Cimber proved to be a fine, albeit reluctant, guide and led them on a more or less direct route towards the mining region. Cato’s main concern remained the fear of being detected by the enemy in sufficient time for them to obstruct his advance, or spring another ambush. Especially given the close terrain, where the forested slopes on either side of the road could conceal an army with ease. However, Metellus and his handful of mounted scouts reported no sign of the rebels as they marched ever closer to Asturica and the heart of the rebellion.
Then, twenty days after leaving Tarraco, Metellus and Cimber came galloping back down the road towards Cato and Macro marching at the head of the column, as the noon sun beat down from a clear sky. The cohort had reached the peaked hills and mountains of the mining region the day before and all of the men, and especially their prefect, had been watching the surrounding landscape warily.
‘We’ve sighted the mine, sir!’ Metellus reported as he reined in and saluted. ‘No more than five miles beyond the next ridge.’
Cato glanced past the optio and saw that the road ahead inclined sharply towards a saddle between two rocky peaks, spotted with stunted trees.
‘Any sign of the enemy?’
‘Only a handful of men as far as I could see.’
‘What about the mine? Is it still in our hands?’
Cimber cocked his head to one side. ‘I can’t tell, sir. There’s little sign of life. No sign of slaves. We got as close as we could without giving ourselves away but couldn’t see more than a handful of men around the gate of the main compound. Could be the mine garrison, or rebels. No way of telling without getting closer.’
Metellus spoke up. ‘That was my decision, sir. Given your orders I didn’t want to risk being spotted.’
‘Quite right,’ Cato agreed. ‘You’ve done well, Cimber.’
The guide bowed his head in acknowledgement, then braced himself to speak. ‘Then I have served my purpose, sir. I take it that I am free to return to Tarraco now.’
‘You’re speaking out of turn, soldier,’ Macro growled as he hefted his vine cane. ‘That’s bordering on insubordination. Shall I put him in his place, sir?’
Cato could well understand Cimber’s desire to remove himself from the danger to come. He was not a soldier and had no heart for fighting. That said, this was his homeland. It was his family and friends who were threatened by the rebels. He should be prepared to fight for that cause at least, and not abandon his moral duty and wait for the army to act on his behalf. Besides, Cato still had need of his knowledge of the region and its people.
‘Not yet. Guardsman Cimber has proved his usefulness.’ The words were spoken to Macro but the comment was directed at Cimber, who looked pained but had the good sense not to utter another word. ‘I have every confidence that he will continue to do so while his services are required.’
Cato looked towards the ridge again and came to a decision. He turned round. ‘Tribune Cristus! On me.’
Cristus trotted forward. ‘Sir?’
‘We’ll halt the cohort on the reverse slope, up there. Metellus, pull in your patrols. I want the horses back with the column, then send two men to the top of the peak on the left. They’re to report any sign of the enemy at once to the tribune. Cristus, the men are to be kept out of sight. If any rebels stumble upon us, or any locals for that matter, I want them taken prisoner.’
‘Yes, sir. I understand.’ He struggled to hide his concern. ‘But where are you going?’
Cato unfastened the clasp-pin at his shoulder and removed his cloak and handed it to Metellus. ‘Guardsman Cimber, Centurion Macro and I are going to have a closer look at the mine.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Hmmm.’ Macro scratched the bristles on his chin. Cato and Cimber lay in the dry grass to his side, in the shadow of the large grove of olive trees that had been planted on terraces around a gently sloping hill overlooking the small settlement that had grown up outside the mine, separated by the ditch and wall that guarded the mine workings themselves.
‘I had no idea that the imperial mines were on such a scale,’ Macro continued. ‘The place looks big enough to house a full legion, and the hangers-on.’
