Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  The officers saluted and strode off to join their men and Cato turned to Vellocatus. ‘Time for one last appeal to reason. Ready?’

  Vellocatus nodded. ‘Do you really think Venutius will surrender?’

  Cato stared at him. ‘You’re Venutius’s shield-bearer. You know him far better than I do. What do you think?’

  ‘He’ll fight,’ the Brigantian replied at once. ‘He’s been a warrior all his life. All he knows is fighting.’

  ‘That’s what I feared you would say. But we have to give him a chance. In any case, he’ll probably be taking his cue from Caratacus.’ Cato smiled ruefully. ‘You can imagine what that means.’

  ‘Then why even make them the offer?’

  Cato exhaled wearily. ‘If there’s a chance to end this before another man has to die, then I have to take it.’

  He led the way to the auxiliaries crouching behind the palisade and peered cautiously between the hastily erected screens. The fort’s gatehouse was no more than forty paces away. The track below the bastion’s gate was a short distance below, and then open ground to the ditch and the raised drawbridge. Many of the enemy were in clear view, some of them archers. There was no reason for them to take cover. Not yet, Cato reflected grimly. He turned to Vellocatus.

  ‘You’re up. Tell them the Roman commander wants to speak to Venutius.’

  ‘Just Venutius?’

  Cato nodded. ‘If it helps to undermine Caratacus’s standing over there then it’s worth a try.’

  Vellocatus smiled. ‘You understand my people too well.’

  The Brigantian cupped a hand to his mouth and drew a deep breath before he shouted across to his compatriots. There was no immediate response, so he repeated his call and this time there was a brief pause and then angry shouts and jeering whistles. Vellocatus turned to Cato who shook his head.

  ‘No need to translate. I got the gist of it.’

  The voices from the fort swiftly fell silent, save one, and Vellocatus risked a quick glance over the palisade. ‘It’s Caratacus.’

  ‘Damn . . .’ Cato frowned. It seemed that the Catuvellaunian king had already assumed command of the rebels. ‘Say that I want to speak to Venutius.’

  Vellocatus called out and there was a beat before Cato heard his enemy’s voice reply, in Latin, ‘I’m speaking to the Roman commander! Not his treacherous lapdog. You have my word that no one will try to stick an arrow in you. I expect the same in return. Stand up, where I can see you and talk.’

  Cato thought quickly. It was too late to try and undermine Caratacus. If he refused to speak to him, Caratacus would tell his supporters that the Roman commander was afraid. And if they spoke in Latin, there would be only a handful of natives who understood enough to follow the exchange. ‘I want you to keep translating. Keep it loud, so that as many of them can hear as possible.’

  Vellocatus nodded.

  Cato took a deep breath and eased himself up on to his feet and warily moved into the open, exposing the top of his body above the palisade. He indicated to Vellocatus to stand but keep behind the screen. The young nobleman shook his head, and moved close to Cato’s side as he whispered fiercely, ‘I’ll not show any fear to those traitors.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘But you get down at the first sign of trouble. You’ll be needed later on.’

  ‘Is that my old adversary, Prefect Cato, under that helmet?’ Caratacus called out.

  ‘Say that I want to speak to Venutius.’

  Caratacus listened to the reply and shook his head. ‘I speak for the patriots of the Brigantes. Venutius has honoured me with the command of his men. And I will speak with Prefect Cato and not his lackey.’

  Cato raised his voice. ‘I demand that the rebels in the fort release Queen Cartimandua and all other hostages, and surrender. I give you my word that all who surrender will not be enslaved or otherwise mistreated. I further guarantee that I will insist that there will be no reprisals by our ally, the queen. My only demand will be the delivery of the fugitive, Caratacus, into our hands.’ He turned and nodded to Vellocatus who began to translate his words, until he was interrupted by Caratacus shouting over the top of him.

