Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  Trebellius translated and punched the Silurian in the guts for emphasis, but the tribesman groaned and gasped for breath and then clenched his teeth together defiantly. Cato ordered the decurion to continue and Trebellius laid into the prisoner methodically, a steady series of blows to his stomach, head and ribs. The Silurian endured it without saying a word, and merely groaned in pain and sucked in shallow breaths when his tattooed chest hurt too much to breathe normally.

  ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ Cato decided at length. ‘We’d better try another tack. Decurion, let him down and bring him some water and bread.’

  Trebellius wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘I could try applying a bit of heat if you like, sir. A hot iron to the arse can be effective.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Not now. Maybe later on, if we need to. Let’s just try to get him talking. Let him down. Find Decimus and tell him to bring some food and water, and some wine for myself and the centurion.’

  Trebellius untied the rope and the Silurian collapsed on to the ground with a pained grunt as the impact drove the air from his lungs. While the decurion left the room to fetch some water and bread, Trebellius wrenched the spear shaft away from the prisoner, freeing his arms. The Silurian lay on his side, panting, until his breath returned and then he eased himself on to his backside and shuffled towards the wall and sat propped up, glaring at the two Roman officers.

  Macro finished his soup and pushed the bowl to one side. He wiped his lips on the back of his forearm. ‘You know, I don’t think he likes us, Cato.’

  Cato smiled thinly.

  ‘We come all this way to share the benefits of civilisation,’ Macro continued, ‘and this is the thanks we get. Sometimes I wonder if these barbarians deserve us. What do you plan to do with him, once Trebellius has finished his work?’

  Cato tapped the end of his crutch against the instep of his boot. ‘I rather think this one’s going to present a bit of a challenge to the decurion. He’s a hard case, right enough. We’ll have to take him on with us. Tie him down over one of the mules and try questioning him again once we reach Bruccium. I’m sure Quertus has an interrogator in the garrison.’

  The Silurian looked up sharply and for an instant Cato saw the look of fear in his expression before the prisoner clenched his jaw and glared back at him.

  ‘You see that, Macro?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How he reacted when I mentioned Quertus’s name. Seems the centurion’s reputation amongst the local tribes is as infamous as we’ve been told.’

  The door to the mess opened and Trebellius held it ajar as Decimus entered carrying a sturdy wooden tray bearing a jug, three plain Samian cups, a canteen and a small hunk of bread. He set the tray down on the table and poured wine into the cups and passed them to each of the officers.

  ‘Give him some water,’ Cato ordered. ‘And feed him the bread.’

  Decimus nodded and approached the prisoner warily before he knelt at his side. He pulled the stopper from the waterskin and held it out for the prisoner to see. The Silurian hesitated a moment before nodding curtly and opening his lips so that the Roman could angle the nozzle into his mouth. He gulped greedily, spilling water down his front. Once he’d done, he drew back and waited for Decimus to press the bread into his hands. He strained to reach up to his mouth and tore a chunk off to chew. Cato let him eat a moment before he turned to Trebellius.

  ‘Ask him what his name is.’

  ‘His name?’ Macro frowned. ‘What do you need to know that for? You’re not planning on being his best mate.’

  ‘Macro, let me deal with this.’ Cato indicated to the decurion to translate his question. The Silurian viewed the prefect suspiciously for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of giving his name, and then he made his decision and gave his answer.

  ‘Turrus, he says.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato nodded and then tapped his chest. ‘Prefect Cato. The surly one there is Centurion Macro.’

  Given that Trebellius had been beating the prisoner for the last hour or so, Cato decided there was no profit to be had from introducing the decurion’s name. Instead he continued with his attempt to find a crack in the prisoner’s tough veneer. The man looked to be in his late twenties and Cato hazarded a guess.

  ‘Do you have a woman, Turrus? A family?’

  After the decurion had translated, the Silurian deliberately took another mouthful of bread and chewed slowly to buy himself a little time. Cato indulged him, while Macro leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. At length the man swallowed the final morsel of bread and nodded.

  ‘Sa . . .’

