Chapter Thirty-Six

‘To prove I mean what I say, please observe . . .’ Tincommius nodded to a man standing to one side of the column. Unlike the other natives he was carrying only a heavy wooden club. He strode forward, and stood over the Roman on the ground, bracing his feet apart. Then he swept the club up and smashed it down on the shin of the Roman’s left leg. Cato and Macro clearly heard the bone crack from the gateway of the royal enclosure, fifty paces up the street. The scream from the Roman was audible from far further away. And it got worse when the warrior broke the prisoner’s other leg - a shrill animal screech of pure agony that chilled the blood of all who heard it. The Roman writhed in the dirt of the street, his lower legs twisting obscenely below the knee, causing even more torment. His screams only ended when he finally passed out.

Tincommius allowed the silence to have its effect before continuing to address the defenders. ‘That’s the first. There’ll be more, until you come to your senses and surrender. Those that survive can be taken with you when you quit Calleva. It’s your decision, Macro. You can end this any time that you wish.’

Above the gate Cato noticed that Macro was gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white and the tendons leading back towards the wrist stood out like iron nails under the skin. Cato felt more sick than enraged. The spectacle had made him want to throw up, and the roast pork and fine bread he had been enjoying so much only moments earlier now churned in his stomach.

‘Bastard,’ Macro whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Bastard . . . Bastard . . . BASTARD!’

His shout of rage carried down the street, and Tincommius smiled as Macro let his anger spill out.

‘Fucking bastard! I’ll kill you. I swear it! I’ll kill you!’

‘Centurion, you’re welcome to come out here and try it. I dare you!’

‘Sir,’ Cato placed his hand on Macro’s shoulder, ‘You mustn’t . . .’

Macro glanced round angrily. ‘Of course not! Think I’m stupid?’

‘No . . . just angry, sir. Angry and helpless.’ Cato nodded at the other men who crowded the palisade, staring down the street with expressions of horror and rage. ‘We all are.’

Macro turned to look in the direction Cato had indicated and saw that not only had all the remaining legionaries clambered up on to the palisade, but also the Wolves and some of Verica’s bodyguards. He swept Cato’s hand from his shoulder and roared at the men.

‘What the bloody hell do you think this is? A fucking freak show? Get off the wall and get back to your positions! Want them to just bloody hop over the wall while you’re gawping at that twat? The only men I want up here are the sentries. Move!’

The legionaries backed away from the palisade with guilty expressions and clambered back down into the enclosure, followed by the Wolves, who had no need of Cato’s shouted translation. Macro glowered at them for a moment and then turned back towards Tincommius.

When he saw that he had the centurion’s attention again Tincommius called out, ‘Macro, will you surrender? Answer me!’

The centurion stood still and silent, lips compressed into a tight line on his weathered face. A terrible despair gnawed at his guts and a fathomless anger and hatred for Tincommius filled his soul as Macro watched helplessly.

‘Very well. The next man, then.’ Tincommius beckoned for the second prisoner to be brought forward.

The Atrebatan warrior selected a youth, scarcely more than a boy, whom Cato recognised as one of the mule herders from the depot. The boy shrank back, shaking his head, but his captor grabbed him roughly by the hair as he slipped the knot that bound the boy to the rest of the prisoners. With a savage wrench the warrior hauled the boy out of the column and dragged him, writhing and screaming for mercy, towards the prone form of the first victim. Macro stood still, but Cato could watch no more, and turned away. He hurried to the ladder and swung himself down into the enclosure. As he reached the ground he heard the sickening crunch of a blow being landed and the boy’s scream cut through the morning air like a knife thrust deep into Cato’s guts.

 

All morning it went on, and the broken bodies stretched across the street. There was no pause in the screams and cries of the Romans now that so many of them had been crippled and left to suffer the agony of their shattered limbs. Macro made himself stay on the gate, silent and unyielding in the face of Tincommius’ regular demands for surrender. And each time, when Macro refused to reply, the next captive was dragged forward, in full view of the defenders on the gate, and beaten savagely on the legs until they broke. To add emphasis to the process Tincommius ordered the warrior with the club to begin breaking arms as well and once he had broken both shins he began on their elbow joints.

For Cato, even well away from the gateway, there was no respite from the horror, as the screaming continued unabated. No one in the royal enclosure spoke. Most sat staring at the ground, visibly shaken every time a new victim added his cries to the shrill, nerve-shredding chorus. Some men spent the time sharpening their swords with vigorous rasping strokes of their whetstones that did little to drown out the hellish din from over the wall. Finally, Cato could stand it no more and climbed up to join Macro. The older officer had not moved, and stared down the street with a fixed, implacable expression. He spared himself only the briefest of glances at Cato.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m worried about how much more of this the men can take . . . sir.’ Cato nodded discreetly towards the men in the enclosure. ‘It’s wearing ‘em down.’

