Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I like to let the enemy know what they can expect if they dare to cross my path. There are others at every route into the valley. And we leave some behind every time we raid a village or clash with one of their war parties.’

  ‘Why?’

  Quertus turned to give him a withering look. ‘It’s obvious. It scares the enemy.’

  Macro gave a dry laugh. ‘Scares our lads as well.’

  ‘Then they should stay out of my way.’ Quertus scowled. ‘I don’t need anyone interfering with my work.’

  ‘Your work? You mean your orders. You’re supposed to be harrassing the enemy, not waging a private war.’

  Quertus shrugged and looked ahead. ‘My valley, my rules. As long as I do what the legate wants.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m in command now,’ Cato responded warily. ‘Things may change at Bruccium.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘And while we’re on the issue, since I am the new prefect, you will call me sir, Centurion Quertus.’

  The other man looked at him, scarcely bothering to conceal his contempt as he replied, ‘As you wish, sir.’

  Cato felt an icy fist close round his heart. A dark cloud of menace seemed to surround the Thracian officer. Cato was cautious, and not a little afraid. He had no desire to provide this man with an opportunity to get rid of any new rival for control of his men. He decided it would be wise to make Quertus aware of the wider picture.

  ‘I expect you have taken quite a few casualties since the fort was constructed.’

  ‘Some. Mostly the weaker men.’

  ‘Then you’ll be glad to know that a column of replacements will be marching from Glevum to join us in a matter of days.’

  Quertus looked at him sharply. ‘More Romans?’

  Cato nodded. ‘Legionaries for the most part. Though those that can ride well can replace some of the men you lost, should I decide to do so.’

  It was a subtle reminder that the Thracian officer would go back to his unit and surrender the overall command of the garrison to Cato.

  ‘When we reach the fort I shall expect a full report from you on the period of your command, together with an inventory of supplies and up-to-date strength returns,’ Cato continued. ‘Then I shall want both cohorts paraded for inspection at dawn tomorrow.’

  Quertus did not reply and Cato felt himself flush with anger. He cleared his throat and spoke clearly. ‘Did you hear my orders, Centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then be so good as to acknowledge them in future.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Quertus replied flatly. ‘If that’s all, I need to check on my scouts.’

  ‘I thought you said this valley was your turf,’ Macro commented. ‘That was the point of the men you impaled for the enemy to see. To warn them off.’

  ‘It does that. And it unnerves them, and it serves to remind my men of the kind of war we are fighting. That is the fate of any men who allow themselves to be taken prisoner. A lesson I think even you two must learn. The sooner the better.’ He glowered at Macro. ‘Even so, there are some enemy warriors made of sterner stuff who we have to look out for.’

  He spurred his mount forward, breaking into a canter as he rode ahead of the column towards the scouts, some distance ahead. Cato and Macro watched him recede, his cloak flapping around his body like a swirl of crows.

  Cato glanced round. The Thracians returned his gaze steadfastly, as if not caring that they were under scrutiny from the new prefect in charge of the fort at Bruccium. Many of them bore tattoos on their faces, dark swirling patterns, unlike the ornate blue patterns favoured by the Britons. Their cloaks and tunics were heavily worn and stained and their equipment was a mixture of that issued to auxiliary troops, captured Silurian weapons and some examples of more exotic design that Cato guessed came from their native Thrace.

  At the rear of the column Decimus was riding by the edge of the track where he could stay in sight of Cato and Macro and be reassured. Behind him, tied to the saddle horn of one of the other mules, was the prisoner, a look of acute misery etched on his face. Cato turned back to his companion and spoke quietly.

  ‘What are you thinking, Macro?’

  His friend replied in hushed tones. ‘Centurion Quertus is not taking it well.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  Macro gestured discreetly in the direction of the men riding behind them. ‘And I’ve never seen such a rabble before, even amongst some of the sorriest-looking auxiliary units in the army. They look like barbarians. It’s hard to tell this lot apart from the natives.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s the intention. That, or Quertus is going one step further and making his men seem even more frightening than the Silurians.’

  ‘They don’t frighten me,’ Macro said firmly.

  ‘Not much does, I’m glad to say.’

  Macro smiled at the compliment and then his expression hardened again. ‘Even so, I don’t like the situation. We’ll have to watch Quertus closely. He’s probably already thinking about how he can dispose of us without drawing too much attention from headquarters.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Cato. ‘And while he continues to strike fear into the hearts of the local tribes the legate is going to want to keep him at it. We shall have to watch our step.’

  Macro nodded. ‘Something else worries me. If this lot are typical of the men at the fort, what else are we going to have to deal with? They’re not going to take kindly to a bit of spit and polish and some square-bashing.’

  ‘No.’

  Cato felt a drop of rain fall on the hand holding the reins and looked up at the sky. A band of dark clouds was blowing in across the mountains, bringing a downpour with it. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and hunched down inside the thick folds of the material. More drops fell and soon the rain closed in around the riders, hissing as it spattered off the ground and turned the surface of the track into a glistening stream of mud.

