Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (42 page)

‘Sorry.’ Cato was now wide awake, ashamed of his weakness and afraid that it might happen again. He stretched his shoulders and walked over to a water trough, removed his helmet and swept the strands of hay covering the surface to one side before ducking his head in, rocking his face from side to side as the cool water quickened his senses. Then he stood up, not bothered by the drops of water cascading down his face and on to his segmented armour and tunic. With a last stretch, and rubbing his eyes Cato set off for the great hall. He climbed through the gap between two of the wagons and dropped down into the redoubt.

Cadminius and some of the bodyguards sat by the entrance to the hall, talking quietly and drinking from some wine jars in the glow of a small fire. They looked up as Cato strode across to them. The centurion was frowning. He beckoned to Cadminius and entered the hall. Cadminius took his time finishing off the wine in his cup, and then rose slowly and followed Cato inside.

‘Drinking? Is that wise?’ Cato asked with a look of contempt. ‘You’ll hardly be in a fit state to defend your king tomorrow.’

‘Roman, drink is our way of life.’

‘Fine, but it can ruin a good death. Is that how you want to die tomorrow? A drunken rabble so pissed you can hardly strike a straight blow.’

Cadminius raised his fist and for a moment Cato felt sure the warrior would hit him. But Cadminius slowly relaxed his expression and muttered, ‘We’ll be all right. I give you my word.’

‘I’m counting on it. Now, I must see the king.’

‘No point. He’s just the same.’

‘Nevertheless, I must see him. Macro has ordered me to report on his condition.’ Cato did not give Cadminius any chance to protest further. He swung round and marched towards the door leading into the king’s private quarters. A sole guard stood on duty, and he pushed his back away from the wall and reached for his spear, but Cadminius waved him aside.

The royal bedchamber was brightly lit by oil lamps and torches, and stank of smoke. A small crowd of nobles sat and stood about the king’s table, talking in muted tones. Verica was almost impossible to see, swathed in fur covers up to his chin. Above them, his white hair flowed over a purple bolster. The king’s skin was almost as white as his hair and the faint rasp of his breathing was audible even from the doorway. The surgeon from the depot hospital looked up as Cato entered and smiled.

‘The king stirred briefly a few moments ago.’

‘He regained consciousness?’ asked Cato as he joined the surgeon at the bedside and looked down at the frail old man.

‘Not exactly. He opened his eyes, muttered a few words and was unconscious again.’

‘Words? What words? What’d he say?’

‘Nothing I could make out, except Tincommius’ name. The king seemed a bit agitated.’

‘That’s it? Nothing more?’ The surgeon shook his head, and Cato’s lips briefly tightened in frustration. ‘If there’s any change, either way, you send for me at once. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato took a last look at the king and was turning to leave when the surgeon grasped his arm.

‘Has anyone made it from the hospital?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’ The surgeon looked Cato in the eye. ‘What are our chances, sir?’

‘Not good. Just do your duty, for as long as you can.’

‘And when the end comes . . .?’

‘Protect the king. That’s all.’

Once he had reported back to Macro, Cato made a quick round of the palisade to make sure that the men were awake and watching for any sign of the enemy. With so few of the defenders left, even one unobservant sentry could lead to the death of them all. Then, satisfied that there was no more he could do, Cato found himself a place close to the gate, leaned back against a support post and almost at once fell into a deep sleep. He did not wake when the guard was changed, and it was only the urge to urinate that finally woke him, shortly before dawn. Consciousness returned quickly, and an instant fear that he had slept far too long. At once Cato tried to clamber up on to his feet. The stiffness of his muscles and the aching heaviness of total exhaustion almost denied him the ability to stand, and he groaned as he forced himself to straighten up.

Although it was still dark and gloomy overhead, away in the east the horizon was lit by the pearly grey of the coming dawn. The air was cool and the breath of the few men stirring around the royal enclosure came in faint wisps. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, and the sky was overcast, promising rain later on, or more likely the depressing drizzle that was so much a feature of this island’s climate. It saddened Cato to think that the drama of his death would unfold against such a dour backdrop. A paltry skirmish in some dark corner of a crude collection of barbarian hovels that scarcely dignified its description as a town. That’s where he, Macro, Silva and the others would find their graves - in obscure, uncivilised and backward Calleva. No place in the history books for them.

