Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’

  The captain frowned at her and Macro let out a laugh.

  ‘She’s come here to go into business.’

  The captain scrutinised the old woman. ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘I intend to open an inn,’ she replied. ‘There’s always a need for drink, and other comforts, at the end of a sea voyage, and I dare say that Londinium sees plenty of merchants, sailors and soldiers passing through its gates. All good customers for the kind of services I will offer.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of business, all right,’ the captain nodded. ‘But it’s a hard life. Even harder in a new province like this. The kind of merchants who make their fortunes here are tough men. They won’t take kindly to a Roman woman trying to compete with them.’

  ‘I dealt with tough men at the inn I owned in Ravenna. I doubt the locals here will cause me any difficulty. Particularly when they find out my son happens to be a senior centurion of the Fourteenth Legion.’ She took Macro’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Anyone messes about with my mum and they mess with me. And that hasn’t worked out well for anyone who has tried it in the past.’

  The captain took in the muscular physique of the stocky Roman officer and the scars on his face and arms and could believe it.

  ‘Even so, why would you come here, ma’am? You’d be more comfortable setting up back in Gesoriacum. Plenty of trade there.’

  Portia pursed her lips. ‘This is where the real money can be made, by those who get stuck in quickly. Besides, this boy is all I have in the world now. I want to be as close to him as I can. Who knows, when he gets his discharge, he could join me in the business.’

  Macro’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. All the wine and women that a man could want, under one roof!’

  Portia swatted his arm. ‘On second thoughts . . . You soldiers are all the same. Anyway, I will make my fortune here in Londinium, and this is where I will stay until the end of my days. It’s up to you what you do with your life, Macro. But I’ll be remaining here. This is my last home.’

  With a steady rhythm the cargo ship approached the wharf. As they neared the town, those on board caught their first whiff of the place, an acrid, peaty, sewage smell that mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and caught in their throats.

  ‘There might be something to be said for sea air after all,’ Cato muttered as he wrinkled his nose.

  There was no mooring space along the wharf and the captain gave the order to steer for the end of the line of vessels anchored further upriver. He turned apologetically to his passengers.

  ‘It’ll be a while before our turn comes. You’re welcome to stay on board, or I’ll have some of my boys row you ashore in the skiff.’

  Cato eased himself up from the side rail and adopted the military manner he had learned from Macro, standing tall and being decisive. ‘We’ll go ashore. The centurion and I need to report to the nearest military authority as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The captain knuckled his forehead, instantly aware that the informalities of the voyage had passed. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

  He was as good as his word and by the time the anchor splashed down into the current and the crew shipped the oars, the kitbags of the two officers and the chests and bags belonging to Portia had been carried up from the hold. The skiff, a small blunt-bowed craft with a wide beam, was lowered over the side and two oarsmen nimbly leaped down and offered their hands up to assist the passengers. There was only space for the three of them; their belongings would have to be ferried ashore separately. Cato was the last and as he stepped down into the flimsy craft he frantically waved his arms to retain his balance, before sitting heavily on a thwart. Macro shot him a weary look and tutted and then the oarsmen pulled on their blades and the skiff headed towards the wharf. Now that they were closer to Londinium they could see that the surface of the river was streaked with sewage running from the drain outlets along the wharf. In the still water trapped by the wharf lay lengths of broken timber amid the other flotsam, and rats scurried from piece to piece, scavenging for anything edible. A set of wooden steps rose from the river at one end of the wharf and the oarsmen made for them. When they were alongside, the nearest man snatched his oar in and reached to grasp the slimy hawser that acted as a fender. He held on while his friend slipped a looped line over the mooring post.

  ‘There you are, sirs, ma’am.’ He smiled and then handed them ashore. With Cato leading the way, they climbed the steps to the top of the wharf and looked along the crowded thoroughfare between the ships and the warehouses. A cacophony of voices filled the cool spring afternoon and in amongst them were the brays of mules and the crack of whips and the shouts of the overseers of the chain gangs. Though the scene looked chaotic, Cato knew that in every detail it was proof of the transformation that had come to the island that had defied the power of Rome for almost a hundred years. For better or worse, change had come to Britannia and once the last pockets of resistance had been crushed, the new province would take shape and become part of the empire.

  Macro joined him and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Welcome back to Britannia . . . arse end of civilisation.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once the boat returned with their belongings, Macro approached a small group of men gathered outside the nearest warehouse.

  ‘I need some porters,’ he announced, addressing them in his loud, clear, parade-ground voice. At once they hurried forward and he chose several of the burliest-looking men, one of whom had a strip of leather about his head to clear his brow of thick, wiry blond hair. A brand was visible on his forehead, beneath the leather. Macro recognised the mark at once. The brand of Mithras, a religion from the east that was steadily spreading through the ranks of the Roman army. ‘You, a soldier once, if I’m not mistaken?’

  The man bowed his head. ‘I was, sir. Before I took a Silurian spear through the leg. Left me with a limp, I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the lads. Army had no choice but to discharge me, sir.’

  Macro looked him over. The man wore a threadbare military cloak over his tunic and his boots were held together by strips of cloth. ‘Let me guess. You pissed away your discharge bonus and this is what you’ve been reduced to.’