  ‘You know,’ Macro grumbled, ‘it’s times like this when I wonder if it might not be better to leave these particular Elysian fields to the locals. Why the fuck does Claudius want to add this miserable pit to the empire?’

  ‘Macro, you know how it is. We don’t get to ask the questions. We’re here because we’re here, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Macro laughed. ‘Finally, you’re learning.’

  The rain continued to fall for the rest of the day without let-up. As the pallid light began to fade, the landscape of the upper valley gave way to what had once been cultivated land. Abandoned farms spread out on either side of the track. Some clusters of huts still stood, empty with no smoke rising from their hearths. Others had been burned leaving ugly blackened ruins rising up from the ground like the rotten teeth of an old hag. About them lay neglected fields, overgrown with weeds and wild barley. Close to the track, in the long grass, Cato spied the remains of animals, weathered pelts hanging over bone, lying where they had been slaughtered. There were the corpses of people as well, wizened, blackened faces stretched over skulls with empty eye sockets. More evidence of the handiwork of Quertus and his men.

  The track reached the bank of a narrow river and followed its course as the rain exploded off the surface of the water like a shower of silver coins. A few miles further on, as the last of the daylight began to fade, the riders at last came in sight of the fort of Bruccium. Cato sat up in his saddle and stared ahead. From Trebellius’s earlier description he already had some idea of what to expect and he saw that the site had been well chosen indeed. The course of the river ran around the low hill upon which the fort had been built, providing a natural defence along three sides. An attacker would have to abandon any notion of assaulting the turf ramparts overlooking the steep slopes that fell down to the riverbank. On the fourth side the fort was protected by a ditch in front of the rampart.

  ‘Impressive,’ Macro conceded. ‘Caratacus hasn’t much hope of taking Bruccium.’

  Cato nodded. No matter how brave the natives were,
they lacked understanding of siege weapons. That was why they had placed so much faith in the hill forts they had constructed on a lavish scale. But while they had proved effective in the conflicts between the tribes of the island, they stood little chance against the bolt-throwers and onagers of the Roman legions. The latter had battered down the palisades and gates of one hill fort after another, while the bolt-throwers had scourged the ramparts, striking down any warriors brave enough to stand their ground and show their defiance to their enemy. After that it had simply been a matter of forming a tortoise to approach the breaches in the defences and then charging home to overwhelm the remaining defenders.

  As yet the native warriors were only beginning to discover ways to counter the superiority that the soldiers of Rome had on the battlefield or in siegecraft. It had taken Caratacus several defeats before he learned to avoid pitched battles with the legions and to use the ponderous pace of the Roman army against itself. For some years now he had devoted his energies to striking at the legions’ supply lines, raiding deep behind the frontier and withdrawing before the Romans could react. It had proved an effective and profitable strategy and the raiders had returned to their tribes laden with the spoils they had taken from raiding villas and ambushes of supply columns and unwary patrols. For their part, having lost the initiative, the Romans could only respond to the raids by sending columns racing to the scene, too late to intervene. Inevitably, Governor Ostorius came to the realisation that the long war against the native tribes would only come to an end if there was no safe haven for Caratacus and his warriors. Without the defeat of the Silures and the Ordovices there would never be peace in the new province of Britannia.

  Now that they were in sight of the fort, Quertus and his scouts reined in and waited for the rest of the column to catch up before continuing along the track to the approaches of the fort. There was no vicus, nor any bathhouse built outside the wall. Only the thatched haystacks that served as part of the stockpile of feed for the horses. These were protected by a modest palisade with two sentries on the gate. The track turned up towards the main gate of Bruccium.

  ‘What are those?’ asked Macro, pointing up the slope.

  Cato turned in the saddle and raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the rain as he looked in the direction that Macro had indicated. From the gates of the fort a line of short posts ran down either side of the track at intervals of ten feet for a distance of perhaps two hundred paces. On top of each was a crude orb. Cato felt his stomach lurch as he guessed at once what they were. A moment later his fear was confirmed. Heads. An avenue of grisly trophies, their expressions frozen in pain and terror at the moment of their deaths, glistening in the rain as water dripped from the tendrils of hair hanging from their scalps.

  Cato swallowed as he fought to control the wave of disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. Then, as he looked up at the fort, he saw more heads along the rampart, facing out over the valley as if to warn any onlooker that this had become a place of death and darkness. A darkness of the human soul as black as night itself, Cato thought as he rode beside Macro in silence, passing between the severed heads of the victims of Quertus and his men.

  As they reached the narrow causeway across the outer ditch, an order was shouted inside the fort and the gates began to open, the hinges groaning and creaking under the burden of the heavy timbers. Quertus halted and turned his horse across the track so that he could face the two officers behind him. The rain had drenched his dark hair and cloak, which seemed to merge into one, slick with a dull gleam, like pitch. His beard parted as he grinned and waved a hand towards the gloomy opening beneath the gatehouse.

  ‘Centurion Macro, Prefect Cato . . . welcome to Bruccium.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There was a knock on the door and a moment later Decimus entered and bowed his head in salute. ‘Sir, the last of the officers has arrived. They’re waiting in the hall.’

