Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  Despite its battle training, the horse made to rear and the blow missed Cato’s side and tore into the animal’s flank instead. The front hoofs lashed out in pain and one struck the warrior, spinning him aside and throwing him on to his back. The spear was lodged between the horse’s ribs and the animal reared again, tossing its head wildly. Cato felt a stab of terror as he struggled to control his mount, pulling hard on the reins as he shouted, ‘Easy there!’

  In its agony the horse ignored his desperate command and staggered on, blundering into the enemy line, before stumbling over the uneven ground and falling heavily to the right, driving the point further into its vitals before the shaft snapped with a loud report. Cato released his grip on the reins and tried to throw himself from the horse. He felt himself part company with the leather of the saddle, the ground rushed up towards him and he crashed on to the grass. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, he saw a flash of the grey sky and then his face was embedded in grass and mud. He just managed to raise his head enough to see the face of the man he had wounded no more than a foot away, contorted with pain and spitting a curse at his attacker. Then Cato felt a tremendous blow on his back that drove him deep into the ground. He fought for breath, the great weight of the horse writhing on top of him for an instant as the animal let out a long terrified whinny, hoofs lashing the air.

  Cato knew the damage a wounded horse could do with its hoofs and hugged the ground, feeling the painful pressure on his right leg as the dying horse pinned him down. Then he realised that he no longer had his sword in his hand. Quickly raising his head, Cato saw the handle in the grass in front of his face, and beyond that the intent glare in the eyes of the warrior, who had also been trapped by the mortally wounded horse. The other man reacted first, snatching at the weapon with his injured hand. Cato thrust his left hand out, fingers clawing to get a firm grasp round the man’s wrist before he could use the sword. Both were pinioned by the horse as they struggled desperately for control of the weapon. Twisting round, Cato managed to get his other hand into action and grabbed at the bloody stumps of the warrior’s fingers and squeezed tightly. A scream of agony split the air and a moment later his remaining fingers loosened their grip and Cato tore the handle from his enemy and grasped it in his right hand. He stabbed at the man’s chest and the warrior tried to fend the blow aside with his bare hands, incurring further wounds. Drawing the blade back, Cato braced himself on the ground and then rammed it home with all his strength, feeling the point drive into the man’s chest. He tugged the blade free and thrust again. There was an explosive grunt from his enemy, who slumped back, feebly mouthing words as he stared up into the sky, the fingers of his good hand pressed over wounds that pulsed blood between his fingers.

  Cato slumped down on to his elbow, breathing heavily, keeping the crimson-stained sword pointing towards the other man. It was clear that he no longer presented a threat. Cato tried to look round to see how the fight was going but the length of the grass and the trembling body of the horse obscured his view. The ring of blades, the crack of weapons on shields, and the softer thud on flesh and bone, punctuated by cries of agony, anger and triumph, sounded on all sides. There was a sharp pain in Cato’s right leg. He looked down and saw that it was pinned under the heavy leather mass of the saddle. He tried to pull it free but the pain instantly became unbearable and he eased back on to his elbow with a bitter curse of frustration. The warrior’s head rolled to the side and he grinned at Cato’s discomfort, until a gush of blood spilled from his lips and he spluttered and coughed, spraying flecks of blood across the side of Cato’s face. He struggled pitifully as the blood filled his lungs, drowning him.

  ‘Fuck,’ Cato muttered fiercely to himself. ‘I am not going to die here.’

  He tried to free himself again, bracing his left boot against the horse’s rump as he strained his muscles to try and free his trapped leg. But it was hopeless, the weight of the dying animal bore down on the saddle and made the task impossible. At length Cato slumped back on to his elbows. ‘Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .’

  There was nothing he could do, and he held his sword ready and waited for someone to come for him, friend or foe.

  Macro slashed his blade down, grimacing as the edge bit deeply into his opponent’s skull with a sound like the cracking of a large egg. The tribesman’s body convulsed and his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. A moment later the man collapsed beside his weapon, eyelids fluttering wildly as blood and brains spattered out of his shattered head. Straightening up in his saddle, Macro swept his gaze over the men fighting around him. None of the enemy was near enough to present a direct threat and Macro hurriedly assessed the situation.

  The enemy’s formation had broken and now a series of duels were being fought out across the ground in front of the fort. There were plenty of bodies lying on the ground, and Macro could see that perhaps a third of Trebellius’s men were down. The rest were outnumbered and now that the initial impact of the charge had passed, the tribesmen were beginning to have the upper hand, as they heavily outnumbered the Romans. Even as Macro watched, several of the warriors, led by their chief, had surrounded the standard-bearer of the squadron. He held the staff close to his body while cutting at any native that came within reach of the long blade of his spatha. But there were too many of the enemy and one, more daring than his comrades, leaped forward and snatched the reins from the hand of the standard-bearer and savagely wrenched the horse’s head round to unbalance its rider. The chief stepped in and thrust his sword into the Roman’s side, while another man ripped the shaft of the standard away and held it aloft with a cry of glee. Macro could see the mortified expression on the face of the standard-bearer as he used what strength he had left to steer his horse round with his knees and slash his sword across the back of the warrior who had seized the squadron’s insignia. The standard dropped to the ground as the native collapsed and then his comrades fell on the Roman, hauling him from his saddle before they butchered him on the ground.

