Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Not just the plan.’ Macro gestured to the line of bodies beside the cart. ‘I’ll have a pyre built for them here in the village. No sense in starting another blaze out there on the plain.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Cato nodded. Then, as Macro lingered, he asked, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘One thing. Why send Placinus back with the wounded? He’s the kind of man we could use when the fighting starts. Why not send back someone we could afford to lose, like Pulcher, Porcino, or that waster, Cristus?’

  ‘I don’t trust Pulcher to deliver the report, or give an accurate account of things if Vitellius questions him. Same with Porcino and Cristus, though for different reasons. They’d be likely to say that Iskerbeles has a huge host behind him and that might make the legate pause and request reinforcements. Any such delay will give the rebels more time to grow in influence. The report has to be made by someone I can rely on. A professional soldier who can describe the situation accurately.’

  ‘But why Placinus and not one of the others? Or me?’

  ‘Because he is down the chain of command. Only senior to Porcino. And you?’ Cato smiled and gave his friend a light punch on the chest. ‘Do you really think I’d ever consider going into battle without you at my side, brother?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The dawn air was filled with the acrid stench of burning. A large area of the plain was scorched black around the site where the Romans had intended to make camp the previous evening. Scores of charred bodies littered the area; those who had died before the fire consumed their bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen. Those who had been wounded and unable to escape lay curled up, having tried to protect themselves from the flames and the heat. The Praetorians were clearly identifiable from their armour and Cato could not help wincing as he imagined the horror of their final moments. He cleared his throat as he spoke to Macro.

  ‘There’s some we can cross off the list of the missing.’

  Macro squatted down beside one of his former comrades and reached over to probe the taut, blackened flesh around the throat. Though the leather strap had burned away, the lead seal was intact. He prised it loose and rubbed the dark smears away from the impressed marks that identified the soldier. Some letters could still be made out but the heat had been intense enough to start melting the seal, making it impossible to be sure of the name. Not that it made much difference, Macro reflected. If the number of those missing matched the number of the bodies then they would all be listed as killed in action, and any family back in Rome would be able to benefit from their wills. He dropped the seal and stood up.

  ‘I’ll have some of the lads take the bodies up to the village.’

  Cato glanced up at the oily smear of smoke rising above the tiled roofs of the village into the sky. The funeral pyre had been lit as the first rays of the sun heralded the new day. He shook his head. ‘No time for that.’

  ‘No time? We can’t just leave the lads out here to rot. It ain’t right.’

  ‘They’re past caring, Macro.’

  ‘But I’m not, sir. Nor should you be. Can’t be leaving fallen comrades like this.’

  ‘We have to leave them.’

  Macro grimaced. ‘Look, sir. If you let me have a half century, we can get the job done quickly and double-time to catch up with you.’

  ‘I’m not going to divide the column any more than necessary. In any case, the men are already tired enough. I can’t waste any time waiting for stragglers when it can be avoided. We need to get moving as soon as the scouts report.’

  The mounted patrols had set off before dawn to scour the immediate area for the enemy and drive off any rebels who might be keeping the village under observation. There had been no further trouble from the rebels during the night and Cato hoped that the fire and their heavy losses had encouraged them to move off in search of easier pickings. But it was important to make sure that the cohort threw them off the scent when the Praetorians continued their advance in the shelter of the hills. The detachment returning to Tarraco had already formed up below the village. Four carts loaded with wounded under the protection of Centurion Placinus and his men. They were busy tying bundles of brushwood to the rear of the carts.

  Macro had been following the direction of his friend’s gaze. ‘They’ll be ready to leave any moment. I’d hate to be in the rearmost carts when the drags stir up the dust. Poor bastards will choke to death if their wounds don’t put an end to ’em first.’

  ‘Can’t be helped. Just as long as they are visible from miles off. If we’re lucky, the rebels will think they have seen us off and will report their victory back to Iskerbeles. He’ll think he’s won himself some breathing space while we make for the mine.’

