Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Yes, sir.’ One of the sentries bowed his head.

  Macro climbed down the ladder and reached up to untie the chinstrap of his helmet as he left the gatehouse. He tucked the helmet under one arm and removed the padded liner, giving the matted hair plastering his scalp a good scratch. The legionaries had been relieved during the morning and were lying or sitting on the slope of the rampart. Some were managing to sleep while others conversed in muted tones. There was only one group playing at dice, by the corner tower, where their noise would not disturb their resting comrades.

  As he entered the courtyard of the headquarters block Macro exchanged a salute with the sentry. Even with every man required to defend the walls, it was still necessary to ensure that the garrison’s pay chest was kept under guard. Inside the commander’s quarters Macro set his helmet down on a table and called for Decimus.

  There was no reply, no sound of footsteps, and Macro frowned. Cato’s servant had been ordered to return here after the fight with Quertus.

  ‘Decimus! Damn you, man. Where are you?’ Macro’s shouts carried clearly through the building. With an irritable growl Macro glanced into the prefect’s office, found no sign of life, and decided to make for the kitchen to see what food might be had for a hurried meal. As he entered the room with its heavy scent of woodsmoke, Macro was aware of a shadow in the far corner and turned for a better look.

  ‘Fuck me . . .’ he whispered, standing still.

  A body was hanging from a length of chain with two links looped over a meat hook in one of the beams. The man’s face was puffed up, his eyes bulged and a purple tongue poked out of his mouth. It was a moment before Macro recognised him and he shook his head in pity. ‘Decimus. You stupid bastard.’

  Macro’s pity did not extend to sympathy as he stared at the body swinging slowly in the gloom of the corner. He felt a weary sense of disappointment in the servant for taking his own life. Why had the man chosen to do this? Fear of punishment for betraying Cato? Fear of being taken by the enemy when Bruccium fell? Whatever the reason, Macro was sure it was not good enough for Decimus to take his own life. That was no way for a man to die, particularly a man who had once been a soldier. There was no justification for such an end. Macro had no time for all those tales of noble Romans taking their own lives for the good of Rome, or their family line. Far better to die with a sword in your hand, facing the enemy and screaming curses into their face as you fell. This? Macro let out a long sigh. This was the choice of a coward . . . For a moment, without willing it, he imagined the servant’s last moments and an inkling of the man’s desperation found purchase in Macro’s thoughts.

  He dismissed the notion swifly. That sort of thing was better left to the likes of Cato. Macro turned towards what was left of the rations on the shelf above the scored worktop. There was a chunk of the local cheese left and some brittle roundels of hard-baked bread. He took them down and pulled up a stool and ate stolidly, refusing to spare another look at Decimus’s body.

  He was halfway through the cheese when he heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor that ran the length of the prefect’s quarters, ending at the kitchen.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’

  Macro chewed quickly to empty his mouth and swallowed. ‘In here!’

  A moment later the sentry appeared in the doorway, breathless. ‘Sir, the enemy are coming back.’

  Macro felt his guts tighten. ‘Any sign of our lads?’

  ‘No, sir. Noth—’ The sentry’s response died in his throat as he saw the body. He stared at it, oblivious of Macro’s glare.

  ‘Finish making your damn report!’ Macro barked.

  ‘What?’ The legionary looked at the centurion, the horrified spell broken. ‘Yes, sorry, sir. Beg to report that the tribesmen are coming down from the pass. I saw Caratacus amongst ’em, sir.’

  ‘And no Romans. You’re certain?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘No prisoners?’ There was still that hope to clutch at.

  ‘I couldn’t make any out. Not before I came to report, sir.’

  Macro stood up and gathered up what was left of his makeshift meal. He nodded towards the body. ‘Take that down and get it out of here.’

  He made for the door to the corridor and stopped at the threshold. ‘Put Decimus with the other bodies. Might as well give the poor bastard a decent grave when it’s all over.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary nodded.

