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

by Simon Scarrow

  Dawn was still some hours away. Cato strained his weary mind to focus on the forces in play. There were barely twenty men still fit enough to fight, and if the brigands struck from all sides simultaneously, there was little chance of being able to defend the entire line of the stockade. That would mean falling back to defend a shorter line. He looked at the two sheds backing onto the side of the outpost, then called Massimilianus away from directing the men controlling the burning wagons.

  The centurion unfastened the chin straps of his helmet as he approached and removed it to mop his brow and scratch his scalp.

  ‘The fire’s not going to last until dawn, sir. They’ll be able to get across the embers easily when the time comes.’

  ‘We’ll do what we can to keep it alight. Feed it from the stock of fuel for the signal beacon, enough to discourage our friends outside. There will be a brief respite when the fire dies down and before we build it up. Use that to get the remaining wagons lined up in front of the sheds. Two will cover it. The third will protect the exposed end. The supplies can be put between the wheels to stop the brigands getting underneath. And we can block the walkway above the corner of the stockade, and there at the end of the shed. If the stockade falls, we can pull back to the wagons. Five men in each and the rest covering the stockade behind will give us a much shorter line to defend.’

  ‘True . . .’ Massimilianus turned to him and arched an eyebrow. ‘Last stand?’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’

  ‘What odds would you give me that it won’t?’

  ‘Where would I send the money if you win the bet, Centurion?’

  They shared a brief laugh at the old joke before Cato sighed wearily. ‘Never thought it would all end fighting for a flimsy outpost in a quiet backwater of the Empire . . .’

  ‘Rather than sticking it to a barbarian army in battle, eh?’ Massimilianus smiled knowingly. ‘In my experience, soldiers rarely get the death they would wish for, sir. You could have died from the sickness back in Tharros.’

  ‘True. That would have been a wretched way to go.’ He punched the centurion on the shoulder. ‘If it happens here, we’ll make a fight of it. Something to make Horatius proud!’

  There was a faint rumble and both men turned to the gate as what was left of the wagon on the right collapsed in a burst of sparks and swirling flames.

  ‘Better start work on our last redoubt . . .’

  Massimilianus bowed his head in salute and turned away to give the orders to his men. Cato turned his attention to the mule teams and the horses, considering whether it might be best to have them slaughtered so that they did not fall into the brigands’ hands. His conscience revolted at the notion. Besides, they might yet serve some purpose. There might be a chance for some of the men to attempt to break through the enemy surrounding them and escape. Those left behind would face certain death. Cato was not prepared to abandon them to such a fate. And if this was the place where fate had decided he should die, then so be it. A fresh burst of throbbing in his wounded eye drove the melancholy from his thoughts and he gritted his teeth as he paced up and down by the light of the fire, trying to fight off the pain.

  The hours of the night passed with aching slowness. From time to time small groups of the enemy approached the outpost and loosed a volley of arrows before retreating. A shouted warning was enough to ensure that the defenders scrambled for shelter before the shafts dropped inside the stockade. Two more of the horses and one of the mules were hit. They thrashed about in pain and threatened to set off a wider panic amongst the beasts tethered tightly together, and Cato was obliged to have them cut loose and led across to the opposite rampart to be killed with a merciful blow from a hammer driving an iron spike into the area between their eyes and ears. They went down, legs collapsing beneath them and long necks stretched out as their tongues lolled between their bristly muzzles.

  The men who had been detailed to prevent the fire spreading to the stockade were now tasked with keeping the blaze going by feeding it with logs from the fuel store beneath the watchtower. As long as the flames lasted, Cato hoped the enemy would keep their distance and wait for what they thought were the wagons to burn out and open the way for their final assault. They would not be fooled for long when the flames refused to die down, he reasoned. A couple of ladders covered with dampened foliage would be sufficient to lay across the logs and provide a way for the enemy to rush across the fire.

  He took a last look around at their preparations and then climbed up the rampart to the walkway and sat down beside one of the hoardings close to the gate. It was a cool night and he was comforted by the warmth generated by the ongoing blaze where the wagons had once stood. The pain in his left eye had subsided into a steady throb, and now that he had time to think clearly, he wondered how serious the injury was. It was possible he might lose the sight in the eye. The prospect of being a half-blind soldier caused him great concern. If he lost the other eye, what quality of life would remain? He might never see Lucius grow into a man, nor see any children that his son might father. Gone would be the ability to read, to relish the glorious pageant of the seasons . . . He smiled at himself for thinking so far ahead when he might be dead ere the sun rose again.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he saw movement on the slope in front of the gateway. Three men, including one wearing the antler headgear of one of the brigand leaders, were approaching warily. They stopped twenty paces from the ditch and scrutinised the fire and the stockade on either side, talking in low tones that Cato could barely make out above the steady crackle of the flames. They took a final look at the gate before making off, disappearing into the darkness beyond the orange loom of the fire. He felt no wiser about their purpose. They might have been planning their next attack, but it was possible that they might conclude that further action could result in more deaths than taking the outpost was worth. All the same, it was better to be prepared for the worst. Carefully pressing his felt skullcap over the dressing, Cato eased his helmet on and fastened the chin strap, adjusting it to make sure it sat securely and comfortably. Then, in order to fight off his tiredness, he made a slow circuit of the stockade, ensuring the men were alert, offering them words of encouragement and exchanging an occasional quiet joke to keep their spirits up.

