Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘That’s what you get when you fuck with Rome!’

  Then he sheathed the sword and swung himself onto the ladder, climbing down as quickly as he could. Already, loose groups of rebels were cutting across the route of Secundus and his men and the centurion gave the order to move the instant Macro was inside the box and his men had closed ranks again. As Secundus called the time they tramped steadily towards the gatehouse. The nearest of the rebels turned on them, charging in and hacking and slashing at the shields in a futile display of frustration. Those who got too close invited a counter-attack from the Praetorians, who stabbed their spears into whatever flesh came within their reach.

  Macro could hear Cato’s voice in the darkness, ordering those men who had reached the mine to form up just beyond the bridge over the ditch so that the gate could be kept open for the last men to return from the raid. All the while more of the rebels were streaming out of the darkness to attack Secundus and his half century. They were forced to slow down, but kept moving all the way, until at length they merged with Cato and his men and fell back across the bridge and under the gatehouse. The rebels made a last desperate effort to keep the gates open and Macro pressed himself into the fighting line and laid about them with vicious cuts from his sword. The example of the ferocious centurion caused the nearest men to hesitate and Macro bellowed an incoherent war cry at them and then leaped back as the Praetorians heaved the gates into place and slammed down the locking bar. At once the timbers shook as the rebels surged forward again, beating the gates with their weapons and bare fists. Pulcher gave the order for the men on the wall to hurl rocks at the attackers and within moments they had turned away to retreat into the darkness.

  Cato sought out his friend and smiled as he caught sight of his blackened face, singed hair and seared tunic by the light of the torch flickering in a bracket beside the gate.

  ‘How did it go?’

  Macro licked his lips and swallowed as he caught his breath. ‘As good as we could hope. The tunnel is destroyed and we’ve burned their pit props.’

  ‘Then we’ve won several more days. Good job, Macro.’ Cato laughed with relief. As much because his friend had returned unharmed as for the damage he had caused to the enemy. ‘Now tell me that you didn’t have fun out there.’

  ‘Fun?’ Macro shook his head. ‘You have a peculiar sense of fun, my friend.’

  ‘If you say so. Here, something for you.’ Cato pressed a wineskin into Macro’s hands. The centurion eagerly pulled out the stopper and raised the wineskin, squirting a jet into his open mouth. Because of the dark, he missed at first and the liquid splashed over his face. Then he adjusted it and drank deeply and wondered if wine had ever tasted so good, or been so hard-earned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Over the next few days the Romans were afforded a measure of satisfaction and feeling of security as the rebels went about repairing the damage. The sounds of sawing from the remains of the settlement resumed as they gathered more timber and materials to replace those lost during the raid. Macro made a detailed report the morning after and Cato was surprised at the slow progress the rebels had made with the original tunnel, given Pastericus’ estimate. But it was all to the good, he concluded. The slower they advanced, the more time that gave Legate Vitellius to arrive with the main column. But he was not content to wait and be idle and take the arrival of Vitellius for granted. Work on the inner wall a short distance behind the gatehouse continued, as they gradually built it up to the height of the outer wall. This way there would be a contingency plan ready if the rebel tunnel managed to reach the defences.

  Cato also decided to take another, more aggressive approach to foiling the enemy. Two days after the raid he marked out a square in between the gatehouse and the inner wall as he explained to Macro, ‘We’re going to dig a countermine. Start here and go twenty feet straight down before making for the enemy’s earthwork. If we begin now we should break into their tunnel before they reach the outer ditch, and then we can destroy their latest effort. That should help discourage them from continuing to dig under us.’

  Macro pouted and raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s going to be tough work, sir. The Praetorians have got bugger-all experience of digging mines; it’s exhausting work, and dangerous with it.’

  ‘The danger we can mitigate as far as possible by making sure the shaft and tunnel are thoroughly supported by as many pit props as we care to use. There’s plenty of timber in the stores cut for the purpose, and we can take more from the existing mineshafts if we need to.’

  ‘True,’ Macro conceded. ‘But is it really necessary? If Iskerbeles’ lads dig as slowly as before then Vitellius should be on the scene long before they could bring down the gatehouse. In that case our men will be wasting their time, and putting themselves in some danger.’

  ‘We’ll take as few risks as possible,’ said Cato. ‘Iskerbeles will drive his men hard to tunnel under us. I’d be willing to bet that they will ensure they make progress in line with Pastericus’ estimate from now on. In any case it will give the Praetorians something to do while they’re waiting for the cohort to be relieved.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘You say it yourself. Idleness is not good for soldiers. And if they haven’t done this kind of work before then it will be a useful experience. Consider it on-the-job training. It’ll be good for them, and who knows? It will also be a necessary precaution in case Vitellius is delayed, for good reasons or bad.’

  ‘You think he means to do us harm, sir?’

  ‘Don’t you? He comes out of this well, whatever the result. If he reaches us in time to save us before Iskerbeles can retake the mine then he will be able to report that he saved the cohort. If the cohort is wiped out then he will avenge us and gain renown for that. I’d rather not hand the initiative to either him, or Iskerbeles. We will keep it for ourselves, and a countermine is the best way of doing that. I’ll need a rota of mining teams. Say five to dig and fifteen men to remove the spoil on each shift. We can use the spoil to reinforce the inner wall. Of course, we’ll have to do it carefully. No point in alerting the enemy that we’re playing them at their own game. Besides, we have all the tools we need for the job right here in the mine.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to the necessary arrangements.’

