‘Hmmm,’ Cato responded rather than replied.
As a result of Cimber’s warning Cato had given orders for the entire cohort to be ready to repulse any attack that night. Ten men stood on the wall, in clear view of their enemy, while their comrades sat out of sight behind the parapet. Two centuries were on the wall, while the remaining men formed the reserve at the foot of the ramp. The prefect had given strict orders not to make a noise and the men sat or lay on the ground. The veterans took the chance to rest, or even sleep, while their less experienced comrades stared into the mid distance, or fiddled with straps or parts of their kit, trying to find some form of comfort or distraction while they awaited the attack. Stocks of kindling had been bound in old rags soaked in oil and these makeshift faggots were arranged in piles along the wall. Braziers were placed at a safe distance between the faggots and the flames kept as low as possible so as not to provide any illumination that might betray the presence of the men behind the wall and rampart. The sharp tang of heated pitch hung over the gatehouse from the pot simmering away above another small brazier at the rear of the tower.
‘Shame there’re no caltrops to be had,’ Macro mused. ‘Nothing like caltrops for delivering a nasty surprise for anyone making a night attack.’
‘We’re as ready as we could be.’ Cato stood with a straight back, trying to exude a reassuring calmness in front of the other men in the tower. At the same time his hand was rhythmically closing and opening around his sword handle and he frowned as soon as he was aware of the movement, forcing his hand to drop to his side. Despite the quality of the men he commanded, there were some aspects of the Praetorians’ equipment that disadvantaged them in such a situation. Whereas the legions carried javelins and fought with short swords, the Praetorians were armed with spears in addition to their swords. Heavier than javelins and not so well designed for piercing shields and skewering the men behind, the spears were only useful for when the enemy closed in. What stocks of javelins, bows and other weapons the garrison of the mine might have possessed had been cleaned out by the rebels. A few men had slings of their own, used for hunting, and the only other missiles that could be deployed were the small heaps of stones and rocks along the rampart. There was going to be little to prevent the enemy from getting close to the wall before they suffered any casualties.
‘Must be the sixth hour of the night by now,’ said Macro. ‘If those bastards leave it much longer it’ll be dawn before they get anywhere near the walls.’
Cato looked at him by the very faint light of the stars and a sliver of the moon that looked like an incision in the firmament. ‘If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were a little nervous.’
‘Fuck that,’ Macro whispered irritably. ‘I’m just impatient. Sooner they try to rush us the better as far as I’m concerned. I need to get stuck in.’
From almost any other man Cato would have regarded the remark as an overconfident boast. But Macro meant it, and his eyes and ears strained for the first indication of the enemy’s approach. The rebels seemed to be in no hurry. As night had fallen their camp had resounded with snatches of song and cheers as some of the men wrestled or boxed, surrounded by dense circles of their peers. It was only as the fires began to die out that the sounds began to diminish and the hiss of cicadas took over.
‘There!’ Cato risked leaning a little over the parapet, his head turned towards the sound his keen ears had detected: the faint susurration of bare feet through the ashes of the town. Sure enough, a moment later he fancied he could see dark shapes flitting from cover to cover amid the ruins. He waited a moment longer to be certain, rather than risk the humiliation of jumping at shadows in front of his men. Then he turned to one of the soldiers at the rear of the tower, his face just visible in the wan flame of a small oil lamp burning in an iron bracket nailed to the corner post.
‘Make the signal.’
The Praetorian snatched up the torch lying at his feet and offered it up to the small flame. The oil-soaked rags wrapped round the head of the torch caught fire readily. As soon as the flame flared the Praetorian leaned over the rail at the rear of the tower and held the torch out as he moved it from side to side. At once the centurions and optios moved down the lines of their centuries, shaking, kicking and prodding the men into life. Others began to stoke up the fires in the braziers and add more fuel, sending small swirls of sparks into the dark air. The men concealed behind the parapet took up their weapons and prepared to defend the rampart.
