Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Outnumbered at least twenty to one,’ Cato muttered to himself. ‘Even Macro wouldn’t bet on those odds.’

  Casting his eyes over the terrain surrounding the fort, Cato could see small parties of men camped on the far bank of the river that curled around the high ground on which the fort was constructed. There would be no escape in that direction. It would take a courageous man to swim the fast-flowing river, dodging the rocks around which the water swirled. Even if it was possible to swim the river, there was the enemy to evade before any attempt could be made to escape from the valley and reach the nearest Roman outpost and raise the alarm. It would be a suicide mission, he decided. But it might yet be necessary to send a man, if the overcast did not lift. The heavy clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the tops of the hills that lined the valley, thicker since dawn had broken and visibility seemed to be steadily reducing. It would be pointless to light the signal beacon. There was no chance of the smoke being sighted from Gobannium, or any other outpost. For the present the garrison was on its own.

  Cato stifled a yawn, determined not to show that he was tired, and turned to the nearest sentry. ‘Let me know the moment the enemy makes a move.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary saluted and turned his attention to Caratacus’s army as the fort’s commander descended the ladder into the gatehouse. At the bottom he saw that Macro was overseeing the blocking up of the passage between the smashed outer gate and the inner gate. The end of the nearest barrack block was being demolished and men were carrying the rubble across to the passage in wicker baskets and piling it up inside.

  Macro nodded a greeting. ‘Soon be finished here. They’ll not get through that lot.’

  ‘Very good,’ Cato responded with satisfaction. That was one less weak point in the defences to worry about.

  Macro lowered his voice as he continued, ‘Do you know the butcher’s bill yet?’

  Cato sighed. A clerk had brought the report to him at the end of the first hour of the day. ‘Twelve dead, eighteen injured. Most of them downed by slingshot. We’re going to have to be careful not to expose ourselves on the wall unnecessarily from now on. It’s too much of a risk.’

  ‘What isn’t in this situation?’

  ‘True enough.’ Cato rubbed his brow and then saw Decimus, still in legionary kit, limping from the direction of headquarters, carrying a mess tin and a cup, stepping carefully around the puddles and mud. As the servant looked up and saw his commander, he hurried over.

  ‘Brought you something to eat, sir. Need to keep your strength up, so here’s stew and some posca.’

  Cato took the mess tin gratefully, realising just how hungry he was after the night’s action. The stew was warmed through rather than hot and he spooned it down hurriedly.

  Macro licked his lips. ‘Any more of that about?’

  Decimus glanced at him. ‘All gone, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro tapped his nose. ‘I hope you enjoyed it as much as the prefect seems to.’

  Decimus looked down awkwardly. ‘Seemed a shame to let it go cold, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Macro growled.

  For a moment Decimus looked anxiously down at the ground, before he summoned up the nerve to speak. ‘Sir, is there any hope of us getting out of this alive?’

  Cato chewed on a morsel of meat and then swallowed. ‘There’s always hope.’

  Decimus’s shoulders sank and he nodded in a resigned fashion.

  Cato was watching the expressions of the men passing by as he finished his snatched meal. They looked tired, but grimly determined. There were even some who were engaged in cheerful exchanges with their companions. This early success had boosted their morale. But that was hardly necessary. These men were legionaries, hardened professionals, used to hardship and danger and imbued with a firm sense of tradition and the need to uphold the honour of their legion. They would play their part well enough. It was the auxiliaries who concerned Cato. Their morale was more uncertain, a problem exacerbated by the excesses of Centurion Quertus. Although their ranks had been leavened by those legionaries transferred in from the other cohort of the garrison, Cato sensed that their morale was more brittle. They were used to patrolling and raiding the enemy’s territory. This kind of static, stand-up fight required firm resolve. Both units were bound to be tested to the limit in the days to come.

  As if anticipating his thoughts, he saw Quertus approaching him along the open ground behind the wall.

