Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I know him,’ said Pulcher. He crossed over for a closer inspection. ‘That’s definitely Collenus. I had to discipline him for fighting in barracks when I was on duty a few months ago. He’s one of us.’

  Cato thought a moment and nodded. ‘Fair enough. So, Collenus, tell me, how did the legate manage to get here so quickly? I wasn’t expecting him for a few more days at least.’

  ‘We force-marched, sir. Then left the siege train behind to make its own way while the cavalry and infantry went ahead. Can’t say it wasn’t tough, sir.’

  The other men in the room shared a knowing smile and Pulcher growled. ‘You don’t know the half of it, sunshine.’

  The soldier sent in search of food returned with half a loaf of dry bread, a hunk of salted pork and a wineskin and set them down on a table for Collenus. He looked at the food and licked his lips and Cato nodded. ‘Tuck in. You’ve earned it.’

  Collenus needed no further prompting and gulped several mouthfuls of water before tearing at the bread.

  ‘Centurion Musa.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’d be obliged if you did not quit your post for any reason in future before your watch duty is complete. Send a man in your place. But never leave your post again.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The centurion looked chastened.

  ‘I will be in the procurator’s office if I am needed.’

  As Cato turned and strode towards the corridor, Pulcher went over to the new arrival and patted him on the back to offer him a few quiet words of congratulation for his efforts, before heading to lead his men down to the wall and take over from Musa and his century.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Well I don’t like it,’ said Macro the next morning as they conducted their morning walk around the mine and inspected the defences. ‘We’ve no reason to trust Vitellius. Not given our past experience of him. The man’s a scheming bastard. Whatever he does or says the only thing we can be sure of is that it serves his own interests, usually at great cost to someone else. Speaking for myself, I am sick of being that someone else. If we form the cohort up and march out of here to do battle, what guarantee have we got that he will play his part? None. None at all. Chances are we will march out to our deaths, and then when our heads are decorating the top of some cunt’s spear, only then will he put in an appearance.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Cato agreed. ‘You paraphrase my thoughts precisely.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Stay inside the fort and wait for him to move against the rebels first? That’s what I’d do.’

  Cato sucked in a breath. ‘That’s exactly what I should do. But his orders are quite explicit. I am to attack first, in order to lure Iskerbeles out of his camp and distract him long enough for Vitellius to close the trap. If they see Vitellius first then the rebels will have enough time to reach the plain and escape. And for that, I will be held to account.’

  ‘So, once again, we’re fucked if we do, and fucked if we don’t.’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Shit . . .’ Macro ground his teeth. ‘Why can’t this ever just be about soldiering? Why is there always some bastard scheming away in the background?’

  ‘That’s how it always is, Macro. We just get a better view of it the further up the chain of command we go.’

  ‘Then I wish I had stayed a ranker. Just did my duty and tried to be a good soldier. Life was simpler back then.’

  ‘No. It just seemed that way. Besides, you were born to be a centurion and Rome is better served for having you raised to the centurionate. Rome, the army, and the men you command. They all need you. As do I. To go into battle without you at my side would be unthinkable.’

  Macro shook his head and laughed self-consciously. ‘Bollocks to that. You do fine with or without me.’

  ‘With is better. Trust me,’ Cato concluded as they reached the top of the shaft leading down to the countermine. Two men worked a large bellows connected to a leather hose to pump fresh air down into the tunnel to allow the men working there to breathe, and to prevent the lamps from being suffocated. A makeshift crane had been erected over the opening and a basket of spoil rose out of the gloom. It was swung out to the side and emptied into a handcart before the earth and rocks were wheeled away to add thickness to the rampart at the rear of the wall. Centurion Petillius had just climbed the ladder and stood mopping his brow with his neckscarf. Even covered in soil and sweat he still managed to look handsome and flashed a winning smile at the prefect as Cato and Macro approached.

  ‘How is the tunnel progressing?’

