Cato 06 - The Eagles Prophecy (34 page)

Cato thumped his fist down in frustration as he rose from his chair. He strode out of his office and left the headquarters building. Across the parade ground, beside the wharf, the Spartan stood ready to sail. The marine guard at the head of the gangway stiffened to attention and grounded his spear as the centurion approached.

As soon as his boots clumped down on to the deck Cato called out to the trierarch. ‘Get underway immediately!’

Cato made his way aft and stood by the oarsman as the sailors shipped the gangway and cast off the mooring lines. Several men raised a stout post and thrust the bows out from the wharf, then worked their way down the length of the vessel, easing her out, until there was a sufficient gap to allow the crew to slip the long oars out from her sides. As the pausarius beat a slow rhythm the oars steadily swept through the water, churning the surface as the Spartan began to glide forward, out into the naval harbour towards the rest of the flotilla. Seeing this, the trierarchs of the biremes bellowed out orders to raise anchors and get underway, taking up station behind the Spartan.

The flotilla emerged into the main harbour and a few early risers stood and watched from the wharf and the decks of the merchant vessels crowded into the safety of the harbour defences. From the stern of the trireme Cato gazed out over the sprawl of warehouses and the red-tiled roofs of the town beyond. Already the distance made the buildings look like toys.

With the sun now well clear of the horizon, the Spartan turned into the open sea, directly into the dazzling orb. Her bows lifted to the increase in the swell of the sea and Cato sensed a faint breeze on his cheek. As soon as the warships were clear of the land the trierarch gave the order to ship oars and raise the mainsail.

Cato’s eyes closed for a moment, blinked open, closed again, and then he surrendered to the warm, comforting desire for rest. There was a sudden whirling sensation and he opened his eyes just in time to stop himself from falling on to the deck.

‘You all right, sir?’

Cato glanced round at the helmsman.’I'm fine. Just tired. Think I’ll sit down for a moment.’

He lowered himself to the deck and braced his back against the side of the vessel. An hour’s rest. That’s all. Just an hour, Cato told himself firmly. Moments later his head dipped forward until his chin rested on the folds of his cloak. He breathed heavily and regularly, completely oblivious to the rise and fall of the deck and the bustle of the crew as they settled the Spartan down for the day’s sailing.

The oarsman glanced down at him, smiled and shook his head, before concentrating on keeping his vessel on course for distant Illyricum.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

‘They’ve been kept busy.’ Albinus nodded towards the shore and Cato followed his gaze and saw that the beachhead’s defences had been much expanded and improved in the few days that he had been absent. A large fort rose up a short distance from the beach with high ramparts surrounded by a triple defence ditch. Two stockade walls extended down to the sea to protect the fleet, most of which had been beached, though a handful of vessels rode at anchor. A lookout station had been erected on the nearest headland and, as Cato watched, a signal flag was fluttering from the watchtower, to be answered by a distant flash of colour from the fort. At once there was a flurry of activity aboard the ships anchored off shore. Cato squinted to catch the detail and saw tiny figures forming up on the fore and aft decks, the sun twinkling on polished armour and weapons. Moments later the oars were unshipped and the triremes began to edge away from the shore towards the Spartan, and the column of smaller biremes sailing in tight formation behind her.

Albinus turned towards Cato and smiled. ‘Seems like they’re taking no chances with us.’

Cato nodded. ‘Good thing too. The fleet’s had more than enough surprises. I think the prefect’s finally learning. ‘

Albinus glanced at the centurion. ‘You’ve served with him before, then?’

‘In Germany, then in Britain. He was the resident broad-striper amongst the tribunes.’

‘I see. How did he perform?’

Cato paused a moment to consider the issue. He recalled the time he had fought alongside Tribune Vitellius, defending a small German village against a horde of barbarian warriors who had managed to lure a cohort of the Second Legion into a cleverly worked ambush. Vitellius had shown his courage in the desperate hours that followed. The trouble was, ever since, he had proved to be a venal traitor who had not one shred of compassion for any man or woman who dared bar his route to power. Already a number of corpses lay strewn in the wake of the young aristocrat. He was a dangerous man to most, and downright lethal to those who posed any threat to him. For Albinus’ sake Cato dare not tell him the whole truth. He coughed and looked towards the shore as he answered. ‘He performed well enough. He’s got the balls for the job. Just don’t cross his path.’