  ‘And these are my terms, Roman. Abandon your attack and leave Isurium and I will guarantee that you will be given free passage as far as the frontier. I, and my new host of warriors, will spare your lives if you leave Isurium before the day is out. If you are still here at dawn then I swear by our war god, Camulos, that you will all die and your heads will decorate the huts of the warriors of Brigantia. What say you?’

  Cato glanced at Vellocatus. ‘Tell them what I said again.’

  Vellocatus began, but was swiftly drowned out once more. This time Caratacus ended by turning to his men and shouting an order.

  ‘Get down!’ Vellocatus grabbed Cato’s good arm and pulled him into cover and the first arrow hammered into the screen a moment later. Several more followed, one bursting through the surface of a native shield and showering them with splinters. Cato reached up with his good hand and carefully brushed them from his shoulders. ‘That would seem to conclude our attempt to negotiate a peaceful resolution. Time for something more emphatic, I think. Come!’

  Staying in a crouch, Cato led the way along the palisade to the end nearest the ram. Then, taking a native shield to protect himself, he dashed over the open ground and peered over the palisade. Macro and his men were in position on the grass slope below, waiting for the signal to begin the attack. Cato turned back and looked across the bastion. Lebauscus had ordered his cohort to kneel and shelter behind their shields. Acer’s men were crouched beside their light ballistas and the auxiliaries had the first shots carefully placed into the leather pouches of their slings. All was ready, Cato decided. It was time to put his plan to the test.

  The colour party of the Eighth Cohort clustered around the standard. Amongst them Cato could see the shining bronze curve of the horn carried by the soldier responsible for transmitting the commands to the six centuries led by Lebauscus. Cato gestured to Vellocatus to stay close to him and trotted over. One of his men alerted Lebauscus to the approach of his superior and he turned and saluted as Cato reached him.

  ‘It’s time.’

  Lebauscus nodded.

  Cato could see Acer watching, fist clenching over and over as he waited for the order to unleash the Roman barrage. Cato turned to the legionary holding the horn.

  ‘Give the signal.’

  The legionary raised the mouthpiece and spat to clear his mouth. Pursing his lips, he drew a deep breath and blew. The horn blared loudly, one long sustained note. He stopped, paused to take another breath and count to five before repeating the note. Before the second blast carried across the bastion, the whirring of slings and the crack of the light ballistas shattered the comparative quiet of the lull in the fighting that had followed the capture of the bastion. From over the palisade came a chorus of shouts as Macro and the remaining men of the First Century bolted from cover and raced towards the ram lying a short distance up the last stretch of track leading up to the fort’s gate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘On me, lads!’ Macro shouted as he ran up the track. To his right he saw the helmets and faces of the auxiliaries as they whirled their slings overhead and released their missiles. To his left towered the earthworks protecting the enemy’s gate. The sudden hail of shot, and the iron-headed bolts and fist-sized stones from the light ballistas had taken the enemy by surprise and they ducked down behind their palisade as the Romans’ barrage smashed against the wooden posts. Macro knew the moment would quickly pass and the enemy would do all that they could to cut down the men making for the ram.

  It was past midday and the heat had not abated. The air in the sheltered gap between the bastion and the fort was stifling. The weight of his armour and his exertions throughout the mornin
g meant that sweat was streaming from his brow as Macro rushed towards the ram. Before him lay the bodies of the men who had fallen during Horatius’s ill-fated attack earlier in the day. Not all of them were dead. Some still writhed and moaned. Others looked up hopefully as they caught sight of their comrades rushing up the track. One reached out to Macro and croaked, ‘Water . . . For pity’s sake, water . . .’

  Macro swerved round him and ran on. He saw a head appear above the fort’s palisade, dark against the bright sunlight, and heard the shout as the alarm was raised. Just ahead of him lay the ram, surrounded by bodies pierced by arrows and javelins, and more missiles lay on the ground about them. He reached the head of the ram, cut to an obtuse point to maximise its impact when it struck home. Ropes had been tied round the ram and provided the handles for its crew. Macro cast his ruined shield to one side and heaved aside a body lying across the roughly hewn wood. Then he grasped the handle nearest the front of the ram and glanced back as those legionaries following close behind discarded their shields and took position either side. As soon as there were enough men in place, Macro called out, ‘On my command . . . lift!’

