Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  Then, when it seemed that the chant could not get any louder, the high priest bent and rose up with a narrow-bladed dagger clutched in both hands. He raised it slowly and the polished steel of the blade reflected the glitter of the flames. All eyes were fixed on the spectacle being played out at the altar. Cato glanced at Macro and saw the clenched jaw and his left hand tightly clutching his right fist as if to stop it creeping towards the handle of his sword. As Cato’s eyes turned back towards the altar, the chanting stopped abruptly, as if the breath had been torn from the lungs of every one of the natives at precisely the same instant. The silence was as awe-inspiring as the sound had been a moment before and there was only the soft distant rustle of a light breeze and the faint crackle of the fires.

  With a shrill, inhuman scream the High Druid stabbed his blade down with all his savage strength. The point plunged into the white tunic over the boy’s heart with such force that his arms and legs jerked wildly and the air exploded from his lungs with a half cry, half grunt. Then his head snapped back, jaw agape as he screamed briefly and writhed beneath the dagger that pinned him to the altar. The blood quickly soaked through the cloth and pooled on the stone surface before a dark stain began to trickle over the edge and streak down the side of the altar. Then the boy was still and the natives whispered a sibilant sound to mark his death. ‘Sa . . . sa . . . sa.’

  ‘Sick bastards,’ Macro groaned through his teeth. ‘Sick, savage fucks.’

  Cato hissed a warning. As the people round the ring looked on, the High Druid set to work with his knife, opening up the dead boy’s chest, and Cato could see wisps of steam curling into the chilly air. Then the Druid leaned forward and dipped a hand in and wrenched out a bloody lump of flesh and examined it closely. The boy’s heart, Cato realised, and his throat tightened with nausea. After a lengthy delay, the Druid lowered the organ and looked round his audience before he made an announcement. There was an audible sigh of relief from the tribespeople.

  ‘The High Druid says that the heart is good and strong and will make a fine offering to the gods,’ Marcommius explained to the Romans in a hushed voice. The Druid turned to a small brazier burning close by the altar and tossed the heart into the flames. The fire instantly flared brightly and a large cloud of smoke billowed into the night sky. Some sleight of hand, Cato reasoned. The Druid had somehow thrown something in with the heart. Still, the effect was impressive and certainly had an impact on the audience who had instinctively flinched at the brief burst of light. Then he realised that the High Druid had disappeared at the same time, just as if the ground had swallowed him up. There was an anxious muttering before the Druid who had escorted the Romans and Iceni to the rings stepped forward and raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

  ‘He says the meeting of the tribes can begin.’

  The governor nodded and stood ready as the Druid continued to address the crowd and Marcommius interpreted.

  ‘He says that you have asked them here to discuss terms for a lasting peace between Rome and the tribal kingdoms of Britannia. Some tribes have already pledged their allegiance to Rome, while a handful still offer resistance. Even without Rome, there are grievances between a number of tribes that had been the cause of long feuds and conflicts. He reminds those who have gathered here that this is the consecrated ground of the Druids and only they have the right to shed blood within the ring. Furthermore, Rome has pledged to give free passage to all who gather here, ally and enemy alike, and there are to be no fights or honour challenges for the duration of the meeting. Any who break these terms do great dishonour to themselves and their people and will surely reap the wrath of the gods as a result. If any of those present refuse to accept these conditions, they are free to go . . .’

  The Druid fell silent and waited for a response, but none came, and no one moved.

  ‘Very well. Then I welcome the governor of that part of our lands presently called the province of Britannia to address the tribes.’

  The Druid bowed his head to Ostorius and backed away to the side of the altar. The governor gestured to his interpreter to attend him and walked steadily into the centre of the ring. There was no sound as he reached his position and stopped, and stared round at the faces watching him. There were no cries of support or jeers or shouts of anger. Just silence. Ostorius cleared his throat and began to speak, and his interpreter broke into the rhythmic delivery of the Celtic tongue to convey his meaning to the gathering.

