by Nick Brown
Iovius exited the guardroom. ‘Empty.’
Cassius was wondering what to do next when he realised he could hear movement upon the cellar steps. Enca aimed an arrow at the doorway and the others readied themselves as the slow footsteps came closer. Soon they could also hear heaving breaths and see Dolabella struggling up the last few steps. Both arms hung loosely at his side and his hands had been terribly mutilated. His tunic was filthy and streaked with numerous bloodstains, his face swollen and bruised.
Once up the last step, he collapsed on to his knees and stared up at his rescuers with his one good eye. ‘May the great gods be praised.’
Cassius sheathed his blade and hurried over to help him up. ‘General Dolabella?’
The captive nodded.
‘Quadratus, help him down to the lift.’
Once the big legionary had taken charge of the general, Cassius turned to Volosus.
‘Order your men up. Ensure they cooperate.’
‘You two come up! Don’t try anything, I’ve a blade at my back.’
Cassius had already inspected the three open doors and saw that one was much sturdier than the others, its frame reinforced with iron. ‘Tubertus, get me the key for that third door.’
The traitor hurried into the guardroom.
Volosus’s men exited the cellar with their hands up, both unarmed. There was no chance of confusing attendant and bodyguard. The second man out was an enormous fair-haired brute who, like his master, didn’t seem overly perturbed by proceedings. Cassius had an excellent memory for faces but he doubted that anyone who’d seen the German mercenary would ever forget. He recalled his first sight of him – at the mountain lair of the rebel Ilaha during the affair of the black stone in Arabia. It was a surreal, unexpected development to see him here in Gaul but not one Cassius had time to dwell on.
‘In there, both of you,’ he said, pointing at the third doorway.
While the attendant Bibulus complied, the giant remained where he was and inspected the attackers. Even though they were all aiming their weapons at him, Cassius, Enca and Iovius instinctively took a step back.
When Gutha spied Indavara, his brow furrowed. ‘You.’
Indavara said nothing.
‘Move,’ ordered Cassius. ‘Unless you’d like an arrow in your throat.’
With a contemptuous grin, Gutha followed Bibulus, bowing his head and turning sideways to pass through the narrow doorway. Tubertus returned from the guardroom and handed Cassius the key.
‘There’s no other way out?’
‘Windows but they’re tiny,’ said the sentry.
‘Now him.’
With Cassius and Enca either side of him, Indavara moved Volosus towards the doorway. The agent kept his eyes on Cassius.
‘You’re young for a centurion.’
‘I’m no centurion.’
‘A mercenary then?’
‘No, no. An officer of the Roman Army and the Imperial Security Service. We fight for the true emperor.’
‘An agent?’
Cassius nodded. ‘Takes one to beat one.’
‘I must commend you on your ingenuity, young man,’ replied Volosus. ‘But also advise you to enjoy your victory while it lasts. You have only days left in this world.’
‘An agent and a seer,’ said Cassius. ‘Yet your recent record on predicting the future seems rather unimpressive.’
‘I see yours very clearly.’
Indavara gave Volosus a final shove that sent him through the doorway. Cassius swung the door shut, then locked it.
Flinging the key away, he led the others back down the steps.
‘Didn’t expect to ever see that big bastard again,’ said Cassius.
‘We fought him and Ilaha’s warriors at the Scorpion Pass,’ replied Indavara. ‘He walked away when he knew he couldn’t win.’
‘Sensible chap. Unfortunately for him and his master, he’s lost again.’
General Dolabella and the two women were already on the lift, which had been raised to the height of the platforms.
Cassius spoke to Tubertus. ‘What about the weight?’
‘With the two women, nine should be all right. I wouldn’t risk any more.’
‘Who will man the winches?’ asked Enca.
Cassius nodded at the defenders, who were sitting in a group, still guarded by Ambustus and Fimbria. ‘They will. We’ll need two men to watch over them though.’