  Cato smiled slightly. ‘I have a wife, back in Rome. She worries about me. Can’t wait for this campaign to be over so that I can return to her. Or she can join me here, once the new province is settled and we have peace.’

  Turrus listened to the translation and then replied.

  ‘He says that if the Romans returned across the sea and left this island to its people then everyone could return to their families.’

  Cato shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, it’s not so simple. Most of the tribes have already become our allies, and accepted the rule of Rome, along with all the benefits that come with that. Benefits that come at a price, admittedly. We can’t abandon our new friends to the ravages of Caratacus and his warriors. Moreover, the reputation of the Emperor depends upon bringing peace to Britannia, no matter what the cost, or how long it takes. And you should know that when Rome sets her mind to achieving something, it will be achieved and no one can stand in the way. Tell him, Trebellius.’

  The Silurian listened and then nodded thoughtfully before he responded.

  ‘He says that Romans and Silurians have much in common. Neither is prepared to give way to the will of the other. It will be a long war.’

  Cato shrugged. ‘That may be so. But I doubt it. Our soldiers are the best in the known world. The result is not in doubt, Turrus. Believe it. If the Silures continue to follow Caratacus then they will be led down a path that ends in destruction. Along the way, there is only suffering, for both sides. It would be far better to face up to realities and for the warriors of the Silures to seek peace with Rome. Then I can return to my wife, and you, Turrus, can return to your family. Surely that is for the best?’

  The prisoner smiled and replied in a regretful tone.

  ‘Even if I agreed with you, our desires would never sway those of our leaders. Your Emperor and Caratacus will continue this conflict until the last drop of our blood. So we must fight on.’

  ‘Not you,’ Macro growled. ‘The fighting’s over for you, sunshine. One way or another.’

  Cato ignored his friend and focused his attention on the prisoner. He felt a small thrill of satisfaction at the Silurian’s last comment. So, he was disenchanted with his leader. No doubt there were others like Turrus, many others, tribesmen who had answered the call to arms with full hearts, thinking that it would be a more glorious cause than the usual round of tribal feuds and minor conflicts. Caratacus knew how to inspire the hearts of warriors and the proud tribes of the mountains would have responded eagerly. But instead of marching to battle they had been dragged into a drawn-out war of attrition that had become more bitter with each passing month. Unlike the soldiers of the Roman army, the Silurians were farmers and herders. They would surely long to return to their families and the warmth of their hearths, rather than stalking the Romans through the icy winds and rain of the mountains. It was time to press home his advantage, Cato decided. He forced a smile as he spoke to Trebellius.

  ‘Ask him why he’s afraid of Centurion Quertus?’

  The decurion seemed surprised by the question but shrugged and turned to the prisoner and translated. At once Turrus stopped chewing, then swallowed nervously and stared down at the ground.

  ‘That got his attention,’ said Macro. He made his way across the room and dug his boot into the man’s thigh. ‘Speak up.’

  The tribesman drew his legs close
to his body and hunched down, like a whipped dog, and he began to speak in a low, haunted voice.

  ‘He says Quertus is a devil. That he has burned many villages and slaughtered every living thing in his path. Right down to the last infant, dog and lamb. He is evil and cruel and he worships dark gods and makes blood sacrifices in their name. There is no black deed that he does not inflict upon the Silures. When he rides into battle, he wears the skins of the greatest of the warriors he has defeated. He drinks the blood of those he kills and eats their flesh. Those that follow him are slaves to his will, and follow his example. Wherever they go, they leave death and devastation in their wake. They are . . .’

  Trebellius asked the man to repeat his final words and there was a brief exchange before he turned to the two officers. ‘The nearest Latin word for it is barbarians.’

  ‘Barbarians?’ Macro burst into laughter. ‘Barbarians! Our side? The cheeky fucking sod! Here, Trebellius, stand aside. I’ll show him fucking barbarians.’

  ‘That’s enough, Macro,’ Cato interrupted. ‘Leave him be.’

