Cato gestured to Macro. ‘Keep an eye on the street while I deal with this.’
His friend nodded and left the room. Cato looked down at the prisoner. ‘You speak Latin?’
The man showed no reaction, so Cato tried again. ‘Latin . . . ? Or Greek?’
At the word ‘Greek’ the prisoner nodded.
Cato turned to Cimber. ‘You’ll translate, then. Tell him I have some questions for him. I want honest answers. If he tries to trick me, I’ll know, and he’ll suffer.’ Cato took out his dagger and let the light from above play on the polished steel of the well-honed blade. ‘I’ll cut a bit off him, every time I think he’s lying. If he tries to raise the alarm or cries out, I’ll put the gag back in, and cut him again.’
Cimber repeated the threat and the man shrank away from Cato, as far as his bonds would allow. Then Cato untied the gag and loomed over him on one side of the table while Cimber stood opposite.
‘Let’s get started. I want to know precisely what happened here. How long ago did the rebels take the place? How many of them were there? How many did they leave behind?’
Cimber translated and there was a brief exchange before the guide looked up at Cato.
‘He says they came five days ago. In the night. They overwhelmed the settlement before the garrison of the mine surrendered. Then they set the slaves free. Those who wished could join the rebellion, the rest could go where they wished. He does not know how many. He says it was a host.’
Cato nodded. It was often the case that peasants were innumerate as well as illiterate. Any number bigger than the small scale of their experience blurred into general terms. A host could be anything from hundreds to several thousand.
‘They were led by Iskerbeles himself,’ Cimber continued. ‘He had the slaves watch as most of the garrison had their throats cut. Them and the people living in the settlement. He saved only the procurator and a few others. They are being held as hostages so that Iskerbeles can demand a ransom for them from the governor in Tarraco.’
‘Where are the prisoners being held?’ Cato demanded.
‘Up in the camp. In the procurator’s quarters, he says.’
‘Where precisely?’
Cimber questioned the prisoner. ‘In the slave quarters at the rear of the villa.’
‘You know the building?’
Cimber nodded. ‘I remember.’
‘Good.’ Cato returned to his earlier line of questioning. ‘Where did Iskerbeles go?’
The prisoner gabbled his response. ‘He says that once Iskerbeles and his men had taken what they needed, they set off to liberate the slaves in other mines. He does not know where they went. He was drunk and they left him behind.’
‘He’s been drunk ever since, I’ll warrant.’ Cato leaned forward, watching the man closely. ‘Ask him what his name is.’
‘Basicus, sir.’
‘All right, you ask Basicus if the rebels took the bullion with them when they left the mine.’
The prisoner looked genuinely confused when the question was put to him. He mumbled something and shook his head.
‘He says he doesn’t know anything about the bullion.’
Cato narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the man. The prisoner met his eyes for a moment and then glanced away. ‘I don’t believe him . . .’
The prefect set his dagger down on the table. Reaching for the strip of cloth that had served as a gag, Cato thrust the thick wad into the captive’s mouth and tied the ends tightly behind Basicus’ head. Then he took up his dagger and held it to the prisoner’s face. Basicus flinched as Cato snarled, ‘I told you what happens when you lie to me. Watch.’
He took Basicus’ bound hands and pinned them to the table with his left hand. Then he lowered the edge of his dagger onto the flesh of the little finger, just below the knuckle, and cut. At once Basicus writhed and a deep agonised cry tried to escape his throat but was muffled by the gag into a keening whine. The edge of the blade hit the bone and Cato pressed harder and began a sawing motion. The bone snapped with a dull crunch and the finger came free. Blood pumped out onto the table as the prisoner’s eyes rolled up into his head. His chest heaved and vomit squirted out around the gag.
‘Shit,’ Cato muttered, setting the dagger down and hurriedly untying the gag. Chunky spew sprayed from the prisoner’s lips as his body was racked with coughing and attempts to breathe. Cato pushed him onto his side and waited until the vomiting stopped and Basicus was gasping for air through gritted teeth. An image of the dead girl in the brothel filled Cato’s head and he felt no pity for the man.
‘Tell him it’ll be his thumb next time. Then I’ll work my way through his fingers and end by cutting off his cock.’
The man’s face was screwed up in agony but even so he managed to look Cato in the eye and draw a deep breath before he responded.
‘He swears he is telling the truth. He doesn’t know anything about any bullion. He just worked in the mine and never had any dealings with the smelter crew. He never knew anything about what happened to the silver after that. Iskerbeles did not take anything from the mine when he and his men left. He swears it’s true on the lives of his entire family. He begs you not to hurt him again.’
Cato glared down at the man for a moment, scrutinising his expression, his eyes, for any sign of deception.
‘Very well. I believe him . . .’
Basicus grasped the Roman’s meaning and slumped back on the table in relief.
‘How many men did Iskerbeles leave behind to guard the hostages?’
‘Twenty men, in addition to a similar number of slaves who remained here to loot the settlement.’
