Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘Gone?’ Cato froze. His guts clenched with dread.

He didn’t wait for any further clarification but sprinted across the mud and puddles towards the stockade. The door was open and it was too dark to see inside, but as he drew closer he saw two bundles lying on the ground just inside. The two sentries, he realised at once. He charged past them and into the stockade. The gloomy interior was empty, except for the post and the chains lying in the mud.

‘No!’ Cato bunched his hand into a fist and punched the wooden frame at his side. He crouched down and picked up the chains for closer examination. They were covered in mud but his probing fingers found no breaks in the links and the pins on the shackles had been cleanly knocked out. Rising quickly he turned and joined Macro and Crispus as they examined the bodies.

‘Dead?’

‘Both of them,’ Macro answered. ‘Throats slashed. Whoever did this got up close to them. . Some bastard’s going to pay for this.’

Cato tried to calm his racing mind. ‘We’ll deal with that later. Right now we must find Caratacus. Get the men. I want them to start searching at once. Send a runner to each of the gates. No one is to leave the camp. Go!’

The startled centurion ran off to the tent lines and Cato turned to Macro. ‘What about the other prisoners?’

‘I checked. They’re all there.’ Macro glanced round into the shadows. ‘Caratacus could still be close if he thinks he can set them free as well.’

Cato shook his head. ‘It’s too late for him now. The alarm has been raised. If that was ever his plan he’s not going to try it now. He’ll want to get out of the camp and as far away as possible before daylight. I just hope we’re not too late. You take charge here. Double the guard on the others. Find the cornicen and have him sound stand to.’

‘What are you going to do, sir?’

‘Report to headquarters. We have to rouse the camp at once.’

‘Shouldn’t we try and find Caratacus first? Before we tell the general?’

‘It’s too late for that. Move!’

They parted and Cato turned and began to run back towards the heart of the camp. He was in sight of the headquarters tents when he heard the thin notes of the horn sounding from behind him. He saw soldiers in the darkness pause from their efforts to salvage their tents and look round.

‘What’s going on?’ a voice called out. ‘Thought we’d seen to the enemy. What’s that joker playing at?’

Cato stopped and cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Stand to! You heard the signal! Move your bloody arses!’

The spell was broken and men began to scramble for their kit. Optios and centurions relayed the order, straining to be heard above the storm. Cato plunged on, half running, half slithering over the mud as he made for headquarters. Miraculously, only the mess tent had gone, the rest still struggled against the wind and he slithered to a halt outside the entrance to the general’s private quarters, gasping for breath.

‘Let. . me in.’ He waved the guards aside.

‘Just a moment, sir.’ One made to block his path.

‘There’s no. . time for this.’ Cato thrust the man aside and pushed through the flaps. The glow from the oil lamps and the braziers seemed brilliant after the darkness outside and Cato looked round frantically as the only servant still awake started in alarm from cleaning his master’s boots.

‘Is the general here?’ Cato demanded.

One of the guards entered the tent and hurried round Cato, hand moving to his sword. ‘Sir! You’ll have to wait outside!’

‘Where is the general?’ Cato repeated.

The curtain at the far end parted and Ostorius appeared in his tunic, barefoot. ‘What in Jupiter’s name is going on? Prefect Cato. What are you doing here?’ He paused and cocked his head. ‘Who gave the order to stand to?’

Cato thrust his way past the guard and stood stiffly in front of his commander, heart pounding inside his heaving chest.

‘Caratacus has escaped, sir.’

Ostorius stared at him, stunned into momentary silence. ‘Escaped? How is that possible? You had the man in chains.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then how could it happen?’

Cato swiftly collected his thoughts. ‘He must have been helped, sir. The two men guarding him were killed and the pins of his chains were knocked out.’

‘Helped? Who by?’

‘I cannot say, sir. Not yet. But as soon as I discovered he was gone I sounded the alarm. My men are searching for him, and I’ve given orders that no one is to leave the camp. If he’s still here, then we’ll find the enemy commander, sir.’

Ostorius took the information in and his expression became severe. ‘He had better be found, Prefect Cato. By the gods, he had better be found and put back in chains. If he has made good his escape then I swear those responsible will pay for this.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded helplessly.

The general turned to the guard. ‘Send for my staff officers at once!’

The guard saluted and hurried from the tent. Ostorius’s servant was still sitting on his stool, a boot in his hands. The general’s glare turned on him. ‘What are you waiting for? Get on with it!’

The servant began to scrub furiously, head down and hunched over his work. At that moment Cato would have willingly swapped places with the man. As it was, he stood still while Ostorius turned back, glowering.

‘You’d better get on with your search for Caratacus, Prefect. Get out!’

Cato saluted and turned to hurry from the tent, grateful to quit the general’s presence.

Once the general had briefed his officers, two cohorts were detailed to assist the escort detachment in the hunt for the escaped prisoner. The rest of the men were stood down and returned to whatever shelter they could find to see out the rest of the night. Cato returned to his headquarters to wait impatiently for reports to come in.

