demanding.
Cato let out an exasperated sigh. He was doing it again! The endless round of self-investigation that served no purpose. His mind was wandering because he was tired, he concluded. Rest was what he needed. Very badly.
Turning away from the enemy camp, Cato left the gatehouse and trudged back to his quarters where Decimus brought him what was left of the bread, stale and hard, and a wedge of the local goat’s cheese. It was a poor meal and Cato had little appetite but he made himself eat, knowing that he needed to sustain himself through the coming trials of the siege. The evening briefing of his officers was perfunctory as each knew his duties and had little to report. Cato dismissed them swiftly and retired to his quarters, removed his sword belt and cuirass but left his boots on in case he was roused by an emergency, and slumped down on his bed. He reached across to extinguish the wick on the small oil lamp that provided the room with a dim light and lay back on the straw-filled bolster. He stared up towards the barely discernible rafters and wood shingle tiles. Once again he mentally went over the defences of the fort but before he had got very far he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep and for once began to snore as loudly as his friend Macro.
The blare of the horn took a moment to wake Cato, and there was an instant of foggy incomprehension as he stirred. Then, with a stab of panic, he bolted upright and was instantly alert. Swinging his boots over the side of the cot he snatched up his sword belt and ran for the door. As he went through the small courtyard he saw the clerks emerging from their quarters, faces bleary by the light of the sentry’s brazier. There was already a hint of the coming dawn in the distant sky and Cato felt a surge of anger. Why hadn’t Decimus come to wake him over an hour earlier, as ordered? Cato looked for Decimus, meaning to order him to fetch his helmet and armour and come to find him, but there was no sign of his servant and no time to look for him. Outside in the street the first men were already spilling from their barracks, kit in hand as they raced to take up their positions on the wall. There was no sound of fighting, no war cries from outside the fort, just the hurried tramping of boots and shouted orders from the officers of the garrison’s two cohorts.
Cato stopped, not sure in which direction to head. His instinct told him to run to the wall overlooking the enemy camp, but the horn was sounding from the rear wall. It seemed that Caratacus was trying a different approach, and Cato ran down the street leading to the rear gatehouse. It was a common feature of Roman camps to build four gates, regardless of their functionality. Bruccium was no different, even though three of the gates opened on to steep slopes. He heard shouts ahead, and then the ringing clatter and scrape of weapons.
‘To the rear gate!’ Cato shouted as he ran. ‘To the rear!’
The cry was taken up and boots pounded through the darkness behind him and to the side as men raced between the barrack blocks towards the rear gate. Cato could see the gatehouse looming at the end of the street, the top of the tower illuminated by the glow of a small brazier. Below it dark shapes swirled about, and Cato felt an icy dread as he realised the enemy must have broken in. How was that possible? This was Macro’s watch. He would not have let such a thing happen.
Then he heard his friend shouting above the fray. ‘Hold the bastards back!’
Cato tore his sword from the scabbard and slung the latter aside as he ran hard towards the fight. Bursting out from between the last pair of barracks he glimpsed two or three men holding horses to one side and a score of others, Thracians, around the inner gate engaged with a handful of men defending the passage. Then he saw that the smaller group were carrying legionary shields and wearing Roman helmets. One even had the crest of a centurion. So that was it. Caratacus had used some captured kit to trick his way into the fort.
Macro called out again. ‘Don’t let ’em get out, lads!’
Out? Cato abruptly scrambled to a halt. What was this? What was happening? More men were emerging all around the gatehouse, some bearing torches they had hastily snatched up from the watch fires that burned through the night. By their light the scene became clear. Quertus and a band of his men were trying to cut their way through the section of legionaries manning the gatehouse, and the duty officer, Macro. As more men arrived on the scene, they hesitated as they saw the skirmish, not sure what to do, which side to take in the unequal fight. The Thracian commander looked up, his expression wild and fearful.
