The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Let’s hope Apollonius has good news for us when he returns.’ He stepped back from the shelters. ‘Much as I think our attack should be successful, I hope he can find us a different way into the valley. He should be returning to camp before nightfall.’

  Massimilianus looked doubtful. ‘I wouldn’t pin your hopes on that, sir. If he finds anything that quickly, I dare say the enemy will already know about it. Seems to me they picked this place because there was only one way in and it would be easy to defend the choke point they chose for their defences. I don’t see there’s much hope of any alternative to the frontal attack you’ve planned.’

  Cato gave a non-committal grunt in response as he looked back towards the camp. A centurion was leading his men out of the gate to relieve the unit on watch. From the slightly elevated ground where he stood, Cato could see over the rampart into the fort, and regarded the distant figures with an experienced eye. All seemed normal enough. The sentries went about their beat, the first of the evening campfires had been lit and tendrils of smoke were rising gracefully into the still air, and the men of the mounted contingent were leading their horses out to feed and water them from the nearby stream. His gaze shifted to the small stockade a short distance further down the slope. Aside from the two men outside the gate, there was no sign of life, and he could only imagine the scenes within. If his own experience of the sickness was anything to go by, the surgeon would have his hands full dealing with the patients. If many more men were quarantined, Cato decided, he would have to release at least one of the medical orderlies to assist the surgeon. That in turn would stretch the capacity of those remaining in the camp to deal with the casualties from the assault. Of course, if those tending the sick fell ill, he would have to review the arrangement.

  Plancinus cleared his throat. ‘So when do you intend the attack to go in, sir?’

  Cato refocused his thoughts. ‘The first phase will be to burn their defences. That we will do before dawn tomorrow. Once the flames have done their work, we’ll launch the assault. It’s possible the enemy may make some repairs, so have your men prepare scaling ladders in case they are needed in the follow-up attack.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Plancinus nodded, then paused before he continued. ‘There’s the question of who leads the fire party. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like the honour of taking the first crack at the enemy.’

  ‘This is purely a wrecking exercise tonight. I want the gate burned down, along with the watchtowers and palisade. That’s all. There’s to be no attempt at engaging the brigands, Centurion. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That being the case, you can lead the fire party.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  As he regarded the man’s pleased expression, Cato could not help marvelling at the way the best of the army’s centurions willingly put themselves in danger. Plancinus was cut from the same cloth as Macro. For them, the danger and excitement of action was like some kind of addiction. It was a wonder there were any such men left in the army, given their taste for peril. For Cato, it was different. He was cursed with a vivid imagination, and every time he was confronted with the prospect of danger, his mind was filled with fearful premonitions of the myriad ways in which he might be killed or receive a crippling injury. Such dreadful thoughts plagued him until the very moment he was called on to risk his life. Then, as raw instinct, quick reflexes and years of hard training took over, all troubling thoughts were swept away in order to overcome the enemy and claim victory . . . or survive and retreat to fight another day. Afterwards, as reason returned, he always felt shaken by the transition from one state of mind to the other, and back again. It used to puzzle him how Macro seemed to take it all in his stride, and he knew that that was what marked the crucial difference between them. Macro was a soldier to the bone, whereas Cato felt as if he was something of an imposter, playing the part of a soldier. In recent years that feeling had dimmed a little, but he was still conscious of the gulf between himself and men like Macro and Plancinus. Perhaps one day he might feel truly at home in his uniform at the head of the men he commanded.

  If he lived that long. Which brought his thoughts to a further matter.

  ‘Massimilianus, you are to take Plancinus’s place if he falls. And overall command if anything should happen to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato reached up and stroked his brow close to the eye patch. The area around the socket felt bruised and tender to the touch. His eye still throbbed and so far his sight had shown no sign of improvement. It was hard to accept that he might be blind in that eye for the rest of his life, and for an instant the cold terror of losing his other eye caused an icy tingle to creep up his neck. To be blind seemed to him like a fate worse than death.