Cato sensed Albinus staring at him, waiting for more, but the centurion kept his silence and in the end Albinus turned away, and muttered quietly, ‘Fair enough, Centurion. I understand. Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep my distance.’

‘See that you do.’

There was a shout from the mast-top. ‘Fort’s signalling, sir!’

The two officers glanced towards the small fort on the headland and saw a green pennant flicker out to one side in the wind as it rose up the signal mast.

‘It’s a challenge,’ Albinus explained. Then he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted an order forward to the mainmast.’Make the recognition signal and get our colours up!’

A pair of sailors took a bundle of red material from a side locker and hurried to the ratlines, before attaching the toggles at the end of the pennants to a sheet. Then the pennant was quickly hauled up to the top of the mast where it whipped out with a dull crackle in the afternoon breeze. There was a short pause, then the pennant flying over the fortlet dipped down and vanished. The ships in the bay eased up on their oars, turned round and headed back to their anchorage. Then, almost at once, another pennant rose up above the fort and Albinus stiffened beside Cato, and then turned round to scan the horizon.

‘What is it?’ Cato asked anxiously.

‘The fort’s sighted a sail.’

‘A sail?’ Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked north along the coast. He saw it almost at once: a tiny dark triangle, almost invisible against the distant coastline. He raised his other arm and pointed. ‘There! See it?’

Albinus followed the direction indicated and screwed up his eyes as he tried to make out the details. ‘No . . . I . . . Wait a moment. Yes, I see it. A galley, I think.’ He paused to look at Cato, eyebrows raised. ‘Damn, you’ve fine eyes. I’d never have seen it. I’m getting old.’ He turned back towards the distant sail.’Must be a pirate, keeping watch on the fleet. Well, now they’ll know we’ve made good our losses. Telemachus won’t be risking another sea battle, I’m thinking.’

Cato nodded.’Not if he’s half as crafty as he seems. From now on, it’s going to be a contest of strength over guile.’

Albinus scratched his chin. ‘The question is, whose strength and whose guile?’

The sky had turned a dull pasty blue as the squadron of reinforcements rowed slowly towards the beach. On deck the sailors were busy dragging up a stout cable and thick wooden stake from below deck to tether the trireme securely to the shore. The marines, and all spare hands, clustered in front of the aft deck to help raise the bows of the trireme as they approached the shore. There was a splash from behind as an anchor was dropped over the stern. The cable rasped out through the aft hawse as the vessel crept towards the shingle where tiny waves crashed and foamed up the gentle slope, before rushing back towards the next wave. Further up the beach a figure watched the ships glide in. The red cloak and gleaming breastplate revealed him to be the prefect, surveying the new arrivals. Cato stared at the prefect with a bitter expression as he recalled the contents of Vitellius’ report. Then his lips flickered into a smile as he thought of the message he had replaced the report with. By now it was well on the way to Rome. There was a gentle shudder through the timbers beneath Cato’s boots as the bows had grounded. The vessel lifted for an instant, then settled with a more solid jarring sensation and those standing on deck lurched forward as the trireme stopped moving.

‘Cease rowing!’ Albinus bellowed.’Ship oars, and get the gangways down!’

On either side, the rest of the small squadron drew up to the shore and beached themselves on the shingle. Sturdy ramps were manoeuvred out through the hinged openings to one side of the prow of each vessel, before dropping down on to the shore. As soon as the way was clear, Cato marched down the gangway and crunched up the shingle towards the prefect, waiting amongst the tussocks of grass that grew beyond the high-water mark. After nearly two days at sea, the ground seemed to pitch and dip beneath him and he tried to walk as steadily as he could. Ahead of him, Prefect Vitellius took a step forward and Cato saluted him.

