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.