‘What about Maridius?’ asked Quertus. ‘What do we do with him?’
‘We try to use him. When dawn comes I’ll have him taken to the gatehouse and show him to Caratacus. I will warn him that we will cut his brother’s throat the instant any attack is made on the fort.’
Macro looked at his friend in surprise. ‘You’d do that?’
‘Make the threat, yes. Kill him, no. He’s too important for that. Governor Ostorius will want him alive.’
Quertus leaned forward. ‘And what if the fort is taken? What then?’
Cato was still for a moment before he replied. ‘If it comes to that, then I’ll give the order for him to be killed.’
‘There is another path open to us, Prefect.’
‘I’m open to suggestions, Quertus. Speak on.’
‘We could cut our way out of the fort. March out closed up, and fight through their lines and make for Gobannium.’
Macro shook his head again. ‘That’s madness. There’s too many of them. Our cavalry will have no room to deploy. They’ll be hemmed in and cut down if they stay with the infantry.’ He looked at Quertus with a knowing expression. ‘Of course, it’s possible that the infantry could open a gap and that would give the cavalry the chance to make a break for it. It’d mean sacrificing my men. But you might escape. That’s about the size of it, am I right?’
Quertus showed no reaction for a moment. ‘If we can save one unit, then that’s better than losing two. It’s a simple enough calculation, Centurion.’
Severus glared across the hall. ‘And you call me a coward . . .’
Cato stepped forward and raised his voice. ‘Gentlemen, quiet! No one is leaving the fort. We all stay here and fight. There is no other option. Caratacus has thousands of men at his back. I have, what? Quertus, what is the latest strength return on the Thracians?’
‘Two hundred and thirty-eight.’
‘And the wounded?’
‘Twenty-seven, five seriously. The rest are walking wounded.’
‘Not any more. I want every man who can stand ready to take his place on the wall. And you, Macro? Your cohort’s strength?’
‘One hundred and forty-eight, and nine walking wounded . . . A hundred and fifty-seven in all. Though most of them still need feeding up.’
Cato did a quick calculation. ‘Four hundred and twenty, or so. Enough to hold the wall either side of the main gate.’
‘Barely,’ said Quertus. ‘Once we start losing men, we’ll be stretched thin.’
Cato shot him a withering look. ‘Obviously. We’ll deal with that if the time comes. Meanwhile, there’s every reason to think we can hold out. We can make our food last for ten more days at least. More, if we cut the rations of the prisoners. The real problem is going to be the horses. With the loss of the haystacks, they’ll have to make do with whatever feed we have inside the fort. Quertus?’
The Thracian officer scratched his jaw. ‘There’s a standing provision of three days in the stables.’
‘Three days?’ Cato thought briefly. ‘Very well, keep one of the squadrons on full feed. The rest of the mounts go on half feed. After two days, cut it to a quarter. If we’re still under siege when the supply is exhausted we’ll have to start slaughtering them. At least that’ll help with the rations for the men. Fresh meat will give them heart.’
Quertus’s expression darkened and his officers stirred and exchanged angry glances. Quertus rose to his feet.
‘No one is killing my horses. Not without my say-so.’
Cato casually clasped his hands behind his back so that no one might see the tense trembling of his fingers. The Thracian had challenged him in front of all the officers. Now was the moment to stand his ground, yet he was filled with fear that he had insufficient authority to compel Quertus and the officers of the auxiliary cohort to bow to his will. He forced himself to speak slowly, clearly and forcefully.
‘I have tolerated your insubordinate manner for long enough, Centurion Quertus. The next time you address me in such a fashion I will have you arrested, regardless of the need for every man I can scrape together to defend the fort. It is because of you that every one of us in this room is in danger . . . Now, if I give the order to start slaughtering the horses then it will be done at once and without question, starting with your horse. Is that understood?’
There was a unbearable stillness in the room. Cato stared at his subordinate without blinking. For his part, the Thracian glowered, then at length gritted his teeth and nodded, before slowly easing himself back down on to his bench.
