He rose up into a crouch and crept forward a few paces before glancing back to make sure the others were following closely. Even as they moved as quietly as possible Macro was still agonisingly conscious of the light rumble of their boots and the faint rustle of the dry grass as they crossed the open ground towards the nearest of the burned-out buildings. At any instant he feared that they would be spotted, the alarm would be raised, and they would have no choice but to turn and race back to the wall and climb to safety. It would be the end of any attempt to deal with the tunnel that night. And more than likely that the enemy would take every precaution to keep the defenders bottled up behind their defences.
When he reached the crumbling wall of the first building Macro flattened himself against it and waved the men to take positions to his left. Once they were ready he moved on, pausing at the gaps between buildings to peer round the corner, only moving on when he was certain that the street was clear. They covered most of the distance without any trouble. Then, no more than fifty paces from the rear of the fortification, Macro heard voices close by and instantly halted his men and waved them down. Obediently they crouched down and were silent and still, all but invisible against the dark buildings in the night. Two rebels armed with spears emerged from the ruins six feet from Macro. They talked casually and Macro almost dared not breathe as he eased his sword from its scabbard and gestured to the man behind him to do the same, then pointed out one of the rebels as his target. Muscles tensed, Macro was about to spring forward, but the rebels strolled off in the opposite direction, quite unsuspecting of the Roman soldiers at their backs. Macro let them go, watching as they moved past the rear of the earthwork and turned away into the ruins.
The small column moved forward again, inching towards the rear wall where a gate was open and guarded by two men. There was no ditch at the rear of the earthwork. No doubt because it was closest to the rebels who had only anticipated a frontal assault by the Romans. The glow of a fire highlighted the corners of two ruins nearby and Macro glanced round the corner to see a large party of men, perhaps as many as fifty, he estimated. They were sitting around a fire, some fifty paces down the street. Their weapons were close to hand and there were the glows from other fires in other parts of the settlement. One at a time, the Romans crossed the gap and continued their approach. Macro moved as close as he dared and stopped as a small party of men dressed only in loincloths emerged through the gate pulling a handcart piled with soil. They dragged the cart to one side, where there was already a large mound of earth, and began to shovel the spoil from the cart. Their backs were to Macro as they worked and he realised that there would be a brief opportunity to act before they had emptied the cart and returned to the tunnel.
Turning to the next man, Macro whispered, ‘Spiro, with me, and wait until I strike before you do. Understand?’
‘Sir.’
Macro eased himself away from the side of the building and gestured to the Praetorian to fall in alongside him. They approached the men at the gate at a casual pace. They were almost upon the sentries before they were spotted and one of the rebels readied his spear in both hands to challenge them. Macro raised his canteen in his left hand and pretended to take a swig before offering it to the nearest of the rebels as he laughed. The sentry grounded his spear with a nervous chuckle and reached out for the proffered drink. Macro made to stagger and trip and as he stumbled towards the man he thrust his sword into his guts, angling up under the ribcage. At the same time he let his canteen drop and pressed his spare hand over the man’s mouth as they both fell against the earth rampart. The shocking violence of the attack surprised the other sentry who hesitated a fatal instant, and then Spiro was on him, close up, thrusting his sword under the rebel’s chin and punching the blade up into his skull. There was a soft gasp and then a light, keening whine, before he too was silenced.
A quick glance reassured Macro that the men working around the cart had not been alerted to the presence of the raiders, and he waved the rest of his party over to the gate.
‘Get the bodies inside,’ he detailed two of the men; then he led the rest through the gate and into the fortification. Directly ahead lay the timber-framed entrance to the tunnel, with an oil lamp hanging from a bracket fixed to the crossbeam. There were piles of rocks to one side and a large mound of soil. The dying embers of a fire glowed in a far corner, illuminating several men sleeping nearby. On the side facing the wall of the mining camp, four figures were visible, and another two in the towers. Macro turned to his men.
‘You four, stay here. If those miners with the cart return shut and bar the gate. Spiro, take ten men and deal with the men sleeping by the fire, and the sentry in the far tower. The rest of you come with me.’
Macro kept to the shadows along the side of the rampart as he stealthily made his way towards the watch tower in the left corner facing the mine. Spiro and his party crept along the opposite side. As they reached the earthen slope leading up to the parapet Macro detailed four of his men to deal with the sentries along the wall, and then he began to climb the ladder into the watch tower, testing his weight carefully on each rung in turn. His head was just level with the floor of the tower when there was a cry from the wall, swiftly silenced. The tower creaked lightly as the sentry moved to the side in response to the noise and called down. Steeling himself, Macro exploded up the final few steps and threw himself at the rebel as the latter turned back. The cry of alarm died in his throat as Macro slammed into his midriff and carried him back against the corner post. Badly winded, he gasped for breath and tried to draw a dagger from his belt. But Macro had already braced his legs as he grabbed the man’s thigh and wrenched him off his feet, tipping him over the rail. At the last moment he snatched at Macro’s arms, but he was too late and his fingers merely brushed Macro before he tumbled headlong into the ditch facing the mine’s gatehouse, landing with a heavy thud and rolling to the bottom of the ditch in silence. A quick glance along the wall showed that the other sentries had been taken down. Then Macro saw that Spiro and his men had not yet completed their task and were only just coming up on those sleeping by the fire. The sentry in the other tower was still in place, and yet he had not moved at all in reaction to the slight commotion along the wall. Macro could guess why, and smiled grimly to himself.
