Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  The man did not wait for a reply, but brushed past him and was already clambering down the ladder before Repha could respond.

  ‘What about the orders?’

  ‘Orders? Fuck ’em, I say. I ain’t taking no orders from no one ever again.’

  A moment later, Repha was alone. He hesitated briefly and then hissed in frustration before he descended to join his comrades behind the gate. The bar had already been removed from its brackets and one of the men on guard duty was heaving the gate open. Repha clasped his spear tightly and led them through the gap in a final effort to take charge. ‘Watch ’em closely, boys. First sign of trouble then we stick them with our spears first and ask questions later. Got it?’

  He led them slowly out of the gateway and across the bridge, his hands tightly gripping his spear shaft. Repha stopped short of the merchant and scrutinised him. Well fed and with flesh to spare on his cheeks.

  He greeted the rebels with a smile as he slipped off his mule and bowed. ‘Honoured customers, I swear by all that’s holy that you shall not be disappointed by my wares. Here, let me show you what we have.’ He gestured towards the jars slung over the back of a beast halfway down the small column. ‘Start with my most popular wine.’ He leaned towards Repha and tapped his nose as he spoke in a conspiratorial tone. ‘And leave the best to last, eh?’

  Repha glanced at the merchant’s men but there seemed to be no expression on their faces aside from a certain anxiety and watchfulness as the four heavily armed guards advanced on them. That was only natural given the risk they were taking in selling wine to the rebels. But then some merchants would always be prepared to take risks where the potential profits were highest.

  ‘Here!’ The merchant hurried forward a few steps and slapped one of the amphorae carried by the mule in the charge of the nearest of the drovers, a short man with a sturdy build. ‘Honeyed wine from Barcino. Sweet and refreshing.’ He pulled the stopper from the neck of the amphora and leaned down to take a sniff.

  ‘Ah! Heady stuff. Try some?’

  ‘Why not?’ said one of the guards. ‘And who knows, we might even buy some, rather than take all of it and send you on your way.’

  ‘Come now!’ Oscorfus chuckled lightly. ‘There’s no need for threats, my friends. Not with a good, honest man like myself.’ He beckoned to the other drovers. ‘Bring our friends some cups!’

  Obedient to their orders the tall, thin drover at the rear of the small mule train hitched his reins to the animal in front and then rummaged for a basket slung over the back of a mule. He lifted it up and approached the merchant and his customers. As he passed behind the first drover he seemed to trip and drop the basket. His comrade turned to help the man up and an instant later both straightened up, swords and daggers to hand, and charged on the startled guards. The merchant plucked out a sap from his sidebag and swung it savagely at the head of the nearest rebel. The man dropped like a rock.

  ‘Get ’em!’ snarled the short drover as he rushed towards the nearest of Repha’s comrades and drove the point of his sword up into the man’s midriff as violently as possible, before tearing the blade from side to side as his victim groaned. His companion swung his sword in a sharp cut to the head and the edge of the blade cracked the skull and plunged into the grey matter beneath.

  It had happened so swiftly that the merchant was swinging his long sap again at Repha’s skull before he thought to react. He ducked aside at the last moment and the packed leather pouch swished by his ear. Repha went into a crouch to steady his balance and lowered the point of his spear, summoning up all his strength to drive the weapon clean through the treacherous merchant. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the last of his comrades felled by a punch to the jaw. It had all happened so fast. These men were no drovers, but professional killers who had beguiled the men tasked with protecting the mining camp. Then they would pay dearly for their treachery, Repha resolved as he bunched his muscles and prepared to impale the merchant. The man stumbled back, his cheerful salesman’s face transformed into a mask of fear.

