Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  There was no time to deliberate, just act, and Cato thrust his weight against the prop. It lurched free of the beam which promptly collapsed in front of Cato and Macro, bringing down an avalanche of soil and rock that buried the two rebels rushing towards them, and cut off their view of Sentiacus just as the optio hurled himself forward amongst the enemy.

  ‘Get back!’ Cato ordered and they retreated to the next prop as the nearest of the rebels rose up from the falling soil and struggled on a step, shaking his head. The second collapse had a much greater effect, bringing down a wider stretch of the tunnel completely as earth and rock crushed the rebel and buried him alive. Cato dragged Macro back several paces until they were clear of the debris. The air filled with choking dust and all sound of the struggle on the far side of the collapsed section was cut off. The only noise was the coughing of the Romans as they stumbled back up the tunnel towards the sunlight shining down the shaft.

  As they approached, Petillius and a handful of his men had started down the tunnel.

  ‘Too late,’ Cato gasped. ‘Had to collapse the tunnel . . . before we lost it . . . Get your men down there. Make sure they don’t dig through.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato, Macro and the survivors of the working party pressed themselves into the side of the tunnel as the heavily armed Praetorians made their way past. When the way was clear they moved into the bottom of the shaft. Cato allowed another ten men to follow Petillius before he ordered Sentiacus’ men to climb out, followed by himself and Macro. The air back at the surface was warm, dry and sweet to breathe and the filth-covered men sat or stood bent over, chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath.

  As soon as he could breathe easily Cato forced himself to stand straight. Macro turned his head to look up at him.

  ‘Seems like we found their mine, right enough.’

  ‘No, they found ours.’ Cato said bitterly. ‘I should have thought they’d anticipate a countermine. I’ll not underestimate Iskerbeles again.’

  ‘What are you talking about, sir?’ Macro stood up and arched his back, rubbing the base of his spine. ‘It was just bad luck. Damn, but they worked fast this time round.’

  ‘No . . . No, I think not.’ Cato frowned as he recalled the details of the action shortly before. ‘They came at us from the wrong direction. From the left, over there.’ He gestured to the wall beside the tower. ‘Like they fully intended to cut across our countermine. Or cut over or underneath it to get at the gatehouse.’

  Macro considered this briefly. ‘It’s possible. But we’ve blocked them for now. Long enough to stall them until Vitellius begins his attack at least.’

  Cato went to run his hand through his hair but found it still covered in dirt and endeavoured to brush it off instead as he continued his line of thought. As the enemy had broken through he had seen their tunnel, lit by small lamps and candles, stretching out behind them for a long distance parallel to the wall. It made no sense to start a new tunnel angling towards the wall only to cut back along it towards the gatehouse. If Iskerbeles had intended to intercept the countermine from the side he could have chosen a far more direct line of approach. In any case, the enemy would have had to work like demons in order to dig this new tunnel . . . Unless . . . He felt a cold veil settle over his mind as he realised that he had been fooled by the enemy. Comprehensively misdirected and humiliated.

  ‘Sir!’

  Cato looked up in the direction of the call and saw a Praetorian on the tower waving to attract his attention.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The enemy, sir. They’re moving up from the camp.’

  ‘How many of them?’

  There was a pause before the sentry shook his head. ‘I don’t know, sir. Looks like all of them.’

  Cato raced across to the ladder and climbed the tower, Macro close behind him. Rushing across to the battlement Cato looked out over the ruins and saw a broad sweep of the landscape beyond the settlement covered by figures moving down from the camp towards the mine. Many thousands of them.

  Macro appeared at his side, breathing hard. ‘Looks like they ain’t going to wait until Vitellius arrives. At least that saves us making any decision about whether we trust the bastard or not. I just hope we’re still around when the rest of the Praetorians join the fight.’

  Cato nodded and turned to the sentry who had raised the alarm. ‘Sound the call to arms.’

