Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You’re continuing, sir?’ asked Decimus.

  ‘Of course. I have orders to take command of the fort.’

  ‘But things ain’t right, sir. Not by a long way. It would be madness to continue. Not before you know what you’re leading us into.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we will continue to Bruccium.’

  ‘Not me, sir. I ain’t going another step. Come the morning, I’m heading back to Glevum, and then Londinium.’

  Macro smiled. ‘All by yourself? On foot, with that gammy leg of yours? Sounds like more of a risk than continuing to Bruccium.’

  ‘I’ll take one of the mules.’

  ‘One of our mules? I don’t think so, Decimus.’

  The veteran turned to Cato. ‘You can spare me one, sir.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘We’ve got a prisoner to carry, as well as our baggage. But if it’ll help change your mind, I’ll give you a hundred denarii bonus if you stay with us until the autumn.’

  Macro looked startled. ‘A hundred? Are you mad?’

  Cato raised a hand to silence him, his attention fixed on Decimus. ‘If it’s as dangerous as you think, then I’ll need you at my side. And that hundred denarii should set you up nicely in Londinium when this is all over. What do you say?’

  Decimus looked distraught, his fears warring with his greed. In the end he stared bitterly at Cato. ‘Seems I ain’t got any choice anyway. I can’t stay here. I can’t get back to Londinium. The only way is forward. All right, a hundred denarii it is. I accept.’

  Cato smiled thinly. ‘Very big of you. Now, you’d better see to our bed rolls. Centurion Macro and I will be sleeping in here. Then get some rest. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’

  Decimus nodded unhappily and left the mess room. Once he had gone, Macro let out a sigh and muttered, ‘Glad to see that Decimus is willing to stand with us . . . The hundred denarii helped, though.’

  ‘You know how it is. Money talks.’ Cato cocked an eyebrow. ‘Actually, it practically screams.’

  Optio Acer looked up at him. ‘Perhaps your servant is right to be nervous, sir.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I don’t quite know how to put it, sir.’

  ‘Well, try putting it into words, man,’ Macro growled. ‘Before I lose my patience.’

  The optio winced but then took a sharp breath and steeled himself to speak. ‘I don’t know what they’ve told you about what’s been going on at Bruccium, sir, but it’s never been quite right to my mind, since the fort was built. The last prefect was, well, a bit on the weak side. Left most of the running of the garrison to Quertus.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ asked Cato.

  ‘I heard it from the men passing through here on the way to the supply base. That, and more.’ The optio lowered his voice. ‘They said that Quertus rules the fort with a rod of iron and hands out the harshest punishments for the smallest of infractions. They said he had ordered one of the optios beaten to death for questioning his order not to take prisoners following a raid on a local village.’

  Macro sucked in a breath. ‘Good discipline is one thing. But that’s going too far.’

  Cato shot him a look. ‘You think? Carry on, Acer. What else have you heard?’

  ‘The prefect looked the other way for a while, but in the end he confronted Quertus. Told him that he had put in a request to have him transferred to another unit. That was shortly before the prefect’s accident.’

  Macro narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you suggesting, Optio?’

  Acer swallowed nervously. ‘I’m just telling you what I know, sir. You can draw your own conclusions.’ The optio stood up and faced Cato. ‘I’ve said enough, sir. I should see to the sentries. After the attack this afternoon, I’ve doubled the watches. I don’t want to be surprised again.’

  ‘Very good.’ Cato nodded. ‘You may go.’