  ‘I am Ostorius Scapula, praetor of Rome, governor of Britannia and commander of all land and naval forces currently based on the island. I bid you welcome. All of you. Even those who represent the Silures and the Ordovices, sworn enemies of Rome and all that Rome stands for.’ The governor paused for a moment. ‘It has been nearly eight years since the legions landed on these shores. Within the first months we had defeated the most formidable army that the tribes could concentrate against us under the command of Caratacus. Not just once, but three times. Since then nothing has stood before the might of Rome. Not your armies, brave as your warriors are. Nor your hill forts, formidable as they must once have seemed to your eyes. You cannot beat us in battle, no matter how courageous you are. Our soldiers are better trained and better equipped. They have triumphed over the finest warriors of Carthage, Greece and Gaul. We have fought across the tallest mountains, penetrated the darkest forests of Germania and no river has been so fast flowing or wide that we have not thrown a bridge across it in a matter of days. Nothing stands in our way, however long it may take. Once our emperors have given the order, there can only be one outcome: victory. That is the way it is. Rome is good at war. The cost of defying us is to have your towns, villages and farms burned to the ground. Your warriors slaughtered, your women and children led off in chains to become slaves . . . Yet, as we are good at war, so we are good at peace. Rome brings order and wealth for those who embrace us as allies and accept our protections. Yes, there are taxes. But that is the price of living in peace. Accept our laws, our ways, and in time you will come to understand that the Roman way is your future and in your best interests.’

  A warrior stepped forward from one of the tribal contingents, a tall, powerfully built figure. He spoke bitterly, stabbing his finger at the governor to drive home his point.

  ‘That’s Venutius, of the Brigantes,’ said the interpreter. ‘Husband of Queen Cartimandua.’

  ‘Then he’s the king?’

  ‘No, sir. The queen rules the tribe. He is her consort, and does not share her liking of Rome.’

  ‘I see. And what does the consort have to say?’

  ‘He is angry at the effrontery of your words. That you should tell the tribes to adopt Roman ways, here on the ground that has been sacred to the tribes from time beyond memory. He accuses you of forcing us to give up our gods.’

  Venutius’s words had provoked angry muttering and Ostorius raised his hand and called for silence. Once the muttering died away he spoke again through his interpreter.

  ‘Rome has no intention of taking away your gods, or your sacred sites. You are free to hold to your beliefs. Or choose ours, as you will. You can embrace our ways or live much as you do now. That is your choice. But you must learn to live under our rule and our laws. It is a small price to pay for an end to the bitter conflict of recent years. And before that, the continual raids and small wars that raged between your tribes.’

  Venutius listened to the words and responded immediately, in the same angry tone as before.

  ‘He says that is the way of the tribes. How else is a warrior supposed to prove himself? He must show his courage and his skill in battle. If you take that away from him then you take away his purpose in life.’

  Ostorius replied firmly. ‘Then the warriors must find a new purpose. They must learn to be farmers, or they can volunteer to serve Rome in the ranks of our auxiliary forces. That is their only future. You must accept the truth. Your warriors must give up the old ways, or die in battle against the legions.’

  Venutius lau
ghed harshly.

  ‘He says you give him no choice.’

  ‘On the contrary. I am offering him the choice between life or certain death.’

  When the governor’s words were translated there were cries of protest and angry shouts from around the circle and Cato feared that his superior was in danger of pushing the tribal leaders too far. Then another man emerged into the open. He raised his hand and commanded the attention of the others. He was solidly built but had run to fat and his jowls hung heavily, fringed with a neatly trimmed beard. Though he was clad in a woven cloak and leggings, beneath he wore a Roman-style tunic and his hair was cut much shorter than the other natives. He strode confidently into the middle of the ring and waited until he had silence before he addressed the gathering.

  ‘Who in Hades’ name is that clown?’ asked Macro.

  ‘I can guess,’ said Cato. ‘Cogidubnus, of the Regni.’

