Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘Stupid fool,’ Macro grumbled as they looked down on the body of Prefect Horatius which had been placed on a bier in one of the huts. He and Cato were alone with the corpse and the surgeon who had attempted to treat Horatius’s wound. The prefect was still in his armour but his helmet had been removed, but even without the helmet it would have been difficult for his closest friend to recognise him. The slingshot had struck slightly to the right of the bridge of his nose, pulverising the cartilage and shattering his brow before plunging through his eye into his brain. In its wake the shot had left a crater of bone, torn flesh and blood that utterly disfigured the face of Horatius. Beside him, on the ground, lay Centurion Statillus. Also dead. Killed when an arrow had severed an artery inside his thigh. He had bled out on the track before the men carrying him had reached the settlement.

‘What was Horatius doing up on the hill anyway?’

Macro thought back. ‘He could see that the cohort was stalling and lost his temper. I tried to talk him out of it. But he took his horse and galloped up there. Stood out like a sore thumb. Every native worth his salt took aim at him. It’s a miracle he got as far as he did before someone hit him.’ Macro cracked his knuckles. ‘Still, it’s an ill wind and all that. .’

‘Meaning?’

‘Now we’ve got someone in charge who knows how to do his job.’ Macro raised his chin. ‘What are your orders, sir?’

Cato had had little time to think through the situation as he rode over from the Blood Crows. He hurriedly collected his thoughts. ‘Firstly, the casualties. I want the walking wounded to make their own way to the camp. The rest can be collected in carts. Bring forward the ballistas at the same time.’

‘What are we going to need them for? Horatius was right about one thing. The angle’s too great to use them.’

‘From down here it is,’ Cato conceded. ‘Have the ballistas broken down into their components and brought forward. They’ll serve us well yet.’

Macro frowned, but Cato continued before he could speak. ‘Then I want axes and picks, enough for ten men, and rope, from stores. And as many slings and shot as we have. I’ll choose a new commander of the Eighth Cohort. Acer can look after the Seventh until this is over. They’ll need a little time to get over their rough handling. Your cohort is the next one to go up the hill.’

‘We’re under strength. Even now we’ve got less men than the Seventh. Mind you, they’re tough lads.’ He fixed Cato with a steady gaze. ‘We’re up for it, sir. Just give the order.’

Cato smiled. ‘All in good time, Macro. We’ve a few preparations to make first.’ He turned to the surgeon. ‘Have Statillus and Horatius taken back to the camp, then see to the wounded.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The surgeon saluted.

Cato and Macro left him in the hut and emerged into the sunlight. It was not yet mid-morning and the day was bright and warm. On either side the street was filled with wounded men, many lying on the ground, while others sat or stood with strained expressions as they waited to be seen to.

‘Macro, I want you to return to camp and gather together what I’ve asked for. Get back here with the equipment as soon as you can.’

Macro saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Cato picked his way through the injured and emerged on the edge of the village facing the fort. Macro’s cohort, and the Eighth, were resting on the open ground, waiting for orders. They looked round expectantly as their new commander came into view but when he simply stood and concentrated his attention on the bastion, they returned to their quiet conversation.

Cato scrutinised the bastion from end to end and noted that the timber posts of the palisade were lower on the side furthest from the corner where the track approached the gate. Either the Brigantians who had built the fort had used uneven lengths of timber, or the ground had shifted beneath the end of the fort, Cato mused. If that was the case, then it would help his plan. At least the first step of it. There would still be a savage contest for the bastion, but if it could be taken then the rest of the fort would soon fall. Everything depended on taking the outwork, he knew. It would be dangerous, and the men would need to be led by officers who would set an example of the courage needed to see it through. He smiled grimly. A job for himself and Macro then.

It was noon before the equipment was ready and the men had been briefed. The auxiliary infantry had been paired up. One man carried a legionary shield to cover himself and his companion, while the other was armed with a sling and a bag of shot. They were already advancing directly up the slope to get into position to cover the small force led by Cato. Two sections of Macro’s cohort were carrying the tools and rope while the rest of the First Century would form a testudo to provide protection.

Cato gave a last look over the men gathered around him. ‘Remember, when we reach the bastion we have to work fast. They’ll be throwing everything they have at us. I don’t want to lose one man more than absolutely necessary to get this done.’