  The brigands came on again in the last hour of the night, swarming up the hill on all four sides. The mule driver in the watchtower was the first to see them and gave an anxious cry of alarm.

  ‘Stand to!’ Cato called out as he drew his sword and lifted the shield he had taken from one of the injured auxiliaries. The remaining defenders rose to their feet and stood ready along the line of the stockade. Cato looked to make sure each man was at his post and none were shirking. He gave a grunt of approval as he saw that even Barcano and his mule drivers were ready to make their stand.

  ‘Light the faggots!’ he ordered.

  Massimilianus and one of his men scampered around the stockade with tapers to set fire to the bundles before they were pitched over to illuminate the slope. As the enemy surged forward into the glow of the flames, they bellowed their war cries and the sound assaulted the ears of the defenders from every side. From his position, Cato could see a force of at least a hundred men making for the gate, carrying several ladders with them.

  ‘Assault ladders!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let them over the stockade!’

  A shout from the rear of the outpost drew his attention and he saw the risers of a ladder rap down on the palisade. Barcano and one of his men ran to the spot to dislodge the ladder before any of the enemy could scale it. As the first of the brigands scurried into sight, the mule drivers managed to twist the ladder and heave it into the ditch.

  ‘Good work!’ Cato muttered, then turned to face the enemy to his front. They had separated into three streams: two making for the ditch either side of the gate, while the main group headed for the causeway and the fire beyond. Closer to, Cato could see that they had stretched dripping furs over their
ladders. It was as he had feared, and there was little he could do to delay the inevitable loss of the gateway.

  ‘Massimilianus!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I need four men inside the gate. Be quick about it.’

  As the centurion reeled off the names, Cato called out to the next man along the wall from him. ‘You cover that ladder. Let no one over the parapet!’

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’ The auxiliary nodded. By the glow of the fire Cato could see the fear in his expression and softened his tone as he addressed the soldier.

  ‘Hold your ground and trust your comrades to do the same, and we’ll come out of this alive. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Hoping he had reassured the man, whatever the truth might be, Cato ran down the rampart and over to Massimilianus and the four auxiliaries detailed to defend the gate. Already he could see the brigands on the other side of the flames as they began to feed through the first of the skin-covered ladders. It was clear that they would take the outpost now. There was no other possibility. He turned to Massimilianus.

  ‘Hamstring the horses and mules. I won’t let them fall into the enemy’s hands. Do it quickly.’

  The centurion hesitated, then grasped his superior’s thinking and nodded soberly before he made off to carry out his instructions.

  ‘Two of you on either side,’ Cato ordered. ‘Close shields!’

  The auxiliaries did as they were told, leaving a gap between their shields wide enough to thrust their swords, and Cato led them as close to the flames as they could bear before halting. The first ladder dropped onto the burning logs, the soaked skins damping down the flames with a sharp hiss. The second followed quickly, and fell to one side, narrowly overlapping the first to create a path through the flames nearly four feet across.

  ‘Here they come!’ Cato warned the men beside him as the first terrified whinnies sounded from the horse lines.

  As a third ladder was extended over the blaze, the first of the enemy charged across. He carried a buckler, and an axe raised above his head, and his lips were stretched back, revealing his bared teeth. Cato braced his feet apart and slightly bent his leading leg to absorb the impact of the man’s charge. An instant later, the edge of the axe shattered the upper trim of his shield and bit into the layered wood. He controlled the recoil from the impact and then shoved back as hard as he could, slamming his oval shield into his opponent’s. The brigand stumbled back towards the flames beside the ladders, then howled with pain and reeled forward onto the point of the sword of the auxiliary to Cato’s left. The blade was thrust home deep into the man’s guts, then twisted and wrenched back. The brigand staggered into the path of the second man to cross the ladders and was knocked aside, falling into the blaze, where he screamed and writhed as the flames consumed him. The second man, like those behind him, was also carrying a shield and an axe, and Cato realised that they had been hand-picked for close combat to lead the attack. The man moved at once to Cato’s left to hack at the auxiliary there and create space for the next of his comrades, who went to the right. The third made for Cato.

  The top of his shield took more damage as an axe splintered the edge close to the first cut. Again Cato thrust back, but this time his opponent was more deliberate in his movements and absorbed the blow, then they both leaned into their shields, feet braced as they heaved. Cato held his ground, but as more brigands piled in behind the first ranks and thrust at the defenders, he was forced backwards, the auxiliaries retreating with him. The fight for the gate was lost . . .

  ‘No!’ Cato snarled at himself. He ripped his shield back, punched it forward and stabbed with his sword at the same time. He felt the point pierce flesh and then lurch into bone, and he twisted it violently from side to side before tearing it free. Then he swivelled at the waist to throw his weight behind the shield and knock his wounded opponent back. A quick stab to his right caught the next man in the thigh, no more than a flesh wound, but enough to cause him to recoil from the fight, blocking the men hurrying to cross the fire and escape the searing heat of the flames on either side.

