Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  The servant was silent, his mind racing. ‘I need to think about it, sir.’

  Quertus considered the other man for a moment before nodding. ‘All right. But I’ll have your answer tomorrow. One other thing you need to know. If I ever discover you have repeated any part of this conversation, I will have your head. You’ll find that it is much safer, as well as more rewarding, to be loyal to me in this fort. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Decimus swallowed nervously.

  ‘Then you may go. Remember, one word out of place and you’re a dead man.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ Decimus nodded and made his way out of the officers’ mess as steadily as he could. Outside, he shut the door, his hand trembling as he slid the latch into place, and then hurried the short distance down the street back to headquarters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Maridius had his arms bound behind his back when he was dragged out of his cell and into the small hall in the fort’s guardroom. He had been stripped down to his leggings and his face and chest were heavily bruised. One eye was so badly swollen that he could hardly see out of it. He stank of his own dirt and his skin was streaked with filth and dried blood.

  ‘Get him on the hook,’ Quertus ordered and his men dragged the warrior beneath the beam in the centre of the room. An iron hook stuck out from the side of the beam. While one of the Thracians held Maridius in position, the other brought out a four-foot-long shaft of wood with a length of rope tightly bound to each end. He pulled the prisoner’s arms back and shoved the wood up beneath them, as far as it would go, and then lifted the rope over the hook and adjusted it until the shaft was parallel to the ground. Maridius grimaced as his shoulders felt the strain.

  Cato and Macro watched the preparations from a bench at the side of the room. Macro sat with his back against the wall, his legs stretched out and arms folded, apparently unmoved by the prisoner’s suffering. Cato, however, was not so insouciant. The interrogation of the prisoner was a necessary evil as far as he was concerned and he was keen to see it over with as soon as possible.

  One of the Thracian interrogators turned to Quertus and stated, ‘He’s ready, sir.’

  Before Quertus could respond, Cato leaned forward and snapped, ‘You will address your remarks to me, trooper, if you want to avoid a charge of insubordination.’

  The Thracian glanced at Quertus, who nodded discreetly. The man stood to attention. ‘Yes, sir. The prisoner is prepared for interrogation, sir.’

  Cato replied, ‘Very good. You may begin.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The trooper went round to the front of the prisoner while his comrade moved behind Maridius, and savagely kicked him just behind the knee joints. The prisoner slipped down and his shoulders took the full weight of his body. He let out a strained cry of agony and then rolled his head back, eyes clenched, as he fought the pain. The man in front of him squatted slightly, drew his fist back and slammed it into Maridius’s gut, driving the air from his lungs and leaving him gasping for breath. Another blow followed, and another in a steady rhythm, working his stomach and chest, until the cries of pain gave way to muted groans and gasps.

  Cato leaned closer to Macro and muttered, ‘Is this strictly necessary? Again?’

  Macro nodded. ‘You saw how it was with that Silurian, Turrus. They breed ’em tough in Britannia. That’s why we need to spend more time softening ’em up before we get to the questions. Works well enough in most cases, but Maridius is proving something of a challenge. Maybe Quertus and his boys will succeed where Severus failed.’ Macro was silent for a moment and his stomach grumbled. ‘Pity I didn’t have time to finish that last loaf. Bloody Decimus took his own sweet time in fetching it for us. I’m hungry.’

  ‘Hungry?’ Cato wondered. The spectacle before him did little for his appetite, but then nothing ever put Macro off his food, he reflected.

  The blows continued for a while longer, before Quertus stepped forward and waved his men aside. ‘That’ll do for now, lads. Give him a breather before we continue.’

  The Thracian troopers backed off and sat at a table in the corner of the room, while Quertus pulled up a stool and sat down in front of the prisoner. All was still for a moment and the sound of Maridius’s ragged breathing filled the room, above the faint moan of the wind gusting around the walls of the guardhouse.

  Cato stood up and crossed the room and stood at the side of the Thracian officer. He stared down at the top of the prisoner’s head for a moment before he began.

