Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Fine. Let’s go!’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘There’s a lot to catch up on. Be good to have a drink before I take charge of the cohort.’

  They left headquarters and turned into the main thoroughfare that bisected the interior of the fort. To their left Macro could see some of the other officers making for the long barrack blocks where the troopers had their quarters on one side while their mounts were stabled on the other. They turned right, towards the smaller barracks of the legionary cohort. As they made their way through the fort Macro could see signs of neglect. Weeds were thrusting up in the alleys between the timber and daub buildings. Some of the drains had blocked and small pools of foul-smelling water were backing up. There were none of the usual sounds that Macro associated with the forts he had known for most of his life. The barracks were silent – no raucous laughter from men sharing a drink as they played dice. There were no men sitting on stools outside the section rooms cleaning their kit. There were few men to be seen at all. As they reached the quarter assigned to the legionary cohort they passed a high timber cross frame with a footplate nailed into the riser. Macro glanced at it, but said nothing as he made small talk with his companion.

  ‘Good to see that we both made centurion,’ said Macro. ‘It took me a fair amount of time, and the usual helping of good luck. How about you? You were transferred out of the Second fairly quickly, as I recall.’

  Severus nodded. ‘They were stripping men from the Rhine to fill out the ranks of the legions earmarked for a campaign across the Danuvius into Scythia. Where our commander hails from originally. As you can imagine, I keep quiet about that part of my career.’

  ‘He’s not the commander any longer. The fort has a new prefect now.’

  Severus shot him a quick look. ‘You think so? I doubt that Quertus is going to hand over control of the garrison that easily.’

  ‘He has no choice. Chain of command.’

  Severus laughed bitterly. ‘I think you’ll find that things operate a little differently at Bruccium.’ He changed the subject. ‘So what happened to the rest of the lads in the section after I left the Augusta?’

  Macro scratched his jaw as he recalled their old comrades. ‘Postumus was drowned when his boat capsized on a river patrol. Lucullus was bitten by a hunting dog. The wound went bad and killed him. Barco, the big bastard, you remember? He got picked for the legate’s bodyguard, then caught the eye of Caligula and was transferred to the Praetorian Guard. Last I heard he’d got a promotion to centurion in the fleet at Misenum. Aculeus became a clerk at headquarters and was discharged for fiddling the books. Piso was killed in a skirmish with some Germans who had refused to cough up their taxes, and Marius, well, you’ll find this one hard to believe: Marius was kicked to death by a mule.’

  They both laughed before Severus looked at his companion curiously. ‘I heard something about your promotion to centurion. I gather you were summoned to Rome to be decorated and promoted by Claudius himself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro replied quickly. ‘Just a bit of a ceremony, a few months’ leave in the city and back to the Rhine.’

  ‘Oh.’ Severus looked disappointed. ‘I heard rumours there was more to it than that.’

  ‘So how did you end up here?’ Macro clumsily redirected the conversation. ‘Bruccium, the absolute arse end of the empire.’

  Severus shrugged. ‘You go where you are sent. Ostorius is determined to push on and crush the last centre of resistance to Rome. So he’s been constructing a number of big forts like this, strong enough to hold off any attacks and with enough men to make life difficult for the surrounding tribes. The forts are out on a limb, but that was a risk the governor was prepared to take, with our lives.’

  Macro glanced round. ‘Some forts are more out on a limb than others.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d tell me.’

  Severus said quietly, ‘Not out here.’

  He raised his hand and pointed out the end of a barrack block twenty paces ahead. ‘That’s mine. Home to the Second Century, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. Or what’s left of my century. The cohort commander’s quarters are there at the end of the street.’

  ‘Who is the ranking centurion at the moment?’

  ‘That would be me. It should be Stellanus but he’s gone over to the Thracians. As it is, only Petillius and I are left. And we’ve barely enough men to fill out the ranks of two centuries.’

