‘That is for me to decide now,’ Cato responded firmly. He took a deep breath and faced the door, pausing a moment to collect his thoughts and calm his troubled mind. Then he picked up the leather document holder that contained his authority to assume command of the garrison and strode towards the door. He stepped out into the corridor and made his way towards the main hall of the headquarters block, his boots echoing off the walls.
The centurions and optios of the Thracian unit and the cohort of infantry from the Fourteenth Legion were sitting on a series of benches as Cato entered the hall. The space was lit by tallow lamps set in iron brackets along the walls, and heated by a brazier burning at one end.
As soon as Cato entered, Macro shot to his feet and barked out, ‘Commanding officer present!’
The other men hesitated until Quertus rose slowly to his feet and then they followed his lead. Cato made his way round the room to the space in front of the officers and indicated to Macro that he was ready.
‘At ease!’
The officers sat down and Cato gave them a moment to make themselves comfortable, and to run his eye over the men he now commanded. He had assumed that there would be a marked difference between the appearance of the officers of the Thracian cavalry cohort and those from the legion. Instead he was shocked to see that nearly every man was unshaven, with uncut hair tied back in the manner of Centurion Quertus. Only two of the centurions from the Fourteenth and their optios were recognisably Roman, with cropped hair and standard-issue tunics and boots. Cato felt his heart sink at the sight, and knew that he faced even more of a challenge than he had thought. He took a breath and clasped his authorisation in his hands behind his back.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. If this fort is like any other then word will already have got round about my arrival, but, for the record, I am Prefect Cato, appointed to command the garrison at Bruccium.’ He held the document holder up and flipped open the lid of the tube before extracting the authorisation bearing the Emperor’s seal. He raised it so all could see and then returned it to the leather case. He indicated Macro. ‘The other officer is Centurion Macro, taking up the command of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth. Before I commence the briefing I wish to know more about the men I shall be commanding. One officer at a time.’
Before Cato could choose the first, Quertus was on his feet, arms folded. ‘Very well. I am Centurion Sycharus Quertus of Dacia. I was a prince among my people before I was forced to flee after my father was murdered. I was raised in Thrace, where I was conscripted into the regiment and sent to serve on the Rhine. There I remained until the regiment was ordered to join the army gathering for the invasion of Britannia. In the following campaigns I was promoted to optio and then centurion and twice decorated for valour in battle. On the death of Prefect Albinus, I became commander of the cohort, and the fort, and since then we have carried the war into the heart of Silurian territory and burned scores of villages and slaughtered thousands of the enemy. I have made Rome a word to be feared in the lands between Glevum and the sea. The enemy know my name, and it strikes terror into the hearts of all who hear it.’ He stretched out his arms and clenched his fists. ‘I am Quertus, the destroyer of all who dare stand in my path! None can defeat me!’
The other officers stamped their feet in approval and Quertus basked in their praise until he lowered his arms and they instantly fell silent again. He turned to Cato with a cold smile of satisfaction. ‘These officers are my brothers. They command my horse squadrons.’ He indicated them each in turn. ‘Fermatus, Cremax, Stellanus, Pindarus, Mithridates and Miro. Brave warriors all. Those others,’ he nodded to the legionary centurions, ‘they are infantry. Centurions Publius Severus and Gaius Petillius. They are tasked with defending the fort, since that is all they are fit for.’
The two centurions flushed with anger and shame but dared not respond to the insult directed at them. Quertus glared contemptuously at them before he turned his gaze back to Cato and cocked his head slightly to one side.
‘For months now we have waged our war against the Silurians, without interference from the legate at Glevum. I did not request anyone to replace Prefect Albinus. With respect, sir, you are not required, nor wanted here. You should return to Glevum. Tell the legate that I am carrying out his orders and will continue to do so until Silurians only exist in memory.’
Cato could see the blood draining from Macro’s face as he listened to this torrent of insolence and feared that his friend would intervene. He stepped between them and faced Quertus.
‘Centurion, you don’t get to say who is required here and who is not. You, and I, are subject to the rules and regulations of the Roman army. We have both sworn an oath to the Emperor to obey those he places over us without question. I have been ordered to assume command here and you will recognise my authority to do so. We both know the severe penalties that are applied to those who refuse to obey their orders. In recognition of the success of your operations here, I will, on this occasion, overlook your insubordination and put it down to the consequences of the zeal with which you have taken the war to the enemy. But I will not tolerate such behaviour from you again. Is that understood?’
Quertus stared at Cato with a bemused expression that only angered, and alarmed, Cato even more. Quertus bowed his head mockingly.
‘As the prefect wishes . . .’
