Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

‘True enough,’ Macro grumbled under his breath. ‘Grasping little cows.’

  The mood in the tent had become less formal and, watching the general’s expression, Cato caught the intelligent gleam in the old man’s eye and realised that the moment of levity was a little trick to draw his officers closer to him. A useful device, Cato decided, making a mental note to use it when he addressed his own subordinates.

  ‘So, gentleman, if our soldiers are to avoid financial ruin, we must track down and complete the destruction of Caratacus. The man has been a blade in our side from the first moment we set foot in these lands.’ Ostorius’s expression became serious. ‘He is a noble foe. The best enemy I have had the honour of fighting, and there is much that can be learned from a leader of his calibre. Therefore I would ask that he be taken alive when the time comes. His death would be a great pity. If the man can be tamed then I am certain he would be a powerful ally. But I digress.’ He turned back to the map. ‘I have sent scouts down both valleys with orders to locate the enemy. We will advance once we know which direction Caratacus has taken. Until then the army can rest in camp. Use the time wisely. Have the men clean their kit, see to their blisters and get some sleep. For the officers I have arranged a different form of entertainment.’ He pointed to the map again, a short distance from where the army was in camp. ‘We passed this vale this morning. A dead end according to the patrol that explored it. However, there’s plenty of game there. Deer and some wild pigs. It would be a shame to pass up the opportunity while we await news of Caratacus. So I invite you all to a hunt there. Find a good horse, a sturdy spear and join me at the posterior gate at dawn tomorrow . . . Who is with me?’

  Macro stood up at once. ‘Me, sir!’

  At once the rest followed suit, Cato amongst them, all eager to escape the duties in the camp and lose themselves in the thrill of the hunt. The cheering quickly died down as Ostorius cracked a smile and waved his hands to calm their spirits.

  ‘Good! Good. Before I dismiss you, some will have noted the arrival of a new face to our happy little brotherhood. Marcus, stand if you will.’

  A tribune seated at the front of the tent rose to his feet and turned to face his comrades. Cato saw that he was a tall, broad-shouldered officer of about twenty. He wore a polished breastplate with a simple design and his cloak and body were spattered with mud, indicating that he had only recently reached the camp. His fair hair was thinning and lay in neatly oiled curls on his scalp. He nodded a greeting and smiled pleasantly as he glanced round the faces before him. The general patted him on the shoulder.

  ‘This is Senior Tribune Marcus Sylvanus Otho, of the Ninth Legion. He is in command of a detachment I have ordered up from Lindum. He rode ahead to announce their arrival on the morrow. Four more cohorts to add to our strength, more than enough to ensure that we crush the enemy when they finally find the courage to turn and face us. I take it you will be joining the hunt tomorrow, Tribune Otho?’

  The young man’s smile faded for a moment. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, sir. However, I feel it is my duty to be here when the men reach camp.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Ostorius barked. ‘The camp prefect will show them to their tent lines, as he will be in command during my absence. Isn’t that right, Marcellus?’ The general gestured towards a weathered veteran sitting in the front row.

  The officer shrugged. ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘There, your men are taken care of.’

  The tribune bowed his head wearily. ‘I thank you, sir.’

  Ostorius beamed at him and clapped the officer on the shoulder before waving him back to his seat. He turned to the others.

  ‘It is the tradition, before a hunt, to celebrate with a feast. Alas, the poor rations available to us on the march are barely adequate to the task, but my cook has tried his best . . .’ The general clapped his hands and the flaps at the back of the tent parted as two soldiers beyond drew them aside to reveal a tented extension to the general’s command post. Several trestle tables had been set up side by side to create a long dining table, lined with benches. Jars of wine and oil-lamp stands were arranged at intervals and the surface was laden with silver cups, platters and trays heaped with small loaves. A waft of warm air carried the faint scent of roasting meat to the officers in the adjoining tent and Macro smacked his lips.

  ‘Pork, if I’m not mistaken. Please gods, let it be pork!’

  Despite feeling that he should show a measure of the aloofness due his rank, Cato could not help his stomach giving a little growl at the imminent prospect of good food and wine. Meanwhile, the general was smiling at the expressions of his officers and he briefly milked the moment before turning towards the table and beckoning them to follow him. ‘To your places, gentlemen.’