  With strained grunts the men heaved the ram off the ground.

  ‘Advance!’

  They paced up the track as quickly as their burden allowed. An arrow shaft shicked into earth no more than a foot in front of Macro and he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Get some cover up here!’

  Those men of the First Century who had caught up with their comrades carrying the ram hurried up the side facing the fort and raised their shields to protect themselves and their comrades carrying the ram. More arrows rained down, and stones, but the constant hail of missiles from the bastion forced the defenders to bob up and shoot without taking aim and they had little effect on the party moving steadily towards the gate. By contrast, the Romans in the bastion remained standing as they bombarded the wall of the fort opposite them. Ahead, Macro saw a ballista bolt smash into the top of the palisade, sending a burst of splinters into the air.

  An enemy warrior, more foolhardy than courageous, rose up in full view and thrust his sword out towards Macro, exhorting his comrades to shoot the legionaries down. Then he was struck in the chest by a stone and was swept away by the impact, as if snatched from this life by an invisible giant hand.

  Then there was cry just behind Macro and he felt the rope handle lurch in his grip. He hissed a curse as he was forced to a stop and turned to look back with a furious expression. One of his men had been struck on the helmet by a rock and had fallen back against the man behind him, causing them both to release their hold on the ram. Macro nodded to the nearest man carrying a shield.

  ‘Take his place!’

  The legionary obeyed at once, tossing his shield aside and stepping over the fallen man to grasp the rope handle. As soon as he had taken up the strain, Macro gave the order to continue the advance. They slowly climbed the last remaining stretch of track and approached the ditch in front of the gate. Eight feet across, as near as Macro could estimate it. The bridge had been drawn up and hung a small distance from the gatehouse. Macro gave the order to lower the ram and ordered the nearest three men to follow him. They scrambled down into the ditch and hauled their armoured bodies up the rear scarp, pausing at the top to catch their breath. Macro pointed to the taut lengths of rope bound to the end of the drawbridge.

  ‘We have to cut those! Two men to each. Go!’

  While the other legionaries scurried across to the other side, Macro nodded to the third man. ‘Back against the wall and make a step.’

  The man did as he was told and cupped his hands. Macro placed his boot on the soldier’s hands and grasped his shoulders as he heaved himself up. ‘Lift!’

  The man heaved with a groan of exertion and Macro pressed himself against the wooden timbers of the gatehouse as he felt for the man’s shoulder with his other foot. When both were in place, the legionary grasped Macro’s calves to steady him while the officer went to work. The exposed rope was a short distance above his head and Macro drew his dagger and reached up. With his left hand clutching the edge of the bridge, he began to saw away at the thick weave of cords, the strands steadily parting beneath the well-honed edge of the blade. All the while Acer’s men in the bastion did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.

  Then there was a shout from behind the gate and Macro glanced down to see the dim form of a man looking up at him from the shade beneath the gatehouse.

  ‘They’re on to us!’ Macro called across to the men cutting the other length of rope. ‘Get moving!’

  He continued cutting away furiously at the rope, his muscles aching and burning from the effort as he cursed the rope and willed it to part. Through the gap he could see several men moving towards the gate, and the dull gleam of the head of a spear. The spear point thrust towards him through the gap and glinted in the sun. Macro threw his weight to the side as much as he could while remaining steady on the shoulders of the man straining to hold him up. He just managed to maintain his balance and continue cutting. Only a slender strand remained, taut under the load it carried, which made it easier to work at. With a deep resonating twang the rope parted and the corner of the bridge lurched out, dislodging Macro from his perch on the legionary’s shoulders. He fell sideways, scrabbling for purchase on the coarse wooden post beside the gate. The ground came up and Macro landed heavily on his side, the air driven from his lungs with a pained grunt. The legionary stumbled and fell beside him, just as the head of the spear stabbed out of the gap, missing the man by inches. On the other side of the gate the other men were still struggling to cut through the rope.