  ‘You’d better prepare your men then, Centurion.’

  Plancinus saluted and strode back towards the fort. Cato returned to the rampart, accompanied by Massimilianus. There was no sign of movement amongst the rocks and trees in front of the ditch, but he saw a group of figures standing on top of the crags above the gorge, starkly outlined against the sky as they surveyed the Roman lines.

  ‘They’ll be ready for us when we come,’ said Massimilianus.

  ‘That can’t be helped. The darkness will conceal Plancinus and his men for some of the way. But the moment the alarm is raised, they’ll hit our lads from every side.’

  As the two officers made their way back to the camp, Cato heard the sound of horses approaching, and he turned to see Apollonius and his party cantering along the track the column had marched the day before. Dust swirled behind them as they made towards the fort. When the agent caught sight of Cato, he threw up his arm and ordered the other riders to halt, then swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground before running across to his superior, excitement evident in his expression.

  ‘Any luck?’ Cato asked.

  ‘You must be one of the gods’ favoured few, sir.’ Apollonius grinned. ‘There’s another way into the valley, no more than a mile from here. Not that you’d ever know. We missed it completely when we rode by. That was before we came across the shepherd.’

  ‘Shepherd?’

  Apollonius called out, and one of the horsemen came forward. At first Cato thought there was a bundle of rags lying across the horse in front of the saddle, and then he saw movement and limbs flapping against the beast’s flank. The rider dismounted and unceremoniously hauled his burden to the ground. There was a cry of pain and a shrill stream of curses as a wizened old man dressed in rags and a tattered sheepskin stirred and climbed stiffly to his feet. His bald pate was burned a deep brown by the sun so that it had the soft gleam of polished wood. A scraggy beard lined his jaw, and as he berated the rider who had dumped him on the ground, Cato saw that he had only a few teeth. His face, hands and feet were filthy and his sunken eyes were watery. His face was bruised and scabbed and his beard was matted with what looked like dried blood.

  ‘What manner of creature is this?’ Cato chuckled. ‘A shepherd, you say?’

  Apollonius grinned. ‘That’s what he claimed when we surprised him. He was leading a nanny goat off into the trees, so who can tell the truth of it? I thought he might have something of use to tell us and we stopped for a chat. It turns out that Milopus here knows of a goat path that leads up to the top of the ridge. He showed me where it began. I followed it up for a short distance. It seems practicable.’

  Cato felt his pulse race as he turned to the old man. ‘Is this true?’

  Milopus narrowed his eyes and raised a gnarled finger, stabbing it towards Cato as he spoke in a barely comprehensible accent. ‘Thissun said you’d reward me if I tell you!’

  ‘Reward? Of course. Just show us this path.’

  ‘What’ll you give me? That first.’

  ‘Name it and it’s yours,’ Cato replied impatiently.

  The old man looked him up and down shrewdly and cocked his head to one side, like a bird. ‘Fifty coins . . .’<
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  It occurred to Cato that the man had little grasp of the value of his request. ‘Asses, sestertii or denarii? Your choice.’

  Milopus scratched his beard before he spoke up. ‘Whichever is best.’

  ‘Fifty denarii, then. Silver coins.’

  ‘And a donkey.’

  ‘A donkey, agreed.’

  Greed glinted in the old man’s eyes. ‘Two donkeys!’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, old man. The coins and a donkey are yours if you can guide us up the path.’

  Milopus winced. ‘I show you the path. But I’ll not go up there. Bad people. Cruel people. They beat Milopus. Take his herd. Only one goat left. I show you the path. You go. I stay.’

  ‘No. You will come with us. And no tricks, or there’ll be no coins. No donkey. And we’ll show you how cruel people can really be . . .’

  The shepherd’s features screwed up so that his face looked like a large walnut, and he gave a reluctant nod. ‘I agree. But hungry now. You feed me?’

  Cato indicated Massimilianus. ‘The centurion here will take you to the fort and give you some food. Go with him.’