At last the storm began to abate and then pass on to the east, the wind easing as the storm drew the clouds in its wake. At last the rain stopped and the serene stars looked down from velvet heavens. As he stood at the entrance of his tent and stared up at the night sky, its very calmness seemed to mock Cato. His moment of triumph had lasted less than a day. The escape would no doubt transform him from the toast of the legion to scapegoat for this misfortune. Far from being the officer renowned for his capture of an enemy general, he would be doomed to be remembered for failing to prevent his flight. The real culprit was the man who had murdered the guards and set the enemy commander free. Cato swore that if he ever discovered the identity of that individual, he would be made to suffer. His only hope at this stage was that the culprit who had helped Caratacus was hiding him somewhere in the camp. The possibility that the enemy commander had found a way out was too painful for Cato to contemplate.

As the reports came in from the search parties, Cato felt his heart grow heavier at the lack of any sign of Caratacus.

As the first hint of dawn bled across the horizon, Macro brought him disturbing news.

‘I’ve been questioning the guards on the gates. They’ve done as you ordered and let no one out. But then I had a thought. I asked them who had passed through the gates in the hours before the alarm was raised.’

‘And?’

‘You’re not going to like this, there was nothing that stood out — the usual comings and goings of patrols. Except for a wine merchant’s cart.’

Cato pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘A cart. Did the sentries search it?’

‘They gave it a quick look and it was empty. The driver’s face was hidden by a cloak. Since it was raining, the duty optio didn’t think it was unusual. The driver said he was returning to Viroconium to buy more stock since there was no more danger from the enemy. The optio passed him through.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Just before they closed the gate for the night. That was when we were in the mess tent. I’ve got the optio outside if you want a word with him.’

‘Get him in here.’

Macro ducked his head through the flaps. ‘Inside, you.’

He stood aside to let the optio enter. He was a seasoned-looking soldier but his uneasiness and dull expression did not create a good impression. To Cato he looked like the kind of soldier who was good enough to make optio but lacked those qualities that were essential for promotion to centurion. He stood to attention.

‘Optio Domatus reporting, sir.’

‘Centurion Macro informs me that you passed a cart out of the camp before you closed the gate last night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A wine merchant, making for Viroconium.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And you didn’t think it unusual for a wine merchant to be leaving the camp at that hour?’

The optio shifted uneasily. ‘He sounded convincing enough to me, sir. Anyway, we’re supposed to be keeping watch on threats coming from outside the camp, sir. He was leaving. Didn’t see any harm in letting him pass.’

‘Optio, the sentries on watch duty are looking out for the enemy. Your job is to carefully monitor who comes in or goes out.’

‘As I said, sir. I didn’t see no reason to be suspicious of the man. He gave me no cause to suspect he was an enemy. Let alone Caratacus himself, sir. Besides, he spoke Latin.’

Cato sighed. ‘Did it not occur to you that at least one of the enemy might know our tongue?’

The optio opened his mouth to protest but had the sense to say nothing and clamped his lips together.

‘Do you think it’s him?’ Macro intervened.

‘It’s possible. I’ll send a patrol after him once we’re done here. Just in case.’ Cato turned his attention back to the optio. ‘Domatus, is there anything else you can tell us about this wine merchant? Any description of the man?’

‘As I told the centurion, sir, he had his hood over his head. Couldn’t see much in the dark, and what with the rain and wind and all.’

‘I see.’ Cato sighed wearily. He was about to dismiss the man when the optio’s expression lit up.

‘I did get his name, sir. It was branded on to the side of the cart. I could just make it out as he passed through the gate.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hipparchus, he was called, sir.’

Cato stared at him.

‘Oh, shit. .’ Macro growled.

Cato was on his feet at once, pushing past the optio. ‘Macro, on me!’

He tried to run towards the baggage train and the battered sprawl of tents and shelters that belonged to the camp followers, but the mud made the going slow and slippery. Macro followed him as best he could. They hurried past the vehicle park where the army’s carts and wagons were packed together, and on into the section allocated to the camp followers. There was little of the ordered layout of the soldiers’ tents and the ramshackle shelters and colourful tents that were still standing sprawled around two intersecting thoroughfares. The sun had not yet stirred but there were plenty of civilians milling around. The storm had wreaked as much damage here as elsewhere in the camp; collapsed tents and overturned stalls surrounded the crossroads.

Cato stopped by the stall of a tinsmith which had survived intact. The proprietor was already setting out his stock, seemingly unperturbed and uncaring about the misfortune of his neighbours.

‘Where do I find Hipparchus, the wine merchant?’

The man looked up and shrugged. ‘Don’t know the man. But if he deals in wine, you’ll find him round the corner there, with the others.’

Cato ran on, turning into another muddy stretch lined with stalls. Close by he saw a stall with wine jars behind the counter. A fat man with greasy locks of grey hair was arguing with a customer as Cato approached him.