  Macro tried to warn them but was too winded to utter a cry. The legionary with the knife shuddered and gasped as he was stabbed by an enemy warrior but clung on and continued severing the rope. A moment later it parted and the drawbridge swung down and the far end crashed on the lip of the ditch, sending an explosion of dust into the air. The legionary slid off his comrade and fell into the ditch, blood coursing from the spear wound in his groin. But Macro could pay him no attention as he struggled to his feet, still fighting for breath, and saw the enemy warriors retreating into the shadows. Before the Romans on the far side of the ditch could react, the gate swung shut and the locking bar thudded into place. Macro ran back across the drawbridge to the ram with the two surviving legionaries and they took up their rope handles.

  Macro grunted an order to his men to lift the ram and it swayed up from the ground. The party moved over the drawbridge and stopped a short distance from the sturdy-looking gates. Each side of them their comrades again raised their shields to protect them all against the men above the gate and on the towering earthworks on each flank. Lining the head of the ram up with the narrow gap between the two gates, Macro yelled over his shoulder, ‘Three swings then strike! One . . .’

  The men braced their boots on the wooden boards of the drawbridge and swung the heavy tree trunk back, then let it wing forward as far as its momentum would carry it before swinging it back, harder this time, as Macro called out, ‘Two . . . three!’

  The men swung the ram forward with all their might and the point crashed against the gates, dislodging more dust that shimmered from the seams.

  ‘Again!’

  Macro took up the weight and repeated the process and each time the ram crashed home, more dust and debris showered down on his helmet and shoulders. Then he saw a faint sliver of light between the timbers.

  ‘The gates are starting to give, lads!’ he shouted to his men. ‘Keep going!’

  The next blow drove in one of the thick boards of the gate and light poured through the jagged gap. The Romans let out a spontaneous cry of delight and pounded again, enlarging the opening. Now Macro could see glimpses of the men and weapons waiting for them on the other side. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the prospect of getting to them, avenging the men of the Seventh
Cohort and putting an end to the rebellion before it could spread beyond Isurium. There was a deep crack as the locking bar gave way and the gates shuddered inwards a few inches.

  ‘Any moment,’ Macro warned his men as they swung the ram back again. Sweat gleamed on their faces but their eyes were bright with excitement. It took several more swings before the bar split in two and the gates leaped back on their hinges.

  ‘Down ram!’ Macro ordered. ‘Up swords and at ’em!’

  His comrades released their rope grips and the ram dropped on to the bridge. Macro turned to one of the men protecting their flanks and thrust out his hand. ‘Give me your shield!’

  The legionary hesitated for an instant, loathe to give up his personal property as well as his protection. Then discipline re-asserted itself and he handed the shield to Macro.

  ‘Find yourself another back on the track and get stuck in,’ Macro ordered as he adjusted his grip and then turned to the gate, drawing his sword. ‘Follow me!’

  He rushed forward, just as the enemy recovered and began to push back against the gates, forcing them to close. The horn sounded twice from the bastion and began to repeat as the men of the Eighth Cohort let out a roar and charged down the steps to join the attack. Pushing hard against the inside of his shield, Macro braced it against the gates and thrust with all his strength. His men piled in on either side and then behind their comrades, straining to keep the gates from closing. Slowly they stopped moving and the two sides struggled to hold their ground.

  ‘Move aside there!’ a voice boomed behind Macro. ‘Make way!’

  Then he felt someone push him roughly aside as Centurion Lebauscus, big and powerful, threw his weight into the contest. The Romans began to gain ground at once, inch by inch forcing the gates back and opening a gap between them to reveal the dense ranks of the Brigantian rebels beyond, desperately trying to hold their ground.