Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Finished sweeping the place for rebels?’

  ‘Just now, sir. The last of ’em were hiding in the slave sheds. Unless we missed a few. Anyway, there are no prisoners.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘They refused to surrender, sir. I gave them the chance, but they fought to the end, like cornered animals.’ He nodded to a heap of bloodied bodies near the top of the track leading down to the workings.

  Cato stared at the corpses. ‘Have them thrown into the pit.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I want two centuries on the wall to the mine workings at all times, taking turns to stand to. I also want them to search the settlement for any supplies before they close the gate. Centurion Pulcher?’

  The heavy-set officer stepped forward. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take forty men. Search the camp for the same. Anything you find is to be taken and stored in the procurator’s house. See to it now.’

  Pulcher saluted and trotted away to his century. Cato turned back to Pastericus and Macro. ‘Right, let’s have a look over this hell-hole. We’ll start at the far end of the camp. Lead on.’

  They passed through the wall into the slave quarters where the stink of human waste clung to the long barrack blocks that had been built close enough together that a man might stretch out his arms and touch the buildings on either side. There were small holes at intervals along the wall to allow the sewage to trickle out into the drains that ran between the blocks and led over to the cliff before running down to the mine workings. Mercifully the channels had dried out since the slaves had been freed by Iskerbeles. On the far side of the slave quarters there was another ditch, wall and gate, giving out onto a large expanse of low stone structures packed round with rock and soil.

  ‘What’s that lot?’ Macro asked.

  ‘Water tanks, sir,’ Pastericus replied, then pointed out a natural gully that ran down the steep slope behind the structures. ‘They’re fed from a spur of the aqueduct that taps a spring up in the mountains and runs down to Asturica. There’s a sluice gate up there. But you can only access it from the other side of the ridge, due to the cliff.’

  Cato climbed onto the lip of the nearest tank to gain an overview. It was an impressive sight. The tank was some forty paces long and twenty wide and sealed with concrete. The water level stood at perhaps two thirds, he calculated, and looked to be as much as ten feet deep. A considerable volume of water then. A large sluice gate was built into the side facing the mine workings and it fed a deep, concrete-lined drain that ended at the edge of the cliff. There were six more tanks stretching out along the base of the hill, each gleaming with water. It was an impressive feat of engineering by any standards, and proof once again of the scale of the tasks that Romans routinely set themselves. Cato could not resist a thrill of pride in the civilisation to which he belonged. This was an achievement that barbarians could not even dream of. Then he recalled the darker side of this place, and cast a sombre look back towards the slave quarters. There was always a price paid by the many for the achievements claimed by the few.

  ‘We’re not going to be without anything to drink,’ said Macro. ‘But water will have to do now those rebel bastards have drunk the place dry of any wine.’

  Cato walked down the slope to the cliff where the end of the drain crumbled away. Two hundred feet below lay the barren expanse of the mine workings, dotted with foreshortened Praetorians as they picked over the unfamiliar surroundings. It was a good vantage point to see the mine, the settlement and the landscape beyond, stretching out over rolling countryside between the hills until distant haze obscured the view.

  ‘I’ll want a watch kept from this position from now on.’

  Macro nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato focused his attention on the settlement. ‘The buildings are too close to the outer ditch. We’ll have to remove them. We’ll burn as far back as the forum and pull down what we can of any remains. That’ll give us a decent expanse of open ground in front of the defences.’

  ‘Destroy the settlement?’ Pastericus sucked in a deep breath through his teeth. ‘That ain’t going to be a popular decision, sir.’

  ‘I dare say most of the owners of the property down there are past caring,’ Cato responded drily. ‘If anyone else takes issue with my decision then they can refer the matter to the governor.’

  He switched his gaze to the ditch and wall. Both had been built more for policing purposes than to withstand a determined attack. The ditch was too shallow, the wall not high enough, nor thick enough.

  ‘We’ll have to do what we can to strengthen the first line of defence. Then we’ll need another line . . . there, where the ravine bends in towards the cliff. Nothing elaborate, just enough to buy us time to fall back in good order. Our last line of defence will be at the top of the track. The enemy will have a hard climb and have to attack on a narrow front, which suits us.’

  ‘And if the rebels get through that?’ Macro prompted.

  ‘Then we can fortify the procurator’s house, or we defend the wall in front of the slave quarters.’

  ‘And make our last stand.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato concluded. ‘But let’s assume it doesn’t come to that.’

  ‘Feel free to assume away.’ Macro smiled fleetingly before his expression became grim. ‘I ain’t too keen on the alternative, given what we saw earlier.’

  Cato nodded with feeling as he shifted his gaze to the steep hillside behind the camp. There were crags along the top and the slope was sheer in many places.

  ‘It appears that there is no access to the camp from that direction. Do you know of any paths or tracks that lead up there, Pastericus?’

  ‘There’s nothing, sir. Even the goats are wary of venturing too far up.’