  Petillius tied the neckscarf back in place as he replied. ‘As far as I can calculate it we’ve dug past the gatehouse and outer ditch by twenty feet or so. We’re not going to win any prizes for the speed of our work, but we’re on course to intercept their mine before it reaches our defences. That could be any day now.’

  ‘Then we need to be ready for that. Macro, make a note. Have a half century posted close by. They’ll go into the tunnel the moment we detect the enemy.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro took out a waxed slate and stylus from his sidebag and wrote it down.

  ‘Now for the fun part,’ Cato muttered humourlessly as he swung himself onto the ladder and began to descend into the shaft. Already he could feel the anxiety weighing on him as he thought about the cramped tunnel below. There was no need to put himself through this, but it was important to show the men that he endured what they endured. Being in the cramped space filled his heart with mortal terror of the roof collapsing and burying him alive. Despite the care with which the countermine had been constructed and the use of more pit props than was necessary, on the occasions that Cato had inspected the work at first hand, he had been expecting the tunnel to cave in at any moment. It was irrational, he told himself. And therefore he must conquer the terror, in the name of reason and to prove to himself that he could overcome such fear.

  He had to pause halfway down as the empty basket swept past him ready for the next load of spoil to be raised to the surface. Peering down he saw the gloomily lit space at the bottom of the shaft. Two Praetorians stood waiting for the basket, a bucket of spoil in each hand. They made space for their commander as Cato stepped off the ladder into the cramped space. Above him Macro began to descend, muttering bitterly that he had not joined the army to become a bloody mole. The air felt clammy and close and Cato peered through the stout timbers that framed the tunnel inclining down in the direction of the wall. Oil lamps fixed to pit props lined the route and provided barely enough illumination to light their immediate surroundings. The tunnel was wide enough to permit two handcarts to pass each other, but hardly more than five feet in height so that everyone had to bow their heads and walk stooped.

  Macro reached the bottom and they shuffled round the men with the buckets as Cato led the way down the incline. It levelled out after a short distance and the air was hot and dank and smelled musty.

  ‘Can’t say I will miss this place when it’s all over,’ said Macro. ‘It ain’t natural for a man to be underground.’

  Cato did not reply, and kept his jaws clenched as he struggled to control his fear. He was determined not to let it show. There was movement ahead and two more men carrying buckets approached, strips of cloth tied round their brows to keep the sweat from their eyes. They offered a quick nod by way of salute and bustled by the two officers. There was a little waft of better air and the chinking of picks increased in volume as they approached the end of the tunnel. Spare pit props lay along the side, waiting to be fed forward and driven into position around the workface before the next two feet of earth and rock was dug out and the process repeated as the tunnel slowly advanced. Then, up ahead, Cato could discern the small team at work, bodies glistening with sweat as they wielded their tools as best they could in the confined space. Three relays of two men toiled away, swapping over as they tired. At the s
ound of the officers’ approach one of the men glanced back and then called out to the others.

  ‘Prefect is present!’

  The Praetorians tried to stand to attention in what Cato thought was a quite ridiculous attempt to preserve the formality of a visit from the commanding officer.

  ‘At ease,’ Cato called back. ‘Rest your men for a moment, Sentiacus.’

  Petillius’ optio nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. You heard him, lads, tools down and take a breather.’

  The Praetorians leaned their picks against the sides of the tunnel and hunkered down as Cato spoke with the optio.

  ‘How is it progressing?’

  ‘Very well, sir. I reckon on . . . over ten feet on our shift. Well over what Porcino’s lot did before us.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Cato was pleased that the men were working competitively, as soldiers often will even under the most trying of circumstances. Every challenge was a chance to prove themselves. ‘Fine effort, lads. If you manage another two feet before your century is relieved, there’s an extra ration of wine in it for you.’

  The exhausted Praetorians nodded with appreciation and Cato stepped up to the workface to examine it closely. There was more rock mixed in with the earth than had been the case during the previous day and that would make the going somewhat harder, he realised. Sentiacus and his men had done very well indeed.

