Brothers in Blood (33 page)

‘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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

‘W
here the fuck is the prefect?’ Macro shouted as he rose to his feet and covered his body with his shield. Around him the other men were picking themselves up and shaking off the dirt that had poured down the slope when the corner of the bastion had collapsed. One of the legionaries had been crushed by the end of the post and lay unmoving where he was pinned to the ground. The Romans were not alone on the slope. Several of the enemy had been caught up in the small avalanche and were struggling to free themselves from the mound of earth beneath the breach. The posts that the Romans had pulled free had caused a collapse of the earth behind them and had carried away more posts on either side, leaving some hanging out at angles either side of the breached palisade.

Snatching out his sword, Macro knew he must take advantage of the moment. He thrust the point up the mound of earth towards the gap in the bastion’s defences.

‘First Century! Get stuck in!’

His men let out a roar and surged back up the slope and on to the loose earth, scrambling towards the breach. Macro charged at a dazed Brigantian with a dark plaited beard and knocked him down with a blow from his shield and quickly stabbed him three or four times with his sword. As the man rolled away he caused a small slide of earth to go with him and exposed the tips of a red crest. Macro kicked the body aside and fell on to his knees. He dropped his sword and frantically scooped the soil away until he could see the gleam of a helmet.

He turned and beckoned to a legionary climbing past. ‘You, give me a hand here!’

They hurriedly worked to dig round the helmet and as they exposed the face, Cato’s eyes blinked open and he spat to clear his mouth.

‘Macro . . .’ he muttered.

‘Fuck me, lad, you lead a charmed life,’ Macro laughed as he and the legionary pulled more earth away to free the prefect. Cato sat up with a small cascade of dirt. He was facing down the slope and he could see that Centurion Lebauscus and his men were streaming up towards the breach, and behind them the men of the Seventh, laden with the wooden parts of the ballistas. He turned and looked up at the bastion and saw that the enemy had recovered from the shock of the collapse of the corner and were making ready to contest the breach as the legionaries swarmed up towards them.

Macro helped him up and gestured to the legionary to get forward.

‘Anything broken?’

Cato tested his limbs and shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

His wiped his left hand on the hem of his tunic to clear the earth from his wound and saw that the hand was trembling wildly. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist tightly and tucked it against his chest before he drew his sword. ‘Let’s go.’

Macro retrieved his sword and side by side they joined the men struggling up over the loose soil. Ahead, the last of the enemy caught in the collapse of the corner of the bastion was cut down as he tried to rejoin his comrades and the legionaries clambered over him to get at his comrades waiting above. There was space for several men to defend the breach and they hefted their swords and axes as they raised their oval shields and prepared to fight. The first of the Romans came up, shield held over his head, and a Brigantian warrior swung his axe down viciously, the impact driving the legionary on to his knees. He struck again and as the blow split the wood, the legionary thrust with his sword, stabbing the man in the shin. His opponent bellowed a curse and reached down to wrench the shield aside and smashed his axe into the side of the legionary’s helmet. The Roman slumped on to the earth close to the top of the ramp and immediately two of the Brigantian’s companions bent over him, hacking at the body with their swords.

The next legionaries to climb into the breach were more wary, pausing to brace their boots and present their shields before advancing together. The defenders swung their swords and axes at them, trying to beat them back. More Brigantians pressed round the breach and those to the side hurled stones down on the Romans clambering up towards them.

Macro and Cato pressed forward with their men, gasping for breath with the effort of climbing the bank of soil that slid down under their boots and made their progress slow and laborious. The first group of legionaries into the breach were engaging the enemy and the clatter of blades and thuds of blows striking shields filled the air. As more men filled the breach, they added their weight to the struggle and pressed forward. The two officers stopped behind the closely packed ranks of their men and while Macro held his shield up, Cato stood and peered over the heads of the legionaries ahead of him.

‘We have to get the lads moving.’