  The prefect regarded the prisoner thoughtfully. Centurion Quertus clearly had earned himself a frightening reputation amongst the Silures. That was all to the good. If you could strike fear into an enemy’s heart before they faced you in battle then the fight was half won. Of course, the man was exaggerating the details. That was to be expected when rumour fed on rumour. No doubt the centurion’s methods were harsh and he made full use of surprise to achieve his victories over the enemy, but the rest of it was nonsense. The stuff of nightmares. Still, it gave Cato an edge over his prisoner. He glanced at Trebellius and spoke in a harsh tone.

  ‘Ask him where his village is again. Tell him that if he does not give me the location we’ll take him with us to Bruccium and let Quertus continue the interrogation there.’

  As he heard the translation Turrus flinched, as if he had been kicked, and Cato saw that he was genuinely terrified by the prospect of falling into the hands of Centurion Quertus. The Silurian clasped his hands together and shuffled slightly towards Cato and pleaded with him.

  A cold look of satisfaction was on the decurion’s face as he conveyed the prisoner’s words. ‘He begs you to spare him. Don’t take him to Bruccium. Send him to Glevum instead. He’d rather be a slave than face Quertus . . . Then there was some stuff about begging his gods to save him.’

  Cato leaned forward and prodded the end of his crutch into the prisoner’s chest. ‘Then tell me where your village is! Tell me that and you have my word that you and your people will be spared. Slaves you will become, but you will escape sword and fire. Now tell me!’

  Turrus made a keening noise in his throat and shook his head, torn between the dread of facing the enemy who haunted his darkest nightmares and the shame of betraying his tribe. He gritted his teeth and bowed his head as he shrank back into himself.

  Trebellius clicked his tongue. ‘Want me to continue with the interrogation, sir? Another beating might break him, now that you’ve gone and put the frighteners on him.’

  Cato thought a moment. Despite the man’s terror, he would not give up his family. There was a chance, however remote, that the Romans might be set upon before they reached Bruccium. No doubt he would cling to that hope. Until they reached the fort. Then there would be no escaping the choice Cato had forced upon him. The prefect shook his head.

  ‘No. Pick him up. Take him outside and tie him up securely for the night. Make sure he can’t do any harm to himself. You’d better tell the optio to have the men on watch check him from time to time. All right, we’re done here.’

  Trebellius saluted and then hauled the prisoner up on to his feet. ‘Come on, my little beauty, it’s time for some shut-eye.’

  The decurion bundled Turrus out of the mess room and shut the door behind him.

  Cato nodded to Decimus squatting in a corner chewing on a strip of dried beef. ‘I want to speak to the optio in command of this outpost.’

  Decimus struggled to his feet and limped out of the room. There was a brief silence before Macro gestured to the bowl of stew that had been prepared for Cato. ‘Do you mind?’

  The stew had cooled and congealed into a glutinous mass, with a thin film of fat across the surface. Cato shook his head again. ‘Be my guest.’

  As Macro tucked into his second helping his friend stroked his jaw and considered their situation.

  ‘The nearer we get to Bruccium, the stranger things seem to be. Even if half of what our friend Turrus said is true, then we’re really going to be out on a limb. Doesn’t it strike you as very convenient?’

  Macro looked up, spoon dripping small brown clods as he held it in mid-air. ‘Convenient, how?’

  ‘We didn’t exactly win many friends in Rome before we left. Indeed, that’s why Narcissus was doing us a favour getting us posted to Britannia as soon as possible.’

  ‘And here we are, so what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s just that “here” happens to be on the road to an isolated fort as far forward as it’s possible to be, surrounded by enemy warriors and commanded by a man who seems to be a bloodthirsty maniac. It feels to me like we’ve been set up for a fall, Macro.’

  ‘Set up by who?’

  ‘Who do you think? Pallas, it has to be.’ Cato recalled the oily Greek freedman who served as an imperial adviser. With the Emperor growing old and infirm, his servants were positioning themselves to take advantage of the situation when Claudius’s successor took the throne. Pallas had sided with the Emperor’s new wife, Agrippina, and her son Nero. The latter might already be Emperor but for Cato and Macro saving the life of Claudius in an attempt on his life. Cato sighed. ‘We put an end to Pallas’s plot against the Emperor and he wants his revenge, as well as to tidy up any loose ends.’