Cato and Macro were still listening hard when a voice cried out in the night and the sound of feet became a rush, and running figures abruptly emerged from the darkness, as if rising up from the ground. All along the wall they surged forward, clasping their weapons tightly.
‘Here they come!’ Cato called out. ‘Cornicen, sound the alarm!’
He exchanged a brief nod with Macro before the latter hurried down the ladder to join his men.
The trumpeter pursed his lips, puffed his cheeks and blew hard into the mouthpiece. A flat note blasted from the horn and echoed off the cliff above. At once, the men concealed behind the parapet leaned their spears on the walkway as they stood up, raising their shields and holding rocks ready to hurl at the oncoming rebels. Those armed with slings were given space on either side and whirled their weapons before throwing their arms forward and releasing their shot into the massed ranks surging out of the night. It was impossible to see the fall of shot, or indeed whether they struck an enemy, but it was hard for Cato to believe it was possible to miss a target amid the seething horde rushing towards him.
‘Get the faggots over!’ Cato called down to the Praetorians behind the wall. Men impaled the bundles on the tips of their spears and ignited them over the braziers before carrying them up to the top of the wall. Then, swinging them back, they bunched their muscles and flung the blazing faggots up and over the wall. Inscribing a brief fiery arc across the ditch they plunged down, bursting on the ground, and across the heads and shoulders of the nearest attackers as they illuminated the scene along the front of the wall. The red glare highlighted the rebels, their mix of weapons and armour, their wild expressions of battle rage and the bewildered terror of those swept up in their first action.
Cato cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Rocks!’
An instant later the defenders were hurling them down at the rebels. Some fell harmlessly, while others cracked off shields and deflected off helmets, but the rest struck home, tearing flesh, cracking bones or simply delivering numbing or stunning blows to the enemy. Those that fell simply disappeared in the flow of bodies rushing towards the wall. Now Cato could see the ladders carried with them.
The arrows and slingshot of the rebels were upon the defenders before they realised it. Splinters flew off the rail close to Cato’s hand and he felt the impact of the lead shot as it glanced off his shoulder over his head. Others were not so lucky and the first Praetorian casualties tumbled back from the wall, some with arrow shafts protruding from and through their arms and necks. The air was filled with the crack of impacts and the whirr of missiles whipping past the heads of the defenders to fall some distance behind the wall.
‘Shields!’ Cato called out. ‘Shields up!’
He hefted his own, covering his chest and as much of his face as he could without obscuring his overview of the fight. Around him and along the wall the Praetorians held their oval shields higher as they continued to bombard the enemy with rocks. As the furious exchange of shot continued the rebels swarmed over the lip of the outer ditch and scrambled down the slope towards the obstacles planted at the bottom of the incline. Stretches of the ditch were illuminated by faggots that had fallen short and now provided enough light for attackers to pick their way through the sharpened stakes. Others were not so fortunate and blundered onto them, or were impaled as they were pushed forward from behind. The rebels pressed on, wrestling the obstacles free and throwing them down before they reached the ste
eper slope at the foot of the rampart. There were more obstacles in their way now. Sharpened stakes driven into the rampart with the points angled down so as to make them impossible to use for climbing the wall. The ladder carriers reached the ditch and began to raise their burdens up before letting the tops fall against the wall. At once men scurried up, working their way round the sharpened stakes protruding between the rungs, then readying their shields as they neared the top of the wall where the Romans were waiting.
The rattle of slingshot and arrows ceased as the rebels could no longer continue for fear of hitting their own men. Despite the cessation of the missile barrage Cato kept his shield raised as he watched the progress of the assault from the top of the gatehouse. Now was the time for the Praetorians to take advantage of the reach their spears afforded them. Leaning between the battlements the men on the wall thrust down at their enemies climbing to the top of the ladders.