‘Centurion Cato! Here at last. I was starting to wonder what had happened to you!’

Even though the prefect was smiling, there was no mistaking the implied rebuke and Cato clenched his teeth angrily before he could make himself reply in a cordial enough manner.

‘We came as soon as we could, sir. Ask my trierarch.’

‘There’s no need for that!’ Vitellius clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’re glad to see you. I can use the men.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Truth is, I need them badly. The way things are going I’m not sure if we’re hunting the pirates, or they’re hunting us.’

‘It can’t be that bad, sir.’

Vitellius chuckled bitterly.’You don’t think so? Well, right now I’ll take whatever good spirits I can get . . .’ The prefect paused to stare out to sea.’Bloody bastard pirates. As Jupiter is my judge, I’ll make them pay for daring to defy Rome.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come. We need to talk. In my tent.’

The prefect turned and walked back towards the gate of the fortified camp, and Cato followed. Inside the camp the rows of tents stretched out each side of the main thoroughfare. Most were the usual goatskin, but a number of them were made from linen and heavily stained and worn leather, and Cato realised that they were cut from old sails to make good those lost. Men were sitting in front of their tents, and they jumped up to salute as the two officers passed by. Cato saw the tense and worn expressions in their faces and wondered what had happened in his absence.

As they reached the tents of the fleet’s headquarters, erected on a slight mound in the heart of the camp, a light breeze lifted the flaps and Cato savoured its coolness. Then the smell hit him: the sharp acrid smell of burned fat, hanging across the camp even in the faint breeze blowing offshore. Vitellius glanced round as they entered the largest of the tents, and caught Cato’s puzzled expression.

‘It’s the funeral pyres. We cremated the dead a few days ago.’

Cato glanced up at the prefect and noted, to his surprise, that Vitellius seemed to have been moved by the fate of his men. Or was it simply the inconvenience their deaths had caused him?

The prefect grimaced. ‘It was quite a sight. And there’ll be more. We lost another eight men in the night. One of them didn’t stop screaming right until the end. Between that and the raids we’ve not had much rest.’

‘Raids, sir?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Vitellius smiled wearily. ‘Our friends have kept up the pressure. Three days back they landed some men further up the coast. They’ve been picking off our sentries and foraging parties with slingshot. Every time I send out a detachment to chase them down, they turn and run for the hills. In fact, your friend Macro’s out hunting for them right now. I didn’t even have to ask him to volunteer.’

‘I can imagine, sir.’

‘At the same time they’ve tried a few cutting-out expeditions: sending in a few small boats at night to try and snatch one of the triremes.’ Vitellius gestured vaguely towards the sky as he slumped down on a couch; one of the luxuries he had brought with him from Ravenna.’We’ve been lucky with the moonlight the last few days, and seen them in time to drive them off. But the next few nights are going to be darker. And then . . .’ He shook his head.

Cato felt the dead weight of exhaustion and despair settle on his shoulders. The prefect had done nothing to take the fight to the pirates then. He had just sat inside the fortifications and passed the initiative to Telemachus.

‘What about your plan, sir?’

‘Plan?’

‘To patrol the coast. Find their base.’

‘That’s in hand. I sent six of the triremes up the coast the day after we landed. They didn’t find anything. The coast here is a mass of small islands and inlets. You could hide the Misene fleet in these waters for years without anyone discovering a single ship. It’s hopeless.’

Cato kept silent and regarded the prefect closely. Vitellius was clearly at his wits’ end. With the defeat at sea, and now the operation stalled on land, the situation must look bleak indeed to the ambitious aristocrat. Behind everything else that was going on lay the retrieval of the scrolls. Cato was wholly aware that his future and that of Vitellius depended on finding the scrolls and making sure that they were safely delivered into the hands of Narcissus. But whereas the prefect might suffer a fall from grace if they failed to find the scrolls, the consequences for Cato, and Macro, would be far more deadly. The prefect had to be persuaded, or provoked, into going on the attack.