He was greatly relieved when Indavara stepped forward. This wasn’t something Cassius could order. No one else was better qualified to complete the last phase of the escape and it seemed the bodyguard once again wished to prove himself.
‘But how will they get down?’ queried Enca.
‘There are two ropes,’ said Indavara. ‘Long way but it can be done.’
The scout’s eyes widened at the prospect.
‘I’ll stay too, sir,’ said Iovius.
‘You’re sure?’ asked Cassius.
‘I like a challenge.’
Cassius matched the guard-officer’s grim smile. ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Tubertus. ‘Be our fourth winch-man and I’ll grant you your wish.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Despite his words, Tubertus glanced at the ropes. He would have to risk his life to win his freedom.
As Enca and Quadratus stepped onto the lift, Cassius glanced at the defenders. The man struck by Enca’s arrow was breathing but appeared beyond help. Though the wounds on his shins had been bandaged, the other was weeping at the pain. Cassius considered an appeal to the remaining three to cooperate but Iovius beat him to it.
‘On your feet, lads. You’re back on the winches. We don’t want to cut anyone else up but be in no doubt – you muck us around, you’ll get down to the ground the hard way.’
Indavara joined him and the pair ordered the three men plus Tubertus to the winches.
Cassius ordered Ambustus and Fimbria onto the lift then followed them. He put a hand on one of the posts and found himself beside Dolabella, who sat there, watching with his single open eye. Cassius bent over and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘The worst is over, general. We’ll get you out of here.’
‘I gave them nothing, lad,’ croaked the veteran proudly. ‘Not a thing.’
The two young women were also close by, on their knees and holding the posts.
‘Where will they take us?’ said one to the other.
‘Ready?’ asked Iovius, who was overseeing two soldiers on the left winch.
‘Ready,’ said Cassius. ‘See you down there.’
Cassius held on tight as the lift began to descend. Indavara was to the right, watching Tubertus and the third soldier. He was close to one of the lanterns and Cassius’s last sight of him showed a determined expression now tainted by a shade of fear.
The winches turned and the lift eased steadily away from the platform into the inky darkness. But for noise of the apparatus and the heavy, uneven breaths of the general, all was quiet. Cassius suddenly found himself overwhelmed by the feeling that he would not see his friend again; that he had just made a terrible mistake. But he said nothing and he did nothing.
It seemed to take forever. Thanks to his and Iovius’s efforts, Indavara reckoned the guards were lowering the lift as swiftly as they could without endangering the occupants. With the brakes off, the two on each side moved the winches a spoke at a time. Short sword in his hand, Indavara stood behind Tubertus and the other guard, eyes occasionally switching to Iovius and the pair opposite.
‘Water,’ said Tubertus after a time.
‘What?’
‘For the ropes. To stop them heating and fraying. There’s a barrel and jug behind you.’
Keeping the sword in hand, Indavara filled the jug and passed it to Tubertus. ‘You do it.’
Indavara took his place, using one hand on the spoke and keeping his eyes on the second man. The load on the winch was predictably heavy but he was impressed by how effectively the thick rope and the large wheels handled the weigh
t. Once Tubertus had tended to the other side, Indavara made way for him.
‘How much further?’ asked Iovius, having to shout due to the thuds and groans of the apparatus.
‘About half way,’ answered Tubertus.
‘Half way!’ repeated Indavara.
As he stood there, his thoughts drifted to what would happen next. He had several lengths of rope tucked into his belt but they had three men to contend with and binding them would take time. The most obvious course of action would have been to kill all the defenders, including the three now locked away. But it was not his way, nor was it Corbulo’s. Like them, these men were servants of the Roman emperor. It just happened to be a different Roman emperor.
‘Fifty feet to go,’ said Tubertus two minutes later.
Just as Indavara relayed the information to Iovius, he realised he could hear something beyond the noise of the winches; the sound of loud but irregular impacts. It was coming from the fortress.
‘Keep at it,’ he told the two guards before retreating towards the stairs.
‘What is it?’ cried Iovius.
