‘You had it hidden there all the way back?’ Figulus grinned. ‘Must have been uncomfortable.’
‘You can’t imagine … Now shut up and hold still.’
Cato concentrated on cutting through the optio’s bonds, fingers gripped tightly round the smooth side of the flint as the sharp edge snagged and tore at the twisted strips of leather. He worked fast, conscious that the older warrior might return at any moment, despite the lure of drink and food. The first thong parted and Cato concentrated on the remaining two. The second went soon after, with a sharp cry of pain from Figulus as the flint slipped and cut into his skin.
‘What’s that?’ Cato heard one of the guards say.
‘What?’
‘Sounded like someone in there, in pain.’
His companion gave a nasty chuckle. ‘If that’s what they sound like now, I can hardly wait to hear them once the druid gets his hands on them. Sit down, get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow.’
‘Right.’
Cato breathed deeply and continued, taking care this time not to hurt his comrade as he worked away at the last strip. As the flint bit into the leather, Figulus strained his muscles to part the thong, and the bone-hard tension in the strip of leather made Cato’s work far easier. A moment later the optio’s wrists flew apart as the thong snapped.
‘Now me,’ Cato whispered, passing him the flint. ‘Be quick!’
Figulus worked at the bonds in a frenzied blur of movement and soon Cato’s hands and feet were free. As he rubbed at his sore wrists Cato nodded to the others and the optio crept round the pen to the next man and began work. Once the circulation had eased and he felt his hands would not betray him when he went into action, Cato turned round and peered through the gap in the wicker wall again. The two remaining guards were squatting on the ground just outside the entrance to the pen, staring wistfully towards the sounds of the distant revelry.
When the last of the men was free Cato beckoned to them. There were only twelve of them left, and one of those was so racked and weakened by diarrhoea that he could barely stand up.
‘There’s no time for details, men,’ Cato whispered urgently. ‘We must have a go at the two sentries outside. As soon as we get the gate open we rush ’em. After that, we’ll make for the edge of the village.’
‘And go where?’ Metellus interrupted. ‘Place is surrounded by water. There’s only one way out.’
‘There’s a few boats over that way.’ Cato pointed to the southern side of the camp. ‘I saw them when we approached the entrance to this place. We’ll take those.’
‘Then what, sir?’
Cato looked at him directly. ‘We have to warn the cohort, and get a message to Vespasian.’
For a moment Cato feared that Metellus would protest, but the legionary gave a faint nod of acceptance.
‘Right then, let’s move. When the gate opens, you move – fast.’
Cato turned, and worked his way over the puddles and heaps of filth towards the inside of the gate. It was fastened by a stout wooden bolt on the outside, a short distance from the top. While the others crouched down, silent and tense and ready to spring, Cato slowly rose up to the full extent of his height, peering over the gate at the dark backs of the two guards. He reached a hand over the top of the wooden frame and groped down for the peg that fastened the gate. While his eyes remained fixed on the guards Cato’s fingers crept down the rough surface of the wood until his arm was fully extended. Then he took a breath and rose up on the tips of his toes. This time the very tips of his fingers brushed the top of the peg. Cato strained to reach further but could gain no purchase on the wood shaft, and finally he withdrew and slumped back behind the gate with a sharp intake of breath.
‘Shite,’ he mouthed. ‘Can’t reach it.’
‘Try again,’ Figulus urged him. ‘On my back.’
The optio dropped on to his hands and knees and leaned gently against the inside of the gate. Cato placed a boot on the optio’s shoulder and gently raised himself up again, ignoring the grunt of pain from Figulus as the iron studs of Cato’s boot bit into his flesh. This time Cato could see clearly over the top of the gate and he carefully reached down to the peg and gently took up the strain. It had been firmly jammed into the receiver and he gritted his teeth and strained to pull it free. Then, at last, it shifted a little, then a little more. But this time it turned slightly with a faint squeak. Cato’s hand froze and his eyes flickered up towards the guards, just in time to see a head turn towards him.