  Cato nodded, pleased with his plan. It was sensible to cover as many contingencies as possible, he reflected. Vitellius should be able to reach them before the tunnel was completed. Even if the enemy succeeded in bring down the gatehouse, they would then have to contend with the inner wall. And if that fell there was the second wall and then the final defence at the top of the track leading up to the mining camp. In the meantime, there was a good chance of the countermine foiling the rebels’ fresh attempt. Yes, Cato mused, there was every reason to be pleased with the way he was conducting the defence of the mine.

  As Macro had anticipated, the prefect’s orders were greeted with disdain and irritation by the Praetorians, but discipline soon reasserted itself and they bent to their new task effectively, if not enthusiastically. Stripped down to their loincloths, the men wielded picks and shovels for two hours at a time before being relieved. As they went deeper than sunlight could penetrate they worked by the weak glow of oil lamps. Those relieved climbed the ladder up to the surface, covered in grime and sweat and desperate for water to slake their thirst. Digging down was straightforward enough and timbers were used to reinforce the sides of the shaft. Once they hit the required depth they charted a course directly towards the original tunnel constructed by the rebels. It was painstaking work carried out in poor light and stale air. Cato made sure that the Praetorians’ tunnel was propped up far more thoroughly than those that penetrated the cliff of the mine workings. The spoil was carted away at night to ensure that any rebels watching from one of the nearby hills would not realise what the defenders were up to.

  Both sides continued to regard
each other warily as the days passed and they dug their tunnels. The rampart of the rebels’ earthwork was raised to a greater height and outworks were added to ensure that there was no repeat of the raid that had rendered their previous attempt a wasted effort. By day and night the rebel patrols were strengthened and made more numerous and soon they extended along the entire length of the wall protecting the mine. All the while the putrefaction of the corpses in the ditch continued and some of the Praetorians resorted to wearing strips of cloth over their noses while on sentry duty, dousing the cloth with oils and scents looted from the procurator’s house. It made little difference and the Romans had no choice but to endure the stench and the sight of buzzards and other animals gorging themselves on the soft tissue of the corpses rotting below the wall.

  Each morning and at dusk, Cato submitted to the ministrations of the cohort’s surgeon who changed the dressing, cleaned away any discharges of pus, and then examined the wound. He pronounced himself very happy with the recovery of the gouged flesh, and the small puncture to the bottom of the eyeball. He was more sanguine than Cato about his inability to see much better with the eye. After five days the bandage came off and Cato used an eyepatch to hold the dressing in place. This amused Macro mightily, who suggested that Cato might want to consider a change of career and seek a transfer to the imperial navy, or even set himself up in business as a pirate.

  Then, at dusk on the fifth day since the raid, Cato and Macro were carrying out their routine evening inspection of the defences and crossing the mine workings when a shout from one of the Praetorians drew their attention to the cliff. A stream of silvery water was gushing over the ledge above and running down the cliff face, washing away soil and rock as it did so.

  ‘What in Hades is going on there?’ Macro demanded as the flow splashed down at the foot of the cliff and began to follow the easiest course across the workings to the ravine.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Cato replied, turning and starting to jog back to the track and up to the ledge. By the time they had passed through the slave camp to the water tanks the rush of water had dwindled to a slow flow, cutting across the ledge to the cliff. Centurion Porcino was standing by the tank nearest the drenched ground, together with Pastericus, as the others squelched over the mud. They were in conversation but the optio stopped to salute.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Cato demanded.

  ‘Tank sprang a leak, sir.’

  ‘I think we might have guessed that,’ said Macro, kicking some of the mud at Pastericus to emphasise his point.

  ‘Show me,’ Cato ordered and Porcino led him to the corner of the tank where some of the earth buttress had been washed away. The masonry beyond had collapsed and a steady trickle of water was still flowing. Porcino pointed towards the breach. ‘Pastericus says it’s the concrete lining, sir. Sometimes the heat causes it to crack. Normally it’s not a problem as the tanks are inspected daily and repairs made on the spot. But that hasn’t been happening for a while, and . . .’ He nodded at the wide expanse of mud and rivulets covering the ledge all the way to the cliff.

  Cato surveyed the damage, not unduly worried by the escape of water as the tank was still half full and in any case there was plenty of water in the tanks that were still intact. All the same, it would be wise to know more. ‘Pastericus, how often do the tanks need repairing? Is this likely to happen again within the next month or so?’

  The optio shook his head. ‘It’s not really my field, sir. But I’ve only seen this happen once before. Creates a bit of a mess, which is why they use those lined channels when they start the hushing process. Of course, they only ever use one tank at a time.’

  ‘Hushing?’ Macro frowned. ‘Care to explain?’

  ‘It’s when they release the water to expose the silver veins in the side of the hill, sir.’

  Macro nodded. ‘Hushing? Bloody stupid name for it.’

