Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Legate Quintatus surveyed the bodies scattered across the ground and in the ditch before turning his gaze towards the gaping ruins where the gatehouse and several sections of the wall had burned down. His nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of charred timber as he turned to face Macro.

  ‘Must have been quite a fight, Centurion.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied flatly.

  ‘This is the kind of action that makes heroes out of the men who fought it,’ the legate continued. ‘I’m sure there will be something in it for you when my report reaches Governor Ostorius, and he sends it on to Rome. The garrison at Bruccium has distinguished itself and there will be awards to fix to the standards of your cohort, and your Thracians as well.’ He turned and flashed a smile at Cato. ‘The Blood Crows have won themselves something of a fierce reputation. Of course much of that was down to the efforts of Centurion Quertus. It is a shame he did not live to see this day.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is a shame.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m sure his name will live on.’

  Cato nodded. ‘I’m certain of it.’

  Quintatus turned his attention back to Macro. ‘You have your orders. Make sure that the fort is completely destroyed. I don’t want any of the enemy occupying this position after we leave the valley. That will be all, Centurion.’

  Macro saluted and turned away to make his way back through the breach and into the fort. The legate stared after him for a moment and shrugged.

  ‘A hard fighter, that man, but something of a surly character.’

  Cato stifled his anger at this description of his friend. ‘The centurion is exhausted, sir. He can hardly be expected to provide stimulating conversation in his state.’

  Quintatus rounded on him sharply. ‘By all means defend your officers, but I’ll thank you not to express yourself in such an insubordinate manner. You, and the centurion, may have come out of this heroes but I advise you not to test my good will too far. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Clearly.’

  ‘Very well. Once your men have completed the destruction of Bruccium, have them join the rearguard. There’ll be no time to rest them, I’m afraid. We have to march fast if we are to keep up with Caratacus. We can’t afford to lose contact and let him give us the slip again. Ostorius would not be very forgiving.’ Quintatus smiled. ‘Even though it was the governor who lost track of him the first time. It would be gratifying to put an end to Caratacus before Ostorius reached the scene. Most gratifying indeed.’

  Cato felt a stab of irritation. The commanders of armies had no right to pursue their political rivalries in the field. Men’s lives were at stake, and a general owed it to those whose fates he controlled to focus his thoughts on the successful outcome of the campaign. The defeat of the enemy was all that mattered. Who claimed the credit for it was irrelevant. Or at least it should be. But there were times when it seemed that war was only ever a continuation of politics, Cato mused. No more so than in Rome where the two fields so frequently overlapped in the careers of those at the highest levels of society.

  Legate Quintatus was surveying the column of his army marching past the ruined fort, thousands of men, mules, horses and wagons heavily laden with the accoutrements of war.

  ‘We have wasted too many years trying to bring peace to this province. There has been little chance to win glory thanks to the Emperor claiming that the place was conquered a few months after we first landed. But there’s a world of difference between the official view and the reality on the ground, eh? I’ll be glad to be posted to a frontier where a reputation can be made. But I am getting ahead of myself.’ Quintatus made a self-deprecating gesture with his hand. ‘First we must complete the destruction of the enemy. With Caratacus beaten we can finally put an end to native resistance on this miserable island.’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  The legate turned to frown at Cato. ‘You doubt it?’

  Cato framed his reply carefully. ‘We have to defeat Caratacus first, sir. We’ll only know if it is all over after that has happened. Even then, he has proved to be a resourceful enemy. Who knows? He may still have plenty of surprises up his sleeve. There are other tribes who haven’t paid homage to Rome. And then there’s the Druids, always ready to stir up hatred towards us.’ He shrugged. ‘I fear that it will be a while yet before Britannia knows peace.’

  Quintatus let out an impatient sigh. ‘Your spirit of optimism is somewhat less than awe-inspiring, Prefect Cato. I am sure you are a delight to have around when the morale of the men needs a lift.’

