Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Trust?’ Portia sniffed. ‘That vagabond? He looks like a common crook to me.’

  Cato wagged a finger. ‘Don’t rush to judgement. Appearance is not everything. If it was, everyone would run a mile from your son.’

  ‘They already do,’ Macro growled. ‘If they know what’s good for them.’

  ‘Oh, you!’ His mother lightly slapped his shoulder. ‘You’re a pussycat in tiger’s clothing. Don’t think I can’t see that. Cato too.’

  Macro flushed with embarrassment. He hated talking about feelings and the idea that he even had a sensitive side to his nature filled him with disgust. Feelings were for poets, artists, actors and other classes of lesser mortal. A soldier was different. A soldier was required to put his heart and brains in check and get on with doing his duty. When he was off duty, he should play as hard as he could. Of course, he admitted to himself, some soldiers were different. He stole a glance at Cato, thin, sinewy and, until recently, youthful-looking. Now there was a certain hardness to his gaze and the gawky awkwardness of earlier years had largely gone. He moved purposefully and with an economy of effort that was the hallmark of a veteran. Yet Macro knew his friend well enough to know that his mind was ever restless, steeped in the works of the philosophers and historians that he had studied so earnestly as a boy. Cato was a very different kind of soldier, Macro reflected, and he grudgingly accepted that the younger man was all the better for it.

  He cleared his throat with a deep rumble of irritation before addressing Cato.

  ‘Well, it’s your decision. But why not just buy yourself a slave? You can afford to. And there’ll be bargains to be had in Londinium with the prisoners the army has taken.’

  ‘I don’t want some tribesman. Last thing I need is a resentful native cleaning my sword and having to guard my back day and night, while I’m dealing with the enemy. No, it has to be someone who chooses to be there. If Decimus was a soldier then who better? He’ll be a useful gauge of the men’s spirits.’

  Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Now let’s find ourselves somewhere to put the kit.’ He turned to his mother. ‘You’ll be all right for a bit?’

  ‘I have been for over fifty years now . . . Run along boys.’

  One of the sentries pointed them towards the administration block being used by the governor and they strode across the courtyard towards the entrance. The thick walls of the structure slightly muffled the sounds of construction but there was a thin patina of dust and grime over the flagstones, and building materials were piled around the margins of the courtyard. A handful of clerks were moving from office to office clutching waxed slates or bundles of scrolls. Inside the headquarters, braziers provided warmth and scores of men worked at the long desks filling the main hall. Cato approached a junior tribune bent over his desk reading a document and tapped his knuckles on the desk. The man looked up with a knitted brow.

  ‘Yes?’

  Cato briefly made the introductions. ‘Just landed. I need to report to the governor and we need quarters until we leave for our commands. And a room for a lady as well.’

  ‘Quarters? There’s not much to be had. We had to convert the stable block at the back for accommodation. There’s a few places free. It’s dry enough and the stalls have proper cots.’

  ‘What about a place to stay in the town?’

  ‘You can try that. It’ll cost you and they are pretty grim. Most rooms rent by the hour, if you see what I mean, sir.’

  ‘We’ll take the stable,’ Cato replied. ‘Our kit is by the entrance. Have some of your men see to it that it’s taken to our, er, stall. Centurion Macro and I need to report to Governor Ostorius at once. If you would be so kind as to take us to him . . .’

  The tribune sighed and lowered the report he had been reading before scraping his chair back and rising to his feet. ‘This way, sir. I’ll see to your baggage when I return to my desk.’

  He led them to the rear of the hall and into a corridor lined with small offices. Some were packed with yet more clerks while others were occupied by officers and civilian officials assigned to the governor’s staff.

  The door at the end of the corridor was ajar and the tribune gestured to Cato and Macro to wait while he stepped forward and rapped on the wooden frame. ‘Sir, there’s two officers to see you. Just arrived from Rome.’

