Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  It was almost an hour before Quintatus returned, fully dressed and freshly shaven, and Cato mentally cursed him for taking the time for the latter when he should have returned here to continue his conversation.

  ‘Glad to see you are still awake, Prefect. You can get some rest soon. I’ve told my body slave to have a bed prepared for you in the tribune’s mess. There’ll be hot food and drink as well.’

  Cato nodded his thanks and the legate returned to his desk and sat. He waved Cato towards the couch. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll stand, sir.’

  Quintatus cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘As you wish. Now, there are a few details I need to settle. You say Caratacus had ten thousand men, or thereabouts.’

  ‘That’s my estimate.’

  ‘How many of those are cavalry?’

  Cato struggled to organise his thoughts. ‘No more than five hundred.’

  ‘And the infantry? What quality?’

  ‘A quarter have armour. More now since the loss of the column. The rest are lightly equipped. But they are well motivated, sir. I’ve rarely seen men fight so hard. They’ve suffered losses attacking the fort and Tribune Mancinus’s column but I doubt it will hold them back. Caratacus knows how to get the best from his men.’

  ‘That may be so, but they’ll be no match for the Fourteenth Legion. I just hope that they remain in front of Bruccium long enough for me to arrive on the scene. Then I’ll put paid to Caratacus. The man has been a thorn in the side of Rome for too long. If I am the one chosen by the gods to complete the task then maybe I can share an ovation with Ostorius, eh?’ Quintatus smiled self-consciously. ‘It is never a bad thing to win favour at the imperial court, Cato.’

  ‘In my experience, it is wiser still to have nothing to do with the imperial court, sir.’

  Quintatus gave him a calculating look. ‘You speak from experience?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see. Then that’s a story that is worth hearing.’

  Cato did not respond at first but stared back with an inscrutable expression. ‘Let me just say that it is easy to make enemies simply through serving the Emperor loyally and protecting his interests. My promotion to prefect was my reward for such service. However, life seems to give with one hand and then take with the other. My promotion was balanced by incurring the enmity of a powerful element at court.’

  ‘No doubt you crossed the path of one of those infernal freedmen of his. That, or his new wife and that son of hers, Nero.’

  Cato ignored the prompt for further information. ‘It was out of regard for that enmity that I took the first opportunity to leave Rome and take up command of a unit on a distant frontier. It was my hope that I might devote myself to a military career and be forgotten. But it seems that I was hoping for too much. Why else would I be given the command of the garrison at Bruccium?’

  Quintatus settled back in his chair and folded his hands. ‘I’m not sure I follow your line of thought, Prefect.’

  ‘It’s straightforward enough, sir. The previous prefect was killed in suspicious circumstances. Murdered most likely.’

  ‘That is a serious thing to suggest.’

  ‘Murder is always a serious matter. But you were content not to investigate the matter too closely, while you gave Centurion Quertus a free hand in how he chose to wage war against the Silurians.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I am pleased with the direction this conversation is taking.’

  Cato rubbed his brow, wincing at the headache that was starting to make him feel nauseous. ‘Sir, I am not trying to make trouble. I just wish to make matters clear. If you are unhappy with what I say then I can only assure you that I am unhappier still to be pursued by the ill will of an enemy far away in Rome. Please do me the courtesy of being honest, as I am being.’

  The legate considered this for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well. Continue. But I may not wish to confirm or deny any suggestion you put to me.’

  ‘I understand.’ Cato struggled a moment to think clearly before he continued. ‘My posting to Bruccium was intended to solve two problems. Firstly, it was hoped that I would be disposed of by being sent there. If the enemy didn’t see to that, then Centurion Quertus had shown himself willing and able to dispose of commanders. Secondly, you calculated that his . . . methods would provoke Caratacus. He could hardly carry on operations against Ostorius while his allies were being forced to endure the wholesale massacres that Quertus took to with such enthusiasm. The Silures would either be forced to sue for peace, or they would threaten to withdraw their warriors to protect their own lands. Neither of which Caratacus could permit. So he was forced to make for Bruccium, where in due course he would present you with an opportunity to confront him.’ Cato nodded. ‘I congratulate you, sir. It is a neat solution. Your talents are wasted here on the frontier. I am sure that they would be better employed in Rome.’