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ said Macro.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘With him, necessarily, I’d say.’

  Cato drew himself up to his full height as the Thracian approached and nodded an informal salute to his superior. ‘A tough night, sir. But we gave them a hiding and sent ’em packing.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Macro scratched the stubble on his jaw. ‘You think we’ve won then?’

  ‘For now. They won’t dare to make another frontal assault in a hurry,’ Quertus asserted confidently. ‘Not now we’ve proved, once again, that they should be afraid of us.’

  Macro glanced at Cato and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Heroes all, eh?’

  Cato ignored the comment and addressed the Thracian. ‘I take it you have something to report?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My horses. We’ve got oats to feed them for a few days as you know, but they’ll need watering.’

  ‘Of course they will. There’s plenty in the fort’s cistern. And there’s plenty in the well.’

  Quertus shook his head. ‘They’ll drain the cistern in a couple of days. And they’ll run the well dry in even less time.’

  ‘I see. Then we’ll have to ration their water and their feed.’

  ‘That’s not possible, sir. The food we can restrict, but they can’t do without water. Not if we want them in a fit state to ride.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Quertus gestured towards the rear of the fort. ‘There’s a narrow track that winds down the cliff there. Wide enough for a man to lead a horse. My lads can take ’em down there to the river to be watered.’

  Cato considered the suggestion. ‘Best do it under cover of darkness.’

  ‘Too dangerous, sir. If they put a foot wrong on the path they’ll fall into the river. We can only use the path in daylight.’

  Cato sighed in exasperation. ‘Then see to it. Make sure you give the handlers an escort in case the Silurians try to spring a trap.’

  He considered the exchange concluded, but Quertus did not move away.

  ‘Is there something else, Centurion?’

  ‘Just the question of what you intend to do next . . . sir.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘I’m next in the chain of command. If you fall, then I will need to carry out your intentions.’

  Cato smiled thinly. ‘I intend to defend the fort.’

  Quertus nodded in the direction of the enemy camp, his earlier bluster gone. ‘We’ve beaten them off once, but we can’t do it indefinitely. If we lose men at the rate we did earlier then it’s only a question of a few more attacks before we’re spread so thinly they’ll overwhelm us.’

  ‘I thank you for that assessment,’ Cato responded curtly.

  ‘We can’t stay trapped in here. We have to get out.’

  ‘That’s not possible. We’re surrounded, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to break out. While we still have enough men to do it.’ Quertus glanced up. ‘If this weather holds, it’ll be dark tonight. Dark enough to cover our escape.’

  ‘And dark enough to have us blundering into each other, if not the enemy.’

  ‘What if we use our prisoners as a shield? Caratacus would hardly let his men attack us if there was any danger to his brother and the others.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘He might not. But given the suffering you’ve visited on the local people in recent months, I dare say Caratacus will have trouble restraining his allies. They want nothing more than to butcher us all and take our heads as troph
ies. It’s too dangerous. We’ve been over this, Quertus. Our best chance is to sit it out until we are relieved. That’s my decision.’

  The Thracian gave him a frosty look. ‘It’s the wrong decision.’ Before Cato could respond, he turned and strode away, back towards his men resting on the slope leading up to the wall.

  Macro glared after him. ‘The enemy would be doing us a favour if they knocked that gobshite on the head.’

  Cato was too tired to comment. He finished the last of his stew and drained his cup. Then he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘I think it’s time we brought Maridius and the other prisoners into play.’

  It had started to rain again as scores of men stood along the wall looking on curiously as two legionaries lowered a ladder to the ground close to the causeway. Beside them Macro regarded Cato with concern.

  ‘This ain’t a good idea, lad.’

  Cato gestured towards the prisoners pressed together behind the gatehouse under the watchful eyes of several legionaries. ‘I think it might buy us a little more time.’

  ‘What makes you think Caratacus will agree?’