  There was a pause before a thin, weary voice replied, ‘Oh, very well. Send ’em in.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Governor Ostorius sat behind his desk wrapped in a thick scarlet cloak. A brazier added to the heat of the hypocaust system and made the air inside the room sweltering. He sat on a stool close to the fire, hunched over several piles of papers and slates. He looked up wearily as the two officers strode inside and stopped a short distance away to salute. Cato saw that the governor’s face was heavily lined and his eyes were deep-set and rimmed with wrinkles. He knew that Ostorius had won a good reputation as a soldier and administrator and was a tough and hard-driving commander. It was difficult to square that with the frail-looking individual sitting before them.

  ‘Introduce yourselves,’ the governor snapped, then coughed, raising a loose fist to his lips until the irritation in his lungs passed. ‘Well?’

  As the ranking officer, Cato spoke first. ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, sir.’

  ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, sir,’ Macro added.

  The governor looked his new arrivals over in silence for a moment. ‘You’ll have to pass your service records to my chief of staff. I’ll read them later. I like to know the calibre of my officers. Given the problems I’m facing here I can’t afford to carry any lightweights. I take it you have been assigned specific commands in my army?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘I’m to command the Second Cohort of Thracian cavalry.’

  ‘A good unit, that. One of my best. Has been ever since the temporary commander took charge. Centurion Quertus has been hitting the enemy hard, by all accounts. I’ll expect you to do the same when you take charge.’ Ostorius turned his gaze to Macro. ‘And you?’

  ‘Appointed to the Fourteenth Legion, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ The governor nodded slowly and then continued, ‘Then you’ll both be joining the main column commanded by Legate Quintatus. He’s a fine officer, but he doesn’t tolerate those who fail to come up to the standards he sets. Be that as it may, I need every man I can get now. Officers more than ever, given the rate at which we have been losing them. I dare say there’ll be a vacancy amongst the senior centurions of the Fourteenth for you, Macro. In fact, I imagine you’ll be one of the most experienced in the legion, for as long as you survive.’

  Macro felt a surge of irritation at the governor’s comment. He did not deserve to be spoken to as if he was some no-hoper, rear-echelon outpost commander.

  ‘I intend to survive long enough to get my discharge and the gratuity that’s coming to me, sir. No barbarian is going to stop that. Many have tried in the past, and paid the price.’

  ‘Bold words, Centurion.’ A faint smile flickered across the governor’s lips. ‘And tell me, exactly what makes you such a dangerous proposition to our enemies in this cold, forsaken island that Rome insists on adding to the empire?’

  Macro was momentarily stuck for an answer as his mind flashed back over recent years. The street fighting in Rome, then the campaign in the sweltering heat, glare and dust of southern Egypt. Before that, the suppression of the slave revolt in Crete and the defence of Palmyra against a horde of Parthians. And earlier, dealing with fanatical Judaean rebels, a secondment to the imperial navy in a campaign against a nest of pirates plaguing merchant ships in the Adriatic Sea. That was after a long period of service with the Second Legion which had guarded the Rhine frontier, before being assigned to join the army that had invaded Britannia and crushed the native armies led by Caratacus. It was a notable period of service by any standard and Macro had won his promotion to centurion on merit – unlike some, who owed their position to powerful fam
ily connections. Yet Macro was not prepared to make a song and dance about it in front of the governor. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I’ve been on detached service for the last few years, sir. Before that I served with the Second, on the Rhine, and afterwards here in Britannia.’

  ‘Detached service? That is something of a euphemism for spying these days. What exactly was the nature of your, ah, detached service?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to tell you the details, sir.’

  ‘Then at least tell me who you were working for.’

  Macro felt uncertain, and glanced quickly at Cato, but his friend’s expression was fixed and unreadable as he faced forward. Macro took a deep breath. ‘The imperial secretary, Narcissus.’

  ‘You worked for that snake?’ Ostorius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you here on his orders?’

  Macro was angered by the suggestion and sucked in through gritted teeth, but before he could respond Cato spoke up.

