‘I would not abandon the commander of a legion to the enemy. We would find a way out for you.’
Valens glared back. ‘Save me while the others are left behind to be butchered? I would never allow myself to be so dishonoured.’
‘Nonsense, man! I am thinking of the damage to the reputation of Rome if you were to be taken alive by the Druids.’
‘Trust me, sir. I would not let that happen.’
The two legates stared at each other for a moment before Cato interrupted the confrontation. ‘Sir, if I may make a suggestion?’
Quintatus tore his eyes away and faced the prefect. ‘What is it now?’
‘If we make good our escape, the enemy will soon guess what is up and come after us, once they’ve dealt with the wounded left in the camp. If we want to buy ourselves some time to get a decent head start, it would be better if there was some effort to defend the camp, to make it look like the army is still within the palisade.’
‘Anyone who remains will die.’
Cato nodded slowly before he responded. ‘Someone has to, whatever you decide, sir. I suggest we ask for volunteers, and then draw lots for the rest.’
‘The rest?’ Valens snorted. ‘How many men did you have in mind, Prefect Cato?’
‘Enough to make it look convincing, sir. Five hundred men should put up a decent show and hold the camp for a few hours at least.’
‘Five hundred men . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
No one in the tent spoke for a moment. It was Quintatus who finally stirred, straightening his back as he addressed his officers. ‘As I see it, there is only one choice that allows us to save as many men as possible. Men we will need to form the core of a new army to complete the work I have started on this campaign. There’s a full moon at present. But there are clouds coming down from the mountains. The army will leave when it is darkest. Each commanding officer will ask for volunteers to remain behind to defend the camp. If necessary, we will draw lots to ensure that we have adequate men to maintain the illusion that the army is still in the camp. I will not ask officers above the rank of centurion to participate in drawing lots.’
Legate Valens raised his hand and interrupted without being given leave to speak. ‘If you’ll pardon me, I don’t think we should exempt any officer, except yourself, of course, sir. After all, we wouldn’t want someone of your rank falling into the hands of the Druids either. As for me, I will remain in camp to take charge of its defence. It will set a good example when we ask for volunteers.’
Quintatus considered this for a moment. ‘Very well, if you are sure.’
‘I am.’
‘Then we’ll need to act fast. Every unit commander is to brief his men on the plan, before he asks for the names of those who will remain. If we need more men, I will send word of how many each unit will be asked to contribute. After that, all units are to form up ready to leave by the southern gateway. Tribune Livonius will first establish where exactly the entrance to the defile is, directly we have concluded this briefing.’
Livonius looked startled, but then took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll find it.’
‘You’ll have to, Tribune. If you do not, then we’re all dead men.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cato’s bleak expression instantly told of the news from headquarters
‘How many does he want?’ asked Macro.
‘Ten from each cohort.’
‘On top of the volunteers? We’ve already given up fifteen volunteers as it is. And one of them was Portillus. He’s a good officer, and now he’s going to get himself killed.’
Cato sympathised with his friend, but there was no avoiding Quintatus’s order. ‘Ten more is what he said. It’s up to me to decide whether to select them or do it by lot.’
Macro craned his head so that he could read his friend’s expression more clearly by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. ‘And what have you decided? If you select them, there’s enough malingerers and bad apples to go round. We could fill the quota without too much effort. It would save the best men.’
Cato had rehearsed the arguments in his head as he made his way over to Macro’s tent. It was true that the logical choice was to pick those men whose deaths would be the least loss to their cohorts. However, the moral burden of choosing them was too heavy for Cato to endure, even though he was angry with himself for what he considered to be mere sentimentality. Officers were required to make difficult choices, or else they had no right to be officers in the first place. But there was something innately immoral about choosing men to die in this way. It could only cause bad feeling amongst the comrades of those who were picked, and that would poison the fierce elan of the men who served in the army’s rearguard. It was better that blind fate determined who would live and who would die.
It would not be so easy for the wounded, who lay in the tents closest to headquarters. They had each been given a dagger, and the surgeons had gone from man to man to explain the quickest and most painless way to inflict a mortal wound. Most had resolved to end their lives by their own hand, but Cato knew that some would lack the heart to do it, and those poor souls would have to endure whatever torment the Druids chose to inflict on them.
‘I will be selecting them by lot,’ he announced. ‘That goes for the Blood Crows. I will leave the choice of what happens in your cohort to you.’
Macro tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘That should really be your decision, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘It goes with the rank.’
‘It does,’ Cato agreed wearily. ‘That’s why I am requiring you to decide. They are your men, Macro. Your responsibility. Either way, Legate Valens wants them up at headquarters as soon as possible.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll deal with it. By lot.’
‘Good. When we’re done, I want the rearguard formed up and ready to march. The legate has ordered that half the tents stay behind, to help give the impression that the army is still in the camp. It means the men will have to double up, but at least it will halve the baggage. Which means we’ll have the spare mules to eat.’
Macro laughed drily. ‘There’s always an up side.’
Cato smiled back. ‘I’ll see you once we’re done.’
They saluted, and Cato strode off towards his cohort. The men already knew what was about to take place and were formed up in their squadrons, while Decurion Miro added coins from the cohort’s pay chest to a nosebag. Once he had counted out the plain bronze coins, he added ten more, in almost the same size, of silver and gave the bag a good shake. Cato approached and turned to address his men.
‘There’s no time to waste on speeches, lads. The drill is this. The squadrons come up in turn for each man to take one coin each out of the bag. We’ll start with Harpex and his lads; last to go will be Decurion Miro and his squadron. I’ll go first.’
So saying, he turned towards Miro and the latter held up the nosebag. Cato placed his hand inside, stirred the topmost coins with the tips of his fingers, then closed them round one and drew it out, raising it up for all to see.
‘Bronze! Harpex, you’re up.’
Cato stepped aside and let the decurion lead his men to the bag. Each one took a coin out and held it up as the result was called out. It took until almost the last man before the first silver coin came up, and the Thracian froze in shock for a moment before accepting his destiny, bidding his comrades a brief farewell and stepping to the side to await the fate of the rest. The five remaining cohorts took their turn and more of the silver coins emerged, until at last there was only one remaining as Miro’s squadron came forward. Each man extracted a coin from the dwindling number left and held it up.
‘Bronze . . . Bronze . . . Bronze . . .’
As it continued, Cato could see the growing anxiety in the decurion’s face by the light of the moon. And then there was just Miro and Thraxis left to draw, and the officer hesitated before holding the bag out to the standard-bearer.