Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Any sign of trouble?’ asked Cato.

  ‘No, sir. Quiet as lambs. I think after last night’s set-to they’ve lost the stomach for a fight. They’ll not be trying that again in a hurry.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’ Cato crossed to the front of the tower and looked out over the open ground before the settlement. Although the enemy had retrieved the wounded, the dead were still lying out there in the ditch and already the hot air was humming with the sound of flies. Several buzzards were wheeling overhead and more were stalking over the corpses, plucking at them with their sharp beaks.

  ‘Want me to have the men remove the bodies, sir?’ asked Macro.

  ‘No. Leave ’em out. It’ll let the enemy know what to expect if they make another attempt.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But they are going to get a little high in this heat. A few days from now, this place is going to stink worse than a tannery.’

  ‘Then let’s hope the breeze blows away from the mine. The odour will help undermine their spirit.’

  Beyond the ruins, the enemy camp sprawled across the landscape and a fresh column was marching to join them from the south, stirring up a dusty haze in its wake.

  ‘What do you think they’ll do next, sir?’ asked Pulcher.

  Cato considered for a moment. ‘They might try to starve us out. But that suits us. Time is on our side. Not theirs. The longer they remain sat there, the more they hand the initiative over to Vitellius and the other forces we have in Hispania. Iskerbeles must know that. I doubt we’ll have to wait long before he attempts something else. In his place, I’d try another ram, only covered this time. If he does then we’ll destroy the bridge. He’ll then have to fill in the ditch before he can move the ram up . . . Measures and counter-measures, Centurion. That’s how sieges play out. I’ve seen enough of them to know.’

  Macro glanced at the other centurion. ‘But you wouldn’t know much about that, would you? Being as you’ve served in the Guard, except for that brief spell when you were acting as a spy and assassin in Gaul.’

  Pulcher stared straight ahead, unflinching. ‘I was doing my duty and obeying my orders, just like any other soldier.’

  ‘Except your duties were not quite like most other soldiers’, were they?’ Macro half turned towards him. ‘I’m curious, what exactly are your orders right now?’

  Pulcher pursed his lips and sniffed. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning, I wonder what you know about the death of Gaius Nepo?’

  Pulcher faced Macro directly. ‘Are you accusing me of being involved in that?’

  Macro did not flinch. ‘Not so much being involved as being responsible, actually.’

  ‘I see. And you have proof to back up such an accusation? No you don’t. So kindly keep your wild speculations to yourself . . . sir.’

  ‘I know you, Pulcher. I know what kind of man you are and what you’re capable of. And we’re a long way from any place where due process counts.’

  Pulcher’s lips lifted in a sneer. ‘Sir, if you really believe what you say, and I am capable of the kinds of things you think I am, then wouldn’t the wisest course of action be to leave me alone, eh?’

  Cato drew a sharp breath. ‘That’s enough of that, gentlemen. We’ll have plenty of time to investigate the procurator’s death once we have seen off the enemy. Which, while you have been enjoying your little chat, has been on the move.’

  All three turned to stare over the battlements towards the enemy camp. A column of men was making its way towards the ruins, accompanied by several carts. There was no sense of haste about them, nor any sign of siege ladders or another ram.

  ‘What are they up to?’ asked Macro.

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  The column passed through the settlement and halted, safely beyond the range of slingshot. While a handful of men marked out a square some forty paces on each side with posts, the rest downed most of the tools they had been carrying and returned to the burned settlement. Soon the first of them returned with cut stone and began to build up the sides of the square, with the foundations of towers on the wall closest to the gatehouse. The sound of sawing and the occasional crash of falling debris came from the settlement as more men emerged between the buildings to stockpile timbers.

  ‘They’ll be erecting some protective earthworks,’ Cato decided. ‘The question is, what will they be protecting? A siege tower, maybe?’

  ‘Or a catapult,’ said Pulcher. ‘Or a mantlet for another ram.’

  As they continued watching, more men from the cohort climbed onto the wall to observe the enemy at work. Slowly an earthwork rose around the square, with stones at the bottom, then earth piled over that and packed down. Another party of rebels began to dig out a ditch to surround the small field fortification, while others constructed a large timber shelter in the heart of the site.

  The three officers continued to watch the work progress throughout the afternoon until dusk approached. It was then that Pastericus climbed into the tower and approached Cato and saluted.

  ‘Sir, if I may?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know what the enemy are up to. I’ve seen it before. Plenty of times. Right here.’

  Cato cocked any eyebrow. ‘So?’

  ‘They’re digging a mineshaft. That shelter in the middle, that’s the entrance to the tunnel, sir.’

  Cato and the two centurions turned to scrutinise the work. Sure enough, there were men emerging from behind the shelter carrying wicker baskets to add to the steadily rising ramparts. Cato was furious with himself for not seeing the obvious earlier. He had assumed the soil was being dug out solely for the fortifications.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Macro. ‘So that’s what they’re up to. And why not when they’ve got themselves a few thousand slaves with mining experience? Shit, we should have seen that coming.’