  A blur of gleaming metal slashed through the air and Repha felt pain shooting through his fingers and up his arms as the edge of a sword bit deep into the shaft of his spear. The blow drove the tip of the spear into the ground and before Repha was even aware that it had happened, a dagger sliced through his throat and hot blood gushed onto his tunic. Instinctively he dropped his spear and staggered away, clutching his hands to his throat in a vain effort to try and stem the flow. He was already feeling light-headed as he looked about him and saw that his comrades were all down. One motionless, the other two writhing on the ground from mortal wounds. Repha tried to speak, to cry out, to raise the alarm but the only sound was a gurgling splutter. Darkness crowded the periphery of his vision and he began to feel dizzy. Almost his last thought was for the guilt over failing in his duty to protect the rest of his comrades in the mining camp. Then, one hand clamped to his throat, he snatched out the dagger from his belt and stumbled towards the stocky drover. The man dodged the attack easily enough and tripped Repha so that he fell headlong onto his face. He made to rise, but he had no strength left and lay gasping as his lifeblood drained from his body.

  ‘You stay put, you rebel bastard,’ said Macro as he stamped his boot down hard on the man’s wrist, grinding it until the fingers opened and the dagger dropped to the ground. Macro kicked it away and retreated a step before he looked round. Metellus was wrestling his sword free from the back of his man, while Cimber swung his cosh against the head of a man struggling to sit up. Instead he went out like a candle and crashed to the ground unconscious. Cato was already striding away from the scene of the brief skirmish. He raised his sword as high as he could and waved it slowly from side to side, the signal for the rest of the cohort to come up. From the top of the hill overlooking the settlement there came a response, and a quick flash as the sun reflected off polished metal. Cato prayed that it had not been seen by any of the rebels still in the camp, as he sheathed his blade and turned back to the others.

  ‘We’ll take their spears. Put the bodies under the bridge, and, Metellus, get the mules back to the buildings and leave them somewhere out of sight.’

  While his orders were carried out Cato looked back towards the cohort and was pleased to see that there was little evidence of any movement as the Praetorians followed a dry riverbed that meandered close to the settlement before joining the river that flowed past the mine. Only a faint dust haze marked their progress. Hopefully not enough to draw the attention of anyone keeping watch from the mine camp higher up. He turned his attention to Cimber who was leaning against the gatepost breathing heavily.

  ‘Good job.’

  Cimber shook his head. ‘I never thought we’d get away with it.’

  Macro laughed. ‘Oh, you were very good, mate. Very good indeed. Remind me never to buy a used chariot from you.’

  Cimber smiled weakly and eased himself away from the gatepost as he took a deep breath to try and calm his nerves.

  ‘That’s better.’ Cato patted him on the shoulder. ‘But we’ve done the easy bit. So keep your wits about you, eh?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘I can ask for no more.’

  As soon as Metellus returned from concealing the mules Cato led his small party through the gates and into the mine workings. To their left was a row of toolsheds, open-fronted with picks and shovels in long racks. And then the long stretch of the red earth and rock cliff that looked like a vast wound cut into the side of the mountainous ridge along which it ran. The base of the cliff was pierced by regularly spaced tunnel openings that looked out onto the bare ground running down to the edge of the ravine where the river flowed. Here and there lay heaps of spoil from the mineshafts.

  ‘Stick close to the cliff,’ Cato ordered, trotting into its shadow before continuing towards the track that led up to the mine camp four
hundred paces away. There was no sign of life from the workings, except for the lazy circling of dark birds at the far end of the mine, but Cato was not surprised. It was a desolate place and those who had been forced to labour here no doubt wished to avoid it, scarred by the memory of what they had endured. He increased his pace to a run and glanced back to make sure the others were keeping up. It was vital that they found the procurator before the enemy became wise to the presence of the cohort. As they approached the start of the track leading up to the ledge on which the camp had been constructed, Cato saw a line of stout posts in the ground from which chains hung from iron fittings. Behind them, in a small cutting into the cliff that became visible only as they neared the track, were several taller posts with cross beams. A man had been nailed onto each one. All but one were dead, and the last slowly rolled his head from side to side as his dried and cracked lips moved soundlessly.

  They slowed as they came up to the crucified men and the blood drained from Cimber’s face as he stopped and stared in horror at the bloated and mutilated bodies.

