Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Well done, Porcino!’ Macro welcomed him. ‘You saved the standard. Good effort.’

  Porcino looked round at his standard bearer, and nodded dumbly. ‘The rest of my men?’

  ‘Most are saved. But we’re not out of it yet.’

  Sparks from the fire were spinning through the velvet darkness and dropping down to ignite other patches of grass in the surrounding plain so that it was beginning to take on the appearance of a sea of flames. To Macro’s relief, the rebels, fully alert to the danger they shared with their enemy, were now breaking off to escape the conflagration. Meanwhile, the Praetorians kept to their formation as they steadily marched clear of the fire and made for the village rising up on the hill a short distance away. Some of the more stout-hearted of the rebels shadowed the Praetorians, and harassed the Romans with the odd slingshot or thrown rock, but most of them had melted away into the gathering darkness.

  As the First Century began to climb the slope leading up to the village’s gateway, Macro looked back at the vista of fires burning outwards from the cohort’s campsite. The roar of the flames was muted at this distance but the shrill cries of the wounded, and those already caught in the blaze, cut through the night and chilled his heart. Even though they were mostly the voices of his enemy, Macro was moved to pity. No man should have to die like that. Then he turned back towards the village and wondered what had become of Cato. The horses were still being held just outside the village by some of the men, but there was no sign of the prefect or the other men who had followed him into the settlement and Macro felt his guts twist in anxiety over what new peril the fates had in store for the men of the Second Cohort of Praetorians.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Where in Hades is the rest of the cohort?’ Cristus demanded, hugging his knees and rocking backwards and forwards gently. ‘How much longer are we going to be pinned down here before they get stuck into those bastards on the roofs?’

  Cato sat with his back to a wheel and his knees drawn up. One hand loosely clasped the handle of his shield resting on the ground next to him. The other was over the top of the pommel of his sword as he twisted it slowly from side to side.

  ‘You don’t want to be doing that, sir.’ Metellus nodded at the weapon. ‘Blunts the point.’

  ‘What?’ Cato looked up, then nodded. ‘Oh, right.’

  He wiped the grit off the end of the sword and sheathed it. The centre of the village had been quiet for a while as the Romans stayed under cover and the enemy realised there was no point in wasting their efforts with slingshot and other missiles.

  ‘Where are our men?’ Cristus muttered.

  ‘The cohort has other fish to fry,’ Cato responded quietly. ‘I’m sure Centurion Macro will come for us the moment he has recovered the foragers. It’s only a matter of time. Until then, Tribune, I’d be grateful if you kept your concerns to yourself. Set an example for the men.’

  Cristus turned to stare at him. ‘I never wanted to be a soldier.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you wear the uniform and take the Emperor’s coin. You chose to do that. Like everything else in your life.’

  There was a nervous flicker in the tribune’s expression and he swallowed. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  Cato said nothing for a moment. He was sorely tempted to stick the knife in and give it a twist. The man deserved it. But this was not the time or place for any confrontation over matters that had no bearing on their immediate plight. That could come later, when – if – they escaped from this trap.

  ‘Just what I said. We all have to take responsibility for the consequences of our choices, Tribune. You chose to be a soldier. You chose to accept the rank of tribune. This is the price you pay for that. Understand?’

  Cristus hesitated, then gave a nod.

  ‘Good, then you keep your fears to yourself and make sure the men under your command have the leader they deserve.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato looked round at the other men. Besides himself, Cristus and Metellus there was Centurion Pulcher, grim-faced and cross-armed, eight men of the baggage train and the mounted contingent, twenty-eight in all. Three of the drovers were wounded. All were packed closely together between two of the carts with shields covering the gaps at each end, and more held overhead to protect them from the rebels’ slingshot and rocks. The light was fading quickly and the square was in shadow. Occasionally there were shouts from the rebels but otherwise there was a tense stillness that Cato found acutely unsettling. Particularly as he had no idea how things were going for Macro and the rest of the cohort. The strained braying of a handful of wounded mules continued unbroken, starting to fray Cato’s nerves.

