CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The remaining hours of the day were spent preparing for the next attack. The sound of hammers ringing came from the fort’s forge as Macro oversaw the production of caltrops, the small four-pointed iron weapons that were often strewn on the ground in front of Roman battle lines to break up enemy charges. A misplaced foot or hoof that was impaled on a caltrop was enough to cripple a man or horse and take them out of the conflict. There had been none of the devices in the fort’s stores and Macro had to give orders to melt down the stock of spare javelin heads, bridles and the handful of iron bars intended for trading with natives, before Quertus had adopted a more forceful strategy. Smoke billowed from the forge but quickly dissipated in the breeze that accompanied the rain, even before it was swallowed up by the low clouds.
‘The trouble is, we can’t create enough of ’em to make much of a difference,’ Macro explained to Cato as the latter checked on his progress late in the afternoon. The heat in the forge was intense and the farrier and his assistants were stripped down to their loincloths. They sweated over the furnace and took turns at the bellows used to keep the fire sufficiently hot. The melted iron was poured into a hastily prepared mould that produced V-shaped lengths that were joined and beaten together while still glowing red. The centurion mopped his brow and indicated a wooden tub, no more than a quarter full of the dark, spiked weapons. ‘That’ll cover barely a tenth of the length of the front ditch. We’ve got enough material to provide for the rest, but not the other ditches. And besides, what we have won’t be finished for four, maybe five days.’
‘Well, it’s something,’ said Cato. ‘We’ll spread them thin to start with and hope that we injure enough of them to slow the rest down the next time.’
‘Then you think Caratacus will attack, regardless of your threat?’
‘I’m certain he will. In his place I would.’
‘And you’ll go through with it? What you said you would do to the prisoners?’
Cato took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I have to. In the first instance at least. Then he might be wary of causing the death of his brother. It’ll be a bad business, Macro. A very bad business. But it will have to be done.’
‘You don’t have to be the one,’ Macro said gently. ‘Just give the order. Someone else can do it. I’ll do it if you want. Or ask Quertus. He’ll be happy to kill the prisoners since he never wanted them in the first place.’
‘No. It has to be me,’ Cato said in a resigned tone. ‘Caratacus must see that I carry my threats through. It’ll also do the men good to see that I am as ruthless as that Thracian. I want no one to be in doubt that when I say I’ll kill someone, I will do it. Good for discipline.’
Macro raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Well, if you’re sure, lad . . .’
Cato smiled at his friend. ‘I’m just glad Julia isn’t here to see it.’
‘Don’t worry about her. She knows the meaning of being a soldier. Julia’s seen more than her share of death. She’d understand.’
‘Killing in the heat of battle is one thing. This is quite another.’
Macro shrugged. ‘It’s all the same in the end, however you dress it up.’
Cato looked at him searchingly. ‘You really think so?’
‘I know it.’ Macro picked up a strip of cloth and dabbed his face. ‘Killing is killing, whether you call it murder or war. It’s just that when some high-up bastard has made a policy of dealing out death, it makes it more acceptable. Try telling that to the victims!’ Macro laughed drily, then frowned as he saw one of the farrier’s assistants slump down on a stool and reach for a canteen. ‘Back on your feet, you! No slacking off! We see this through until I say we’re done.’
The legionary rose stiffly and took up his hammer and tongs and reached for the next two hoops of glowing iron to fashion another caltrop.
‘I had better get back to work, sir.’
‘Very well. Make sure you rest tonight. If Caratacus makes another attempt before dawn, I want you fresh for the fight.’
‘And you? Will you sleep?’
‘I’ll try.’
Macro shook his head with a sad smile, and returned to overseeing the production of the small but effective weapons.
Cato was relieved to leave the hot confines of the forge and enjoyed the cool bite of the breeze outside. The clouds still lowered overhead and although it would not be dusk for an hour or so the light already seemed to be fading. He turned towards the stable block being used to hold the prisoners and prepared himself for the tough task that lay ahead.