  ‘Two centuries?’ Macro raised his eyebrows. The full complement of a legionary cohort was four hundred and eighty men, organised into six centuries of eighty soldiers. Barely a third of that number remained. ‘What happened to the rest?’

  They had reached the door to Severus’s quarters and he ushered Macro inside. An orderly had been sitting by the small fireplace warming himself and he jumped to his feet as the officers entered.

  ‘Titus, build the fire up, then fetch me a jug of wine from my stores.’ He turned to Macro. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Macro shook his head.

  ‘Then bring us some bread. Any of the cheese left?’

  ‘No, sir. You ate the last of it two days ago. Same with the bread. There’s biscuit, sir.’

  Severus sighed. ‘Biscuit then, and more bloody dried mutton.’

  The orderly bowed his head and then turned his attention to the fire, carefully stacking some split logs on to the low flames.

  ‘Trouble with food supplies?’ Macro queried.

  ‘Not if you like salted or dried mutton and biscuit. Quertus has resorted to living off the natives as part of his effort to cut himself free from Glevum. It means we eat what Quertus and his men pillage from their villages. Since their crops have only recently been planted that leaves only what they set aside for winter.’

  ‘Well, I’m hungry enough to eat anything. And not a little thirsty.’

  ‘Happily, in that regard I can provide you with something a little more interesting than the native beer which would otherwise be all that is on the menu.’

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘That’s what they call it. Frankly, I’ve smelled more appetising horse piss. But Quertus is happy for the men to drink the stuff. Reckons a plain diet helps them keep their minds focused on killing.’

  The orderly finished building the fire and left the room. Macro was keen to press Severus on his earlier question. ‘Seems like there’s been a lot of that on both sides. So what happened to the rest of the Fourth Cohort?’

  ‘We started losing men as soon as we arrived in the valley and began work on the fort. Nothing serious, just the usual skirmishes when the natives had a crack at our lumber parties. Then, when the fort was ready, the prefect began to send patrols out into the valley. We were under orders to take the fight to men under arms only. The rest were to be left unharmed. We were even encouraged to trade with them.’ Severus smiled. ‘Seems the prefect had some quaint notion that there’s more ways to build an empire than simply using force.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come across his kind myself.’ Macro sighed. ‘Bloody odd notions of how to go about the business of being a soldier.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, the Silures were happy to stage ambushes and harass the patrols, and then hide their weapons and slip back into their villages as if nothing had happened, and we had to go along with it. Except for Quertus. He refused. His unit had been fighting the Silures for years, and he argued that he knew their mind, and that the prefect’s approach was futile. Maybe he’s right. He should know. A few years earlier, before he was promoted to command the unit, he was captured, along with the survivors of a squadron he led. It seems the Silures held them for some months, and killed a handful off, before handing the rest over to the Druids to sacrifice. Quertus managed to escape, after he’d seen his companions burned alive. So I guess he has some grasp of the way the Silures live and think. In any case it convinced him that they could never be won over. More than that, he thinks that they can only be defeated if we turn their barbarism on them, and make
the Silures as afraid of Romans as we are of the Druids.’

  Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘So that’s his strategy?’

  Severus lowered his voice as he continued. ‘It’s only half the story. Quertus knew that those who follow him need to be committed to his way of waging war. That’s why he’s encouraged his men to change their appearance and go back to the old ways of Thrace. He began to change their training, making them concentrate on killing, and absolute obedience to his will. One day he brought back some prisoners from a village at the far end of the valley. Twenty or so men, women, and a handful of kids. He had them tied to stakes on the training ground below the fort and then ordered his men to use them for spear practice. One of the men refused, and Quertus took his sword out and killed him on the spot. I didn’t see it happen, but I’m told he showed no emotion when he did it, and simply told his men that the same would happen to them if they ever refused an order.’

  ‘Shit . . . That’s taking things a bit too far.’

  ‘That’s what Prefect Albius thought.’