  ‘Very well.’ Cato eased himself up from the stool behind the desk. ‘Help me with the armour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Decimus crossed the commander’s office to the wooden frame on which Cato’s armour and weapons hung. Two hours had passed since they had reached the fort. The prisoner had been taken to the fort’s guardhouse while Decimus had managed to unpack Cato and Macro’s baggage in the quarters they had been assigned in the fort’s headquarters block. There had been no need for Quertus to remove his kit since he had never chosen to occupy the rooms that had belonged to Cato’s predecessor. The former prefect’s meagre possessions had been left in place and Decimus had summoned the last two clerks from the headquarters staff to remove them to one of the storerooms. The clerks were aged veterans, grey-haired and too feeble to take their place in the ranks alongside their younger, fitter comrades. Earlier, they had explained to Cato that since Quertus had taken command, the rest of the headquarters staff had been plucked from behind their desks to join the ranks of the men that Quertus led against the surrounding tribes. There had been no attempt to maintain the records of the two cohorts in the garrison and the headquarters block had been largely abandoned. Only the two clerks remained, doing such tasks as their temporary commander deigned to give them.

  Cato had changed out of the tunic and boots he had worn for the ride from Glevum. In their place he had put on a fresh tunic and a leather jerkin trimmed with shoulder strips, and calfskin boots which were more comfortable and practical than the sturdy soldier’s sandals that he favoured in the field. He held his arms out as Decimus fitted the back and front plates of his cuirass and started fastening the buckles. Once he had finished one side, the servant shuffled round and started work on the other, clearing his throat as he addressed his superior.

  ‘This ain’t what I was expecting, sir,’ he began cautiously.

  ‘It isn’t what either of us was expecting,’ Cato replied wryly. ‘Centurion Quertus has some rather individual notions about the duties of a garrison commander and officer in the Roman army.’

  Decimus grunted and continued to the next buckle. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this place before, sir. Never want to see anything like it again, for that matter. All those heads. And the bodies left in the ditch. It ain’t right. And those men of his, it’s like they’re in a trance. None of them wanted to speak to me while we were marching to the fort. Just ignored me, though I did see a look in their eyes. Like they were too afraid to talk.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps they were just observing good discipline.’

  Decimus fastened the last buckle and took a step back. ‘Is that what you think, sir?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell my servant what I think, Decimus. Nor do I think it is proper for you to voice such opinions about a senior centurion. Is that clear?’ Cato did not want to dress the man down but he needed to know there were boundaries which had to be observed, unless permission was given to cross them. Cato relaxed his tone as he continued, ‘That’s the official line, in normal circumstances. But the situation here is far from normal. We must tread very carefully about Centurion Quertus for the moment. I need you to be my eyes and ears amongst the rankers of the garrison. Find out what has been going on here. See if anyone knows anything about the fate of my predecessor, Prefect Albinus. But be careful, Decimus.’

  ‘I will be, sir. Since you left me with no choice about coming here, I aim to get out of Bruccium in one piece and get what you promised to pay me.’

  ‘Assuming I live long enough to honour my debt.’

  Decimus stared at him. ‘Do you think we’re in that much danger, sir?’

  Cato looked at him with a surprised expression. ‘Of course we are. These mountains and valleys are home to the toughest, most ruthless warriors in Britannia. They hate us with a passion, and they’ll fight until the bitter end. And it’s possible that we don’t just have to worry about the enemy. I won’t lie to you, Decimus. I’ve never seen anything like this place either. I’ll have to be careful. So will you and Macro. Keep your wits about you at all times, understand?’
r />   ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I hope I’m being overcautious and things aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe in a few days we’ll have a laugh about it.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now for the band.’

  Decimus took the bright red strip of cloth from the stand and passed it round the midriff of the cuirass before tying it off at the front and tucking the loose ends in so that the slack hung in decorative loops.

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Cato.

  Decimus pursed his lips. ‘If it was anywhere else, I’d say fine. But here, you look out of place, sir.’

  Cato did not respond but pointed to his sword and Decimus placed the strap over his shoulder and settled the scabbard to Cato’s right, and then plucked up the collar of the tunic to ensure there was no point at which the neck of the cuirass would chafe against the prefect’s skin. He stepped back to admire his handiwork and forced a smile. ‘You look ready to present to the Emperor himself, sir.’

  ‘One last thing.’ Cato hated vainglory but considered that it would strengthen his position at the fort if the officers realised that their new commander was not just some chinless wonder straight from a comfortable household in Rome. ‘Over there, in that chest. My medal harness.’

  Decimus did as he was told and retrieved the set of polished discs fastened to the gleaming leather of the harness. Cato was gratified to see the frank look of admiration in the veteran’s eyes as he placed the harness over the breastplate. Cato held them in place while his servant fastened the buckle at the back.

  ‘You’ve seen quite a lot action then, sir. They don’t hand these out just for showing up.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Cato smiled briefly. ‘As for action, I’ve seen more than enough. But I’ve got the feeling that I’ll be seeing plenty more, and soon, if the gods have their way.’

  ‘Don’t know about the gods, sir. But I’m sure that’s what Caratacus has in mind for us. And if not him, then Centurion Quertus.’