He had not gone more than a few paces before he saw Quertus emerging between the officers’ mess and one of the barrack blocks assigned to the Thracians. The centurion spotted him at once and came striding across the street.
‘Sir, a word.’
Cato stopped and replied tersely, ‘What is it?’
‘I need permission to water the horses, sir. As I mentioned earlier. I’ll take them down to the river one squadron at a time, and have pickets posted upstream and downstream in case the Silurians try anything on.’
Cato nodded. It was a sensible enough plan. ‘Very well. Make sure that you don’t take any risks. At the first sign of trouble you pull your men back into the fort at once. If Caratacus tries to cut us off from the river and we get short of water then we may have to get rid of the mounts sooner than we thought.’
Quertus hesitated before he replied, ‘As you command.’
The Thracian turned away and strode back in the direction of the officers’ mess. Cato stared after him for a moment and muttered, ‘Well, that’s something of a change in attitude . . .’ Perhaps the man was beginning to accept that he could no longer challenge authority. It was a pity that it had taken the present dire situation before Quertus had conceded, Cato thought. At least that was one problem less to vex his overburdened mind. Or one more thing to be suspicious about, a voice at the back of his mind warned. Cato chewed his lip as he watched the Thracian walk away. Damn the man, he thought.
‘Get your people on their feet,’ Cato ordered Maridius. The conditions in the stable were as tolerable as they could be for prisoners in a fort under siege. Every man was needed on the wall so half a section, four men, had been given the duty of guarding the Silurians. The latter were manacled with their hands behind their backs and then a chain was passed through the iron loop and they were fastened to the stout timbers that supported the stable’s beams. There was no chance of the prisoners breaking loose and turning on the defenders of the fort. There was equally no chance of using the latrine and the air was foetid with the stench of human waste and the sour smell of sweat that became pronounced whenever people were constrained in close quarters for any length of time.
The Catuvellaunian prince sat with a straight back and returned Cato’s gaze defiantly. He made no attempt to respond to the order. Cato turned to the legionaries who had entered the stable with him. ‘Get ’em up.’
The legionaries strode forward and kicked the prisoners into action with their heavy boots and prods from the butts of their javelins. The sudden burst of violence caused the prisoners to cry out in protest and pain but they rose quickly enough and soon stood in a loose cluster in the middle of the stable, gradually falling silent under Cato’s stern gaze, until only the clink of the chains swinging from the posts and the shuffling of feet in the straw could be heard. Cato looked them over, noting the filth caked on their clothes, skin and hair. There were a few older men and women amongst them and a handful of frightened children pressing themselves to their parents. Their wretched appearance instinctively provoked Cato’s pity, but he forced himself to quash the sentiment.
He needed ten of them. Ten to execute the next day if Caratacus made any attempt to attack the fort. But who to choose? Cato felt a slight nausea in the pit of his stomach. This power over life and death appalled him. Yet it was his own words that had made the choice necessary. He must face up to the consequences of his promise to the enemy command
er. But who should he pick? The old? They had led a full measure of life and had least to lose. The young? They would be easiest to lead to the slaughter and their deaths would have a far greater impact on the enemy than the loss of the old. But why should there be any greater sense of loss over a life hardly lived than the loss of a wealth of experience? Where was the logic in that? And what of the men of military age? In a war it was their deaths that should be felt most keenly, if only because they had most to contribute to the ability of their nation to wage war, yet their deaths would weigh least of all in the hearts and thoughts of their people.
One of the legionaries coughed and Cato realised that he had been staring at the prisoners for some time. He felt angry with himself for deliberating at length over the fates of these people. The simple truth was there was no right answer to the question of selecting who should die. He was a soldier with a job to carry out and there was no depth to the issue beyond that. Cato stepped forward and pointed to the nearest tribesman.