  Massimilianus bit back his disgust at the filthy specimen of humanity and beckoned to the shepherd. Milopus hesitated, then squinted suspiciously at Cato. ‘Coins and donkey. Not forget.’

  As he shambled away, Cato and Apollonius stared after him. ‘Quite the discovery, isn’t he?’ said the agent. ‘When we caught him, he refused to speak at first but just gave a sort of pained howl. I wonder what the brigands did to him that made him so terrified. He quietened down when I offered him some dried meat and a few sips from the wineskin. After that, it all came tumbling out. A river of words. The gist of it is that he’s been living alone in a cave at the foot of the ridge for most of his life, tending a small herd of goats and keeping out of people’s way. Until the brigands came across him a few days ago. Poor bastard.’

  ‘Did he tell them about the path?’

  ‘I asked him that. He says not.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  Apollonius shrugged. ‘You saw. He’s half mad. But at least the path is there. That much is true. Well worth fifty denarii and a donkey, I’d say. When should we try it? If it leads where he says, we might be able to get enough men into the valley to take the enemy from two sides.’

  It would be dark soon and there would be no moon that night. It would be dangerous to attempt the path in darkness. Besides, plans had already been made for Plancinus and his men. The fire would divert the enemy’s attention. All eyes would be on the gate and the wall.

  ‘Tomorrow. After the first attack. As soon as there’s enough light.’

  Plancinus emerged from the darkness behind the rampart, the crest of his helmet black against the starlit heavens.

  ‘The men are ready, sir,’ he reported.

  ‘Very good,’ Cato replied. ‘You may begin the attack. May Fortuna watch over you and your men.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be with the reserves,’ Cato added unnecessarily. They had been over the plan a number of times and his words betrayed some of the anxiety he felt. The reserves would be on hand in case the enemy sallied out in force to attack Plancinus and his men. He cleared his throat lightly and spoke again. ‘Remember, the second attack goes ahead the moment the fire has done its work, regardless of whether Apollonius and I have returned by then or not. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Plancinus responded in a patient tone.

  ‘Carry on.’

  They exchanged a salute and Plancinus took his place at the head of the column. Behind him a dark line trailed back towards the fort, and Cato could pick out the shapes of the screens and the bundles of faggots carried on yokes. Here and there he could make out the glimmer of the incendiary pots, within which burned the oil lamps that would be used to light the tapers to set fire to the faggots.

  Plancinus spoke softly as he gave the command to advance, and the line began to move through the gate and cross the ditch, leaving a gap of ten paces between each party to prevent them bunching up and providing an easy target if they were spotted making their way through the gorge. Pickets had been sent forward at nightfall to ensure that the way ahead was cleared of any enemy lookouts who might raise the alarm. There had been a brief skirmish before the brigands had fallen back through the gorge to the safety of the wall at the far end.

  As the last of the incendiary parties moved off, Cato turned to Apollonius. ‘Have a horse ready for me as soon as I return.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And make sure that shepherd doesn’t slip away.’

  ‘I’ve got two men guarding him. I’ve made it clear what I’ll do to them if he makes a break for it, or comes to any harm.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you shortly.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Prefect.’

  ‘I always do.’

  Apollonius gave a light laugh. There was nothing more to be said, so Cato nodded to him and paced over to the forty auxiliaries from the Sixth Century moving up to the gate. He slipped into position ahead of the optio and followed the rear of Plancinus’s force, visible a short distance ahead. It occurred to him that it might have been wise to arrange for the column to be linked by a length of rope to ensure there was no chance of men being separated, but it was too late for that now and all he could do was keep the group of men ahead of him in sight.

  Because of the sheltered nature of the terrain, the night felt warm, and in the stillness the faint crunch of the auxiliaries’ boots and the creak of leather straps seemed alarmingly loud to Cato’s straining ears. The column threaded its way through the rock outcrops and clusters of trees towards the looming mass of the cliffs at the entrance to the gorge. Cato crept forward, waiting for the first shout of alarm from one of the enemy lookouts on the cliffs. There was no possibility of the brigands failing to detect Plancinus and his men before they emerged from the gorge. The only question was how far they would get before they were discovered.