  ‘Not my fault, sir. I just work here.’

  Cato climbed onto the rim of the tank and looked down at the damage. ‘Right, well let’s try and avoid a repeat of this. Porcino, you get the job of tank inspector from now on. I want them checked for leaks at dawn and dusk. If you spot anything then there’ll be some materials to repair leaks in the mine’s stores. Get a team on it straight away.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Though wouldn’t Pastericus here be a better man for this? He knows the place better than I do.’

  ‘I’ve given you the job, Centurion. That’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then get some men, find what you need, and get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They exchanged a salute before Cato and Macro picked their way back across the mud. The latter could not help an amused grin. ‘That’ll help keep Porcino on his toes, and burn off some of that fat.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Cato replied absently and then stopped and looked at the tanks. There was no sign of any leak from the others and once again he marvelled at the expertise of the engineers who had constructed the mine. There was a huge volume of water stored here. Ample for the needs of the garrison and all those slaves who had once toiled under the cliffs below, as well as providing the means to wash away swathes of the cliff face to get at the valuable minerals hidden beneath the earth.

  ‘Hushing,’ he sniffed. ‘You’re right, it is a stupid word for it. You can be sure no soldier came up with that.’

  Macro looked up at the deepening velvet of the evening sky. ‘We’d better get on with the inspection, sir. It’ll be dark soon. And still no sign of Vitellius . . .’

  Cato was woken by Metellus an hour after midnight. The optio was holding a lamp above the bed as he firmly shook his superior’s shoulder. Cato’s face creased into a grimace as he stirred. He had been deep in a bad dream where he had returned to his house and Julia had been alive. At first he had been overjoyed to see her, but then she had told him about Cristus, and packed a chest with her clothes to abandon Cato and their child and go to live with her lover. Cato had been begging her to stay at the point the optio had awakened him and it took a moment to adjust from the fading agony of the dream to reality.

  ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘Centurion Musa’s compliments, sir. He says you should join him in the atrium. Right now, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He didn’t say, sir. Just that it was urgent.’

  Cato’s mind cleared. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Not long to the fifth hour of the night, sir.’

  The watch would be changing soon, but Musa should still be with his men on the wall. Cato sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of the bed and into his boots. He laced them up quickly and pulled a tunic over his body before accompanying Metellus out of the chamber and down the corridor to the main hall just inside the entrance of the procurator’s house. A number of lamps were providing illumination for the men waiting for him. Centurion Pulcher and his optio were about to go on duty and were helping each other put on their mail vests. There was also Musa and four of his men, and with them another man, dressed like one of the rebels but with the unmistakable cropped hair of a Roman soldier. He was in a filthy condition with scratches and cuts on his exposed flesh. Cato had been about to demand the reason for being disturbed, and castigate Musa for leaving his post before being relieved by Pulcher, but his attention was drawn to the man with them.

  ‘Who is this?’

  Musa saluted. ‘Claims to be Optio Collenus of the Fourth Cohort of the Guard, sir. He says he has been sent by Legate Vitellius to give you this.’ The centurion held out a slim leather tube, sealed at both ends with the crest that Cato recognised as belonging to Vitellius. Cato took it and stared hard at the man with his good eye.

  ‘What are you doing here? More to the point, how did you get here? And where is Vitellius?’

  The man who call
ed himself Collenus was at the point of exhaustion, but drew himself up stiffly in order to answer his superior. ‘The legate is in the hills, no more than twenty miles from here, sir. He aims to attack the rebel camp at dawn the day after tomorrow and sends you his orders. He chose me to bring them to you. I left camp a day ago and worked my way through the rebel lines to get to the mine. It took some persuading for the centurion to let me in, sir.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Cato. ‘Get this man something to eat and drink.’

  Musa nodded and sent one of his men to the kitchen as Cato broke the seal and took out the slender scroll. Moving close to the light of one of the lamps he unrolled it and began to read. The legate’s instructions were brief enough. He would make his attack at the time Collenus had said. Cato and his cohort were ordered to sally out of the mine and attack the rebel camp first. Once the enemy was preoccupied and certain that they were about to crush the cohort, Vitellius would strike in full force and the rebels would be crushed between the two forces. It was a bold enough plan, Cato conceded as he returned the scroll to the leather case, but its very boldness caused him to feel uneasy at once. What if Vitellius’ attack arrived too late to save the Second Cohort? A darker possibility occurred to him. What if that was the real plan? The destruction of Cato and Macro by the rebels before they were destroyed by Vitellius and his forces in turn. That would tie things up rather neatly for the legate. But at the cost of the cohort. It was hard to believe even Vitellius was that ruthless. Then again, Cato thought. What if this message was not from Vitellius at all? What if it was a ruse by Iskerbeles to entice the cohort out from behind the safety of their defences. Collenus, if that was his name, spoke Latin, but that might be for any number of reasons. He might be a criminal, a former soldier possibly, condemned to the mines. Cropping the hair was a neat touch if the enemy was trying to pass him off as a soldier.

  Cato turned to Musa. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  ‘No, sir. Never seen him before. But then there’re thousands of men in the Guard.’