Free Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey by Simon Scarrow

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.

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!’
    He turned away and scanned the fort once again. The gate