Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato pulled on his reins and edged his mount back onto the road, gesturing to the mounted Praetorians to continue the advance. Cimber scurried alongside, his face still flushed with anxiety.

  ‘Prefect, surely you can’t be serious? We can’t go any further. They’ll be waiting for us. We’ll be cut to pieces.’

  ‘That’s enough, Cimber. I do not require your opinion on the matter. You are here to advise, and that’s all. Now get back to the baggage train, before I have you flogged.’

  The guide opened his mouth to protest, but saw the dangerous glint in Cato’s eyes and wisely kept quiet, dropping back to the side of the road to let the column pass by. Cato rode on, casting his eyes over the line of slaves. They were perhaps the most wretched examples he had ever seen. Thin, bedraggled, barely clothed, with grimy, soiled skin. Most stared vacantly before them, others returned his gaze with undisguised hatred. If these were the kind of men toiling in the mines around Asturica then they would have everything to fight for should they be liberated by Iskerbeles and join the uprising. They would be burning with desire for revenge against their former masters and would make formidable foes. Cato shuddered at the thought, and urged his horse into a gentle trot until he had passed the last of the slaves and the heavy wagons following them. Ahead, the baking landscape no longer seemed empty. Out there, the enemy waited, and maybe they were already watching Cato and his men, their hearts filled with cruel determination to annihilate the Praetorian cohort down to the last man.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There had still been no sign of the enemy by the time the column halted two days’ march from Pallantia amid rolling hills and scattered clumps of stunted oak trees. There had been several more encounters with those fleeing the region affected by the uprising. Cattle drovers, merchants and more slave traders, all desperate to take what portable wealth they had and escape the danger of the spreading influence of Iskerbeles. Some told of the breakdown in Roman authority in the hinterland of the towns that once controlled the lands around them. Many tax collectors had been murdered and farming estates had been sacked, with their owners or stewards cut down. Some told lurid tales of the rebels’ victims being horribly tortured before finally being granted death.

  Cato had conversed with such refugees out of earshot of his men, using Cimber only when the travellers did not speak Latin or Greek. Even so, word of what lay ahead reached the ears of the Praetorians and their mood became markedly more sombre and wary. They had set out from Rome with a view to teaching the Asturian rebels a quick, sharp lesson, but now they were beginning to appreciate the scale of the danger facing them.

  As the sun hung low in the sky, the fading light burnished the trees and cast long dark shadows over the dry grass. A mile off, a small village crowned a hill with good views over the surrounding landscape. As soon as the Praetorians reached the campsite chosen by Cato each century was given permission to fall out and the men set down their shields, spears and helmets and slumped to the ground to rest while the optios marked out the sleeping lines and the centurions assigned men to the forage party. A short distance away the mounted contingent was removing saddles and tackle and roping off an area for the horses to graze.

  Cato untied his neck-cloth and mopped the sweat from his brow before turning his attention to the routine tasks of the evening. To begin with, there was Tribune Cristus, proffering the ledger for Cato to approve the drawing of five hundred sestertii from the cohort’s strongbox to purchase stores from the nearby village. The rations for the evening meal were unloaded. As the carts rumbled off down a side track leading to the village, Macro approached, with rosy sunburned cheeks, waxed tablet in hand, ready to report the number of stragglers and the sick and the number of men fit for duty in each section.

  ‘Not a bad day,’ he commented as he handed the tablet to Cato for inspection. ‘Five down from heat exhaustion, two still on the carts from yesterday and – you’ll love this – one of the men in the baggage train kicked senseless by a mule. Centurion Pulcher, to be precise.’

  Cato looked up hopefully. ‘Badly?’

  ‘He’ll live, more’s the pity. But he’s come round with a blinding headache and a bump the size of an avocado to show for it. Nothing that won’t improve his already cheerful disposition.’

  They shared a smile and then Cato indicated the nearest copse of oak trees, half a mile off. ‘The forage party can take firewood from there. Fifty men should do it.’