  The man nodded and picked up the brass horn resting in the corner of the tower. Raising it to his lips he took in a deep breath, pursed his lips to the mouthpiece and blew three sharp notes, paused and repeated the call several times. The men from the duty century resting behind the wall snatched up their kit and raced into place on the walkway as the first men from the remaining centuries came running down the track from the mining camp, some already in full kit, others struggling to put it on as they hurried along.

  ‘I can’t believe Iskerbeles is going to attempt another frontal assault,’ said Macro. ‘Not in broad daylight. Not without bringing the gatehouse down first.’

  Cato said nothing but kept watching the steadily approaching rebel horde. It made no sense to attack now, as Macro said. How could they possibly hope to succeed when they were so easily repulsed before?

  The men of the cohort were in position long before the first of the rebels emerged from the ruins and formed up in front of the wall, just beyond the range of slingshot. The cohort adopted the same arrangement as before, with the first two centuries manning the wall, the Third behind the gatehouse and the Fourth and Sixth in reserve behind the wall, with Pulcher, and the remaining men of the Fifth, stood to the rear as a reserve of the last resort. Petillius and his men had been pulled out of the tunnel and the ladder taken out of the shaft in case the enemy dug through the collapsed tunnel.

  As the rebels formed up Cato noted that there were few assault ladders, and that many of the men were carrying fascines, tightly bound bundles of wood and brush to fill in crossing points over the outer ditch. The main weight of the enemy line seemed to be to the Roman left, opposite the wall manned by Secundus and his men.

  Metellus climbed up into the tower to hand Cato his felt skull-cap, helmet and shield.

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Cato fastened the strap Metellus muttered, ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Cato ignored the question. There could be any number of explanations. Then a horn sounded from the enemy host and two riders came forward. Cato instantly recognised Iskerbeles and his huge lieutenant. The latter raised a horn and blew again as they walked their horses slowly forward. Both men carried shields, held ready to protect themselves in case the Romans attempted a long-range shot from bow or sling.

  Cato allowed them to come closer before he cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Stop there!’

  The riders reined in obediently.

  ‘What do you want?’ Cato demanded.

  Iskerbeles drew himself up in the saddle and replied clearly in Latin. ‘Romans. This is your last chance to surrender. Do it now and I will be merciful. You shall be spared and sent back to Tarraco. The choice is yours. Surrender now, or die . . . What is your reply?’

  Macro snorted with derision. ‘Is he joking? Or drunk? Or just mad?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  There was a long pause before Iskerbeles called out again. ‘Well, Romans?’

  Cato cupped his hands to his mouth again to make his reply. ‘I need time to consider. I shall give you my reply at noon tomorrow.’

  Iskerbeles shook his head. ‘You have already given me your reply, Prefect. You have chosen death. So be it.’

  Iskerbeles gestured to his companion and they quickly turned their horses about and cantered back into their lines. The defenders stood in tense silence and waited for the attack to begin. There was no movemen
t from the rebel side. Their men stood still, under the sun, also waiting . . . And waiting.

  ‘What the fuck are they up to now?’ Macro demanded at length. ‘They trying to bore us all to death?’

  It was the faint rumble that first revealed the enemy’s hand. A dull sound like a heavily muffled drum roll, away to the left, and Cato and Macro moved to the side of the tower to investigate. Half-way along the wall the Praetorians were stirring anxiously and looking down at the ground beneath them. Suddenly a section of the walkway and rampart seemed to tremble and started dropping into the earth, taking the men with it. A breach was opening up, and widening. Then the same thing began to happen further along the wall, and again closer to the tower. The men on the unaffected stretches began to fall back from the wall in panic.

  ‘What in Hades is happening?’ Macro asked in astonishment.

  Cato had already guessed. ‘Dear Gods . . . There was another tunnel all along! The first was just a diversion. That’s why it never got very far. That bastard played me for a complete fool. All the time they were digging to undermine the wall, not the gatehouse.’