Stretching his back and shoulders Cato walked stiffly over to a small fire in the centre of the enclosure. Macro was supervising a small party of kitchen slaves as they cut a pig up into portions. The aroma of roast pork made Cato realise how hungry he was and this time he willingly helped himself to a hunk of meat with plenty of crackling on it. He nodded a greeting to Macro.

‘You’ll break your teeth on that,’ Macro smiled.

‘What good is life if we can’t enjoy it?’ Cato replied. ‘Any bread going?’

‘There, in that basket.’

Cato squatted down beside the fire and began to eat, chewing slowly and relishing the taste of every mouthful of pork and the king’s finest bread. It felt strange to enjoy his food so much, and Cato realised that in ordinary circumstances he had had to bolt his meal down in order to get on with all the duties of the day. Today, by contrast, there was nothing to rush. Breakfast could go on for as long as he wanted, or at least for as long as the Durotrigans permitted.

Once the slaves had been sent round to rouse the defenders and hand them their food Macro sat down beside Cato and munched contentedly on a strip of roast loin as he warmed himself. Neither man spoke. Around them, as the pale light strengthened, the defenders awoke from deep sleep and huddled over the food brought to them. Most had enough appetite to tuck into the choice pickings of the royal foodstore, but some were too exhausted, or too preoccupied, and let the food grow cold at their sides as they sat and waited.

They were not kept long. A legionary sentry on the palisade above the gate called out to Macro, and the two centurions immediately threw down their food and ran across the enclosure. They climbed the ladder quickly, their earlier stiffness forgotten as they responded to the urgency of the sentry’s tone.

‘Report!’ ordered Macro.

‘Sir, down there!’ The legionary pointed along the street. ‘A couple of ‘em just popped round the corner, had a quick look and ran back.’

‘And you spoiled my breakfast for that?’

‘Yes, sir. You said-’

‘I know what I said, thank you. You did the right thing, son. We’ll wait here a while and see if anything happens.’

‘It’s happening,’ said Cato. ‘Look.’

From round the corner, perhaps fifty paces away, strode a single figure, brash and bold. He stopped, at a safe range and cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘So, you’re both still alive!’ Tincommius called out. ‘I’m relieved.’

‘He’s relieved.’ Macro raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a glance with Cato. ‘I’m touched . . .’

‘I’ve come to offer you one final chance to surrender, and save yourselves and those of my tribe who are misguided enough to serve the ends of Rome.’

‘On what terms?’ Macro called out.

‘Same as before. Safe passage to your legion.’

‘I don’t think so!’

‘I thought you’d say that!’

Cato was sure that he could see Tincommius smile for a moment. Then the Atrebatan prince turned round and shouted an order. There were sharp cries of pain and some shouting from beyond the bend in the street. Then a column of figures shambled into sight. Many wore bandages, some had streaks of dried blood on their faces and limbs. Some wore the red tunic of the Roman legions, and were tethered together by leather straps. Ranged alongside them were men armed with spears, prodding any of the prisoners who stumbled along too slowly. Cato recognised a few faces: men who had once served in the Wolf and Boar Cohorts and some of the Greek and Roman merchants who had hoped to make their fortune in Britain. Tincommius gave an order and the column halted. The first man was untied from the others and brought forward, hands still tightly bound. His escort kicked him behind the knees and the Roman fell down with a cry. He lay on his side, groaning, until Tincommius stepped over and kicked him in the head. The Roman tucked his head down, drew his knees up and fell silent.

Tincommius turned back to the gateway, pointing down at the man on the ground. ‘You’ll surrender to me now, or this man dies. And then the rest, one by one.’

