Cato took a last look towards the lookouts and then slumped down on the track a short distance in front of his men. His fingers worked at the straps of his helmet and then he lifted it off and lowered it into his lap, brushing his fingers over the thin layer of dust that coated the top of the helmet. He set it down beside him and reached for the canteen slung from his sword belt. Cato had just eased the stopper out of the neck of the canteen and had raised it halfway to his lips when there was a distant shout. At once he turned to stare up the track, along with several of his men. One of the lookouts was running down the track towards them. Cato could see that the other man was still watching something further off. A moment later, he turned and sprinted hard after his companion.

The nearest lookout jabbed his javelin back over his shoulder as he ran and now his warning was clearly audible to every man in the Sixth Century. ‘They’re coming!’

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Cato dropped his canteen and scrambled to his feet, shouting out orders. ‘To arms! To arms! Move yourselves!’

All around him legionaries heaved themselves up and grabbed at their liners and helmets, jamming them on and fumbling desperately with the straps they had untied just moments earlier. All the discomforts of heat and thirst fled from their thoughts as the men rushed to arm themselves. From the track came the continual cries of the lookout as he raced back to join his comrades: ‘They’re coming!’

Shields and spears were snatched up from the dusty track and held ready as the legionaries shuffled into position. Cato drew his sword and punched it into the air to gain his men’s attention.

‘Sixth Century! Sixth Century, prepare javelins!’

Some of the men had instinctively reached for their short swords and now released the handles and hefted the shafts of their javelins, staring anxiously down the track. Cato turned to watch with them, willing the lookouts to run faster. The first of them came jogging up, blown by the effort of sprinting back to the century under the weight of armour and weapons. He stopped in front of Cato and bent forward, gasping for breath.

‘Make your report, man!’ Cato snapped.

‘Yes . . . sir.’ The lookout forced himself to stand erect and swallowed to clear his mouth of phlegm.’Beg to report . . .the enemy’s approaching, sir. A quarter, perhaps a third of a mile down the track.’

‘What’s their composition?’

‘Cavalry and infantry, sir. There’s eight or ten scouts out front. They saw us and rode back to the main force.’

‘They’ll make their report,’ Cato mused. ‘Then Caratacus will send them back in strength to beat us up while the main body advances.’