Cato caught a glint of metal to his right and spun round to see a man charging him with a dagger held high. His face was distorted by a savage battle cry and his unkempt beard bristled. Cato swung his sword up and knocked the blow aside.
‘Fool!’ he yelled at the man. ‘I’m on your side!’
The man he took for a German growled a surly apology in Latin and then his eyes widened at the same instant that Cato realised his mistake. The wine had taken the edge off the other man’s reactions and Cato struck first, punching the hilt of his sword into his opponent’s nose which gave with a dull crack. Blood streaming down his face, the man stumbled back, tripped over a bench and fell, knocked cold as his skull struck the edge of one of the tables. Cato moved on, thrusting between men locked in savage duels, searching for Cestius. There was a sudden flurry of rags as someone slammed into his chest with a shrill screech. Cato absorbed the blow and looked down to see a short fat woman with tangled black hair pummelling his chest with her clenched fists. The moment she realised he was looking down at her, she raked his cheek with her fingernails. Cato felt a burning sensation as she drew blood and he instinctively rammed his knee up and into her chest and then kicked hard. She flew back and slammed into one of the gang members with a deep grunt, then stood fixed in place by the sword that had pierced her back and burst out of her abdomen and through her grubby brown tunic. The man thrust her body forward with his left hand as he ripped his sword free, then punched the bloodied blade at Cato’s face. What he lacked in swordsmanship he made up for in brute strength and Cato’s attempt to parry the blow only just deflected it from his face. Even so the edge of the blade cut into the top of his ear.
‘Bastard!’ Cato cried out in rage. He gritted his teeth and launched himself forward, balling his left hand into a fist. The blow caught his opponent on the jaw. It was a solid punch and would have dazed a normal man. But those who followed Cestius were chosen for their strength and toughness. They were men from the slums of Rome where you either learned to talk with your fists or you were beaten down into the gutter. His head snapped back but then he straightened and laughed at Cato. His expression abruptly changed to one of puzzled surprise as he looked down and saw that Cato’s sword had pierced him in the side, just below the ribs. Cato twisted the blade one way, then the other, working it into the man’s vital organs. Each twist brought a deep agonised groan to the man’s lips. Then Cato ripped the blade out in a dark gush of blood.
The agony of his mortal wound only seemed to enrage the man further and he threw himself at Cato and both fell on top of a table, the impact knocking their swords from their hands. The man’s face was inches from Cato’s; his sour breath stank of cheap wine and roasted meat. One hand was groping its way up Cato’s chest and he realised that the man was reaching for his throat. Cato grabbed the hand and tried to force it aside, but his opponent was too strong for him and Cato felt the fingers pinch viciously into his neck. He was dimly aware of a hot dampness across his stomach and chest as the man’s blood flowed from his wound. Cato clawed at the man’s hand but it clenched more tightly still, and he felt his eyes bulge and a dark red veil begin to close in over his vision.
Some twenty feet away Macro was wrestling with another of Cestius’s men, each grasping the wrist of the other’s sword hand in a deadly test of strength. Their eyes met and the gang member half growled and half chuckled as he strained his muscles and felt Macro’s arms begin to give.
‘That the best you can do?’ the man sneered.
‘Not quite the best,’ Macro spat back. ‘Try this!’
He drew his head back and with a savage jerk head-butted the other man in the face. It was a tactic he had used several times before in battles and skirmishes, but rarely without a helmet on. As their skulls cracked loudly together, the other man’s jaw snapped shut under the impact, his teeth biting deeply into his tongue. Macro felt a piercingly sharp pain across his forehead. His head reeled sickeningly.