  ‘I take it that was intended as an insult.’

  Cato sighed. ‘Merely a statement of fact.’

  The legate’s face twitched, and then he composed his features and regarded Cato closely. ‘And what do you propose to do about it? You must know that I can easily brush aside such accusations. It would be your word against mine.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Then what do you want from me?’

  ‘To be left alone, sir,’ Cato replied flatly. ‘It is through no fault of my own that I have an enemy in the palace. Since I joined the army I have never wanted to do anything more than be a good soldier. I managed it for some years, before I, and my friend, Centurion Macro, were forced to undertake some tasks for one of the imperial secretaries. Now, for the first time in years, we had hoped to be free of his influence, and to return to soldiering. And we’re good soldiers. Experienced soldiers. We don’t deserve to be played like pieces in some game. It’s a waste of our talent, and our loyalty to Rome. I don’t want to live my life worrying if someone is going to stick a knife in my back.’ Cato paused a moment. ‘So this is my plea. You have played your part. You have done the favour asked of you by someone in Rome. You don’t owe them anything else. That being the case, give me your word that you will not try to harm me, or Macro. I have no objection to being placed in danger’s way. That is the duty of a soldier. Leave us be, and we will serve Rome, and you, loyally. And you will have cause to thank us. If you plot against us, then it is not only dishonourable, it is something worse. It is a waste of good men.’

  When Cato concluded, there was a silence in the room before Quintatus cleared his throat. ‘Is that the deal you offer me?’

  ‘It’s not a deal, sir. What would be the point of that? I have nothing to bargain with. As I said, it’s simply a plea. If you give me your word that you will treat us as soldiers then that is good enough for me.’

  ‘And you would trust my word?’

  ‘Yes. What choice do I have? You, however, do have a choice, sir. You can choose to be a man of honour, a professional soldier, or you can choose to be no better than the rest of that nest of vipers back in Rome.’ Cato forced himself to stand up straight and meet the legate’s gaze head on. ‘Do I have your word?’

  Quintatus scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I give you my word that I will treat you no differently to any other man under my command. Is that good enough for you?’

  Cato reflected a moment and nodded. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else to be said, sir. May I go and find that bed you mentioned?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Cato bowed his head and turned to half walk, half stumble from the room. The legate watched him go and was silent for a moment before he shook his head and muttered to himself, ‘What a remarkable young man . . . A pity he has earned himself such powerful enemies.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  For most of the following day the enemy were content to remain in their camp and the men of the garrison of Bruccium looked on with a sense of relief. The screams of the men who had been burned alive had unnerved many in
the fort and even Macro, tired as he was, had been unable to get much sleep. It was long after midnight before the Silurians finished celebrating their victory and began to settle for the night, leaving their fires to die down. When the sun rose and there was no sign of any pending attack, Macro allowed most of the men to return to barracks to rest. A quarter of their number remained on duty, manning the wall and keeping watch for any sign of enemy activity. Orders given, Macro curled up on the floor of the tower and surrendered to the leaden weariness that weighed so heavily on his limbs.

