The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato parried the spearhead easily and leaned forward to slash at his opponent’s left hand. The point tore through the flesh about the brigand’s wrist and he loosened his grip on the riser. His body collapsed onto the ladder and then rolled over the edge, and he fell into the ditch, still clutching his spear in his good hand.

  Cato lifted the top of the ladder and tried to thrust it back, but the base was solidly positioned and resisted his efforts to dislodge it. Already another man, armed with an axe, had climbed onto it and was making his way across to the palisade, more nimbly than his predecessor. Cato began to hack at the nearest rung, splintering the wood. At the fifth blow it split in the middle and he leaned out to strike at the second rung.

  His new opponent saw the danger and scurried forward, raising his axe to slash at Cato’s extended arm. At that moment the ladder lurched and the brigand was forced to release the haft of his axe to grab at one of the risers, letting the weapon swing from his wrist by the leather strap. Cato hacked savagely until the second rung splintered, then quickly sheathed his sword to grasp the end of the ladder and rock it from side to side. The brigand could do nothing but cling on desperately and shout over his shoulder. One of his comrades came forward, hefting a spear, and raised it above his shoulder as he took aim at Cato. Straining his muscles, Cato gritted his teeth in a last desperate effort, and was rewarded as one of the risers shifted an arm’s length from the stockade. The ladder twisted to the side and the man with the axe clung on with one hand for a heartbeat before letting himself drop into the ditch, rolling to the bottom.

  There was no time for Cato to register his small victory as he glimpsed the spearman’s arm sweep back. He ducked behind a hoarding and the point of the spear smashed through the rough-hewn board and showered his face with splinters. He blinked as a piece stabbed into his eyelid close to the top of his cheekbone. Reaching up with his left hand, he pulled at the finger-length splinter and tugged it out. The vision in his eye was blurry and the sharp pain almost agonising.

  ‘Sir!’ Micus was half crouching beside him. ‘You’re wounded.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘It can wait.’

  He glanced round the interior of the outpost and saw several of the men battling to dislodge ladders or keep the enemy from gaining the palisade. For the moment the defenders were holding their own. Even with their small numbers, they had enough men to cover the perimeter of the stockade. Massimilianus had taken command of the rear of the outpost, and Cato grasped Micus’s arm. ‘Get to the other side of the gate and take charge there. We can’t afford to let any of those bastards get over the parapet.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The optio scuttled down the rampart and ran past the wagons bolstering the gate to take his position on the far side. Cato blinked rapidly to try and rid himself of the sensation of grit in his left eye, and then swore in frustration as it still refused to focus. He drew his sword again and peered round the hoarding to see that the ladder he had hacked up now lay abandoned and the party of men who had carried it up the slope were running along the edge of the ditch to join another group. He turned to look in the other direction, and by the light of one of the burning bundles of kindling twigs he saw the large party he had glimpsed earlier climbing resolutely towards the gates. Now he could see that they were carrying a ram fashioned from the trunk of a tree, and his blood ran cold. They were no more than fifty feet from the causeway across the ditch.

  Dipping his head, he ran to the nearest group of defenders who were not in combat. He picked three of them – two auxiliaries and one of the mule drivers, a heavyset man with a pockmarked face whose ugliness was exaggerated by the firelight.

  ‘Follow me!’

  Two of the wounded horses had broken loose and were careering around the interior of the outpost, and Cato and his small band had to work their way round them to avoid being trampled. Reaching the wagons behind the gate, Cato climbed onto the right-hand one and beckoned to the mule driver. ‘With me.’ He nodded to the other wagon. ‘You two in there.’

  Pulling himself up onto the driver’s bench, he clambered over the sacks of grain and chests of tools and made his way to the rear of the vehicle, where it had been backed onto the gate. At that moment the timbers shook and there was a loud crash as the ram slammed into the gate. The shock of the impact shifted the wagon beneath Cato’s boots as he balanced on a pile of coiled ropes. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and steadied him, and then the mule driver moved round to stand at his side.