There was an instant of terrible stillness as the boy looked at the gate in puzzlement. Then he snatched up his spear, scrabbled round and shouted at this comrade, ‘They’re escaping! Up! Stop ’em!’
Cato threw both arms over the gate, grasped the peg and wrenched it free with all his strength. The peg shot out of its receiver and the gate crashed open as the legionaries behind it surged forward, clambering over Figulus and sending Cato flying forwards. He crashed to the ground at the feet of the guard who had spotted him, and rolled on to his side, arm raised, ready to protect himself. He saw the young warrior towering above, dark against the starry sky, and saw him draw back his spear to strike at his helpless enemy. Before the iron tip began to thrust down a dark shape flew over Cato, crashed into the boy and knocked him to the ground. More dark shapes fell upon the guard and there was a horrible gurgling choking sound, a brief thrashing of limbs and then silence. As Cato regained his feet he saw the other guard running away, towards the glow that rimmed the nearest huts.
‘Stop him!’ Cato hissed.
Close by, Metellus snatched up the first guard’s spear and sprinted forward. Then he realised the boy would reach his comrades before he could catch him. The legionary stopped, threw back his spear arm, sighted the back of the guard twenty paces ahead, and hurled it forward. Cato missed the flight of the spear in the darkness, but a moment later there was a thud, and explosive gasp of breath, and the native boy pitched forward. Metellus ran forward to make sure that his enemy was finished, and wrenched the spearshaft from the back of the dead boy.
The men gathered around Cato in the darkness, breathing hard and eagerly waiting for his orders, flushed with exultation at their escape and the prospect that they might yet live. They looked to him, and for a moment Cato felt paralysed by the responsibility for these men’s lives. Then the moment passed and he looked round.
‘Get their weapons. Then put the bodies in the pen.’
Figulus took the other spear and after a brief rummage over the corpses two men had spears and one held a dagger. The guards were then bundled into the pen and then Cato shut the gate, found the peg, and quickly jammed it back into place.
‘Good. Now let’s go.’ Cato turned away from the pen and was about to lead his men off, when a voice called towards them. He spun round, eyes darting from hut to hut until they fixed on a shadow walking uncertainly towards them from the direction of the feast.
‘You’re in luck boys!’ The voice was slurred but Cato still recognised it as that of the older man who had left his young charges alone earlier on. ‘I got you some drink!’
He held up a stoppered jar as he walked unsteadily towards the pen. Then he stopped, lowered the jar and stared. ‘Boys?’
‘Get him!’ Cato called out, starting forward. ‘Before the bastard brings ‘em running.’
The warrior threw his jar towards Cato and turned to sprint away, screaming out as he ran. He had sufficient head start that Cato knew it was futile to go after him.
‘Shit!’ he breathed.
‘Now what?’ Figulus muttered. ‘We fight our way out?’
‘No chance,’ said Metellus. ‘They’ll be all over us any moment.’
Cato turned to his men. ‘We split up. Go like hell, and no heroics, whatever you see or hear. Someone has to warn Maximius. Metellus, take your friends that way. Figulus and the others will come with me. Best of luck.’
Cato made a quick salute to Metellus and the four men who stood with him and t
hen turned and ran, crouching low, towards the southern side of the enemy camp. Already the sounds of revelry had died away and now the faint clatter of equipment and urgent shouts revealed that the enemy were alerted.
Metellus shouted from the direction of the pen, ‘They’re on to us! Let’s go lads, this way!’
As Cato ran in the opposite direction, weaving between the huts, he heard the cries of Metellus and his men become more distant and then drowned out by the shouts of the warriors who hunted them down. The narrow ways that twisted between the huts soon disorientated Cato and he had to stop a moment to try to get his bearings, while Figulus and the others glanced round anxiously.
‘Where’s Lucius?’ someone whispered. ‘And Severus? They were behind me just now.’
A figure rose up and took a pace back the way they had come.
‘Stay where you are!’ Cato hissed. ‘They’ll have to take their own chances now. Like Metellus and the others.’
