‘Bet that smarts, sir.’
‘Hurts like fuck.’ Cato unwound his neck cloth and gestured to the nearest of the work party. ‘Bind my hand.’
The legionary did as he was ordered while Cato examined the ground at the foot of the palisade. He could see that the soil had dropped a foot or so around the corner of the bastion, evidence of a landslip in the past.
‘There! Get digging.’
Several of the men took up their picks and went to work, breaking up the ground and frantically scraping the soil aside. Above them the arrows and rocks continued to fall, and then there was a brief roaring sound and a wave of heat as a faggot burst on the shields and burning debris flickered down into the grass on either side of the shield men. The soil came away easily and soon they had worked two feet down the length of the wooden posts.
‘Keep going,’ Cato urged, leaning forward to feel the surface of the wood, dark and soft with age and damp. He turned to one of the work party. ‘Take an axe to it, here. Cut around it as best you can.’
The soldier nodded and Cato backed away to give him space to wield the tool. The man struck as hard as the confined space allowed and a sharp thud reverberated in the close air. He struck again and a small chip of wood flew to one side. Again and again he struck, sweat flying from his brow, as he cut a channel in the timber, nearly a foot in diameter. He knew his task and did not need further instruction from Cato. As soon as he had a created a gap around the edge of the post wide enough for his purpose he set the axe down, drew his dagger and dug at the soil behind, working the blade around the back of the wood until there was enough room to pass a rope round. Cato reached down and handed him a coil and the soldier fed it round with clumsy speed, and once again, before tying the end off and throwing the rest of the rope down the slope.
‘That’s the first,’ Cato called over to Macro. ‘Two more should do it.’
‘Hurry it up!’ Macro shouted as his shield lurched under the impact of a rock. ‘They’re getting really pissed off up there.’
The men with the picks attacked the ground in a renewed frenzy, striking clods away in flurries of blows, until the bases of several of the posts were exposed, like old blackened teeth. A fresh man stepped forward to replace the axeman and cut the next two channels, and another fastened the ropes. Cato tested the knots with his good hand. Satisfied that they would hold, he ordered, ‘That’s it! Get on the ropes!’
The work party downed their tools and joined the others sliding down the slope and taking up position along the lengths stretched over the grass. Cato remained by the posts, standing between two of the ropes with his back to the wood.
‘Take up the slack!’
Even though they were exposed to the enemy’s missiles, Macro’s men took the rope in both hands and braced their boots and waited for the order.
‘Pull!’
The ropes went taut and Cato touched the nearest lightly with his fingers, feeling the tension, and searching for the telltale lurch that would indicate the post was moving.
‘Together!’ Macro called out. ‘On my command. . heave!’
The men on the three lines groaned, grunted and swore as they threw all their weight and strength into their efforts and pulled on the ropes. But Cato could sense no movement, and touched another of the ropes, fearing that he had not allowed the work party to dig deep enough around the bases of the posts. ‘Move, you bastards. .’
A loud cry drew his eyes to one of the men on the ropes. He had let go and was clawing at the shaft of a throwing spear that had pierced the mail armour over his shoulder. The tension on the rope slackened.
‘Keep pulling!’ Macro bellowed and the line snapped tight again. This time, Cato felt certain he sensed movement beneath his fingertips. No more than a slight tremor.
‘It’s moving!’ he called out. ‘Macro, another heave!’
‘Ready, lads! Together. One, two, three, heave!’
This time it was more noticeable, and Cato even felt the rope shift a fraction downhill, and the wood moved a little behind his back. ‘It’s going to work!’ he shouted with glee. ‘It’s moving! Heave!’
The soil at the bottom of the post began to trickle away and Cato looked up and saw the top of the post move against the clear background of the sky. Another post also edged out of place and for a moment Cato was oblivious to the pain in his hand as he grinned like an excited child. He felt cold soil sprinkle on to his arms as gaps opened above him and he laughed as he met Macro’s gaze. But there was only an acute look of alarm in his friend’s expression.
‘It’s going! Get out of the way, you fool!’ Macro shouted at him.
Cato felt the post shift behind him and heard the strained groan of timber grinding on timber. His exultation of an instant before changed to icy dread as he thrust himself away from the corner of the fort and leaped down the slope. Ahead of him the legionaries had abandoned one of the ropes and were sprinting to either side. The post swept close by him in a blur.
‘Get clear!’ he heard Macro bellow to his men.
Another post thudded down to the other side of Cato and suddenly the ground seemed to move under his feet like water and a great weight struck him in the back, pitching him head first a short distance before there was only blackness, silence and he could not move.
At first Cato wondered if this was what death was like. An endless cold darkness enveloping his disembodied mind. It made a kind of sense if there was some irreducible essence to a person’s being. He was surprised to find himself thinking so calmly, and then he felt the pain in his hand again, and found that he was straining to breathe. So much for the afterlife, he chided himself as he tried to move. He felt the soil shift as he wriggled his fingers. He thrust out his arm as far as he could and tried to move his legs at the same time. A burning sensation tingled in his lungs and the air about his mouth and nostrils felt hot and stifling and the first stab of fear pricked his mind. Buried alive. Suffocated to death. He renewed his efforts to struggle free but could not work out which direction he was facing. Then panic fully seized him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘Where the fuck is the prefect?’ Macro shouted as he rose to his feet and covered his body with his shield. Around him the other men were picking themselves up and shaking off the dirt that had poured down the slope when the corner of the bastion had collapsed. One of the legionaries had been crushed by the end of the post and lay unmoving where he was pinned to the ground. The Romans were not alone on the slope. Several of the enemy had been caught up in the small avalanche and were struggling to free themselves from the mound of earth beneath the breach. The posts that the Romans had pulled free had caused a collapse of the earth behind them and had carried away more posts on either side, leaving some hanging out at angles either side of the breached palisade.
Snatching out his sword, Macro knew he must take advantage of the moment. He thrust the point up the mound of earth towards the gap in the bastion’s defences.
‘First Century! Get stuck in!’
His men let out a roar and surged back up the slope and on to the loose earth, scrambling towards the breach. Macro charged at a dazed Brigantian with a dark plaited beard and knocked him down with a blow from his shield and quickly stabbed him three or four times with his sword. As the man rolled away he caused a small slide of earth to go with him and exposed the tips of a red crest. Macro kicked the body aside and fell on to his knees. He dropped his sword and frantically scooped the soil away until he could see the gleam of a helmet.