  They were interrupted by the return of the orderly who set down a jar, two cups and a wooden platter on which he had arranged a few strips of dried mutton and a handful of barley-flour biscuits. He bowed his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. Severus waited until he heard the man’s footsteps receding before he continued.

  ‘The prefect summoned Quertus and, so I heard, warned him not to do it again. If he did then he would be reported to the legate for disciplinary charges. So Quertus took to killing his victims on the spot, but word of that got back to the prefect, who announced that he would accompany Quertus on patrol from then on.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Macro. ‘That’s the patrol the prefect didn’t return from.’

  Severus nodded. ‘The official version is that they charged into a village and the prefect was killed in the fighting when he fell from his horse. That was the first of the villages to be burned to the ground and every living thing in it put to the sword, in revenge for the death of the prefect, Quertus said. That became the pattern afterwards. Village after village, farm after farm. Until the only living people in the valley were here at Bruccium. Then, earlier this year, he started work on the surrounding valleys. Of course, he lost men in the process, but then he offered the legionaries a chance to join the Thracians. By that time food was running short, and since the legionaries were left behind to protect the fort, Quertus said that they did not need as much food as the auxiliaries. Then the reason was that they did not deserve it, since they took no risk. A man can only go so far on an empty stomach, and our lads went to him willingly. The only conditions were that they obeyed his will completely, and that they take on the appearance of the Thracians. That’s what happened to Stellanus and Fermatus.’

  Macro’s eyes widened. ‘They’re Roman officers?’

  ‘They were. And a third of the Thracian cohort used to be legionaries. There was one other requirement before men could count themselves as followers of Quertus.’ Severus poured them both a cup of wine and then looked down into the dark liquid in his cup. ‘Quertus told them they had to take the head of one of their enemies and drink his blood.’

  Macro stared at him. ‘You are fucking joking . . .’

  ‘I wish I was. By all the gods, I wish I was joking. But it’s true.’

  Despite the horrors he had seen in the campaigns he had fought across the years, Macro felt his guts clench tight, and cold, with fear.

  ‘It can’t be true.’

  ‘You’ll see for yourself, soon enough. You, and the new prefect. He won’t last long, though.’

  Macro stared across the table. ‘Is Cato in danger?’

  ‘Of course he is. If he tries to take any action against Quertus then he’s as good as dead.’

  ‘But he’s the bloody prefect!’ Macro protested. ‘Appointed to the command by the Emperor himself. What he says goes. The moment Quertus tries anything on, Cato will have him disciplined. Or arrested.’

  ‘Really? And who will do that?’

  Macro shook his head disbelievingly. ‘This is the fucking army. An order is given and the men jump to it.’

  ‘Oh, this is the army, all right. But in this fort it belongs to Quertus. Who do you think the Thracians will obey if there is a confrontation between your prefect and Quertus? And what goes for them goes for most of the surviving legionaries as well. None of them dares to step out of line. Not any more. You remember that cross we passed earlier? After the last prefect died, there were some officers and men in this cohort who refused to accept Quertus as their new commander. They confronted him in front of the whole garrison. He had his men arrest them for mutiny, and they were crucified and left to die, one by one. No one has dared to challenge him since then. Worse still, there is a reward promised to anyone who brings word of someone plotting mutiny. You can imagine how that might still any tongues.’ Severus drained his cup. ‘You should never have come here, Macro. But you weren’t to know. No one does outside of this valley, except those poor Silurian bastards.’

  Macro was silent for a moment. ‘Why hasn’t anyone attempted to inform the legate what is going on at Bruccium?’

  ‘None of the legionaries is allowed to leave the fort, except as part of a Thracian patrol. When he took over, Quertus announced that anyone who tried to leave would be regarded as a deserter and executed.’

  ‘And has anyone attempted to reach Glevum?’

  ‘One of the optios. He got no further than five miles from the fort when one of the Thracian patrols ran him down.’