  Cato nodded. He was already imagining what the enemy had planned for them. The tunnel would steer a course directly towards the gatehouse, and then undermine it. Once they were ready, the pit props under the foundations would be set on fire and the whole structure would collapse, creating a massive breach through which the rebels would pour in their thousands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was a moonless night three days after the rebels had started digging their tunnel and Cato took one last look at the enemy fortification less than a hundred paces away. The turrets on the wall facing the gatehouse were clearly discernible against the backdrop of the campfires of the rebel army half a mile beyond. There was a sentry in each turret, and two more on the wall, as well as regular patrols in front of the mine. The soft hue of braziers around the entrance to the tunnel illuminated the workings for those labouring through the night as the tunnel crept underground towards the gatehouse. The sound of voices drifted across the open ground as the slaves worked, as well as the sounds of sawing and more voices amid the ruins away to the left where the rebels seemed to be gathering most of their timbers for the pit props. The sickening sweet stench of mortification that came from the bloated bodies in the ditch was mercifully less egregious during the cooler hours of the night. Even so, Cato’s nose wrinkled as a fluke of the breeze wafted the air up from the foot of the gatehouse. He turned his mind away from the reminder of the dead lying outside the wall.

  According to Pastericus the rebel mine workers were able to dig out as much as fifty feet of tunnel a day. In which case they were already halfway to their target. Given that it was likely that it would take perhaps ten more days for Vitellius to arrive, it was time to put a stop to it, Cato decided. He had resisted the temptation to attack earlier. It was better to let the enemy toil for a few days before destroying their work and forcing them to start again.

  He winced as there was a sharp stab of pain in his eye. The surgeon had been inspecting the wound each evening and pronounced t
hat he was satisfied with his progress. The pus discharge was quite normal, he claimed, and the absence of any foul smell from the dressing was a good sign that the wound had not gone bad.

  ‘A nice clean injury,’ the surgeon had smiled earlier that night as he peered closely at Cato’s eye. ‘And, if I may say so, a textbook extraction of the splinter with minimal trauma as a consequence.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ Cato sniffed. ‘It was somewhat traumatic from my end of the splinter, I can assure you.’

  The surgeon affected a hurt look. ‘I defy you to find anyone who could have done a better extraction by the light of a brazier, sir.’

  ‘Give me time.’ Cato could not see clearly out of his left eye once the dressing was removed. A thick grey veil seemed to obscure most details of the world about him, and when he blinked it was as if a small rough stone was caught under his eyelid. ‘Will I recover enough to have full sight?’

  The surgeon straightened his back and scratched his cheek. ‘It’s possible. Hard to say. Most eye injuries like yours lead to blindness. But the fact that you can see anything out of it is a good sign. There may be some lasting damage. I think you were very lucky, sir.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Of course. If the splinter had struck you in the pupil, or even the iris, then as likely as not you would have lost sight in that eye for good. As it was, it entered through the flesh beneath the socket before piercing the muscle at the bottom of the eye.’

  ‘I feel so fortunate.’

  The surgeon ignored the sarcasm as he prepared a fresh dressing and carefully placed it over the eye before tying a new bandage around Cato’s head. ‘Of course, I would advise plenty of rest, sir. But I know that’s not possible under the circumstances. So just try not to irritate the eye with rubbing or over-exerting yourself.’

  Cato stared at him with his good eye. ‘We are under siege, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I am bound to give you the benefit of my opinion, as your surgeon. If you ignore my advice then that’s up to you, but there my responsibility ends.’

  ‘I wish I had your job.’

  The surgeon stepped back a pace and revealed the bloodstained apron tied over his tunic. ‘Really, sir?’

  Now, it was close to midnight as far as Cato could tell, and it was time to put his plan into action. He climbed down from the tower and approached the dark mass of men waiting silently a short distance behind the gatehouse. Behind them loomed the curve of the inner wall that the Praetorians had been toiling to construct in an arc around the rear of the gates. It was the standard countermeasure when a breach was expected. If the enemy succeeded then they would climb over the ruins only to encounter the inner wall. When it was completed, it would contain them for a while at least, Cato hoped, but it would not be as strong as the existing wall. And time was short. The stock of dressed stone had already been used up in constructing the second wall and this new effort had required using the irregular rocks and boulders littering the base of the cliff above the mining camp. Hauling them down to the workings had taken much effort and, so far, the wall was barely more than a breastwork. If nothing was done to upset the progress of the enemy’s tunnel then the inner wall would only serve to delay them a short while before it was overwhelmed.

  Macro was waiting a few paces in front of the workers. He had stripped off his armour and wore a tunic, boots and sword belt. His face and limbs were blackened with a mixture of ash and fat so that his features were all but invisible.

  ‘Centurion Macro,’ Cato whispered. ‘If I didn’t know you were there, then I would never notice you.’

  ‘That’s the idea, sir.’ Macro grinned and his teeth loomed dully in the blackened oval of his face.

  ‘Are you and your men ready?’

  Macro nodded towards a group of twenty men standing slightly apart from the others. They too wore only tunics and carried only their swords. ‘They’re ready, sir.’