  ‘Optimism is a commendable enough quality, sir, but the hard realities of a situation seldom pay heed to good humour, in my experience.’

  ‘In your experience?’ The legate’s lips curled slightly in amusement. ‘I trust that you will live long enough to do justice to the term.’

  Cato met his gaze steadily. ‘So do I, sir.’

  Quintatus beckoned to the soldier holding his horse and the man hurriedly led the beast over and handed the reins to the legate, before bowing and offering his hands to give the officer an easy step up into the saddle. He looked down at Cato and his voice took on a curt tone of command.

  ‘Destroy the fort, assemble what’s left of your command and join the column.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They exchanged a salute and Quintatus urged his mount into a trot, down the track towards the parade ground over which a column of legionaries was marching. Cato watched him for a moment, wondering if he could share the legate’s optimism about the imminent end to the war against Caratacus and those who still resisted the brute power of Rome. Despite his reservations, he wanted to hope that the long campaign would soon be over. With Britannia at peace, he could safely send for Julia to join him. In time, many of the units of the island’s garrison would be redeployed and a better posting could be found. Somewhere warmer, more civilised. He looked up at the grey crags on the mountains on either side of the valley and shivered. This was wild, hostile country and it was hard to see how it could ever be tamed. It would be better never to bring Julia to these shores. When the natives eventually gave in, it would be best to request a new command closer to Rome. He did not yet dare to hope for a position in the capital. Not while there were still those at the palace who bore him ill will. But that would not last forever, Cato reflected wryly. Those who plotted the fate of Rome at the emperor’s side seldom lasted the distance. Soon there would be a new Emperor. More than likely it would be Nero, the adopted son of Claudius, and Cato had once saved the young prince’s life. If the spirited youth became Emperor, there would be a purge of the old guard and Cato would be free to return to Rome, and Julia, and live in peace.

  With that warm thought in his heart, he turned away from the passing column of infantry and picked his way through the breach beside the ruined gatehouse and went to find Macro.

  The interior of the fort was heavy with the stench of burned timber and the more acrid odour of pitch. Small parties of men were preparing piles of combustible materials in the doorways of the barrack blocks and stables. Cato could not help observing the irony that Roman soldiers would complete the destruction that their enemies had failed to achieve.

  He found Macro at headquarters, supervising the loading of the garrison’s pay chest and records into a wagon. A section of legionaries had been assigned the duty. It seemed that Macro still did not trust the Thracians.

  ‘How is it going, Macro?’

  The centurion saluted as his friend approached and ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck as he collected his thoughts.

  ‘The sick and wounded have already joined the baggage train. Along with the Silurian prisoners. The cavalry mounts have been removed from the stables, along with all the equipment we can carry in the remaining wagons.’ He nodded towards the chests being loaded. ‘Once that lot’s sorted then we’re done.’

  ‘And our own kit?’

  He gestured towards the wagon in t
he courtyard. ‘Already loaded.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Good. Once the wagon is out of the fort you can give the order for the fires to be lit.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to do it.’

  Cato glanced at his friend with a curious expression. ‘You’re pleased by the prospect?’

  ‘Why not? Why feel sorry for the loss of this place?’ Macro cast his eyes around the courtyard in front of the headquarters building. ‘It has too much of the feel of Quertus about it. It’s as if his shadow still lingers here. No surprise in that, I guess. He was not the kind of bastard who would be welcomed into the afterlife. Quertus deserves an underworld all of his own, to my mind.’

  Cato was taken aback. It was unlike Macro to be in such low spirits. He addressed his friend in a gentle tone.

  ‘Macro. Quertus is dead. I killed him. It’s over.’

  Macro shook his head slowly. ‘Not for me, lad. I’ve served for twenty years in the legions, seen plenty of sights in my time and known some bad characters, but nothing like Quertus. His heart was touched by darkness.’