Macro took his shield and spear from his optio and edged in between two of his men just in front of the century’s standard bearer. The wall had been built primarily to keep brigands out of the mine, and prevent slaves attempting to escape, and the battlements were lower and more widely spaced than they would have been on an army fort. No doubt the contractor had built it this way to save on costs and bump up his profit margin. As a result Macro and the other soldiers would be exposed to more risk. Three of his men had already been downed, two struck in the face by slingshot, one of whom was dead, while the third had taken an arrow just below his throat. All three were already laid out at the foot of the rampart where the surgeon and his orderlies were attending to their wounds of the living as best they could.
‘You know the score, boys!’ Macro yelled as loudly as he could. ‘Don’t let any of the bastards set foot on our wall!’
Some of the men had time to answer with a cheer before the first of the ladders rose up and clattered against the battlements. The Praetorians raised their spears and angled the tips down as the rebels scrambled up towards them. There was a sharp rap of wood on masonry close by and Macro’s head snapped to the right. The stiles of a ladder projected a short distance above the battlement and were already trembling as the first rebels scaled the rungs. Macro leaned his shield against the wall and thrust his spear at the man to his left. ‘Hold this!’
Then he grasped the stiles and pushed at them, but the angle and weight were too great to send it back. Instead Macro wrenched the top of the ladder to the side as he looked down to see the panicked expression of a rebel six feet below. The momentum was just sufficient to carry the ladder over and it crashed to the side, taking two men down with it as they tumbled onto their comrades and swept them into the bottom of the ditch.
‘Ha!’ Macro snarled with satisfaction as he took up his shield and spear again. A glance to either side revealed that his men were managing to throw back some of the ladders and dealing with those rebels who were scaling the remaining ladders. A few feet away one of the Praetorians stabbed down into the bare shoulder of a young warrior and the man flung out his arm and arced his back, lost his grip and fell back into the ditch. The next man on the ladder did not hesitate to climb the rungs to replace his downed comrade. Closer to the battlement he raised a shield over his head and the Praetorian stabbed at it without effect.
Macro pushed along the wall and taking a firm grip on the shaft of the spear he thrust at an angle beneath the shield into the rebel’s armpit, feeling the momentary jarring as a rib gave way and the point tore into the man’s lung. Macro pulled the spear free with a gush of blood and, by the light of a faggot blazing just below, saw his foe’s face twisted in agony. But he forced himself up the last few rungs and thrust himself over the battlement, tumbling onto the walkway, knocking down the Praetorian who had stood in his path. The soldiers on either side stabbed him several times as he tried to regain his feet, then tossed him down the rampart behind the wall where one of the reserves finished him off. A quick glance revealed shadowy figures, highlighted in red by the glare of the faggots, fighting along the wall, but none of the enemy had yet crossed it. Romans and rebels traded blows in an unequal struggle as the former had all the advantages of the high ground and cover to fight from. Bodies dropped regularly from the ladders, flattening their comrades or hitting the ground directly and rolling down into the ditch. There were a handful of Roman casualties, caught by a weapon or hit by rocks thrown from below. But Macro was content that the fight was going their way. The wall would be held and the spirit of the enemy would waver, and then they would fall back. More than likely that would be the only action of the night.
‘Keep those bastards back, lads!’
Then he noticed a group of men moving in unison emerge from the dark mass of the ruins, working their way through their comrades as they approached the gatehouse. A moment later he made out the long dark length of the reinforced post that they were carrying. Forcing his way along the rear of the walkway, Macro leaned his spear against his shoulder and cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘Prefect Cato!’
He called out twice before one of the men in the tower heard him and drew Cato’s attention. As soon as Cato appeared Macro thrust his hand in the direction of the rapidly approaching danger.
‘They’ve got a ram!’
Cato dashed back across to the front of the tower and quickly picked the group of men out, still some fifty feet from the gates.
‘Sir!’ Metellus shouted at him. ‘Keep your bloody head down!’
It took a brief instant before Cato reacted to the warning, and the rim of his shield was rising as an arrow struck the trim and shattered in front of his face. He felt a sharp, burning sensation in his left eye and tried to blink as he instinctively recoiled and stumbled back from the battlements. His eyelid caught on something protruding from the socket. Cato reached up a hand and lightly traced his fingers up his cheek until they touched blood and grazed a splinter, two inches or so in length. At once his eyeball exploded in intense pain and he clenched his teeth and groaned deep in his throat. Then he recalled the ram and dropped his hand as he spun round.