‘Kill them!’ he shouted to his followers. ‘Now, or we’re dead men!’
Cato strode forward, sword held ready. ‘Quertus!’ he bellowed. ‘Throw down your weapons, you and your men. Do it now!’
The Thracians at the gate backed away from the legionaries uncertainly, turning towards the approaching prefect. Around them, in a growing ring, stood the legionaries and auxiliaries roused from their sleep by the alarm. Cato grasped what must have happened and he stopped a safe distance from Quertus.
‘You’re trying to desert. . Centurion Petillius!’
‘Sir?’ the officer responded from the gathering crowd.
‘Get your men over to the gate at once!’
‘Yes, sir! Legionaries! On me!’
Men surged forward and took position between the Thracians and the gate. There was enough light now for Cato to see the horse holders clearly and he gave a start.
‘Decimus? What in the name of the gods are you doing?’
His servant shrank before his superior’s gaze, and then released the reins of the horses he was tending and edged forward, glancing from Cato to Quertus and back again. Then he hurried across to join the ranks on either side of the Thracian officer. The other handlers followed his cue and ran across to join their leader. In amongst them he saw Maridius, arms bound to his side. Cato glared at them all, still unwilling to believe the evidence of the treachery before his eyes. Then he turned to the gate. ‘Macro!’
There was no reply. Cato edged round and joined Petillius and his men. ‘Macro! Speak up, man!’
‘He’s here, sir!’ a legionary replied and Cato thrust his way through to the foot of the gatehouse. In the gloom he saw a legionary spreadeagled on the ground, lying still. Another was sitting with his back to the gate, nursing an injured arm, one hand clamped over the wound to stem the blood. One of the men was kneeling beside a figure lying on his side. Cato felt his heart leap as he crouched down. Macro’s eyes were flickering and he groaned feebly, but there was no sign of blood on his body.
‘He took a blow to the head,’ said one of the sentries. ‘Saw it happen just after you arrived, sir.’
Cato felt relief, then the rage flowed back and he stood and turned to Quertus, his sword thrust out towards the Thracian. ‘Arrest that man! Arrest all of them!’
‘Sir?’ Centurion Petillius looked confused.
‘Cowards!’ Cato spat. ‘Cowards and deserters! Do as I order. Arrest them!’
Petillius took a step towards them. ‘Drop your weapons!’
Quertus laughed harshly. ‘I don’t think so. If you take on me then you take on all my men. Isn’t that right, boys? We’ve had enough of this Roman puppy! He has not earned the right to command you. This fort is mine. This fort belongs to Thracians!’ He punched his sword into the air and the men around him cheered uncertainly, then again with more heart. Cato noticed that some of those who stood in the ring of men around the gatehouse joined in, and began to cross the open ground to join their commander. A chill of fear trickled down his spine at the growing danger of the situation. He stepped forward and addressed the ring of men.
‘Hear me! Hear me!’
The cries of the other men died away and Cato thrust his finger at Quertus. ‘This man, this coward, was about to abandon the fort and leave us to our fate!’
‘Liar!’ Quertus shot back. ‘I was sending my men to raise the alarm since this Roman refused to give the order! He would have us die here! I would save us.’
Cato pointed at Maridius. ‘Then what is the enemy prince doing here? You were going to use him as a hostage to get through the enemy lines. Is that not so?’
Quertus’s eyes narrowed craftily. ‘Of course. What chance would my men have without him? Better to put him to some good use than let him rot in chains.’
‘And you were going to remain here, I suppose,’ Cato asked cynically. ‘After you sent these men on their way?’
‘Of course. My place is here, beside my comrades. Leading them into battle.’
Cato’s lip curled. ‘You liar! You coward. The proof of your treachery is there by the gate. The men you attacked in order to escape from the fort. You would have killed them all and ridden off leaving the gate open to the enemy. No doubt you hoped that we’d be wiped out, and you could return to Glevum and claim to have cut