  He was woken at midday by one of the sentries, as he had ordered, and stirred stiffly to regard the enemy still sleeping off their festivities of the night before. Some small parties of younger men and boys were scouring the valley for firewood. Food was evidently running short, as a small herd of cattle and another of goats were driven into the camp from a nearby valley and were being slaughtered a short distance away from Caratacus’s shelter. The first of the carcasses was dragged over to the parade ground and cut into chunks for roasting on a spit over a freshly lit fire. More cooking fires were lit as the remainder of the slaughtered animals were distributed to the rest of the camp. As the afternoon wore on, the smell of roasting meat drifted up to the defenders

  Macro felt his stomach rumbling and contemplated just how good a roast leg of beef would taste after the meagre rations he had been enduring in the fort. He even considered having some of the horses slaughtered but put the notion aside. It would be bad for the morale of the surviving Thracians. If it seemed inevitable that the fort would fall then Macro resolved to have the animals killed to deny them to the enemy. But only then. In the meantime there was only thin gruel and the last chunks of dried-out cheese and stale bread to look forward to. Thankfully, he mused, hunger had a way of making even the most unappetisingly bland food seem like a banquet.

  Late in the afternoon, as the enemy feasting came to an end, a small party headed up the slope towards the main gate. They announced their approach with blaring horns and Macro saw that it was Caratacus, together with four men. One of them wore the black cloak of a Druid, while another was one of the prisoners. He had been stripped of his armour and boots and wore only a torn tunic. He was held firmly in the grip of two burly warriors and his head hung on his chest as they dragged him towards the fort. At the sound of the horns, Centurion Petillius climbed the tower and joined Macro. They exchanged a nod before Petillius gestured over the rail.

  ‘What are they playing at now?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  Caratacus stopped beyond javelin range and put his hands on his hips as he addressed the defenders.

  ‘Romans! Last night you witnessed the fate of some of your comrades. It is a pity that you had to watch the entertainment from afar. If you had shared the warmth of our fires you would have been there to see their flesh burn and hear the prayers they offered to your gods, begging for mercy.’ Caratacus paused and looked round theatrically. ‘Where are they now? Where is your Jupiter? Your Mars? It seems that your gods lack any interest in you. Or is it that they fear the power of our deities? In any case, the words of the dying fell on deaf ears. As I say, it is a shame you could not share such entertainment with us. To that end, I have come to offer you a small spectacle of your own. Here, where you can see and hear clearly.’ He stepped up to the prisoner and roughly raised his chin so that his face was visible to the defenders.

  ‘This is the commander of the Roman column we annihilated yesterday,’ Caratacus announced.

  Petillius cursed ‘Shit. That puts paid to the prefect and the Thracians.’

  The enemy commander continued addressing the garrison. ‘This man is Tribune Gaius Mancinus, a proud and haughty aristocrat. No doubt one of those Romans who can trace his family line all the way back to Aeneas. Let us see how a Roman aristocrat dies. A simple execution would be too merciful. I have never been too proud to learn from my enemies, and the Blood Crows have proved to be excellent teachers. You have terrified my Silurian friends and I must show them that you are, after all, just mortal men. Not demons. So, when we take the fort I shall hand any survivors over to the Silurians to do with as they wish. The purpose of this afternoon’s lesson is to show you that you will reap what you have sowed . . .’ The enemy general stared at the faces watching him from the wall and then stepped aside and gestured to the Druid to continue.

  The dark-robed figure approached Mancinus and took out a knife. He cut into the neckline of the tunic and then ripped it down as far as the tribune’s groin. Then he made another cut until the cloth was rent top to bottom, exposing the front of the Roman officer.

  ‘Sweet Mithras . . .’ Petillius muttered. ‘They’re going to gut the poor bastard.’

  Macro quickly turned to him. ‘Get Maridius up here, fast as you can!’

  Petillius ran back to the ladder and descended two rungs at a time. A moment later Macro heard his boots pounding towards the barracks where the Catuvellaunian prince was imprisoned. In front of the fort the Druid scored a shallow cut across Mancinus’s chest. The tribune strained to free himself from the grip of the two warriors but they were strong men and held him firmly and his efforts came to nothing. The blood flowed down over his pale skin. The Druid waited for a moment before he cut into Mancinus’s flesh again, an inch or so higher up where the Druid could see his handiwork more clearly. This time the Roman could not help crying out and the sound cut into Macro’s heart. He raged against his enemy and his inability to do anything to help Mancinus.