  ‘Centurion Secundus?’

  ‘Sir?’ Another figure stepped forward and saluted.

  ‘You understand what you have to do the moment the signal is given?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a figure standing at the centurion’s shoulder. Leaning closer, Cato recognised Tribune Cristus.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Tribune?’

  ‘I thought I would volunteer, sir. Now that my services are no longer required for keeping stock of our supplies.’

  Cato could not help a thin smile at the man’s umbrage. ‘Never underestimate the importance of that role, Tribune. That said, I dare say you can be spared such duties for the present.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You can fight with the Second Century until the siege is over. Just do your duty, and do as Centurion Secundus tells you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato looked round at the shadow figures facing him. Much depended on the success of the night’s enterprise. All the officers had been over every detail, and the men had all the equipment they needed: axes, ropes, jars of oil and tinderboxes. Unlike Macro’s team, the men of the Second Century were in full armour and their extra equipment was packed into several of the mine’s small handcarts. There was a tense stillness about the men and Cato knew that they could do with some encouragement. He cleared his throat gently before he began in a quiet tone.

  ‘Not a sound, lads. Not until you go into action. When the fighting starts, you can make it as loud as you like. Louder. Anything you can do to shake them up and make ’em panic. Go in like the Furies themselves and make the rebels regret the day they ever dreamed of defying Rome and our emperor . . . But don’t fail me. Or the rest of the cohort. That tunnel is days away from the wall. If you don’t succeed tonight then we’re going to lose our first and best line of defence.’ He paused to let them reflect on the importance of their task. ‘So go in hard. Destroy everything you can, and then get back here as fast as possible the moment you hear the recall. You’re already heroes. You don’t have to go and prove it by dying for Rome pointlessly. Any man who disobeys the order to withdraw will be on a charge, and have to endure fatigues until the siege is over. Do I make myself clear?’

  He detected some faint smiles in the dark faces of the nearest men.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Secundus said quietly. ‘We’ll play our part.’

  ‘Good.’ Cato clasped his forearm. ‘May the Gods go with you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Cato turned to Macro, not quite certain what to say as he was concerned for his friend’s safety. Macro saved him any embarrassment by giving him a quick farewell nod and turning to his men.

  ‘Come on, boys, on me, and keep it bloody quiet.’

  They padded off along the wall and were quickly swallowed up by the darkness. Cato stared after them a moment longer before he returned to the gatehouse and climbed back into the tower, his good eye straining to pick out any possible sign of danger that might further imperil Macro or the other men. But there was no sign that the enemy was alert to any threat. Over in the camp he could see tiny figures huddled about the hundreds of small fires and a large group about a big blaze near the tents of Iskerbeles and his closest followers. Cato smiled to himself. If all went well the rebel leader would soon be cursing his misfortune and his followers would start to question his ability to serve as their leader.

  Macro tested the rope one last time. The end was tied securely around a stake driven deep into the rampart behind the wall. There was no give in the rope and he held the coiled loops in his hand as he cautiously peered between the battlements at the very end of the wall next to the cliff. The rocks loomed to his right and towered up into the night, ready to echo any noise. Which was why Macro was moving with deliberate slowness and care. He glanced across the open ground that ran down to the edge of the ruins but the only sign of movement was far of
f, close to the entrance to the rebels’ tunnel. Several men were picking their way along the line of the wall, just beyond the range of any missiles hurled at them by the Romans.

  ‘Here we go,’ Macro muttered to his men. He lowered the rope down the front of the wall, paying it out until it was taut. Easing his legs over the parapet Macro grasped the rope in both hands and slowly descended into the ditch. The attack on the mine a few days earlier had concentrated on the gatehouse and the walls immediately either side. Macro was grateful that there were no bodies at the end that bordered the ravine, or here under the cliff. The last thing he wanted was to step in someone’s rancid guts, and then have the stink of it stick to him and risk giving away their position when they made for the enemy’s fortifications around the entrance to the siege tunnel. He felt the soles of his boots touch the ground and eased himself down gently. His heart was beating quickly as he looked round to make sure that he was quite alone in the ditch. Then, satisfied that it was safe for the others to follow him down, he gave two sharp tugs on the rope and stood to one side as it snaked around in the darkness and the first of his squad shimmied down beside him. Macro sent him directly to the top of the ditch to keep watch and signalled the next man to descend.

  When all of them had come down Macro gave a final tug and the sentry on the wall drew the rope up over the battlement.

  ‘Stay close, lads,’ Macro whispered. ‘Don’t want any of you to lose your way in the dark. Keep a close eye on the man in front of you and never lose sight of him. Wait here for now. When you get the word, you follow single file.’

  He climbed up the outer slope of the ditch and crouched down beside the man on watch.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘No, sir. No movement. At least not between us and the tunnel.’

  Macro strained his eyes and swept the open ground in front of them. He waited for a moment longer before he was prepared to accept that there was no sign of the enemy to their front, then turned to call softly to the men in the ditch. ‘Let’s go.’