  Cato nodded his thanks and indicated the ropes. ‘Get these out of the way. We’ll need a firm footing.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The driver handed Cato the spear he had been armed with and bent to his task, throwing the coils towards the bench until he had cleared enough space for them to stand side by side.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Vespillo, sir,’ the driver replied without looking up as he continued clearing the rope away.

  ‘Have you been in a fight before?’

  ‘Plenty of fights. I used to be a boxer.’

  ‘A successful one, I hope.’

  Vespillo cleared away the last coil and responded in a wry tone. ‘Why do you think I’m a bloody mule driver, sir?’

  Cato handed the spear back to him and they stood waiting as the ram crashed home several more times. In between, Cato could hear a scraping sound, and he saw fingers curl over the top of the gate in front of him. The fingers clenched tightly and then a head appeared. Cato swung his sword at the nearest of the man’s hands before he could release his grip, and the blade cut through the knuckle and severed the little finger, which fell into the wagon as the man dropped out of sight. Vespillo laughed hoarsely and ducked down to retrieve the finger, looking at it with bemusement.

  ‘There’ll be time for gathering trophies later,’ said Cato. Vespillo tossed the bloodied digit over the gate.

  A few blows later, the ram shattered one of the timbers in front of Cato, who looked down instantly to avoid the splinters. When he looked up again, he saw that there was a small opening where the head of the ram had punched through. The next blow smashed the locking bar behind the gate in two, and one end dropped to the ground at the rear of the wagon.

  ‘They’ll be through any moment,’ he said. ‘Be ready to strike at the first one through the gap.’

  There were several more blows, and then an order was shouted and those manning the ram ceased their assault. Axes cleared away the loose shards of shattered timber, and what was left of the gate was wrenched outwards until there was a gap large enough for a man to slip through. The first of the brigands to enter the outpost was a huge warrior swathed in the fur of a large bear, the skin of its head covering the man’s helmet. He carried a round shield and a long club studded with iron nails.

  ‘Stick him, Vespillo!’ Cato shouted.

  The mule driver raised his spear and made a powerful overarm thrust at the warrior’s neck, but the man snatched his shield up and deflected the blow. Before Vespillo could react, his opponent swung his club down on the shaft of the spear and battered it out of his grasp so that the weapon flew to the side and struck Cato’s left arm a numbing blow. With a roar of triumph, the warrior drew his club back to strike again. Vespillo recoiled, his heel catching the nearest heap of ropes, and he lost his balance and fell backwards. Cato lashed out, but was blocked by the shield as the man raised his club to finish Vespillo off. The mule driver was saved by one of the auxiliaries in the next wagon, who thrust his cavalry sword into the warrior’s bicep and tore open a gaping wound before wrenching his blade free. The brigand bellowed with pain and rage and stepped back through the gap, his axe hanging uselessly at the end of his maimed arm.

  Cato helped Vespillo to his feet and the mule driver retrieved his spear as the enemy began to break down the shattered remains of the gate to allow more men to pass through and attack the defenders in the wagons. By the wavering glow from the cooking fire, Cato could make out the seething mass of b
rigands stretching down the slope as they waited to surge into the outpost and butcher those within. Lengths of timber were smashed apart with axes and wrenched aside until a gap nearly six feet across had been cleared and the first of the enemy surged forward. Cato and the others defending the wagons had the advantage of height as they fought it out in the narrow space. As the Romans rained sword blows on the shields of the enemy warriors below them, Vespillo thrust his spear at any exposed limbs, piking one of the first men inside the ruined gate in the shoulder. Another was struck down as one of the auxiliaries hacked at the side of his head, slicing off his ear before the blade went on to cleave his collarbone.

  More men pressed forward over the bodies of their comrades, and those with spears stabbed them at the men on the wagons. Cato cut at the head of a man who dropped to the ground to avoid the blow and did not come up again. A quick glance down the narrow gap between the wagons revealed movement, and he stepped back to shout a warning.

  ‘Massimilianus! They’re under the wagons! Stop them!’