  Macro nodded and then scanned the peaceful-looking surroundings. ‘Time for a proper marching camp perhaps? I’d sleep more happily with a ditch and rampart around me.’

  Cato had already considered it, weighing up the exhaustion of the men, and the need for them to conserve their energy for yet another day’s march on the morrow, against the possible threat of enemy action. The mounted scouts he had sent out well ahead of the column, and on each flank, had reported no sign of the rebels.

  ‘Tomorrow. We’ll be safe enough for the night.’

  ‘All the same—’

  ‘The decision’s made.’ Cato stamped his boot on the parched ground. ‘And the men would not thank you for having them break this up to make a ditch and rampart.’

  Macro frowned and gave his friend a disapproving look. ‘Since when were we in the business of seeking their thanks, sir? You give the order, and I’ll have them back on their feet, trench tools in hand, quick as boiled asparagus.’

  ‘I’m sure. But I need them in good shape for when we meet the rebels. So let ’em rest tonight. They’ll need all their strength soon enough.’

  Macro sighed. ‘As you wish, sir. I’ll see to the watch setting, then.’

  He strode off leaving Cato feeling a little guilty over his curt attitude towards the centurion. Macro deserved better; Cato’s weariness and the growing tension as they drew closer to Asturica was not an acceptable excuse. He could not directly apologise to Macro as the latter would see that as weakness, so there would have to be some other way to make it up. Few officers of his rank would be concerned by such thoughts, he knew, but then he refused to be like them, even as he wanted to be a success and win their respect. On his terms.

  The rumble of the cart wheels distracted his train of thought and he looked up to see Cristus waving them on. On the rearmost sat Pulcher, legs swaying, one hand nursing his head while the other clasped the side of the wagon. Cato could not resist a delighted smile at the reversal of positions. How things had changed over the ten years since he had joined the army. The man who had made his life a living hell was now a matter of such small consequence, a monster rendered harmless and pathetic. He watched the carts trundle away for a moment and then called Metellus to bring some food and watered wine for himself and Macro.

  As the sun began to set behind a line of distant hills the camp settled into a quiet, peaceful state. Conversation was muted, the air was still and the shrilling of cicadas began. The men had gathered light brush and scrub to make a bed for the night, and some had begun to clear ground for the campfires, due to the dryness of the grass. Any fire that burned out of control could quickly ignite the bleached stalks and spread swiftly in the lightest of breezes, consuming all combustibles in its path. As the first fires were lit the men tipped their rations of barley, salted meat and bread into the small cauldrons suspended from iron tripods and an aroma of woodsmoke and cooking wafted across the camp.

  There was still one party of foragers cutting wood from the trees and the faint tok . . . tok of axes carried to Cato’s ears as he sat on a folding stool to write a report of the meagre intelligence on the uprising he had gathered from those he had met on the road to Asturica. The angled light made it easy to keep track of the marks he carefully made in the wax of the tablets. He would hand the report over to the first merchant they came across the next day, with strict instructions that it be delivered to the legate as soon as possible. If the column did not encounter anyone
on the road by noon, then Cato resolved to have one of his mounted men ride back towards Tarraco.

  Metellus approached with a jug, a small basket and an iron pot, from which wisps of steam rose. Cato held up a finger.

  ‘A moment.’

  He finished the report and signed it before closing the tablet with a snap and setting it down beside him, just as Macro joined them, lifting the folds of his chain mail over his head. He let the armour drop to the ground.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s a relief! I’m not sure which is better cooked, me or the dinner.’ He leaned towards the pot that Metellus had set down between them and sniffed. ‘Mmmmm! That’s good. Not just the usual mash of meat and barley then.’

  ‘I’ve added some herbs, sir. Bought ’em back in Tarraco. And a bit of saffron. Thought you could use a change.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Macro patted the optio’s back, then eased himself down beside Cato. ‘We’re all set for the night, sir. Petillius and his men are on watch. Just waiting for the last of the foragers and the carts to return before the pickets are posted.’