‘Get the pitch over to the front of the tower! You two. Now.’
The Praetorians set down their shields and spears and picked up the wooden handles on the iron bars either side of the gently bubbling cauldron. When both were ready they heaved it off the brazier and carefully paced across the tower as Cato and the others kept out of the way in case they stumbled and the heated pitch was spilled, causing terrible injuries to those nearby. Almost blinded by pain, Cato took shelter behind his shield as he returned to the front of the tower. Since there was no attempt to scale the gate-house it was the only target the rebels could aim for without hitting their comrades, and they now turned their attention on it with a vengeance as the men carrying the ram reached the bridge across the ditch and made for the gate.
Cato thrust his hand towards the men carrying the pitch. ‘Get some cover over them! Now!’
With shields angled high the soldiers held them sideways to make the most of the shelter as the group took up position by the front of the tower. Cato risked a glance over the battlement as a slingshot crashed off the rounded iron hand guard. Twenty feet below, the men holding the ram were foreshortened and now he could see that all of them were wearing Roman helmets and armour. At the side of the ram was a large warrior urging his comrades on. He looked up just then and met Cato’s gaze and gave a harsh shout in his own tongue. Cato recognised him as the man who had stood with Iskerbeles earlier. Then the pain from the splinter struck again, like a red-hot pin thrust into his eye. Each blink only seemed to make the pain worse and he felt light-headed.
‘No!’ he hissed to himself, fighting the urge to faint. Not now. Not when his men needed him. Growling with anger and agony, Cato snatched a spear from the nearest Praetorian and raised it swiftly, taking aim at the warrior. He hurled it down with all his strength and it flew true. But the war
rior’s reactions were just as swift and he threw himself against the side of the gate and the point of the spear bit deep into the thick planks of the bridge and quivered there. Cato stepped smartly back into the shelter of the battlements as two arrows flashed through the gap.
‘Get ready to pour the pitch, on my order!’
The two Praetorians hunkered down next to the wall as their comrades continued to provide cover with their shields. Then the tower trembled under Cato’s boots. There was a short pause and again the impact and this time Cato heard the thud of the ram against the gates. It was time to act. He bit back on the torment from his wound and forced his mind to think clearly. Drawing a deep breath he pointed to the men carrying the pitch.
‘Make ready.’
They bunched their muscles and braced their boots as they prepared to take the strain.
‘The rest of you, listen. As soon as the pitch is over, you rise up and you use your spears, rocks, whatever you can on the rest of the men on the ram. Kill ’em all. You hear?’
There were some nods. Some faces were in darkness but Cato sensed their readiness to act. He braced his shield, looked over and saw the Asturian warrior slowly swinging his arm and calling off the rhythm. Then the ram swung forward again, crashing against the gate timbers.
‘Now!’
The Praetorians rose swiftly to their feet, continuing the upward and outward movement of the small cauldron with their arms and then at full stretch they dropped the handle nearest the battlement and the thick smoking liquid gushed down towards the men on the bridge. Cato did not see it hit them but every man for fifty paces on either side heard the shrieks that pierced even the din of the battle. The front of the ram dropped and those at the back kept hold as their burned comrades staggered back screaming in agony. There was no respite for the injured as the Praetorians hurled their spears down and followed up with rocks. Two men went down, pierced by spears, another was struck on the head with a rock and fell senseless onto the bridge. More were injured by further rocks and those at the rear of the ram released their grip and turned to flee. Their leader had been untouched by the boiling pitch and roared at them in frustration, running back across the bridge to try and drag more men forward. But the missiles from the tower undermined their courage. Even so, such was their fear of him that he soon gathered a group about him and began to force his way back to the ram. Below the tower the front of the ram and the bridge were splashed with the steaming fluid.
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