  ‘Shame that none of the mud stuck to him.’ Macro sniffed. ‘That sly Greek bastard got away with it.’

  ‘True, but we know what he did. As long as we’re alive then Pallas sees us as a potential threat. He can’t afford for us to reveal what we know, even though few people are going to believe us. What could be better for him than sending us into danger?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? I doubt the fort was even built when Narcissus sent us on our way. And your predecessor died shortly before that. There’s no way the news could have reached Rome before we set out.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The specifics are of little account. My guess is that after Pallas learned that we were bound for Britannia he sent a message to one of his agents here with orders to make sure we were put in harm’s way. My guess is that Pallas has a man inside the governor’s staff, if not the governor himself. They would see to it that we were sent somewhere there is a good chance we’ll be killed off. Bruccium fits the bill nicely and the death of the previous prefect meant there was no need to get him reassigned to a new posting. So far it’s worked out well for Pallas.’

  ‘If that’s what is going on,’ Macro said doubtfully. ‘But frankly, Cato, I think you’re jumping at shadows. Our being sent to Bruccium is just the luck of the draw.’

  Cato looked at him. ‘You really think so? After all the scheming we’ve witnessed over the last few years? You know how things work inside the palace.’

  They were interrupted by Decimus as he returned with the optio. They stepped into the mess room and the optio closed the door behind him before saluting his superiors. ‘Optio Manlius Acer, sir. You wanted to see me.’

  Cato nodded. ‘At ease, Optio. Take a seat.’

  The optio looked briefly surprised at the informality shown to him by someone as senior as a prefect and then sat on the bench opposite.

  ‘This is the last outpost before the fort at Bruccium, right? There’s nothing beyond here. Not even a signal post.’

  The optio nodded.

  ‘The thing is, there’s been no report from Bruccium in over a month. Have you heard anything?’

  ‘Heard, no. But I saw a patrol towards the head of the valley ten da
ys ago, sir. A squadron of Thracian cavalry. They looked on for a moment and then disappeared into the trees.’

  ‘But no message? No request for supplies?’

  The optio shook his head.

  ‘Peculiar, don’t you think?’ Cato pressed him.

  ‘Peculiar doesn’t begin to describe it, sir. Before Quertus took command the prefect used to send two squadrons and two centuries of legionaries back to the depot to escort the supply convoy up to the fort every ten days, regular as anything. After the prefect died the routine continued for a while, then many days would go by between supply runs. Eventually the resupply requests and the escort stopped coming.’

  Macro looked at the optio. ‘Why didn’t you send a patrol to investigate?’

  ‘Not my job, sir. My orders are to guard this side of the pass and report back to Glevum on any sightings of the enemy.’

  ‘That’s not really good enough, is it?’ Macro asked caustically. ‘You were pretty slow to come to our aid earlier today, and now this. I’m not impressed.’

  Acer folded his hands together and rubbed a thumb across the knuckles of the other hand. ‘Sir, I’ve less than forty men here. We’re in the heart of enemy territory. If we take unnecessary risks then we die.’

  ‘That’s what you signed up for, Acer. What we all signed up for. That’s no excuse.’

  The optio opened his mouth to protest but saw the cold glint in Macro’s eyes and looked down in shame instead. There was no profit in undermining the optio, Cato decided, and he returned to the subject at hand.

  ‘If there’s been no request for supplies then it means that Quertus and his men are living off the land.’

  ‘Or they’ve been wiped out,’ Decimus suggested anxiously. ‘If there’s been no word from them, then what else could have happened?’

  Macro corrected him. ‘The optio says he saw one of their patrols ten days ago.’

  ‘Quite,’ Cato agreed. ‘So we must assume the fort and its garrison are intact. We’ll know soon enough in any case. If we start out at first light we should reach the fort by dusk.’