‘Those cunts are back to give us another hiding, lads.’
‘Charming,’ said Macro. ‘But if that’s what you’re after . . .’
The prisoner started. ‘You’re Roman? Romans!’ He shoved the man next to him. ‘They’re our boys. At fucking last.’
‘Quiet,’ Cato ordered as Macro slid back the bolt and opened the cell. ‘Pipe down, damn you!’
The light flooded the cell and Cato could see that the men’s faces and arms were cut and bruised and they were sitting in their own filth. The first of them raised his chains and shook them. ‘Get these off!’
‘Keep it down!’ Cato growled. ‘Is one of you the procurator?’
‘Gaius Nepo? He’s in the other cell.’
Cato drew back out of the entrance. ‘Metellus, get these men out of here.’
He moved to the next door, slid back the bolt and entered. A man was lying curled up by the door. He was naked and his skin, marked with burns and cuts, was purple from the savage beating he had endured. Cato knelt beside him and shook his shoulder gently. The man let out a groan as he recoiled from the prefect’s touch.
‘Cimber, get the procurator something to wear and then guard him with your life.’
Outside the cell Macro met him with a concerned expression. ‘They’re in pretty poor shape, sir. We can’t move far with them.’
‘Then we’ll have to stay in here until the cohort takes the building. If we—’
They were interrupted by a cry of alarm and turned towards the passage to see one of the rebels cup a hand to his mouth as he shouted towards the front of the procurator’s house.
‘Shit!’ Cato lowered his spear and sprinted towards the passage, Macro running behind him. At the sound of their boots the rebel glanced round, mouth agape, then turned and ran, leaping over an ornamental bush as he raced across the garden towards the main house. Already another man had appeared, sword drawn, and he grasped the situation at once and shouted for help. Cato and Macro had run on a short distance into the garden. In stark contrast to the harsh landscape of the rest of the mining camp, the courtyard was lined with cypress and fruit trees of various kinds. Neatly tended shrubs ran around the edge of the gravelled area and also divided it into quadrants. At the centre was a square pool in which a small fountain splashed across a sculpted dolphin. Sturdy wooden benches were arranged at intervals around the garden. It was a picture of cultured serenity against the harsh backdrop of the imperial mine, but the thought was fleeting as Cato drew up and stared across to the passage on the far side of the garden. More men were emerging from the house, led by a large figure in a polished cuirass. He glared back at Cato and snapped an order to his men before breaking into a dead run.
Cato shoved Macro towards the slave courtyard. ‘Back!’
They rushed into the passage and slammed the studded door shut.
‘Metellus! Cimber! On me!’ Cato shouted as he dropped his spear and braced his shoulder against the door and set his feet to absorb the impact from the other side. Macro did the same as the others rushed to join them.
‘There’s too many of ’em,’ said Cato. ‘Use your spears on anyone who tries to get through the door.’
They nodded, raising their weapons in an overhand grip, ready to strike. The sound of voices and the crunch of boots on gravel came from the far side of the door and an instant later bodies thudded against it. Cato and Macro recoiled and then pressed forward with all their strength. Cato was closest to the edge of the door and as it opened an inch in his direction he snatched out his dagger and clenched the handle tightly. The door moved again, and despite the two officers’ best efforts, they began to give ground inch by inch. Fingertips appeared, close to Cato’s face, and at once he slashed at them with his dagger, cutting through to the bone. A howl of pain and rage came from the other side as the hand was snatched back and for an instant the door ceased moving inwards.
‘Heave!’ Cato snarled, throwing himself against the woodwork.
Suddenly, the door leaped back against him with a crash, opening a gap large enough for Metellus to see the enemy.
‘They’ve got a bench!’ he warned as he thrust his spear past Cato and snatched it back.
The makeshift ram struck again, jarring Cato’s shoulder, and the rebels on either side of the bench pressed home their advantage as they forced the two Romans to give ground.
‘It’s no good, lad!’ Macro growled as he began to be pressed in the angle between the door and the wall of the passage. ‘Can’t hold them.’
Cato saw that the struggle for the door was pointless now. ‘On the word, step back. Hold the passage.’
Macro nodded. They stood their ground as best they could until the bench struck again.
‘Now!’
The two officers scrambled back as the undefended door crashed inwards, depositing a startled rebel onto the floor of the passage. Metellus struck quickly, stabbing down between the man’s shoulder blades and snapping his spine. He slumped to the floor and spasmed as his startled comrades dropped the bench and made ready with their weapons. There were several of them, armed with spears and swords, bunched around the large warrior who had drawn a gladius and hacked at the shaft of Metellus’ spear, slamming it against the side of the passage where it clattered against the wall and snapped. The optio raised his eyebrows at the broken shaft before thrusting the splintered end into the warrior’s forearm and ducking down to snatch up Cato’s spear. The wound only served to enrage the rebel leader who plucked the broken spear shaft out and hurled it into Cato’s face. It struck him lengthways on the forehead. It was a sharp blow, but only enough to force him back a step. The warrior barged forward, knocking Cato aside to expose Cimber.
