‘As you wish. But I’ll tie him up. That way we can be sure he won’t do us any harm.’
‘We haven’t got a rope,’ Cato pointed out.
Apollonius drew his dagger. ‘I’ll cut strips from that rag of a tunic he’s wearing. Won’t be long.’
He turned away before Cato could say any more and disappeared amongst the rocks. Left alone, Cato returned his gaze to the gate and saw that the flames had died down slightly and he could more easily make out the scale of the damage caused by the fire. Both of the towers were no more than charred frames as far as the scorched stone foundations. Between them the gate had been largely destroyed and was being steadily consumed despite the efforts of the brigands on the bucket chain. Surely it would not be much longer before Massimilianus gave the order to attack.
A crunch of scree close behind made him start and instinctively grasp the handle of his dagger before he saw that it was Apollonius.
‘You were quick.’
‘I work fast,’ Apollonius replied. As he hunched down, Cato saw that there was a streak of blood across the agent’s knuckles. At almost the same instant the other man saw what Cato had spotted. ‘He didn’t want to be left tied up here. I had to knock him down before I dealt with him.’ He shaded his eyes and stared towards the gate. ‘Won’t be long now. We’d better make for the spur.’
Cato hesitated, not certain he could trust the agent’s word that he had left Milopus alive. But what good would come of wasting the time to check? And if Apollonius had harmed the man, what could Cato do about it? Nothing. Not until they had succeeded in saving the hostages, or perishing in the attempt. It was a matter that could be dealt with later, if need be.
Keeping low, the two men moved stealthily towards the spur, using the rocks and bushes to screen them from anyone in the valley. When they had passed behind the crest of the spur, they hurried on down the slope, keeping a lookout for any of the brigands who might have been stationed to keep watch over the rest of the small valley. At the bottom of the spur, they approached the slight rise that would give them a vantage point from where to plan their approach to the hostages. Cato crouched and led the way forward, then eased himself onto his stomach as he crawled towards the shade beneath a clump of bushes. He stopped there and Apollonius crept up to his side.
Before them lay the grave pit. It was a hundred feet away, and yet Cato was sure he caught a waft of sickly decay from the bodies within. The ground was sparsely covered with dry grass and provided little cover. To the right, the dried stream bed curved round the end of the spur and meandered towards the settlement before passing round it in the direction of the pool.
‘That’s our way in,’ Cato decided, indicating the course of the stream bed. ‘We’ll follow it to where it’s closest to the hut by the pen.’
‘What then?’
‘We take down the guards, free the hostages and bring them here until the fighting is over. If the attack fails, we’ll take them up the spur to Milopus and use the goat path to escape.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘Unless you have a better idea, we’ll stick with simple,’ Cato responded curtly.
Before Apollonius could reply, there was the sound of a distant trumpet, easily identifiable to Cato’s experienced ear as a Roman horn. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and took a deep breath as he felt his muscles tense, ready for action. ‘That’s the signal for the attack. Here we go . . .’
Chapter Thirty-Four
As the last shrill note from the bucina faded, Centurion Massimilianus swept his arm forward and led off the first century of his cohort in columns of two. In his other hand he carried the end of the first assault ladder. Like the rest of his men, he was only armed with a sword, since spears would be too cumbersome to use in the attack and had been left in the fort. The opening to the gorge seemed narrow in daylight, and he could imagine the fear it would have induced in the dark. Most of the men in the century marching behind him had been part of Plancinus’s column and would need to be led with a firm hand to get them through the gorge a second time. Glancing up, he saw the enemy’s lookouts calling to their comrades to warn them of the soldiers advancing on them.
After he had been left in command of the cohort, Massimilianus had questioned Optio Caudus about the layout of the gorge and the dangers from above. He had decided to advance with the narrowest of columns from the outset to limit the possibility of his men bunching up and causing chaos, as well as being an easy target for the enemy. He had also ordered the men to lash their shields to the assault ladders to give them the most robust shelter possible from the deluge of missiles they faced as they passed through the gorge. Such measures had never been part of his training, let alone put into practice during his time as a soldier. Yet necessity had driven a creative approach to the problem, and he was satisfied that his men were as well protected as they could be for the approach to what was left of the brigands’ defences.