‘Fuck, that hurts …’ he groaned. Then, sensing that his opponent’s grip had eased off, Macro thrust him back, ripped his sword arm free and thrust the blade into his opponent’s throat. The gangster collapsed to his knees, blood pumping from his wound. Macro kicked him to the ground. He looked about him. The fight had spread out across the floor of the cave and several bodies lay on the ground or sprawled across the tables and benches. Cestius was exchanging vicious sword blows with one of the Germans while Septimus finished off a wiry man with a thrust to his heart. Macro felt a stab of anxiety as he failed to see any sign of his friend. Then he noticed two figures struggling on top of a table a short distance away. The man on top was one of Cestius’s gang members. Macro could just make out that the individual beneath was tall and thin and his gangling legs were kicking out desperately as he tried to free himself.
‘Not again,’ Macro muttered to himself as he raced across to save Cato. As he pushed past one of Plautus’s men Macro saw Cestius smash his sword down into the skull of the German warrior, cutting through bone and brains. Cestius wrenched his sword free with a vicious yank and then retreated a pace to quickly survey the skirmish. With a bitter frown he turned to run towards the base of the ladder leading up to the tunnel.
‘Shit.’ Macro gritted his teeth in frustration. He was still ten feet from Cato and now a handful of struggling figures had blocked his path. Cato must be saved, but equally Cestius could not be allowed to escape. Then Macro saw Centurion Plautus cut down a man on the other side of the table where Cato was pinned down.
‘Plautus!’ Macro yelled.
The centurion’s head whipped round and Macro thrust his hand towards Cato. ‘Help him!’
Plautus glanced towards the table and nodded and at once Macro pushed his way free of the melee and ran after Cestius. The gang leader had cleared the area where the tables and benches stood and crossed the open floor of the cave. He reached the bottom of the ladder, sheathed his sword and jumped on to the second rung. His hands grasped one of the stout cross timbers above and he began to scale the ladder with nimble agility and was well out of reach by the time Macro reached the foot of the ladder. Cestius’s boots were scrambling over the ledge above the top rung as Macro began to climb after him. He had ascended six feet when he felt the ladder lurch under his grip. He clung on instinctively and looked up. Cestius loomed overhead. He was pushing the ladder out, away from the ledge. For an instant Macro thought that the ladder’s angle was not steep enough to enable Cestius to topple it, but then the man raised his boot and kicked it away with all his might. The ladder swayed back and seemed to steady for a moment before slowly falling back into the cave, carrying Macro with it.
The red mist had almost closed across Cato’s eyes as he stared up into the face of the man throttling him. A froth of bloody spittle had formed at his lips from his bitten tongue and it dripped down on to Cato’s chin. The pressure on Cato’s throat was excruciating and with the last reserves of his strength Cato lashed out with his knees and boots and punched his left hand into the side of the man’s face as hard as he could, again and again. Even as he struggled, some small part of his mind seemed to look down on him with deep regret at the ignominy of dying in the cave, killed by a lowly street villain, while he stank of shit. Hardly a fitting end for the decorated soldier who aspired to marry the daughter of a senator. At that, his heart filled with longing for Julia and a determination not to die here in this cave. Tensing his neck muscles and pressing down as hard as he could with his jaw, Cato stopped clawing at the man’s hand and jabbed his fingers into his eyes as hard as he could.
His opponent bellowed with rage and pain, spattering Cato’s face with blood, but he did not loosen his grip. The pressure that threatened to burst Cato’s head became greater than ever for a brief moment, and he clenched his eyes shut. Then it was gone, and the weight pressing down on his chest abruptly eased. Blinking his eyes open, Cato saw his attacker in the thick hairy arms of Plautus. With a savage twist the officer broke the man’s neck with a loud
crunching crack and then threw the body down with a triumphant ‘Ha!’ before he heaved Cato off the table and back on to his feet.
Cato nodded his thanks and then winced. He reached up to his throat and touched it tenderly. It took a moment for the dark mist to clear from his vision and for the nauseating dizziness to pass. As soon as Plautus could see that he was able to fend for himself, he turned away and charged back into the melee.
