‘Hispania!’ Lebauscus bellowed the name of the Ninth Legion. ‘Hispania!’
The men of his cohort took up the cry as they added their weight to the struggle. The gates steadily parted until there was room for Lebauscus to fight the men in front of him. He let out a savage snarl and punched his shield into the first of the enemy, battering his body with the bronze boss before he stuck his sword in. The rebel grunted and tried to back away but there was nowhere to go and he was caught between the men behind and the ferocious Roman centurion in front of him, driving his short sword again and again into his vitals. Lebauscus eased back to let the body slip down, then stepped over it and engaged the next man.
At his side Macro pushed into the widening gap and pressed forward, stabbing through the gap between the edge of his borrowed shield and that of Lebauscus. The rebels were shoving their weight behind their own shields and the point of Macro’s sword could not find a way through, so he drew it back and pushed. The shouting of war cries died in their throats as Roman strained against tribesman, separated only by the thickness of their shields, and there was no clash of weapons, just the strained grunting, hissed curses and the dull scrape of shield on shield. Each step forward was bought at the cost of immense effort but slowly the Romans edged forward into the shade of the gatehouse.
Macro knew what the next danger would be and shouted an order over his shoulder. ‘Rear ranks! Shields up!’
The forward motion slowed and stopped as the legionaries gave themselves enough space to cover their heads with shields overlapping the man ahead of them. Once the men were ready, Macro gave the command to advance and they pressed on into the enemy again. As he expected, the rebels above the gate were standing ready to shoot arrows directly down at the Romans as they emerged into the fort. Some hurled down stones, but the shields kept them out. On the far side of the gatehouse the earth ramparts drew back like a funnel and the legionaries began to spill out on either side as they forced the enemy warriors back.
Macro turned to Lebauscus. ‘Take some of your men and clear the gatehouse.’
Lebauscus nodded and forced his way back into the tightly packed ranks behind Macro and edged towards the wooden steps leading up to the tower above the gate. His deep voice sounded over the struggle.
‘First Century, Eighth Cohort! Follow me!’
He strode up the steps leading to the rampart, his men running to keep up. A moment later Macro heard the clash of blades and the centurion’s voice bellowing a war cry as he threw himself on the rebels manning the tower.
Macro led the rest of the men forward, noting that the enemy were giving ground far more easily now. He slowed his pace and allowed a gap to open up between the two sides.
‘Dress the line!’
The men on either side took stock of the position of their neighbours, and the wall of shields shifted a small distance to and fro before the legionaries presented an even front to the rebels. Macro eased his sword forward so that six inches projected beyond the trim of his shield and then he gave the trim a sharp rap. The men followed suit and a sharp unsettling rhythm echoed across the interior of the fort.
‘Forward!’
The two sides closed on each other again, but this was the kind of fight the legionaries were trained for, and excelled at. Using their shields as protection and to batter their foes, they stabbed only when the enemy exposed their bodies. The Brigantians, more used to a free-flowing melee, could not easily wield their longer swords and long-hafted axes or spears and began to fall beneath the grinding advance of the heavily armoured men assaulting the fort. Lebauscus’s men were fighting their way along the ramparts either side of the gatehouse, steadily forcing their opponents back. Across in the bastion their comrades ceased their bombardment as they caught sight of the legionaries on the wall of the hill fort.
Then Macro saw a gap opening in front of him as the rebels backed away and aside, to reveal several warriors in mail armour with kite shields and gleaming helmets. He recognised their leader at once. Venutius.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Venutius had joined the fight to steady the failing nerve of his followers. He had seen Macro’s crest and made straight for him. With lips curled back from his clenched teeth, he surged forward and swung his sword in an arc at the crest of the centurion’s helmet. Macro threw his shield up and went down on one knee just before the blow landed. He allowed the shield to give as he absorbed some of the numbing impact. At once he rose and threw his weight forward in a bid to throw Venutius off balance as the latter recovered his sword. He was rewarded with an impact against the warrior’s shield and Venutius was forced back half a pace.
