There was no artillery at the outpost. Even a single bolt-thrower would have been useful in harassing the brigands standing nonchalantly across the slope. Nor were there any bows, or javelins. Some slings might be fashioned from the coils of rope that formed part of the supplies in the wagons. But there was no lead shot for them. The only missiles available would be stones plucked from the ground. Still, Cato decided, a few makeshift slings would help tilt the odds a little in their favour. A lucky shot might take down one of the brigands’ leaders.
He paused to put himself in the enemy’s position. To destroy the outpost, its garrison, a squadron of cavalry and a supply convoy would deliver a severe blow to Roman prestige and hearten those who still resisted the governor’s authority. It would surely encourage more men to join the ranks of the brigands, and with the pestilence already weakening Scurra’s control of the province, the time might be right for a more general uprising against Roman rule. An attack was inevitable. Most likely under cover of darkness, he concluded. In which case, the defenders needed to be prepared.
As dusk fell, Cato could make out the figures gathering around the outpost. Shortly before, the sound of axes cutting wood inside the forest had fallen silent, and the only noises coming from lower down the slope were those of orders being given and the occasional raucous exchanges of men drunk on the certainty of victory. Inside the outpost, Cato had ordered two of the carts to be placed hard up against the inside of the gates, their wheels wedged with rocks. The leader of the mule drivers, a thin man with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes, was also the owner of the wagons, and he accosted Cato as soon as he realised why his vehicles were being repositioned.
‘Now just a minute, Legate. You ain’t putting my property in the way of danger. Not unless you’re prepared to pay for it first.’
‘I’m not a legate,’ Cato replied with forced patience as he regarded the man. ‘Barcano, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What good do you think your property is going to do you if the enemy fight their way into the stockade? They’ll cut you down alongside us and take your wagons. It’s better that they are used to improve our defences. For your sake as much as my soldiers’.’
‘That’s as may be, but I’ve got to think about my livelihood if we get through this alive. When the fighting’s over, it’s me that’s going to be out of pocket if there’s any damage done to my wagons, ain’t it?’
‘Then let’s hope the enemy doesn’t get close enough to damage them, eh? Where’s your weapon?’ Cato looked over at the rest of the mule drivers sitting together in front of the other carts. ‘Why aren’t your men armed? I gave orders that every man was going to take his place on the battle line.’
‘Ah, well now, that’s another matter.’ Barcano jabbed his thumb into his bony chest. ‘We’re paid to haul supplies, not to fight. If you’re asking me and the lads to take up arms, that’ll cost extra.’
‘I’m not asking you. I’m ordering you.’
Barcano shook his head. ‘You ain’t got the right. We’re not your soldiers.’
Cato was tired and fast losing his patience. It seemed incredible that he should be discussing such a matter while they were surrounded by an enemy determined to wipe them out. ‘You’ll do as I say. Now report to Optio Micus and get some weapons for your men.’
He was about to turn away, but Barcano sidestepped neatly into his path. ‘Nothing doing. Not until we agree terms.’
‘Fuck it,’ Cato growled. He grabbed the folds of the man’s tunic and forced him back several paces until he slammed into one of the posts of the watchtower. ‘I’ll tell you my terms. You’ll do exactly as I bloody say. If you don’t, or you give me any more trouble, I’ll have you and your men thrown out of the fort and you can take the matter up with the enemy. Do you understand me?’
Barcano’s eyes were wide with fear and he nodded vigorously. ‘Y-yes, sir. No need to threaten me. I’m just a businessman trying to earn a living.’
‘Then fucking earn it and get yourself a weapon, or living is the last thing you’ll be doing.’
Cato released his grip and thrust himself away from the man with a snort of disgust. He turned and made his way up onto the rampart beside the gate, where Massimilianus was leaning on the rail between two of the hoardings.
‘Anything to report, Centurion?’
‘No, sir. It’s gone quiet down there. Won’t stay that way for long, I’d imagine.’
Cato looked up at the velvet sky. The brightest of the stars were already visible, but there would be no moon for a few nights. That worked in favour of the enemy, who would be able to get close to the fort before being spotted. The timing of any attack was a less certain matter. A patient leader would let his men eat and rest during the night while he sent skirmishers forward in feints, forcing the defenders to stay alert so they would be tense and exhausted when the real attack was unleashed. However, the leader of the brigand war band would be aware that the smoke signal from the outpost had been answered and that relief columns might already be marching to the aid of the defenders, forestalling any chance of a dawn attack.
‘I think they’ll keep us on our toes for a few hours before they attempt anything. Make sure the men and animals are fed.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Massimilianus turned to indicate the mules, which were braying loudly from the corner of the outpost where they had been tethered. ‘The trough’s run dry and those beggars have a raging thirst. They’ll keep that up, and it’ll get worse the thirstier they get.’
Cato had not been thinking of the welfare of the draught animals. ‘So?’
‘The more noise they make, the harder it will be for us to hear the enemy when they approach the fort.’
‘Ah . . . That’s not good.’
‘No. So we can either give them some more water, or put up with the noise, or silence them.’