  Macro saw that Trebellius and four of his men were closer to the fallen standard and he cupped his left hand to his mouth.

  ‘Decurion! Save the standard!’

  Trebellius looked round and saw Macro, who stabbed his finger in the direction of the natives who had finished off the standard-bearer and were already making off with their trophy. Their success had encouraged their comrades and Macro saw that the fight was in the balance. He turned towards the fort.

  ‘Come on, you bastards! Help us!’

  The commander of the garrison had already correctly read the situation and even as Macro’s words died on his lips, the gates opened and the auxiliaries quick-marched in tight formation towards the skirmish. Macro felt a surge of relief as he raised his sword again and looked round for a fresh opponent. Then it struck him: there was no sign of Cato. He felt an icy stab of anxiety at the base of his spine as he scanned the scene.

  ‘Cato! Sir! Where are you?’

  Then he saw the flutter of red in the grass fifty paces away, the thin horsehair crest of the prefect’s helmet, and Macro pulled harshly on his reins to turn his horse towards his friend. Close by lay the bulk of a horse and Macro realised at once that Cato must be trapped underneath. A short distance away one of the natives had just finished off a legionary with his spear and pulled the bloodied tip free. He looked round and the same red crest now caught his attention. With a look of cruel intent he turned and paced towards Cato.

  ‘No, you bloody don’t!’ Macro growled as he spurred his horse forward.

  Cato sensed the man’s approach before he saw him and turned to see the tall figure striding through the wild tussocks of grass towards him. He wore a thick brown cloak over a black tunic and strapped leggings. The ends of a silver torc gleamed at his throat and his hair, drenched by the drizzle, hung lankly across his shoulders. All this Cato saw in an instant, then he strained to free his leg again, groaning with the effort. The horse had bled out and lay still, a dead weight pressing do
wn on the saddle and the leg caught beneath. He turned on his side and propped himself as best he could on his left elbow as he raised his sword and aimed the point at the oncoming warrior.

  The man saw that he had an easy kill and grinned cruelly as he raised his spear and made to strike at the helpless Roman officer. Cato clenched his teeth and glared back, determined not to show any fear at his imminent death. There was only fleeting regret that it had to be this way, slaughtered like a tethered goat, so ignominious, so shameful. He hoped that when his death was reported to Julia back in Rome, the details would not be revealed and that she would grieve for him as the hero he wanted to be. Not like this.

  The tribesman drew back his shaft to strike and Cato tensed his arm. Down flashed the head of the spear, tapering like a broad leaf to tear as great a wound as possible. Cato timed his parry well, not lashing out too soon and risking missing the strike; the edge of his sword connected with the head of the spear with a loud clang and the point deflected away from his throat, over his shoulder and whispered close to his ear so that he felt the brush of air on his skin.

  With a frustrated grunt his opponent whipped the spear back for another attempt. This time he targeted Cato’s sword, viciously cutting horizontally and knocking the blade aside so hard that Cato nearly lost his grip and pain coursed through his fist at the impact. Then the man swung the butt of the spear round and delivered a heavy blow to the side of Cato’s helmet. Stunned, Cato slumped back helplessly and the warrior let out a roar of triumph and raised his spear a last time, to deliver the killing blow.

  ‘No you don’t!’ Macro bellowed and the warrior hesitated and looked round. Then the horse was upon him and Macro threw himself from the saddle on to the spearman and they crashed to the ground side by side. It was a hard landing and both lost hold of their weapons. Macro snatched out the dagger from his belt and stabbed it into his enemy, tearing through the coarse material of the cloak. The thickness of the material saved the man as only the tip of the blade penetrated his flesh. By the time Macro stabbed again he was already rolling away and took a flesh wound in the shoulder. The centurion’s stocky build gave him the edge in such close-quarter fighting and he quickly rose into a crouch and fell heavily on his opponent with his knees. At the same time he snatched at the man’s hair to yank the head to one side and expose the throat. He drew his elbow back to stab his enemy under the chin.

  ‘Macro! Wait!’ Cato shouted.

  The centurion snarled, ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘I want him spared, for questioning.’

  Macro drew a deep breath of frustration and nodded before he muttered, ‘Lights out for you then, pal.’

  Reversing his fist he smashed the pommel of his dagger against the man’s head and knocked him senseless. With a grunt his body went limp and his head thudded to the ground as Macro released his hair. He sheathed his dagger and then his sword and turned to Cato, hands on hips. ‘What are you playing at down there? Sleeping on the job?’

  ‘Funny,’ Cato grunted. ‘Actually, I’m in a bit of difficulty here, Macro. Would you mind?’

  There was a rustle in the grass nearby as a section of auxiliaries, led by their optio, came trotting over to Macro. The optio stopped and hurriedly saluted.

  ‘Caius Lentulus, sir.’

  Macro looked at them sourly.

  ‘Great timing, Optio. You missed the fight. But you can at least do something useful. Get this bloody horse off the prefect.’