  ‘If that were the case, sir, then we’d hardly divulge that information. In any case, I give you my word of honour that we no longer serve Narcissus. We are here as soldiers. To serve you, the Emperor and Rome. Nothing more.’

  ‘Your word of honour, eh?’ Ostorius sniffed. ‘There’s precious little of that commodity being traded in Rome these days.’ He leaned back on his stool and rubbed the small of his back. ‘I have little choice but to take your word for it. But I warn you, if I get one hint that either of you are here for any reason other than soldiering, I’ll throw you to the natives and let them deal with you. The Druids have some very interesting ways of disposing of their prisoners.’

  ‘We know that, sir. We’ve seen it with our own eyes,’ Cato responded, resisting the urge to shudder as he recalled his encounter with the Druids of the Dark Moon, back in the early days of his life in the legions when he served as a lowly optio in Macro’s century. Brief visions of the sacrificial victims and the wild appearance of the Druids flitted before his mind’s eye and Cato hurriedly thrust all thought of them aside.

  ‘And what about you, Prefect?’ The governor stared at Cato. ‘How much action have you seen? That scar on your face tells part of the story, but you seem a little young to have reached the rank you hold. Is your father a senator? Or some wealthy freedman, anxious for his family to have a leg up the path of honour? How old are you?’

  ‘I am in my twenty-sixth year, sir.’

  ‘Twenty-six? Younger than I thought. And who in your family has influenced your rapid promotion to prefect?’

  Cato had long since accepted that he would be a victim of his humble birth throughout his life. No matter how good a soldier he was, no matter that his father-in-law was a senator, he would never be allowed to shake off the stigma of being the descendant of a freedman who had once been a slave at the imperial palace.

  ‘I have no family, sir. Other than my wife, Julia Sempronia, whom I married when I achieved my present rank. Her father is Senator Sempronius. But I have never approached him to seek preferment.’

  ‘Sempronius?’ The governor’s eyebrows lifted briefly. ‘I know him. He served as my tribune in the Eighth Legion. A good man. Hard-working and, more to the point, trustworthy. Well, if he’s prepared to let you wed and bed that precious daughter of his then you must have some quality. But do you have the experience to go with the rank of prefect, I wonder?’

  ‘I have had the honour of serving at the side of Centurion Macro ever since I joined the army, sir. My friend is inclined to be modest about his experience. Suffice to say that we have fought German tribesmen, Britons, pirates, Judaeans, Parthians and Numidians in our time. We know our trade.’

  Ostorius nodded thoughtfully before he responded. ‘If that is true then you have a truly enviable record, Prefect Cato. I welcome such men. They are needed more than ever if we are to settle our affairs here in Britannia and turn this bloody wilderness into something that bears a passing resemblance to civilisation.’ He waved a hand. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’

  Cato and Macro relaxed their postures as the governor collected his thoughts and then addressed them again. ‘It’s important that you are aware of the situation here. I don’t know what they told you back in Rome, but any notion that we are merely engaged in a mopping-up operation before the conquest of Britannia is complete is – how shall I put it? – a little wide of the mark. It’s been seven years since Emperor Claudius had his Triumph to celebrate the conquest. Seven long years . . . In all that time we have pushed forward the frontier one painful step at a time. Even those tribes we have conquered, or made treaties with, can’t be trusted any further than you can comfortably spit a rat. Just two years back, when I was about to launch an offensive against the Silures and Ordovices, I gave the order for the Iceni to be disarmed to make sure our backs would be safe from treachery. A reasonable request to make of someone who calls themselves an ally, you might think. But those bastards rose up in rebellion the moment I led my army into the mountains. I had no choice but to abandon the campaign and turn back to deal with them. The fools had holed up in one of their ridiculous earthworks. They soon gave in after we broke into their defences. It was all over soon enough, but I was forced to spend the rest of the campaigning season constructing forts and roads across their territory to keep watch on them.’

