‘Just Venutius?’
Cato nodded. ‘If it helps to undermine Caratacus’s standing over there then it’s worth a try.’
Vellocatus smiled. ‘You understand my people too well.’
The Brigantian cupped a hand to his mouth and drew a deep breath before he shouted across to his compatriots. There was no immediate response, so he repeated his call and this time there was a brief pause and then angry shouts and jeering whistles. Vellocatus turned to Cato who shook his head.
‘No need to translate. I got the gist of it.’
The voices from the fort swiftly fell silent, save one, and Vellocatus risked a quick glance over the palisade. ‘It’s Caratacus.’
‘Damn. .’ Cato frowned. It seemed that the Catuvellaunian king had already assumed command of the rebels. ‘Say that I want to speak to Venutius.’
Vellocatus called out and there was a beat before Cato heard his enemy’s voice reply, in Latin, ‘I’m speaking to the Roman commander! Not his treacherous lapdog. You have my word that no one will try to stick an arrow in you. I expect the same in return. Stand up, where I can see you and talk.’
Cato thought quickly. It was too late to try and undermine Caratacus. If he refused to speak to him, Caratacus would tell his supporters that the Roman commander was afraid. And if they spoke in Latin, there would be only a handful of natives who understood enough to follow the exchange. ‘I want you to keep translating. Keep it loud, so that as many of them can hear as possible.’
Vellocatus nodded.
Cato took a deep breath and eased himself up on to his feet and warily moved into the open, exposing the top of his body above the palisade. He indicated to Vellocatus to stand but keep behind the screen. The young nobleman shook his head, and moved close to Cato’s side as he whispered fiercely, ‘I’ll not show any fear to those traitors.’
‘Good for you,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘But you get down at the first sign of trouble. You’ll be needed later on.’
‘Is that my old adversary, Prefect Cato, under that helmet?’ Caratacus called out.
‘Say that I want to speak to Venutius.’
Caratacus listened to the reply and shook his head. ‘I speak for the patriots of the Brigantes. Venutius has honoured me with the command of his men. And I will speak with Prefect Cato and not his lackey.’
Cato raised his voice. ‘I demand that the rebels in the fort release Queen Cartimandua and all other hostages, and surrender. I give you my word that all who surrender will not be enslaved or otherwise mistreated. I further guarantee that I will insist that there will be no reprisals by our ally, the queen. My only demand will be the delivery of the fugitive, Caratacus, into our hands.’ He turned and nodded to Vellocatus who began to translate his words, until he was interrupted by Caratacus shouting over the top of him.
‘And these are my terms, Roman. Abandon your attack and leave Isurium and I will guarantee that you will be given free passage as far as the frontier. I, and my new host of warriors, will spare your lives if you leave Isurium before the day is out. If you are still here at dawn then I swear by our war god, Camulos, that you will all die and your heads will decorate the huts of the warriors of Brigantia. What say you?’
Cato glanced at Vellocatus. ‘Tell them what I said again.’
Vellocatus began, but was swiftly drowned out once more. This time Caratacus ended by turning to his men and shouting an order.
‘Get down!’ Vellocatus grabbed Cato’s good arm and pulled him into cover and the first arrow hammered into the screen a moment later. Several more followed, one bursting through the surface of a native shield and showering them with splinters. Cato reached up with his good hand and carefully brushed them from his shoulders. ‘That would seem to conclude our attempt to negotiate a peaceful resolution. Time for something more emphatic, I think. Come!’
Staying in a crouch, Cato led the way along the palisade to the end nearest the ram. Then, taking a native shield to protect himself, he dashed over the open ground and peered over the palisade. Macro and his men were in position on the grass slope below, waiting for the signal to begin the attack. Cato turned back and looked across the bastion. Lebauscus had ordered his cohort to kneel and shelter behind their shields. Acer’s men were crouched beside their light ballistas and the auxiliaries had the first shots carefully placed into the leather pouches of their slings. All was ready, Cato decided. It was time to put his plan to the test.
The colour party of the Eighth Cohort clustered around the standard. Amongst them Cato could see the shining bronze curve of the horn carried by the soldier responsible for transmitting the commands to the six centuries led by Lebauscus. Cato gestured to Vellocatus to stay close to him and trotted over. One of his men alerted Lebauscus to the approach of his superior and he turned and saluted as Cato reached him.
‘It’s time.’
Lebauscus nodded.
Cato could see Acer watching, fist clenching over and over as he waited for the order to unleash the Roman barrage. Cato turned to the legionary holding the horn.
‘Give the signal.’
The legionary raised the mouthpiece and spat to clear his mouth. Pursing his lips, he drew a deep breath and blew. The horn blared loudly, one long sustained note. He stopped, paused to take another breath and count to five before repeating the note. Before the second blast carried across the bastion, the whirring of slings and the crack of the light ballistas shattered the comparative quiet of the lull in the fighting that had followed the capture of the bastion. From over the palisade came a chorus of shouts as Macro and the remaining men of the First Century bolted from cover and raced towards the ram lying a short distance up the last stretch of track leading up to the fort’s gate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘On me, lads!’ Macro shouted as he ran up the track. To his right he saw the helmets and faces of the auxiliaries as they whirled their slings overhead and released their missiles. To his left towered the earthworks protecting the enemy’s gate. The sudden hail of shot, and the iron-headed bolts and fist-sized stones from the light ballistas had taken the enemy by surprise and they ducked down behind their palisade as the Romans’ barrage smashed against the wooden posts. Macro knew the moment would quickly pass and the enemy would do all that they could to cut down the men making for the ram.
It was past midday and the heat had not abated. The air in the sheltered gap between the bastion and the fort was stifling. The weight of his armour and his exertions throughout the morning meant that sweat was streaming from his brow as Macro rushed towards the ram. Before him lay the bodies of the men who had fallen during Horatius’s ill-fated attack earlier in the day. Not all of them were dead. Some still writhed and moaned. Others looked up hopefully as they caught sight of their comrades rushing up the track. One reached out to Macro and croaked, ‘Water. . For pity’s sake, water. .’
Macro swerved round him and ran on. He saw a head appear above the fort’s palisade, dark against the bright sunlight, and heard the shout as the alarm was raised. Just ahead of him lay the ram, surrounded by bodies pierced by arrows and javelins, and more missiles lay on the ground about them. He reached the head of the ram, cut to an obtuse point to maximise its impact when it struck home. Ropes had been tied round the ram and provided the handles for its crew. Macro cast his ruined shield to one side and heaved aside a body lying across the roughly hewn wood. Then he grasped the handle nearest the front of the ram and glanced back as those legionaries following close behind discarded their shields and took position either side. As soon as there were enough men in place, Macro called out, ‘On my command. . lift!’
With strained grunts the men heaved the ram off the ground.
‘Advance!’
They paced up the track as quickly as their burden allowed. An arrow shaft shicked into earth no more than a foot in front of Macro and he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Get some cover up here!’