‘The bastard’s asleep . . .’
That was a capital offence in the Roman army, and necessarily so. A man on sentry duty carried the responsibility for the safety of his comrades’ lives. But clearly there was not the same disciplinary code amongst the followers of Iskerbeles. Spiro detailed one of his men to the tower and a moment later the sleeping sentry paid for the dereliction of his duty with his life as his body tumbled down to join his comrade in the ditch. At the same time, Spiro and the rest of his men sprang upon the slumbering rebels, cutting their throats and stabbing them in a frenzied effort to kill them before they could make a sound that might alert their comrades outside the earthwork.
From his vantage point in the watch tower Macro could see that the miners had emptied their cart and had turned it round to return to the gate. Now was the time to bring the rest of the prefect’s plan into action. Cupping a hand to his mouth, Macro called across the enclosed area.
‘Bar the gate!’
At once the four men rushed from the shadows on either side and closed the gate and dropped the locking bar into its brackets to secure the entrance. Outside, the rebels with the cart paused and stared towards the earthwork. Turning towards the gatehouse Macro bellowed:
‘Secundus! Now’s your time!’
A moment later he heard the groan of the mine gates being opened and the harsh shout of the order to advance. A dark mass of men surged over the bridge above the ditch and came across the open ground at the double. It was then that the rebel miners with the cart guessed that something was badly amiss and several ran towards the gate, shouting as they came. The others ran into the ruins, cry
ing for help.
‘Get onto the rampart!’ Macro ordered his party. ‘We have to hold this place until the job is done!’
Secundus and his men reached the ditch and began to lay their ladders across and onto the top of the palisade while half of his century fanned out to either side to cover the flanks. The first of the men, carrying their tools and incendiaries, scurried up the ladders and climbed into the earthwork. Macro came down to meet them and led the way to the entrance to the tunnel. The rebels had set up small oil lamps in brackets attached to the pit props and by their light Macro and the others hurried down a steep slope before the tunnel levelled off and headed towards the gatehouse. The tunnel was barely higher than Macro, and the taller men had to bow their heads. They did not go far before they came to a dead end and Macro stared at the wall of earth and rock in surprise.
‘They should have made twice as much progress as this, according to Pastericus.’
Secundus stood aside as his men began to work their picks into the gaps behind the props. ‘It seems that freedom ain’t much good for productivity. Iskerbeles might be wondering if it might not have been a better idea not to liberate all the miners.’
Macro inspected the tunnel quickly. ‘You take charge here. Pull down whatever you can, and then burn the stock of pit props outside. As soon as you’re done, take your men back to the gatehouse. We’ll be right behind you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As Macro trotted back down the tunnel he heard the first thud of falling pit props and then the low rumble of the roof and sides of the tunnel caving in. Emerging into the night he raced over to the rear rampart and scrambled up to the palisade. The miners had rushed to the gate and were attempting to force it open by brute strength. It was a pointless effort and it cost them two men as they were struck down by rocks hurled from the parapet. As the third casualty stumbled back clasping a hand to his head the others fell back and carried their wounded to the shelter of the street between the nearest buildings.
Further into the ruins the alarm had been raised. The notes of a horn brayed into the night and were answered shortly afterwards by a horn in the rebel camp. Men spilled out of the tents in the heart of the camp where Iskerbeles had made his headquarters and were soon streaming past the fires towards the settlement and the earthwork. It would not take them long to arrive on the scene in sufficient numbers to overwhelm the raiders. But there was a more immediate danger as a party of men carrying spears appeared at the end of the street onto which the gate opened. They charged towards Macro with angry shouts, and then more men came after them.
A quick glance to either side showed that there was no threat yet to the flank walls and Macro snatched a breath and bellowed, ‘On me! And bring rocks!’
The others and Spiro’s men came racing over to the piled rocks and then onto the palisade to line the defences as Macro jabbed his sword towards the oncoming rebels. ‘Let ’em have it, lads!’
His men needed no further encouragement as they unleashed a hail of missiles into the faces of the spearmen, downing one and injuring others as they struck home against their bodies. The charge stalled as the rebels stopped and crouched, arms raised to protect their heads, and then moved aside to take shelter in between the buildings. A few stooped to pick up some of the rocks and throw them back at Macro and his men. Most of these clattered off the wooden posts of the palisade, but one of the raiders was unfortunate to be caught square on the forehead and he lurched away from the palisade and fell back down the rampart, out cold.
‘That’s enough for now!’ Macro ordered.
Sounds of chopping and splintering came from the mouth of the tunnel, interspersed with the protesting groan of timbers and the rush of soil and rock. Then Centurion Secundus appeared in the light of one of the lamps. He reached up and took it down as he and Cristus led some of their men over to the stockpile of wood stacked in the corner of the earthworks. There were also a few jars of oil for the lamps which were smashed over the logs.