He turned to the senior centurion he had chosen to lead the Eighth Cohort. Lebauscus was a big man. He towered over the others and was just as broad. His Germanic roots were obvious to all. Fair-haired and square-jawed, with piercing blue eyes.

‘When I give the signal, you get the men up the slope at the double. You don’t stop for anything. You don’t stop until we’ve cut down every one of those bastards in the bastion.’

Lebauscus grinned. ‘You can rely on me, sir. And the lads. We’ll not let you down.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Cato glanced towards the last officer to play his part in the coming attack. ‘Acer, your teams will follow the Eighth the moment they set off. I’ll want those ballistas ready to set up the instant we’ve taken the bastion. Together with the ammunition. We’ll clear the gatehouse of defenders before they even know what’s happening.’ He paused and addressed them all. ‘I want this to be quick and bloody. By the end of the day these natives are going to see just how swiftly the Roman army can bring them to their knees. I want word of this to go out to the rest of the Brigantes. Let ’em know what’s in store for them if they ever think of giving us any trouble again. One last thing. Caratacus. He’s to be taken alive. Wound him if you have to, but the gods help the man who fancies getting a reputation for himself by claiming the life of Caratacus. That’s one the Emperor wants all to himself. Any questions?’

The officers and the men chosen for the work party stared back silently.

‘Good.’ Cato clapped his hands. ‘Then let’s go to it, gentlemen!’

Acer and Lebauscus strode off to their units. Cato undid the clasp of his cloak and let it slip from his shoulders. He caught it before it reached the ground and folded it carefully and then paused to smile as he patted the loose folds. ‘Julia gave me this, before I left Rome.’

‘Then she’ll be glad it’s given you good service,’ Macro said gently. ‘And it’ll please her to see you wearing it on your return.’

‘Yes.’

There was a brief silence before Macro spoke again. ‘Listen, there’s no need for you to do this. I can handle it.’

Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.’

‘I know you don’t.’ Macro’s expression became serious. ‘I’m more concerned about what happens to the rest of us if you get yourself killed. We’ve already lost two senior officers. If you get the chop then it’s down to me or Tribune Otho to see it through, or get the lads back across the frontier. I’m not sure either of us are up to the job.’

‘You’ll manage. Besides, I’ve given the orders. The men are expecting me to lead them. What will they think if I duck out of it now? I have to go up there.’

Macro puffed his cheeks and nodded. ‘All right. But keep your head down.’

Cato felt sweat on his palms and bent down to pick up some of the loose, dry soil beside the track. He rubbed some between his hands to get rid of the moisture and improve his grip. Then, picking up an axe and a coil of rope, he took a deep breath and loosened his shoulders. ‘Let’s get started.’

They strode out towards the men of Macro’s cohort who were waiting on the track, shields grounded. There was a gap in the centre of the formation and Cato and the work party filed into place before Macro took up his shield and moved to the front.

‘First Century, Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance.’

The men took up their shields and stood, booted feet ready. When they were all still, Macro faced forward. ‘Advance!’

The century paced forward, one rank at a time until the whole unit was advancing up the track. Above them Cato could see faces appearing above the palisade of the bastion as the enemy were alerted to the fresh attack being made by the Romans. As soon as the legionaries started up the track, the auxiliaries also began to move forward, climbing warily up through the grass to get close enough to the defences to use their slings. They had only gone a short distance before the first of the arrows whirred down towards them. Keeping an eye out for the shafts, the auxiliaries kept climbing, occasionally darting aside or sheltering together beneath a shield. It did not take them long to get into range and soon a steady exchange of missiles zipped to and fro between the defenders and the auxiliaries.

Cato nodded with satisfaction. The slingers were intended to serve as a distraction as much as a danger to the warriors defending the bastion. It would take some of the pressure off Macro’s men as they moved into position. Glancing back he saw Lebauscus leading his cohort forward to their start position, and behind him came the men laden down by the components of the ballistas and baskets filled with the deadly iron-headed shafts that had proved so effective against the tribes that Rome had fought since landing in Britannia.

Macro led the century on, up the first length of track before swinging round the corner and beginning the next climb. The first arrows began to land close by, slender feathered lengths seeming to spring up amid the grass like tall flowers.