‘Take him and nine others out of the stable. Chain them to the gatehouse.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the optio in charge of the guard party.
‘And have Maridius locked in the strongroom below headquarters. Place one of your men outside. I want him watched. He’s too precious to allow anything to happen to him. If he tries to take his life, your man will be answerable for the consequences. Is that understood, Optio?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato took one last look at the prisoners. ‘Carry on.’ He turned and left. That was all it took to determine the fates of ten people, he reflected, an arbitrary decision and a single order. It should have felt like a liberation from the burden of responsibility, but it didn’t. The decision weighed on his heart like a great rock, grinding his soul to dust.
The light was fading when Cato left the prisoners and made one last circuit of the fort to ensure that his men were ready to face whatever the enemy might throw at them during the second night. As he made his way along the wall that overlooked the river he saw some of the Thracians below, leading strings of horses down the last stretch of the path to the river. More men, dismounted, were spread out along the slopes, keeping watching for the approach of the enemy. The unmistakable figure of Quertus was already in the shallows, watering his beast. Looking across to the far bank, Cato could see that the tribesmen were powerless to intervene. That would change soon enough, he mused. Caratacus was sure to post slingers along the bank to harry any further attempt by the defenders to lead their mounts to drink at the river.
When he completed his tour of the wall, Cato climbed into the gatehouse tower once again to check on the activity of the enemy before he returned to his quarters for a quick meal. Then once he had decided on the night’s password he would rest for a few hours. He had decided to entrust the second watch of the night to Macro, who could be depended upon to raise the alarm in good time if Caratacus decided to make another night attack. The climb up the ladder seemed exhausting and Cato realised he had had no sleep for nearly two days. Now that he thought of it, nothing seemed more welcoming than the prospect of his simple cot in the modest living quarters of the garrison commander.
The rain had stopped and down in the valley the evening gloom was pricked by the red glow of campfires. Cato could see a party hard at work trimming several tree trunks at the edge of the parade ground. The sight did not unduly unsettle him until his gaze came to rest upon another party of warriors busy bundling slender saplings together and binding them tightly. They were too big for faggots and then he realised that Caratacus had given orders to make fascines to bridge the ditch. The enemy would start dragging them forward as soon as night fell. They would tumble them into the ditch and slowly build up more causeways across the defences to enable them to bring the rams to bear against other sections of the wall. It was clear that the Silurians were determined to carry through their attack. Nothing was going to stop them taking Bruccium, Cato reflected. So much for his new command. It had lasted less than a month.
‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ Cato suddenly demanded of himself with a fierce whisper. He had no right to be defeatist, not while the lives of hundreds of men depended on his leadership. It was the most woeful and shaming self-indulgence and he felt disgust and loathing for himself. Not for the first time, Cato felt as if he was just playing the part of being a prefect and the real fear was that he would be found out. Other men, the real professional soldiers, would see through his façade. Worst of all was the prospect of Macro at last recognising him for what he was. To lose Macro’s respect would break his heart. It had been an odd friendship from the outset, Cato reflected. At first Macro had despaired of his efforts to learn the soldier’s trade, but in time he had shown enough courage and ingenuity to win the veteran over. It was Macro’s seal of approval that had given Cato the heart to fight on, up through the ranks, to surpass even his mentor. Macro had been more of a father to him than his own father, more than a brother. That was the peculiar bond of soldiers, he realised. A bond more powerful than family ties, not love perhaps, but something even more essential, and more demanding.
Cato let out an exasperated sigh. He was doing it again! The endless round of self-investigation that served no purpose. His mind was wandering because he was tired, he concluded. Rest was what he needed. Very badly.