Then, with surprising speed, the Brigantian punched his shield forward, stopping Macro in his tracks. He slashed at the Roman shield, driving it into Macro’s shoulder. At the same time Macro curled his own sword round in a sharp arc and the point tore through the sleeve of Venutius’s tunic and struck his elbow. Ripping the sword back, Macro presented his shield and growled, ‘First blood to me . . .’
Venutius paused and shifted his shield to test the joint, then came on again, slamming his shield forward and then pulling it back to counterbalance the vicious cut from his sword. This time Macro tilted the shield to deflect the blow and not block it. The blade gave a shrill clang as it glanced off the boss and slid over the curve of the shield and down towards the ground. Macro thrust the shield out to drive his opponent’s arm out wide and then hacked at the exposed flesh in a brutally unorthodox move. The edge cut deeply and the force of the blow caused Venutius’s muscles to leap and his fingers extended involuntarily and his sword dropped to the ground. His face screwed up in surprise as he snatched his wounded arm back.
Macro charged into him, hitting him again with the shield, and hooking his boot solidly behind his opponent’s leg before he thrust again and Venutius tumbled on to his back. Macro sprang forward, sword point lowered, and thrust the tip towards the warrior’s throat, stopping less than an inch from where his throat pulsed nervously. The fall of their leader stunned those close by and they fell back, aghast, leaving the immediate ground to Macro as he stood over the body of Venutius. Every instinct in his body told him to strike, kill his enemy, and move on. But then he recalled Cato’s order. Spare all who could be spared.
‘Surrender!’ he shouted at the man beneath him.
Venutius stared back but did not answer.
‘Surrender, you big barbarian bastard!’ Macro flicked his sword hand and let the point graze the side of Venutius’s neck. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
Venutius grasped the meaning of Macro’s words, and the deadly intent behind them. He licked his lips and called out to his followers. They did not seem to respond at first and Macro feared that their leader had ordered them to fight on and sell their lives dearly. But then the first of them edged back from the Roman line. Then another, more quickly, until the Brigantians were a safe distance from the Roman shield wall. The men who had accompanied Venutius into the fight stood their ground a short distance behind where he lay on the ground at the mercy of the centurion, then one threw his sword down, followed by his shield. After a tense pause, the others followed suit and then rest of the rebels began to do the same.
Macro cleared his throat to shout to his men. ‘Hold!’
The legionaries stood still, swords poised, but made no attempt to advance or strike at their enemy. A stillness filtered out across the area around the gate as the fighting stopped and the enemy threw down their weapons.
‘Round them up!’ Macro ordered, breaking the spell. ‘Get ’em away from the gate but don’t harm the buggers.’
As his men edged forward again, indicating with their swords that the Brigantians should move aside, Macro withdrew his sword and gestured to Venutius’s followers to help him up. Once he was on his feet Venutius clasped a hand over his wounded arm and looked down in shame, ref
using to meet Macro’s gaze.
‘Macro!’
He turned and saw Cato striding through the gatehouse, the men of the follow-up centuries of the Eighth Cohort moving aside to let him through. Vellocatus followed at his heels. The prefect was smiling with relief as he approached his friend. ‘Thank the gods! You’ve done it, Centurion Macro. Fine work, my friend.’ Then Cato saw Venutius and he grinned. ‘Fine work indeed!’
He scanned the faces of the men around the rebel leader. ‘But no sign of Caratacus. Ask him where Caratacus is.’
Vellocatus spoke hurriedly and Venutius looked up with a sneer as he recognised the voice but made no reply. Vellocatus asked again, more insistently, and still there was no reply. Instead Venutius spat on the ground in front of his shield-bearer.