  Macro picked some grit from his nose. ‘Unless he’s already there. Or been and gone, and taken the bullion with him.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’ Cato craned his neck at the distant sound of hoofs. ‘Ah, here comes Metellus, at last.’

  The optio came cantering across the scorched earth and reined in close to the two officers before he snapped a salute at Cato.

  ‘No sure sign of the enemy, sir. Just a small party of riders off to the west. Got the impression they were watching out for us. In any case, they turned and rode off as soon as they clapped eyes on us.’

  ‘And no sign of anyone else?’

  ‘No, sir. Though there are a few deserted farms around. I dare say the locals have gone to ground until both the rebels and us have gone.’ Metellus straightened up in his saddle and indicated a low ridge to the south. ‘We’ve covered the ground from there all the way round to a few miles north of the village, sir. It’s clear.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll be on our way. Ride to Placinus and tell him to get moving. Then let Cristus know he can bring the rest of the cohort out of the village and form them up to the north. We’ll be over directly. Go.’

  ‘Sir!’ Metellus saluted and wheeled his mount round and spurred it towards the carts. Cato and Macro strode in the same direction.

  ‘A half century to escort the carts?’ Macro mused aloud.

  ‘It’s enough, together with the drags, to give the impression of a cohort on the march to anyone watching from the distance. Besides, if this goes as badly as I fear it may, then at least I’ll have saved a few lives.’

  Macro shot him a quick glance. ‘I’d have thought it would be best to take as many men with us as we can.’

  ‘Another forty or so will make little difference.’

  ‘Come now, lad!’ Macro laughed. ‘Surely you don’t really think the outlook is as grim as that? The men did well yesterday. Stood up to ’em like veterans and kept in formation like they were on the parade ground. We saw off those rebels easily enough, and we’ll do the same for the next lot foolish enough to try it on with us.’

  Cato sighed. ‘Macro, we are still several days from the mine, and you heard Cimber: the road’s going to make tough going through the hills. If, by some fluke, we approach the mine undetected, then it is rather more than likely that Iskerbeles will have beaten us to it. If we are spotted, then he’ll be sure to try and trap us and annihilate us before Vitellius comes up. I don’t fancy a retreat like the one we experienced last winter in Britannia. Better to hold up and stand our ground until the last man. Better that than be harassed, and watch the stragglers picked off, while discipline goes to pieces and it becomes every man for himself. At least if we make a stand we can give a good account of ourselves. Enough to make them fearful about taking on the main column.’

  Macro paced at his side in silence for a moment. ‘So we’re the sacrifice for the greater good?’

  ‘Something like that. You know how it is – “Go tell the Spartans . . . ”’

  ‘Spartans?’ Macro frowned. ‘What have those toga-lifters got to do with it?’

  ‘If we’re lucky, not a lot.’ Cato br
eathed deeply. ‘That’s enough words. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.’

  A short time later the cohort was stepping out along the dusty road leading towards the hills, with Cato and Cimber on horseback at the head of the column, while Macro marched at the head of the infantry. Pulcher, no longer required to command the baggage train, led the remaining men of Placinus’ century while Cristus marched with the small headquarters party. Ahead, and to each side, rode the mounted patrols, watching for any sign of the enemy as the Praetorians tramped over the rolling plain. As they crested a low ridge Macro turned to look briefly at the smaller formation marching east. A large cloud of dust rose from the carts, almost shrouding Placinus’ soldiers at the rear. It certainly gave the appearance of a much larger force and Macro offered a prayer to the gods that any rebel sympathisers who happened to catch sight of Placinus were as easily fooled as Cato hoped they would be.

  By noon they had reached the foothills and the road climbed through forests of pine which richly scented the summer air and provided shade for the soldiers as the afternoon wore on. They passed through a small town where the road joined the route stretching east and west that Cimber had told them of. The inhabitants, more used to occasional patrols of auxiliary troops, were curious to see a larger formation, and were keen to sell them food and wine when they halted in the small forum. The senior magistrate of the town council came from his home to greet Cato and Macro in person, at the head of a small procession of local dignitaries and town clerks. He was an avuncular figure in a plain ochre tunic with a heavy purse hanging from a belt that encompassed a large belly, the whole being supported by two stocky legs.