‘Men like him, eh? Looter, rapist and murderer.’ Cato spat on the prisoner and related what he had seen to Cimber. ‘You can be sure that what they did here is the same as they did to all those friends and family you knew in Asturica. You might want to think about that, before you insist on running back to Tarraco with your tail between your legs. If I were you, Cimber, I could not rest until I had avenged those who had butchered my kin. I would hold my manhood cheap if I had fled from the chance to take my revenge.’
He let his words sink in and then used Basicus’ tunic to wipe the blood from his dagger before he snapped it back into its sheath. ‘I’m done here. He’s all yours.’ Cato picked up the gag and forced it into the prisoner’s mouth before he left the room.
Macro was holding the door slightly ajar as he kept watch on the street. He turned as he heard the crunch of Cato’s boots on the stone floor.
‘Did you get anything out of him?’
Cato nodded. ‘It looks like the bullion is still here. Hidden someplace.’
‘Well that’s not much help. How in Hades are we supposed to find it?’
‘By asking the procurator. He’s still alive and being held hostage with some others up in the mining camp. He must have concealed the bullion before the rebels turned up. We have to find him.’
‘Right now? The three of us?’
Cato shook his head. ‘It’s time to get out of here. We’ll return with the cohort when it’s getting dark. The trouble is going to be getting to the procurator before the rebels guarding him realise what’s happening and kill him.’
They were interrupted by a stifled cry of terror from the next room. It came again, this time broken up by the sound of sword blows striking flesh and bone. Macro took a pace away from the door towards the adjoining room but Cato stopped him.
‘We’ve got what we need from the prisoner. We can’t take him with us, and we can’t risk him raising the alarm. Cimber’s dealing with it.’
‘Dealing with it?’ Macro regarded his friend and saw the flicker of a smile on Cato’s lips. Macro tilted his head to look past Cato. The only sound from the other room now was the last few blows being struck. Then there
was a silence before Cimber appeared. His face, body and arms were sprayed with blood, and he was wiping the last of the blood from his sword with a strip of cloth, which he tossed aside before sliding the weapon back into its scabbard. Macro was long inured to the sight of gore, but something about the scene caused a faint shudder to course down his spine. He had been aware of a growing coldness in the heart of his friend that had not been there before. It was more than mere indifference to suffering, thought Macro. It was worse than that. That smile on Cato’s face. He recognised the expression well enough. It was the face of a man who had become cruel, and took pleasure from the fact.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Cato.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It had been a long hot day and the guards on the gatehouse of the mine workings were looking forward to being relieved when dusk came. A reed-thatched shelter covered half of the tower and provided shade from the harsh glare of the sun, but the air was still and heavy and the tedium of keeping watch over the approaches to the mine was broken only by occasional conversation or rounds of dice while they took it in turns to keep watch. The jubilation with which they had greeted their liberation when the rebels had stormed the mining camp and set the slaves free had been short-lived. Iskerbeles had indulged them, and given the slaves free rein over the camp, the procurator’s house, and the settlement outside the mine. There had followed a veritable orgy of looting, violence, rape, murder and drinking as the slaves took their revenge on their former masters and those who catered to them. It had lasted for two days, and then the rebel leader had taken control, assigning a handful of men to remain at the camp and guard the prisoners while the host moved on to continue spreading the rebellion across the region.
It felt good to be free of the chains that had been a part of their lives for many months, years in the case of the more hardy. No longer did they have to face the daily terror of being forced down into the dark tunnels running beneath the cliff. No more labouring in cramped conditions, in stinking airless passages where every fall of loose soil, or creak from the posts propping up the roof of the mine might herald the collapse of a tunnel, burying alive those trapped underground. From time to time the slaves had dug into the rotting corpses and bones of those who had died in earlier tunnel collapses and their remains were discarded along with the rest of the spoil dug out of the cliff. Freedom also brought an end to a miserable diet of thin gruel, and the cramped barracks blocks wherein they were locked every night. The thick walls were made of unworked stone without mortar, and the icy winds of winter contrived to find easy access to chill the bones of those within, while the hot air of summer stifled them, making the fetid stench of sweat, piss and shit overwhelming.
Gone was the need to keep your head bowed and avoid meeting the eyes of the overseers who needed no excuse to mete out a beating or a flogging. They were cruel men whose only duty was to exact the maximum amount of work out of each slave before they died and their bodies were thrown into the grave pit that lay at the bottom of the track leading up to the work camp. Those that dared to defy the overseers with word or gesture were savagely beaten, and the few who were driven by sufficient desperation to strike back were crucified and left to die, their mournful cries and groans serving as ample warning to those who forgot their place in this merciless world. It was even worse for the small number of women condemned to the mines. Those deemed more attractive by the overseers and guards, or simply available as the mood arose, could be dragged aside and raped, degraded in any way that took the men’s fancy, before being sent back to work, or returned to the barrack blocks. Even there, they were not safe from the depredations of fellow slaves.