  Once he had left, Macro puffed out his cheeks. ‘Now they’re all at it. Quertus has got our own side spooked as much as the enemy. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe there’s more to this than I thought.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough. We should reach Bruccium tomorrow.’ Cato stretched his back and yawned. ‘And then we’ll finally meet Centurion Quertus in the flesh.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘The top of the pass should be just ahead.’ Trebellius spoke quietly, as if fearful that they might be overheard. Around them the mist was thick enough to conceal the rocky slopes rising up on each side. The clatter of their hoofs on the loose shale seemed unnervingly loud as the riders slowly made their way up the rise. Cato’s replacement mount was a steady, mild-mannered beast by the name of Hannibal. Fortunately he did not take after his namesake and presented no trouble to his Roman rider. As near as Cato could estimate, it was mid-afternoon. A light drizzle filled the air and coated the cloaks of the riders in tiny beads of moisture. The prisoner had been tied over the back of a mule and his tattooed back glistened in the damp. The stillness and quiet of their surroundings made the men of the squadron nervous and they glanced warily from side to side as they walked their mounts up the track. Cato pulled his cloak more tightly about him and tried not to shiver.

  ‘And what is beyond the pass?’ he asked the decurion.

  ‘The track leads down into the valley, straight to the fort, about five miles from here. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘You’ve been there before then?’

  ‘Once, shortly after it was completed.’

  ‘What’s the layout?’

  Trebellius paused a moment as he recalled the details. ‘It’s well-sited, above a small gorge with a swift current flowing through it. The cliff bends round the side and then there’s steep ground in front of the other two faces which have the usual ditch and rampart. It’s a pretty formidable position and you’d need an army and even a decent siege train to break into the place.’

  ‘Does it command a good view of the valley?’

  The decurion nodded. ‘That too. Though in a mist like this that’s of little use, and mists are commonplace in these mountains.’ He shook his head. ‘Why the fuck anyone, even barbarians like the Silurians, would want to live here is beyond me.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Once we reach the top of the pass, I’ll be turning back to Glevum, sir.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was a brief pause before Trebellius continued. ‘We’ve already escorted you further than my orders required, sir.’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to justify it to me, Decurion. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The decurion nudged his heels in and urged his mount forward to resume his position at the head of the small column.

  They rode on in silence until Macro edged his horse alongside Cato and muttered, ‘I hope we will be fine. If laughing boy’s Silurian friends are still around I don’t give much for our chances when Trebellius and his lads about face.’

  ‘If the enemy are as scared of Quertus as our prisoner seems to be then I don’t think we’re going to be in any danger once we enter the valley. Not from the Silurians, at any rate.’

  Macro flashed him a searching look. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You heard what Acer said about the previous prefect. Seems that I might have to be careful I don’t go the same way.’

  Macro glanced round anxiously before he responded in an undertone, ‘You really think Quertus would do something like that? Bump off his commander in the middle of a campaign?’

  ‘Can you think of a better time to do it? With the enemy close at hand and casualties piling up, who is going to question one more death? As long as a killer is careful not to be too obvious he could get away with murder. From the sound of things, Centurion Quertus is a man with a pretty ruthless streak, who doesn’t let anyone stand in his way.’

  ‘That may be true,’ Macro mused. ‘But still.’

  ‘But still, what?’ Cato said tersely. ‘We’ve known men do worse things, Macro. Far worse.’

  ‘And there was me thinking that we only had to watch ou
r backs when in Rome.’ Macro swore under his breath. ‘Fuck, what is it with us, Cato? Everywhere we end up we need eyes in the back of our heads. It’s like we’re cursed or something. I thought we’d left that all behind when we came back to Britannia.’

  They continued in silence for a while as the track levelled out and then there was a shout from the man riding point. At once Trebellius gave the order to halt and called for the rider to make his report.

  ‘Something ahead, sir, on the track!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can’t quite make it out. There was a gap in the mist, now it’s gone again.’ The man’s voice betrayed his nervousness and Macro flicked his reins to urge his horse forward.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Come on.’

  For a moment Cato felt a spark of irritation at his friend taking the initiative before he could react. Then Cato kicked his heels into Hannibal’s flanks and set off after Macro. As they passed the decurion, Macro gestured to him. ‘You too, sunshine.’

  The three officers trotted along the track for a hundred paces before they saw the figure of the point rider emerge from the swirling mist, his spear already in his hand as he stared into the gloom beyond.