  ‘The one who sold out to us even before the first boot was planted on British soil?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Macro saw the looks of contempt on the faces of many of the other natives. ‘I can’t help wishing he wasn’t speaking up for our side.’

  The man in the centre of the ring spoke with a clear, deep voice as his words were translated. ‘First I would like to offer my sincere gratitude to the governor for offering us this chance to make a lasting peace . . . You all know me. I am King Cogidubnus. I wish to speak plainly, to speak the truth. I too was raised as a warrior, and have led my men into battle. I have no need to prove my worth to back up my words. I come here to support the arguments of Governor Ostorius Scapula. Rome has indeed proved a mighty friend and ally to me and my people. I can swear to the fact that we have profited from the coming of Rome and what is true for the Regni can be true for any tribe that accepts the hand of friendship extended by the governor.’

  ‘Traitor!’ a voice called out in Latin, and then repeated the cry in the native dialect.

  Cogidubnus frowned as he, and everyone else, turned towards the source of the accusation. There was movement in the native ranks and then a large warrior thrust his way to the front. He wore a hooded cloak and drew it back to reveal his long fair hair. At once there was a chorus of excited muttering. Marcommius shook his head in surprise.

  ‘Caratacus . . .’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The old enemy of Rome strode forward and stopped a sword’s length from Cogidubnus. He scrutinised the King of the Regni with contempt, his fists resting on his hips. Then he spoke, his voice carrying clearly to the fringes of the crowd as Marcommius translated for the Romans.

  ‘You have profited all right. All of us know about the fine palace the Romans are building for you. A luxury kennel for the Emperor’s favourite lapdog. That’s what you are. A mongrel, half Briton and half Roman, begging for fancy tidbits from the table of your master. You have sold your honour for fripperies, Cogidubnus, to your eternal shame.’

  Cogidubnus opened his mouth to protest, but the other man took a menacing step towards him and he wilted, backing away towards his contingent. Caratacus glared at him for a moment, before making a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if swatting away an irritating insect before he addressed the crowd.

  ‘You all know me. You all know that I have fought against the Romans from the first. I have never given in to the enemy, our enemy. It is for our freedom that I have fought so long. While the eagle standards of the legions fly over our lands we can only be slaves. That is the way of it. The Roman governor says that we must change. We must forget who we are and become part of the Roman empire. Is it so easy to give up all that we are?’ He pressed his hand against his chest. ‘I am Caratacus, King of the Catuvellauni. Even though my kingdom no longer exists, I carry it here in my heart. My people, our history, all the honour that we have won in battle, all here in my heart, and I live for the day when the Romans are thrown back into the sea, as they were before when their great general, Julius Caesar, first attempted to steal our land. That day will come, I believe it as surely as I believe in our gods.’ He thrust his finger at Ostorius. ‘The Roman governor tells us we must give up the old ways, or die in battle. He offers us a simple choice between saving our honour or submitting to slavery, like dogs. I have chosen honour and freedom!’

  He paused to let his words have their effect. Some in the crowd cheered him, but many looked on in silence as he continued.

  ‘The governor tells us that our struggle can only end in our defeat. It is true that we were defeated in the early battles, but our will to resist lives on. For long years we have defied Rome. We have forsaken the battlefield for a different kind of warfare. We have attacked their outposts, burned their supplies and picked off their patrols. Slowly but surely we are eating away at the mighty Roman legions, consuming them a piece at a time. All the while, we have been gathering our strength and taking ever more bold action against our common enemy. In token of which, I give you this.’

  He turned and waved a signal to the Silurians. Some men came forward, two holding a third who had the hood of his cloak up. The man stumbled, as if he was drunk, and the others held him up and half dragged him across to the centre of the ring amid the silence of all watching. The three men stopped before Caratacus, who leaned forward and flipped the hood back to reveal a mop of dark curly hair above a thin, drawn face within which there were two darkened and scarred patches where the eyes had been. As he felt his hood being removed, the man shuddered and opened his mouth and let out a guttural animal moan of panic.