Chapter Thirty-Six

‘To prove I mean what I say, please observe . . .’ Tincommius nodded to a man standing to one side of the column. Unlike the other natives he was carrying only a heavy wooden club. He strode forward, and stood over the Roman on the ground, bracing his feet apart. Then he swept the club up and smashed it down on the shin of the Roman’s left leg. Cato and Macro clearly heard the bone crack from the gateway of the royal enclosure, fifty paces up the street. The scream from the Roman was audible from far further away. And it got worse when the warrior broke the prisoner’s other leg - a shrill animal screech of pure agony that chilled the blood of all who heard it. The Roman writhed in the dirt of the street, his lower legs twisting obscenely below the knee, causing even more torment. His screams only ended when he finally passed out.

Tincommius allowed the silence to have its effect before continuing to address the defenders. ‘That’s the first. There’ll be more, until you come to your senses and surrender. Those that survive can be taken with you when you quit Calleva. It’s your decision, Macro. You can end this any time that you wish.’

Above the gate Cato noticed that Macro was gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white and the tendons leading back towards the wrist stood out like iron nails under the skin. Cato felt more sick than enraged. The spectacle had made him want to throw up, and the roast pork and fine bread he had been enjoying so much only moments earlier now churned in his stomach.

‘Bastard,’ Macro whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Bastard . . . Bastard . . . BASTARD!’

His shout of rage carried down the street, and Tincommius smiled as Macro let his anger spill out.

‘Fucking bastard! I’ll kill you. I swear it! I’ll kill you!’

‘Centurion, you’re welcome to come out here and try it. I dare you!’

‘Sir,’ Cato placed his hand on Macro’s shoulder, ‘You mustn’t . . .’

Macro glanced round angrily. ‘Of course not! Think I’m stupid?’

‘No . . . just angry, sir. Angry and helpless.’ Cato nodded at the other men who crowded the palisade, staring down the street with expressions of horror and rage. ‘We all are.’

Macro turned to look in the direction Cato had indicated and saw that not only had all the remaining legionaries clambered up on to the palisade, but also the Wolves and some of Verica’s bodyguards. He swept Cato’s hand from his shoulder and roared at the men.

‘What the bloody hell do you think this is? A fucking freak show? Get off the wall and get back to your positions! Want them to just bloody hop over the wall while you’re gawping at that twat? The only men I want up here are the sentries. Move!’

The legionaries backed away from the palisade with guilty expressions and clambered back down into the enclosure, followed by the Wolves, who had no need of Cato’s shouted translation. Macro glowered at them for a moment and then turned back towards Tincommius.

When he saw that he had the centurion’s attention again Tincommius called out, ‘Macro, will you surrender? Answer me!’

The centurion stood still and silent, lips compressed into a tight line on his weathered face. A terrible despair gnawed at his guts and a fathomless anger and hatred for Tincommius filled his soul as Macro watched helplessly.

‘Very well. The next man, then.’ Tincommius beckoned for the second prisoner to be brought forward.

The Atrebatan warrior selected a youth, scarcely more than a boy, whom Cato recognised as one of the mule herders from the depot. The boy shrank back, shaking his head, but his captor grabbed him roughly by the hair as he slipped the knot that bound the boy to the rest of the prisoners. With a savage wrench the warrior hauled the boy out of the column and dragged him, writhing and screaming for mercy, towards the prone form of the first victim. Macro stood still, but Cato could watch no more, and turned away. He hurried to the ladder and swung himself down into the enclosure. As he reached the ground he heard the sickening crunch of a blow being landed and the boy’s scream cut through the morning air like a knife thrust deep into Cato’s guts.

All morning it went on, and the broken bodies stretched across the street. There was no pause in the screams and cries of the Romans now that so many of them had been crippled and left to suffer the agony of their shattered limbs. Macro made himself stay on the gate, silent and unyielding in the face of Tincommius’ regular demands for surrender. And each time, when Macro refused to reply, the next captive was dragged forward, in full view of the defenders on the gate, and beaten savagely on the legs until they broke. To add emphasis to the process Tincommius ordered the warrior with the club to begin breaking arms as well and once he had broken both shins he began on their elbow joints.