  ‘You see that?’ one of the men said. ‘Over there. Smoke.’

  Cato rose just enough to look over his shield and out of the gap between the two carts. Above the roofline he could make out a greasy smear against the pale sky to the west.

  ‘It’s a fire,’ said one of the men.

  Metellus snorted. ‘Of course it’s a fire, you daft cunt. Smoke and fire go together. Question is, what does it mean? Are the rebels still on the roofs? Can anyone see?’

  The helmet of one of the injured men had been removed and Cato pointed to it. ‘Give me that.’

  The Praetorians passed the helmet along to Cato and he drew his sword again. Balancing the helmet on the point he used his spare hand to draw down the chin ties to steady the helmet, and then took a breath.

  ‘Here goes.’

  Rising slowly, he held the helmet up, between two of the shields overhead, and then lifted it far enough that it would be clearly visible to any men on the roofs. There was no reaction. Cato waited a moment, and then began to turn the helmet from side to side, as if scanning the roofline. The next moment there was a loud clatter as a slingshot struck one of the shields close by and deflected off the crest of the helmet. Cato lowered his arms and squatted down.

  ‘Someone’s still out there. So we stay put for a bit longer.’

  ‘Sir!’ one of the men at the far end of the crowded space called out to him. ‘I can see ’em. There’s a group at the edge of the square.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  The Praetorian watched closely between the shields before he reported again. ‘Nothing . . . Wait, there’s more of them coming out of another street.’

  Metellus nudged Cato. ‘They’ll be making an attack, I’m thinking. While they’ve got a chance to wipe us out before Centurion Macro gets here.’

  ‘Makes sense. And if they’ve nearly exhausted their slingshot then they’ll have to go hand-to-hand.’ Cato thought quickly. ‘If they come at us then I want three men in each of the carts. You take charge in one, Metellus, and Pulcher, you get the other. The rest of us will cover each end. If we lose either of the carts, or they break through at either end, then we’re all dead. We’ve no chance of escaping from the village, and nowhere to retreat to. We hold on here, or die. Hold on as long as possible, and if we fall, then we take as many of the bastards with us as we can. They’ll not forget the Praetorians in a hurry.’

  There was no time for any further encouragement as a voice shouted from the corner of the square. Cato hunched down, made his way to the far end of the cart and looked warily over the shields. One of the rebels was standing in front of a band of his comrades as they spilled out around the square, working them up, ready for the moment to attack the small pocket of Romans. He was dressed in a checked tunic of red and black and wore a legionary helmet to which he had attached a flowing red crest. Punching his sword into the air, he exhorted his followers and they returned his final cry as they raised their weapons and brandished them at their enemy. Their voices echoed off the walls of the buildings, amplifying the din. Cato glanced round and saw Cristus grinding his teeth, his jaw muscles flickering. Some of the other men revealed their nerves as well through small ti
cs, and Cato spared an instant to reflect on the peculiar intimacy and loneliness of soldiers the moment before battle was joined.

  With a deep-throated roar, the leader turned towards the carts and he clashed the flat of his sword against the side of his shield. Those who carried shields took up the rhythm and the sound assaulting the ears of Cato and his party rose to a terrifying crescendo. And then the rebel leader stopped, raised his sword and swept it down towards the Romans as he broke into a run.

  Cato cupped a hand to his mouth to ensure that he was heard. ‘Here they come! Get to your positions!’

  Metellus and Pulcher led the men assigned to the carts as they clambered over the splintered sides and readied their spears. Cato took his place at the end closest to the oncoming enemy, raised his shield and held his sword ready, the tip just protruding beyond the edge of the shield, his sword arm tensed and ready to punch forward with all his strength. He ordered Cristus to stand at his side and behind them the Praetorians raised their spears, ready to strike over the heads of the two officers.

  Cato spat to clear his throat and called out as calmly as he could manage, ‘Do your duty, lads! For Rome!’