Cato nodded as he surveyed the scene. Macro’s comment was apt in some respects. The settlement was similar to those that grew up outside nearly every established legionary base. An unplanned accretion of inns, trading posts, whore-houses and other dwellings. Temporary structures at first, but gradually giving way to timber, stone and tile. Here though the settlement was small, catering for the garrison of the mine and the overseers and clerks that worked there, as well as the passing trade made up of slave dealers, grain merchants, suppliers of mining equipment and those soldiers assigned to guard the bullion convoys that periodically departed from the mine. The thousands of slaves who worked in the mine had no life outside it, and only eventual death inside, and were never given the chance to enjoy the limited pleasures on offer in the settlement.
Beyond the wall was a spectacle that looked almost as if Jupiter himself had reached down to scar a great sweep of the landscape and leave it a barren wreck as a sign of his omnipotence. To the left there were high cliffs of red and orange soil and rock, above which a green fringe of stunted bushes spread for a distance. There was a ledge at the top of the cliff, giving way to mountainside that looked impassable. At the foot of the cliff the ground was bare of growth, and heaped with spoil, stretching down to the edge of a shallow ravine through which a river flowed over and around boulders in a rush of silvery spray. There were several timber-framed entrances to tunnels along the foot of the cliff with stacks of shoring posts close by. The area being worked extended for perhaps quarter of a mile before the cliff gave way to more solid rock and there was a wide track at the far end that bent back on itself to lead up to a large ledge protected by the precipitous slope of the mountainous ridge that stretched along the length of the mine. Cato could see an expanse of tiled roofs on the ledge and pointed them out.
‘What’s up there?’
Cimber followed the direction his superior indicated. ‘That’s the quarters of the procurator and his staff, sir, as well as the slave compound. Those are the barrack blocks you can see.’
‘How many slaves work the mine?’
Cimber thought a moment. ‘At its height, perhaps as many as five thousand. But most of the silver has been mined out so it’s nearer three thousand these days. Those cliffs used to extend as far as the ravine.’
Macro let out a low whistle of astonishment as he appreciated for the first time just how much the landscape had been altered. ‘They’ve pulled down most of a bloody mountain.’
‘How did they do it?’ asked Cato.
‘You see the tunnels, sir? Those are driven deep into the cliff, with others branching off on either side. That’s to weaken the base of the cliff. Once they’re ready, they set fire to the supports and the tunnels collapse, bringing a section of the cliff down with them. And that exposes a fresh stretch of the silver seams.’
‘Really? I’d have thought that bringing that lot down would create something of a mess?’
‘It does, sir. That’s why they have sluice tanks on the top of the cliff. They release enough water to wash off the loose soil to expose the seams.’
Macro nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very clever. But where do they get the water from? I don’t suppose they haul it all the way up from the river.’
‘They did, once. Many years ago, sir. But that was before the aqueduct was built that supplies Asturica and some of the other towns in the region. It passes by a few miles beyond that ridge, and there’s a spur that feeds the mine’s reservoirs. Most of the excavation of the cliff has happened since the construction of the aqueduct.’
Macro sucked his teeth. ‘Isn’t progress a wondrous thing?’
Cato was looking at the small dark openings of
the tunnels, trying to imagine the thousands of slaves who had been driven to cut their way through the base of the cliff. Working in cramped conditions, by the light of torches or the weak glow of oil lamps. The air would be foul, and made worse by the stink of the piss and shit of the chain gangs. And it would be dangerous too, with the constant threat of a tunnel collapse, burying the slaves alive.
‘There must be a high rate of attrition,’ he said quietly.
‘Attrition, sir?’
‘Loss of life amongst the slaves?’
‘Oh, yes. Of course, sir. More than a hundred a week, I’d say. That’s why there’s such a demand for slaves in the region. If the work doesn’t kill them, then hunger or sickness will. Being condemned to the mines is a death sentence. Everyone knows that.’
‘And now Iskerbeles is setting those slaves free,’ Cato mused.
‘Great,’ Macro growled. ‘And every one of them will no doubt fight to the death rather than face the prospect of returning to the mines.’