Cato felt a flush of relief flow through his limbs and allowed a moment for the other men to reflect on the Thracian’s climbdown before he continued. ‘If, or when, the enemy attack, Centurion Severus will hold half his century in reserve behind the main gate. Centurion Stellanus will take fifty of the Thracians to cover the sides and rear of the fort. The rest will defend the wall facing the parade ground. Understood?’ Cato glanced round at his officers and they nodded. ‘You know your duty. You have your orders. There’s no more that needs to be said, gentlemen. Centurion Quertus, see to it that your men are divided into two watches. You’ll alternate with the legionaries. Make sure that you keep them on their toes.’
‘My men know their duty, sir,’ Quertus replied sourly.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Cato nodded his head towards the door. ‘To your stations then, gentlemen.’
Quertus and his officers filed from the room, followed by Severus and Petillius. Cato caught Macro’s eye and raised a hand to indicate his friend should remain. Macro closed the door and turned back.
‘What is it?’
Cato spoke in a low voice. ‘When the action starts, be sure to keep an eye on Quertus. After what happened in the Silurian village, who knows what he might try to do in the heat of battle.’
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ Macro made himself smile. ‘If he decides to play his little games, he’s going to find out that I play for keeps.’ He drew a finger across his throat and chuckled. ‘Right now, I can’t think of any better way of passing the time than sticking a blade between that bastard’s ribs and giving it a none too gentle twist.’
Cato cocked an eyebrow. ‘Charming thought. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need Quertus, for the present, given the hold he has over his men. We’ll deal with him once the siege is over, assuming we’re still around then.’
Macro frowned. ‘An equally bloody charming thought. Thanks for that.’
Cato laughed, and then smiled at the momentary release of tension. He reached for his helmet liner and slipped it on before putting on his helmet and fastening the strap. Macro followed suit but finished before his friend, and noticed the clumsiness of his younger friend’s fingers.
‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll do that.’
Cato took a step away, and shook his head, angry with himself for betraying the anxiety he felt inside. ‘I can do it.’
He forced himself to continue steadily tying off the thick leather thongs.
‘Do you think Caratacus is going to back down when you threaten his brother, come the morning?’ Macro asked.
Cato lowered his hands and paused. ‘I don’t know. He has marched his army down here to put paid to Quertus and his raids just as much as he has come to rescue Maridius, I should think. If I were in his place, I’d put the need to shore up the support of my allies above the life of my brother. But then I’ve never had a brother so perhaps I cannot understand the depth of his feeling for Maridius.’
‘I haven’t got a brother either, but I think I would want to save one if I had the chance,’ Macro mused. ‘If I failed in that, then I’d not rest until I had avenged him.’
‘Then you have something in common with Caratacus.’ The thought caught Cato by surprise. Perhaps there was more truth in that than he would like to think. There was a kindred spirit between the likes of Macro and Caratacus, brothers in arms regardless of the causes for which they fought. They had certain attributes o
f valour, integrity and honesty of feeling that Cato felt he could only aspire to and never achieve. He was too questioning of things to allow himself the pleasure of such certainties. His heart ached as he felt a keen sense of loss over knowing that he could never share the sureness of sentiment enjoyed by Macro.
Macro looked outraged. ‘Me? Share anything with that bastard? Never! Bollocks to that.’ He reached for the latch. ‘The very fucking idea . . . I have to get back to the wall.’
Before Cato could say another word his friend had strode out of the room, muttering darkly to himself.
‘So much for the notion of the universal bond of the warrior.’ Cato shrugged and set off after his friend.