‘Wearing you down, you mean,’ Macro sneered. ‘If you can’t stomach this, then what are you doing in that uniform?’

‘Sir!’ Cato protested, shocked by Macro’s vehemence. ‘I . . . I . . .’

‘You what? Go on, say it.’

Cato struggled for a response, but his mind was too tired to develop a line of reasoning to excuse himself. Instinctively he knew that Macro was right: he was thinking more about himself than the responses of the men, and he looked down guiltily. ‘Nothing . . . I can’t bear it.’

The veteran looked at him closely, a bitter expression on his face, the muscles of his cheeks tightening and twitching. For a moment Cato thought that Macro would explode and shout him down in front of all the men. The humiliating vision filled his mind to the exclusion of anything else, so profound was Cato’s fear of shame and inadequacy. Then Macro looked past Cato, aware of the faces that had turned towards the two centurions. He breathed in deeply through his nose and forced himself to release the tension that gripped his body like a vice.

‘Well, you have to bear it,’ Macro said quietly. ‘This is as bad as it gets, Cato. And you have to be calm, control yourself and not give way. Or at least, try to be as calm as you can.’ Macro shook his head sadly as he recalled his initial wave of rage when the first prisoner had been broken.

‘Is there nothing we can do about it?’

Macro shrugged. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps we might try to rush them, and get our men back.’

‘Cato, they’re dead either way. If we rescue them, what then? They’ll live a few more hours before the royal enclosure falls, that’s all. And if our rescue attempt goes wrong, we all die a bit sooner.’

‘So what difference does it make?’

‘Not much,’ admitted Macro. ‘I just know it’s our duty to guard the king, and hold out for as long as possible.’

‘And we just let them carry on with that?’ Cato pointed down the street.

‘What else can we do?’

The younger man opened and closed his mouth. Despite the waves of revulsion, despair and a need to do something, there really was nothing to be done about the situation. He was a helpless member of the audience before the horror being staged.

‘We could try to rush them,’ he said in the end.

‘No. I won’t allow it. In any case, they’d try to kill those prisoners the moment we opened the gates. That’s the end of it, Cato. The end, you hear?’

Cato nodded, and Macro patted him on the shoulder, before turning back towards the enemy. Sensitive to the need to divert Cato, he pointed towards the warriors standing round the remaining prisoners.

‘Did you notice that the only men he’s got with him are Atrebatans?’

Cato glanced round. ‘Yes . . . Smart move.’

‘Smart?’

‘Keeping the Durotrigans out of sight while he calls for us to surrender. I imagine he thinks he can make this look like some kind of internal tribal squabble that can easily be settled.’

‘Will our lads go for it?’

‘It might have an effect on some,’ Cato conceded, then his eyes widened as he saw the next prisoner being led forward, picking his way over the twisted bodies of the earlier victims. ‘Oh, no . . .’

‘What?’ Macro strained his eyes. ‘Who is it?’

‘Figulus.’

‘Figulus? Shit . . .’

As Tincommius beckoned to Figulus’ escort, Cato looked round into the enclosure, calling out in Celtic. ‘It’s Figulus! They’ve got Figulus!’

There was a spontaneous groan from the Wolves, who had come to admire and like their Roman instructor. Cato called out to them, waving at them to come to the wall. ‘They’re going to kill him. See! See!’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked Macro.

Cato flashed a quick smile at Macro. ‘Time to play Tincommius at his own game.’

‘What?’

‘Just watch.’

As the Wolves reached the palisade they began to shout down the street, howling their protest and begging their former comrades to spare Figulus. The optio had dropped to his knees and the man with the club was standing to one side, looking from the prisoner, to Tincommius, to the other warriors guarding the Roman prisoners, up towards the enclosure and back to the prisoner again. Tincommius was shouting angrily at him and thrusting a finger towards the kneeling Roman. Figulus just looked round, bewildered and terrified. Now, one of the warriors trotted forward and spoke with the Atrebatan prince, who shouted an order into his face. The man glanced at Figulus and shook his head.

‘This looks promising!’ Macro smiled.

Cato felt someone tugging the sleeve of his tunic and turned to see the surgeon with an excited expression on his face.

‘Sir! It’s the king!’ The surgeon had to shout to be heard above the din. ‘He’s regained consciousness.’

‘When?’

‘Just now.’

‘How is he?’