‘Quite.’ Cato thought a moment. ‘While places like this exist, and there are men like Iskerbeles around, then we’re making a rod for our own backs.’
He turned his attention to the settlement. Only a handful of figures were visible in the market place, sitting on benches around what was clearly an inn, if the discarded amphorae that littered the ground about them were anything to go by. Aside from them the only rebels visible were the men guarding the gate to the workings.
‘One thing’s clear enough. We’re too late, sir,’ said Cimber, gesturing towards the mine. ‘Iskerbeles has beaten us to it. He has the bullion . . . There’s no point in continuing. Better to fall back and wait for the legate, sir.’
Cato cocked his head to one side. ‘It looks that way. But we need to know for certain.’
Cimber shot him an anxious look, keen to withdraw to the safety of the cohort waiting out of sight beyond the ridge at their backs. ‘Sir, you can see the situation for yourself. We should go.’
‘We go when I say and not before. Right now I need information.’ He turned to Macro. ‘We need a little chat with someone.’
An hour later they had worked themselves into the settlement, staying out of sight of those on the gate to the mine. They entered a narrow street on the opposite side and stealthily followed it towards the small open area at the heart of the settlement that Cato had observed earlier. There was no sign of life in any of the buildings they passed, apart from a lean-looking dog that was startled by their appearance and trotted off as it cast anxious glances over its shoulder. They heard the carousing rebels before they saw them, drunken conversation and laughter echoing off the walls of the street as it opened out on the market.
Cato signalled for his comrades to stop and crouch down, before he continued, taking care to make as little noise as possible with his boots on the cobbled street. He felt his pulse quicken as he approached the corner, and paused. From the lurid graffiti and illustrations above a door that opened onto the alley it was clear he was standing outside a brothel. Reasoning that such an establishment would be likely also to have an entrance opening onto the market, Cato stepped cautiously inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, then he saw that he was in a low-ceilinged room divided by a dingy-looking bar. One wall opened onto a series of small cubicles furnished with rolls of soiled bedding. Grimy curtains provided limited privacy for the women and their clients. Clay cups and empty and broken jugs lay strewn about, together with discarded strips of cloth and the short tunics favoured by prostitutes. The air reeked of wine, cheap scent and the cloying odour of blood spilled days before. There was also the stink of decaying flesh and Cato saw the body of a young girl lying under a table. She was naked and her groin and thighs were smeared with dried blood. A short distance beyond, in the shade of the corner of the room, was a heap of dirty clothes. On the far side of the bar was another entrance, covered by a yellow curtain, and Cato picked his way towards it, wincing as a shard of a beaker crunched loudly beneath the sole of his boot. He froze, ears straining as his fingers closed round his sword handle, not daring to breathe.
Then, certain from the tone of the voices outside that there was no hint of alarm, he continued towards the curtained entrance and eased the edge of the cloth aside, squinting into the bright afternoon sunlight. Thirty paces away from him eight men were sitting at a table, sharing a large jug of wine. Two were slumped forward, heads resting on folded arms, asleep. The rest were still going strong, swilling from their cups. Despite the good quality of their clothing, their hair was long and tangled and they were unshaven, their exposed skin streaked with grime. None of them looked well nourished and Cato guessed that they must be slaves from the mine, intoxicated as much by their freedom as the drink they were consuming. Drunk or not, they carried swords and daggers hanging in scabbards from their belts. Cato thought quickly. With two out cold, that left six to take on. Odds of two to one. Not promising. Worse, given that he had little confidence in Cimber’s willingness and ability to fight. Without helmets or shields, he and Macro would still have the advantage of their training and experience, but as Macro had pointed out, they would be facing men made dangerous by their brief experience of freedom and utter determination never to be returned to the living death of slavery.
