took a flesh wound in the shoulder. The centurion’s stocky build gave him the edge in such close-quarter fighting and he quickly rose into a crouch and fell heavily on his opponent with his knees. At the same time he snatched at the man’s hair to yank the head to one side and expose the throat. He drew his elbow back to stab his enemy under the chin.
‘Macro! Wait!’ Cato shouted.
The centurion snarled, ‘What the fuck for?’
‘I want him spared, for questioning.’
Macro drew a deep breath of frustration and nodded before he muttered, ‘Lights out for you then, pal.’
Reversing his fist he smashed the pommel of his dagger against the man’s head and knocked him senseless. With a grunt his body went limp and his head thudded to the ground as Macro released his hair. He sheathed his dagger and then his sword and turned to Cato, hands on hips. ‘What are you playing at down there? Sleeping on the job?’
‘Funny,’ Cato grunted. ‘Actually, I’m in a bit of difficulty here, Macro. Would you mind?’
There was a rustle in the grass nearby as a section of auxiliaries, led by their optio, came trotting over to Macro. The optio stopped and hurriedly saluted.
‘Caius Lentulus, sir.’
Macro looked at them sourly.
‘Great timing, Optio. You missed the fight. But you can at least do something useful. Get this bloody horse off the prefect.’
The optio and his men downed their spears and shields and dragged the carcass away from Cato. He gritted his teeth as the movement caused fresh agony in his leg.
‘Careful!’ he snapped. Then his boot came free and Cato sat up to inspect his leg. The brass studs on the leatherwork had gouged the flesh below his knee where the hem of the breeches exposed his skin. Blood flowed freely and Cato swore as he struggled to stand up. His leg was numb and he staggered as he tried to take a step. At once Macro grabbed him by the arm and held him up.
‘Sir, you all right?’
‘Oh, fine, thank you. Next stupid question?’
Macro looked down at his friend’s leg anxiously. ‘Anything broken?’
Cato shook his head and straightened up to survey his surroundings. The enemy had been defeated. Scores of bodies lay sprawled on the ground, together with a handful of horses. Trebellius was reassembling the survivors of his squadron and Cato saw that barely half the number that had charged with him were still in their saddles. Several others were wounded, hunched over. A few mounts stood riderless, pawing at the ground. The last of the tribesmen could be seen disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees and Cato quickly estimated that the enemy had lost at least thirty men. The auxiliaries were picking their way over the bodies, finishing off any that still lived. Cato nodded with satisfaction. It had been a quick, violent struggle, but the outpost had been saved, and the enemy had been taught a sharp lesson.
Then he recalled that Trebellius’s squadron had lost its standard. It would be foolhardy indeed to chase after the enemy into the woods to attempt to retrieve it. A pointless waste of lives. The loss would go hard with the decurion when he returned to Glevum. The army did not tolerate any excuse in relation to the loss of one of its standards, even from the smallest of its units. He would be disgraced and demoted to the ranks at the very least and the stain on his record would never be erased. But better that than lose what remained of the squadron in an attempt to rescue his honour. Perhaps in time the standard would be recovered — once the Silurians had been crushed and their lands added to the province of Britannia.
‘Macro, tell Trebellius to get his men inside the fort before he does anything stupid.’
Macro nodded. ‘I understand.’
Cato ordered two of the auxiliaries to help him to the gate, and two more men to carry the unconscious warrior. Once his leg had been seen to, and the wounded made comfortable, there would be plenty of time to see what information they could get out of their prisoner.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Trebellius took a step back from the prisoner and wiped the blood from his knuckles with a rag. ‘I think he’s ready for questioning now.’
Cato nodded from where he sat on a stool in the outpost’s mess. The minor wounds to his leg had been cleaned and dressed, but the knee joint had been badly wrenched during his brief fight with the spearman and made walking an agony. So one of the auxiliaries had fashioned a simple crutch for him to get about until his knee had recovered. It was inconvenient, Cato reflected, but he would recover in a day or so. Which was more than could be said for the spearman who was paying a heavy price for his attempt on the prefect’s life.
Stripped to the waist, the Silurian’s hands were chained together in front of him and a spear shaft had been passed through the crook of his elbows behind his back. A rope was tied to the shaft and the other end had been thrown over the sturdy beam running across the mess room. Trebellius had hauled the rope to drag the prisoner up on to his feet, then his toes, before tying it off on the beam. After that, he had administered a steady beating to the Silurian’s stomach and face. Not so hard as to cause any disabling injury, but hard enough to cause considerable pain and fear. Trebellius had explained that he had been trained as a frumentarius, an interrogator, and watching him at work Cato could see that he had learned his craft well. Macro sat at a table nearby, hunched over a bowl of steaming barley stew as he watched proceedings. A jar of wine and two cups stood on the table, and another bowl for Cato, which he had not touched.
‘Very well.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘Ask him where his war party came from. I want to know where his settlement is.’
Trebellius translated the question as best he could into the native tongue. The Silurian looked up at Cato and spat a crimson gobbet of blood and spittle in his direction before he muttered briefly. Trebellius wrenched his head up with one hand and slapped him hard across the face.
‘That’ll do,’ said Cato. ‘What did he say?’
Trebellius released the man’s hair and the Silurian’s head slumped forward. ‘He told us to go fuck ourselves, sir.’
Macro lowered his bronze spoon and made a shocked expression. ‘Such incivility! I tell you, the prospect of putting a clean tongue in the mouths of barbarians like him makes it all worth while. Decurion, tell him that I’ll go and fuck his sister if he doesn’t show us a bit of respect. And his mother, and his daughters. Shit, I’ll even fuck his prize hunting dogs within an inch of their lives if he doesn’t start being a bit more cooperative.’ Macro waved his spoon. ‘You tell him.’
There was a brief exchange before the decurion grinned. ‘He says, why would his dogs fuck you while there are still pigs in the world?’
Macro glared for a moment before suddenly laughing out loud and shaking his head. ‘He’s got balls, this one. . For now at least,’ he added in a harsher tone.
Cato gestured to his friend to stop speaking. ‘Tell him that he’s going to reveal what I want to know one way or another. He can make it easy on himself, or we can continue this for the rest of the day. For as long as we like, until we get what we want. There’s no shame in speaking up now and saving himself a lot of pain.’
Trebellius translated and punched the Silurian in the guts for emphasis, but the tribesman groaned and gasped for breath and then clenched his teeth together defiantly. Cato ordered the decurion to continue and Trebellius laid into the prisoner methodically, a steady series of blows to his stomach, head and ribs. The Silurian endured it without saying a word, and merely groaned in pain and sucked in shallow breaths when his tattooed chest hurt too much to breathe normally.
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ Cato decided at length. ‘We’d better try another tack. Decurion, let him down and bring him some water and bread.’
Trebellius wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘I could try applying a bit of heat if you like, sir. A hot iron to the arse can be effective.’
Cato shook his head. ‘Not now. Maybe later on, if we need to. Let’s just try to get him talking. Let him down.