Macro nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Cato saw two of the Brigantians pointing him out, picking out the red crest of an officer. Cato recognised one. Belmatus. The other raised a bow and took aim, the head of the arrow foreshortening to a point as he took a steadying breath. His fingers released the string and Cato ducked down at the same time and the arrow deflected off his helmet with a glancing blow. Macro had pressed through the ranks until he was close to the front and then called out, ‘First Century! Push and pace! On my count . . . One!’

The Romans had braced themselves, ready for the order, and let out a deep grunt as they threw their weight behind their shields.

‘Two!’

The men took a step forward and braced themselves for the next thrust.

‘One!’

Cato pushed forward with them, using his good hand to keep his balance. He had escaped death once this day and was desperate not to slip and be trampled into the ground by his own men. The tight mass of armoured men slowly gained ground, driving the natives back as they beat at the shield wall with their weapons in a wild frenzy. Risking a quick glance, Cato saw that he had passed between the posts still standing on either side. He took another step and his boot pressed on something solid. Looking down he saw the first legionary who had entered the breach, and died for the honour. There would be no award of a rampart crown for the man now.

Four more paces and then there was flattened grass under his boots as he entered the bastion. The legionaries were spreading out on either side and had won a foothold inside the defences, and all the time more men were pressing forward. Cato could see over the heads of those in front now. The interior of the bastion was an oval, eighty or so paces long and no more than thirty at the widest point. There were perhaps two hundred defenders and a brazier burned brightly a short distance from the few remaining faggots. Only a handful of the Brigantian rebels were still manning the rest of the palisade, loosing arrows at the Romans on the slope below.

Clutching his wounded hand to his breast, Cato drew his sword, dropping the point to make sure he did not accidently wound any of his comrades. He was surrounded by laboured breathing; this was tiring work for his men, having climbed the hill and the breach with the dead weight of their armour. Cato spared a moment’s gratitude for the lighter burden of the mail vest he had bought from the Syrian merchant, then he focused his mind again. They had to clear the bastion while they still had the strength to.

‘Keep going!’ he shouted above the din of the battle. ‘Forward!’

Macro took up the cry. He had found a space in the leading rank and stood shoulder to shoulder with the men facing the enemy. Advancing in a balanced crouch, he peered over the bronze trim of his shield, short sword stabbing out at any of the Brigantians who came within reach. The enemy had lost the contest to keep the Romans out and had backed off far enough to wield their weapons again. They fought with the desperate courage of their race, fearlessly lurching forward to hack at the line of Roman shields. The more cool-headed of them struck low, attempting crippling blows at the booted feet and shins of the Romans, or going high, over the top of the shields, to strike down at heads and shoulders. Either way, they risked exposing themselves to a quick thrust of a legionary sword.

Directly before Macro, a warrior in a mailed vest and carrying a heavy axe emerged from the press. His shaven head was adorned with swirling tattoos and a red moustache trailed either side of his snarling teeth. He roared at Macro and lifted his axe in both hands to strike. There was just time for Macro to punch the shield out and then the shield split as the axehead smashed through the trim and splintered down almost as far as the brass boss.

‘Shit . . .’ Macro hissed, momentarily awed by the force of the blow.

The axehead shifted as the warrior tried to pull it free. But it was jammed and Macro pulled back savagely, trying to rip it from the man’s hands. But the Brigantian was strong and held on and axe and shield shifted to and fro briefly before the warrior let out a roar and hurled himself forward, knocking the shield back into Macro and causing him to loose balance, until he was saved by the shield of the legionary behind him. With a mighty effort the Brigantian ripped his axe free and swung it back to strike again. The backswing caught one of his comrades and the iron head crushed his nose. Then it swept forward in a powerful arc, smashing across the shield of the man to Macro’s right before passing narrowly in front of his own. The momentum of the swing reached its maximum force just as it struck the helmet of the legionary on the other side, right on the hinge of the cheekguard. The metal flap leaped aside as the edge of the axe smashed on through the soldier’s skull, bursting out through his eye sockets and bridge of his nose before reaching the end of its arc.