‘Douse that lot with pitch and get the kindling over by the braziers!’
As Secundus’ men prepared the fire, Macro’s attention was drawn back to the street beyond the gate. More men had emerged at the far end and there were men with shields at the front this time, raised and ready to deflect any further missiles hurled by the Praetorians defending the rear of the earthworks. A movement at the edge of his vision drew Macro’s gaze to the cart the miners had been hauling shortly before. A number of men had returned to it and dragged it back to the pile of soil. They were hurriedly heaping earth into it by the light of the fire that still glowed close by. Macro divined their purpose a moment later when a rebel shouted an order and pointed back at the gate. There was not much time left to complete their work now, Macro realised. He turned to where Secundus and his men were piling small lengths of firewood against the pitch-saturated timbers.
‘Get the fire going. Quick as you can!’ Macro shouted.
Secundus nodded and crouched down with his oil lamp and carefully applied the small flame at the end of the wick to a heap of wood shavings. The delicate flicker lapped at the thin combustible curls and then hungrily worked its way into the pile, as the flames spread to the pitch with a smooth, almost cold blue flow of ghostly tongues of fire. As the flames drew in air it fanned them all the more and the timbers began to char on the outside as the fire took hold, casting a bright pool of illumination across the interior of the earthwork. Very soon the roar and crackle of flames rose to a loud din.
The rebels with the cart dragged it to the gate as fast as they could, until they came under a barrage of rocks and had to stop and wait for some of their comrades equipped with shields to cover them for the last final rush to the gate. There they reversed the cart and, taking a run up, rushed it forward against the gate where it crashed against the timbers and caused the locking bar to almost leap from its bracket. Macro saw the danger at once and dived down to hold it in place just before the cart struck again, jarring his arms.
‘Secundus! Get the men out of the tunnel. Collapse the entrance and get your men out of here!’
The centurion raced over to the mouth of the tunnel and called down, and a moment later his men came out, breathing hard and soiled by dust and dirt. They worked at the timbers at the entrance and collapsed one, then the other, bringing down the sides and leaving a small crater in the middle of the earthwork.
‘Good, let’s go!’ Secundus waved them towards the far side where the ladders waited. ‘Leave the kit. Just run!’
The Praetorians threw their tools aside and left the spare buckets of pitch where they lay as they fled. One by one they descended the ladders stretched across the ditch and made for the gatehouse where the gates yawned open and Cato beckoned to them.
Inside the earthwork Macro held the bar down as the cart smashed against the gate again, this time opening a gap between two of the timbers. It would not hold for much longer now and Macro could hear the sound of more men arriving all the time, urging their comrades on and clashing their weapons against the edge of their shields in a rising cacophony. He turned to look for Spiro and saw him on the rampart in the ruddy glow of the flames as he hurled another rock.
‘Spiro! Spiro! Down here, with two men, now.’
Once they joined him Macro pointed to the bar. ‘Keep that down. Hold the gate for a little longer.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro ran over to the nearest bucket of pitch, but it was empty, and so was the next, but the third and last was still half full. He snatched it up and ran on to the edge of the blaze consuming the stock of pit props. The heat stung his exposed skin as if he had been struck an almighty blow. Gritting his teeth, Macro grasped the end of a thin length of wood and darted back, the hair of his arms singed. He ran back to the gate and dowsed the rear of the gate with the pitch and then rammed his sword down between the bar and the gate to wedge the bar in p
lace. The gate shuddered under the impact of the cart once more and the gap between two of the boards split open wide enough for him to see the faces of the men on the far side. As they saw Macro they let out a roar of triumph and dragged the cart back for the next charge. Macro thrust the burning end of the length of wood against the pitch-smeared gate until the flames spread and licked hungrily up the timbers.
‘Right, that’s it! Fall back.’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted across to the rest of the men. ‘Fall back!’
The men on the rampart hurled their last rocks and turned to pick up their unconscious comrade before rushing after Secundus and his party. Macro halted one of Spiro’s companions and relieved him of his sword before sending him on his way. He let the rest of his men get a head start and looked round the earthwork, noting the fire, the ruined entrance to the tunnel and the rebel bodies lying by the blaze in the far corner. Macro nodded with satisfaction. They had achieved all they had set out to do.
The cart crashed into the gate again, widening the gap enough for a man to reach through. Sure enough, an arm snaked through and made to shift the sword that jammed the locking beam. But it got caught in the flames instead and was hurriedly snatched back with a loud curse.
Macro turned and made his way back towards the rear wall where the last of his party was clambering down the ladders to follow the others back to the mine. Secundus had joined the half century guarding the flanks and was forming them up into a box, closing the ranks to present shields on all sides. It was a timely precaution as the first of the rebels were moving round the earthwork to cut off the raiders’ escape. As Macro reached the ladder, the gate gave way as the cart burst through the flames and ran on a short distance and men poured through the gap, racing to get past the flames consuming the timber posts and shattered panels of the gate. Macro drew a deep breath to make his farewell.
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