‘I do. Sit down,’ Cato said firmly and, to his relief, the Thracian did as he was told. Cato waited a moment for the tension in the atmosphere to ease. ‘Regardless of the success you have enjoyed in recent months, the aim of the governor’s campaign must be kept in mind. The purpose of constructing forts like Bruccium is to restrict the movements of the enemy and to harass the tribes with a view to forcing Caratacus to concentrate his forces to deal with us. It is at that point that the main Roman army can advance against the enemy and try to force them into a decisive battle. If we crush the Silures and the Ordovices then Caratacus will be a spent force. No other tribe will be prepared to let him lead them to defeat. And since there is no more able commander amongst the natives, then the threat to Roman interests in Britannia will be dealt with, once and for all. My task is to see that the garrison of Bruccium plays its part in this overall plan. I will not tolerate any officer, or soldier, who does not understand and accept their duty. This garrison is part of the Roman army, and I will see to it that it conforms to the standards expected of Roman soldiers. The first step along that road will be a full inspection of every man in the garrison at first light tomorrow. I shall also want strength returns, inventories of kit, food supplies for the men and feed for the horses. Those records will be kept up to date and relevant copies sent to the headquarters staff. There will be changes in the way the garrison operates from now on and you would be wise to cooperate as fully as possible.’ He paused briefly. ‘Until tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Dismissed!’
Once again there was a pause while the officers waited for Quertus to provide the lead. He stood up and turned to them. ‘You heard the prefect. Dismissed!’
They rose obediently and began to file out of the hall. Meanwhile, Cato fought hard to suppress the humiliation that burned in his veins. He waited until there were only a couple of officers remaining, and Quertus, before he called out to him.
‘Centurion Quertus. A word, if you please.’
Quertus shrugged and turned back and sat on one of the rearmost benches while the last of the officers disappeared into the corridor outside, casting curious looks over their shoulders. Macro remained where he stood.
‘Want me to remain behind as well, sir?’
‘No need, Centurion. You may go.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Macro saluted smartly and marched from the hall.
As the door closed, Cato turned his attention to the thickset Thracian. Now that he had removed his cloak and sat in his tunic, Cato could see that he was even more powerfully built than he had thought. The man had a physique to match the best of the wrestlers in the arena at Rome and his glowering fea
tures were enough to arm him with an irresistibly intimidating demeanour. Cato had to forcibly remind himself of his superior rank, and the need to ensure that it was honoured. He narrowed his eyes a fraction as he stared at the Thracian.
‘What is going on here?’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Don’t play the fool with me, Quertus! The men look like savages, and the bodies, and heads, you have put on display... It’s beyond any notion of what is acceptable. It is not civilised.’
‘Spare me your fine sentiments, Prefect. We are at war. We are not playing at war.’ He gestured contemptuously at Cato’s polished armour and medals. ‘There is no place for civilised values here. Rome has been fighting the mountain tribes for the last six years with precious little result. I have lost many comrades in the struggle, men I was close to. The people who live in these lands are the real savages. They are fanatical in their hatred of Rome and they are driven on by the Druids. Until they are wiped out, and their Druids with them, there will be no Roman peace in the province. I’ve fought them long enough to know that they will keep on fighting Rome until the last drop of their blood. Every defeat only hardens their resolve. There is only one way to break their spirit and bring this to an end.’
‘And what would that be?’
The Thracian leaned forward and his eyes bored into Cato’s. ‘You have to show them no mercy. Show them that we can be even more savage, cruel and ruthless, than the darkest of their Druids. I make them afraid. So afraid that they will think of me in their every waking thought with dread, and I will be there haunting their dreams with visions of blood and fire.’
‘That is the reason for the gruesome displays that surround the fort?’
‘Of course, and also the reason why I encourage the men to adopt an even more barbaric look than the enemy.’
‘On that, I congratulate your achievement,’ Cato responded acidly. ‘But there is more to it than that, isn’t there?’
Quertus did not reply for a moment, and then smiled thinly at Cato. ‘Very good. You’re right, Prefect. My tactics and the appearance of my men is only part of the plan. What’s more important is that the men think and act like savages when the time comes. That’s something you can’t simply order them to do. They must do it without thinking. They must become more barbaric than the barbarians they are fighting. Only then can we win. And we are winning. Every village we destroy, every man, woman and child we slaughter, every mutilated body we display serves to weaken the resolve of our enemy.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘When we first built this fort the Silurians would attack us every night. They ambushed our patrols, massacred our forage parties and taunted us with the heads of our comrades. When I took command we put their farms to the torch, destroyed their villages and drove every last one of them out of the valley – those we didn’t put to the sword. Then we moved on to the surrounding valleys and made sure that they understood who was responsible for their suffering. Word of our actions spread and soon we began to encounter entire villages that had been abandoned. Fear is like any other contagion, it spreads from man to man and weakens the resolve, and the ability, to resist. We are close to breaking their spirit. I know it. Another month is all it will take. Then they will come to us on their knees, begging for peace on any terms.’
Cato listened in silence, taking it all in. It made sense of what he had seen, he reflected, but there was something that Quertus was holding back. And besides, it did not excuse the challenge to his authority. Above all, there was still the matter of the circumstances surrounding the death of the previous prefect.
‘This . . . success of yours has come at a cost, I should think. How many men have you lost since taking command here?’
‘No more than Rome can afford.’
‘How many?’
‘I haven’t been keeping strength returns.’
‘But you must have some idea,’ Cato insisted.
