasped Cato. ‘Stop him!’
Pyrax abruptly dropped his optio and ran off in pursuit, followed by the rest of the section as they scrambled across the tree trunk.
By the time Cato had recovered enough to stand up, it was all over.
The Briton lay face down at the river’s edge ten feet from his horse, a pair of javelins protruding from his back. The horse had jerked its reins free of the tether, and backed off. Now it was eyeing the newcomers uncertainly as it waited in vain for the reassurance of its master’s return.
‘Someone get the horse,’ ordered Cato. The last thing he needed now was for the animal to run off and be discovered by some other British scouts. One of the men unstrapped his shield and helmet and moved quietly towards the horse.
‘Make a noise like a carrot,’ Pyrax suggested unhelpfully before he took his optio’s arm. ‘All right, Cato?’ ‘I’ll live.’
‘Nearly dropped yourself right in it!’ Pyrax nodded at the trunk. ‘Not funny.’ Cato felt his jaw, throbbing from the blow, and saw blood on his hand from a split lip. ‘Bastard!’
‘Be grateful it wasn’t worse. He had you bang to rights there.’ ‘I couldn’t see him.’ Cato began to
Glancing to the left, upriver, he stared hard into the forested river banks that all but swallowed up the silvered surface of the water, only permitting a gleam here and a glitter there. Somewhere in that rolling wilderness lay the Second Legion, moving down towards the enemy flank. Plautius frowned as he failed to detect any sign of movement. Provided Vespasian kept a cool head and arrived within the time the general had allowed, then victory over Caratacus was assured. But if Vespasian was delayed for any reason, the main assault might well be beaten back and the Batavians, isolated on the wrong side of the river, would be cut to pieces.
It all depended on Vespasian.
Chapter Nine
Small ripples glimmered outwards from where the horse’s muzzle dipped into the river. It was a small horse but sturdy and well cared for, as the sheen on its flanks indicated. A thick woven saddlecloth lay strapped across its back, and on its far side the rim of a shield was visible.
Cato turned back to his men and waved his hand down to keep them quite still. Then he slowly rose, hidden behind the huge bulk of the oak tree’s trunk, and peered over towards the horse. Holding his breath, as if it might be audible, he scanned the surrounding scene for any further signs of life. But there was none, only the horse. Cato cursed silently; where was its rider? The horse was tethered. He had to be nearby. Cato tightened his grip on the shaft of his javelin.
From no more than a few feet away someone coughed, and before a startled Cato could react, a man stood up on the other side of the tree trunk, facing away from him and pulling up his coarse woollen breeches. ‘Oh shit!’ Cato went to raise his spear.
The man spun round, eyes glaring, teeth bared under a red moustache.
His lime-washed hair bristled in matted spikes beneath a bronze helmet. For an instant both men were still, staring at each other in numbed surprise. The Briton reacted first. He grabbed Cato by the shoulder straps, and with one powerful heave dragged him bodily across the trunk and threw him down on the loose shingle of the river bank. The impact drove the air from Cato’s lungs. Suddenly a fist smashed into his mouth, and the world went blinding white. There were shouts, vision returned and he saw the Briton standing over him, sword half drawn, glaring back across the tree trunk. Then the man was gone, shingle rattling in his wake as friendly hands hauled Cato up.
‘You all right?’
‘Don’t let him get away!’ gasped Cato. ‘Stop him!’
Pyrax abruptly dropped his optio and ran off in pursuit, followed by the rest of the section as they scrambled across the tree trunk.
By the time Cato had recovered enough to stand up, it was all over.
The Briton lay face down at the river’s edge ten feet from his horse, a pair of javelins protruding from his back. The horse had jerked its reins free of the tether, and backed off. Now it was eyeing the newcomers uncertainly as it waited in vain for the reassurance of its master’s return.
‘Someone get the horse,’ ordered Cato. The last thing he needed now was for the animal to run off and be discovered by some other British scouts. One of the men unstrapped his shield and helmet and moved quietly towards the horse.
‘Make a noise like a carrot,’ Pyrax suggested unhelpfully before he took his optio’s arm. ‘All right, Cato?’ ‘I’ll live.’
‘Nearly dropped yourself right in it!’ Pyrax nodded at the trunk. ‘Not funny.’ Cato felt his jaw, throbbing from the blow, and saw blood on his hand from a split lip. ‘Bastard!’
‘Be grateful it wasn’t worse. He had you bang to rights there.’ ‘I couldn’t see him.’ Cato began to
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