Brothers in Blood (31 page)

He strode off and Vellocatus hurried to catch up with the new commander. The rest stood and watched in an uncomfortable silence, refusing to turn and meet the tribune’s eyes. Otho cleared his throat and made to speak. Then thought better of it and turned away and slowly paced off into the night, in Horatius’s footsteps, as he made for the tent he shared with his wife.

‘Poor bastard,’ said Macro. ‘He’ll never live this down.’

‘Maybe.’ Cato scratched his jaw. ‘Or he may yet be proved right. It could all go wrong, and we’d be better off having retreated like he wants.’

Macro sucked his teeth and then shrugged. ‘Look on the bright side.’

‘The bright side?’

‘Sure.’ Macro nodded. ‘If the tribune is proved right and it all goes tits up, he’s not going to be around to say I told you so.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

B
y the time the Roman soldiers began to enter the settlement most of the inhabitants had already fled. Once word reached them that Venutius had seized power many had feared that the Romans in the nearby camp would intervene. Hurriedly packing their few valuables into bundles, they herded their families out of the settlement and made for the safety of the surrounding hills from where they could watch events unfold. Only a few still remained, silently hiding behind closed doors and praying to their gods that they were overlooked or ignored.

Prefect Horatius had left the mounted contingent of his cohort to protect the camp, under the command of Tribune Otho, while he led the rest of the soldiers out to attack the fort. He rode at the head of his troops, sitting stiff-backed in his saddle. Ahead of him a screen of legionaries warily entered the settlement, watching for signs of ambush as they pushed forward along the narrow lanes towards the track leading up to the fort. The sun had only just risen and shadows lurked between the huts and pens of the natives. Horatius halted the main column outside the settlement and summoned the unit commanders. It was still cool enough to warrant wearing a cloak, but Cato had to suppress a shudder as he craned his neck to look up the slope towards the palisade far above.

‘There’s only one way to do this,’ Horatius began. ‘And that’s to attack the main gate.’

A party of men had been sent out during the night to fell a suitable tree for use as a ram and now two sections of legionaries were carrying the heavy burden towards the settlement.

‘Centurion Statillus, your cohort will launch the first assault up the track. A covering century in the vanguard. Then the ram, and the rest of your men.’

Statillus nodded.

‘You will, of course, ensure that the men carrying the ram are screened by their comrades. I don’t want any unnecessary casualties. Climb the track as quick as you can and batter through the main gate. Your cohort should be sufficient to take the fort, but Centurion Acer’s men will be on hand if you need reinforcing. Unfortunately we cannot deploy our ballistas to cover your attack because the angle of the slope is too great.’

‘A pity, that,’ Macro commented. ‘The natives really don’t like being on the receiving end of our artillery.’

‘It can’t be helped. We’ll just have to take the fort head on. Roman courage and Roman steel will be enough to crush Venutius and his supporters.’ Horatius turned to Cato. ‘The only remaining task will be to ensure that no one escapes. If Vellocatus can get out over the wall, you can be sure others will give it a try. We don’t want the ringleaders to escape, or Caratacus. That’s your responsibility, Prefect Cato. The Blood Crows are to surround the hill and round up anyone who gets down the slope. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Then everyone knows what they have to do. We’ll commence the attack as soon as the Seventh Cohort is formed up at the foot of the hill.’ He glanced round and concluded confidently, ‘Good luck, gentlemen. Do your job and this will all be over by noon. Dismissed.’

The other officers saluted and turned away to rejoin their commands. Cato walked with Macro as they paced down the side of the column of legionaries. Macro’s cohort was at the end, just before the contingent of auxiliary infantry from Horatius’s unit. The Blood Crows stood by their horses at the very rear of the column.

‘What do you think?’ Cato asked.

‘About?’

‘The prefect’s plan?’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘It’s simple enough.’

‘That’s the problem.’

Macro sighed. ‘You know, sometimes simple is best.’

‘True,’ Cato conceded. ‘But not in this case. A frontal assault is going to be costly. There’s no avoiding heavy losses if we go directly for the main gate.’ He paused and pointed up at the outlying bastion round which the track curved in its final approach to the ditch and gate of the fort. Already there were scores of warriors lining the palisade, watching the approach of the Roman forces. ‘That’s what we should go for first, before we bring the ram up.’

