Macro jerked his thumb towards the group who had supported Quertus. ‘What about them? Bloody deserters.’
Cato glanced at the men. ‘We’ll deal with that later. For now I need every single man. Send ’em back to their units.’
‘Even Decimus?’
Cato turned and stared at his servant. The man was trembling under the withering gaze of the two officers. Cato felt a stab of pity for a man, any man, who was in the thrall of fear to such an extent. Pity, and a degree of empathy. But it was the greater fear of being found out that caused Cato to force himself to carry out the deeds that Macro ascribed to courage. So it was with a mixture of pity and guilt that Cato shook his head. ‘Send him back to my quarters.’
When he reached the tower above the main gate Cato could see the full length of the valley as the rising sun burnished the rim of the hills to the east. The sky was clearing and the coming day promised to be dry and warm with only the mildest of breezes. Perfect conditions to light the signal fire. The smoke would be clearly seen for ten or twenty miles. Down below, the enemy camp was bristling with activity as men hurriedly formed into war bands and the thickly coated ponies favoured by the mountain tribes were saddled and mounted. Already, the first bands were moving towards the head of the valley in the direction of Gobannium. A small force advanced towards the fort and halted at the foot of the slope. Its purpose was clear enough to Cato: to contain the garrison while the main body dealt with whatever had roused them. It could only be the presence of Roman soldiers nearby. For an instant Cato felt his heart soar at the prospect, and then his fierce joy turned to an icy dread as he realised what that must mean. There might still be time to avert the disaster.
Cato whirled round and rushed across the tower and leaned over the rail into the fort. He thrust his arm towards the optio in charge of the signal beacon, a large iron basket filled with kindling dipped in pitch. To one side lay the dried leaves that would make plenty of smoke when the flames had taken hold. ‘Light the signal fire! At once!’
Turning his attention back towards the head of the valley while the optio carried out his orders, Cato cursed whatever gods had seen fit to sweep back the cloud and rain from the sky only on the very morning that the column of reinforcements marching from Glevum were nearing the fort, too close for the signal beacon to warn them off in time. The enemy’s intention was clear. Caratacus was preparing to ambush the Roman column. The reinforcements would be surrounded by the native warriors and cut to pieces. The Romans were blissfully ignorant of the danger. As far as they were aware, the enemy commander and his host were far to the north, their attention fixed on the ponderous advance of Governor Ostorius and his army. They would discover the truth soon enough, Cato mused bitterly.
There was only the slimmest of chances to save the column, Cato knew, but he was not going to simply stand by and watch his comrades massacred.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘Why not let me go?’ Macro asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been wounded, sir. And the men need you here in the fort.’
Cato shook his head as he finished strapping his greaves on. He straightened up and smiled at his friend. ‘I was appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cohort as well as commander of the garrison. I think it’s time I exercised my rank now that Quertus is out of the way.’
They stood beside the side gate opening on to the slope nearest the track that led to the head of the valley. Two squadrons of the cavalry cohort were hurriedly mounting up in the open space between the wall and the barracks and stables of the fort. Sixty riders were all that could be spared for the task that Cato had in mind. Any more would leave Macro with too few men to defend Bruccium. Cato could see the thick column of smoke billowing into the air from the signal fire. It rose steadily enough for a short distance but a light breeze had come with the dawn and the smoke soon dispersed into distant wisps of grey. If the men in the reinforcement column were alert, there was a chance they might see the signal and have the sense to turn back while they still had a remote chance of escape.
Macro looked round at the Thracians and clicked his tongue. ‘What do you think you can achieve with sixty men?’ He looked anxiously at his friend. ‘It’s nothing short of suicide.’
‘I hope it’s something short of that,’ Cato replied with a thin smile. ‘We are better mounted than the enemy, and we have the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us to ride out to support the reinforcement column.’
‘Really? I wonder why?’ Macro responded drily.
Cato’s smile vanished and he lowered his voice so that only Macro would hear him. ‘Would you have me stand by while our comrades are massacred? I have to try and help them cut a way out of the trap. You’d do the same if you were in my position, and you know it.’
Macro could not deny the truth of that but he persisted with his argument. ‘Where’s the logic of it, Cato? You charge out there and try to rescue our lads and it’s fifty to one against that you come through it. You’ll just be throwing away your life, and the lives of the Thracian lads. The reinforcement column hasn’t got a chance.’
‘Not so. You’re prepared to offer odds of fifty to one.’
‘Only a fool would place a stake on that.’
Cato held out his hand. ‘Then call me a fool. I’ll put ten sestertii on it.’
Macro grasped his hand and tried to sound light-hearted. ‘Done! Easiest ten sestertii I ever made. .’
There was a brief, awkward silence as they clasped hands and silently said their farewells. Then Cato withdrew his hand and looked over Macro’s shoulder. ‘The men are ready. We have to get going. Make sure that you have one of your centuries ready to hold the gate open for us if — when — we return with the reinforcements.’
‘They’ll be ready. I’ll lead ’em myself.’
‘Good. Then I’ll look forward to seeing you shortly.’ Cato tested the fit of his helmet, took a calming breath and walked stiffly over to his horse which was being held for him by one of the Thracians. He took the reins and patted Hannibal gently on his broad cheek and muttered up towards his dagger-like ears, ‘Behave for me today, and when I give the word, run like the wind.’
The horse snorted and jerked its head fractionally and Cato smiled quickly before he took the reins and vaulted into the saddle, trying not to wince at the sharp pain his leg rewarded him with. Taking a firm grasp of the reins, he took the large oval shield that the handler offered up to him and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Despite the custom for senior officers to carry a sword, Cato had chosen to be armed with a long, heavy spear like the rest of his men and he shifted his grip on the weapon to find its balance point. He settled the butt into the small leather holster hanging from the saddle and wheeled Hannibal round to face his men. The squadrons were formed up two deep behind their officers, Centurion Stellanus and a Thracian, Decurion Kastos, stern-faced as they regarded their prefect, waiting for the traditional short speech of encouragement before they were led into battle.
Short it would be, Cato thought; there was little time to spare. He would have preferred to dispense with formalities altogether and simply give the order to quit the fort, but he knew that the men would need to be addressed following on so closely from the death of Quertus.
‘Blood Crows!’ he began. ‘Our comrades are in the gravest of danger. Caratacus means to cut them down and take their heads as trophies to offer to his Druid allies. That is no fit fate for any soldier. The enemy means to humiliate them, before our eyes, and therefore humiliate us for being powerless to intervene. But we shall not be humbled, and nor shall our comrades. That is all that matters to us this day. Our task is simple. We shall ride to their rescue and clear a path through the enemy so that our comrades can gain the fort. . What has gone before cannot be changed. We have in our grasp the chance to win undying glory for the Blood Crows. Those who live to remember this day will never forget the honour they have shared with their brothers, nor the honour in which they will be held by the rest of the army.’ He paused, vaguely frustrated by his failure to deliver the kind of stirring speech he had read of in the history books of his youth. But there was no time for that kind of carefully rehearsed rhetoric. He grasped his spear and raised it aloft.