‘But, sir—’
‘Quiet man!’ Cato glanced round at the huts, then up at the pattern of stars in the night sky. ‘It’s this way … I think.’
‘You think?’ one of the men muttered.
Cato felt a wave of rage well up inside him. ‘Shut up. This way, then. Let’s go.’
Shortly afterwards they were through the last of the huts and racing down a low bank towards the edge of the water. The stars shone brilliantly in the night sky and their reflections shimmered off the oily smooth surface of the water that surrounded the camp.
Figulus grasped his arm. ‘Over there!’
Cato followed the direction the optio indicated and saw the dark shapes of small boats drawn up on the shore fifty paces away.
‘That’ll do us. Come on.’
They ran down along the edge of the water until they came to the boats, over a dozen of them. From one came the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, and Figulus looked towards Cato and drew a finger across his throat. Cato shook his head. There’d already been enough killing and it seemed abhorrent to slaughter a pair of lovers into the bargain. As it was, the moans and groans and cries of passion were sufficiently loud to cover any sounds made by Cato and his men as they eased two of the craft into the water and pushed them out until the cold water reached their thighs.
‘Optio,’ Cato whispered.
‘Sir?’
‘Take that man. Get away from here any way you can. Then go north. Find Vespasian and tell him where this camp is, and tell him that Caratacus is about to move against the Third Cohort.’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘I’m going to warn Maximius.’
Figulus shook his head wearily. ‘It’s your funeral.’
‘Maybe. But there’s far more lives at stake than his. Just make sure you find Vespasian. If he’s quick he might just save the Third Cohort, and force Caratacus to fight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then go.’ Cato reached out his hand and the two men exchanged a forearm grasp. ‘Good luck, Optio.’
‘You too, sir. I’ll see you back at the legion.’
‘Yes … go.’
There was a good deal of splashing as the Romans clambered aboard the two boats. A dark shape rose from one of the craft on the river bank and a string of foul Celtic oaths followed them into the darkness as the four men paddled away. Once they had put some distance between them and the island camp Cato glanced back over his shoulder. There was a faint glimmer that silhouetted the roofs of some of the huts, and the wavering spark of torches being carried amongst the huts. But no sign of pursuit.
‘We did it, sir!’ the legionary with Cato laughed. ‘We escaped from those bastards.’
Cato strained his eyes. ‘It’s Nepos, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, Nepos, we’re not out of trouble yet. So do me the favour of keeping your damn mouth shut, and paddle for all for you’re worth.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato took one last look back, and wondered briefly if Metellus had found a way out. Of all the condemned men who had escaped with him, only a handful now remained. And on their shoulders rested the lives of hundreds of comrades, who were completely unaware of the attack that Caratacus was about to unleash on them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Are you sure about this, sir?’ Nepos muttered as they crouched down in some long grass scarcely a hundred paces from the main gate of the fort. The ramparts loomed grey and forbidding in the thin mist of dawn. The brooding, menacing atmosphere in the valley had been present the moment the two men had emerged from the track leading through the marsh and seen the stakes lining the route ahead, each one bearing an impaled head. Nepos looked round at the centurion.
‘Sir, if we go in there and give ourselves up, we’re dead men. Might as well save them the bother of clubbing us and just bash our brains out on the nearest rock.’
‘They have to be warned,’ Cato replied firmly.
‘Can’t we just shout the details out to them, then bugger off sharpish?’
‘No. Now shut up.’
Cato took a deep breath and then rose to his feet. Cupping his hands to his mouth he faced the gate and shouted the warning given to sentries by returning patrols.
‘Approaching the fort!’
There was a moment’s silence and then came the response. ‘Advance and give the password!’
Cato looked down at Nepos. ‘Right then, let’s go.’
The legionary reluctantly stood up beside his superior, then Cato advanced slowly towards the gate. He could already hear the sentry shouting for the duty officer, and could imagine the duty century being roused from their slumber by rough kicks from the centurion and optio. They would scramble into their armour, snatch up their weapons and rush up on to the ramparts under a barrage of abuse from their officers. As the two filthy, bearded fugitives walked steadily out of the mist, through the dew-drenched grass, helmeted heads began to appear along the wall. Javelins wavered above them like tall rushes in a light breeze.