  ‘Then that’s one less thing to worry about, unless the enemy occupy the heights and use it to roll boulders down onto the camp. But that’s more likely to be a nuisance than a danger most of the time.’ Cato considered the rocky ridge looming above them. ‘They might try to use ropes to get men down the crags. So we’ll have to post some pickets beneath just in case . . . Is there anything else I should know, Optio? Any other possible ways into the mine workings or the camp? Any potential danger spots? What about the ravine below the mine?’

  Pastericus shook his head. ‘That’s a sheer drop, sir. Not more than fifty feet, but the river is mostly rapids. No way to get across it. It’d be a foolhardy man that tried to get a boat down there with a view to scaling the ravine.’

  ‘I’ll have a closer look as soon as I get the chance.’ Cato took a last glance round to make sure he had considered all the obvious dangers and then slapped a hand on his thigh. ‘Very well. There’s still an hour of light left. Let’s get started.’

  The piles of spoil from the tunnels provided ample material to strengthen the first wall. While two centuries stood ready to fight, the rest of the cohort laid down their weapons and took off their armour before using tools and handcarts from the mine’s stores to move the rocks and soil to the rear of the wall where they were packed down hard, layer by layer. It was exhausting work following the day’s march and the capture of the mine, but Cato drove them on until the last of the light had faded. Only then were the men dismissed to eat their rations and find a billet in the blocks that had been used by the mine’s garrison, the overseers and other staff. There was not enough space for all and Macro’s century shared the procurator’s house with the officers.

  There was one final task to perform and Cato led one of the centuries on the wall out into the settlement. They worked from the nearest buildings outwards, piling up furniture, baskets, cloth and anything else that could burn before liberally sprinkling oil over each pile. When they reached the edge of the forum Cato gave the order to stop preparing the incendiary materials and ordered all but one section to return to the mine. Then, together with th
e remaining men, he used a tinder box to light torches, which were used to set the fires going in the buildings closest to the wall. The flames were already rising into the night as Cato joined Macro in the tower above the gatehouse to watch the spectacle. Several of the nearest houses were ablaze, orange and red tongues darting from doorways and windows. Wavering light gleamed along the edges of roof tiles before the timbers beneath burned through and collapsed, opening gaps in the tiles through which more flames eagerly licked into the darkness as the fire spread from building to building. There was very little breeze to fan the flames and the progress of the blaze was slow as it consumed more of the settlement. Even so, the rising heat stung the faces of the men along the wall and on the gatehouse and they had to step back and shelter behind the hoardings as they continued to watch.

  ‘That is going to be seen for miles,’ said Macro.

  ‘Can’t be helped. If we fired the settlement by day then the enemy would see the smoke in any case. It had to be done now in order to give us time to demolish what remains once the heat has died down. We don’t want to leave much cover for the enemy when they arrive.’

  Macro stared at the flames, his face lit with the wavering ruddy glow. ‘Do you think Iskerbeles will come for us?’

  ‘Yes, with every man he can scrape together.’

  ‘You seem very sure, lad.’

  ‘I would in his place. For two reasons. Firstly, the prestige to be had in wiping out a Praetorian cohort. That will add lustre to his reputation in the same proportion that it shames the Emperor. Secondly, he’ll be wondering why Vitellius has despatched a single cohort in advance of the main column, and more to the point, why it was sent to take control of this particular mine. From what Pastericus told us, it seems that he didn’t get his hands on the bullion. But now that we’re here it won’t take him long to work out that we think there’s something of value at the mine.’

  Macro looked at him. ‘If the silver’s still here, then where in Hades is it?’

  Cato thought briefly. ‘I’m hoping the procurator will be able to tell us that tomorrow.’

  ‘What if the bastard ups and dies on us?’

  Cato smiled. ‘The phrase “finding a needle in a haystack” comes to mind. One more challenge set by the Gods to vex us, brother.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Macro responded. ‘I’m more concerned about finding a bloody great spear in my guts when Iskerbeles comes calling . . . What if the rebels already have the bullion?’

  ‘They might have it,’ Cato conceded doubtfully. ‘But that won’t make any difference to Iskerbeles’ determination to annihilate us. That, I think, we can take as a given. A further thought occurs to me. What if Iskerbeles has already got wind of the fact that there is a silver hoard in one of the mines? In that case, our presence here is going to show him exactly where to come looking.’

  Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘At times like this, you’re such a comfort to have around, Cato.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The fire blazed throughout the night, spreading steadily towards the forum, and then continuing to consume every building in its path, so that the entire settlement was a sea of flames just after midnight, the glare lighting up the nearby hills and surely visible to eyes far in the distance. The roar of the flames was punctuated by the sharp report of bursting timbers and the rumble and crash of masonry and roofs as buildings collapsed. Gradually the flames began to die down, like wild animals slumping to rest after the hunt. Red glows filled the shells of buildings and every so often the fire would discover a fresh morsel to devour and flare up briefly. By the first light of dawn the fire had reduced to small pockets across the charred, smoking ruins of the settlement. Only the shrine to the imperial cult remained intact, still standing above the surrounding desolation, thanks to the stone used in its construction.

  Cato and Macro surveyed the ruins from the far end of the camp. Even though they were some distance from and above the scene, the air was still thick with the acrid tang of burning. Many buildings had burned to the ground. Those with blocks of stone for lower courses, or which had somehow escaped the full attention of the flames, still rose up from the charred timbers around them.