‘Halt!’ Macro commanded. The grinding of boots ceased. ‘Shields up!’

The heavy wooden rectangles clunked together as the legionaries raised them above their heads and took some of the weight on the crowns of their helmets.

‘Close up!’

The legionaries edged together and Cato was cut off from the sunlight and cast into the shaded world of sweating men, breathing heavily. The work party was squeezed between their comrades and bent down to give them space to let their shields meet in the middle of the column.

‘Advance!’

They moved forward again, the sounds of the men around him louder than ever in Cato’s ears. Above, arrows and stones clattered off the shields, or occasionally pierced the surfaces with a splintering crack. The urge to escape the confines of the formation was overwhelming and it took all Cato’s willpower to keep in pace with the others. At the next corner they slowed to a crawl as they turned on to the last stretch directly below the bastion.

‘This is it,’ Cato called out to Macro. ‘Get ready.’

They went on a few more paces before Cato ordered them to halt. He felt his heart pumping furiously from the exertion of the climb and the fear of what was to come. He tensed his muscles, waiting to give the command.

‘Break ranks! Go right!’

Instantly the shields were wrenched aside and bright light poured on to Cato, making him blink. Bodies swerved away, off the track, and started up the short climb to the nearest end of the bastion. Cato ran with them, axe haft clutched in his right hand as he used his left to help him climb. The legionaries around him grunted and gasped with the effort of the ascent, and arrows and stones flew down at them from the palisade. On either side the auxiliary slingers hurled their missiles back with renewed effort, doing their best to put the defenders off their aim and force them back into cover. Even so, Cato saw a man go down to his right, an arrow shaft piercing the base of the spine just below his cuirass. Another was struck on the helmet by a rock and he sprawled, senseless, into the grass before a comrade clambered over him. Cato came up to two men sheltering behind their shields, heads hunched down, waiting there for their torment to come to an end. He reached out and shook the nearest man roughly.

‘Keep going! Keep going, or you’ll die here!’

The man seemed to come out of a daze and nodded. He gave his companion a shove and they both started forward again. Cato gave him an encouraging grin and the next moment he heard rather than felt the thud of an arrow. He looked down and saw the feathers of the arrow, then the shaft and then the base of it disappearing through the back of his left hand. Instinctively he tried to pull his hand away but the point of the arrow was embedded in the soil. Dropping the axe, he grabbed the shaft just above his hand and pulled the arrow free of the ground and felt a peculiar relief that it was only a narrow bodkin, the kind designed to punch through armour rather than cause horrific flesh injuries. Gritting his teeth, Cato grasped the shaft tightly. There was no time to hesitate, to imagine the pain. He wrenched it back, feeling the bones of his hand lurch as the iron head grated back through them and came free with flare of agony and a bright spray of blood.

Cato dropped the arrow, snatched up the axe and bunched his injured hand into a fist to try and stop the bleeding and still give him support as he moved on, jaws tightly clenched. He looked up and saw that Macro and several of his men had already reached the foot of the palisade and were starting to form a roof with their shields to shelter the work party. Cato scrambled up the last stretch of slope and into cover, throwing his axe down and slipping the coiled rope over his head and dropping it. He winced as he quickly examined the wound, an ugly puckered hole bleeding freely. Macro saw him and grimaced.

‘Bet that smarts, sir.’

‘Hurts like fuck.’ Cato unwound his neck cloth and gestured to the nearest of the work party. ‘Bind my hand.’

The legionary did as he was ordered while Cato examined the ground at the foot of the palisade. He could see that the soil had dropped a foot or so around the corner of the bastion, evidence of a landslip in the past.

‘There! Get digging.’

Several of the men took up their picks and went to work, breaking up the ground and frantically scraping the soil aside. Above them the arrows and rocks continued to fall, and then there was a brief roaring sound and a wave of heat as a faggot burst on the shields and burning debris flickered down into the grass on either side of the shield men. The soil came away easily and soon they had worked two feet down the length of the wooden posts.

‘Keep going,’ Cato urged, leaning forward to feel the surface of the wood, dark and soft with age and damp. He turned to one of the work party. ‘Take an axe to it, here. Cut around it as best you can.’