  ‘It’s more than likely that he won’t, but he will think it over. And every hour that he wastes pondering the problem improves our chances of getting through this alive.’

  ‘Not by much. You said it yourself. We’re out on a limb here and as long as this cloud stays above us then no one’s the wiser in the rest of the army.’ Macro hawked up some phlegm and spat over the wall. ‘Fucking weather in this island is unbelievable. You’d have to be a mad dog or a Celt to venture out into the noonday gales in this dump, I tell you.’

  Cato smiled as his friend continued in a more earnest tone.

  ‘Watch yourself. If there’s a hint of treachery then you turn and bolt back to the ladder. I’ll have a party of men on hand with javelins to cover you.’

  Cato was silent for a moment before he nodded. ‘Fair enough. But keep them out of sight. This cuts both ways. If Caratacus suspects we might be trying to lure him into a trap we’ll lose any chance of talking our way out of this. Right, I’d better get going.’

  Cato nodded to the trumpeter and the Thracian lifted his curved instrument and blew a deep note out across the valley. As soon as Cato saw that some of the enemy had turned to look at the fort, he swung his leg over the wall and felt for the nearest rung. When he had a solid footing he began to descend. At the bottom he stepped back and raised his hands towards the parapet. Macro dropped the spare standard shaft down. A broad red pennant had been attached to it and Cato held it aloft and wafted it from side to side over his head. He would be spotted easily, and the red of the pennant and his military cloak would stand out against the tawny grass and heather of the slope. He climbed carefully down into the ditch, picking his way past the bodies lying there. Some still lived, groaning feebly and reaching out an imploring hand as he passed by. There was nothing he could do for them and he steeled himself to ignore their plight as he climbed the far side of the ditch and slowly descended the slope, waving his banner as the notes of the bucina continued to ring out. Around him the desultory hiss of the rain added to the gloom of the day.

  ‘That’s far enough, sir!’ Macro called out. ‘Stay in javelin range!’

  Cato stopped. He continued to wave the pennant, in easy circles as it became soaked by the rain. Below him, only the nearest of the enemy were clearly visible, the rest becoming grey and indistinct in the mizzle that filled the valley. He watched as one of the screen of men guarding the camp turned and ran towards a large makeshift hut made from cut branches and heather that sat in the midst of those struggling to take shelter in the open. A moment later a handful of figures emerged from the hut and regarded the lone Roman officer a quarter of a mile away. After what seemed to be a swift exchange, Cato saw one of the men stride across to a horse line nearby and untether a white mount and vault on to its back. He turned the beast towards Cato and stirred it into a gentle canter. His army stood and some offered a cheer as he rode by and then through the line of sentries towards the fort. He slowed down as he approached Cato and walked his horse up to within ten paces before he reined in, casting a wary eye across the surrounding ground and the fort lined with soldiers.

  Cato grounded his standard.

  ‘You wish to speak, Roman?’ Caratacus asked in his accented Latin.

  ‘I do.’ Cato gestured towards the nearest bodies lying on the slope. ‘Last night’s assault cost you dearly. I wish to discourage you from wasting any more of your men’s lives in such futile attacks.’

  ‘I thank you for your concern,’ Caratacus responded flatly. ‘But I have every intention of taking your fort and burning it to the ground.’ He gestured towards the sky and a smile flickered across his lips. ‘Weather permitting.’

  ‘You cannot take the fort. It is too strong a position and you have no siege train, nor the expertise to make the weapons you require to batter down our defences.’

  ‘All we need is a decent ram. Even an uncivilised barbarian has the wit to construct one of those, as you have seen.’

  ‘Yes, I admired the rudimentary handiwork of the ram we captured. The gate has now been blocked up, so any more rams you decide to make will be useless. All that’s left is to mount frontal assaults. And we have seen how that ends.’