  As he turned back to join Vespillo in holding back the enemy, he heard the centurion bark an order and glanced across to see Massimilianus and one of his men stooping to hack at the brigands trying to crawl into the outpost.

  Vespillo suddenly gasped and stumbled back, blood gushing from a wound in his thigh, and Cato sheathed his sword and snatched the spear from the mule driver. Grasping the shaft in both hands, he made a quick series of brutal thrusts, driving the point into shields to force the attackers back and aiming at any exposed target. He caught one man in the face, plunging the point into his eye and thrusting the tip deep into his skull before ripping it free. Driven wild by agony the brigand turned and fled, sweeping his comrades aside and knocking two of them off the causeway before disappearing from view. Taking advantage of the brief distraction, Cato had long enough to grasp that the three men left on the wagons could not hold off the enemy horde for long. It was only a matter of time before they too were wounded, and there were not enough men in the outpost to replace them and still defend the rest of the stockade.

  ‘Massimilianus!’

  ‘Sir!’ The centurion rose up at the front of the wagon.

  ‘Set fire to the wagons.’

  ‘Do what, sir?’

  ‘Set fire to the bloody wagons, man! Do it now!’

  There was no time for further words. The enemy were once again pushing forward, one spearman duelling with Cato as one of his comrades made to climb onto the bed of the wagon.

  ‘No you fucking don’t!’ Cato snarled as he smashed the first man’s spear aside and lashed out with his boot, the studded sole raking the other brigand’s face and thrusting him back onto his comrades. Behind him, Cato could hear Massimilianus shouting orders for one of the injured men to set light to the faggots and push them under the wagons. At the same time two brigands with shields raised to protect their heads and upper bodies stabbed spears at Cato’s feet and legs, forcing him to retreat onto the ropes. He breathed in a waft of smoke and coughed as he braced his feet and jabbed the head of the spear at the man clambering onto the back of the wagon. The brigand took each blow on his shield and made ready to spring at Cato while his companion climbed up to join him.

  The gap between the wagons began to glow as the bundles of kindling burned fiercely and the smoke billowed up and swirled around the men fighting for control of the outpost’s gate. Cato could feel the heat from beneath and saw the bright glitter in the narrow gaps between the boards on the bottom and sides of the wagon. There was an alarmed shout from the man at the rear of the wagon, and his companion snorted with derision as he rose to his feet to confront Cato. There was an instant of stillness as the two men weighed each other up, and the brigand smiled thinly as he realised that the advantage lay with him, armed as he was with a shield as well as a spear. Cato punched his own spear forward with the kind of savage snarl that Macro had often used to good effect. The brigand retreated a step as he absorbed the blow on his shield, deflected it and then surged forward to smash the shield into Cato’s body before the latter could recover the weapon for another thrust. The shield boss caught Cato on the medal harness over his sternum as the top of it struck his helmet.

  The impact drove him backwards, and he tumbled onto the piled ropes, the brigand rolling down beside him. Gasping for breath, Cato released his grip on his spear and drew his dagger as he threw himself on his opponent. The brigand too released his spear, but his other arm was caught in the strap of his shield and he only had one hand with which to defend himself, his fingers scrabbling for his opponent’s face as Cato stabbed him in the chest and stomach again and again. With a last burst of strength, the brigand clawed at Cato and a finger gouged his injured eye. He felt the agonising pressure and jerked his head away; then, pulling his bloodied dagger free, he reached up and forced the blade into the soft tissue under the brigand’s jawline and punched up into his skull, twisting the handle savagely as the man gurgled frantically, spurting blood into Cato’s face.

  As his stricken opponent spasmed, Cato rolled aside and sat up. His left eye felt like it was burning in the socket and he had no sight in it now. Some of the rope beneath the dying brigand was smouldering, and flames were licking up through the widening gaps in the bed of the wagon. More flames blazed at the end of the vehicle, forcing the enemy away from the ruined gate. Cato struggled to his feet, swaying as he tried to cope with the pain raging through his head.

  ‘Sir!’ Massimilianus called out to him. ‘Get out of there!’