‘
Sa!
’ the Brigantian shouted in triumph. He retrieved his weapon and kicked at the shield of the stricken man as he collapsed, spraying blood across the armour of his neighbours.

Macro leaped forward, punching his ruined shield up into his opponent’s face, and was rewarded with a solid impact and a pained grunt as the splintered surface gouged into the warrior’s face. He punched forward again, driving the man back before he withdrew his shield and braced his sword to strike. He saw the man’s face, streaked with blood where a long splinter had torn open his cheek. Then he thrust his sword, the point catching the warrior in the stomach. He folded over the blade but, to Macro’s astonishment, the finely made mail vest kept the point of the sword out. The blow winded the Brigantian, however, and he staggered back into the press of warriors and out of sight.

Macro found himself in space and uttered a savage roar as he swept his sword out in a wide arc. It was sufficient to discourage his enemies just long enough for a quick glance around to assess the situation. Half the survivors of the First Century had climbed through the breach and were pushing further into the bastion. A short distance behind him he glimpsed the crest of Cato’s helmet. Then he turned back, boots braced, his ruined shield raised, sword poised, and let the ragged line of legionaries edge up beside him. Several of the defenders had been struck and lay writhing on the ground and were finished off as the Romans passed over them.

There was a shout and the enemy hurriedly pulled back. Macro paused, and saw a tall warrior standing defiantly ten paces away, Belmatus, in front of a line of archers, arrows notched. The warrior stepped back amid them and raised his sword.

‘Front rank down!’ Macro yelled. ‘Second rank, shields up!’

He went down on one knee, letting his shield drop to the ground. The man behind raised his shield and rested it at an angle on top of Macro’s. Those on either side were following suit when the warrior barked a command and the first volley of arrows struck the Roman line with a shattering chorus of rattles and cracking as many of the iron heads pierced the shields, while others deflected overhead, some shafts shattering on impact. A more ragged volley followed, then a third before it became a steady series of impacts as the less skilled archers began to lag behind.

‘Macro!’

He turned and saw that Cato had crept forward and was squatting to one side, just behind him. He had tucked his wounded hand inside the soiled strip of ribbon that passed round his waist. His other stabbed his sword into the ground to help him balance as he settled on his haunches.

‘Hot work!’ Macro grinned, blinking as a bead of sweat dripped from his brow and made his cheek itch as it rolled down to his stubbled jaw. ‘In every way. How are we doing, sir?’

‘We hold the breach. The Eighth Cohort have started up the ramp. It’s about time to unleash the men. The rate the enemy’s been going through their arrows they’ll be out of them any moment.’

‘Let ’em shoot. The lads could use the chance to catch their breath before we get stuck in.’

Cato nodded. ‘All right. But be ready when I give the word. And go in hard. I want the bastion cleared as swiftly as we can. Did you see the man giving the order to the archers?’

‘The tall bastard? Yes.’

‘That’s Venutius’s brother, Belmatus. If you get the chance, take him down. I reckon he’s the commander of the bastion. If he goes . . .’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Already the barrage of arrows was beginning to slacken and Cato edged back to the rear of the century and looked down the earth ramp. Centurion Lebauscus was powering up the loose surface, barely out of breath. He paused at the top to nod a greeting to Cato and then turned to bellow at his men.

‘What the fuck’s keeping you, you ’orrible lot? Up here on the double! Last man is on a charge!’

The fittest of his men struggled up, then the standard-bearer, leaning on his staff as his chest heaved.

‘What happened to you, sir?’ Lebauscus asked as he looked Cato, still covered in loose soil, over. ‘You look like a bloody mole. When there’s trouble, you’re supposed to go to ground, not in it.’

‘Very funny, Centurion. You’ll back up Macro the moment he gets moving again. Like I said to him, go in hard. We’ll worry about taking prisoners later.’

Lebauscus grinned cruelly. ‘Yes, sir.’

The new arrivals rested behind their shields as occasional arrows whipped overhead. Cato waited until they had filled the space behind the First Century of Macro’s cohort, then he took a deep breath and called out, ‘Macro! Now!’