Macro stiffened and stared back as he replied flatly, ‘I never forget myself. I never forget those who pose a threat to myself, and my mates. You’d be wise not to either, sir.’
‘I’ll take your advice when I need it.’ Cato intensely disliked the sudden tension that divided them and decided to divert their attention away from it as swiftly as possible. ‘We . . . I need to decide where to place that final wall. Come.’
He clambered down the steep slope behind the rampart and set off for the track leading up to the camp, furious with himself for that ‘we’ when it should so obviously have been ‘I’. His friend had been right to warn him about being too trusting of Pulcher. Yet the situation demanded that Cato concentrate on conducting the defence of the mine. Every man was needed, and in such a perilous position a veteran with Pulcher’s qualities was needed more than most. Macro’s suspicions could not be allowed to undermine the professional relationship between the officers of the cohort, nor indeed the authority of its commander. It had pained Cato to slap down his friend, but it had been necessary, he told himself. Once again, he could not help wondering about the motives behind Vitellius’ selection of the officers to accompany him to Hispania Terraconensis. The legate was aware of the conflict between Cato and Pulcher all those years before. Had that been why they had been chosen? In which case, there must be some scheme that Pulcher was in on, and Vitellius was pulling the strings, but what it was eluded Cato for the present. His mind was already taxed to the limit. Besides, he had far more pressing concerns.
Macro followed him dutifully, deeply troubled by his friend’s unwillingness to be wary of Pulcher. Although the man had played his part well enough, Macro could not bring himself to believe that Pulcher had changed in the years since their last encounter. Some men were like that, of fixed character, immutable, for good or for evil. Pulcher was such a man, Macro was sure of it. And therefore a danger to himself and Cato as long as he was allowed to live.
Cato paced across the width of the track where it emerged onto the ledge where the mine camp had been constructed, hands on hips.
‘Twenty feet, I’d say. That’s good. A very narrow front indeed.’ He half turned to indicate the stretch of ground leading up to the corner of the procurator’s house. ‘If we continue the wall along there then we can hit the rebels with javelins and rocks, in their right flank.’
Macro nodded. It was an ideal set-up. The enemy would have to climb the track and endure the barrage on their unprotected side, and then only be able to bring no more than eight men into action at once. While those waiting to join the fight would be whittled down by a rain of missiles from above. It was the kind of position that could be held by a very small number of committed men against an army. For a while at least. As the Spartans had discovered at Thermopylae.
‘The trick of it will be making sure we have time to withdraw from one wall to the next in good order,’ Cato continued. ‘Good timing will be vital.’
‘If anyone can handle that then the Guards can, sir. They’re good soldiers.’
Cato shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Good as the men of the Second Legion?’
‘The men of the Second Legion aren’t just anyone, sir.’
Cato laughed. ‘Well said. And it might even be true.’
Long shadows stretched across the mining camp as the sun dipped towards the hills. It would be dark within the hour, Cato calculated. ‘I’d better sort out the watch roster and passwords for the night. Your century will be on first watch, so get them off the work detail and get ’em fed. I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and marched off down the track while Cato made his way to the hall of the procurator’s house that now served as the cohort’s headquarters. In the normal run of things there would be a daily round of paperwork to deal with concerning strength returns, disciplinary issues, inventory reports, leave applications, promotional recommendations and the plethora of other matters requiring the attention of a cohort commander. Being on active service had the virtue of dispensing with some of those burdens at least. As he sat at his desk Cato sent for some food and watered wine, then bent to the task of setting out the watches for the coming night, as well as the password. He paused a moment, searching his mind for inspiration, and then inscribed a phrase on the waxed tablet, ‘they shall not pass’. It seemed apposite, and would remind the men of their duty in the days to come. Then, as Metellus brought him a light meal of cured pork and bread, together with a goblet of wine, Cato set aside the tablet and stylus and ate hungrily. Replete, he made his way to one of the sleeping chambers that opened onto the garden. Night had fallen and the sky was cloudless and Cato paused on the threshold, looking up at the cold serenity of the stars.