  Macro stared at him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Want him to start stinking the kitchen out? And make sure you clean up the mess underneath him.’

  The legionary grimaced as he set his javelin and shield beside the counter Macro had been sitting at and headed for the slop bucket. Macro took a last look at the corpse, shook his head, and strode off.

  As he made his way back to the main gate his face settled into a sombre expression. If Caratacus and his forces were returning from the pass then it was almost certainly because they had given the reinforcement column a hiding. Which meant the garrison was on its own again. With fewer men to defend the fort than ever. Not a happy prospect, Macro mused. The only hopeful aspect of the whole affair was that the beacon signal might have been seen further afield and a message had been carried to Legate Quintatus to alert him that the Bruccium garrison was in trouble. Even so, Glevum was over sixty miles away. It would take the Fourteenth Legion at least three days to march to the rescue of the garrison. Macro knew that they could not hold out for that long.

  Macro’s muscles were aching by the time he climbed to the top of the tower and crossed to the parapet. The remaining sentry was staring along the valley where a large column of enemy warriors, several thousand strong, was marching down the track to the camp. The banner of Caratacus rippled above the group of horsemen at the front, and behind them the war bands came one after another. At their approach the men left in the camp surged forward to cheer their comrades’ return. The sun was dipping low over the rim of the mountains to the west as the warriors entered the camp. The valley was bathed in its red glow and long shadows spilled out across the grass and heather surrounding the fort.

  The front wall was lined with the men from the garrison watching in silence. Macro could make out a number of horses being led beside the enemy force. The clipped manes and saddles were of Roman design, and he knew then that Cato’s attempt to assist the men of the reinforcement column had been in vain. Macro’s heart sank like a rock at the thought that his friend had perished along with the other men of the two squadrons of Thracians. He strained his eyes along the columns of warriors and saw men being supported by their comrades, and others being carried on makeshift stretchers fashioned out of pine branches and the red cloaks of legionaries. Finally, he saw what he hoped to see. A file of prisoners towards the rear of the column. Twenty or so men, hands bound behind their backs and linked together by loops of rope round their necks. They still wore their armour and as Macro stared he saw that one of them wore the breastplate and cloak of an officer, though the distance was too great to be sure of his identity. His heart quickened at the prospect that it might be Cato. But then the brief moment of hope chilled as he considered what fate Caratacus might have in store for his prisoners. If the prisoner was Cato, then it would have been better for him to have died in battle, Macro told himself bitterly.

  As dusk closed in over the valley Macro gave the order for the garrison to be issued with full rations. He saw no point in letting the men go hungry. They would fight better on full stomachs when the morning came. Down in the enemy camp they had already begun to celebrate their victory and Macro decided that the enemy commander would be likely to indulge his men and there was little risk of another night attack. Even so, he had the men bring their bedrolls to the foot of the rampart so that they would be on hand if there was an attempt made to rush the fort.

  One by one fires were lit across the floor of the valley. By the light of the flames Macro saw the enemy warriors drinking, and snatches of singing and laughter carried up to th
e garrison of Bruccium. The biggest fire burned in front of Caratacus’s shelter and Macro could easily pick him out where he sat with his comrades on the raised ground of the reviewing platform overlooking the parade ground. As the night wore on, there was no sign that the celebrations were coming to an end and a new moon rose over the mountains and took its place among the stars. Then there was a commotion down on the parade ground and Macro saw figures massing around the fire. More fuel was added until great tongues of yellow and red licked up into the night. Soon thousands thronged around the fire.

  ‘Centurion Macro!’

  He turned towards the voice and leaned over the side of the tower. In the moonlight he could just make out Petillius on the wall.

  ‘Sir, do you see? They’re going to attack. Shall I sound the alarm?’

  Macro looked back down the slope. The enemy were making very little attempt to conceal their preparations if they were about to make an attack. He looked back towards the waiting centurion.

  ‘No need to sound the alarm. Caratacus and his lads are just having a bit of fun. Let our boys rest. At least they’ll be more ready to face what the morning brings than the enemy will.’