The guide’s hand trembled but he stood his ground and made a desperate thrust with his spear. There was insufficient weight behind the blow to fell the man, but the point caught the Asturian warrior high on the cheek, tore through the flesh, glancing off the bone before piercing his eye. He let out a roar of anger and staggered back clutching a hand to the ruined socket as blood and fluid burst from the wound. His men, shaken by his retreat, momentarily lost their resolve and paused on the threshold. Macro seized his chance and charged forward, slashing his sword side to side. The rebel slaves fell back and some turned to run, fleeing across the garden. The Asturian warrior backed off then, hand to face. He watched Macro with his good eye as he held his sword up, ready to deal with any attack. But Cato was conscious of the imbalance in numbers and called out, ‘Leave him! Hold the passage. Metellus, get that bench in here and close the door. Before the bastards recover their nerve.’
Cato spared Cimber a grin. ‘Well done! We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Now come with me.’
They ran back to the cell where the building materials were stored and hurried back with the baskets of tiles and bricks, packing them against the door, then wedging the bench solidly under the latch before stepping back, weapons ready, waiting for the enemy to try and force their way through again. There was shouting from the garden, but now the notes of the cohort’s handful of trumpets carried across the walls of the yard. Cato had ordered Cristus to make as much noise as possible once he had entered the camp to distract the rebels away from the attempt to rescue the hostages.
‘Won’t be long now,’ Cato said calmly, to encourage Cimber and the prisoners. ‘We just have to keep those bastards back for a moment.’
On the far side of the door a loud voice intoned a rhythm and then with a loud crash the door shivered and loose plaster trickled down from the ceiling of the passage as the enemy renewed their assault with a second bench.
Cato readied his sword and took a deep breath to try and calm his leaping heart. ‘Steady . . .’
The next blow came and this time one of the door panels cracked and Cato felt small splinters patter off his body. He pressed his weight against
the bench to keep it in place, just before the door lurched again and this time a section of plaster collapsed onto the floor of the passage. The wooden panel burst inwards and when the new ram was drawn back Cato could see the men beyond, urged on by the Asturian warrior. Outside the house the sound of the trumpets was growing in volume and now Cato and his comrades felt their hopes rise as shouts and the faint clash of weapons could be heard. There were another three blows and a second panel cracked, before the attack stopped.
Cato and his men heard cries of anguish on the other side of the door and above them rose the angry shouts of the Asturian warrior, but to no avail. Through the splintered gap Cato could see the rebels fleeing across the garden. Then his view was blocked as the warrior picked up the bench and rammed it into the opening in one last act of frustration and defiance before he turned away. As the sound of boots on the gravel of the garden diminished, Cato exchanged a look with Macro.
‘Gone, I think.’
‘Let’s hope so, sir. A few more blows and that door would have flown apart like a whore’s legs.’
Cato winced at the simile. ‘Not quite how I would have put it, but true.’
They lowered their weapons, but kept them to hand, ears straining for the sound of the enemy returning.
Cimber licked his lips nervously. ‘Do you think they’ve gone for good, sir?’
‘No idea. But be ready, just in case.’
They did not have to wait long. The sound of movement came from the garden and Cato gave the order to stand ready. His comrades readied their weapons and fixed their gaze on the door. A moment later the end of the bench shifted in the breached panel, then it was dragged aside and a shadow fell across the opening. Finally, they saw the face of Tribune Cristus, warily peering through the gap.
‘Prefect Cato, is that you, sir?’
‘Of course it bloody is.’
Macro nudged him gently. ‘You’re bleeding, lad. From when that bastard hit you with the spear shaft.’
Cato sheathed his sword and sensed for the first time the pain across his forehead. He touched it tenderly and his fingers came away warm and sticky. A flesh wound only, he realised with relief. Then he looked back at Cristus.
‘Never thought I’d ever say it, but I’m glad to see you. Now get that bloody thing open and send for the surgeon. The procurator’s in a bad way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘He’s got a broken arm, broken ribs, several teeth have been knocked out and his knees have been smashed. There are burns to his buttocks and genitals, aside from several wounds and many small nicks from a sharp blade . . .’ The cohort’s surgeon ticked off the injuries on his fingers and then paused and shook his head. ‘Those rebel bastards gave him a proper working over, and then some.’
‘Will he recover?’ asked Cato.
The surgeon arched an eyebrow. ‘Of course not, sir. He’ll be lucky if he lives at all. Even if he does, he’ll never regain anything like full use of his legs, and there’ll be scars he’ll carry for the rest of his life.’
‘All right,’ Cato said impatiently. ‘But will he be able to talk soon?’
‘Talk? The man needs rest, sir. I’ve done what I can for him, and given him a sleeping draught so that his body can relax and start to recover.’
‘Sleeping draught?’ Cato frowned. ‘Damn you. I need him awake. I need to talk to him as soon as possible. How long will he be out?’
The surgeon stroked his jaw contemplatively. ‘Until the morning, if I’m any judge. Maybe longer.’
Cato ground his teeth and then nodded. ‘Very well. But you send word for me the moment he opens his eyes. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what about the butcher’s bill? How many men did we lose?’