Quertus folded his hands. ‘There is a price for success in war. A price that is paid in men’s lives. It has cost my cohort over half of its men. I made good the losses from those legionaries who volunteered to take their places. And there are many who freely volunteered. And some who did not. Men like Petillius and Severus who did not have the stomach for such work. They were left to defend the fort when I led the rest to fight the enemy. But now we are short of legionaries. It is good that we can expect reinforcements. Enough men to finish what I started.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.
‘Quertus, I am in command now. I will decide what happens next.’
The Thracian regarded him coolly. ‘You would be wise to let me continue my work . . . sir.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Cato asked, resisting the urge to let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword.
Quertus was still for a moment before he shook his head. ‘We are on the same side. We work for the same ends. It is simply a question of method, and I believe that mine works. Let me show you. Come on the next raid and judge for youself. I understand that you witnessed a Silurian war band attacking the outpost in the next valley.’
‘Yes. And how exactly did you come to understand that?’
‘One of my scouts saw it. He reported it to me and we set out to hunt down the Silurians. Instead we found you. And your prisoner. Once I have questioned him and we have the location of his village we can make an example of them.’
‘I’d prefer to have Centurion Macro interrogate him.’
‘Has he been trained in interrogation techniques?’
Cato allowed himself a light smile. ‘He, uh, got his training on the job. Macro can loosen a man’s tongue if anyone can. But that can wait until tomorrow.’
Quertus nodded thoughtfully. ‘As you wish, sir.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Centurion. I am not sure what to make of your activities in the last few months. I need to consider the situation. We’ll talk more tomorrow, after the inspection.’
‘The men don’t need inspecting, sir.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Cato yawned.
The Thracian stood up. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Not quite. I want the heads removed from the fort’s walls, by tomorrow.’
Quertus inclined his head in the slightest of salutes before he turned and left the hall. Once he was alone, Cato slumped down on the chair and lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He instinctively disliked and distrusted the Thracian officer. Yet the man had made a reasoned case for his extreme methods and perhaps there was some merit to them. The strains of the long ride from Glevum were beginning to tell and it was hard for Cato to think. He needed rest. A decent sleep to ready his mind for tomorrow, which was sure to be a testing day.
Stifling another yawn he stood up and stretched his shoulders, feeling a satisfying crack in one of his joints. He left the hall, and saw no sign of Macro in the corridor. He felt vaguely uneasy about going to his quarters without knowing that his friend was safe in this strange fort with its garrison of soldiers intoxicated by Quertus’s thirst for war. But Macro was tough enough to look after himself, Cato decided. He walked slowly to his quarters and shut the door behind him. He hesitated a moment before slipping the bolt into place, locking it shut. Then, for good measure, he dragged a document chest against the inside of the door before heading for the sleeping chamber.
Cato removed his sword, struggled out of his harness and unbuckled his armour before setting it all down on the floor beside his cot. Then he eased himself down on to the cot and lay on the thin mattress stuffed with horsehair and closed his aching eyes with relief. For a moment he reviewed the conversation he had had with Quertus, before his mind started drifting. The last image that filtered through his thoughts was the young Silurian impaled at the head of the pass leading into this valley of death. Cato frowned at the image, and knew it was a harbinger of worse sights to come. Then at last he fell into a troubled sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Hey!’ Macro called out to the other
centurion as he followed him out of the building into the darkness of the small courtyard at the front of the fort’s headquarters. A single torch flared in a bracket above the entrance gate, though the other officers had already left. ‘Severus!’
The man stopped and turned to face Macro, who grinned.
‘I knew it was you! By the gods, man, how long has it been?’ Macro strode up to him and clasped him by the shoulders. The centurion was thin and his face looked drawn. A thin fringe of wiry grey hair ringed his head and his bald crown gleamed dully in the light of the torch flame. ‘You’ve changed, Severus. I almost didn’t recognise you. What happened to that athletic legionary with the fine head of blond hair? The one who broke the hearts of all the local women in the vicus outside the Second Legion’s fortress?’
‘He grew old, and fearful,’ Severus replied quietly. He glanced past Macro towards the corridor leading to the hall. ‘Will the prefect be keeping Quertus for long?’
‘If I know Cato, they’ll be talking for a good while yet.’
Severus looked relieved and he offered Macro a tired smile. ‘Well, at least you haven’t changed that much. Still the same bull of a man with coarse curly hair you could brush your boots with.’
‘So you recognised me too then?’
‘The moment I saw you in the hall.’
‘Then why didn’t you say? I doubt there’s any of the original training section left these days. Fuck, it’s good to see a familiar face in this nightmare of a place.’
Severus’s smile faded. ‘It’s a nightmare all right.’
‘And that Quertus is a piece of work. A regular cold killer.’
Severus stared back at Macro. ‘You don’t know the half of it. That’s why I didn’t say anything about recognising you back in the hall. I’m in enough danger already without drawing any more attention to myself.’
‘Danger? What do you mean, Severus?’
The other man looked around anxiously, but nothing moved in the shadows of the courtyard. They were alone. ‘Look here, Macro, we need to talk. But not here. Let’s get over to our side of the fort, away from these Thracian bastards. I’ve still got a few jugs of Gallic wine. I’ll share a cup with you.’
Roman 12 - The Blood Crows Page 19