  Before he finished speaking the horn sounded again from within the massed ranks of the enemy, a long, clear, defiant note. This time the rebels let out a terrifying, deafening roar of triumph and broke into a charge over the ground in front of the stricken wall and the dazed men who had survived the sections that had collapsed, leaving wide breaches for the enemy to pour through in their thousands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Cato rushed to the back of the tower and called down, ‘Porcino! Petillius! Get your centuries forward to hold the breaches! At the double!’

  He turned to Macro. ‘Looks like they are going to give your section of the wall a miss, so take half your men and back up the others.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro swung himself onto the ladder and clambered down to the walkway as quickly as he could.

  Cato thought quickly. Iskerbeles had handled the siege brilliantly, wrong-footing the Romans and destroying the best line of defence at a stroke. The inner wall, around the gatehouse, had been all but complete and now stood as a mute, useless tribute to the guile of the rebels. The three breaches accounted for over a hundred feet in the wall, and the stretches in between were cracked and subsiding. Half of the men defending that sector of the wall had gone down with it and the survivors were struggling to extricate themselves from the rubble while their unaffected comrades scrabbled over the heaps of masonry, earth and rocks to come to their aid. It was obvious to Cato that any attempt to defend the first wall would surely fail. The cohort had to fall back to the second wall, and the withdrawal had to be handled carefully if there was not to be a rout, resulting in the complete annihilation of the Praetorians.

  Already the first of the rebels had reached the ditch in front of the breaches and were hurling their fascines on top of the rubble in the ditch. The enemy massed beyond the breaches, cheering loudly as they scented victory. They would have usable causeways across the ditch very soon and be ready to storm into the breaches. Then, no matter how well the Praetorians fought, the overwhelming weight in numbers would decide the issue. Cato turned to call down to the commander of the last reserve.

  ‘Centurion Pulcher! Pulcher!’

  The stocky officer looked up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take your men and get back to the second wall and hold the gate open for the rest of us.’

  The din created by the jeers and cheering of the enemy rose and fell like a wave and Pulcher cupped a hand to his ear and shook his head helplessly.

  ‘Fuck,’ Cato muttered to himself, and filled his lungs and cupped his hands to his mouth and tried again. ‘I said, take your men and fall back to the second wall!’

  Pulcher heard the order this time and nodded before turning to convey the order to his men.

  ‘Fall back!’ another voice cried out and Cato’s head spun towards the breached wall as Centurion Musa raised his sword and jabbed it to the rear and repeated the call. ‘Fall back!’

  ‘No!’ Cato shouted, but there was already too much noise. Too many voices shouting for help, shouting orders, shouting encouragement to each other, and he was drowned out. Already the Praetorians of the Third Century were turning away from the enemy to pick their way back over the rubble, and blundering into the first of Macro’s men as they hurried round to reinforce the men who should be defending the breaches.

  The defence of the mine was falling apart before Cato’s eyes and he had to do something at once before the rebels started to surge across the causeways and fall upon the disorganised soldiers of the Praetorian cohort. He turned to the other men in the tower. ‘Get out! Get back to the second wall.’ A glance over the parapet revealed that the enemy was making no attempt to attack the wall to the right of the tower. Cato turned to one of the men still with him. ‘You go to Petillius and Porcino and say I want their men to form up halfway between here and the second wall. Go!’

  Cato ordered the trumpeter to follow him. Then he was on the ladder, dropping two rungs at a time before leaping off a few feet from the bottom. He ran towards the nearest breach as Musa’s men began to retreat across the open ground towards the second wall. It was already too late to stop those who had a good head start, and Cato realised that it was as well to have as many men behind the second line of defence as possible, ready to receive those who survived the first enemy onslaught into the breaches. Centurion Musa was still bellowing at his men to fall back when Cato grabbed his shoulder and spun him round.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, you fool?’