  ‘What did you see?’ Macro demanded as they reined in beside the soldier. ‘Out with it, lad!’

  ‘There was something on the track, sir.’

  ‘Something?’ Macro growled. ‘Try being more specific. Something, or someone?’

  The soldier swallowed. ‘I thought I saw a man, sir, standing on the track. Just for a moment, before the mist thickened.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He didn’t seem to move. Not even when I called to challenge him. He made no reply, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro squinted ahead for a moment. ‘And nothing since then. No sign of movement? No sound?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing.’

  Macro turned to Cato. ‘What do you think?’

  Cato felt his heartbeat quicken and suppressed the urge to tremble that was building at the base of his spine. He swallowed before replying as steadily as he could, ‘I think we should see for ourselves, Centurion.’ He turned to the decurion. ‘Trebellius, if you hear anything, come forward at once with your men. Understand?’

  Trebellius nodded and made no offer to join his superiors as they walked their horses forward.

  The mist hung across the landscape like a veil wafting in the lightest of airs. Thicker one moment and then thinning in patches before it closed in again. An eerie quiet and sense of menace pressed in from all sides. Then a fluke in the light breeze revealed the track before them and they saw a thin shape emerge from the mist fifty paces ahead. At once the two halted their horses.

  ‘What’s that?’ Macro squinted. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. Is that a man?’

  ‘I think so, but he’s not moving.’

  If it was a man, there was something odd about his posture, Cato decided. He drew a deep breath and called out, ‘Who goes there?’

  There was no reply, and still no sign of movement, and after a short interval Cato walked his mount on, followed closely by Macro.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ the centurion muttered. ‘What if it’s another ambush?’

  ‘If it is then they’re doing their level best not to catch us by surprise.’

  Despite his calm tone, Cato’s heart was pounding inside his chest and his hands felt clammy with anxiety as he led the way along the track. He glanced to each side, straining his eyes and ears for any sound of movement, but all was as before. Ahead, the figure slowly resolved into a firm outline as they approached. It was clearly a man, and at last they could see why he had made no movement nor responded to Macro’s challenge. He was naked and impaled on a stout wooden stake that had been driven into the middle of the track. The man’s pale, mottled skin was covered in painted native designs and his limbs and head hung lifelessly. As they drew closer, Cato could see that the stake had been driven up under his groin and the wood was covered in a dark stain that had also pooled on the ground around the base of the stake.

  ‘What in Hades’ name is this?’ Macro asked softly.

  ‘A marker, I should think. Quertus is setting out the boundary of his territory and warning those who dare to enter the valley.’

  ‘Warning who? The enemy, or us?’

  ‘Both, I should think. Why else put it here, where one of our patrols might encounter it?’ As he spoke the last word, it caught in his throat as he spied another body on a stake, off to one side of the track, then another opposite, forming a line across the route leading into the valley beyond. ‘There’s more of them, Macro. Look.’

  He pointed them out and his friend swore. They gazed at the bodies a moment before Macro turned back and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Decurion! Bring your men on! It’s safe.’

  Cato shot him a surprised look. ‘Safe?’

  ‘These three aren’t going to pose much of a threat, are they?’

  Cato glanced at the bodies. ‘No, not them.’

  There was a dull rattle of hoofs on loose stones as Trebellius and the rest of the column emerged from the mist and reined in in front of the line of stakes. Even though most of the soldiers had experienced the horrors of war, Cato could see the ashen expression on the faces of the men nearest to him. The prisoner, hanging over the back of one of Decimus’s mules, looked up and his eyes were wide in terror at the sight of the impaled men. He began to speak quickly, in a desperate pleading tone.

  ‘Decimus!’ Macro called out. ‘Shut him up.’

  Decimus tore his gaze away and nodded. He turned his mule back to the prisoner and raised his fist menacingly. Turrus flinched, and clamped his jaw shut, watching the Roman warily.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Trebellius.