  ‘Who are they? Slaves?’

  ‘Overseers, or soldiers from the garrison, more like,’ Macro replied. ‘Poor bastards.’

  At the sound of their boots crunching on the gravel the surviving man opened his eyes and stared at them, his mouth working as he tried to speak, but all he could manage was a rasping guttural moan.

  ‘We have to help him,’ Cimber decided, taking a reluctant step towards the line of crucified men.

  ‘No,’ Cato snapped. ‘There’s no time. We keep moving.’

  ‘Sir,’ Metellus protested. ‘We have to—’

  Cato rounded on him, glaring. ‘He’s already dead. It’s too late to save him. Now keep your mouth shut and obey orders.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Macro. ‘There is something we can do for him.’

  He stepped up to the foot of the post and raised his spear. He lodged the tip in the soft flesh under the man’s ribcage and looked up to see awareness gleam in the man’s eyes, before he clenched his jaw and nodded. Without hesitation Macro thrust powerfully, driving the point up into the man’s heart. His head flung back and his jaw gaped in a silent cry as his body stiffened, then writhed within the constraints of his nailed hands and feet, before he slumped and hung like meat in a butcher’s shop. Macro wrenched the spear back and stepped aside to avoid the spatter of blood from the wound.

  ‘All right,’ Cato said grimly. ‘Show’s over. Let’s keep moving. Cimber. Move!’

  They hurried on, climbing up the steep track. Overhead the birds called out with shrill, coarse cries as they wheeled through the hot air. A hundred paces ahead the path bent back on itself for the run up to the camp and they kept to the shadows as they ran on, breathing hard from the exertion. Closer to the bend Cato caught a foul, cloying stench, sour and sickly and he knew at once what it was. The odour of decaying bodies.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Macro grumbled, his nose wrinkling with disgust. ‘I thought this place couldn’t get any worse.’

  Cimber clasped a hand to his face, pinching his nose and covering his mouth as he struggled on. They reached the bend and then saw the cause of the noisome odour. Below, a deep pit had been dug into the ground and it was almost filled with heaped corpses. Most were naked but some wore rags. The older corpses that were visible were mottled and bloated. Some had burst, leaving gaping holes where the birds and wild animals had gone for the organs and entrails. The most recent bodies lay sprawled on top, many carrying wounds from edged weapons. Cato was sickened to see that there were many women and children amongst them. Doubtless, the inhabitants of the settlement and the families of those who had worked at the camp. Brought here, butchered and thrown into the pit with the bodies of the slaves off whose backs they had once lived. The bloody cycle of revenge turning, forever turning.

  ‘The bastards,’ Cimber choked.

  ‘Which ones? Theirs or ours?’ Cato replied pointedly. ‘Come, we haven’t much time. You know the way, so you lead from here on.’

  Cimber was still ashen-faced and Cato grabbed his shoulder and shook it hard. ‘Pull yourself together, man. Otherwise, we’ll end up down there with the rest of them.’

  Cimber nodded, swallowed nervously and turned his back on the grim spectacle. He began the ascent of the last stretch of the track to the ledge where the camp had been constructed. As they came within sight of the first of the buildings Cato quietly called a halt and crept forward with Cimber, keeping to the rocks along the side of the track as it opened out onto the wide ledge in the shadow of the mountain ridge. Crouching down, Cato took stock of the layout of the mining camp. To his right was the procurator’s house. Plain whitewashed walls built on dressed stone foundations. The roof was tiled and at the rear of the house leafy boughs indicated a garden within. The house was separated from the rest of the camp by fifty paces, where a number of smaller buildings lay. The accommodation for the garrison, overseers and others employed at the mine, Cato decided. Just beyond them was a wall with a fortified gateway. There was a walkway running along the wall that overlooked the slave quarters on the other side. The gate was wide open, and where vigilant sentries had kept watch over the slave quarters the rampart and gate was now abandoned.