  ‘When you do a job, you don’t do it by half,’ Macro commented with an amused click of his tongue. ‘If we survive Iskerbeles’ attempt to wipe us out, then you’re going to have some angry property owners to answer to. We seem to be leaving a trail of ashes behind us in this province.’

  ‘Litigious landlords and landowners are the last thing on my mind right now. We need to complete our defences before the rebels turn up. I want that second wall built as high as the first, and with a deeper ditch in front in it.’

  ‘You think we’ll lose the first wall, then?’

  ‘Maybe. But we’ll make them pay for it. Then, if they break through that, I want them to see that the second line is an even tougher proposition. That’ll give their morale a kick in the guts.’

  Macro chuckled. ‘You’ve a devious mind, lad. You should have been a politician.’

  Cato sniffed. ‘That’s a low insult, even from you, brother. I’m just trying to think like the rebels. They’re a mix of hill farmers and slaves. I don’t doubt the strength of their desire to punish Rome for what they have been forced to endure. I don’t doubt their courage, determination or even their desperation. But they’re not trained soldiers. They’re not used to discipline and seeing orders through to the bitter end. They’ll be spirited, but brittle. Our best chance of defeating them will be to wear their spirits down. There’s a lot at stake here, Macro. If they win, it’ll inspire defiance against Rome right across Hispania. If we demonstrate to them that they can’t win, we’ll cut through the very roots of this rebellion and it’ll wither and die. Then we’ll have peace and order again. Even if they still hate Rome with every fibre in their bodies.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have it all,’ Macro concluded flatly. ‘Let ’em hate, as long as they fear, eh?’

  Cato looked at him silently for a moment. ‘As you say. That’s the price of empire.’

  A trumpet sounded the morning assembly and Cato and Macro strode back through the slave quarters and passed through the guard wall as the last of the Praetorians were emerging from the accommodation blocks to form up in the open ground in front of the procurator’s house. Porcino and his men were still on duty on the wall overlooking the settlement and were due to be relieved after the assembly. Cato waited in front of the colour party while the centurions supplied their strength returns to Macro. Then he in turn presented them to Cato. He signed off on the wax tablet that Macro presented to him and walked steadily out into the open to address his men.

  Despite the long march and the fighting they had endured, the Praetorians were neatly turned out, having made every effort to clean their kit the previous night. Cato felt a grudging admiration for the fussy professionalism of the guardsmen. Despite what the men of the legions may have said about the Praetorian units, they were not just for show and obsessed with bullshine. They had fighting spirit and a reputation to uphold. They were good men, he conceded. As good as any in the army, even the veterans of Macro’s beloved Second Legion.

  Cato cleared his throat and drew a deep breath. ‘Gentlemen, we have reached the objective assigned to us by Legate Vitellius. It was a hard march, and we lost some good comrades along the way. But we have carried out the first part of our orders successfully, in the best tradition of the Praetorian Guard.’ He let his praise sink in before he continued. ‘Now comes the real challenge. The mine is in our hands, and the enemy is sure to want to destroy us and take it back. But we will not let him . . . You may ask why we have to defend this place. Why here? The answer is, as it always is, because we’re here. It has fallen to us to show these rebels that Rome cannot be defied. That Rome cannot be humiliated. That Rome cannot be defeated. That the Praetorian Guard has no equal in all the empi
re and it will prove, before all the Gods, that the Praetorians can master many times their number on the field of battle. No more so than the men of the Second Cohort.’ Cato punched his fist into the air. ‘Long live Emperor Claudius! Victory to Rome!’

  The Praetorians brandished their spears and repeated the cry and it echoed off the side of the ridge above, swelling the noise so that it seemed the voices of thousands of men rather than hundreds. Cato allowed them to continue for a while before giving a nod to the trumpeter who sounded several shrill notes to call them to silence before their commander continued.

  ‘There is much work to do before the enemy reaches us. Hard work, but vital work. Let every man bend to the task he is set and do his utmost to perform it well. When the rebel host left this place it was but a mine. When they return, let them find it transformed into a fortress against which they will throw their might in vain.’ He thrust his arm towards the cohort’s standard, already ringed with a silver wreath in addition to the disc bearing the portrait of the Emperor and below it the scorpion symbol of the Praetorian Guard. ‘And when we return to Rome in triumph, the Emperor himself will be sure to add a new decoration to our standard. He will reward us with gold, and we will be the heroes of all Rome, and the envy of every Praetorian who was not here to share our glory!’ He paused to draw a breath and then raised his fist again as he shouted, ‘All glory to the Second Cohort!’

  Again the men joined in, cheering themselves and their commander, until the cries began to fade and Cato judged that the moment was right to call for order again, and send the men to their work.

  As the centuries trudged off down the track leading to the mine workings Macro folded his arms.

  ‘Best soldiers in the army? Better even than our old legion? Bit over the top, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s the tradition to work their spirits up before a unit goes into action. I see no reason to part with that tradition at least.’