‘Groggy, but lucid enough. Cadminius told him about our situation. He wants to see you. Both of you.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Tell him we’re a little busy.’

‘No!’ Cato interrupted, with an excited expression. ‘Can Verica be moved?’

‘I suppose so, if it’s really necessary. Can’t make his condition any worse, I’d say.’

‘Good!’ Cato slapped the surgeon on the arm. ‘Then get him up here. Right away.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘All right, I’ll make it simple.’ Cato drew his sword and raised the tip under the surgeon’s chin. ‘I order you to bring him here immediately. That good enough?’

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Off you go then.’

As the surgeon ran off to fetch his patient Macro laughed. ‘That was all centurion. You’re coming on nicely, Cato.’

Cato was looking back down the street. Tincommius was surrounded by his men and he was arguing furiously, arms waving to emphasise his point. But they would not be moved by his pleas and shouted their protest back in an equally emphatic manner. To the side kneeled Figulus, silently watching the confrontation and not daring to move for fear of drawing attention to himself. Behind him stood the man with the club, waiting for a decision to be made.

‘With any luck,’ said Macro, ‘they’ll start laying into each other any moment now.’

‘I doubt it,’ Cato replied. He had seen Tincommius at work and knew that the prince was more than capable of turning things round. They had already underestimated him once. It would not pay to do so again. Cato looked behind him. ‘Where’s that bloody surgeon?’

As they waited for Verica to be fetched the smooth-talking Tincommius began to wear his men down. He was doing nearly all the talking while most of them hung their heads and listened to the haranguing and rhetorical appeals in silence.

‘Here he comes,’ said Macro, and Cato turned to see the surgeon emerging from the great hall, closely followed by a stretcher with a bodyguard at each corner. Walking beside the stretcher was Cadminius, anxiously looking down at the pale face resting on a soft cushion.

‘Hurry!’ Cato shouted. ‘Up here! Quick as you can.’

The small party trotted across to the gate, trying hard not to jolt the king. When they reached the wall the burly bodyguards heaved the stretcher poles up to the hands of the men on the palisade. While Verica was carried carefully to the wider platform above the gate, Cato glanced back towards the confrontation between Tincommius and his men. The prince had had enough, and pushed his way through them, drawing his sword as he made for Figulus.

‘Stop!’ Cato cried out in Celtic. ‘Stop him!’

Tincommius spared him a brief glance and continued towards the kneeling Roman. But before he could reach Figulus, the man with the club stepped forward and placed himself between the prince and Figulus, shaking his head.

‘Out of my way!’ Tincommius’ cry of rage could be heard above the cheers of the defenders. Cadminius helped his king off the stretcher and gently supported him as Verica took two unsteady paces towards the palisade. As the king came into view the Atrebatan warriors in the street looked up in astonishment.

‘Sire, Tincommius told them you were dead,’ explained Cato. ‘He told them that we had murdered you.’

The old man still looked a little dazed, and winced painfully as he turned his head towards Tincommius. The shouts of the men on the wall of the enclosure died away as they gazed at their king. Then the only sounds remaining were the sobbing and cries of the broken Romans lying in the street. Verica’s body trembled.

‘Sire?’ Cadminius tightened his grip on the king’s waist.

‘I’m all right . . . all right.’

Cato leaned closer to him, talking quickly and quietly. ‘Sire, you must tell them who attacked you. You must let them know that Tincommius is a traitor.’

‘Traitor?’ the king repeated with a hurt expression.

‘Sire, please. That man’s life depends on it.’ Cato pointed towards Figulus.

Verica stared at the kneeling Roman, and his nephew for a moment, and then coughed - a terrible racking cough that left him breathless and clutching his head, wincing at the agony. Then he forced himself to stand as straight as possible and called out to his countrymen at the end of the street.

‘It was Tincommius . . . Tincommius who attacked me.’

‘It was Artax!’ Tincommius screamed. ‘It was Artax! I saved the king!’

Verica shook his head sadly.

‘He lies!’ Tincommius cried out in desperation. ‘The king is being forced to lie by those Romans! See them beside him! Making him say this.’

‘No!’ Verica shouted, his voice cracking with the effort. ‘It was you, my nephew! YOU!’

The warriors at the end of the street turned to look at the prince, and he was aware of the doubt and contempt in their faces.

‘He lies, I tell you!’

Cato tore his gaze away from the drama and called out to his men. ‘Mandrax!’

‘Here, Centurion!’

‘Pick twenty men, and get ready to fetch those prisoners when the gate opens.’

‘What are you up to?’ asked Macro. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’m going to try to get Tincommius if I can. Then return here as fast as possible.’