  Most of the rebels left behind to guard the camp had occupied the garrison blocks and sat outside on benches as they played at dice, laughing and talking, relishing their new-won freedom. A man had been posted outside the entrance to the procurator’s house, but he sat on a stool, back against the wall and head slumped onto his breast as he dozed.

  ‘Can’t say I’m impressed by the way the rebels are guarding this place,’ said Cato. ‘They might be brave, but their discipline is piss poor. Is there another way into the procurator’s quarters?’

  Cimber nodded and pointed to the side of the house built up to the edge of the cliff next to the track. ‘There’s an area at the back of the house the previous procurator had cleared for a training ground. There’s a doorway next to the slaves’ quarters.’

  Cato looked along the wall and although there was only a narrow gap between the wall and the cliff, it appeared to be easy enough to negotiate, provided they were not spotted. If that happened it would be easy enough to block each end and trap them. He beckoned to Macro and Metellus and explained his plan.

  ‘That’s the way we go in. Then we find the procurator and keep him safe until the cohort takes the camp. On my signal.’

  There was a stretch of open ground between them and the corner of the building. No one was looking their way and the sentry outside the house still appeared to be asleep. If they ran across together there was a risk they might be spotted. So Cato went down on his stomach as he emerged from behind a rock and crawled across the gravel and tufts of grass until he reached the corner then rose up into a crouch as he waved to the next of his party. Macro was followed by Metellus and then it was Cimber’s turn. The guide glanced to his left, lowered himself onto his stomach and began to cross on his hands and knees, scuffling along and leaving a small swirl of dust in his wake.

  Cato looked towards the rebels and saw one man rise from his bench and take a few steps in their direction, staring towards the procurator’s house.

  ‘Cimber!’ he hissed. ‘Get down! Now!’

  The guide paused and looked at Cato questioningly and for a moment it seemed as if he would simply continue. Cato made a violent slamming motion with his hand and Cimber dropped onto his stomach and pressed himself into the ground. A faint haze of dust stirred around him and then dispersed as Cato peered cautiously around the corner to observe the rebel. The man continued staring in their direction for a moment longer before he stretched his arms out to the sides, rolled his shoulders and returned to his comrades. Cato let out a long sigh of relief and gestured to Cimber to continue.

  As he reached the corner Macro stabbed a finger at him. ‘What were you doing, you fuc
kwit? Trying to get us all killed?’

  Cimber was trembling. ‘Sorry, sir. I–I . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cato intervened. ‘Stay with me.’

  He led them along the wall, picking his way carefully over the places where the cliff edge dropped down to the road. As they neared the far end there was a distant shout, and then another. Then the ringing of a bell sounded across the camp. Cato and the others stopped and looked back.

  Cimber flinched as if he had been struck. ‘Oh, sweet Jupiter, they’re onto us!’

  ‘It’s the cohort they’ve spotted, you fool. Not us. Keep going.’

  They scrambled over the rocks until they came to the end of the wall and Cato paused, heart pounding; then he looked round the corner. It was as Cimber had described. A patch of ground had been cleared and a training post had been set up, together with a large butt for archery and javelin practice. The previous procurator had clearly fancied himself as something of a warrior. No one else was in sight, although now they could hear shouting from within the house. Cato waved his men on and moved along the rear wall towards the arched door halfway along. There was a heavy iron latch and Cato put his ear to the door but there was no sound from the other side. Grasping his spear in his right hand he steeled himself and tested the latch. It rose with a grating noise and the door opened on its hinges with a light groan, revealing a small yard. On either side were cells. Opposite Cato was the opening to a short passage giving out onto a garden courtyard.

  Leading the others inside, he glanced warily into the small rooms on either side. They were mainly empty, aside from the odd scrap of clothing or a blanket. One contained baskets of spare roof slates and bricks. Close to the passageway were two larger cells with heavy studded doors. Both were bolted shut and had small barred openings to admit light. Macro peered through the first and in the dim interior picked out three men in chains sitting on the stone floor. One squinted up at him and spat.