  Cato pursed his lips as he recalled the proud but touchy Iceni warrior who had acted as a guide when he and Macro had undertaken a mission deep into enemy territory for the commander of the army that had invaded Britannia. Cato could well imagine how Prasutagus might have been outraged by the order to hand over his weapons. The native tribes of the island were ruled by a warrior caste who would consider being disarmed the gravest insult to their prickly sense of pride. No wonder there had been an uprising.

  ‘While I dealt with the Iceni,’ Ostorius continued, ‘Caratacus took full advantage of the respite to win over the mountain tribes and become their warlord. By the time I could turn my attention back to him he had gathered an army large enough to defy me. Which is why I had to send a request to Rome for reinforcements. Now that I have them it is time to deal with Caratacus and his followers once and for all.’

  Macro nodded approvingly, relishing the prospect of the coming campaign, and the chance to win some booty and possibly further promotion. Though he was reluctant to speak of his ambition, Macro, like many soldiers, dreamed of becoming the senior centurion of a legion, a rank that conferred many privileges and much honour on its holders. With it came social elevation to the equestrian class; only the senators were more exalted, apart from the Emperor, Macro conceded. If there was much fighting in the months ahead then the ranks of the centurionate were bound to be thinned out, as they always were, since they led from the front and suffered a disproportionate casualty rate as a result. If Macro survived, he might achieve command of the First Cohort of the legion one day, and after that the post of camp prefect, and take direct command of the legion if the legate was absent, or badly wounded or killed. The very thought of assuming such a responsibility filled him with hope.

  The governor sighed and stroked the grey stubble on his chin. He seemed to shrink in on himself even further as he pondered the situation in silence for a while before speaking again.

  ‘I am getting too old for this. Once my period of office is over I shall retire.’ The corners of his lips lifted slightly. ‘I’ll return to my estate in Campania, tend to my vineyards and grow old with my wife. I have served Rome long enough, and well enough to earn that at least . . . Still, there is work to be done!’ He forced himself to sit up and return his attention to the two officers standing before him. ‘Even though I am preparing for the new offensive, there is still some small hope for peace.’

  ‘Peace, sir?’ Cato puffed his cheeks. ‘With Caratacus? I doubt he will agree to any terms that Rome offers him.’

  ‘Oh? And how would you know, young man?’

  ‘Because I know the man, sir. I have met him and talked with him.’

  There was a tense silence as t
he governor stared wide-eyed at Cato. Then he leaned forward. ‘How can this be true? Caratacus is consumed with hatred for Rome, and all those who serve in her legions. He rarely takes prisoners, and those that are captured are never again seen by their countrymen. So how is it that you were accorded such a dubious honour?’

  The governor’s tone was scathing, but Cato ignored the slight when he replied. ‘I was captured by Caratacus, along with a handful of my comrades, in the second year of the invasion, sir. Once we reached the enemy’s camp, I was questioned by him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wanted to know more about Rome. About what motivated her soldiers. He also wanted to impress on me that the native tribes were proud and their warriors would never bow their heads to those who invade their lands. He vowed that they would rather die than accept the shame of submission to the Emperor.’

  ‘I see. And how is it that you lived to tell me this?’

  ‘I escaped, sir.’

  ‘You escaped from the enemy camp?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘Then the gods must favour you, Prefect Cato, for I have never heard of another Roman who can claim to have done the same.’

  Macro chuckled. ‘You don’t know the half of it, sir. Fortuna has a full-time job keeping the prefect out of trouble.’

  Cato cocked an eyebrow at his friend. ‘You don’t do so badly yourself.’

  The governor cleared his throat irritably. ‘I was talking about peace, gentlemen. It’s several years since you last encountered Caratacus. Years of continual warfare. Both sides have been worn down by the struggle and I suspect that our enemy’s appetite for conflict is as exhausted as mine. And there are those in Rome whose impatience with the situation in Britannia is growing by the day. Most notably, Pallas, one of the Emperor’s closest advisers. I don’t suppose you know the fellow.’