Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  Casting his shield aside, Cato ran to the brazier used to heat the pitch and tore off his neck scarf. He wrapped the material around the base of the brazier and lifted it off the boards. Taking care not to let it tilt he paced steadily towards the front of the tower and tipped it over the battlement. The coals flared bright orange and white as they fell and landed across the front of the ram. Flames licked up from the pitch, spreading rapidly over the ram and across the bridge. One of the wounded, writhing on the boards, caught fire, the fibres of his clothing, drenched in the scalding pitch, going up in flames. He struggled to his feet and with an inhuman wailing howl ran from the gates, across the bridge, like some figure from a terrible nightmare, arms flailing as he blazed a path through his comrades and into the ruins.

  The impetus of the assault died away as all eyes were drawn to the fire on the bridge and no fresh rebels were prepared to climb the ladders. Fear flowed through their ranks and almost as one, they began to fall back, climbing out of the ditch and retreating past the still-blazing faggots, and then on into the shadows and darkness, leaving the bodies of the dead and wounded strewn along the ditch in front of the wall. One of the Praetorians jeered and his comrades joined in and hurled contemptuous insults at the rebels. Until a stream of arrows and slingshot resumed, sending the Praetorians ducking behind the cover of the battlements.

  Once Cato was certain that the attack was over, he staggered back to the rear of the tower and gestured to Metellus. ‘Keep a good watch. They might try again later. Though I doubt it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was no mistaking the concern in the optio’s expression. ‘Shall I fetch the surgeon, sir?’

  ‘No. I can manage.’

  Cato steeled himself for the climb down the ladder and then walked as steadily as he could to the field dressing station the surgeon had set up a short distance behind the gate.

  ‘Sir!’

  He turned to see Macro striding from the bottom of the rampart, a wide grin on his face.

  ‘Did you see ’em run? Like bloody sheep with a wolf at their backs, they were!’ Then, as he caught sight of Cato’s face in the light of the nearest brazier, Macro’s step faltered. ‘Oh . . . fuck.’

  ‘That good, eh?’ Cato forced a smile. ‘Seems like I ain’t going to be famed for my good looks when we get back to Rome. Walk with me, Macro.’

  As they made their way towards the surgeon Cato did his best to hide his pain. ‘I have to get this seen to. Take command for now. Keep the enemy back from the walls, and get the fire out, before it spreads to the gatehouse. Then report the casualty list to me. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Macro hesitated, and Cato clapped him on the back. ‘I’ll be fine. Not the first time I’ve had something annoying in my eye. You’ve got your orders, Centurion.’

  Macro nodded and turned away towards the gatehouse, calling for Petillius and his men to form up to fight the fire.

  Cato continued towards the dressing station and waited until the surgeon had finished extracting an arrow from a Praetorian’s arm. He handed over to one of his orderlies, wiped the blood from his hands on a strip of linen and turned towards Cato.

  ‘And what have we . . . Oh, it’s you, sir.’ He expertly looked over Cato’s limbs before his gaze returned to the prefect’s face. ‘What? Ah, I see now. Over here, where the light is better.’

  He led Cato to a brazier and sat him down on a stool before he leaned forward and inspected the injury closely.

  ‘Nasty . . . very nasty. Does it hurt?’

  Cato sighed. ‘What do you think? Just get it out and patch me up.’

  The surgeon tilted his head to the side. ‘It’s going to hurt, sir. I’ll do my best not to do any more damage.’ He turned to the instruments spread out across a trestle table and selected a pair of brass pincers and a scalpel. He used his fingers to gently position Cato’s head so as much light fell on the wound as possible, then reached forward with the pincers.

  ‘Keep still and look straight ahead. You ready, sir?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Then let’s start . . .’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘How’s the eye, sir?’ asked Macro as he entered the procurator’s office. The late Nepo’s flamboyant taste was as evident here as elsewhere in the house. The desk was constructed from polished walnut and the chair behind it was comfortably upholstered. A scroll case lined most of one wall and the others were painted to give the impression of looking out over luxuriant Campanian countryside with Vesuvius towering in the background. Given the actual surroundings of the house, this was a much-needed relief from the harsh spectacle of the mine workings and the camp that loomed above.

  After the splinter had been extracted and the wound dressed Cato had ignored the surgeon’s advice to rest until he had assessed the damage done by the burning pitch to the front of the gatehouse and the bridge. Some of the timbers had suffered superficial charring but there was no visible structural damage. The ram was dragged inside the wall and sawn into four lengths that were used to brace the interior of the gates. Cato returned to the tower and kept the men on the wall until dawn when there was enough light to see that the enemy was not lurking amid the ruins, ready to spring another assault on the wall. Only then had Cato handed command over to Macro in order to lie down for a few hours and rest his eye. He had left orders that he should be woken at the fourth hour, but the pain in his eye socket had made sleep impossible and he had given up after lying restlessly for a while and made his way to the office and sent for food and wine, the latter in the hope that it might dull the edge of the searing pain in his eye.