  ‘Quiet!’ Macro interrupted the muted conversation of the resting Praetorians. ‘Listen.’

  Cato turned back to his friend quickly. ‘What is—’

  ‘Shhh. Keep still and listen.’

  Cato froze, as did the others, ears straining and trying to ignore the dry rasp of their own breathing and the light rhythmic wheeze of the leather airhose. Cato was about to give up and demand an explanation from Macro when he heard it, the faint sound of tools working the earth and rock, then snatches of muffled voices. The Praetorians grabbed their own tools and Cato and Macro eased their swords from their scabbards.

  ‘That’s the enemy but where are the sounds coming from?’ Cato whispered.

  His men listened some more and Sentiacus pointed towards the workface. ‘Should be coming from there.’

  Cato listened again and shook his head. ‘More to this side, I think.’

  He touched the left side of the tunnel as if to feel vibrations through his fingertips but there was nothing. The noises were louder now and the sound of picks working the earth more pronounced.

  ‘Shit . . .’ one of the Praetorians said softly.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Macro snapped. ‘All of you.’

  A short distance back down the tunnel there was a trickle of soil and then the thud of metal biting into wood.

  ‘Get back,’ Cato ordered. ‘Quickly!’

  Sentiacus roused his men and thrust them ahead of him, in the direction of the shaft. Cato and Macro followed. They had just passed a pit prop when a clod of earth exploded from the side of the tunnel and struck Cato in the side of the head. The metal end of a pick appeared briefly from the earth, then it was wrenched back leaving a hole through which a dull orange light glowed. More earth tumbled into the tunnel as the gap increased in size, and soon was large enough to reach an arm through. A few more blows from the other side and the wall collapsed between two of the pit props, revealing a large group of wiry-looking men, lit by candles guttering in small saucers in iron brackets fixed to pit props. Cato could see that they were working on a wider, larger tunnel than the Roman effort, running across the latter at right angles at a slightly higher depth. Now all looked on in shock as the soil between the two tunnels crumbled.

  There was a moment of stillness on both sides and Cato could see at once that they were outnumbered. He pointed to the nearest of the Praetorians. ‘Go for help! Run!’

  As the man scrambled back down the tunnel towards the shaft the rebel miners hurriedly set to work clearing away the remaining obstacles between the two tunnels, so there was space to get at the Romans. Then the first of them attempted to thrust himself through the gap between two of the pit props. Sentiacus took a step forward swinging his pick and the long, blunt point caught the rebel under the sternum, tearing into his soft tissue and organs. Sentiacus braced his boot against the man’s groin and ripped his tool free before slamming the head into his opponent’s face, battering him into unconsciousness so that he slumped down, blocking the gap between the two props. The rebels grasped what needed to be done at once, and began to dig away the soil at the base of the props, driving bodily into the timber posts in an effort to dislodge them. Loose soil cascaded down on the Romans as the overhead beam shifted.

  ‘Stay clear of that!’ Sentiacus warned them, and the officers and men drew aside as they held their weapons ready. Cato could hear the urgent shouts of the man he had sent back up the tunnel.

  ‘We have to hold ’em off as long as we can, lads.’

  One of the props fell into the Roman tunnel and the roof beam sagged down with it, releasing a fall of soil and rock through the gap between the neighbouring beams. The Romans shook the debris from their heads as the rebels forced their way through the enlarged gap between the two tunnels. Hunched over, breathing foul air and by the thin light of oil lamps and candles, the two sides brutally contested the tightly enclosed space. For an instant Cato felt his bones chill at the nightmare he was caught within. Then the spell broke as he saw the semi-naked Praetorians and rebels hurl themselves on each other. There was no room to wield weapons with any force and they had to use the picks like clubs, punching the iron heads and wooden shafts into limbs, torsos and heads as they gasped for breath and the sweat glistened on their soiled skin. Some cast aside their weapons and used their bare hands, throttling and gouging.