There had been nights like this he had shared with Julia in Palmyra, a city under siege. Soon he would be under siege again, but this time there was no Julia to share the keen poignancy of being alive and in love in the face of imminent death. Instead his heart felt cold and his mind was preoccupied by the responsibilities and loneliness of command. He had made all the necessary preparations for the defence of the mine. He shared Macro’s grudging confidence in the quality of the Praetorians and knew that they would acquit themselves well in the coming battle.
Cato entered the sleeping chamber, sat on the corner of his bed and untied and took off his boots, before flopping back onto the horsehair-stuffed bedroll. The aches in his muscles began to ebb away, replaced with a warm, weary glow that soon lulled him to sleep before he was aware of it. A moment later he was snoring. And that’s how Macro found him after the signal for the first watch sounded over the mine. At first Macro was tempted to wake his friend, but there was nothing to report. All was quiet along the wall overlooking the ruined settlement. It was better to let the younger man rest, Macro reasoned. In the days to come, the cohort would need its commander on good form, sharp and responsive. The lives of the men would depend on Cato’s unclouded judgement. So he left Cato to sleep and went to his own bed in the room shared by the other centurions. Those off duty were already asleep and their snores rumbled fitfully as they slept. Macro undressed in the darkness and eased himself down onto his bed. He folded his arms behind his head and for a while mused about the darkness of spirit that seemed to have overtaken his friend, caused by the loss of his wife. Thoughts began to slip and slide and blur into each other and then Macro too was asleep, adding his deep snores to the unrhythmic cacophony of the others.
‘Sir! Wake up!’
Cato felt a hand shake his shoulder, gently at first, then more rigorously as he refused to stir. He blinked his eyes open and then wished he had not, as bright light pierced the room through the window overlooking the garden. Squinting, he made out the face of the surgeon, ashen and worried.
‘What . . . What is it?’
‘It’s the patient, sir. Procurator Nepo.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead, sir. Stone-cold dead when I went to him just now.’
‘Dead?’ Cato sat up at once and swung his legs out of the bed. He was furious with himself for letting himself fall asleep without leaving instructions to be woken before dawn. He feared it would make him look weak and self-indulgent, and give the lie to the impression he always strove to create of being the kind of tough, cool-headed, ascetic officer that set the best example to the men that followed him. He rubbed his eyes.
‘What happened?’
The surgeon shook his head. ‘He was fine when I looked in on him last night. Sleeping peacefully. No reason to think there was any problem. And now . . .’
‘Let’s go.’ Cato paced to the door barefoot and out into the corridor as he led the way to the procurator’s sleeping chamber. The door was open and Cato saw one of the orderlies standing helplessly beside the bed. Nepo was lying on his back, one arm outstretched at his side while the other lay across his stomach. His eyes were open wide
, staring up at the ceiling, as his mouth gaped open around a protruding tongue. Cato took this in, then leaned his ear to the procurator’s mouth for a moment, but there was no breath on his lips. He pressed his ear to the chest, but there was no heartbeat. The skin was cool, the cold of a man several hours dead.
Cato stepped back. ‘When did you last check on him?’
‘An hour before midnight. Last thing on my rounds before I turned in, sir.’
‘I see.’ Cato looked to the orderly. ‘Find Centurion Macro and bring him here at once.’
The man saluted and hurried from the room.
‘What was the cause of death, in your opinion?’ asked Cato. ‘Did he die of his wounds?’
The surgeon rubbed his cheek. ‘I don’t see how, sir. He was much improved since we rescued him. I had set the limbs, dressed the cuts. There’s no sign of bleeding. Not enough to kill him at least. He was not feverish. I did everything I could for him and I’d say he had every chance of a good recovery. Aside from the damage to his legs, that is. I can’t see how anything I did contributed to his death, sir.’