‘We must find him and make sure that the queen is safe. Come on!’ Cato led the way past the defeated warrior with Macro, Vellocatus and a body of legionaries following on behind. The Brigantians parted before them, like whipped dogs. Passing beyond the ranks of the enemy, Cato and the others hurried between the huts until they emerged on the open stretch of ground in front of the great hall of the tribe’s ruler. Some women and children saw them and ran for the cover of the huts. Outside the hall, guarding the entrances, were several men armed with spears. They hefted their weapons when they caught sight of the approaching Romans.
‘Tell them Venutius has surrendered. Tell them the rebellion is over and they’re to throw down their arms.’
Vellocatus called out to his compatriots as they approached. There was only the briefest of hesitation before the men saw the legionaries emerging from between the huts and accepted the truth of the shield-bearer’s words and laid down their weapons.
‘Macro, see to them,’ Cato ordered as he continued to the entrance of the hall. He stepped warily across the threshold into the gloomy interior and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw that the benches and tables had been cleared to the side and over a hundred people were sitting on the floor, faces turned towards him, relieved to see the Roman officer and knowing what his entrance meant. Cato had no time for them but looked to the far end of the hall. Queen Cartimandua was standing in front of her throne. Beside her stood Caratacus, one hand clamped tightly round her wrist. Cato approached them steadily, the sound of his nailed boots on the flagstones loud in the stillness.
‘The fort has fallen and Venutius has surrendered,’ he said clearly. ‘The rebellion has been crushed. Now you too must surrender.’
‘Liar!’ Caratacus called back. ‘Venutius would never surrender.’
‘He did, and now he’s our prisoner. As you are. It’s over, Caratacus.’
‘No! I shall never be your prisoner.’
There was an intensity to his words that alarmed Cato and he slowed to a stop, ten paces from the Catuvellaunian. He feared the man might mean to end his life rather than be captive once again, to be sent to Rome and his fate decided by the Emperor. As if in answer to Cato’s thoughts, Caratacus suddenly drew the dagger from his belt. Then, with a violent jerk, he pulled Cartimandua in front of him, locked his left arm round her throat and pressed the tip of the blade against her breast, directly over the heart. Cartimandua’s mouth opened in surprise and she gave a strangled gasp of terror.
‘You’ll let me go,’ Caratacus said, ‘if you want her to live.’
Cato drew a deep breath and shook his head. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Not any longer. Your war against Rome is over. It’s finished.’
‘That’s what you think. I’ll find another tribe. Other warriors with more courage than Venutius demonstrated. The war will go on.’
‘No. It won’t. I can’t let you leave here.’
‘If you don’t, she dies. Do you really want to be responsible for the death of an ally of your Emperor? He’ll have your head for letting it happen.’
Cato shrugged. ‘He might. But until then, I think your capture is more important than the queen’s death. If you surrender now, you may live. If you harm the queen, then I will kill you by my own hand. I swear this on my honour.’
‘Kill me? Do you think you could defeat me in a fight? Man to man?’
More footsteps sounded as Macro and a section of legionaries entered the hall and approached the confrontation. Cato smiled and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
‘Not just me, it seems.’
Caratacus glared bitterly at the Romans as Macro came forward and stood beside Cato, shield in one hand and bloodied sword in the other.
‘Let her go,’ Cato said gently. ‘Let her go and surrender.’
Caratacus jerked his head, more of a nervous tic than a refusal, as if he could not even contemplate the thought of surrender.
‘Think it over,’ Cato urged. ‘If you kill this woman in cold blood, then the name of Caratacus will be reviled the length and breadth of Britannia. Is that what you want? Would you not rather be remembered for being the most indomitable of the Britons? You still have your honour. You have fought until the last. That is something no one can ever take from you . . . If you release her and surrender now.’
Caratacus’s jaw set hard and he looked to be in agony. A low keening groan sounded in his throat. Then he slowly lowered his arms and gently pushed Cartimandua aside. She backed away swiftly and jumped down from the dais and hurried towards the protection of her Roman allies. Cato kept his eyes on the man standing alone and forlorn, then his gaze fell down to the dull gleam of the blade.