  ‘Very good,’ Cato replied, reaching for the mess tin that Metellus had filled. Then he paused and turned to look towards the village. Cristus should be on his way back by now, but there was no sign of the carts, or indeed any movement at all from the direction of the village. Not even the faintest trail of smoke from the buildings as they too prepared their evening meal.

  He felt an icy twinge in the small of his back and the weariness and hunger of an instant earlier had gone. Cato stood up and took a few paces towards the village before stopping to stare, straining his eyes and ears for any sound that might confirm his fears.

  ‘What is it, lad?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Quiet!’ Cato raised a hand as he scrutinised the lifeless village. Then he turned towards the trees where the foragers were still hard at work. As he stared he caught the faint glint of sun on metal in the patches of scrub on the slope behind the trees.

  ‘There’s the enemy. We need to recall the foragers at once.’

  ‘The enemy?’ Macro’s forehead creased as he tried to see what Cato had spotted.

  ‘Behind the trees. If I’m right they’re in the village too. I don’t want us caught in the open. Macro, give the order to stand to. When the cohort’s ready, and the foragers are safe, make for the village.’

  ‘Where will you be then?’

  Cato pointed towards the village. ‘Up there. Unless I miss my guess, Cristus is in trouble. Besides, we need the village. If we can take that, we’ll have somewhere we can better defend. You’ve got your orders, so go!’

  Macro snatched up his chain-mail vest and sword. Metellus was standing still, jug in one hand, ready to pour. He shook off his surprise and set the jug down.

  ‘You!’ Macro ordered the nearest of the Praetorians. ‘Run over to the forage party. Tell ’em to drop everything and return to camp at the double.’

  The stillness of a moment earlier was shattered as Macro jogged towards the heart of the camp, calling out, ‘Centurions! On me.’

  Cato snatched up his helmet and ordered Metellus to come with him and they ran towards the horse lines where the men were busy rubbing the animals down with tufts of dry grass before they saw to their own needs.

  ‘Metellus, get them armed and into the saddle at once!’

  Leaving the optio to carry out his orders Cato ran on, closer to the village, and stopped. His heart was beating hard against his ribs. He struggled to hear beyond the pounding in his ears, but then he heard it, the faintest tinny clash of blades. He turned back to the mounted contingent, pulling on his padded skullcap and then his helmet before he tied the straps securely, feeling the leather bite into the skin under his chin. Metellus and his men were hurriedly re-saddling their mounts and helping each other into their armour. Cato’s horse was one of the first ready and he stiffly pulled himself up to the saddle and swung a leg over before settling in between the saddle horns. He spurred the beast clear of the other animals and the dust they were kicking up to get a better view of the gathering threat to the cohort.

  Then he saw the first of the carts career out from between the buildings of the village, the driver cracking his whip furiously as the mules trotted down the track leading onto the plain. It was clear that the cart was in danger of running down the team. The driver realised at the last moment and dropped his whip to pull hard on the braking lever. The cart slewed to one side and began to tip, until the inertia was overcome and it dropped back heavily onto all four wheels, shedding several amphorae that shattered in its wake as the cart continued down the track.

  Cato turned in his saddle and saw that the man sent to warn the foragers had reached them. They were just visible, shadowy figures almost lost against the trunks and boughs of the oaks beyond which the sky was a lurid orange, making it hard to see. But there were the enemy, outlined on the crest behind the trees, a line of men, mostly on foot, charging down the slope. Behind Cato, in the camp, came the shouts of the optios and centurions as they roused their men, cursing at those whose exhaustion made them slow to react. Macro’s voice rose clearly above them all.

  ‘On your fucking feet, you dogs! Call yourselves soldiers? I’ve seen raddled old whores get back on their feet quicker than you bastards!’