  The heat from the blaze beneath and around him began to singe his legs, and he stumbled across the smouldering heap of ropes and tool boxes, clenching his eyes shut as he fought off a fresh wave of agony and nausea. Hands gripped his harness and hauled him over the driver’s bench and onto the ground. As he was dragged a few paces further away from the heat of the flames, he heard the centurion shouting orders for his men to save what they could from the burning wagons. He was dimly aware that the sounds of fighting were fading away, and then there were just the shouts within the fort as the defenders dealt with the fire to prevent it spreading to the stockade on either side.

  He eased himself up, supporting his weight on his right hand as he raised his left to tenderly examine his injured eye. The slightest pressure instantly increased the searing pain. With his other eye he could see several more wounded men around him, close to the cooking fire. A militiaman was tying off a dressing over the head wound of one of the mule drivers. He picked up a basket and came over to Cato, gently turning his head to the light.

  ‘Hold still, sir, I need to remove your helmet.’

  He undid the straps under Cato’s chin and lifted the helmet off and placed it on the ground. Once he had eased off the felt skullcap, he examined the wound briefly before taking out a wad of folded linen from the basket and carefully positioning it over the left eye socket. Cato gritted his teeth at a fresh burst of pain as the man began to wind a long strip of cloth around his head to hold the wad in place. He secured it with a simple knot and tucked the loose ends into the folds of cloth at the back of Cato’s head.

  ‘That’s all I can do for now, sir.’

  ‘It’ll do, thank you,’ Cato responded, relieved that the man’s ministrations were complete. ‘See to the others.’

  As the militiaman moved on to deal with Vespillo’s thigh wound, Cato forced himself to his feet and looked round the outpost. The interior was brightly lit by the flames at the gate. There were a handful of bodies on the rampart, and several men were still in position, sheltering behind the hoardings as they kept watch for a fresh assault. Others were busy controlling the horses and mules, which were stamping in fear at the flames. A handful of animals had been wounded by arrows and slingshot, and two lay dead. He saw Massimilianus on the rampart a safe distance from the flames. The centurion stared down the slope in front of the gate for a moment before turning away and slithering down the rampart.

  ‘What are they up to, Massimilianus?’<
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  ‘They’ve fallen back fifty paces or so. They’ll wait until the fire burns down before they make another attempt.’

  ‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Three of my men are dead. Four wounded. Micus is dead, along with one of the militia. Another is wounded. The mule driver there is the only casualty from Barcano’s lot. Then there’s you. How are you doing, sir?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Cato struggled to clear his head. ‘We need to be ready for the next attack if it comes. Have more faggots prepared to roll down the slope. Can’t afford to let them use the darkness to get close to the ditch. Meanwhile, we’ll keep feeding the fire in the gateway. Just enough to discourage them. I don’t want to burn down the fucking stockade.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be helpful, sir.’ Massimilianus grinned for a moment before his expression resumed its grim look. He lowered his voice. ‘We only just fought them off this time, sir. If they make another attempt, I don’t think there’s much chance of keeping them out.’

  ‘Not much chance?’ Cato sighed. ‘There’s no chance at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The wagons burned fiercely for over an hour before the flames began to die down. Massimilianus had pairs of men on both sides, smothering any flames that spread to the stockade with lengths of sacking soaked with water from the limited supply that remained. It was tiring work and the auxiliaries could not bear the heat from the fire for long before they were driven back and the next relay took their place. The wagons were soon no more than charred frameworks held up by the thick timber of their axles and their solid iron-rimmed wheels.

  Most of the remaining men still fit enough to fight manned the stockade, keeping low in order not to attract any fresh arrows or slingshot. One of the mule drivers was sent up the watchtower to keep the signal beacon alight, and the wounded had been moved to the shelter of the garrison’s small hut. As Cato surveyed the men at their places around the interior of the outpost, he felt a small measure of satisfaction. They had kept the enemy out, for now. More casualties had been inflicted than suffered; the bodies in the ditch and on the slopes beyond were testament to the fortitude of the defenders. The bodies of Micus and the others had been laid out beneath the tower.