The scout who had been left to observe the fire had come running back to report the moment the flames had died down enough to make an assault possible. Massimilianus had been hoping that Prefect Cato and his henchman would return in time to lead the attack. But that hope had been dashed the moment the scout had given his report. It was down to him now. As a long-standing garrison unit, this was the first time the men of the cohort had faced battle as a complete formation. Indeed, it was the first time Massimilianus himself had taken part in combat on this scale, and he was determined that he and his men would perform as well as any other auxiliary unit in the army. Succeed, he told himself, and perhaps the cohort would add a battle honour to its standard.
An arrow shaft pierced the soil ten feet in front of him, and Massimilianus snatched a breath and called out the order. ‘Shields up!’
He and the seven men behind him swung the ladders overhead and gripped the risers as the shield-laden shelters advanced side by side. Now the enemy could see that the Romans were in range, they began to loose more arrows that slashed down from the top of the gorge and rattled off shields or hit the ground on either side. The first stone, the size of a fist, thudded down a short distance in front of the gorge, and Massimilianus quickened his pace. Now would come the test of the orders he had given. The ladder party to his left began to fall behind, as intended, so that they would reach the gorge to the rear of, rather than alongside, the centurion and the men leading the attack.
There was a sharp crash on his shield and the blow drove the ladder down a few inches as another rock struck home. Then he was inside the gorge and the cool air closed in around him as the cliffs cut off the bright morning sunshine. There were signs of the earlier attack along the length of the gorge: several bodies, horribly mutilated by crushing injuries; discarded weapons and kit; damaged screens and pulverised faggots. Occasional rocks continued to fall from above, but the vagaries of the cliff surfaces made it difficult for the brigands to see the men passing through the gorge, let alone take deliberate aim at them. Only two more struck the makeshift shelter before Massimilianus and the first group emerged from the far end.
Ahead, he saw more bodies and damaged and abandoned kit on the ground in front of the wall and on the stonework that remained beneath the trails of smoke rising into the clear sky. A few charred timbers amid the dying flames was all that was left of the gate, and through the gap he could see the enemy warriors forming up to defend their stronghold. The attack had been timed well; none of the brigands had been able to cross the searing heat emitted by the embers to contest the mouth of the gorge.
As the second ladder party emerged, Massimilianus directed them to unlash their shields and form up in lines hugging the base of the cliffs. Once the first century was through the gorge and ready to advance, he calmly gave the order.
‘Ladder parties! Forward!’
The line surged from cover at a dead run across the open ground, ladders held up in their sword hands as they kept their shields raised overhead. A deluge of rocks, arrows and slingsho
t rained down from the enemy on the cliffs as they caught sight of the Romans advancing on the smouldering remains of the wall. Massimilianus winced at a splintering impact on the edge of his shield but did not falter as he made for the left of the ruined gateway. He stopped at the foot of the wall and ordered the nearest men to set their ladder up. The risers followed an easy arc to clatter against the scorched stonework, and the first man began to climb the rungs. On either side more ladders were raised.
Massimilianus thrust his way past the second man and scaled the ladder. The auxiliary ahead of him had turned to the right, and the centurion went in the other direction, drawing his sword as he crouched behind his shield. As he had hoped, the enemy had assumed the attackers would make for the gateway, and there were only a few brigands on the remains of the wall. The fire that had consumed the nearest tower and burned the palisade had baked the stones, and now the heat rising from beneath Massimilianus was sweltering as he charged towards a brigand who was wrestling to dislodge the risers of the next ladder along. The man caught sight of him and hurriedly drew an axe from his belt as he turned to face the threat. Swinging it from side to side as Massimilianus closed in, he turned his hips to draw the weapon back as far as possible, and brought it round in an arc with all his strength.