  Before him, in the gloom of the village square, was a surging horde of savage faces, wild eyes, and gaping mouths framed by shaggy dark hair that made them appear as barbaric as any enemy he had ever faced. Several of the men, more lightly armed and wearing no armour, had overtaken their leader and raced towards the carts, eager to strike the first blow. Cato braced himself for the impact of the charge, pressing his boots into the packed earth of the square, and leaning slightly forward on his left foot. He heard Cristus offering a prayer loudly at his right.

  ‘O, Jupiter, Best and Greatest, preserve me.’

  Then the first of the enemy slashed down at Cato with a long sword and he thrust his shield up to meet the jarring blow, followed an instant later by the torso of the rebel slamming, shoulder first, into the oval shield. Cato recoiled, but he had trained for this and had fought often enough to instinctively absorb the blow, retain his balance and then thrust back. A small gap opened between himself and his foe and he struck his sword into the man’s guts as savagely as he could, twisting the blade to ensure it did not lodge in his enemy’s body before he snatched it back. The blow only enraged the man and he grasped the edge of the shield with his left hand as he raised his sword to strike again, even as blood and the grey of intestines bulged through the tear in his stomach. Cato did not give him the chance to make another blow, but punched his shield out, battering the man and crushing his nose. This lesser injury had more effect than the mortal wound and the rebel fell back, clutching a hand to his nose as blood coursed from his nostrils and spattered onto his tunic.

  Cristus tumbled against Cato as he stepped aside to avoid the blow of an axe.

  ‘Keep your fucking shield up!’ Cato yelled at him. ‘Block him!’

  Cato shoved the tribune away and readied himself for the next opponent just as a spear was thrust directly towards his eyes. Instinct caused him to turn his head and lean to the side and the weapon glanced off his cheek guard, the impact wrenching his neck painfully. Cato swung his sword up and more by luck than judgement the edge caught the rebel on the knuckles, cutting flesh and shattering bone, so that his grip was lost and the spear shaft angled to the ground. A powerful thrust of the shield knocked the man back and gave Cato a moment’s respite.

  The muscles in his neck burned with the slightest movement of his head and he struggled to concentrate. The rebels had surrounded the two carts and the thud and clatter of weapons, the grunts and cries of men, filled his ears. The man whose hand Cato had cut into was trying to back away from the end of the carts but his comrades paid him no heed and pressed forward, forcing him back towards Cato, and up against his shield. Looking over the rim, Cato saw the other man’s face inches from his own; someone of his own age, with thick dark eyebrows and greasy locks of curly black hair. His eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and rage and his lips curled back to reveal snaggled teeth gritted in a snarl. The rebel managed to free his uninjured hand and the fingers closed over the rim of Cato’s shield as he attempted to prise it away from the Roman. Cato rammed his helmet forward, clenching his teeth against the tearing pain in his neck as he did so. The forehead guard gouged the rebel’s brow, tearing the skin. Cato struck again, enlarging the wound, and blood flowed over the man’s eyelids, blinding him. Still he strained to pull the shield aside, and managed to expose Cato’s face, enough to snap at him with his teeth. Hot breath, fouled by garlic, blasted over Cato and he lowered the brim of his helmet and struck again, while stabbing into the man’s guts in short, vicious thrusts. Each blow caused the man to gasp, but there was no escape for him as he was pressed into Cato’s shield and forced to endure each strike of the sword.

  Steeling his muscles, Cato took a half step back and then threw his weight forward, battering his victim with the shield and forcing him into those behind. As Cato eased back, the rebel slumped onto his knees. A hand grasped the collar of his tunic and bodily hauled him aside to make space as a fresh opponent took his place. The pain in Cato’s neck burned and his vision blurred briefly as he fought against the urge to throw up. In front of him reared a giant of a man, half a head taller than him, but powerfully built like Macro. He wore a legionary helmet and a chain-mail vest and advanced a round shield as he readied to make an overhead slash. The blade gleamed dully in the failing light and Cato just managed to thrust his shield up and out in time to block the cut. But the brutal power of the blow was enough to cut through the trim and split the cross-ply wood of the shield for several inches.

