He dismissed the notion swifly. That sort of thing was better left to the likes of Cato. Macro turned towards what was left of the rations on the shelf above the scored worktop. There was a chunk of the local cheese left and some brittle roundels of hard-baked bread. He took them down and pulled up a stool and ate stolidly, refusing to spare another look at Decimus’s body.
He was halfway through the cheese when he heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor that ran the length of the prefect’s quarters, ending at the kitchen.
‘Sir! Sir!’
Macro chewed quickly to empty his mouth and swallowed. ‘In here!’
A moment later the sentry appeared in the doorway, breathless. ‘Sir, the enemy are coming back.’
Macro felt his guts tighten. ‘Any sign of our lads?’
‘No, sir. Noth-’ The sentry’s response died in his throat as he saw the body. He stared at it, oblivious of Macro’s glare.
‘Finish making your damn report!’ Macro barked.
‘What?’ The legionary looked at the centurion, the horrified spell broken. ‘Yes, sorry, sir. Beg to report that the tribesmen are coming down from the pass. I saw Caratacus amongst ’em, sir.’
‘And no Romans. You’re certain?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No prisoners?’ There was still that hope to clutch at.
‘I couldn’t make any out. Not before I came to report, sir.’
Macro stood up and gathered up what was left of his makeshift meal. He nodded towards the body. ‘Take that down and get it out of here.’
He made for the door to the corridor and stopped at the threshold. ‘Put Decimus with the other bodies. Might as well give the poor bastard a decent grave when it’s all over.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary nodded.
Macro stared at him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Want him to start stinking the kitchen out? And make sure you clean up the mess underneath him.’
The legionary grimaced as he set his javelin and shield beside the counter Macro had been sitting at and headed for the slop bucket. Macro took a last look at the corpse, shook his head, and strode off.
As he made his way back to the main gate his face settled into a sombre expression. If Caratacus and his forces were returning from the pass then it was almost certainly because they had given the reinforcement column a hiding. Which meant the garrison was on its own again. With fewer men to defend the fort than ever. Not a happy prospect, Macro mused. The only hopeful aspect of the whole affair was that the beacon signal might have been seen further afield and a message had been carried to Legate Quintatus to alert him that the Bruccium garrison was in trouble. Even so, Glevum was over sixty miles away. It would take the Fourteenth Legion at least three days to march to the rescue of the garrison. Macro knew that they could not hold out for that long.
Macro’s muscles were aching by the time he climbed to the top of the tower and crossed to the parapet. The remaining sentry was staring along the valley where a large column of enemy warriors, several thousand strong, was marching down the track to the camp. The banner of Caratacus rippled above the group of horsemen at the front, and behind them the war bands came one after another. At their approach the men left in the camp surged forward to cheer their comrades’ return. The sun was dipping low over the rim of the mountains to the west as the warriors entered the camp. The valley was bathed in its red glow and long shadows spilled out across the grass and heather surrounding the fort.
The front wall was lined with the men from the garrison watching in silence. Macro could make out a number of horses being led beside the enemy force. The clipped manes and saddles were of Roman design, and he knew then that Cato’s attempt to assist the men of the reinforcement column had been in vain. Macro’s heart sank like a rock at the thought that his friend had perished along with the other men of the two squadrons of Thracians. He strained his eyes along the columns of warriors and saw men being supported by their comrades, and others being carried on makeshift stretchers fashioned out of pine branches and the red cloaks of legionaries. Finally, he saw what he hoped to see. A file of prisoners towards the rear of the column. Twenty or so men, hands bound behind their backs and linked together by loops of rope round their necks. They still wore their armour and as Macro stared he saw that one of them wore the breastplate and cloak of an officer, though the distance was too great to be sure of his identity. His heart quickened at the prospect that it might be Cato. But then the brief moment of hope chilled as he considered what fate Caratacus might have in store for his prisoners. If the prisoner was Cato, then it would have been better for him to have died in battle, Macro told himself bitterly.
As dusk closed in over the valley Macro gave the order for the garrison to be issued with full rations. He saw no point in letting the men go hungry. They would fight better on full stomachs when the morning came. Down in the enemy camp they had already begun to celebrate their victory and Macro decided that the enemy commander would be likely to indulge his men and there was little risk of another night attack. Even so, he had the men bring their bedrolls to the foot of the rampart so that they would be on hand if there was an attempt made to rush the fort.
One by one fires were lit across the floor of the valley. By the light of the flames Macro saw the enemy warriors drinking, and snatches of singing and laughter carried up to the garrison of Bruccium. The biggest fire burned in front of Caratacus’s shelter and Macro could easily pick him out where he sat with his comrades on the raised ground of the reviewing platform overlooking the parade ground. As the night wore on, there was no sign that the celebrations were coming to an end and a new moon rose over the mountains and took its place among the stars. Then there was a commotion down on the parade ground and Macro saw figures massing around the fire. More fuel was added until great tongues of yellow and red licked up into the night. Soon thousands thronged around the fire.
‘Centurion Macro!’
He turned towards the voice and leaned over the side of the tower. In the moonlight he could just make out Petillius on the wall.
‘Sir, do you see? They’re going to attack. Shall I sound the alarm?’
Macro looked back down the slope. The enemy were making very little attempt to conceal their preparations if they were about to make an attack. He looked back towards the waiting centurion.
‘No need to sound the alarm. Caratacus and his lads are just having a bit of fun. Let our boys rest. At least they’ll be more ready to face what the morning brings than the enemy will.’
Petillius was silent for a moment before he replied in a reluctant tone, ‘As you wish, sir. I hope you’re right.’
The last words stung Macro’s pride and he was about to snap at his subordinate when he realised that Petillius’s nerves were even more strained than his own. It would do the man no good to have his superior bawl him out. Macro sighed. ‘Get some sleep, Centurion. I’ll keep watch on them for a while.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Petillius nodded, took one last look over the wall, and then descended the wooden steps to the foot of the ramp and sat down, crossed his arms over his knees and lowered his head.
Macro leaned on the rail and watched the crowd gathering around the fire. It was clear that something was about to happen, something to mark the height of their celebrations. Then he saw a small party emerge from the darkness, and the crowd parted before it. A tall figure in dark robes led the way. Behind him came clusters of three men, each with a prisoner pinned between two of them. The prisoners were thrust on to the ground close to the fire, five in all. More of the tribesmen arrived carrying wooden frames in the shape of an A. They bound the first of the prisoners to the frame with his head at the apex and his limbs tied firmly to the lengths of timber stretching out at an angle. When the preparations were complete, the figure in the dark robe gestured towards the fire and the frame was raised off the ground and set upright. The prisoner started writhing as he saw the fire and knew, as Macro did at the same time, what fate was to befall him. Several men strained on a rope fixed to the top of the frame and began to slowly pay it out so that the frame tipped towards the fire. For a moment the crowd fell silent and then the man’s cries of pain, quickly followed by screams, sounded. The natives let out a cruel roar at his agonies. The soldier twitched uselessly against the ropes that bound him to the frame. His tunic caught alight and he was engulfed in fire as his screams reached a new pitch of torment and terror.