  Even though the slaves had the greater number they could not get more than a few men through the breach where the Romans fell on them in a vicious fight for survival. There was no time to reflect on the savage horror of it all as Cato pressed himself forward, striking out with his sword at the thigh of a man emerging through the gap. The point cut into muscle and glanced off bone and Cato twisted the blade left and right as he pulled it free. The rebel turned to him, staggering between Cato and the nearest lamp so that his features were invisible. However, Cato could hear the wild growl as the rebel thrust his pick out and sprang forward behind it. The shaft struck Cato on the chest and knocked him back, catching his heel on one of the spare props. He fell onto the floor of the tunnel with the rebel on top of him. He felt the man’s breath on his cheek, then the hard pressure of the shaft sliding up his chest towards his throat as the rebel attempted to crush his windpipe. There was no room to wield his sword effectively and Cato slammed the pommel into the rebel’s bare ribs to little avail. In desperation Cato thrust his head up but there was not enough impetus to the blow to make any impact. None the less he had a clear sense of where the man’s features were in relation to his own in the darkness. Cato opened his mouth, curled back his lips and sank his teeth into his enemy’s nose, biting down hard on flesh and cartilage and feeling hot blood drip into his mouth and roll down his tongue into his throat. He shook his head violently, and there was a soft crunch and his head fell back with a large lump of warm gristle in his teeth which he spat out. The rebel let out a howl of agony and released one of his hands from the pick shaft to grope towards his ruined face. Cato drew up his knee and rolled the man off, and struck with his sword, stabbing a series of short, shallow blows that crippled his opponent.

  Struggling back onto his feet Cato could just see three more bodies writhing on the floor of the tunnel, the nearest under Macro as he knelt on the man’s stomach pressing his sword down into his foe’s chest with both hands and all his weight. As the rebel’s movements became feeble, Macro rose up, braced his boot next to the wound and wrenched his sword free, before turning at once back towards the breach. It was clear to Cato that they could not hold out for
much longer. Something had to be done.

  ‘Sentiacus! Hold them off. When I give the order, you and the men fall back.’

  The optio nodded quickly before striking out with his pick once again. Cato retreated ten feet further up the tunnel and slapped his spare hand against one of the thinner pit props.

  ‘This will do. Help me, Macro.’

  The centurion came up to him. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Shift this. We have to collapse our tunnel, here. Before we lose it all.’

  ‘But the lads?’

  ‘Will get out in time. Help me.’

  Cato worked furiously at the soil around the top of the post while Macro dug around the bottom. All the time the grunts and cries of the fight a short distance away added urgency to their efforts. Cato leaned against the post and felt it give.

  ‘Enough digging. Push!’

  Macro stood and braced his shoulder to the timber as Cato pushed higher up. ‘Heave.’

  The post gave ground and the top came to the edge of the beam.

  ‘Stop there!’ Cato ordered. ‘Next prop!’

  They repeated the process and then returned to the first as Cato called down the tunnel, ‘Fall back! Now!’

  The first of the Praetorians scrambled by, then another, clutching a hand over a wound to his side, as a third man covered his back. Only the optio remained, with one more Praetorian. In the weak light Cato saw that both had been wounded. Sentiacus’ left arm had been smashed and shattered bones protruded from his forearm as he swung his pick in his remaining good hand, wildly sweeping it at the faces of the rebels facing him across the tunnel. The other Praetorian turned to escape, limping up the tunnel a few paces before a rebel caught up with him, shoved him face forward onto the ground and swung a pick into his spine with brutal force.

  ‘Sentiacus! Run!’

  Even as he called out, Cato could see it was too late. Two of the rebels had already got past the optio and were moving up the tunnel as more made to follow them. Sentiacus looked up, saw the two officers standing ready to collapse the tunnel and shouted, ‘Do it, sir!’