  ‘Gaius Hettius Gordo.’ He spoke good Latin as he bowed with difficulty. ‘At your service. As are all the people of Antium Barca.’

  ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, commanding the Second Praetorian Cohort. I need supplies for my men,’ Cato added curtly. ‘I will give you a warrant to recover the costs from the governor at Tarraco.’

  ‘Ah, of course we would be happy to provide for your needs, but we would prefer it if you paid in coin.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, but I am not able to pay you at present. Now you can either accept the warrant and bring the supplies to me here, or I will order my men to enter your storehouses and requisition whatever we need, and leave you to take the matter up with the governor.’ He met the magistrate’s anxious gaze with a steely, unbending expression. ‘Your choice.’

  Gordo waddled off to confer with his companions before he gave his response. ‘We are happy to accept a warrant. We are sure it will be honoured when it is presented in Tarraco.’

  ‘Good. Then I shall need two hundred and forty modii of wheat, two thousand pounds of cured meats, and five hundred waterskins.’

  Gordo’s mouth opened in shock. ‘This is an outrage. We have given Rome no trouble. We always pay our taxes on time and offer regular sacrifices at the temple of the imperial cult. It is an affront to our loyalty to the Emperor for you soldiers to treat us this way and make such unreasonable demands of us. Surely you cannot expect us to find such quantities at such short notice without considerable difficulty?’

  ‘No. But that’s your problem. I want everything here by nightfall. Or I will order my troops to enter your homes and storerooms to take what we need. Now see to it.’

  Gordo hurriedly issued instructions to his party and the clerks went off to give the orders. When the magistrate turned back Cato tackled him on a separate issue.

  ‘I take it you are aware of the uprising in Asturica.’

  Gordo rolled his eyes. ‘A troublesome region! Barbaric people . . . Never content to live under the Roman peace. But Rome will be dealing with them most harshly, I’ll wager. And rightly so.’

  ‘All in good time. Have you heard of any rebel activity in this region?’

  ‘Here?’ Gordo looked amused. ‘No. Events in Asturica are too far away to present any danger to Antium Barca. Thank the Gods.’

  ‘I think you might not be so grateful to the Gods when you hear the news,’ said Macro.

  ‘What news?’

  Macro looked questioningly at his superior and Cato gave a light nod of approval.

  ‘The rebels sacked a village a day’s march to the south. Took what they wanted, killed most of the villagers and forced the rest to join their cause.’

  The blood drained from Gordo’s face. ‘As close as that? But we’ve heard nothing. No word that they were anywhere so near to us. How many of them? What happened?’

  ‘We drove them off,’ said Cato. ‘Iskerbeles might have sent them to raid deep into the heart of the province to cause panic, or they may simply be brigands who claim allegiance to Iskerbeles. Either way, they constitute a danger. I’d advise you, and your council, to take every precaution to ensure the safety of your town and its people.’

  ‘But . . . But, you must protect us. We pay our taxes. We are entitled to protection. You must stay here until the danger has passed. We’ll feed your men. Even pay them to defend us, if necessary.’

  ‘Impossible. I have my orders. We’ll be leaving Antium Barca at first light. With our supplies,’ Cato emphasised.

  ‘And leave us defenceless, with rebels marauding through the region? I demand that you leave us some of your men at least.’

  ‘You have sturdy walls, a good gatehouse and you must have some town militia.’

  ‘A handful of old men and boys, yes.’

  ‘Then draw on the able-bodied to bolster the ranks. You must fend for yourselves until the rebellion is crushed.’

  ‘And if the rebellion isn’t crushed?’