‘Easy there, I’m not blaming you. I just need to know your opinion on what might have caused his death.’
‘Sometimes people die, despite my best efforts, sir. For no apparent reason at all. Their hearts just give out. After all, given what Nepo has been through, that wouldn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility.’
Cato thought a moment and shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that. He was well enough when I spoke to him before. And I have every confidence in your care of your patients. So . . .’
The surgeon looked at him, chewed his lip for an instant. ‘So, what are you suggesting, sir? That he was killed? Who would do such a thing?’
‘Who indeed?’ Cato sighed. The most obvious candidates would be those he had betrayed when he surrendered the mine to Iskerbeles. But they were all dead, save the procurator’s three bodyguards. Pastericus had made no secret of his contempt for the procurator’s action, but had given no sign of murderous intent.
‘Sir? You sent for me.’
Cato looked round as Macro entered the chamber, already fully dressed and wearing his mail vest. Cato gestured towards the body and said simply, ‘Nepo’s dead.’
Macro strode over and looked over the corpse and then glanced at the surgeon. ‘Nice work, friend.’
‘Me?’ The surgeon clutched a hand to his chest. ‘No. But I had nothing to do with it, I swear.’
Macro rolled his eyes. ‘Just a soldier’s joke. Poor old Nepo,’ he continued without feeling and then paused a moment to contemplate the body. ‘Trusting the word of Iskerbeles did for him in the end after all, just like all the other poor bastards. Won’t be many tears shed for him, I’ll warrant.’
‘Maybe not,’ Cato agreed. ‘But you’re not addressing the obvious question.’
‘All right, then. How did he die?’
‘The surgeon can’t explain it. Not yet.’
‘Glad to see that the army is continuing its policy of recruiting the brightest and the best in the field of medicine.’ Macro hunkered down beside the bed and examined the body. There were many bruises on Nepo’s chest, arms and face, some quite livid in hues of yellow and purple. The procurator’s head was pressed into the soft silk bolster and Macro eased it up so that his ears and neck were fully exposed. He took the man’s chin, turned it firmly to the side and clicked his tongue. ‘See there?’
He pointed to a cluster of red marks just visible beneath the bristles on Nepo’s neck. Forcing the stiffening muscles of the neck the other way he revealed similar marks on the other side.
‘What do you think?’ asked Cato.
‘Looks like someone throttled him.’ Macro turned to the surgeon. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t see that.’
‘But why would I?’ asked the surgeon. ‘Why would anyone want to kill one of my patients?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cato responded. ‘There’s nothing for you to do here now. Go and see to the wounded. Close the door behind you.’
The surgeon bowed his head and left the room. Once they were alone Cato went to the opposite side of the bed and crouched down for a better look at the marks. They were distinguishable enough and distributed as you would expect from Macro’s conclusion. ‘Strangled then.’
‘Best way,’ Macro mused. ‘You might get away with it, given all the other bruises. A slit throat would give the game away. Strangling the man would be quick enough and quiet enough. It’s what I’d have done.’
‘And did you?’ Cato raised a slight smile.
‘Got better things to do than waste any effort on a spineless tosser like Nepo. And thank you very much for the slur on my good character.’
‘Well, someone strangled him.’
Macro snorted. ‘Ah, come on, Cato. Let’s not beat about the bush. It’s obvious. This is Pulcher’s work.’
‘Why Pulcher?’
‘Because this is what he does. He’s the one the bigger fish go to when they want someone dead. That’s how it was back in Gaul, and I’ll bet it’s how it has been ever since. The Gods know how many people have died at his hand.’
‘Macro, that’s all supposition. We have no proof.’
‘Trust me, Pulcher did this. If not him then who? Tell me that.’