  ‘Darkness?’ Cato pursed his lips and thought a moment before he continued. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Suppose?’ Macro chuckled humourlessly. ‘Fuck that. He was insane. Quertus had an evil streak in him as wide as the Tiber. He was little better than a wild animal and cunning as a snake. He needed to be put down. I only wish I had been the one to do it. Not you.’ He regarded Cato anxiously. ‘I hope there’s going to be no repercussions.’

  ‘Not for a while, at least. The legate assumes from what I said that he died in battle. If I’m required to write a full report then the truth will be known. As I’m sure it will in any case. There were witnesses. Word will get out.’

  ‘True, but there’ll be few of them spoken in praise of Quertus, given that he was about to abandon the rest of us to Caratacus. I won’t be the only one to back up your account. Not by a long way.’

  Cato smiled gratefully. ‘I know. I have no worries on that account.’ His expression became more thoughtful. ‘It’s a pity that it had to happen. There was some merit in Quertus’s tactics.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Why not? Fear is the best weapon that can be deployed in war. And he put fear into the hearts of the enemy sure enough. His mistake was in putting fear into the hearts of his own men.’

  ‘You do him too much credit, Cato. He was a bad ’un. That’s all. Bad, and mad, to the core, and he touched others with it. His men, the Silurians . . . even me.’ Macro’s gaze slid away from Cato as he vividly recalled the deaths of Mancinus and Maridius. He winced, as if in pain. ‘Don’t make the mistake of speaking well of the dead. Some don’t deserve it.’ Macro glanced past Cato towards the wagon and called out, ‘All right, the bloody thing’s loaded so what are you waiting for? Get the wagon out of the fort and down to the parade ground and make sure no thieving bastards get their hands on it. Move!’

  The driver of the wagon cracked his whip and the heavy wheels rumbled into motion as the vehicle and its escort left the courtyard and made for the side gate and the track leading round the fort to the parade ground. The melancholy spell of a moment earlier was broken and both men assumed the veneer of their rank as they turned back to each other.

  ‘That’s the lot.’ Macro drew himself up. ‘Fort’s ready to be fired, sir.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Then I’ll wait for you with the rest of the men outside. Carry on.’

  As Cato made his way back towards the burned remains of the wall facing the parade ground he heard Macro’s voice barking out the orders to the incendiary parties. By the time Cato reached the bottom of the slope and turned to look up, dark columns of smoke were swirling into the sky. Macro and a handful of his men emerged from one of the breaches in the wall and descended the track to join their comrades. Cato waved aside the man holding his horse. He felt that he wanted to walk for a while. The survivors of the garrison formed up and Cato waved his arm forward to signal them to advance and they fell into line at the rear of the column.

  Far ahead, Legate Quintatus’s cavalry were snapping at the heels of Caratacus and his warriors. Soon they would be forced to turn and fight. There would be a great battle which would test the courage and skill of the men of both armies, Cato knew. If Rome triumphed, there was a chance for peace in the new province. If not, the bitter war would drag on year after year. The prospect depressed Cato. More death. More suffering. The natives would desperately cling to the hope that they would ultimately humble Rome. That would never happen, Cato mused. No emperor of Rome would allow it to happen, whatever the cost. That was what Caratacus and his followers should really fear.

  Again, it came back to fear. Perhaps, in that regard, Quertus had been right all along.

  ‘We’re a bit thin on the ground,’ Macro said, breaking Cato’s thoughts. He turned to gesture at the small column of men and horses behind them. ‘Both cohorts have suffered heavy losses.’

  ‘True, but the legate has promised us first call on the replacements coming up from Londinium. We’ll return to the front line soon enough.’

  Macro smiled at the prospect of breaking in some new recruits. ‘Back to straightforward, proper soldiering. At last.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato grinned at his friend. ‘We’ll drill them until they drop and when we do go up against the enemy, they’ll do us proud. Your men and the Blood Crows will be the best cohorts in the army. There won’t be a tribe in Britannia that can stand against us.’

  Macro nodded. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘The first jar is on me, as soon as we make camp tonight.’