Throughout the night the garrison of Bruccium kept watch over the approaches to the fort. Stocks of javelins were brought from the stores and stacked at the foot of the rampart, along with bundles of kindling, tightly bound and liberally doused with pitch so that they would readily catch fire when the time came to bundle them over the wall and illuminate the enemy. Flames flickered in a handful of small braziers spread around the inside of the ramparts and some of the soldiers were warming themselves by the meagre blazes, their faces washed in a ruddy hue. The watches changed as a horn sounded from headquarters, blowing a brief series of notes over the camp. The haystacks had burned fiercely for a while, bathing the ground and the enemy warriors below the fort in a lurid red. The flames died down after midnight and only pinpricks of red still glowed in the darkness.
Cato and Macro based themselves in the gatehouse, taking turns to walk the defences and ensure that the men were alert. Every so often Cato would pause and stare down into the night, straining his eyes and ears to detect any sign of enemy movement. But there was nothing save the occasional muted order or brief exchange of words from the direction of the parade ground. There was no sign of any activity beyond the other walls of the fort where, in any case, the rush of the river over the rocks made it impossible to pick out any faint sounds. On his return to the gatehouse, Cato laid his helmet to one side and sat against the side of the guardroom. He pulled his cloak tightly about him and closed his eyes. Opposite, Macro snored deeply, until he was roused at the appointed hour to take his turn around the defences. Cato could not sleep, but wanted to show the sentries in the gatehouse that he was confident enough to slumber in the presence of his enemies. It would create a good impression on the men, he knew, and word would quickly spread about the cool-mindedness of the fort’s commander.
But although his head tilted in repose and his chest rose and fell with an easy rhythm, his mind was seething as he went over the layout of the fort and the ground upon which it stood. Then he tried to place himself in the mind of Caratacus and assess the weak points in the defences, and where and how he might assault the fort. For each possibility Cato considered his response and how he might deploy his meagre numbers to hold off the enemy horde. The greatest danger would be if Caratacus unleashed a rolling assault along two or three sides of the fort. That would soon force Cato to commit his reserves and inevitably leave some section of the wall vulnerable. There was one other issue to plague his thoughts. Caratacus would be determined to deal with the fort and its defenders as swiftly as possible, before Ostorius got wind of his location. The garrison could expect an assault at any moment.
As if in answer to his concerns, Cato heard the tramp of boots on the floorboards beside him and a hand shook his shoulder. He hesitated just long enough to give the impression that he was being roused from a deep sleep and then blinked his eyes open and looked up at the dark shape of the duty optio looming over him, barely visible in the wan loom of the single oil lamp burning inside the guardroom.
‘What is it?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but one of the lads says he’s heard something in front of the gate.’
Cato gestured across the room to the bulky form of Macro, snorting and rumbling in his slumber. ‘He heard anything above that? Amazing . . . I’ll come.’
Cato rose stiffly and picked up his helmet. As he tied the straps he strode over to Macro and prodded him in the side with the tip of his boot.
Macro groaned and recoiled with a smack of his lips and a sleepy, ‘Arrrrr.’ Then his eyes opened and he sat up, rubbing his thick curls vigorously. ‘What’s up?’
‘Seems the enemy are on the move.’
‘Right,’ Macro muttered decisively. He picked up his helmet and stood up. ‘Let’s have a look then.’
Up on the platform the section commanded by the optio was staring down the slope. The optio indicated a tall figure in the corner. ‘That man, sir.’
A light drizzle was falling, just enough to impart the faintest of hisses as it fell on the timbers and turf of the fort. There was no sign of any stars, just a barely discernible mass of dark cloud weighing down the sky. The two officers approached the sentry quietly and took up position at his side.
‘All right, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘What’s happening?’
The legionary replied without looking round. ‘I heard a clatter a moment back. Like a spearshaft catching on the trim of a shield, sir.’
‘That’s a pretty precise description. You sure about it?’
‘I’ve heard the sound enough to know, sir. I’m sure.’
‘All right.’ Macro nodded, then leaned forward to peer into the gloom alongside Cato. For a moment both men were still, then Macro eased himself back and shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, there’s nothing there now.’