‘I’m looking for Hipparchus.’

The merchant instantly turned his attention to the young officer and smiled. ‘Sir, if you are looking for wine, then I guarantee you better quality at a lower price than Hipparchus.’

‘I don’t want your bloody wine. I want Hipparchus.’

The merchant shrugged and pointed to the stall on the opposite side of the way. Cato turned and saw a tall-sided wagon with an awning stretching out from one side to cover a sturdy wooden frame that formed the stall. He hurried over and clambered over the counter. His boots landed on something soft and yielding. He stumbled, recovered his balance and saw a body lying face down under the counter, hidden by the leather apron that fronted the stall. He knelt down and turned the body over. In the pale light he could see that it was not Septimus. From the soiled and tatty tunic and the clip in his ear he guessed that this must be a slave. The man groaned and raised an arm feebly. Cato grasped his shoulders and shook him.

‘Where’s Hipparchus?’

The slave’s eyes flickered open and he tried to focus on the man looming over him. He stank of wine. Cato repeated his question with another shake for emphasis, but the man was still too dazed to think. With a hiss of frustration Cato released him and turned to Macro who was standing on the other side of the counter.

‘Search the wagon.’

Macro nodded and hurried round to the rear of the wagon where he began to undo the ties securing the opening in the leather covering.

‘What’s going on then, sir?’

Cato looked up and saw the merchant he had spoken to earlier crossing over to him.

‘Did you see anything over here last night?’

‘See anything?’

‘Anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Well, I was a bit busy trying to keep my stall from blowing away, sir. Like most of us in the camp. But there was something a bit odd, like.’

‘Tell me.’

‘That Hipparchus, he ups and harnesses a mule to his cart just before the light faded. Him and that useless slave of his. Then he heads off. What with the storm and all, I’d have thought he’d stay close and look after his business. Ain’t seen him since.’

‘You sure it was him? Hipparchus?’

The merchant nodded. ‘Recognised his cloak.’

‘Cato!’ Macro called out from the back of the wagon. ‘He’s in here!’

Cato turned away from the merchant and joined Macro at the rear of the wagon. In the gloom of the interior Cato could make out the imperial agent slumped against a rolled sleeping mat. He lay still, and for a moment Cato feared that he might be dead. Cato clambered up on to the bed of the wagon and made his way forward to the side of the body. He heard the man breathing and let out a sigh of relief.

‘He’s alive. Give me a hand here. Let’s get him out of the wagon.’

They dragged the unconsious agent to the back and then eased him on to the ground. In the better light Cato saw that the hair on one side of his head was matted with dried blood. More blood caked his neck and the shoulder of his tunic.

Macro sucked in a breath. ‘Some bastard’s given him a sharp knock on the head. Caratacus, you think?’

Cato hesitated. ‘Looks that way.’

Standing up, he called out to the wine merchant opposite to bring some water.

Macro gestured down at Septimus. ‘What do we do with him?’

Cato scratched his jaw. ‘We’ll clean his wound and dress it. Then try and bring him round. If we can’t get any sense out of him, we’ll take him up to the infirmary for the surgeon to look after him. Either way, we need a word with him as soon as possible.’

Macro was about to say something when the wine merchant approached with a jug and small strip of linen. Cato took them off him.

‘I want you to go to headquarters and report to the general.’

‘I ain’t a soldier,’ the merchant protested. ‘Go yourself.’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Cato snapped back. ‘And do as I bloody well tell you. Tell the general that Caratacus has escaped from the camp in Hipparchus’s cart. Tell him I’m sending my men out to try and find him. Now go!’

The merchant reluctantly hurried off, leaving the two officers with Septimus.

‘Lift his head gently,’ Cato instructed.

Macro did as he was told and Cato poured some water on the linen and started to clean off the dried blood as best he could. The scalp was torn but there seemed to be no damage to the bone beneath. As he worked on the rest of the wound, Septimus stirred and mumbled a protest before he slid back into unconsciousness.

‘Something’s not right about this,’ said Macro.

Cato looked up. ‘You mean aside from the fact that Caratacus has escaped and attacked an imperial agent in the process?’

Macro caught the strain in his friend’s voice and bit his tongue rather than respond to the comment. There was a brief silence as Cato rinsed off the last of the blood from Septimus’s neck, wrung the cloth out and then carefully tied it round the head, covering the wound. Macro eased the head back down.

Macro tried again. ‘Someone helped Caratacus to escape and they just happened to pick on Septimus when they needed a cart and a disguise to get Caratacus out of the camp. Call me suspicious but that ain’t bloody likely by a long way.’

‘No,’ Cato responded quietly. ‘It does seem too much of a coincidence.’ He tapped the imperial agent on the chest. ‘You get him to the infirmary. I’ll order the Blood Crows after Caratacus. I’ll find you afterwards. I want to be there when Septimus regains consciousness. He’s got some questions to answer.’ Cato paused and winced. ‘And, like as not, the general will have a few of his own to shoot at us.’