  As the Druid began to make a third cut, Macro turned away and hurried across to the rear of the tower and looked down into the fort, willing Petillius to appear with the prisoner. Another cry sounded from in front of the fort and Macro clenched his jaw in a silent grimace. Then he saw Petillius appear between two of the stable blocks, thrusting Maridius before him. The prisoner wore only the baggy breeches he had been left with after his questioning some days earlier. Although his face and body were bruised, the swelling around his eyes and lips had subsided.

  ‘Bring the bastard up, quick!’ Macro bellowed.

  He turned and ran across the tower and waved his hands to attract the attention of Caratacus. ‘Enough! Tell your Druid to put aside his blade!’

  The enemy commander and his companions looked up at Macro while Mancinus’s head rolled back and he let out a faint groan.

  ‘What is it?’ Caratacus called back. ‘Do you think to try and stop our entertainment? I thought Romans were used to this. I thought you had stronger stomachs. Are you so easily unmanned by the sight of blood?’

  Macro did not respond to the taunt. He knew he had to delay Mancinus’s torment long enough for Maridius to reach the top of the tower. His mind struggled to outline a means of saving Mancinus.

  ‘Listen, you fucking savage, I’ve had enough of your game. You want to play rough with your prisoners? Then so can we. If your Druid puts that knife to the tribune again then I swear to all the gods that you will regret it for what’s left of your miserable bloody life.’

  Caratacus laughed. ‘Don’t waste your breath on empty threats! Besides, my army would be most disappointed if I put an end to this spectacle. I have promised the tribune to the Druids to make a blood offering to our gods. Nothing can save him now!’

  Macro heard sounds on the ladder behind him and saw Maridius being bundled up the ladder. He crossed to him and hauled him up on to the platform before dragging him across to the wooden rail. Clenching his fist in the long hair of the prisoner, Macro jerked his head up so that his face would be clearly visible to Caratacus and the others.

  ‘Do you recognise your brother, Caratacus?’ Macro shouted down the slope. ‘If you do any more harm to Tribune Mancinus, then I’ll match you cut for cut.’ He drew his dagger from its scabbard and held it up for the enemy commander to see.

  There was a tense stillness before Caratacus responded. ‘You wouldn’t dare. He is too valuable a hostage to Rome.’

  ‘We are not in Rome!’ M
acro called back. ‘We are in the arse end of the world. There is you, me and the two men we hold prisoner. If you harm the tribune, then I will harm Maridius. That is what will happen. Understand?’

  Caratacus did not reply for a moment as he stared up at his younger brother and the Roman officer standing at his side. Then he spoke again. ‘If you harm my brother, then I swear that you, and any of your men I take alive when the fort falls will be subject to every cruelty, every torture, every humiliation before you are allowed to die. And I will do the same for every Roman prisoner that my army takes until we have driven you Roman scum from our lands. This I swear!’

  Macro ignored the threat and kept his silence. Behind him, Centurion Petillius muttered, ‘He means it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  The Druid turned to Caratacus and there was a brief exchange before the Druid raised his voice and turned back to the prisoner and cut him again, this time opening up his cheek with a swift slash of the blade. Macro did not hesistate. He turned to Maridius and stabbed him in the jaw. Blood splattered down on to the floorboards of the tower. Maridius let out a deep bellow of pain.

  ‘Hold him still!’ Macro commanded.

  Petillius and the two sentries closed round the prisoner and grasped his shoulders as vivid red blood coursed down his neck and into the hairs on his chest.

  Caratacus hurled a wild curse at the fort and took several steps forward, his hand making to draw his sword. Then he stopped abruptly, slowly let the blade settle back in its scabbard and thrust his finger towards Macro.

  ‘I will kill you! Kill you with my bare hands, and take your heart and feed it to my hounds!’

  Macro smiled grimly. ‘First you will have to take the fort.’