Cato did not move. Even as he was listening his tired mind would not rest. He calculated that there was no more than an hour left before dawn. The light would begin to return to the world long before then. It was the best time to attack. The defenders of the fort were sure to have had a sleepless night for the most part. They would be weary and on edge so that the slightest thing would further shake their nerves and undermine morale.
‘I said, there’s nothing there,’ Macro repeated patiently.
Cato turned towards him with an irritable expression. ‘I heard you, Centurion. And I’ll be obliged if you kept your opinions to yourself until I ask for them.’
Macro breathed in deeply and bowed his head. ‘As you command, sir.’
‘That’s right.’ Cato took one last look down the slope to satisfy himself that the fort was safe for the moment. Then he turned back to Macro. ‘I want Maridius up here on the tower at first light so I can show him to Caratacus. Have him chained in one of the nearest stables so we can get him quickly, if need be.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro saluted and made his way towards the optio who was waiting by the top of the ladder leading down into the guardroom. Cato watched his retreating back with regret. He had not meant to snap at his friend. His temper was not improved by being awake all night, ears and eyes straining to detect the slightest sign of danger. He was about to call Macro back on some pretext so that he might apologise when he heard a faint whirling noise from the direction of the parade ground. At once the sound grew in volume and seemed to come from a broad area directly in front of the fort. Other men heard it and craned their necks towards it. A word of command was barked from somewhere in the darkness and the noise intensified for an instant before ceasing, to the accompaniment of a swift ripple of grunts. Cato recognised the sound and immediately grasped the danger.
‘Down!’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and called to both sides of the gatehouse. ‘Get down!’
An instant later the air was filled with the sharp crack of stone missiles striking the wooden stakes and boards of the parapet along the wall and atop the gatehouse. The terrible crack and rattle of shot striking home all but drowned out the zip of overshoots passing harmlessly over the wall and on into the camp. There was a handful of sharper sounding impacts and a few cries of agony as the more exposed of the sentries were struck by the slingshot.
Out in the darkness another order was shouted, and Cato recognised the voice at once – Caratacus. A great roar erupted and then the ground
in front of the fort seemed to come alive as thousands of figures rose up from the knee-length grass and charged towards the ditch beyond the walls
‘Sound the alarm!’ Cato cried out as loudly as he could, his throat straining. ‘Man the wall!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
More slingshot rattled off the wooden palisades with a deafening clatter, drowning out the shrill sound of the long brass trumpet that blasted out across the fort, calling the men to arms. The shouting of the enemy had swiftly subsided as they charged up the slope towards the outer ditch. Only a few voices bellowed out of the darkness, urging their men on and no doubt heaping curses on the Roman defenders. Cato glanced round the tower and saw that one man was down. Macro was leaning over him, grasping the legionary by the armour on his shoulders.
‘You all right, soldier?’
Cato crossed over to him, crouching low as the air was filled with the soft whip of shot flying overhead. A keening rattle was coming from the soldier’s throat. Cato could just make out a shadow on the man’s helmet and reached out to touch it. Sure enough, there was a shallow indentation, the depth of a spoon, where the helmet had taken the full impact of a slingshot. Even if the man’s skull had not been shattered by the blow, the force would have rendered him senseless.
‘Get him to the rear of the tower!’ he ordered one of the legionaries crouching nearby, and then scurried to the back of the gatehouse and glanced down into the fort. The fires in the braziers had been stoked up to ensure that they weren’t extinguished by the drizzle and by their flames he could see men streaming up the wooden steps set into the turf ramparts, before spreading out along the rampart. Their centurions and officers shouted at them to move quickly and keep their heads down as they took up their positions, on one knee behind their shields. The legionaries held the wall either side of the main gate, with the Thracians on each flank. Satisfied that the garrison had responded quickly, Cato turned to beckon to Macro and made his way to the front of the tower. The sound of shot still cracked against the timbers but Cato knew that he must observe the enemy’s progress. Steeling himself, he rose up behind one of the boarded crenellations and looked down at an angle towards the ditch.
Roman 12 - The Blood Crows Page 28