The surgeon smiled. ‘There we have the good news. Not one death. Six wounded in the skirmish once we reached the camp. Three of those were nothing more than cuts, two with broken bones and one lost his hand. Some big bastard with one eye took it off with a sword before the lads cut him down. All in all, we got off very lightly, sir.’
‘Good. Where are you treating them?’
‘Procurator’s dining room, sir.’
Cato glanced down at the sleeping official. Nepo had been treated in the cell, and then laid on a mattress brought from his house. It was frustrating that he would be unable to question the procurator for now, but one of the other hostages would have to do. And after that, he must turn his attention to the camp and make it ready to defend. Word of its capture was bound to reach the ears of Iskerbeles soon and it was a certainty that he would take the chance to crush the isolated cohort if he could. The destruction of an elite unit of the Roman army would inspire his followers and prove that the imperial overlords of the province were not invincible.
The three other hostages were standing outside in the yard. Macro had removed their chains and though they had open sores around their ankles, wrists and necks, they were grateful to be able to stretch their limbs in the open air once again. They did their best to stand to attention as Cato emerged from Nepo’s cell. They were still covered with filth and stank so badly that Cato could not help wrinkling his nose.
‘First order of the day when I’m done here is to get yourselves cleaned up.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry about that.’
‘At ease. Who is the senior rank here?’
The shortest of the three, a light-haired man with blue eyes and fair skin – a Celt, Cato guessed – nodded. ‘Optio Pastericus, sir. In command of the garrison. From the Third Gallic Cohort.’
‘Tell me what happened here. I didn’t see any sign of any action on the way up to the camp, so I’m assuming Iskerbeles didn’t have to fight hard for it.’
‘No, sir.’ Pastericus shifted uneasily. ‘We didn’t get to put up a fight. Thousands of them, there were. We could have held them on the wall, for a day or two maybe, but the procurator wouldn’t let us. Iskerbeles sent him a messenger to tell him to surrender the mine by the following dawn, or every person taken in the camp was to be put to death, and Nepo himself flayed and crucified. To prove that he was serious, Iskerbeles had ten men, Romans, brought up from the settlement and beheaded in front of the gate, with the heads thrown over the wall to the procurator.’ He hesitated before continuing. ‘To be honest, sir, Nepo ain’t the fearless warrior type. But he managed the mine well enough, I suppose. Anyhow, at dawn the next day he said he would give up the mine if the rebels granted a free passage to Tarraco for the garrison, and those who worked at the mine and their families. Iskerbeles gave his word. Then, the moment we had given up our weapons, his men turned on us. Marched us over to the death pit and then started cutting throats and throwing the bodies in. Me and these lads were only spared because we’re the procurator’s bodyguards, and Iskerbeles said he might need a few fresh heads to bargain with when he ransomed Nepo.’
‘Thank fuck for us then, eh?’ Macro commented.
‘What happened afterwards?’ said Cato.
Pastericus scratched his armpits. ‘We weren’t around to see it, sir. But the rebels guarding us told us later on. Seems that Iskerbeles set the slaves loose and allowed them to do whatever they liked to the camp and the settlement. When the slaves were finished with the locals, the Romans were killed and joined the others in the death pit.’
Cato was silent briefly, as he vowed to make the rebel leader and his followers pay dearly for the atrocity they had carried out. Provided that he actually got a chance to avenge the victims. That was far from likely in the present circumstances. He put the thought aside and turned to a more vital matter.
‘What happened to the mine’s stock of silver?’
The optio shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. I guess the rebels took it with them. I never heard anything about it when they put us in the cell.’
‘You’r
e sure? No mention of it at all?’
Pastericus thought a moment. ‘None, sir. Sure of it.’
Cato thought it odd, if that was truly the case. Such a treasure was bound to occasion some comment. But maybe word of its fate had not reached the ears of the hostages. Hopefully the procurator would provide more details when he regained consciousness. In the meantime, there was much to do to safeguard the camp. He scrutinised the optio. ‘How are you feeling, Pastericus?’
The man stretched his back and winced. ‘I’ve felt better, sir. A lot better.’
‘I need you to show me and Centurion Macro over the mine. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man, then come, let’s be about it.’
They passed through the passage and across the gardens into the house. The garden demonstrated refined taste and had been well tended, and the interior revealed a similar degree of opulence, with fine furnishings, intricately painted scenes of hunting and mythology on the walls and a muted hollow echo to their footsteps as they passed through the procurator’s living quarters. Cato turned to the optio and pointed at the floor. ‘Hypocaust?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato pursed his lips and glanced at Macro. ‘Seems that Nepo was very fond of his creature comforts.’
Macro gave a sly smile. ‘I never knew that imperial procurators were so well paid. I guess not all the silver dug out of these hills made it back to Rome after all.’
‘So it would seem.’
They left the house, crossed the front courtyard and emerged into the open space that separated the procurator’s quarters from the rest of the men who had worked at the mine. Hundreds of Praetorians were sitting and standing around and those closest hurriedly stood and saluted as Cato and his two companions passed by. He made for the area where the standards rose above the helmets of the soldiers, and found Cristus and the other centurions with the colour party. They exchanged a salute before Cato spoke.
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