‘Do you recognise your brother, Caratacus?’ Macro shouted down the slope. ‘If you do any more harm to Tribune Mancinus, then I’ll match you cut for cut.’ He drew his dagger from its scabbard and held it up for the enemy commander to see.
There was a tense stillness before Caratacus responded. ‘You wouldn’t dare. He is too valuable a hostage to Rome.’
‘We are not in Rome!’ Macro called back. ‘We are in the arse end of the world. There is you, me and the two men we hold prisoner. If you harm the tribune, then I will harm Maridius. That is what will happen. Understand?’
Caratacus did not reply for a moment as he stared up at his younger brother and the Roman officer standing at his side. Then he spoke again. ‘If you harm my brother, then I swear that you, and any of your men I take alive when the fort falls will be subject to every cruelty, every torture, every humiliation before you are allowed to die. And I will do the same for every Roman prisoner that my army takes until we have driven you Roman scum from our lands. This I swear!’
Macro ignored the threat and kept his silence. Behind him, Centurion Petillius muttered, ‘He means it.’
‘So do I.’
The Druid turned to Caratacus and there was a brief exchange before the Druid raised his voice and turned back to the prisoner and cut him again, this time opening up his cheek with a swift slash of the blade. Macro did not hesistate. He turned to Maridius and stabbed him in the jaw. Blood splattered down on to the floorboards of the tower. Maridius let out a deep bellow of pain.
‘Hold him still!’ Macro commanded.
Petillius and the two sentries closed round the prisoner and grasped his shoulders as vivid red blood coursed down his neck and into the hairs on his chest.
Caratacus hurled a wild curse at the fort and took several steps forward, his hand making to draw his sword. Then he stopped abruptly, slowly let the blade settle back in its scabbard and thrust his finger towards Macro.
‘I will kill you! Kill you with my bare hands, and take your heart and feed it to my hounds!’
Macro smiled grimly. ‘First you will have to take the fort.’
‘The fort will be mine! You cannot hold out against me.’
‘We’ll see. Until then, take the tribune back to your camp and look after him. I shall want to see him alive every morning. If not, I will execute your brother.’
Caratacus let out a pained animal growl. ‘It is out of my hands, Roman. The tribune belongs to the Druids now.’
‘Then take him back.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Who is in command? You, or that clown in the black cloak?’
Caratacus struggled to choke back his outrage. ‘He is the High Druid of the Silurians, the chosen man of our gods. He is not mine to command.’
‘I don’t give a shit. Tell him to step away from the tribune!’
Caratacus turned to the Druid and they spoke again in heated tones. Then, with an impatient flick of his spare hand, the Druid turned back to Mancinus and stabbed him deep in the side and ripped the blade diagonally across his stomach. The tribune half groaned, half screamed, as his intestines bulged out of the wound and slid down over his groin. Raising his bloodied blade again, the Druid plunged it into Mancinus’s heart, then stood back and raised his arms to the sky and began a shrill chant. The warriors released his arms and the body of the tribune collapsed to the ground.
‘No!’ Macro lurched at the wooden rail in the tower. ‘You bastards! Fucking barbarians! Bastards!’ Then he snatched out his sword and thrust the point towards Maridius’s throat. His eyes blazed down at Caratacus. ‘See this, and remember!’
Then, with all the brute strength he could muster, Macro rammed his sword up into the prisoner’s skull and his crown erupted as scalp, bone and brains burst into the air. The body tensed like stone, veins standing out, before jerking savagely and then collapsing on to the floor of the tower as Macro wrenched his sword free.
There was a wild cry of rage from Caratacus and a moment later the rest of his army who had been watching from their camp let out a roar of fury.
Macro turned back and saw Caratacus take out his sword and stand over Mancinus’s body. Then he rained down blows, hacking the flesh like a frenzied butcher. Macro tore his gaze away, steeling himself for what he must do. Taking a deep breath he hacked through Maridius’s neck. It took several blows before the final bit of gristle parted. Switching his sword to his left hand, he picked up the head by the hair and swung it at arm’s length before sending it sailing through the air. It bounced on the slope and then rolled before coming to rest a short distance from Caratacus.
Still with his bloodied blade in hand, Caratacus stared at the head, his body trembling, then he thrust his sword directly at Macro and screamed, ‘I will kill you! Kill you all! Kill every Roman! Every man, woman and child! I will tear down this cursed fort with my own hands! You will not live to see another day! None of you!’ He swept his sword across the wall of the fort, then turned away, clumsily sheathed his blade and began to stride down the slope towards the camp, his hands clasped to his face as his shoulders heaved with grief. One of his men stooped to pick up the head of Maridius and joined the others who kept their distance from their commander as they followed him.
‘Now we’re for it,’ Petillius said quietly.
Macro nodded. ‘They’ll be coming for us as soon as it’s dark. I want every man on the wall, fed and ready for the fight of their lives.’
He looked down at the headless body in its pool of spreading blood. ‘First, get rid of that.’
Macro took a last look at Mancinus, though there was nothing left to recognise of the young man. Now the same fate threatened him. Macro’s lips pressed together tightly and he shook his head. No. He would deny Caratacus his sport. When the end came, he would go down fighting, sword in hand, spitting curses at the enemy until the very last beat of his heart.
They came even before the final glimmer of the setting sun had faded in the western sky. As soon as Caratacus had returned to his camp the enemy had begun to assemble, and fresh bundles of faggots were hastily prepared and piled high on the parade ground. The tribesmen went about their work with a sullen quietness that was out of character and it was clear to Macro that they were determined to avenge the death of Maridius. In the failing light of dusk, Macro sent for his surviving officers. The small group of men faced him him behind the main gate.
Macro stared at them and was gratified that none seemed to show any sign of fear. ‘You all know what’s coming. Caratacus means to take the fort with the next attack. The enemy’s blood is up and we can expect that they will take heavy casualties and still keep going. Once they get over the wall and establish a foothold, then the game is up for us. If it happens then it would be better to die than risk capture. Make certain your men understand that. We need to match their resolve if we are to stand any chance of surviving this. I won’t lie to you. We may hold off the first attack, but after that it’s anyone’s guess. If the fort falls, then we’re dead men. And it will fall. There’s too few of us to hold the wall. Too many of them, and no prospect of help from outside. The only choice that concerns us now is how we die: like soldiers, or like dogs.’ Macro paused and softened his tone as he turned to the fort’s surgeon. ‘I don’t want any men taken alive. If the wall is taken I’ll have the trumpeter sound five long notes. That is the signal. You and your orderlies will deal with the wounded. Understand?’
The surgeon nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to it that it’s quick.’
‘Good man.’ Macro looked at the senior officer of the Thracian cohort. ‘The same goes for the horses. Have some of your men ready. The moment the signal is given they are to lame them. It’ll be quicker than killing them and just as effective.’