A sudden throaty snort and grumbling smack of the lips from behind caused Cato to jolt as his heart leaped inside his chest. He dropped the edge of the curtain and whirled round, drawing his sword in a smooth sweep as he lowered into a crouch, ready to strike while his left arm rose to the side to balance him. What he had taken as a bundle of rags was stirring into life and a loose arm flopped out onto the floor. The man groaned and began to prop himself up on his elbows, face wrinkled into a pained expression, before he blinked his eyes open. He looked round blearily and then fixed his gaze on the Roman poised ten feet away.
As the man’s jaw sagged and his eyes widened in surprise, Cato sprang across the gloomy interior and made to strike with his sword. At the last moment he grasped the opportunity to take the man alive and raised his sword arm to strike him on the head with the pommel instead. The hesitation gave the rebel just enough time to throw up a hand and clench his fingers round Cato’s wrist. Thin though he appeared, the former slave possessed a fanatic’s strength and he held off the blow. Muscles straining, the two men stared into each other’s eyes, their jaws clenched. Then the rebel made to call out, but only a wheezy grunt came from his dry throat. Bunching his spare hand into a fist, Cato arced it in a vicious hook straight into the rebel’s jaw, snapping it shut and knocking his head back against the plaster wall with a soft crack. At once his fingers loosened their grip and slipped from Cato’s wrist as he slumped back onto the floor of the brothel.
Cato knelt over his victim, breathing hard. When he was certain that the man was out cold he scooped up a discarded tunic and cut it into strips using his sword. Then he sheathed the blade and bound the rebel’s hands and ankles before gagging him. Satisfied with his efforts he bent down, slipped his hands under the unconscious man’s armpits and raised him into a sitting position. Bracing his shoulder into the man’s midriff Cato straightened up with a grunt, and the rebel flopped over his shoulder. A moment later Cato emerged back into the street with his captive and Macro looked up in surprise.
‘Fuck, you don’t hang about when you want a prisoner. How’d you get hold of him?’
‘Nearly tripped over the bastard. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
‘What are we going to do with him? You planning on carrying him all the way back to the cohort?’
‘Hardly. Let’s find a quiet place on the edge of the settlement to ask him a few questions. You lead on. Cimber, you cover my back.’
The small procession moved away from the market, back down the street from which they had come. When they were far enough away from the raucous voices of the drinkers, Macro went ahead to sear
ch for a place to conduct the interrogation. Cato struggled on beneath his burden, glancing back a few times to make sure that Cimber was doing his job. The guide had drawn his sword and made no effort to hide his fear as if he expected the rebels to come charging after them at any moment.
‘Cimber, for Jupiter’s sake, control your nerves, man,’ Cato whispered fiercely. ‘You’re more likely to do yourself, or me, an injury with that blade. Put it away unless you absolutely need to defend yourself.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cimber glanced round before reluctantly sheathing his sword.
Around the next corner, Cato saw Macro standing on the threshold of a house close to the edge of the settlement.
‘This’ll do us,’ he said quietly to Cato as the prefect approached. ‘A nice quiet room out the back.’
He stood aside to let Cato and his prisoner pass inside, followed by Cimber. With a quick look up and down the street to make sure that they would not be disturbed Macro ducked inside the building and gently closed the door behind him before bolting it. Cato saw that they were standing in a cloth merchant’s shop. Rolls of wool and linen were stacked on shelves. Some had been pulled down and lay in heaps on the floor.
‘This way.’ Macro led them through a door at the rear of the shop into a small courtyard with an opening to the sky. It was barely bigger than the previous room, and affected a design that betrayed the owner’s taste for Roman styles, but lack of sufficient wealth to carry it through comfortably. A plain wooden table with stools on each side stood beneath the opening which provided enough natural light to see clearly. Cato deposited the rebel onto the table and the impact made the man wince and blink his eyes. He squinted into the light from above; then, as his senses returned, he glanced round anxiously, saw the Romans and briefly struggled with his bonds before curling up on his side, breathing deeply around the gag in his mouth.
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