  ‘I know you can understand Latin. Like your brother. You both speak it fluently. Your teacher must have been good.’

  ‘Our teacher was a Roman prisoner . . . We put him to death the moment we understood enough to do . . . without him.’

  ‘Why did you choose to learn our tongue?’

  Maridius drew a deep breath and looked up, his good eye glinting with malevolence. ‘Our father taught us that the first step in defeating your enemy is to understand him. And I understand all I need to know about Rome.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cato smiled thinly. ‘And what do you understand about us?’

  Maridius ran his tongue along his dry lips and thought a moment before replying. ‘That you have an insatiable hunger for the land, property and liberty of others. You scour the earth and create a wasteland and call it civilisation. Some civilisation!’ He snorted. ‘You are a greedy people. You are like a great, fat leech sucking the blood out of this world. Your soldiers kill, rape and burn everything before them. Like these Thracian scum who you pay to carry out your dirty work. They are not warriors, not even men, but scum.’

  Quertus leaned forward and casually backhanded him with a powerful slap. Maridius groaned, blinked and shook his head.

  ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Quertus warned. ‘Or my lads will see to it that your tongue parts company with your foul mouth.’

  ‘Fuck you . . .’

  Quertus balled his hand into a fist but Cato intervened before he could strike. ‘No. That’s enough, for the moment.’

  He returned the prisoner’s glare calmly and then spoke again. ‘You say that we hunger for the lands of others, but tell me, Maridius, how is that different from the wars you, your brother, and your father fought to conquer the tribes that surrounded the Catuvellauni? Correct me if I’m mistaken but your tribe crushed the Trinovantes, and took their capital as your own. You’ve also taken land from the Cantiaci, the Atrebates, the Dobunni and the Coritani.’ Cato paused and shrugged. ‘Seems to me there’s not that much difference between the ambitions of the Catuvellauni and Rome, only that my people happen to be rather better at it.’

  Maridius curled his lip and spat a gobbet on to the toe of Cato’s boot. ‘Fuck you!’

  Cato glanced at his boot. ‘And we happen to be somewhat more refined and imaginative in our use of language and invective as well, it seems.’

  ‘You fucking tell that cunt!’ Macro added emphatically.

  Cato stifled a wince, and focused his attention back on the prisoner. ‘So, now we’ve dispensed with the pretence that there is any moral high ground in this conflict, there only remains the question of who is going to win. You must know by now that Rome will triumph. We have more men, better men, and greater resources than Caratacus can ever hope to command. He can only delay defeat. Every death, on both sides, that happens before he finally surrenders is on his hands. He cannot beat us, only prolong the suffering and destruction until the inevitable defeat. You must see that.’

  Maridius shrugged. ‘Better to be defeated and die as warriors than live as slaves.’

  ‘Slaves? Hardly. You and your brothers will be treated no differently to King Cogidubnus who was wise enough to become our ally from the first.’

  ‘That fat coward?’ Maridius sneered. ‘He has damned himself, his line and his people in the eyes of every other tribe in Britannia.’

  ‘Hardly every tribe. The Atrebates are only one of twelve tribes who have made peace with Rome.’

 
‘Then damn them too!’ Maridius shouted.

  No one spoke for a moment. Macro yawned. ‘This is all very interesting, sir, but it’s not helping us. He’s as mad as the rest of ’em. Let’s find out what we need and put an end to it.’

  Cato raised a hand to silence his friend. ‘I’ll give you one last chance before the interrogation continues, Maridius. While I admire your courage and your pride, it is only helping to prolong the suffering of your people.’

  The prisoner gave a dry laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘They are not my people. They are the Silures and the Ordovices. What do I care for their suffering?’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Macro commented.

  ‘They are still people,’ Cato continued. ‘They deserve better from those that lead them. They deserve peace.’

  ‘Roman peace?’

  Cato ignored the taunt. ‘Peace. That is what we will give them once Caratacus is defeated. I need to know the location of his army, and how many men he has. I don’t care how I get the information, but I will get it.’