Under such conditions, it was no surprise that there were those who could endure no more and took their own lives. It was possible to hang oneself by fixing chains to the stout beams that supported the barrack block roofs. Or to dash your brains out against a wall, or cut your throat or wrists on a jagged piece of rock or splintered piece of wood. Some even managed to swallow their tongues, choking themselves to death in an agonising fit before they succumbed. Whatever method was chosen, their bodies would be dragged out of the barracks block and thrown on top of the other dead rotting in the grave pit, the flesh and organs of their corpses torn at by the beaks and claws of birds and other wild animals.
All of this endured for the sake of mining the seams of rare metal to slake the appetites of the rich and powerful living in far-off Rome. Blood money, paid for by the crushing misery and cruelty inflicted on the wretched living dead who shuffled to and from the dark mouths of the tunnels.
Until the day that Iskerbeles came and set them free.
Now life was good and the boredom of their guard duties a luxury that free men never appreciated. It felt good to hold the weapons of their oppressors in their hands. Although all knew that one day soon the Romans would come back determined to crush the rebellion and punish the perpetrators of the uprising harshly. When that day came they would grimly commit themselves to fight to the death to preserve the freedom they had come to know as the most precious of all gifts. Sooner that than face a return to the dark and dangerous mere existence of life as a slave, where death was no more than a relief from suffering.
The man watching the approaches to the mine was leaning on the wooden rail of the tower. He was wearing a finely spun green tunic that he had found in the procurator’s house. The fingers of his spare hand gently rubbed a soft fold of the cloth. His boots had been taken from the body of an auxiliary; they were the first boots he had ever owned. In addition to the spear in his hand, a sword hung from his belt where an ornately inlaid handle protruded from its sheath. His stomach was comfortably full and though the last of the wine had been drunk the previous day he was looking forward to searching some of the houses in the settlement to see if there was any more that had escaped the attention of earlier looters, the last of whom had returned from the settlement an hour or so ago. Behind him three of his comrades were sitting with their backs to the rear parapet dozing contentedly. The Asturian warrior left in command of the camp would not be making his rounds until the change of watch so they would not be troubled for a while yet.
A movement caught the eye of the watchman. A small cloud of dust puffed over the crest of a hill a short distance from the settlement. A figure appeared, leading a mule. Then some more mules and a handful of other men, drovers. They were making straight for the camp. The watchman straightened up, tightening his grip on his spear. His first thought was to raise the alarm. After all, the men and mules approaching the mine were the first to come here since Iskerbeles had marched away. But when he saw that there were only four men in all, he hesitated. What danger could they possibly pose to those protecting the mine? If he sounded the bell then the Asturian would come running down from the camp demanding to know the cause. When he saw the strangers and their mules he was sure to be angry and cuff the watchman for wasting his time, just as he had beaten any of the former slaves who he had determined had fallen short in their duties. So the watchmen watched the small mule train approach and as it continued towards the settlement he turned to his comrades.
‘Up you get, boys. We’ve got company.’
One of them cracked open an eye and coughed. ‘What’s up, Repha?’
‘Some men and mules approaching the camp.’
‘How many?’
‘Four of ’em. Who do you think they might be?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t care much either. If they come any closer tell them the mine’s under new management and they can bugger off.’
The other two men beside him had stirred during the exchange and smiled blearily at the comment.
Repha stepped towards them and prodded the nearest man with the toe of his boot. ‘Looks like those mules are carrying amphorae. Wine maybe.’
‘Wine?’ His companion climbed to his feet and stretched his shoulders. ‘Well, why didn’t you say? If the
y come up to the gate then let’s see if they can be persuaded to part with a few jars. Eh, boys?’
‘O’right,’ one of the others grinned as they joined Repha at the front of the tower and looked down towards the settlement just in time to see the last of the mules enter the main street. The new arrivals were lost from sight for a while but then emerged from between the nearest buildings making straight for the entrance to the mine works. The leader was mounted on a mule, his legs dangling either side of the beast. He wore an off-white cloak with a hood which had been swept back to reveal the dark hair and features of a man of the region. He raised a hand in greeting as he led his small mule train up to the bridge that stretched across the outer ditch.
‘You can stop there!’ Repha called down.
The man pulled on the mule’s bridle and the beast halted. The others slowed their beasts to a standstill and Repha saw that they wore simple tunics and boots and carried no visible weapons.
‘What’s your business?’
‘Manlius Oscorfus, wine merchant of Palastino, at your service,’ came the reply in the local dialect. ‘I have heard that there is a change of regime here at the mine. Men of newfound fortune who might have some coin to spend on the finest wines available in all of Asturia.’ He gestured towards the amphorae nestling in wicker baskets either side of the mules. ‘Enough to slake the thirst of a hundred men. If the price is right. Would you care to try a sample, friend?’
‘Why not?’ muttered one of Repha’s comrades as he turned to descend the ladder leading to the bottom of the gatehouse. The others made to follow him but Repha blocked their path.
‘We have our orders. No one enters or leaves without permission.’
‘You going to let that Asturian be your new master, then?’ one of his companions mocked. ‘Where’s the harm in having a look? Besides there’s only four of ’em and they’re unarmed. Come on, Repha. Just a little look.’
Invictus Page 24