  ‘It’s fine, thank you,’ Cato replied. ‘Any movement from the enemy?’

  ‘Not much. Just some small parties retrieving the wounded. I let ’em get on with it. Didn’t seem worth the risk to send any men out to harass them.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Cato nodded. ‘Nothing else?’

  Macro thought a moment. ‘Not that I saw. They’ve sent forage parties out, and a few patrols. There’s one scouting along the far side of the ravine, but I’ve got a section of our lads shadowing them. If they discover anything useful, then so will we and block any chances they might have to try and take us unawares.’ Macro paused, a concerned expression on his face as he looked at the dressing that was tied around Cato’s head and covered the linen wad the surgeon had applied after the splinter had been removed and the wound cleaned. ‘What did the surgeon say about the eye? Any permanent damage?’

  Cato recalled looking at the bloody sliver of wood in the surgeon’s fingers some hours before. The extraction had been more agonising than anything he had previously experienced in his entire life. He had nearly passed out as he felt the slight pop as the end came out of the eyeball, and then again as it was drawn out of the bruised and swollen fold of skin below the eye. Almost as painful was the sharp burn of the vinegar the surgeon had used to clean the wound, and douse the dressing. The swelling had all but closed the eye, and through the small slit that remained everything was grey and blurry. After that it had been covered up by the dressing and bandage.

  ‘The surgeon said it should heal. Once the swelling goes down, he’ll have a better idea. In the meantime, I’m supposed to rest it as much as possible. Somehow, I suspect that Iskerbeles will not be so indulging as the surgeon might wish.’

  ‘Not much hope of that.’ Macro grinned briefly. ‘Typical . . . Bloody surgeon must think we’re still back in Rome and his patients can just take a few days off to recover.’

  ‘I suspect he has been disabused of that prospect by the events of last night. Have you got the butcher’s bill?’

  Macro nodded and fished a waxed tablet out of his sidebag and flipped it open. ‘Eight dead, twenty wounded, eight of whom are ready for duty. Most of the casualties were hit by slingshot and arrows. The rebels di
d not get much of a chance to go hand-to-hand with us.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Cato said. ‘I think we got off lightly. Iskerbeles must have thought we were going to be easy game after his encounters with the province’s garrison troops. Otherwise he’d never have risked a frontal attack like that. He’ll be wiser next time.’

  ‘Let him come. We’ll be ready for him. And he and his friends will get the same treatment.’

  ‘Any estimate on the enemy losses?’

  ‘Yes. Had a rough count as soon as there was enough light. Nearly a hundred dead, and as many wounded. Most of them were recovered by the rebels, but a fair few of those are out of the fight for good.’

  Cato considered the relative casualties. ‘The men did well. You can pass that on from me. And let the first two centuries have an extra wine ration. That should give everyone a little incentive to want to be on the wall when the next attack comes. Assuming the Praetorians love their drink as much as any other soldiers.’

  ‘I should think so,’ Macro responded wryly. He looked round at the painted walls for a moment before his gaze returned to Cato. ‘Any further thought about Nepo?’

  ‘The subject has been on my mind, yes. Especially after Iskerbeles was so adamant that we hand him over. He must prize the procurator rather highly to be prepared to let us march out of here and promise us safe passage.’

  ‘Not that he would have kept his promise. More than likely we’d have ended up in the grave pit like the rest of them.’

  ‘Maybe, but I got the sense that he might have kept his word. It’s Nepo he’s really after. Or rather, he’s after what the procurator knows.’

  ‘About the silver bullion, you mean?’

  ‘Of course. Iskerbeles must have realised that Nepo has hidden it. That’s why he wanted to keep his hands on the procurator when he offered us surrender terms.’

  ‘Then he is going to be heartily pissed off when he discovers that Nepo is dead. And there’ll be no question of letting us proceed on our merry way once he knows. He’ll assume that we know where the silver is, and then we’re going to get the same treatment as Nepo. Starting with you.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cato folded his hands. ‘I don’t particularly want to have to go through that. So there’s no question of surrender. We have nothing to bargain with, except that we know the bullion is buried in a collapsed tunnel. We could tell Iskerbeles that, but he’s hardly likely to let us go until he’s checked to see that it’s where we say. In any case, our orders are to ensure that the rebels don’t get their hands on the silver, at any cost.’

  They stared at each other for a moment before Macro shrugged. ‘We’re fucked either way, then.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. I prefer the more felicitous “Death or Victory”.’

  Macro slapped his hand on his thigh and roared with laughter. ‘Always said you knew how to use your tongue better than the best whore in the Subura.’

  ‘Not the most elevating of comparisons, but I thank you all the same, brother.’ Cato smiled, then gave in and laughed with his friend. As the laughter died down Cato drew a deep breath. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve seen you enjoy something. Not since we got back to Rome.’ Macro gestured towards one of the chairs opposite Cato. ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest. But spare me any lectures on grieving.’