‘Shit …’ Nepos whispered. ‘This was a bad idea. We’re dead.’
‘Shut up!’ Cato snarled. ‘Not one more word.’
They stopped just before they reached the defence ditch, which stretched out along the ramparts either side of the gate.
‘Who the hell are you?’ a voice called down from the gatehouse.
Cato drew a breath before he replied, struggling to sound as authoritative as possible. ‘Centurion Cato, legionary Nepos, of the Sixth Century, Third Cohort, Second Legion.’
Cato could see heads craning over the wooden rail of the palisade for a better look. Excited muttering rippled down the length of the wall.
‘Silence there!’ a voice roared out, and Cato saw the transverse crest of a centurion’s helmet appear above the gate. The face was indistinct in the dim light but the voice was unmistakable. As soon as the men had fallen silent Tullius looked down on the wretched figures standing outside the fort, then fixed his gaze on the taller and thinner man. For a moment neither officer spoke and Cato was consumed by a sudden terrible doubt and wondered if it had been a foolish mistake to have presented himself before the fort. Perhaps Nepos had been right. They should have stood off, shouted the warning, and then fled for safety. The dread was over in a moment, as Cato reminded himself that his only future lay with the army, whatever the outcome.
‘Centurion,’ Tullius called out, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’
The formality of his tone was not lost on Cato and he knew that Tullius was trying to give him one last chance to run.
‘I have to speak to Maximius. At once.’
Tullius stared at him a moment, then shrugged before he turned away to give his orders to the men waiting below by the gate. ‘Open her up. Optio of the watch! Send a squad out to arrest those men.’
With a deep groan from the hinges the gates swung inwards and at once eight men with drawn swords doubled out and surrounded Cato and Nepos. There was no hiding the surpris
e in their expressions as they beheld the two fugitives. Surprise, and distaste, Cato realised, and he was suddenly very conscious of their filthy and ragged appearance and felt ashamed. Even so, he drew himself up and, with as much dignity as he could scrape together, he marched in through the gate, flanked by his guards. Out of one prison and straight into another, he mused bitterly, and could not suppress a rueful grin.
The guards halted once the party had entered the fort and the gate was shut behind them. Cato turned to look up at the gatehouse and saw Tullius swing himself on to the ladder and climb down. There was no expression on the veteran’s face, and Cato felt the spontaneous smile of greeting fade from his lips. Tullius stopped, a few feet from Cato and shook his head.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Cato cleared his throat. ‘I must speak to Centurion Maximius, sir.’
Tullius stared at him a moment and then, without looking away, he gave an order. ‘Optio of the watch.’
‘Sir?’
‘My compliments to the cohort commander. Tell him he’s wanted at the main gate.’
Once the optio had trotted away Tullius stepped right up to Cato and spoke softly.
‘What are you playing at, lad? The moment Maximius claps eyes on you you’re a dead man.’
‘If I don’t warn him, then we’re all dead men.’
‘Warn him?’ Tullius frowned. ‘Warn him about what?’
‘Caratacus. He’s on his way here with what’s left of his forces. He intends to wipe you – ’ Cato smiled – ‘us — he intends to wipe us out.’
Beyond Tullius, Cato caught sight of the optio scrabbling to a halt as a figure strode round the corner of a line of tents. Maximius thrust the man to one side and bellowed down to the men at the gate.
‘What the hell is going on? Centurion Tullius! What are those bloody beggars doing in my fort? We’re not a hostel for vagrants!’
Tullius turned round and snapped to attention. ‘Beg to report, sir. It’s Centurion Cato, and one of his men.’
‘Cato?’ Maximius faltered a moment, and then continued forward as he stared at Cato in frank astonishment. Then as he confirmed the centurion’s identity for himself Maximius smiled with cruel relish. He stood before Cato, hands on hips and head slightly cocked as he appraised the pair of men before him. His nose wrinkled.
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