Cato considered the notion. It did sound feasible. Pulcher may have been acting under the orders of someone else. Someone who wanted the procurator killed. Then again, it was possible that one of the men had stolen into the room in the hope of looting something valuable, and disturbed the procurator. But if so, it would have been dark and they would have fled without any chance of being identified. No, whoever had killed Nepo had done it very deliberately. For a reason. And maybe Macro was right that Pulcher had been put up to the job by someone. If so, who would want the procurator dead? And why?
Macro had been watching him, and pursuing his own line of thought. ‘Pulcher was sent to kill him. That’s why Pulcher has been with us all along. It’s why he was chosen for this expedition. And who chose him? That snake Vitellius, that’s who. Are you seriously suggesting there is no connection? So the question is, why would Vitellius want Nepo silenced?’
Cato thought a moment. ‘What did he know that could be so important that he would be killed to prevent him speaking of it? He’s been stuck in this mine, in the arse end of the province. Far from the seat of power in Rome . . . So it’s likely to be something to do with the mine. But what?’
Macro gazed down at Nepo for a moment and shrugged. ‘Beats me. But it has to be something to do with the silver. After all, what else is there in this Gods-forsaken hole?’
They were interrupted by a shout and the sound of boots running down the corridor outside the sleeping chamber. There was one knock before the door flew open and a breathless Praetorian entered and saluted quickly.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Cato demanded, angered by the intrusion on their line of inquiry.
‘Enemy in sight, sir . . . Just come from the observation post . . . The optio says to tell you that it’s the rebel army.’
‘Fuck, they’re quick off the mark,’ Macro muttered.
Cato was already making for the door. ‘My respects to the optio. Tell him we’re coming directly.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The Praetorian saluted, turned and dashed off along the corridor.
Cato ran back to his quarters and hurriedly put on his boots. He left word for Metellus to follow on with his armour and weapons and then left the procurator’s house, running ahead of Macro as they made their way through to the slave quarters and the water tanks and observation tower beyond. The duty optio was standing on the small platform and squeezed to one side as the two officers climbed up the ladder to join him. There was no need for the optio to point out the enemy’s location. A large cloud of dus
t marked their passage across the plain as they made for the mine. Tiny bands of men were visible on the edge of the cloud and sunlight glittered off weapons and armour so that it looked like the ripples of a distant river. Ahead of the enemy host rode a screen of horsemen, scouting ahead. Cato calculated that the nearest of them was no more than four miles away. The scouts would reach the mine within the hour, the rest of the army following up shortly after noon. Time was short.
‘Optio, go back to headquarters. Tell the officers that the enemy will being investing the mine before the end of the day. I want our defences finished before then. Centurion Musa is to have his men start work on the final wall at once. Go.’
As the optio clambered down the ladder and ran back past the water tanks, Macro scrutinised the approaching enemy, trying to estimate their numbers. ‘What do you think? Five, no . . . ten thousand?’
‘Hard to say with all that dust. Could be more.’ Cato watched them a moment longer before he turned to look to the east. ‘I don’t think we can pin our hopes on Vitellius reaching us any time soon. It’s up to us, Macro. The Second Cohort is going to have to handle this by itself.’
Macro nodded and spat. ‘Or die in the attempt.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘What do you reckon they’ll do first?’ asked Macro.
Beside him, Cato was surveying the rebel army as it set up camp a quarter of a mile beyond the blackened remains of the settlement. Macro’s earlier estimate of their strength was about right, he calculated. Over ten thousand, many of whom were women and children camp followers on closer inspection. Still, they considerably outnumbered the Praetorians and they would be inspired by the success of their rebellion. Morale would be high, and the fear of the consequences of defeat was sufficient to motivate their desire to fight even more fanatically. There was no urgency in their actions as they set about making camp. They divided into clusters of wagons, carts and shelters and Cato guessed that these represented different tribal groupings. The heart of the camp was dominated by a collection of Roman military tents, no doubt looted from the stores of an outpost overrun by the rebels. The tents were set up in a square around an open patch of ground at the centre of which was the largest of them, the headquarters of Iskerbeles.
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