  ‘We took our losses,’ Caratacus admitted. ‘But so did you, and I rather suspect that I can afford to lose more men than you can. Besides, many of my followers have kin in these valleys and their hearts burn with desire to avenge themselves on those you have slaughtered. It is my intention to keep attacking Bruccium until it is destroyed and every Roman inside its walls is killed.’

  For a moment Cato pondered explaining that this was the work of Quertus, but he realised that would make no difference to men who viewed all Romans as brutal oppressors. He sighed.

  ‘I feared that is how you would respond, sir.’ Cato raised the standard twice, the signal he had agreed with Macro earlier. Caratacus started suspiciously.

  ‘What trickery is this?’

  ‘No trick, I assure you. You know that we hold prisoners, your brother Maridius amongst them. If you look there, on the wall to the left of the gatehouse, you will see them in a moment.’

  Both men watched as a line of men and a few women shuffled out along the parapet under the guard of Macro and some legionaries. Leading them was the tall, proud figure of Maridius. As soon as he saw Caratacus he called out, and Macro quickly strode across and slapped him hard across the face.

  ‘Keep your barbarian mouth shut!’

  Cato winced at the violent silencing of the man and saw Caratacus’s expression darken. He cleared his throat and spoke loudly to the enemy commander. ‘I want you to know that if you launch another assault on my fort, I will execute ten of my prisoners, out here, in full view of your army, and mount their heads on the gatehouse to remind you of your folly. If that fails to deter you, the next time it will be your brother. Only in his case I will be sure to make his death long and painful. He’ll be crucified on top of the wall. I’ve heard that it can take a man three days to die on the cross. Maridius, as you know, is a fine warrior. Strong and tough. He’ll be sure to go the distance before he’s done.’ Cato spoke in a cold, calculating tone, determined to conceal any hint of his disgust for the image he was painting.

  ‘So, this is Roman civilisation,’ Caratacus sneered. ‘Your ways amount to little more than the enactment of cruel spectacles. Just as I had been taught.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘This is not civilisation. This is war. You threaten to slaughter me and my men. It is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent that. You leave me no choice.’

  ‘I see.’ Caratacus’s eyes narrowed shrewdly and he stared at Cato for a moment. ‘I sense that your heart does not stand behind your words, Roman. Would you really be prepared to carry out your threat?’

  ‘If you attack us again, you’ll discover that I act on my promises. This I swear. I will ki
ll your people the instant the first Silurian reaches the ditch in front of my fort. They will die by my own hand.’ Cato stared fixedly into his enemy’s eyes, daring him to believe otherwise. Caratacus stared back and then glanced over Cato’s shoulder towards his brother and the others on the wall.

  ‘I doubt you have the heart for it.’

  ‘That is your mistake.’

  ‘Then let me make you a promise, Roman.’ Caratacus raised his voice so that it carried clearly to those standing on the wall of the fort. ‘If you do as you say and harm those you hold captive, then I swear by all my gods that I will show you and your men even less pity. We will take the fort and if you have killed just one of your prisoners, I will take as many of you alive as possible. Then I will have you flayed alive, one each day, in front of his comrades. You last of all . . . Now, I will make you an offer. The same as before. Surrender your prisoners unharmed, and I will allow you free passage from this valley. I am not an unreasonable man. I will give you a day to consider. If you refuse my offer we will attack again. In that event, if you have harmed my brother or the others, you know the fate that awaits you. There will be no more words between us.’ He tugged on his reins, and turned his horse about and trotted back down the slope. Cato watched him for a moment, seized with the urge to call out to Macro to have his men loose a volley of javelins at the enemy commander. With Caratacus dead, the coalition of tribes still resisting Rome would collapse. But the moment passed; Caratacus spurred his horse and was soon well out of range.

  Cato sighed with frustration at his hesitation, even though he knew it was not in his nature to be so ruthless as to break the rules of parley. Caratacus had also sensed it, and Cato felt a leaden despair at his failure to conceal his true character. He put the standard against his shoulder and returned to the fort.