‘Don’t do it, sir. I beg you. You still have your life, and your family. They wait for you at Viroconium.’
Caratacus stood still and looked at him fixedly, an expression of pure desolation and grief etched into his face. Then he gave a deep sigh and sheathed his dagger. Cato approached him cautiously and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take that. If you don’t mind.’
Caratacus thought for a moment and then pulled the blade out again and offered the handle to Cato.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He breathed a soft sigh of relief and turned to the nearest of the legionaries. ‘Take King Caratacus to join the other prisoners.’
The soldier saluted and approached the enemy leader, watching him closely. Caratacus climbed down and allowed the man to take his arm and steer him down the length of the hall towards the light streaming in through the entrance.
Cato turned to the queen. ‘Are you all right, your majesty?’
She smiled nervously. ‘I am now, thank you.’
‘And these people?’ Cato indicated the prisoners who were stirring now that the drama was over.
‘We were treated well enough. No one was harmed.’ She nodded towards the entrance. ‘If you don’t mind, we’ve been cooped up in here since yesterday. Some fresh air would be welcome.’
For the first time since entering the hall, Cato realised how hot it was inside and he nodded. ‘By all means. The rebels have been disarmed. Your people here might want to take their weapons.’
Cartimandua looked at him suspiciously. ‘Your men would permit that?’
‘Of course, your majesty. You are the queen of the Brigantes once more. I will leave a unit of my men here while you restore order and decide the fate of the rebels. Send my men back to the camp the moment you feel they have served their purpose.’
She looked at him shrewdly. ‘I am in your debt, Prefect Cato. Or at least in the debt of your tribune, Otho. Where is he?’
Macro suppressed a smile as Cato stroked his chin before he replied. ‘The tribune felt it best to entrust the capture of the fort to professional soldiers, your majesty. He will resume command of the column now that we have carried out our task.’
‘I understand. Thank you, Prefect, and you too, Centurion.’
Cato bowed his head and Macro followed his lead.
The queen dipped her head in acknowledgement and was about t
o turn towards her people when Cato spoke again. ‘There is one further matter, if I may?’
‘Yes?’
‘You might show some leniency to the rebels. Now that we have Caratacus, there will be no figurehead to lead those who would wage war against Rome. Except Venutius of course.’
Cartimandua’s expression darkened. ‘He will pay the price for his treachery. There are ways a man can die that make every instant of the process an unbearable torment.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. But he’s a spent force now. The rebellion has been crushed at the outset. If you execute him, I fear it will only fuel the resentment of those who followed him.’
Cartimandua fixed her penetrating gaze on Cato. ‘As you pointed out, I am the queen. The fates of Venutius and all those foolish enough to listen to him are mine to decide.’
‘Of course. I only meant to offer my advice. Nothing more.’
‘And I thank you for it.’ She turned away dismissively and strode towards those who had remained loyal to her. As they made their way out of the hall, Macro shook his head.
‘Could have been more grateful, given the blood that our men have shed to save her skin.’
‘True. But we’re here to serve Rome, and right now, putting her back on the throne is what is in Rome’s best interest. Take some satisfaction from that.’
‘Seems like I’ll have to, given that we’re not even going to get any loot out of it.’
At mention of the word, Cato glanced round the hall and saw that the legionaries were poking around curiously. ‘I want these men out of here. Make sure they haven’t lifted anything first.’
‘Sir!’ one of the legionaries called out and the two officers turned to see the man standing in the doorway leading through to the chamber at the rear of the hall. ‘You should see this.’
They hurried over as the soldier ducked back inside. The room was lit by a hole far above a small fireplace and a single beam of light shone down at an angle. The legionary was standing next to an open chest at the side of the room. Part of the beam lay across the chest and reflected off the contents on to the inside the lid. Cato and Macro crossed the room to join the soldier and saw that the chest was filled with silver coins. All three stared at the hoard in silence for a moment.
Brothers in Blood Page 40