‘Not sure. I’ll just be a moment.’ Indavara turned and sprang up the steps until he reached the three doors. The third shuddered under the impact of a heavy blow. When the next one came, an axe blade sliced through the timbers. The door was solidly made but Indavara guessed it wouldn’t last very long.
Should have killed him.
He sprinted back down the steps, past the two injured defenders. The one with the maimed shins was trying to keep the other man conscious.
‘What’s going on?’ bawled Iovius when he returned.
Indavara elected not to disclose what he had seen, instead shouting at the captives to hurry up.
Only now did he realise that the ropes were marked with white paint every ten feet. Though the men were moving the winch as quickly as possible, the markers seemed to pass with agonising slowness. Glancing constantly to his right, Indavara half-expected the axe-wielding giant to appear at any moment.
Twenty feet. Ten. And then they were there.
The rope went slack and the guards let go of the spokes, all breathing hard. Indavara was reaching for the binding ropes at his belt when Iovius suddenly lurched backwards. The optio cried out as the two defenders pounced on him. Indavara bolted around to the other platform.
‘Help!’ cried Iovius, arms flailing as the three fought for control of his blade. Indavara rounded the corner of the platform. Closest to him was one of the defenders and the man saw the new threat far too late. Indavara hacked down at him, striking the back of his neck. The legionary crumpled.
‘He’s got my sword!’ warned Iovius as his assailant scrambled to his feet and spun to face the new threat. The guard officer’s sharp kick did enough to distract the man as Indavara drove two-handed into his gut. With an awful wheeze, the soldier became strangely still. Sensing the second man still moving by his right foot, Indavara booted him between the legs, leaving him groaning. As he withdrew the deeply-stuck blade, the other man tottered backwards and fell.
On the other platform, a near-silent struggle was unfolding. Two grappling figures flashed past a lantern. A cry, a thump, then two piercing screams as Tubertus and the third defender fell into the black nothingness beneath.
‘Shit,’ said Indavara. ‘Hope they don’t land on anyone.’
Iovius recovered his sword and sliced the throats of his fallen foes with merciful precision.
Indavara doubted that a minute had passed since the first sign of trouble. At least their escape would be easier.
‘Must have had it hidden in his boot,’ said Iovius as he walked hesitantly towards the closest lantern.
‘What?’
‘A lot of infantrymen keep a second weapon. Probably waiting for an opportunity. Shit.’
Now beside the lantern, Iovius gazed down at his side, and the short dagger hilt sticking out. The blade was in deep under his ribs. As colour drained from his face, the guard officer suddenly became unsteady. Indavara grabbed his arm.
‘Sorry,’ said Iovius. ‘My fault. What’s that banging?’
‘The big one’s trying to smash his way out with the axe.’
‘Ah.’
Indavara used his sword to cut the sleeve off one of the dead men’s tunic.
‘Can’t bloody believe it,’ said Iovius, grimacing as he straightened up. Indavara doubted the brave cavalryman would be on his feet much longer. He had no chance on the rope.
‘I’ve only been fighting for two bloody days.’
‘We got the general at least.’
With several strips of cloth now cut away, Indavara began wrapping them around his right hand. He had often used the method in his gladiator days as a way of improving grip. Iovius took some of the cloth and began wrapping his left hand. Indavara could not believe the selfless courage of this man. He hated the thought of leaving him.
‘It’s all a game,’ said the guard officer. ‘My father used to say that. Grandfather too. All just a game.’
‘They were soldiers?’ asked Indavara as they finished tying off the wrappings.
Iovius nodded. ‘Family failing. You’re ready, mate. Go. If they get through the door, I’ll hold them as long as I can.’
Indavara moved around the nearest winch then clambered across the arm and onto the thick rope. He gripped only lightly with his calves and began to descend, hand over hand. His last sight of Iovius was the guard officer’s silhouette: he staggered and raised his sword.
‘Farewell.’
‘Farewell, Iovius. Thank you.’