  ‘Why wait?’ Macro flipped his cloak back and drew out his canteen. ‘Took the liberty of helping myself to what was left of the Falernian. Not bad stuff.’ He offered the canteen to Cato. ‘You first. Rank has its privileges.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘So does friendship. After you.’

  Macro laughed, pulled out the stopper and took a healthy swig before he passed the canteen over to Cato. The prefect thought for a moment before he raised the canteen in a toast.

  ‘To Rome, to honour and, above all, to friendship!’

  Author’s Note

  History books often refer to the Claudian ‘conquest’ of Britain in AD43 whereas the more accurate word would be ‘invasion’. There’s a world of difference between the two terms. Rome, the ancient world’s longest enduring superpower, had set its eyes on Britain a hundred years before the Claudian campaign when Julius Caesar was brutally busy carving his name into posterity by massacring the Gauls and seizing their lands for the then republic. The invasion of Britain, a land long considered the acme of barbarism and savagery, would cement his reputation in the minds of the Roman public. As it did, despite the fact that neither of his two incursions amounted to more than a brief reconnaissance of the southern part of the island. By picking up where Caesar had left off, Emperor Claudius was attempting to add lustre to a reign that had got off to a very shaky start after the murder of his predecessor and his own elevation only taking place when the Praetorian Guard recognised that returning Rome to a republic would rob them of their rather extensive perks.

  In any case, the invasion went ahead and with the defeat of the native army led by Caratacus outside his own capital the Emperor was content to declare the ‘mission accomplished’, with the same temerity, inaccuracy and trimming that was deployed by President Bush in 2003 with regard to Iraq. There was a celebration in Rome and the Emperor, basking in the approval of his subjects, moved on to other matters, leaving the army in Britain to put the seal on the conquest and settle the province so that it could pay its way.

  But the conquest of the island was very far from complete and it took a few years to create a frontier from the Wash to the Severn, and then more years to push it farther north and west, at least as far as the mountains of modern Wales. And that is where the Roman advance stalled. The legions and the auxiliaries were confronted with two of the most determined and courage
ous of tribes, the Ordovices and the Silures, led by a commander who had eventually worked out the appropriate tactics to use against the Roman war machine. Rather than confront his enemy in set-piece battles, Caratacus adopted the time-honoured expedient of ‘guerrilla’ warfare against a more powerful opponent, striking at isolated forts and columns and melting away before the concentrated strength of the legions. In this he was aided by the geography of Wales which at the time was heavily forested as well as possessing a mountainous interior. Perfect terrain for the kind of war he now waged against the Romans.

  As is usual in such conflicts, the guerrilla has the initiative, and as long as he can evade situations where the enemy can deploy overwhelming force, the resistance can be continued. By striking at the most vulnerable element of the native forces led by Caratacus, in the manner in which Centurion Quertus carried the war to the Silurian villages, the Romans could retake the initiative and force the natives on to the back foot, as happens with my novel’s depiction of Caratacus being obliged to counter the attacks of the Blood Crows.

  Such tactics might work well in a world where there was no mass media on hand to report the ‘collateral’ damage, and it is interesting to ponder the fact that the effectiveness of conventional military power is inversely proportional to the breadth and duration of the mass, and increasingly social, media that reports on its activities. Conversely, the measure of success of the enemy guerrilla forces is directly proportional to the same media. How modern generals must envy the free hand that was dealt to their ancient predecessors!

  Meanwhile, back to Cato and Macro. Having driven off Caratacus and his army they must now march with Legate Quintatus and attempt to chase down the native army and force it to turn and give battle. Despite the legate’s optimism, Caratacus has defied Rome more than once when her generals had thought they had finally crushed the natives’ will to resist. The conquest of Britannia is still some way off, and the struggle faced by Macro, Cato and the soldiers of Rome must continue. There are great challenges ahead that will test our two heroes to the utmost – and they will return to confront Caratacus in the next novel in the series!