  ‘Fall back!’ Massimilianus shouted from behind him. ‘They’re over the wall! Fall back!’

  Cato roared and punched his shield forward, quickly glancing over his shoulder. He saw some auxiliaries and two of the mule drivers dashing past the bottom of the tower towards the makeshift barricade in front of the two sheds. More men were running from the stockade, Massimilianus amongst them as he waved them towards the redoubt. Cato turned back and saw that a fourth ladder had widened the path across the fire, and now a large group of men had started to cross over.

  ‘When I give the order, charge home. Once you’ve hit your man, turn and run for the wagons. Ready . . .’ He allowed a beat for the auxiliaries on either side to brace themselves, then roared, ‘Charge!’

  The five of them burst forward, shoulders bracing their shields, and slammed into the leading rank of the brigands, knocking them back, to the side, and down onto their knees, and forcing their comrades behind them to stop in their tracks.

  ‘Break off!’ Cato shouted.

  The auxiliaries turned and ran. But Cato held his ground, standing in a crouch, leaning slightly forward with his shield to his left and his sword held level at waist height, ready to pounce again. The brigands before him hesitated, none willing to take on the bandaged officer in front of them, his single eye sparkling as it reflected the glare of the fire at their backs. His face was contorted in a savage snarl and blood dripped from the tip of his sword as it wavered slightly from side to side.

  ‘Who’s first?’ he growled. ‘Come on, you ugly bastards . . . who’s first?’

  When none of them moved, he stepped forward and slashed to his right, hammering a blow across his opponent’s shield boss. Then he surged to the left behind his shield and slammed it into the side of another brigand, driving him into the charred remains of the side of the gate. Before he could recover, another brigand ran at him, and Cato dropped to one knee and slashed his sword out in a low arc, cutting an angle into his opponent’s shin and shattering the bone. The man pitched forward, his full weight colliding with Cato’s shoulder and the side of his helmet. The impact drove him off his feet and he fell heavily to the ground, driving the air from his lungs with an explosive gasp. The brigand landed on top of him, but immediately rolled to the side and released his axe as he reached for his injured shin with a pained groan.

  Cato’s sword had flown from his grip as he fell, and lay two paces away, out of his reach. He still held the shield, and raised it as he struggled to his feet. With no one to stop them now, the brigands poured across the ladders and into the outpost, with several spilling out to surround Cato, shields and weapons raised. He turned quickly, one way, then the next, his right hand balled into a fist, determined to fight on with bare hands, and then his teeth if need be. He caught a glimpse of Massimilianus standing in the middle wagon, beckoning frantically to him as the defenders on either side looked on. In front of them the interior of the outpost was swarming with men in skins ready to charge the last line of defence and overrun those behind.

  ‘Here, sir! Run for it!’

  He shook his head and filled his lungs as he bellowed one last time, ‘For Rome, lads! Fight to the last for Rome!’ Then he braced himself and charged headlong at the nearest of his enemies. He knocked the man back, then hurled his shield at another before throwing his hands around the first man’s neck to choke him. His opponent tried to pull himself free, clutching at Cato’s hands, then he punched Cato in the face before digging his fingers into his cheek and jaw.

  Cato snarled and lunged and bit into the man’s hand, feeling flesh and bone give way beneath his teeth. The man howled in pain and Cato hung on, shaking his head like he had seen Cassius do when he hunted down his prey. He sensed a figure at his shoulder, and then a deep voice snapped, ‘Enough!’

  The blow to his helmet set off an explosion of brilliant flashes of light, and then there was dark
ness. The last words Cato heard himself say before he lost consciousness were ‘Lucius . . . my son . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  He came round with a start as a bucket of water was thrown into his face. He winced and jolted his head to the side. A numbing, nauseating pain filled his skull and made him retch. A boot kicked him in the side.

  ‘Get up, Roman!’

  He blinked and his uncovered eye opened a crack. There was light in the sky overhead, and only the brightest of the stars twinkled in the pre-dawn heavens. He lay there for a moment, sensing the bruises across his body and the crust of dried blood on his lips and face. His helmet had been removed, along with his sword belt and his dagger and sheath. He could taste blood in his mouth and recalled the man he had bitten, and turned his head to spit in disgust.

  He was kicked again, harder this time, and let out a moan.

  ‘Get up, I said!’

  He forced himself to roll over onto his hands and knees and push himself up until he was standing unsteadily by the base of the watchtower. His head was still pounding, and he leaned forward and vomited while the brigands around him jeered. When his guts were empty, he stepped aside to avoid the stench rising from the puddle beneath him. Straightening up, he stared at the man who had spoken to him. The brigand leader was a wiry man of middle age with a dark beard streaked with grey. He wore a leather cuirass along with a wolf skin, the forepaws of which were fastened by a gold brooch at his neck. His helmet was made of bronze, with a slender nose guard and hinged flaps to protect the cheeks. A set of large ram’s horns and a plume of dark horsehair decorated the top of the helmet. He regarded Cato with no obvious feeling before he spoke again in heavily accented Latin.