‘You’re quite mad,’ said Macro, but made no attempt to stop him when Cato climbed down from the gate, snatched up his helmet and shield and turned to the legionaries positioned there. ‘When I give the order I want the gate opened as fast as you can.’

His heart was beating fast with the anticipation of renewed action, and all the exhaustion of earlier had disappeared as Cato’s senses quickened. As soon as Mandrax and his party were ready, Cato drew a breath and shouted, ‘Open the gate!’

The legionaries slipped the restraining bar to one side and dragged the gate back.

‘Follow me!’ Cato called over his shoulder and ran out into the street. He made towards the men clustered around Tincommius, and resisted the impulse to draw his sword; it was vital that he did not look as if he was about to attack them. Tincommius turned towards the enclosure and thrust his arm out towards Cato.

‘Get them!’

‘Wolves! Boars!’ Cato called out. ‘Hold him. Hold Tincommius!’

For a horrible instant, Tincommius’ men turned towards Cato and the centurion was sure they would fight, that he had badly misjudged their mood. But they simply stood their ground and watched as Cato and his men quickly covered the short distance from the gate. Tincommius looked round at his men with a terrified expression and then he turned and ran.

‘Stop that traitor!’ shouted Cato. But it was too late. Tincommius had burst through the ring of men and was sprinting towards the corner, and the safety of his Durotrigan allies. He might have made good his escape, but the man with the club hurled it after the prince and struck him on the back of the knee. The club was deflected between his legs and Tincommius tumbled headlong into the small huddle of the remaining Roman prisoners. With savage cries of rage they fell on him, beating him with their tethered hands. Cato stopped by the ring of men, who stared at him with uncertain expressions as they held their weapons ready. Cato immediately turned to the crippled men lying in the street and snapped out his orders.

‘Get the live ones inside the enclosure! Move! The Durotrigans will be here any moment!’

Whatever authority and urgency there was in his tone, it had its effect. The men hurried towards the Romans on the ground, and began dragging them up the street, the need for speed making them ignore the renewed screams from their former prisoners.

Cato swung round to Mandrax. ‘Get the rest of the prisoners up! Make sure you don’t leave behind whatever’s left of Tincommius!’

Mandrax grinned. ‘Yes, Centurion.’

Leaving the men to carry out his orders, Cato trotted further down the street, round the corner that led towards Calleva’s main gate. Then he stopped. Thirty paces away, and stretching all the way down the street were the Durotrigans, resting quietly between the huts that lined the streets. Hundreds of them. Almost at once there was a cry of alarm and one of the warriors jumped to his feet, pointing towards Cato. Others sprang up, reaching for their weapons.

‘Whoops!’ Cato muttered. He spun round and started sprinting back towards the royal enclosure, as the savage cries of his pursuers rang out. The centurion raced round the corner, and saw that most of his men, the prisoners and the surviving victims of the morning’s horror had nearly reached the gate.

‘Move yourselves!’ he screamed. ‘They’re coming!’

The growing roar from down the street was all his men needed to hear, and they rushed the remaining distance up to the enclosure and through the gate, heedless of the added agony they caused the injured men they were dragging. Then it was just Cato left, running towards the safety of the gate, already being swung back into place by its defenders. Not again, he thought wryly. Cato glanced over his shoulder, just as the Durotrigans burst round the corner no more than twenty paces behind, shrieking for his blood. Weighed down by his armour Cato could not hope to outrun them, and threw down his shield as he pounded towards the narrowing gap. Above the gate Macro and the others leaned over, shouting desperate encouragement. Cato jumped over the prone forms of the prisoners who had died from their injuries, head ducked low, nailed boots pounding on the hard packed earth of the street. A dark shadow whipped past his head and a dozen feet ahead, a spear thudded into the ground.

‘Come on, Cato!’ bellowed Macro. ‘They’re right behind you!’

He looked up, saw the gate directly ahead of him, then sensed danger at his shoulder and dodged to one side. A sword blade swished through the air and bit down into the earth as the man who wielded it hissed a curse. Cato threw himself forward through the gap left for him and rolled over inside the gate. Immediately the legionaries heaved it into place, but caught, between the gate and the stout timber of the support post, the shoulder and head of the man who had tried to cut Cato down with his sword. With a dull crack the man’s skull was crushed, a legionary thrust the misshapen mass back through the gap and the gate was barred once more. The thud and clatter of the enemy on the far side testified to their rage and frustration as Cato strained to catch his breath on all fours.

‘Cato!’ Macro called down to him. ‘You all right?’

Cato waved a hand.

‘Good! Then you’d better get up here and deal with this bloody wasps’ nest you’ve gone and stirred up!’