  The prisoner glowered and then thrust out his jaw defiantly. ‘Fuck you.’

  Macro sighed. ‘What, again?’

  With a tired expression Cato stepped aside and nodded to Quertus. ‘Your men may continue.’

  The Thracian moved his stool back a pace and then nodded to his men. The trooper tasked with beating the prisoner rose to his feet and moved round to the front of Maridius as he cracked his weathered knuckles and rolled his neck, like a boxer loosening up for a bout, thought Cato. He braced his boots on the floor as Maridius clenched his jaw and half closed his eyes, preparing himself for further blows.

  The door to the guardroom opened suddenly and all eyes turned towards it as the duty officer, one of Severus’s optios, stepped inside and saluted Cato.

  ‘Sir, beg to report, one of the sentries says he has seen movement below the fort.’

  ‘Movement?’ Cato frowned. ‘What do you mean? Be specific, man.’

  The optio was a young man, only a year or two older than Cato had been when he first held the rank. His anxiety was clear to see as he opened his mouth and tried to marshal his thoughts.

  ‘Just make your report, Optio.’ Cato forced himself to speak calmly. ‘What exactly has the sentry seen?’

  ‘He says there are men in front of the fort.’

  ‘He saw them? How many?’

  ‘He heard voices, sir. And horses. Then he sent another man to find me.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  The optio took a quick breath. ‘In the latrine, sir.’

  Cato bit back on his irritation. No doubt the optio had been spending the time with some comrades, in the way that many men did, in the traditional cosy camaraderie of the latrine block. It was far more comfortable to enjoy the banter in the warm and dry of the latrine than spend the night patrolling the windy ramparts of the fort. But that was no excuse. The optio was on duty. If he needed to piss then he could do it at the foot of the rampart. If he needed a shit, then he’d have to wait until he went off duty.

  ‘We’ll deal with that later,’ Cato said curtly. ‘Did you hear or see anything yourself when you got to the wall?’

  ‘I-I am not sure, sir.’

  Macro’s patience snapped. ‘Either you did or you didn’t. Which is it?’

  ‘I thought I heard voices, sir.’ The optio glanced from Cato to Macro and back to the prefect.

  Quertus laughed. ‘The fool’s imagining things. The river’s high. I’ve known men mistake the sound of a fast current flowing over the rocks for something else, and their imaginations do the rest. It’s nothing. Optio, go back to your duty and discipline your sentry. Perhaps a week cleaning out your shit in the latrine will cure him of his nerves.’

  ‘Wait,’ Cato interrupted. ‘You seem very sure of yourself, Centurion.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? The Silurians are too frightened to show their faces in this valley. There’s been no sign of them anywhere near the fort in months. Your man is jumping at shadows. I thought legionaries were made of tougher stuff.’

  Macro bristled. ‘There’s no better fighting man than a legionary. You’d do well to remember that, Thracian.’

  ‘Maybe, but there are clearly better sentries. Optio, tell your man to pull himself together and stop being a coward.’

  ‘That’s a word too far,’ Macro growled, taking a step towards Quertus as his hand slipped down towards the handle of his sword. ‘You bloody take that back or I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be shitting them for the next month.’

  Quertus stood up and stared down at Macro with an amused smile twisting his lips. But there was a deadly coldness in his eyes that made Cato scared for the life of his friend. He stepped between them before the confrontation could go any further and addressed the optio, still standing nervously by the door. ‘Optio, this fort is the furthest we have pushed into the enemy’s territory. That means we don’t take any chances. If you, or any of your men, even think there is any danger it is to be reported at once. Have you given the word for Severus’s century to be called out?’

  The junior officer shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  Cato felt a sick feeling in his heart. It was too late to castigate the optio now. That would only cause further delay. ‘Then do it now. I want Severus and his men on the wall at once. But tell him to do it quietly. Go.’