Macro stared up at the formidable earthwork. ‘That would take too long. Horatius is right, we need to get this over with as soon as possible, even if it means we have to accept a few extra casualties.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Hills . . . Taking ’em seems to be our speciality these days.’

Cato was still for a moment as he envisaged the perils of the coming assault. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have a repeat of that bloodbath we got ourselves into with the Silurians.’

‘Amen to that, brother.’

They resumed their march down the column until they reached the standard at the head of Macro’s cohort. Cato held out his hand and they clasped arms.

‘Watch yourself, Macro. If you get sent up the hill then it’ll be sticky.’

‘If I get sent up the hill, Horatius will have fucked it up spectacularly. That ain’t going to happen. Just make sure you let none of those bastards slip away.’

‘There’s no way Caratacus is going to do that again. I swear it, by all the gods.’

‘I wouldn’t tempt them if I were you. The gods like to have their fun with the pair of us. That much I’ve learned.’

Cato laughed. ‘Very well. I’ll see you later, in the fort.’

They released their grip and Cato continued down the column towards the waiting horsemen. By the time he had swung himself up into the saddle and given the command to mount he could see the glint of the early morning sun on the helmets of the Seventh Cohort as they emerged from the settlement and formed up in their centuries on the track leading up the slope. Above them, in the outer bastion, thin trails of smoke were rising into the clear sky as the defenders made their preparations to drive off the coming assault.

‘Decurion Miro!’

‘Sir!’

Cato pointed to the hill. ‘I want our men positioned a short distance out from the bottom of the slope. Two men every fifty paces should cover it. I’ll keep one squadron in reserve to the right of the settlement. We’re not to let one man get past us. And we want prisoners. Only kill if we have to. We must take Caratacus alive.’ Cato wheeled his horse round and raised his voice so that all of his men would hear. ‘You all know what Caratacus looks like. He won’t escape us this time. If you see him, I promise a hundred denariians for the man who captures him. And ten for every other prisoner.’

He could see the excited gleam in their faces and knew that he could count on them, Thracians and the replacements alike. They would do their duty and fight well for him, even more so now that there was money involved. Cato had no fear of being out of pocket. He would make it back from the sale of captives to the traders waiting back at Viroconium.

‘Second Thracian! Advance!’

He spurred his horse into an easy walk and led the cohort out across the knee-deep grass towards the hill. He stopped the leading squadron a short distance from the nearest of the huts and indicated to Miro to begin dispersing the rest of the men around the slope. Ahead he could see the last of the legionaries of the Seventh Cohort moving into column on the track. Close to the front the ram lay on the ground, eight men on either side, shields strapped over their backs. They had the unenviable task of carrying the heavy ram all the way to the top of the hill before swinging it against the gates. All the time they would be targeted by the defenders and would have to rely on their comrades to protect them as far as possible.

The rumble of wheels drew Cato’s attention and he turned to see Septimus on the driving bench of his cart as he approached from the camp. The imperial agent waved a hand in greeting and drew up beside Cato’s squadron.

‘A fine morning, Prefect!’

‘What brings you here, Hipparchus?’

‘Trade, sir. Trade. What else?’ He pointed to the legionaries. ‘It’s going to be hot work today. Men will need refreshment, and what better than a cup of my fine wine? Besides, I can watch things closely,’ he added in a deliberate tone. ‘Who knows what a humble civilian might learn today.’

A horn announced the start of the attack and both men focused their attention on the Seventh Cohort as the leading century began to edge forward.

‘I’d better be off then, sir.’ Septimus knuckled his forehead and flicked his whip to urge his mules forward. The cart rattled on over the uneven surface and disappeared into the settlement. As he sat in the saddle, Cato felt stiff and tired. He had not slept the previous night and his mind was clouded by fatigue. It seemed that Septimus, and his master Narcissus, had been right all along and there were traitors conspiring to bring about the collapse of Roman ambitions in Britannia. No doubt if Caratacus was taken alive he would be taken back to Rome and questioned closely about the identities of those Romans who had secretly abetted his cause.

As strong and tough as Caratacus was, Cato had no illusions about the enemy king’s ability to hold out against the skilled torturers of the imperial secretary. He would reveal all that he knew, and then there would be the consequent discreet bloodletting of those uncovered in plotting against Emperor Claudius. It would be better for them if Caratacus were to perish here today, fighting his Roman foes to the last breath. That was the fate he better deserved than being broken by Narcissus’s thugs, Cato conceded. After all, he had fought for the liberty of his people. He had fought on when lesser kings had bowed to Rome, or accepted Roman coin to become the lapdogs of the Emperor. There was something of the hero about him, and Cato wished him a better end than painfully expiring in a dark, dank dungeon in the bowels of the imperial palace.