A quick glance round the cave was enough for Cato to see that Cestius’s men were losing the fight. Most of them were down, as well as several of the Germans and two of the women. Another three had backed off into one corner and were clutching each other in terror as they watched. One woman, stockier and braver than her companions, stood bare chested, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other as she screamed shrilly at the two grinning Germans moving in on her. Cato recognised her as the woman who had been sitting in Cestius’s lap a short time before. One of the Germans contemptuously lowered his sword and bared his own chest as he approached her. Her screaming stopped and she sprang forward, breasts swaying, and stabbed at him. The German moved nimbly aside with a deep laugh and made to swat her bottom as she blundered by. Instead, she turned neatly and stuck the sword into his side and then swung her other hand and slammed the dagger through his throat. The German’s laughter died on his lips and then turned to a hoarse gurgle as he clawed at the blood coursing from his neck.
‘Barbarian scum!’ she screeched. ‘Die, you pig!’
Those were her last words, as the other German ran her through with a brutal thrust that carried her off her feet before she dropped back on to the ground as the sword blade ripped free from her guts.
Cato tore his eyes away and looked for Cestius. The gang leader was not among those still on their feet. Then he noticed Macro rising up from the ground over to one side of the cave, struggling to get himself free of the ladder that had fallen on him. There was a movement from above on the ledge and Cato saw the unmistakable outline of Cestius against the glow of a torch flickering at the entrance to the tunnel. Then the man turned and snatched the torch out of its bracket before he made off into the tunnel. Cato quickly gave orders to Plautus to remain in the cave and guard the entrances until more men could be sent to secure the grain.
By the time Cato had joined his friend, Macro was back on his feet, wrestling the ladder back into place. He glanced round as he heard Cato’s footsteps and noted the raw scratches and finger marks around Cato’s throat.
‘You still fit to fight, lad?’
‘Yes,’ Cato croaked and winced with agony. He pointed up the ladder.
‘Aye.’ Macro nodded. ‘Let’s get after the bastard.’
With Macro leading the way, they climbed the ladder and stepped up on to the ledge. A faint orange loom from Cestius’s torch was still visible in the tunnel and they ran on, their footsteps echoing off the walls of the tunnel. After a few paces the tunnel began to slope up, continuing in a straight line so that they could see Cestius some distance ahead, outlined by the glow of the torch that he held up and out in front of him. Then the tunnel began to bend to the right and flatten out and for a moment they lost sight of their prey and ran on blindly. Fortunately the tunnel had been well used and the floor was smooth and unobstructed. Rounding the corner they caught sight of Cestius again as he approached a small doorway at the end of the tunnel. The gang leader paused and glanced back. As soon as he heard the footsteps behind him he ducked through the doorway and then there was a sharp grating sound as the door began to close.
‘Shit!’ Macro grunted, pushing his legs harder, Cato panting a short distance behind him. Ahead the aged hinges of the door squealed with protest as the bottom of the door scraped across the fine gravel that had gathered on the stone lintel in the years that the door had been left open. Cestius’s face could be seen by the light of his torch, strained and desperate as he heaved his muscled shoulder against the door. He had already half closed it and now the door seemed to be moving more easily as Macro and Cato sprinted towards him. There was a gap of barely six inches as Macro slammed into the edge of the door, nudging it back a short way. Cato threw himself against the aged wood at Macro’s side, and scrambled for purchase on the ground with his boots. The tunnel filled with the sounds of the three men straining on both sides of the door and for a moment Cestius seemed to be giving ground. Then he let out a sharp hiss of air and heaved with all his strength and the door began to close again.
Macro reached for the handle of his dagger and snatched it out. The gap was already less than a foot but he thrust his arm through, turned it in and stabbed at where he guessed Cestius must be. The blade caught in a fold of material and Macro punched it home, tearing into the flesh beneath. There was a bellow of pain from the other side of the door and the pressure slackened.
‘Heave! Heave the bastard!’ Macro yelled and thrust again, missed, and then snatched his hand back to press on the door. It gave way, gradually. ‘We’ve got him!’