Turning away from the enemy camp, Cato left the gatehouse and trudged back to his quarters where Decimus brought him what was left of the bread, stale and hard, and a wedge of the local goat’s cheese. It was a poor meal and Cato had little appetite but he made himself eat, knowing that he needed to sustain himself through the coming trials of the siege. The evening briefing of his officers was perfunctory as each knew his duties and had little to report. Cato dismissed them swiftly and retired to his quarters, removed his sword belt and cuirass but left his boots on in case he was roused by an emergency, and slumped down on his bed. He reached across to extinguish the wick on the small oil lamp that provided the room with a dim light and lay back on the straw-filled bolster. He stared up towards the barely discernible rafters and wood shingle tiles. Once again he mentally went over the defences of the fort but before he had got very far he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep and for once began to snore as loudly as his friend Macro.
The blare of the horn took a moment to wake Cato, and there was an instant of foggy incomprehension as he stirred. Then, with a stab of panic, he bolted upright and was instantly alert. Swinging his boots over the side of the cot he snatched up his sword belt and ran for the door. As he went through the small courtyard he saw the clerks emerging from their quarters, faces bleary by the light of the sentry’s brazier. There was already a hint of the coming dawn in the distant sky and Cato felt a surge of anger. Why hadn’t Decimus come to wake him over an hour earlier, as ordered? Cato looked for Decimus, meaning to order him to fetch his helmet and armour and come to find him, but there was no sign of his servant and no time to look for him. Outside in the street the first men were already spilling from their barracks, kit in hand as they raced to take up their positions on the wall. There was no sound of fighting, no war cries from outside the fort, just the hurried tramping of boots and shouted orders from the officers of the garrison’s two cohorts.
Cato stopped, not sure in which direction to head. His instinct told him to run to the wall overlooking the enemy camp, but the horn was sounding from the rear wall. It seemed that Caratacus was trying a different approach, and Cato ran down the street leading to the rear gatehouse. It was a common feature of Roman camps to build four gates, regardless of their functionality. Bruccium was no different, even though three of the gates opened on to steep slopes. He heard shouts ahead, and then the ringing clatter and scrape of weapons.
‘To the rear gate!’ Cato shouted as he ran. ‘To the rear!’
The cry was taken up and boots pounded through the darkness behind him and to the side as men raced between the barrack blocks towards the rear gate. Cato could see the gatehouse l
ooming at the end of the street, the top of the tower illuminated by the glow of a small brazier. Below it dark shapes swirled about, and Cato felt an icy dread as he realised the enemy must have broken in. How was that possible? This was Macro’s watch. He would not have let such a thing happen.
Then he heard his friend shouting above the fray. ‘Hold the bastards back!’
Cato tore his sword from the scabbard and slung the latter aside as he ran hard towards the fight. Bursting out from between the last pair of barracks he glimpsed two or three men holding horses to one side and a score of others, Thracians, around the inner gate engaged with a handful of men defending the passage. Then he saw that the smaller group were carrying legionary shields and wearing Roman helmets. One even had the crest of a centurion. So that was it. Caratacus had used some captured kit to trick his way into the fort.
Macro called out again. ‘Don’t let ’em get out, lads!’
Out? Cato abruptly scrambled to a halt. What was this? What was happening? More men were emerging all around the gatehouse, some bearing torches they had hastily snatched up from the watch fires that burned through the night. By their light the scene became clear. Quertus and a band of his men were trying to cut their way through the section of legionaries manning the gatehouse, and the duty officer, Macro. As more men arrived on the scene, they hesitated as they saw the skirmish, not sure what to do, which side to take in the unequal fight. The Thracian commander looked up, his expression wild and fearful.
‘Kill them!’ he shouted to his followers. ‘Now, or we’re dead men!’
Cato strode forward, sword held ready. ‘Quertus!’ he bellowed. ‘Throw down your weapons, you and your men. Do it now!’
The Thracians at the gate backed away from the legionaries uncertainly, turning towards the approaching prefect. Around them, in a growing ring, stood the legionaries and auxiliaries roused from their sleep by the alarm. Cato grasped what must have happened and he stopped a safe distance from Quertus.
Roman 12 - The Blood Crows Page 32