It was a well-timed blow that shattered the trim on the edge of the Roman’s shield and cut deeply into the wood, slicing open the muscles of his upper arm. The shield absorbed the main force of the impact, and while the wound was serious, the bone was not broken. Nonetheless, the blood flowed freely as the brigand extracted his axe and immediately drew it back to strike again. Massimilianus felt his arm starting to go numb, and his grip on the shield handle loosened. Summoning his failing strength, he slammed into his opponent and followed up by stabbing his sword into the man’s midriff. The blow unbalanced the brigand and he fell from the wall and was instantly cut down by one of the auxiliaries below waiting to climb the ladder.
Massimilianus’s shield slipped from his grasp. With blood dripping down his limp arm, he looked round and saw that over a score of his men were already on the wall, outnumbering the defenders, and more were climbing up all the time. Behind the gateway a solid body of enemy infantry stood waiting for the auxiliaries to burst through the remaining charred timbers of the gate. Massimilianus picked out their leader, standing at the rear beside his standard, a long strip of cloth fashioned in the design of a wolf’s head, which the bearer swirled from side to side in the still air.
Calling out to the loose line of men standing further back, the leader thrust his arm towards the wall. With a cheer, his more lightly armed reserves swept forward, clambering up the ramps and steps towards where the Romans waited to hold their ground. Massimilianus tucked the hand of his wounded arm into his belt and hefted his sword as he faced the enemy.
‘Stand firm! Let the lads get up the ladders to even the odds!’
The men on either side presented their shields and readied their swords as they faced the wave of brigands sweeping towards them.
Three hundred paces away, Cato and Apollonius were watching over the edge of the dry stream bed as the attack unfolded. They could see some of the brigands defending the gate, and a section of the wall where the auxiliaries were battling to keep their position. The rest of the view was blocked by the huts on either side. There was no way to determine whether the attack was succeeding, but it had drawn off almost all the able-bodied men in the stronghold. Only the two sentries guarding the prisoners in the pen were still in sight. There were others, though, a handful of women, children and older men mostly sitting listlessly outside their huts. Those with the strength to do so had wandered closer to the wall to follow the course of the conflict there.
Cato looked over the ground between their place of concealment and the pen. Armed as lightly as they were, a frontal charge would be suicidal, even allowing for the agent’s prowess with his blade. A more stealthy approach was needed. Not far from the rear of the pen was a long, low log pile that extended towards the dip where Cato and Apollonius were concealed. If they could reach the logs without being seen, they could crawl behind them to the far end of the pile and surprise the sentries from there. Or . . . Cato saw that the top of the pen was no more than six feet tall, and there was a small section where the sharpened tops of the wooden posts angled away from each other to create a gap.
‘There’s our way inside.’ He indicated. ‘We get a decent-sized log up against that and you can hoist me up and over. Then climb over after me.’
Apollonius looked across the ground and nodded. ‘It’ll work. What then?’
‘If we can get inside the pen, we can hold the brigands off until Massimilianus and his men overrun the camp.’
‘Assuming they do. And if the attack fails?’
‘Then our friends will doubtless discover that they have two more hostages than they thought.’
‘That’s not very encouraging,’ Apollonius muttered.
Cato eased himself over the lip of the depression and kept flat as he crawled slowly towards the end of the wood pile. The clumps of dry grass provided some concealment as the two men eased forward. The sounds of the fighting along the wall carried in the hot, still air, but it was impossible to tell which side had the upper hand. As he reached the end of the pile, Cato rose into a crouch, keeping his head below the level of the uppermost layer of logs. He moved a short distance along to make space for Apollonius, then rose to peer over the top.