Suddenly the door fell back and Macro tumbled forward on to his knees. Instinctively he threw his weight to one side, crashing against the side of the tunnel, as he anticipated a blow from Cestius. But the gang leader was on the run again, sprinting across the low chamber on the other side of the door. The air smelled of damp and mould and by the flare of Cestius’s torch Cato could see that the stone walls were covered with slimy growths. Macro jumped back on to his feet as Cato ran past him and they chased after Cestius under a low arch on the far side of the chamber and out into a space beyond. It was a long, low storeroom filled with discarded piles of timber, iron hoops, damp heaps of old leather covered in mould and what looked to be broken chariot wheels. Cestius was weaving through the piles of junk, making towards a squared-off doorway at the end of the storeroom. With a grunt Macro squeezed under the arch and straightened up alongside Cato. He cast a quick, curious glance round at his surroundings as they set off after Cestius. A pathway of sorts had been cleared through the junk and with a fleeting moment of satisfaction Cato saw that they were gaining on their prey. Cestius was only some forty feet ahead of them when he ran through the entrance to the storeroom and began to climb a narrow flight of stairs, rising at a sharp angle. Cato and Macro were breathing hard as they reached the steps and ran up them, taking them two at a time.
At the top they emerged into a huge vaulted chamber that stretched out in a shallow curve on either side. The chamber was nearly a hundred feet wide and the far wall was pierced by wide arches that reached up some twenty or so feet. The floor of the chamber was covered in sand which extended out beyond the arches into a vast open space that stretched out into the darkness. Cestius sprinted towards the nearest arch, kicking up divots of sand in his wake.
‘Come on!’ Cato urged.
They ran on, hearts pounding and muscles burning with the effort. They passed through the arch and out into starlight.
‘Bloody hell!’ Macro panted. ‘We’re in the Great Circus.’
On either side of them the sand stretched away towards the dark mass of the spectator seating on either side. Ahead of them rose the central island with its assorted statues and officials’ platforms. When the chariot races took place, this vast space was filled with the deafening roar of two hundred thousand voices, madly cheering on their favourite teams. Now there was an uncanny and immense stillness, and Cato felt his flesh tingle as he continued to pursue Cestius across the smoothly raked sand of the racetrack.
‘We have to catch him before he reaches the far end,’ Macro called to him. ‘If he gets out of the public entrance and on to the streets we’ll lose him.’
Cato nodded and pushed his tiring limbs on. Then, just as Cestius drew parallel with the raised platform of the imperial box, he stumbled and fell headlong. The torch shot out of his hand and hit the ground in a flurry of sparks. He was down only briefly before he clambered to his feet and snatched up the torch, but it was long enough for Cato and Macro to catch up to him, drawing their swords as they did so. Cato
edged to one side, and Macro the other, crouching low and ready to strike as they drew ragged breaths of the cool night air. Cestius could see that the route to the public entrance was blocked and he backed away, towards the base of the imperial box, his sword drawn.
‘Give up,’ said Cato. ‘You can’t escape now.’
‘No?’ Cestius licked his dry lips. ‘Let’s see if you two have got what it takes to beat me, eh?’
‘By the gods, you’re full of it,’ Macro growled. ‘Shove an enema up your arse and they’ll be carrying you to your funeral in a bloody thimble.’ He patted his sword against the palm of his left hand. ‘Come on then, you arrogant shit.’
‘Stop.’ Cato held up his hand. ‘I want him alive. Cestius, throw down your sword.’
‘No chance!’ Cestius snarled and quickly stepped forward, sweeping the torch round in an arc so that it flared fiercely as it roared past Cato and Macro, forcing them back a pace. He suddenly frowned. ‘I know you … The Praetorians at the inn. And …’
His rapid recollection was interrupted by distant cries from the starting gates where they had emerged from the storerooms. A handful of figures were trotting across the sand towards them. Staff and officials who worked in the Circus, Cato guessed, come to investigate the disturbance. Cato pointed towards them with his spare hand.
‘You can’t escape. If you fight us you will die. If you give up, you may be spared.’
Praetorian c-11 Page 35