‘We may need whatever water we have left,’ Cato responded. ‘They’ll have to go without. If we get through the night, we’ll need them. We’ll leave them be for now. Make sure you tell the sentries to keep their ears open. And have some bundles of kindling tied up with rags, in case we need illumination in front of the defences.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato looked over the rampart towards the enemy for a moment before he continued. ‘Post two men on each wall and two in the tower. The remainder can rest at the foot of the rampart. We’ll change the watch around midnight. You take the first watch.’
‘Very good, sir.’
They exchanged a nod and Cato climbed down to the interior of the outpost and crossed to the stores hut, where Micus and his militia were eating around a small iron stove. They scrambled to their feet as he approached.
‘Stand easy. Any spare rations to be had?’
Micus offered him his own mess tin and Cato nodded his thanks. He raised it and sniffed, then tried a spoonful of the thick stew, chewing on a lump of meat and swallowing. ‘Is that pork?’
‘Wild boar, sir. There’s some in the forest by the spring. I took down a sow yesterday and we found her piglets at the same time. The carcasses are hanging at the back of the store shed.’
‘And you forgot to tell Massimilianus and his men about them?’
Micus smiled. ‘He didn’t ask, sir.’
‘Then I suggest you be a good comrade and let his men share the meat. It’s important to have a good meal before a fight.’
‘Yes, sir, I’ll see to it.’
Cato ate quickly, surprised to find that the seasoning of the stew lent it a fine flavour. He scraped the bottom and sides of the mess tin for his last spoonful and returned it to Micus. ‘Thanks. I’ll sleep that off. Don’t forget what I said about the meat.’
‘Of course, sir.’
He found himself a place at the foot of the rampart where he could be seen by the light of the flames beneath the stove, then settled back and closed his eyes. He kept still and breathed easily. Tired as he was, his mind was racing, yet he knew that it set a
poor example to the men if they saw him fretting and keeping a constant lookout for an attack. Better that they saw him calmly take a nap.
Though his eyes were closed, his ears missed little. Besides the braying of the mules and the gentle crackle of flames from the cooking stove and the signal brazier, there was the murmur of conversation between the men inside the crowded interior of the outpost. Some of the voices were anxious, but most sounded calm, and there was even some laughter before someone broke into a bawdy song about a cuckolded miller and his lecherous young wife. His comrades joined in until it reached the humorous conclusion and all of them roared with laughter. Cato half opened his eyes and saw one of Micus’s men carrying two small boar carcasses across to the auxiliaries, who were busy lighting their own cooking fire. The fresh meat was accepted gratefully and the auxiliaries shared their wineskin with the militiaman. Cato’s lips raised slightly in a satisfied smile at the prospect of the two groups of men bonding.
He closed his eyes again and breathed deeply as the night closed in over the outpost. Overhead, a multitude of stars glittered serenely as a lone bird began to call out somewhere in the distance. On another night, it would have been the epitome of tranquillity, he mused. His thoughts drifted, and soon he was thinking of Claudia once again, and then he was fast asleep, snoring loudly enough to draw smiles from the militiamen nearby.
Cato woke gradually, so that the dream he’d been having vied with the reality around him for a few moments before his head cleared and he sat up quickly. The cooking fire had died down to a few glowing embers and the night air was cool enough to make him shiver. He rose stiffly to his feet and looked around. All was quiet. Even the mules had fallen silent. The sentries on the rampart were just visible, as were the men sitting or lying around the inside of the stockade. There was a glow at the top of the watchtower from the signal brazier, which was kept alight at all times. He could make out the transverse crest of Massimilianus’s helmet above the rear wall of the stockade. Climbing up the rampart, he joined the centurion as the latter stared intently into the darkness.
‘Anything to report?’
‘Not much. There was some movement about an hour ago, down by the edge of the forest. Nothing since then, apart from the odd outbreak of shouting. Sounds like they’re having something of a party. Probably filling their guts with wine to build up some Tungrian courage.’
A vague sense of foreboding gripped Cato. He tried to shake it off. It would not do him or his men any good to spend the night jumping at shadows.
‘How long have I been asleep?’
‘Four, maybe five hours, sir.’
‘Then it’s time you were relieved. Send the next watch up to replace the sentries.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The centurion climbed down and went round the outpost waking some of the sleeping men. One by one those on watch were relieved and descended from the stockade to find a place to rest. Cato leaned on the rail and stared into the darkness, ears straining to detect any sound that might be cause for alarm. He heard a chorus of shouts, roars of laughter, and then a group of men burst into song.
He eased himself up and walked slowly along the rampart, checking that all the sentries had been replaced by men from the second watch and that the latter were fully awake. As he made his way along the stretch of the stockade leading to the gate, he glanced out and was about to take his next step when he heard a faint noise – a light, almost animal grunt. He froze and leaned his head towards the sound. But there was nothing more and he wondered if he had imagined it. There it was again, the sense of foreboding he had felt earlier, nagging at his thoughts. He was tempted to dismiss it once more, but something felt different. He turned to the rail of the stockade and half concealed himself behind one of the protective hoardings, then listened again. The sound of singing from the bottom of the slope at the rear of the outpost swelled in volume.