  ‘Silurians, I’d guess.’ Cato pointed to the markings on the nearest man. ‘We can find out soon enough. Decimus! Bring the prisoner forward.’

  The mules trotted up. Turrus’s jaw sagged slightly at the sight of the three bodies and then he started to tremble.

  ‘Ask him if these are his people?’

  Trebellius translated the question and Turrus nodded anxiously.

  ‘Then this is the work of Quertus, all right,’ said Macro. ‘Only thing that makes sense.’

  He was about to continue when there was a soft groan from the man to the right. The heads of the riders turned towards the figure and Cato saw that he was moving feebly, his feet struggling against the rough wood of the stake.

  ‘Dear Mithras.’ Decimus’s voice wavered. ‘He’s alive.’

  Cato swung his leg over the saddle horns, slipped to the ground and strode through the tussocks of grass towards the man. Macro came after him as the others looked on. When they reached him, Cato could see that he was a young warrior, no older than twenty, thin-limbed, with his matted hair plastered to his head and straggling over his shoulders. His eyes were half open and rolled up as he let out a thin, keening groan of agony. Cato watched as he tried to press the soles of his feet against the stake and lift his weight up. But each time his feet slipped on the damp wood and his groin settled again on the point with a horrible sucking creak and he let out a moan. Then Cato understood. He was not trying to get himself off the stake, only hoping to put an end to his agonies by driving the point further into his vital organs. Cato felt his stomach knot tightly in disgust and nausea. He opened his mouth, ready to order Macro to put the Silurian out of his misery, but then stopped himself. If that was his wish, then he had no right to force it on his friend. Cato gritted his teeth and drew his sword. Hesitating briefly, he steeled himself to the task and then stepped forward and raised the point until it touched the bare flesh of the man, just below his ribcage. The Silurian’s eyes opened wide and he glanced at Macro before fixing his gaze on Cato below him. The eyes were a piercing blue, Cato noted, desperately trying to focus his attention away from other details.

  The Silurian mumbled something between hi
s cracked lips, softly spoken words, in a pleading tone, and then he nodded and winced at the terrible pain that even such a slight movement caused him.

  Bunching his muscle, and drawing the sword back a short distance, Cato punched it up through the soft skin, under the ribs, until the point fetched up against bone. The Silurian flung his head back and let out a sharp gasp. His body tensed as Cato twisted the blade, left and right, and then ripped it free. A rush of blood followed the blade and spattered down on to the ground below the stake, where a barely visible curl of steam licked into the air. The Silurian began to tremble violently and his breathing came in snatched, ragged gasps, growing weaker all the time until at length his body went limp and his head slumped down on his breast. The body hung in the cold air like a side of meat in a butcher’s shop. Cato fought to keep his expression neutral as he bent down to wipe the blade clean on a tussock of grass. He removed as much of the blood as he could before straightening up and thrusting his sword back into its scabbard with a sharp snap. He looked round to see the other men watching him.

  ‘We’re finished here. Time to move on.’

  There was a pause before Trebellius cleared his throat. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but this is where my men and I turn back.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This is where the valley starts, sir. Like you said yourself, these bodies mark the turf controlled by the fort. You’ll be safe until you reach your new command now.’

  Cato stared at the decurion and saw that he was doing a poor job of disguising his fear.

  ‘You may be right, but I would prefer it if you and your men escorted us to within sight of the fort before leaving us. Just so that you can report back to the legate that we arrived in one piece and didn’t disappear somewhere along the route. If you understand me.’

  Trebellius nodded slowly. ‘I understand, sir. But, as I said, I’m turning back.’

  This was too much for Macro who turned on the decurion with a ferocious glare. ‘Abandoning us, more like. You coward! What are you afraid of?’ Macro gestured to the bodies hanging on the stakes. ‘You think these cunts are going to jump down and give you a good hiding? Trebellius, for the gods’ sake, grow a pair!’