  ‘They’ve cut his tongue out,’ said Macro. ‘Whoever he is.’

  Cato swallowed. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  Caratacus gave the order for the man to be released and then he thrust him forward so that he staggered a few steps and fell on to his hands and knees with a muffled squawk of pain and then felt his way forward across the hard-packed soil, crawling away from the harsh laughter of Caratacus and his companions. The enemy leader turned to face Ostorius and his retinue and made a flourishing gesture.

  ‘I return him to you. We took him prisoner a few months ago, along with some others who have since been disposed of. This man was passed from village to village and sorely abused in the process. A pity, since I am certain he would have had a promising future. But it was necessary to prove that the men of the legions are flesh and blood like the rest of us, and just as easily broken. Even men like your Centurion Quertus who we will deal with in due course. For now, we have grown tired of using this tribune for our amusement and it is time for him to rejoin his comrades. Isn’t that right, Tribune Marcellus?’

  He strode up behind the helpless captive and with his boot he shoved the man towards the governor so that he collapsed on to his face. A ripple of cruel laughter sounded from certain sections of the gathered tribes. Others looked on in shock, fearing the inevitable wrath of the Romans when they reacted to this outrage. Governor Ostorius pressed his lips together as he fought to control his anger. Then he turned back to his men and spoke in a quiet cold voice. ‘Pick him up. Get him out of here.’

  Macro was the first to move, striding forward, jaw clenched, and Cato followed him. The centurion leaned down and gently took the tribune’s arm. The other man flinched and instinctively recoiled with a meaningless croak.

  ‘Let’s get you up on your feet, sir,’ Macro said evenly, even as he felt sick to his core at the ruined features of the face that turned blindly towards him. Cato took his other arm and between them they lifted Marcellus up and led him towards the other tribunes and the bodyguards, who looked aghast.

  ‘It’s all over now, sir,’ Macro continued. ‘You’re back with your own kind.’

  Cato gestured to two of the bodyguards. ‘Over here. Take care of the tribune. Get him to the outpost at once and see that his wounds are treated and he is fed.’

  The legionary nodded as he and his comrade took over from the two officers and led the tribune away round the periphery of the circle. Macro watched them for a moment be
fore he muttered, ‘If that ever happens to me, then swear you’ll cut my throat.’

  ‘And answer to your mother?’

  Macro turned to his friend with a dark expression. ‘You’ll be sparing her as much as me, Cato. Promise me.’

  Cato nodded. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Swear it!’

  Cato was surprised by the intense glare in Macro’s eyes. ‘I swear it, on my life.’

  Macro let out a deep breath. ‘And I’ll do the same for you.’

  Cato cocked an eyebrow at Macro’s readiness to end his life. Then the image of the tribune’s ruined face filled his mind and he felt an icy squirm in the pit of his stomach as he imagined himself in the tribune’s place, returning home crippled and useless, and the looks of horror, disgust and pity that would distort Julia’s face when she saw him. Not that he would see it. But he would hear it in her voice. Perhaps there was a woman waiting for Marcellus in Rome, he reflected, doomed to endure for real what he was only imagining.

  Caratacus had allowed his moment of theatre to play out, standing to one side. Now he occupied the centre of the circle again and continued to address the gathering.

  ‘The tribune was in command of nearly a thousand legionaries. All were killed or captured in just one raid. If such a powerful column can be overwhelmed then I find it hard to share the governor’s certainty that Rome will win this conflict. There is not one outpost on the frontier with the lands of the Silures and Ordovices that is safe from my army, not one supply convoy; nor are any of the roads safe for Romans and their allies to travel on. This is how it will be from now, until the day that we have worn away our enemy’s will to continue the fight. Even mighty Rome cannot endure steady losses of men and morale forever. And I say to you all that our will to defend our homeland and fight for our liberty is greater than their will to conquer! In the end victory will be ours . . .’