‘I don’t like it,’ he whispered to himself. He turned to the nearest sentry. ‘Bring me a taper from the cooking fire embers, and one of the kindling faggots.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Be quick about it.’
While he waited, he continued watching the ground in front of the outpost but could make out no movement. When the auxiliary returned, Cato drew his sword and stabbed it into the tightly bound bundle of sticks, then held it up and ordered the other man to light the kindling. It took a moment for the spark to spread to the bundle, but the dried twigs were soon eagerly consumed by small flames, and smoke curled up. When it was properly ablaze, Cato stretched his sword arm back and hurled it forward, and the bundle slipped off the blade and flew in a flaring shallow arc for a short distance before hitting the ground in a burst of sparks and rolling down the slope.
The bright yellow flames illuminated a group of crouching men some fifty paces away, staring intently at the blazing bundle as it passed close by them and lit up another huddle of brigands a short distance further on.
Cato cupped a hand to his mouth and turned to shout at his men. ‘To arms! To arms!’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘They’re coming!’ Cato bellowed. ‘Bring up the rest of the faggots! Light ’em up and get them over the walls!’
The men who had been resting a moment earlier scrambled to their feet, snatched up their weapons and surged up the rampart to take their positions along the stockade. Cato saw Barcano hesitate before one of his men thrust him forward. As more of the faggots were set alight, a cacophony of cheers and war cries rose up from the darkness around the outpost. Cato gripped the edge of the wooden rail as he saw the enemy swarming up towards the ditch that surrounded the stockade. The first wave consisted of a dispersed line of men armed with arrows and slings. Behind them came groups with shields to protect the ladder-bearers hurrying after them. There was a bright flare and a crackle of flames as another faggot arced over the stockade. It struck the ground and rolled down the slope, forcing two of the brigand skirmishers to dive aside, its vivid glow revealing another party of men with a ladder. There was a brief burst of sparks and spurts of flame as the faggot hit a tree stump, and by their light Cato glimpsed an even bigger party of men packed tightly together further down the slope. Then the glow faded and they were lost from sight.
‘Beware! Slingshot!’ Massimilianus called out. ‘Get down!’
Most of the men along the stockade hunched or ducked behind the hoardings, but some were slow to react. Shot whipped out of the darkness, splintering the wooden stockade or shooting overhead to thud into the opposite rampart, or going high and passing right over the outpost. There were arrows too, dark shafts shivering as the points bit into the timber. Cato saw one of the mule drivers lurch as an arrow struck him in the shoulder. He stumbled back a pace before slipping and rolling down the rampart, howling as the shaft snagged and jarred the arrowhead before it snapped. A constant ragged chorus of sharp raps sounded across the outpost as missiles continued to strike home. Cato crouched behind the parapet in grim frustration at being forced to keep his head down, unable to keep an eye on the enemy. He could hear them above the din of the bombardment, cheering as they surged towards the ditch.
There was a cry of pain from the far side of the outpost, and he turned to see that one of the militiamen had been struck in the back of his thigh by an arrow. Even as he watched, there was a burst of grit as a slingshot slammed into the rampart nearby. He saw the danger he had missed at once, and cupped his hands to his mouth as he bellowed, ‘Keep your shields up, facing into the outpost!’
His men hurried to obey, while the mule drivers huddled up close to the soldiers to try to shelter from the barrage of arrows and shot. It was the first time Cato had been subjected to an all-round deluge of missiles in such a confined space, and he sat tensed up, convinced that he would be struck at any moment. Nor were the men the only ones at risk. An arrow pierced the neck of one of the horses and it reared back, forelegs kicking as its head swung wildly from side to side, straining to break free from the tethered rein
s. Its shrill whinnies and frantic movements frightened the horses on either side. An instant later, one of the mules was hit in the rump and added its agonised braying to the noise swelling up within the small fortification. The only thing that compensated for the danger and terror of the storm of missiles flying at and over the stockade was the realisation that the overshoots were as much a danger to the enemy. Cato wondered if they had neglected to consider that in their burning desire to destroy the outpost, or whether they simply considered it a risk worth taking.
He heard a shout close by, beyond the ditch, then the rattle of the arrows and slingshot against the stockade began to ease. He braced himself and stood up. On the other side of the ditch he could see the enemy pouring forward out of the pools of light cast by the faggots. As the first group reached the ditch, he saw that the ladder they were carrying was longer than he had thought, and he felt his guts knot with anxiety as he shouted the warning.
‘Stand up! They’re using ladders!’
The defenders rose, shields towards the enemy, as the nearest brigands grounded the base of the ladder and fed it forwards, out over the ditch, at an angle towards the top of the parapet. Cato drew his sword and stepped closer as the arms of the ladder clattered onto the wooden rail. At once the first of the attackers began to scramble up the shallow angle, the rungs bowing slightly under his weight. He was hampered by the spear in his right hand, and Cato could hear his laboured breathing as he approached. The man slowed as he caught sight of the Roman officer waiting for him, sword raised; then, grasping the riser firmly with his left hand, he braced his feet and made a one-handed thrust.
The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Page 27