  The optio and his men downed their spears and shields and dragged the carcass away from Cato. He gritted his teeth as the movement caused fresh agony in his leg.

  ‘Careful!’ he snapped. Then his boot came free and Cato sat up to inspect his leg. The brass studs on the leatherwork had gouged the flesh below his knee where the hem of the breeches exposed his skin. Blood flowed freely and Cato swore as he struggled to stand up. His leg was numb and he staggered as he tried to take a step. At once Macro grabbed him by the arm and held him up.

  ‘Sir, you all right?’

  ‘Oh, fine, thank you. Next stupid question?’

  Macro looked down at his friend’s leg anxiously. ‘Anything broken?’

  Cato shook his head and straightened up to survey his surroundings. The enemy had been defeated. Scores of bodies lay sprawled on the ground, together with a handful of horses. Trebellius was reassembling the survivors of his squadron and Cato saw that barely half the number that had charged with him were still in their saddles. Several others were wounded, hunched over. A few mounts stood riderless, pawing at the ground. The last of the tribesmen could be seen disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees and Cato quickly estimated that the enemy had lost at least thirty men. The auxiliaries were picking their way over the bodies, finishing off any that still lived. Cato nodded with satisfaction. It had been a quick, violent struggle, but the outpost had been saved, and the enemy had been taught a sharp lesson.

  Then he recalled that Trebellius’s squadron had lost its standard. It would be foolhardy indeed to chase after the enemy into the woods to attempt to retrieve it. A pointless waste of lives. The loss would go hard with the decurion when he returned to Glevum. The army did not tolerate any excuse in relation to the loss of one of its standards, even from the smallest of its units. He would be disgraced and demoted to the ranks at the very least and the stain on his record would never be erased. But better that than lose what remained of the squadron in an attempt to rescue his honour. Perhaps in time the standard would be recovered – once the Silurians had been crushed and their lands added to the province of Britannia.

  ‘Macro, tell Trebellius to get his men inside the fort before he does anything stupid.’

  Macro nodded. ‘I understand.’

  Cato ordered two of the auxiliaries to help him to the gate, and two more men to carry the unconscious warrior. Once his leg had been seen to, and the wounded made comfortable, there would be plenty of time to see what information they could get out of their prisoner.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Trebellius took a step back from the prisoner and wiped the blood from his knuckles with a rag. ‘I think he’s ready for questioning now.’

  Cato nodded from where he sat on a stool in the outpost’s mess. The minor wounds to his leg had been cleaned and dressed, but the knee joint had been badly wrenched during his brief fight with the spearman and made walking an agony. So one of the auxiliaries had fashioned a simple crutch for him to get about until his knee had recovered. It was inconvenient, Cato reflected, but he would recover in a day or so. Which was more than could be said for the spearman who was paying a heavy price for his attempt on the prefect’s life.

  Stripped to the waist, the Silurian’s hands were chained together in front of him and a spear shaft had been passed through the crook of his elbows behind his back. A rope was tied to the shaft and the other end had been thrown over the sturdy beam running across the mess room. Trebellius had hauled the rope to drag the prisoner up on to his feet, then his toes, before tying it off on the beam. After that, he had administered a steady beating to the Silurian’s stomach and face. Not so hard as to cause any disabling injury, but hard enough to cause considerable pain and fear. Trebellius had explained that he had been trained as a frumentarius, an interrogator, and watching him at work Cato could see that he had learned his craft well. Macro sat at a table nearby, hunched over a bowl of steaming barley stew as he watched proceedings. A jar of wine and two cups stood on the table, and another bowl for Cato, which he had not touched.

  ‘Very well.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘Ask him where his war party came from. I want to know where his settlement is.’

  Trebellius translated the question as best he could into the native tongue. The Silurian looked up at Cato and spat a crimson gobbet of blood and spittle in his direction before he muttered briefly. Trebellius wrenched his head up with one hand and slapped him hard across the face.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Cato. ‘What did he say?’

 
; Trebellius released the man’s hair and the Silurian’s head slumped forward. ‘He told us to go fuck ourselves, sir.’

  Macro lowered his bronze spoon and made a shocked expression. ‘Such incivility! I tell you, the prospect of putting a clean tongue in the mouths of barbarians like him makes it all worth while. Decurion, tell him that I’ll go and fuck his sister if he doesn’t show us a bit of respect. And his mother, and his daughters. Shit, I’ll even fuck his prize hunting dogs within an inch of their lives if he doesn’t start being a bit more cooperative.’ Macro waved his spoon. ‘You tell him.’

  There was a brief exchange before the decurion grinned. ‘He says, why would his dogs fuck you while there are still pigs in the world?’

  Macro glared for a moment before suddenly laughing out loud and shaking his head. ‘He’s got balls, this one . . . For now at least,’ he added in a harsher tone.

  Cato gestured to his friend to stop speaking. ‘Tell him that he’s going to reveal what I want to know one way or another. He can make it easy on himself, or we can continue this for the rest of the day. For as long as we like, until we get what we want. There’s no shame in speaking up now and saving himself a lot of pain.’