  The ex-soldier nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’

  ‘What is your name and unit?’

  ‘Legionary Marcus Metellius Decimus, Second Legion, Augusta, sir!’ The man straightened to attention and winced before stretching a hand down to steady his thigh.

  ‘The Second, eh?’ Macro stroked his jaw. ‘That’s my old mob. Or, I should say, our old mob.’ He jerked his thumb towards Cato. ‘We served under Legate Vespasian.’

  Decimus tilted his head regretfully. ‘Before my time, sir.’

  ‘Pity. Very well, Decimus, you take charge of these men. Our baggage is over there on the wharf by my friend there, and the woman.’

  Decimus glanced across the thoroughfare and sniffed. ‘She’s a bit old for him. Unless she’s got money . . . Then they’re never too old.’

  Macro gritted his teeth. ‘The woman in question is my mother . . . Now move yourself!’

  Decimus quickly turned away and gestured to the other men to follow. As they hefted the chests and kitbags, Cato tried to get his bearings. ‘Which way to the local garrison?’

  ‘There’s no garrison, sir. No fort. Not even any fortifications, for that matter. There was a fort a few years back, but the place was growing so fast it got swallowed up. That’s where they’re building the new basilica, on the site of the old fort.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato sighed in frustration. ‘Then where can I find someone on the governor’s staff?’

  Decimus thought about it. ‘You could try the governor’s quarters, sir. They’re to the side of the building site. Anyway, that’s where you’ll find him.’

  Cato was surprise
d. ‘Ostorius is here in Londinium?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But the provincial capital is Camulodunum.’

  ‘Officially, sir, yes. After all, that’s where Caratacus came from, and that’s where Emperor Claudius has pledged to have a temple erected in his honour. But it’s too far east. Despite what they may want back in Rome, it seems that everyone here has chosen Londinium as the main town. Even the governor. And that’s why you’ll find him here.’

  Cato took in the information and nodded. ‘Very well, take us to his headquarters.’

  Decimus bowed his head and then, shouldering one of the kitbags, and grunting under the weight of the armour it contained, he limped off into a side street. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Londinium proved to be every bit as unpleasant as the captain of the cargo ship had warned them. The streets were narrow and crowded and, unlike Rome, there were no restrictions on wheeled vehicles in daylight hours. Cato and the others had to fight their way up the narrow thoroughfares crowded with carts, horses and people. Familiar with the streets, Decimus and his companions hurried on and Cato feared that he might lose sight of them. He gestured subtly to Macro to chivvy his mother through the throng. From the dress and features of those they passed, Cato could see that most were from elsewhere in the empire, no doubt in search of easy money in the new province. Portia was going to face stiff competition, Cato reflected, and he hoped that the rank of her son would indeed be enough to protect her interests from the con men, thieves and gangsters who were already preying on Londinium.

  ‘All right, Mum?’ asked Macro.

  Portia stared coldly at a group of tribesmen passing in the street, wrapped in furs and with swirling tattoos down their arms. ‘Savages . . .’

  Cato smiled to himself and then frowned. There was still a way to go before the people of the island accepted Roman rule. Caratacus and his followers might be far to the west of Londinium, but the spirit of the tribesmen living in and around the town was clearly far from broken. If the legions ever suffered a serious setback then it was sure to encourage more than a few of the natives into open revolt against Rome. If the main weight of the governor’s army was concentrated at the frontier, there would be little to stop the rebels sweeping across those parts of the province that the officials back in Rome had already labelled as pacified on their maps.

  ‘Where the hell’s that Decimus and his crew?’ Macro growled, craning his neck, but unable to make much out due to his short stature.

  ‘Twenty paces or so ahead,’ Cato replied.

  ‘Don’t lose sight of the buggers. Last thing we need is to have all our kit nicked the instant we step ashore. I’ll not go back to the legions looking like some green recruit mummy’s boy if I can help it.’

  Portia snorted. ‘If there’s one thing you are definitely not, my son, it is a mummy’s boy.’

  They pressed on, struggling to keep up with the porters ahead of them. As they emerged into a crossroads filled with carts carrying amphorae packed tightly together, there was no sign of the porters on the far side of the junction. Cato felt his heart sink in despair and a sharp anger at Decimus for having tricked them.

  ‘Hey! Prefect! This way.’

  He turned towards the voice and saw Decimus and his companions just over to their left. The former legionary shook his head mockingly. ‘There’s me with my limp, and the officers still can’t keep up. What’s the world coming to?’

  Before Cato could cut in and tell him to mind his tongue when speaking to a superior, the other man raised his hand and pointed towards a large gateway a short distance along the other side of the street they had just turned into. Beyond the wall Cato could see scaffolding and the tall timber frame of a crane rising up against the smoky sky.

  ‘There you go, Prefect. That’s the basilica. Or what there is of it.’

  Without waiting for his customers to respond, Decimus set off again and this time the flow of traffic was such that the new arrivals were able to keep up. When the convoy of wine carts had passed, they made their way across to the gateway and approached the two legionaries standing guard. The surface of the arch had been plastered and whitewashed, but the brickwork on the wall surrounding the building site was unfinished.