  The optio dashed out, relieved to escape from the stern gaze of his commander. Cato turned to the other officers in the room. ‘It’s probably nothing, like you say, Quertus, but I’ll take no risks over the fort’s safety. Let’s see what’s happening for ourselves.’ Cato paused and gestured towards the prisoner, still hanging by his arms from the iron hook in the beam. ‘You men, return the prisoner to his cell.’

  Outside, the fort was still and quiet and only the cool breeze brushed between the buildings. The sky was mostly clear and sprinkled with stars. A waxing moon was dimly visible behind a bank of ghostly silver cloud but would not provide much illumination for a while yet. Cato paused to listen briefly but there was no sound of the alarm being raised, and no sound of anything ominous from outside the fort. He allowed his spirits to rise for a moment as he led the other two officers towards the main gate that gave out on to the slope sweeping down towards the parade ground in the valley. He made himself walk at an unhurried pace in order to appear as cool-headed as possible in front of the Thracian. As they reached the gate they heard Severus issuing orders in a muted tone and the dull thud of boots as the legionaries hurried from their barrack block and made for their stations on the wall. The gatehouse was a timber and turf construction and a small brazier a short distance from the watchroom provided warmth and illumination for those on duty. The officers entered the gatehouse and climbed the ladder that gave out on to the platform above the gate. Stout pine posts formed the breastwork and the sentry on duty turned towards the officers and stood to attention, grounding his javelin.

  ‘You’re the one who reported movement?’ Cato asked brusquely.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Make your report then.’

  The sentry nodded and turned back to the breastwork and leaned his javelin against his shoulder as he gestured into the darkness beyond the defensive ditch. ‘Down there, sir. I heard voices in the direction of the parade ground, and I saw someone moving.’

  ‘You saw someone? You’re sure of that?’

  The sentry hesitated a moment and then committed himself. ‘Yes, sir. It was definitely a man, crouched in the grass a short distance beyond the ditch.’

  Quertus gave a dismissive snort as he leaned on the wooden rail running along the top of the breastwork and stared into the darkness. ‘I can’t see or hear anything . . . How long ago was it when you think you saw something?’

  ‘Just before I told the optio, sir.’

  ‘And nothing since then?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the legionary admitted.

  Quertu
s tutted and turned to Cato. In the faint loom of the starlight Cato could see the sneer on the Thracian’s face. ‘Seems like I was right, after all . . . sir.’

  Cato did not respond but stepped up to the breastwork and strained his eyes and ears as he stared down towards the parade ground. Beyond the ditch the ground seemed to merge into a dark mass; he could only just make out the dim outlines of the haystacks and only because he knew they were there. Macro stepped up beside him and was silent for a moment as he, too, searched for signs of danger.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’

  Cato looked round as he heard the sounds of the legionaries deploying along the wall on either side of the gatehouse. Even though they had been ordered to stand to as quietly as possible, the thud of nailed boots on the wooden walkway and the dull clink and clatter of kit seemed very loud in the still night. Cato was torn between the need for caution and the fear of making himself look foolish in front of Quertus for calling Severus and his men out on the whim of a sentry. He glanced at the legionary and could make out his grim features. He was in his thirties and had the stern, lined face of a veteran. Not the kind of man to raise the alarm without good cause, Cato decided. He turned back to Macro.

  ‘I can’t see anything. But this man has and we’ll keep the men at their posts until first light.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied in a relieved tone. ‘What about the other century? And the Thracians?’

  ‘You’d rouse my men just because of a nervous sentry?’ Quertus shook his head.

  ‘They are my men, Centurion,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Every man in this fort is under my command. Including you. I’ll thank you to remember that.’

  Quertus was silent for a moment before he shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘As you wish. Though it is my duty to advise you that I know the men, the fort, and this valley far better than you, and I say there is nothing out there. The enemy are too cowardly to dare show their faces in front of Bruccium. A tendency that seems to be spreading to some in our own ranks, it seems.’

  The remark was addressed at the sentry but the veteran did not show any sign of reacting to the insult.