As the platform above merged with the darkness, Indavara settled into a rhythm. As his calves and thighs slid down the rope, he moved each hand down in turn. The rope was easy to grip but wide, meaning more strain on his fingers. In years past, Indavara would have been confident about even such a long descent but although he was lighter, he was also weaker.
Yet he had keep moving quickly. The captive trio would be free soon and he didn’t reckon Iovius would last long. But what would happen then?
Even in the darkness, the white paint of the markers was inches from his face and easy to spot. He passed the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth. The rough rope was beginning to cut at his legs but the cloth was aiding his grip and his hands felt surprisingly good.
Seventh mark. Eighth. A light wind was moving the rope around but he kept up his pace.
As he passed the ninth mark, he heard a shout. He felt certain it was a warning from Iovius.
Steady. Not too fast.
Tenth mark. Eleventh. His fingers were burning now, forearms and shoulders too.
Twelfth mark. Thirteenth. Somewhere below, a squawking bird flapped close to the rock face.
When his right hand almost slipped, Indavara knew he had to stop. Gripping tightly with his thighs and locking his ankles, he wrapped his arms around the rope and was able to at last rest his hands. The few seconds made all the difference as he flexed his fingers and the feeling returned.
Another noise. A voice? Distant? Below or above?
He kept moving.
Fourteenth mark. Fifteenth. He fought the temptation to look down. He wondered what they were doing below? Waiting? Steadying the ropes?
Sixteenth mark. Seventeenth.
Only now did Indavara realise how badly he was struggling. He was breathing heavily and every part of him seemed to pulse with pain. He could feel blood running down his legs from the scratches but knew that was the least of his problems.
He stopped again, clamped himself to the rope using thighs and arms. He actually cried out as he freed his hands, now barely able to flex them and get the blood moving.
Fortuna, grant me strength. Just a little more. Not far to go.
He blinked sweat out of his eyes and looked downward. Lines. Shapes. Was it the lift? Salty sweat stung his eyes. He wiped his face on his tunic but it made little difference.
Then the rope began to move upward. He was so surprised that he g
ripped tightly and was quickly hauled several yards.
There was no choice but to slide downward. He tried to control his descent but his strength was almost gone. When the rough rope fibres sliced through the cloth and into his hands, he was forced to halt again. Up he went once more so he let go; dropped five feet. Ten. Fifteen. He’d lost track of the markers.
He didn’t realise he’d reached the lift until his boots hit the iron ring that connected the lifting rope to the two lower lines.
‘Indavara! You there?’
Corbulo. Not far below.
Indavara used the ring to drop onto the right side of the platform, grateful for the feeling of something solid beneath him.
‘It’s only twenty feet!’ yelled Corbulo.
But that distance was increasing with every passing moment and if he didn’t do something now, it was either stay on or jump off.
‘Clear out of the way!’ Indavara drew his sword and positioned himself directly below the ring he had just used. Aiming at the rope above, he swung hard. Despite its thickness, the blade was sharp and he felt it cut deep. He only risked two more chops, then reached up with his left hand and locked his fingers around the iron ring. The next blow from the sword did it.
As the rope flew upward, Indavara’s side of the lift shot downward.
Hold on!
Somehow he maintained his grip on the ring. The angle sent him sliding and suddenly he was flying through the air as the right side of the lift swung down. When the ropes connecting the ring to the lift pulled tight, the jolting impact was far too much for his tired fingers.
Fortunately, Indavara didn’t have time to worry about his distance calculations.
Dropping no more than two yards, he landed on both feet before overbalancing onto his backside. Looking up, he saw the broken lift disappearing into the gloom, trailing rope.
And then he was surrounded.
‘Neatly done,’ said Cassius, holding the sword Indavara now realised he’d dropped.
‘More by luck than judgement.’ He winced as he hauled himself to his feet, assailed instantly by the pain in his bloodied calves, thighs and hands.
Cassius came close. ‘Iovius?’