  ‘State your business,’ one of the guards said evenly as he ran his eyes over the two men and the older woman, hurriedly assessing their status. The two officers were dressed in neat, new tunics and military cloaks purchased in Rome before their departure. Although there were no insignia to show rank, nor any ornate rings to indicate wealth, the bearing of the two officers and the visible scars told their own story. Particularly the long white line that stretched across Cato’s face from forehead to chin. The sentry cleared his throat and moderated his tone. ‘How may I assist you, sir?’

  ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro.’ He nodded towards Macro before continuing. ‘Just arrived from Rome to take up our commands. We wish to report to the governor’s staff and find accommodation for ourselves.’

  ‘You won’t find much of that here, sir. They knocked the fort down two months back.’

  ‘So I gather. I assume that Ostorius and his staff are not working out in the open?’

  ‘Fat chance of that, sir!’ The sentry turned and lowered the tip of his javelin and indicated the scaffolding surrounding a large, single-storey complex. ‘That’s the start of the governor’s palace. He ordered the builders to finish up the ground floor and get out. Still, they managed to get the hypocaust in before they left so they’re all nice and cosy inside. Unlike those of us seconded to escort the governor. Sleeping in tents outside.’

  ‘That’s what soldiers do, lad.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘If it’s too tough for you then perhaps you should have joined a pansy troupe of actors or something.’

  ‘Come on!’ Cato waved his arm forward and made his way along the path that had been cleared through the building site. On either side, piles of timber, stacks of bricks and roof tiles and cement-mixing troughs stretched out. The foundations for several large structures had been completed and walls, waist-high, demarcated the first great civic building of the new province that would dominate the landscape and inspire awe in the heart of every native who set eyes on it. Hundreds of men were labouring across the site, with a handful of chain gangs being used to carry materials where they were needed. The sounds of their grunts, the sawing of timber and sharp clatter of stones being cut to size mingled with shouted instructions from the overseers.

  Macro nodded approvingly as they passed through. ‘Should be quite a place, once it’s finished.’

  On the far side of the site a gap had been left in the scaffolding to give access to the half-completed building beyond, which served as the headquarters of Governor Ostorius and his staff. Two of his escort stood guard at the entrance. Once again Cato explained their purpose and then turned to pay off the porters who set their burdens down just inside the makeshift entrance. He reached for his belt purse and loosened the drawstrings.

  ‘That’ll be a sestertius, sir.’ Decimus tapped a finger to his forehead by way of an informal salute. ‘Each.’

  Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘By the gods, that’s a bit steep.’

  ‘It’s the going rate in Londinium, sir.’

  Cato turned to one of the guards. ‘Is it?’

  The legionary nodded.

  ‘Very well.’ He delved into the purse for a few coins, counted them out and handed them over to Decimus and the others. ‘Seems like Londinium’s going to be an expensive town to live in. You may leave us . . . Decimus, a word.’

  The ex-legionary waved his mates on and turned to Cato. ‘Sir?’

  Cato stared at him, trying to see beyond the ragged soiled clothing and unkempt hair to the man who had once been a legionary. If Decimus was speaking the truth then his army career had been cut short by the fortunes of war. The same fortunes that had seen fit to spare Cato and Macro through all the campaigns and desperate battles they
had endured over the years. It sometimes felt to Cato that he was sorely testing the luck that had been apportioned to him. Sooner or later a spear, or sword thrust, or arrow would find him, just as it had Decimus and countless others.

  ‘How many years have you served in Britannia?’

  Decimus scratched his chin. ‘I came over five years ago from the training depot in Gesoriacum. Served with the Second against the Decangli before being sent up with a detachment to reinforce the Fourteenth at Glevum. Then two years campaigning against the Silures before this.’ He patted his lame leg.

  ‘All right, then.’ Cato nodded and thought a moment before he continued. ‘How do you like working as a wharf rat?’

  ‘Fucking hate it, sir.’ He hurriedly turned to Portia. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  Portia looked back levelly. ‘I spent the best part of fifteen years living with a marine. So keep your fucking apology to yourself.’

  Macro stared at his mother in shock; his mouth sagged open and then shut quickly as he decided it was best to ignore what she had said.

  Decimus turned back to Cato. ‘But what’s an invalid soldier to do? I was lucky to get a partial pay-out of the discharge bonus. Enough to set me up in digs here, but not enough to live on.’

  ‘I see,’ Cato responded. ‘Well, I may have work for you. Nothing too onerous, but there might be some danger. If you’re interested, come back here at first light.’

  Decimus looked surprised for a moment before he bowed his head and limped away.

  Macro watched him until he was out of earshot and then turned to Cato. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Things have changed since we were last here. Sure, we’re going to get a briefing from the governor, but he’ll paint the scene from his perspective. The usual blend of confidence and underplaying the threat posed by the enemy. Ostorius is like any other governor. He’ll want to make out that his period in office was a great success and he’ll want any letters or reports that we write home to reflect that. So, it might be useful to hear the views of one of Marius’s mules. Besides, I’ll need a servant in camp to take care of my kit. Someone I hope I can trust.’