On the other side lay a patch of beaten ground where a dog was sitting with its back to them, chewing on a large bone. Twenty feet beyond was a hut. A woman was lying to one side of the entrance, coughing. A young child with a mop of untidy dark hair was squatting beside the woman, using a stick to draw patterns in the dust. There were other huts a short distance further off, but no sign of any other people. Not living people at least. Cato saw a line of bodies lying outside the largest hut in the settlement: three children, a woman and a man. The latter was lying on a bier, with a shield, a helmet and an array of weapons arranged around him.
Satisfied that they would not be observed, Cato worked his way along the woodpile towards the pen, Apollonius following. As they approached the far end, the child he had seen drawing in the dust toddled into view, stopping as soon as it saw the two men. Cato realised it was a girl, perhaps three or four years old. She stared at them, sucking the two middle fingers of her right hand and scratching her scalp with the twig in her left. He froze, unsure of what to do and worried that any quick movement might cause the girl to panic and run off, alerting others to their presence. Apollonius began to edge round him, his fingers closing on the handle of his dagger.
‘What a pretty girl you are.’ He smiled. ‘Do you want me to tell you a story? Just come closer.’
‘No,’ Cato interrupted firmly. ‘Leave her to me.’
He beckoned to her, forcing a smile as he pointed to the stick. ‘You like to draw, don’t you? So do I. Let me have your stick.’ He held out his hand.
The girl did not move and stared at them with the blank expression of a very young child who had not yet learned enough to be afraid. Then she casually held the stick out to him.
‘Thank you.’ Cato cleared a patch of ground with the palm of his left hand and drew a simple illustration of a dog. He looked up at her. ‘Do you see what this is?’
She stepped closer and squatted on her haunches to look at the image, then smiled with delight. Cato gently took her hand and put the twig into it, pointing to the smoothed soil beside the drawing. ‘Now see if you can do one just as good. Go on, I’m sure you can,’ he coaxed her. ‘See how many you can draw. Do some small ones as well. Puppies.’
‘Puppies,’ she repeated hesitantly, then smiled and set to work.
Cato moved on past her, cocking an eyebrow at his companion as he selected a solid-looking log. ‘There you go. Sometimes the stylus is more effective than the dagger.’
Apollonius sniffed. ‘I doubt that will ever be a
n axiom.’
They kept low as they scurried to the rear of the pen and Cato set the log down, thrusting it firmly into the angle between the two stakes. He could hear moaning from within the pen and the rustle of movement on straw or bracken. Climbing onto the log, he reached up and grasped the tops of the stakes, holding a foot up ready for Apollonius to give him a boost. With a sniff of disgruntlement, the agent bent to his task, and with a powerful heave he lifted Cato high enough for him to swing a leg over the fence. As quietly as he could Cato scrambled over and leaned back to help the agent across after him. Both men dropped to the ground inside.
There were six hostages within the small space. Four of them lay still, one on his back, mouth open, staring up sightlessly as flies buzzed about his face. The others who appeared to be lifeless were two more men and an older woman dressed in rags. Dried-out puddles of vomit and diarrhoea streaked and spattered with blood surrounded them. The air was thick with the foulest stench Cato had ever encountered, and he and Apollonius recoiled, instinctively holding their hands to their mouths. On the far side of the pen were two more hostages, a thin young boy wrapped in the arms of the woman sitting behind him. They too were dressed in rags, and their eyes opened at the sound of the intruders. The woman swallowed and croaked softly, ‘Cato . . . ?’
If she had not used his name, Cato would never have recognised her. He whispered to the agent, ‘By the gods, it’s Claudia.’
He indicated to Apollonius to cross to the gate and keep watch while he stepped round the bodies and squatted down in front of Claudia and the boy. Her once fine hair and smooth complexion were streaked with filth and dried blood from the scratches and cuts on her face and scalp. She had lost weight, and there was a terrible pallor to her face and an emptiness in her eyes. It was the same with the emaciated young boy who lolled in her embrace, his head slumped against his shoulder as he panted with shallow breaths. He let out a pained cry and struggled feebly as Claudia stroked his hair.
The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Page 37