  The blade lodged there, and as the rebel tried to rip it free, he almost tore the handle of the shield from Cato’s numbed fingers. Cato just managed to hold on as his shield arm was wrenched away from him. The sword jostled wildly as his foe tried to tear it out. Then, with a roar of frustration, he charged at Cato instead, slamming the shield back against him with great force and Cato’s fingers lost their grip on the handle as he fell amongst the Praetorians behind him and tumbled onto his back. The giant released his hold of the sword, still wedged into the shield, and let it fall to the side as he snatched out a long-bladed dagger and leaned forward to stab the stricken officer before his comrades could fill his place.

  ‘No you don’t, fucker!’ Pulcher yelled from the cart. The giant glanced up just as the tip of the centurion’s spear stabbed deep into the soft flesh above the rebel’s collarbone. The giant let out a great roar of shock, rage and then agony. He staggered to the side, slamming Cristus into the side of the cart, then Pulcher worked the tip of the spear about, as if stirring a huge ladle in a barrel of pitch, before wrenching it free with a great gush and spout of gore. The rebel stumbled back, limbs trembling, before going down on his knees a short distance from the cart. His face screwed up in pain and his thick lips worked and he spat a bloody gobbet into the faces of his enemy before pitching forward on the ground. There was a brief pause in the fighting around the body before Pulcher shouted:

  ‘What you waiting for? Fill the bloody gap!’

  Two Praetorians stepped forward to replace Cato and Cristus, and locked shields as they readied their spears to strike. The loss of their comrade had disheartened the rebels in the front ranks, but those behind who had not witnessed his death pressed on, pushing the nearest rebels onto the waiting spears.

  Cato propped himself up on his elbows. The impact of his fall had winded him and he struggled painfully for breath. One of the Praetorians laid his spear down and bent to help him up.

  ‘Sir? Are you wounded?’

  Cato shook his head, and was about to order the man to pick up his weapon and stand ready, when the Praetorian’s jaw snapped wide open in surprise. He looked down to see a deep gash on the back of his heel. The tendon had been cut through, and the Praetorian dropped to his knees. Behind the stricken Roman, in the gloom bene
ath the cart, Cato saw one of the rebels on his stomach, wriggling towards him, readying his sword to strike again. Snatching at the shaft of the spear Cato raised it, took aim at the rebel and thrust it as hard as he could. His strike was one-handed and lacked weight, but the tip pierced the man’s sword arm and he recoiled quickly, shuffling back a short distance, out of the range of the spear.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Cato wheezed at the wounded Praetorian and the latter did his best to roll aside. Now Cato had a better view of his target and struggled onto his knees, bending low and using both hands to engage his opponent. They exchanged feints in the shadows beneath the bed of the cart, neither able to wound the other.

  ‘Cristus! Here. Help me out!’

  The tribune glanced down with a puzzled expression at his superior, seemingly writhing beneath the cart.

  ‘Now, damn you!’ Cato snapped at him.

  Cristus crouched and squinted, then saw the enemy. Drawing his sword he dropped down and crawled towards the rebel. Caught between two threats, the man parried Cato’s spear, then turned to strike at the tribune who recoiled smartly, but the rebel was too late to fend off Cato’s next thrust, as he lurched forward. The point of the spear struck him in the side of the jaw, shattering bone and teeth and piercing through to the other side of his head. He dropped his sword and rolled away, crawling between the legs of the rebels fighting along the side of the cart. Cato nodded his thanks to Cristus and then waved him forward.

  ‘Have a go at their legs!’

  The tribune nodded and scurried under the cart while Cato edged forward beneath the other vehicle and stabbed at the nearest of the limbs, which belonged to a hairy-legged rebel with a long brown tunic cinched by a band of cloth about the waist. Cato stabbed into the thigh and gave the spear shaft a violent twist before snatching it back and striking again, this time into the man’s calf. The rebel staggered back, bleeding heavily, and Cato turned to the side and stabbed up, this time into the groin of another enemy. It was a shallow wound, but enough to distract him, while the Roman in the cart above struck a mortal blow. He fell in front of Cato, blood gushing from a tear in his throat.