  Petillius was silent for a moment before he replied in a reluctant tone, ‘As you wish, sir. I hope you’re right.’

  The last words stung Macro’s pride and he was about to snap at his subordinate when he realised that Petillius’s nerves were even more strained than his own. It would do the man no good to have his superior bawl him out. Macro sighed. ‘Get some sleep, Centurion. I’ll keep watch on them for a while.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Petillius nodded, took one last look over the wall, and then descended the wooden steps to the foot of the ramp and sat down, crossed his arms over his knees and lowered his head.

  Macro leaned on the rail and watched the crowd gathering around the fire. It was clear that something was about to happen, something to mark the height of their celebrations. Then he saw a small party emerge from the darkness, and the crowd parted before it. A tall figure in dark robes led the way. Behind him came clusters of three men, each with a prisoner pinned between two of them. The prisoners were thrust on to the ground close to the fire, five in all. More of the tribesmen arrived carrying wooden frames in the shape of an A. They bound the first of the prisoners to the frame with his head at the apex and his limbs tied firmly to the lengths of timber stretching out at an angle. When the preparations were complete, the figure in the dark robe gestured towards the fire and the frame was raised off the ground and set upright. The prisoner started writhing as he saw the fire and knew, as Macro did at the same time, what fate was to befall him. Several men strained on a rope fixed to the top of the frame and began to slowly pay it out so that the frame tipped towards the fire. For a moment the crowd fell silent and then the man’s cries of pain, quickly followed by screams, sounded. The natives let out a cruel roar at his agonies. The soldier twitched uselessly against the ropes that bound him to the frame. His tunic caught alight and he was engulfed in fire as his screams reached a new pitch of torment and terror.

  Macro turned away, not wishing to see any more. He slumped down inside the tower, resting his back against the hard timber of the palisade, but he could not escape the chilling sounds from below. He stared up at the cold stars and prayed to the gods for deliverance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘I didn’t expect to find you here, sir.’

  Legate Quintatus regarded the exhausted mud-spattered individual who had been brought to his quarters shortly after he had retired to his bed for the night. He had hurriedly put on a tunic and gone to the office of the commander of the fort at Isca to confront the man who had demanded he be awakened at such a late hour.

  ‘Prefect Cato . . . You look as if you have been through the mill.’

  Cato was too tired to appreciate the legate’s laconic comment. He was so exhausted that he could barely stand, yet he must make his report as swiftly as possible if there was still a chance that Macro and the others could be saved. He had been in the saddle since leaving the mountain pass that morning. Together with the surviving Thracians, he had ridden out of the forest a short distance ahead of a party of Silurian horsemen who had pursued them as far as Gobannium. Along the way they had been forced to leave the wounded man behind. He was in too much pain to continue and they could not take him on without slowing down and risk being caught by the enemy. He understood the situation well enough and made his farewells to his comrades before drawing his sword and walking his horse back along the track towards their pursuers.

  At Gobannium Cato was informed that Legate Quintatus and his column had advanced to Isca. Cato rested the horses for an hour before continuing on, riding hard through the afternoon and on into the dusk, then darkness, before they had seen the distant campfires of the Fourteenth Legion and the auxiliary cohorts attached to the legate’s command. They had been picked up by a cavalry patrol whose immediate reaction to the appearance of the Thracians was to take them for the enemy. Only the prefect’s presence had persuaded them otherwise. Cato demanded to see the legate at once and they were escorted to the fort at Isca around which the small army was camped. Leaving the standards with a tribune on the legate’s staff, Cato immediately made his way to the private quarters of Quintatus to make his report.

  ‘It has been a fraught day, sir,’ Cato replied wryly. ‘I had assumed you were at Glevum.’

  ‘We received orders from Ostorius two days ago to march into Silurian territory. It seems that the governor has lost contact with Caratacus’s army and his patrols can find no trace of him. He’s either made his way north to link up with his Brigantian allies, or he’s marched south. That’s what Ostorius wants me to find out.’