  Another cart emerged from the village, then one of the Praetorians, limping. Most of the men had mounted and Cato cupped a hand to his mouth to make sure that he was heard above the shouts of the other officers. ‘Mounted contingent! On me!’

  Those in the saddle pulled on their reins and turned their horses to canter over to the prefect, as the last of their comrades finished putting on their armour, taking up their weapons and climbing onto their mounts. Cato did not wait for the stragglers and spurred his horse into a gallop as he raced across the plain towards the village. The riders rapidly closed on the first of the carts, still being driven as fast as the mules would go, their short legs and hooves kicking up red dust. Cato raised a hand to halt the cart and the driver eased up on his team.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ambushed, sir. In the heart of the village.’ The man was struggling for breath.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. They’re on the roofs, mostly. Using slingshot and rocks. Scores of them.’

  ‘Right, get back to the camp. Don’t lose any more of your load.’

  The driver nodded, took up his whip and cracked it over his team as he urged them back into motion. Cato dug his heels in and charged on down the track towards the hillock on which the village sprawled. More of the carts had escaped the trap and as the riders reached the foot of the slope Cato saw the first of the enemy, moving over the roofs close to the edge of the village as they harried the Romans. He led his men up the rutted track and reined in at the edge of the village where there was a timber gatehouse.

  ‘Dismount! First five men hold the horses. The rest of you, with me!’

  Taking a shield from one of the horse holders, Cato drew his sword and waited as the Praetorians formed up behind him. Then, shield raised and presented to the front, he entered the village. The street was just wide enough to take the carts, and the buildings on either side were stone for the first storey and then wood-framed and plastered above, with flat roofs for the most part. Voices and cries, together with the thud of weapons on shields and the clatter of blades, came from a short distance ahead. Cato passed an open door and glanced into the darkened interior where the body of an old man lay on his front, dried blood pooled beneath him. Some of the villagers had resisted then, or at least refused to join the rebels.

  Then a flicker of motion above and to the left alerted Cato to danger. He glanced up and saw a bearded man with long tangled locks standing on the parapet of the roof. The rebel gritted his teeth and began to raise a rock above his head with both hands. Cato snatched a breath.


  ‘Shields up!’

  The Praetorians thrust their left arms out and swung their shields up to cover their heads. Just in time. There was a loud crack and the man next to Cato grunted as his shield was driven down onto his helmet by the impact.

  ‘Keep going!’ Cato ordered. ‘On me!’

  More of the enemy were alerted to their presence and soon there was a steady rain of missiles hurled down from the buildings on either side. But the Praetorians held their nerve and followed their prefect up the street and around a corner, and there ahead of them lay an open space, roughly square, in which the remaining wagons, five of them, were still trapped. Half of the mules were down, bloody rents in their coarse coats. Some struggled lamely in their traces while others bellowed in agony. Those still standing, unable to move, brayed with panic. Cato saw that six of the Praetorians were down, four of them lying still, while the others, including Cristus, were crawling for shelter beneath the carts. Three of the wagons were a short distance apart and the survivors of the baggage train were huddled between them as slingshot and rocks smashed off the wooden frames of the carts. The surrounding roofs were lined with the enemy, shouting savage threats and curses as they attempted to pick off the Roman soldiers and mules.

  ‘Follow me!’ Cato ordered above the cacophony.

  Keeping closed up, and covered by their shields, Cato and fifteen Praetorians paced across the open ground towards the wagons. At once the rebels turned their aim on the new arrivals, pelting them furiously. The Romans had almost reached the wagons when the man next to Cato staggered to one side, with a pained grunt. ‘My leg . . .’

  Glancing down Cato saw the blood coursing from a slingshot wound. ‘Help him, Metellus! Keep moving, lads!’

  The casualty slowed them down but they reached the cover offered by the carts a moment later and squatted down with Cristus and the others as stones and slingshot rattled and crashed off the large wheels and high sides of the vehicles.