  ‘Sir?’ Musa looked stunned. ‘You gave the order to fall back . . .’

  ‘The order was for Pulcher.’ Cato waved his hand at the men still coming off the rubble ‘Get them back into the breach.’

  Musa pointed to the men already heading back to the second wall. ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Too late for them. Get the others forward before you get us all killed!’ Cato shoved him towards the nearest section of collapsed wall. ‘Hold that breach.’

  Musa took charge of his senses and nodded before striding up to the breach, bellowing for his men to follow him. Cato ran on, and found Macro forming up his half century.

  ‘You take the centre. Hold on as long as you can. We have to buy time to restore some order. When you hear the trumpet, fall back on Petillius, with the rest of the men. Once the cohort is together, we’ll withdraw to the second wall. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. May the Gods preserve us.’

  Cato nodded and with the trumpeter close behind sprinted towards the last breach where most of the survivors of the Second Century had gathered around the standard, some fifty men in all. Cristus was with them, covered in dust and barely recognisable.

  ‘Where’s Centurion Secundus?’

  Cristus gestured towards the ruined wall. ‘Gone, sir. Buried in that lot.’

  ‘Where’s the optio?’

  ‘He’s missing as well, sir.’

  ‘Shit . . .’ Cato muttered under his breath. The century needed to be taken under control. Cristus was obviously too shaken for the role. Cato reached for the century’s standard. ‘Give me that and find yourself a weapon.’

  Cato took a firm hold of the standard and raised it high as he moved to the front of the men of the Second Century. ‘Follow me!’

  They set off up the slope, stepping carefully on the loose rocks and soft earth. Ahead lay the uneven line of the remains of the wall, and beyond, Cato could see the tips of the enemy’s spears and swords, then, as he continued to climb over the rubble, the crests of the helmets that had been looted from the Roman troops they had killed. Finally he could see the rebels themselves, a seething mass of shouting men, brandishing their weapons as they waited for the last of the fascines to be hurled into the ditch. Their cries and shouting reached a crescendo as they saw the
Praetorians clambering over the rubble and forming a double line across the width of the breach. Cato took his place at the centre of the line, on the highest point, and planted the spike at the bottom of the standard as firmly as he could before he drew his sword and gave the order.

  ‘Shields, to the front!’

  The Praetorians advanced their left arms and closed ranks enough to present an unbroken wall of shields to the enemy while they held their spears at eye level, ready to strike. A stone arced from near the front of the enemy horde and rattled off the shield of the man directly in front of Cato, and then more followed and he realised that the standard made him the most obvious target for the enemy. He crouched slightly. Not enough to forsake his dignity but sufficient to keep most of his face sheltered behind the shields of the Praetorians. They did not have to endure the barrage long before a horn sounded and the rebels surged forward with a great roar. They funnelled towards the makeshift causeway and so were packed into a dense mass as they crossed the ditch and charged the Roman defenders. Fortunately the uneven surface of the slope broke the impetus of the charge as they reached the shields in a ragged series of man-on-man duels.

  ‘Steady, lads!’ Cato called out as calmly as he could manage. ‘For Rome and the Emperor!’

  The air around him filled with the clash of weapons and the thud and clatter of blows landing on shields. The Praetorians held the high ground, had the longer reach and were far better equipped as most of their foes wore no armour and had been farmers or slaves before the rebellion had made them into any kind of warrior. Yet the rebels fought with the fanatical courage of their forefathers who had defied Rome for nearly two hundred years. But courage does not render a man immune to injury and they fell to the spear thrusts of the better trained and disciplined Praetorians. Bodies piled across the front of the Roman line, still living, but then crushed underfoot as their comrades pressed forward to close with their enemy. The rebels hacked at the spearheads or snatched them and attempted to wrestle them from the grasp of the Romans, all the time being pressed forward by those following on behind so that the two sides were crushed together in a tight mêlée.