A dark smudge traced an arc through the air as a fire arrow reached the zenith of its flight and plunged down towards the leading ranks of the Seventh Cohort. The signal given, the archers in the bastion loosed a barrage of arrows down the slope and Cato saw shafts shatter against the red shields of the legionaries. Some lodged where they pierced the wood and looked like fine hairs sprouting on the back of a long, scaly insect as the cohort trudged round the first bend in the track that zigzagged up to the fort.

The first man fell out of line shortly after the legionaries set out along the next straight length of the track, an arrow protruding from his leg at a steep angle. The man hobbled out of the path of his comrades and, keeping his shield up, he picked his way down the grassy slope. The second casualty soon followed as one of the men carrying the ram was felled by an arrow tearing through his neck under his cheekguard. He fell on to the track and an optio ordered another man forward before he dragged the stricken legionary aside.

The cohort turned another corner and began to pass directly beneath the outer bastion. Cato saw the flicker of flames along the parapet and swirling smoke as men heaved blazing bundles of faggots up on the end of pitchforks and swung them over the rampart. The faggots flared brilliantly as they flew through the air. The angle of the slope was such that they did not burst apart on impact but continued rolling down the slope straight at the exposed right flank of the column of Roman soldiers. The column halted where the legionaries tried to get out of the way of the blazing bundles of wood splashed with pitch. Cato saw a complete file of men knocked to the ground and when one rose up he was alight from where the burning pitch had stuck to his tunic. He threw down his shield and started to beat at the flames as his comrades backed away. Then he was hit by an arrow, and another, and he stumbled off the track and rolled down the slope, desperately trying to extinguish the flames.

More men were knocked down by the flaming bundles and scorched before the optios and centurions ordered the men on the right of the column to switch their shields to their other hand. A section ran up to guard the flank of those carrying the ram, three of whom had been burned or struck down by arrows. The column edged forward again, under a steady bombardment of arrows, rocks, javelins and blazing faggots.

Cato watched with a growing feeling of despair as more legionaries were hit and the slope below the track was dotted with the gleam of armour and red tunics of the wounded struggling to reach the safety of the bottom of the hill. Above them the palisade of the bastion was thick with Brigantian warriors, and hundreds more lined the wall of the main fort, cheering their comrades on, their cries clearly audible to the Roman units watching in silence as the Seventh Cohort struggled on. At length, the survivors of the leading century turned the last corner, between the bastion and the main fort, and approached the gate, and passed out of Cato’s field of vision. The ram followed, though Cato wondered how many of the original party still lived to carry their burden. The following centuries edged forward, more and more slowly until they ground to a halt.

A glint lower down the slope caught his eye and he saw an officer on a horse galloping up the track. Horatius, Cato realised. The prefect slowed as he passed the first of the casualties and then he was forced to walk his horse as he reached the end of the column. Drawing his sword, Horatius raised it high and stabbed the point up at the fort, urging his men on as he passed by them, making for the head of the cohort. He reached the last corner and then seemed to be snatched from view, gone. Cato strained his eyes but could make out no sign of him. No plumed helmet, nor even his horse. Then he saw the beast, empty-saddled and streaked with blood, as it bolted down the slope. Behind it the legionaries began to edge away.

Cato’s heart filled with a leaden sense of frustration as he watched the retreat. There was no sign of the ram, abandoned in the killing zone between the fort and the bastion, as its bearers fell back with their comrades, free at last to unsling their shields and hold them overhead to protect them from the missiles raining down. More men fell, and the fortunate were helped up and supported by their comrades as the Seventh Cohort retreated down the track and out of the range of the rocks, and then the spears and last of all the arrows. The more hopeful of the defenders tried a few final shots before it was clear that their enemy was beyond the reach of their arrows. A triumphant cheering rose up from the throats of the Brigantians as they surveyed the bodies and discarded equipment scattered below the fort. The remains of several bundles of wood still burned at the end of the streaks of scorched ground that scarred the slope. Some of the wounded tried to crawl to safety before they attracted the attention of the enemy.