  ‘He went south, sir. He’s besieging Bruccium. That’s what I have come to report. That and the loss of the column sent to reinforce me.’

  Quintatus stared at him. ‘What’s that? And what of the escort? Tribune Mancinus?’

  ‘All lost, sir.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘They were ambushed in the pass near the fort. I took some of my cavalry out to try and cut a way through for Mancinus’s men, but we were caught in the trap along with them. I only just managed to get out with the standards, sir.’

  ‘They’re safe? Well, that’s something. But, by the gods, I’ve lost nigh on a thousand men.’

  ‘And you’ll lose the fort as well, sir, unless you bring your column up at once.’

  Quintatus thought for a moment. ‘The fort is a side issue. The real opportunity is to catch up with Caratacus and force him to give battle. Failing that, I can hang on to his heels until Ostorius arrives with his army and we can catch and crush him between us.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect. Then he regarded Cato again. ‘Are you certain that it is Caratacus and that he has his entire army with him?’

  ‘It’s him all right, sir. I’ve seen him before. I recognise him well enough. And there are at least ten thousand men with him.’

  ‘Then it must be true. But why would he want to take Bruccium?’

  ‘Two reasons, sir. Firstly, the Thracians have been carving up Silurian territory for the last few months.’

  ‘That will be the work of Centurion Quertus.’ The legate nodded. ‘A fine officer, that.’

  Cato pursed his lips briefly. ‘His methods were . . . unusual, but it seems they helped to provoke Caratacus into action.’

  ‘I assume that you are claiming the lion’s share of the credit for that?’

  ‘I would never claim any credit for the work of Quertus, I assure you, sir. But the reason Caratacus came after the garrison was more likely down to the fact that we captured his brother, Maridius. He is our prisoner at the fort.’

  The legate smiled. ‘You have been busy, Prefect. It appears that you and Centurion Quertus have done very well indeed. I am sure that the governor will be the first to reward you both handsomely if this results in the defeat of Caratacus. Of course, Ostorius will be the main be
neficiary. The Emperor will give him a public ovation at the very least. A suitable triumph for a long career in the service of Rome.’

  ‘I seek no reward, sir. And Quertus will not be able to accept one either.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘Centurion Quertus is dead, sir.’

  ‘Dead. How?’

  Cato hesitated for an instant. ‘He died fighting, sir.’

  The legate nodded. ‘I would expect nothing less of the man. He will be avenged. But first we must lose no time in marching on Bruccium. Wait here, Prefect. I’ll issue orders to my staff to have the men ready to break camp at first light.’ He scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘It’s thirty miles. Nearly two days’ march. Who have you left in command at the the fort?’

  ‘Centurion Macro, sir.’

  ‘A good man?’

  ‘The best, sir.’

  ‘Then I pray that we arrive in time to save him, and the others. We can’t afford to lose good officers like him, and Quertus.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The legate gestured towards a jar of wine on his desk. ‘Help yourself while I set things in motion. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I will need more details from you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Once he was alone, Cato stood still for a moment, his mind dulled by tiredness, but he could not allow himself to rest yet. He took one of the legate’s finely decorated silver cups and poured himself a generous amount of wine. With the cup in hand, he eased himself down on to a couch with a horsehair cushion and took a sip. It was a sweet wine, not quite to Cato’s taste but it warmed his insides as it flowed into his stomach. He resisted the temptation to drain the cup and pour another. He needed to keep his wits about him. There were certain matters that he still had to resolve with the legate before he could let go and rest. He felt his eyelids drooping and instantly stood up, the wine slopping from his cup. Setting the cup down, Cato made himself pace steadily up and down the length of the office, not trusting himself to stop, let alone sit again. His head felt as if it was stuffed with wool and he worried that his mind would not be able to function as sharply as it needed to. The rhythmic pounding of a headache made matters worse.