  ‘Then I dare say you’d be well advised to make your peace with Iskerbeles when he and his host arrive before your walls. In the meantime, do what you can to defend yourselves. Seal the town gates at night, and make sure they are well guarded when they are open during the day. Stock up on provisions and keep a close eye on your slaves and anyone else who might be tempted to sympathise with the rebels.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘You and the other tax-payers could write a stiffly worded letter of complaint to the governor, if you think it would help,’ Macro suggested wryly.

  ‘That’ll do, Centurion,’ Cato said curtly before turning back to the magistrate. ‘Just make sure that we have what we need. My cohort will be quartered in the forum for the night. I’ll need billets for the officers close by. Please see to it directly.’

  Gordo nodded and beckoned to his colleagues as he led them back to the council chambers at the far end of the forum. Macro sucked in a breath as he watched them.

  ‘Not exactly winning over hearts and minds here, sir.’

  ‘We’re the least of their problems if the uprising spreads. Besides, I’m too tired to court their good opinion. I want us back on the road before dawn.’ Cato saw Cimber standing a short distance away, close to the entrance of an alley. ‘And keep an eye on our friend there. In case he is tempted to desert.’

  Macro glanced at the guide and rubbed his hands together. ‘There’s plenty of ways to keep a new recruit on his toes, trust me.’

  The centurion looked round at the buildings lining the forum. ‘Nice place this. Prosperous even. Funny how they resent us when we ask for something, and then in the next breath beg us to save their skins . . . I’ve had my fill of bloody two-faced civilians.’

  Cato gave a dry laugh. ‘Don’t be too hard on them, Macro. After all, it’s their taxes that provide for our pay.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Macro admitted, grudgingly. ‘But perhaps it would be easier if we just took what we needed from them directly.’

  ‘And then what would distinguish us from mere brigands? Or the likes of Iskerbeles? We’re an army, Macro. Not a bunch of bandits. We’re fighting to defend something bigger than ourselves. And that’s why the Gods are on the side of Rome.’


  Macro sniffed. ‘You might want to remind them about that sometime. Rather too often I get the feeling the bastards are sleeping on the job.’

  ‘Even Jove nods.’

  ‘I’d rather Jove evens up the odds.’

  Cato looked at him in surprise. ‘Why, Centurion Macro, it appears you have developed a sense of humour.’

  Macro scowled and answered in a manner that only professional soldiers of longstanding friendship, regardless of rank, feel able to. ‘Fuck off, why don’t you?’

  The road from Antium Barca led west, running through the hills that stretched across the north of the province towards Asturica. As Cimber had said, it was only suitable for those on foot, horses and mules. Only the stretches between the larger settlements were usable by wheeled traffic. Away from the baking plains the men marched in more comfort through the heavily wooded slopes where the air was cooler, there was more shade and plenty of streams to slake their thirst and refill their canteens and waterskins. There was even some game, the odd boar and deer that fell victim to the remaining scouts who brought their catch into camp at the end of each day’s march. If there was a town or village close by at dusk then Cato was content to rest his men there. Otherwise the day finished with the back-breaking toil of digging out a ditch and heaping the spoil into a rampart into which sharpened stakes were driven. Only then could the men make fires and cook their evening meals. Each morning the stakes were taken down, the rampart shovelled into the ditch and the cohort moved on.

  The absence of campaign tents was not felt until the rain fell one night. A storm broke across the hills, with blinding flashes and bolts of lightning scarring the night as thunder echoed off the cliffs and bare slopes higher up. And all the time the rain poured down in a constant drumming hiss, drenching the men and horses and soaking their kit. The cohort rose, sleepless and wet, but a few hours of marching under a clear sky soon dried them off and restored their spirits. There were plenty of opportunities to obtain supplies from the settlements along the way, cheese, meat and bread made from nuts replacing the grain they had eaten before moving into the hills. Each time Cato left another warrant to cover the eventual payment for what they had taken, and he felt a guilty pleasure at the prospect of the governor having to pay off the trail of debts that marked the course of the Praetorian cohort.