  The cliffs on either side began to close in, and it was impossible to determine where precisely the gorge cut between them. Cato saw that the rearmost section of Plancinus’s column was tending to the right as they reached the foot of a large boulder and began to work their way around it. The quiet of the night was abruptly shattered by a shout from above, and a moment later a horn blared a single sustained note. As it faded, another horn answered it in the distance, muffled by the cliffs in between. Plancinus’s voice called out.

  ‘Fire party! At the double!’

  An instant later the group ahead of Cato surged forward, and he feared he might lose sight of them as he shouted over his shoulder, ‘Sixth Century! On me!’

  He broke into a trot to catch up with the men ahead of him. There were shouts from ahead and above and the pounding of boots and the grunts of men labouring under their burdens as they hurried through the night. Cato rounded the rock and saw the black maw of the entrance to the gorge fifty feet ahead. The sounds of the men working their way through the constricted space echoed off the rocks overhead and amplified the din that had broken out only a moment earlier. Then there was a new sound: the faint rush of tumbling shingle and the crash of a rock bouncing off the cliff before continuing down to strike the floor of the gorge with a deep, echoing thud. More rocks followed, and this time Cato heard wood shattering and a cry of pain that was cut short as an officer bellowed at the casualty to shut his mouth.

  The incendiary party ahead of Cato drew up at the sound, and he had to quickly halt the men from the Sixth Century before he ran forward.

  ‘What are you stopping for?’ he snapped. ‘Get moving! Keep going forward. Move, damn you!’

  In the dark the unnerved soldiers could defy him anonymously, and no one obeyed his order. Cato grabbed the arm of the man nearest the entrance to the gorge and gave him a firm shove towards it before moving on to the next. ‘Follow me, you bastards!’

  Now that the first two were moving again, the rest followed,
and Cato moved to the head of the party and led them forward. It was almost pitch black as they entered the gorge, and the sound of more rocks falling, the cries of terror and pain and the clatter of the screens striking and scraping along the cliffs on either side filled his ears.

  Thirty paces into the gorge, he ran into the back of an auxiliary, and both men stumbled to keep their balance. As Cato recovered, he groped for the man and pushed him on. ‘Don’t stop!’

  ‘No!’ a frightened voice responded. ‘They’re killing us. Fall back!’

  Cato snarled. ‘Go forward, or I swear I will cut you down where you stand. Keep moving. There’re only two kinds of men stuck in this gorge. Those who are dead, and those who are going to be. If you want to live, push on!’

  His hands made contact again with the man ahead of him, and he firmly steered him towards the far end of the gorge, from where he could make out Plancinus’s voice as the centurion bellowed encouragement from the front of the column.

  A shower of pebbles and grit rained down on Cato’s head and shoulders and he shouted a warning and threw himself to the side of the gorge. A heartbeat later, a rock slammed into the ground close by. He continued moving along the gorge, his left hand staying in contact with the cliff face so that he could keep his bearings. More rocks tumbled down, and the terror of not being able to see them added to the nightmare being enacted in the confines of the gorge.

  ‘Make way!’ a voice called out a short distance ahead. ‘Injured man coming through!’

  ‘Move to the side,’ Cato ordered, and the auxiliaries pressed against the cliff as a handful of men, some assisted by unwounded comrades, edged past. While he waited for the last of them to stumble by, Cato tried to recall how far the gorge extended. But he could not estimate his position.

  The wounded made towards the rear and he moved on, nearly tripping over a body, thrusting a hand down to stay on his feet. His fingers dipped into a warm mass of bloodied flesh and he recoiled in disgust. He encountered the remains of one of the screens, smashed by a direct impact, and picked his way through the ruined siege equipment and abandoned faggots before stepping over another body. The dangers of being jammed into the gorge had become apparent to the men ahead of him, and there was no further bunching up as the auxiliaries hurried along, desperate to escape the gorge.