The soldier nodded and Cato backed away to give him space to wield the tool. The man struck as hard as the confined space allowed and a sharp thud reverberated in the close air. He struck again and a small chip of wood flew to one side. Again and again he struck, sweat flying from his brow, as he cut a channel in the timber, nearly a foot in diameter. He knew his task and did not need further instruction from Cato. As soon as he had a created a gap around the edge of the post wide enough for his purpose he set the axe down, drew his dagger and dug at the soil behind, working the blade around the back of the wood until there was enough room to pass a rope round. Cato reached down and handed him a coil and the soldier fed it round with clumsy speed, and once again, before tying the end off and throwing the rest of the rope down the slope.

‘That’s the first,’ Cato called over to Macro. ‘Two more should do it.’

‘Hurry it up!’ Macro shouted as his shield lurched under the impact of a rock. ‘They’re getting really pissed off up there.’

The men with the picks attacked the ground in a renewed frenzy, striking clods away in flurries of blows, until the bases of several of the posts were exposed, like old blackened teeth. A fresh man stepped forward to replace the axeman and cut the next two channels, and another fastened the ropes. Cato tested the knots with his good hand. Satisfied that they would hold, he ordered, ‘That’s it! Get on the ropes!’

The work party downed their tools and joined the others sliding down the slope and taking up position along the lengths stretched over the grass. Cato remained by the posts, standing between two of the ropes with his back to the wood.

‘Take up the slack!’

Even though they were exposed to the enemy’s missiles, Macro’s men took the rope in both hands and braced their boots and waited for the order.

‘Pull!’

The ropes went taut and Cato touched the nearest lightly with his fingers, feeling the tension, and searching for the telltale lurch that would indicate the post was moving.

‘Together!’ Macro called out. ‘On my command. . heave!’

The men on the three lines groaned, grunted and swore as they threw all their weight and strength into their efforts and pulled on the ropes. But Cato could sense no movement, and touched another of the ropes, fearing that he had not allowed the work party to dig deep enough around the bases of the posts. ‘Move, you bastards. .’

A loud cry drew his eyes to one of the men on the ropes. He had let go and was clawing at the shaft of a throwing spear that had pierced the mail armour over his shoulder. The tension on the rope slackened.

‘Keep pulling!’ Macro bellowed and the line snapped tight again. This time, Cato felt certain he sensed movement beneath his fingertips. No more than a slight tremor.

‘It’s moving!’ he called out. ‘Macro, another heave!’

‘Ready, lads! Together. One, two, three, heave!’

This time it was more noticeable, and Cato even felt the rope shift a fraction downhill, and the wood moved a little behind his back. ‘It’s going to work!’ he shouted with glee. ‘It’s moving! Heave!’

The soil at the bottom of the post began to trickle away and Cato looked up and saw the top of the post move against the clear background of the sky. Another post also edged out of place and for a moment Cato was oblivious to the pain in his hand as he grinned like an excited child. He felt cold soil sprinkle on to his arms as gaps opened above him and he laughed as he met Macro’s gaze. But there was only an acute look of alarm in his friend’s expression.

‘It’s going! Get out of the way, you fool!’ Macro shouted at him.

Cato felt the post shift behind him and heard the strained groan of timber grinding on timber. His exultation of an instant before changed to icy dread as he thrust himself away from the corner of the fort and leaped down the slope. Ahead of him the legionaries had abandoned one of the ropes and were sprinting to either side. The post swept close by him in a blur.

‘Get clear!’ he heard Macro bellow to his men.

Another post thudded down to the other side of Cato and suddenly the ground seemed to move under his feet like water and a great weight struck him in the back, pitching him head first a short distance before there was only blackness, silence and he could not move.

At first Cato wondered if this was what death was like. An endless cold darkness enveloping his disembodied mind. It made a kind of sense if there was some irreducible essence to a person’s being. He was surprised to find himself thinking so calmly, and then he felt the pain in his hand again, and found that he was straining to breathe. So much for the afterlife, he chided himself as he tried to move. He felt the soil shift as he wriggled his fingers. He thrust out his arm as far as he could and tried to move his legs at the same time. A burning sensation tingled in his lungs and the air about his mouth and nostrils felt hot and stifling and the first stab of fear pricked his mind. Buried alive. Suffocated to death. He renewed his efforts to struggle free but could not work out which direction he was facing. Then panic fully seized him.