  ‘What happened?’ Macro asked quietly.

  ‘Quertus was as good as his word.’ The centurion reached for a strip of mutton and chewed on the end until he separated a chunk. As his jaw worked he looked across the table at Macro. ‘You rode past the optio when you reached the fort. His head is on one of those stakes and what’s left of his body is in the outer ditch.’

  There was silence as Macro took it all in and then shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is madness. Complete madness. The legate must be told.’

  Severus looked doubtful. ‘As long as we’re carrying out his orders to take the fight to the Silures, why would he worry? As far as Quintatus is concerned, everything is going to plan and there are no problems at Bruccium. Why else would he send you and Prefect Cato here? You can forget about any help from that quarter.’

  ‘Then we must act. Someone has to do something about it.’

  ‘You’re welcome to try, Macro. Just don’t involve me in it. I’ve given you fair warning of what has been going on here, for the sake of an old comrade. But that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

  ‘You won’t back me?’

  Severus sat still for a moment and shrugged helplessly. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Not now, at least. I’m hoping that Caratacus will throw in the towel. That’s the only way I’m getting out of here alive. If Caratacus defeats Ostorius and forces the Romans out of the lands of the Ordovices and Silures, then he’ll turn his attention on us. Given what Quertus has done to the tribes around Bruccium you can be sure there will be little pity in the heart of Caratacus when he deals with any survivors of the garrison.’

  Macro sat back and took a deep breath. He could never have imagined a situation like this. His next thought was for Cato and he felt his heart leap in panic. He had left Cato alone with Quertus. He made to rise and knocked the edge of the table. Severus had to thrust out a hand to steady the jug.

  ‘Oi! Careful, Macro. That’s my bloody wine!’

  ‘Sod your wine,’ Macro growled. ‘The prefect’s in danger!’

  ‘No . . . No, he’s not. For the moment. Think it through, Macro. Sit down and think about it.’

  He waved at the stool Macro had been sitting on and the latter hesitated a moment before he allowed himself to resume his place. ‘Go on.’

  ‘At first Quertus will try to win the new prefect over. If he can do that, then he will avoid any conflict, and be free to continue
as before. His men follow him because he took command of the garrison by the book when Albinus was killed. If he tries to murder Cato, or seize his position, then it will divide the men. That’s not to say that he won’t try to stage an accident. Particularly if the new prefect tries to wrest control of the garrison from Quertus’s hands. As long as Cato’s back is covered he will be safe. But he’s going to have to be very careful about how he deals with Quertus and his Thracians. The same applies to you, my old friend.’

  Before Macro could respond, the door opened revealing a dark shadow in the street. The two centurions started uneasily and there was a dry chuckle before the figure stepped into the warm glow of the fire. Macro recognised one of the officers from the Thracian cohort.

  ‘Very cosy in here. And a small banquet besides!’

  Severus swallowed nervously. ‘Stellanus . . . What do you want?’

  Stellanus laughed humourlessly. ‘Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’

  He shut the door behind him, crossed the room and pulled up a stool. ‘No spare cup? Then I’ll have to make do.’ He grasped the jug and swung it into the air so that the spout was over his bearded lips and then poured a stream of the scarlet liquid into his mouth, swallowing greedily until he set the jug down heavily and smacked his lips. ‘A nice drop, that!’

  Severus glared back. ‘Like I said, what do you want?’

  ‘Just came to find the new commander of the Fourth Cohort.’ He stuck out his hand towards Macro. ‘Centurion Marcus Stellanus, seconded to the Second Thracian Cavalry. Greetings. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier, at headquarters. Thought I’d come and track you down.’

  ‘So you have,’ Macro replied evenly, ignoring the outstretched hand. ‘Though I have to say, you make an unlikely centurion.’

  Stellanus grinned through his beard. ‘This get-up? It’s Quertus’s idea. Makes us all look wild and terrifying. Grrrrrr!’ He made a face and laughed.