Simon Scarrow: Britannia

‘What is it, sir?’ asked Macro.

‘There’s movement up there. I saw someone in the rocks.’

Macro stared a moment and puffed his cheeks. ‘I can’t-’

Before he could finish, a slight figure in a woollen tunic rose up and drew a bow. Macro instinctively reached for the handle of his sword, then paused before letting out a scornful laugh as he saw that it was a scrawny youngster.

‘Be on your way! Before I tan your bloody hide!’

The Roman soldiers chuckled nervously, now that the tension had eased. The boy cried out defiantly in his own tongue and released the arrow. The shaft arced towards the horsemen and disappeared into the grass to one side of the track.

‘Bloody cheek!’ Macro snorted. ‘I’ll teach the little sod some manners before we take him prisoner.’

He spurred his horse towards the rock, cheered on by some of the auxiliaries. The boy drew another arrow and notched it before raising the bow again and taking aim at the cantering rider.

Cato cupped a hand to his mouth to call out a warning. ‘Macro! Look out!’

The second arrow leapt from the bow and Cato saw at once that the youngster had aimed true, or was simply lucky given his moving target. Macro jerked in his saddle. His horse slowed to a trot, then stopped as the centurion leaned forward to inspect his leg.

‘Fuck . . . Fucking little bastard has hit me.’ His tone was more surprised than pained, and Cato urged his own mount forward. The boy stood above them, his mouth open in surprise at what he had done. Then the spell was broken as he lowered his bow and turned to flee.

‘After him!’ Decurion Miro bellowed.

Cato reined in beside Macro and saw the dark shaft protruding from the leather breeches covering his friend’s thigh. Already blood was pulsing up around the wound and running down his leg to drip on to the track. The centurion shook his head in wonder, his lips twisted into a wry grin as he gritted his teeth. ‘He’s got me good, the little toerag. Lucky shot.’

Swinging himself down from the saddle, Cato approached to examine the wound. He felt a sick feeling in his gut as he saw that the blood was flowing freely. He was aware of the dark shapes of the riders pounding past as Miro led them after the native boy, and had the presence of mind to stand back and call after the decurion.

‘Leave the boy! Decurion! Call your men back!’

The auxiliaries reluctantly abandoned the chase and watched the fugitive nimbly picking his way up the rocks towards the crest of the hill. It would be a fool’s errand to pursue him. The boy was shrewd enough to stick to ground that was impassable to horses, and in any case, he would easily outpace the soldiers weighted down by their armour if they pursued him on foot. Cato turned back to his friend.

‘We have to stem the bleeding, Macro. It’s bad.’

‘I can see that for myself, thank you.’

Cato drew a sharp breath. ‘You know what I have to do?’

‘Just get on with it.’

‘All right.’ Cato closed his left fist about the shaft and locked his arm. Then with his right he grasped the arrow a short distance further along. He tensed his muscles. ‘Ready? On three.’

Macro nodded and looked up.

‘One . . .’ Cato suddenly snapped the shaft, and his friend roared with pain and glared wildly down from the saddle.

‘You cheating bastard, sir!’

Blood welled up from the end of the shaft embedded in Macro’s thigh, and Cato hurriedly undid his neckcloth and tucked one end under the centurion’s leg before he fed the rest of it around the limb, alternating to each side of the shaft and making the rough dressing as tight as he could. Dark stains appeared through the cloth as he tied it off, and he reached up. ‘Give me yours.’

Macro undid the strip of cloth from around his thick neck, and Cato bound it over his own to complete the dressing. Despite the pressure, the wound was still bleeding, and he realised that Macro was losing too much blood, too quickly. He must get him back to the fort as soon as possible so that he could be treated by the garrison’s surgeon.

‘Miro! I want one of your men either side of the centurion. Keep him steady in his saddle.’

While the men moved into place, Macro shook his head. ‘I don’t need any bloody nursemaids. I’ll make my own way.’

‘Shut up, and do as you are told,’ Cato snapped as he remounted. He took up his reins and looked up to see the boy some distance above them now. He had stopped to hurl insults down at the Romans, and his piercing voice echoed off the rocks. Soon the alarm would be raised in the settlement and they would be sure to come after the patrol. ‘We have to get out of here.’

With a stab of anxiety, he saw that Macro was swaying slightly in his saddle, already light-headed from shock and the loss of blood. Then Cato’s anxiety turned to fear. Fear that he might lose his closest friend in the world as a result of this absurd confrontation and the blind chance of the boy’s second shot. The irony that Macro should be laid low by a skinny youth when he had bested some of the most formidable enemies of the empire was almost too much for Cato.

‘Shit. Shit,’ he muttered as he met his friend’s wavering gaze. ‘Not you. Not now. Not in this place.’

‘No fucking way,’ Macro growled back. ‘Don’t you worry about that, my lad.’

Cato nodded and then turned to Decurion Miro. ‘Back to the fort! We stop for nothing. Let’s go!’

‘Get him on the table,’ the surgeon ordered as the auxiliaries entered the treatment room in the small infirmary next to the fort’s headquarters block. Macro hung limply between them, an arm draped round each man’s shoulder. He was barely conscious and his head lolled, and Cato was shocked to see how white and drained his face looked. Outside, the day was drawing to a close and a trumpet had just sounded the changing of the watch. The daily routine of the garrison continued without regard for the small drama played out as the patrol galloped in through the main gate.

Surgeon Pausinus was one of the rare medical officers who was not Greek or from one of the eastern provinces, where medical expertise was more readily come by. He had been selected from the ranks to train as a wound dresser before advancing to his current position, where he had many years’ experience in attending to the wounds, injuries and illnesses of soldiers. The examination table had a thin leather bolster at one end for patients to rest their heads. The men supporting Macro heaved the centurion up on to the hard surface, and Cato stood to one side as Pausinus took charge.

‘Take off his harness and armour. Boots, too. Just leave him in his tunic.’

While the auxiliaries did as they were told, Macro muttered curses at them, his eyelids fluttering as he rolled his head slowly from side to side. Meanwhile the surgeon took out his case of instruments and carefully selected a small range of tools, which he set out on a stool set down beside the table. He called for one of his orderlies to fetch linen dressings, vinegar and his herb chest, then opened the shutters of the window on the other side of Macro to admit as much light as possible.

‘Out of the way there!’ He swept one of the auxiliaries aside. ‘Stand back.’ He bowed his head towards Cato. ‘Not you, of course, sir. Just keep to one side, though, eh?’

Cato nodded and stood where he could see his friend’s pale face without hindering the surgeon or his staff.

Once Macro’s armour had been removed, Pausinus undid the neckcloth dressings and tossed the bloodstained strips of cloth into a wooden pail below the table. He leaned closer to inspect the stump of the arrow, then straightened up and addressed Macro.