  Macro hesitated before he sat. ‘I don’t mean to lecture. Just want you to know that I understand how great a loss Julia was. Damned fine girl. Beautiful and smart as a whip. A fine mother she would have been, and as good a wife as a man could—’

  ‘Stop!’ Cato spoke harshly. ‘You have it all wrong . . .’

  He could not say any more. How much could he bear to tell Macro? The truth? Surely not all of it. Not while Cristus served alongside them. That would be too much of a burden for Macro, as it already was for himself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Macro was confused. ‘Cato, lad, what is it?’

  Something within Cato revolted at the idea of sharing his pain. It was not just pride, it had to do with his rank and responsibility. He was in command of a cohort. Five hundred men looked to him as their leader. He had no right to reveal any weakness to them. To unburden himself. Not even to Macro, who he had known and befriended when Cato had first turned up at the fortress of the Second Augusta, a thin, shivering boy who had loved books and never brandished a sword before in his entire life. They had been fast friends across many years, first when Cato was a lowly optio, and then as centurions together, before Cato had been promoted to a higher rank. He was conscious of how much he owed to the closest friend he had ever had. And yet he felt reluctant to admit to any weakness in front of Macro.

  ‘I am not grieving for Julia. Not any more. Not since I found out she was seeing another man while I, while we, were campaigning in Britannia.’

  Macro’s jaw sagged slightly and he shook his head. ‘I knew something was up. But that? I don’t believe it, lad. Not Julia.’

  ‘Yes, Julia,’ Cato responded very deliberately. ‘There is no doubt. I saw the evidence with my own eyes. She loved someone else and would have told me so if she had lived long enough to be there for my return. I was betrayed by Julia, Macro. Now you know it all. Well, you know enough at least.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You should have said.’

  ‘What could I say?’ Cato responded wearily. ‘I was shocked. I felt like someone had ripped a hole in my chest and torn out my heart and guts. And I felt ashamed. Humiliated. Can you understand why I could not tell you at the time? It was far too painful to speak of. Even to you, my friend.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Macro thought a moment. ‘But I’d have known exactly what to do. You needed to be taken out for a night of drinking that would have drowned all thought of Julia. I’d have made sure of it. That would’ve sorted you out.’

  ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you horribly hungover . . .’

  Macro laughed. ‘Damn right! The Gods only know but you’ve been an utterly miserable sod ever since we got back, and now I know why. Poor fucking bastard. And it only gets worse from here.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You already had that scar across your face. Now you might end up with a patch over that eye. I’m telling you, Cato, you’d better set your sights on a blind woman next time, pardon the pun. No one else will have you, not without paying for it.’

  ‘Thanks for the comforting words.’

  ‘Oh, come on. We’re trapped here, with a mob of bloodthirsty rebels beyond that wall, itching to take our heads off and stick ’em on the top of a spear for all to see. We might be saved. Probably not. So, get things in perspective. Julia has gone. She was going to abandon you anyway. Best to put what you can’t change well behind you and deal with what is ahead, I say.’

  Cato stared at him. ‘And that’s supposed to cheer me up?’

  ‘No, just stop you behaving like a stock cuckold in one of those cheap stage comedies they put on in Rome. Pull your shit together, lad. The men need you.’ Macro rose from the chair. ‘We should check on the rebels and see what they’re up to. If you can manage it, sir.’

  Cato pushed his chair back and stood. He crossed to the pegs by the door and swung the sword belt over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go, Centurion.’

  As Macro followed him out of the office he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Hard words. It had not been easy to speak them but they were what the situation demanded, and more important still, what his friend most needed. His smile faded as he reflected on the torment that Cato must have endured since he had discovered the truth. No man should have to bear that. There was also disappointment with Julia. Macro had thought he knew her better than that. It just went to show, you could never be sure about what anyone else was really like. He glanced up at Cato’s back as the prefect strode ahe
ad of him through the courtyard of the procurator’s house. Well, he concluded, nearly anyone.

  It was late in the morning by the time they had concluded an inspection of the defences, which included a walk along the edge of the ravine that ran along the workings. The depth and force of the river rushing over and around the boulders fifty feet below precluded any easy crossing there. As did the steep cliffs on either side. Nevertheless they spotted an enemy patrol picking its way along the course of the river from the end of the ravine, searching for a crossing place.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ said Macro.

  Cato nodded in agreement, and watched the rebels for a while longer. Then one looked up and saw the Romans above them. He called his comrades’ attention to their observers and they shouted something that was lost against the rush and roar of the current. But the accompanying gestures were unmistakably hostile.

  Despite the formidable appearance of the torrent rushing through the ravine Cato did not want to leave anything to chance. ‘I want a watch kept over the ravine at all times.’

  Macro shot him a questioning look before he responded. ‘As you like, sir. Two men should cover it. Won’t take them too long to walk the line.’

  ‘No. A section, posted at regular intervals.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato took a last look down at the gesticulating rebels and turned away towards the wall where Pulcher’s reserves were on watch while the other centuries rested. The three officers exchanged a salute as Cato and Macro joined Pulcher in the tower.