  The officers rose and eagerly followed their commander. Each man was familiar with the strict precedence of the seating and once Ostorius had taken his place at the head of the table, the legates of the two legions sat on either side, then the senior tribunes, the camp prefects, before the prefects of the auxiliary units, in order of seniority. This left Cato nearly halfway down the table, next to the centurions commanding the legionary cohorts. Macro sat opposite and instantly reached for the nearest jug, peered inside to make sure it was wine, and filled his cup to the brim. Then he shot a guilty look across at Cato and raised the jug as he cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘Thank you.’ Cato picked up his cup and reached over for Macro to pour.

  ‘Mind moving up a place?

  Cato glanced round to see Horatius, prefect of a cohort from Hispania, a mixed unit of infantry and cavalry. Like Cato, he had only recently been appointed to his command and had joined Ostorius’s army a few months before. He was a scarred veteran who had earned his command the hard way after reaching the exalted post of First Spear centurion of the Twentieth Legion. In the normal run of things Cato’s command of a mounted unit would mean that he held the superior rank, but at present the command of the baggage train conferred the lowest status amongst the prefects. He rose to his feet and the centurions to his right shuffled down to make space for him. Horatius nodded his thanks as he took the spot Cato had given up. He settled himself and turned to Cato with a curious expression.

  ‘Your Thracian lads aren’t quite the ticket, are they?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They look like a bunch of ruffians with those beards, black tunics and cloaks and so on. Not quite what I’d expect from a regular army unit. You should insist on higher standards, Cato.’

  ‘They fight well enough.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but they create something of a bad impression.’

  Cato smiled. ‘That’s the effect my predecessor was going for. It’s also the reason why they have their own banner. The enemy fear them and know their name.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard. The Blood Crows.’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘I think scarecrows would be more appropriate . . .’ Horatius nodded at Macro and gestured to his cup. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Macro frowned slightly but did as he was bid then set the jug down heavily before picking up his own cup. He took a healthy swig and smiled.

  ‘That’s good stuff. Nice to see the general looks after his officers.’

  Horatius smiled thinly. ‘I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. This is the first time he’s put on a feed for months. The old boy’s scenting the kill. Maybe that’s what minded him to lay on the hunt. Venison tomorrow, Caratacus the day after, eh?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ Macro raised his cup and took another swig.

  Cato lifted his wine and took a sip, conscious that his friend would drink to pretty much anything. The wine’s refinement surprised him. A rich, smooth, musty flavour, quite unlike the sharp tang of most of the cheap wine imported into the island where it could be sold for a substantial profit, regardless of
its quality. His thoughts shifted back to the other prefect’s comment.

  ‘Let’s not cook the deer before we catch it. I doubt the enemy’s going to let us run them down as easily as tomorrow’s prey.’

  Horatius scratched his jaw. ‘I hope you’re wrong. Not just because I’ve had enough of chasing those bloody barbarians around these mountains. It’s Ostorius I’m worried about.’ He lowered his voice as he glanced quickly towards the head of the table. Cato followed his gaze and saw the general staring into a silver goblet as he listened to the conversation of the two legates. The verve of the man who had delivered the briefing shortly before had evaporated. Now the general looked tired and his lined face inclined forward as if his head was a burden on his thin shoulders. Horatius let out a sigh. ‘Poor bastard’s just about done in. This will be his last campaign, I’m thinking. And he knows it. That’s why he’s so determined to catch Caratacus before it’s too late. His military career is going to end here in the mountains. Victory or defeat, or the humiliation of sitting in Rome while his replacement finishes the job and reaps the rewards . . .’ He sipped his wine. ‘Be a shame, that, after all the groundwork that Ostorius has put in.’ The prefect smiled at Macro and Cato. ‘Still, there’s every chance we’ll corner the enemy soon, eh?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Cato made himself smile encouragingly. ‘Even if we only get to watch proceedings from the rear of our lines.’

  Horatius made a sympathetic noise. ‘You have to pay your dues, my boy. Command of the baggage train escort ain’t likely to win you any medals but it’s a necessary job. Do it well and you’ll get your chance to win a name for yourself in due course.’

  Cato stifled the urge to tell the other officer that he had seen his share of action across the years of his service in the army. Along with Macro he had faced, and overcome, more danger than most of Rome’s soldiers would ever face in their careers. He had most definitely paid his dues. But his experience had taught him that life seldom bestows its rewards in proportion to the efforts men have taken to earn them. It had also taught him never to underestimate his enemy. Even now, with the might of the Roman army breathing down his neck, Caratacus might yet cheat Ostorius of the final triumph of his long and glorious career.

  His thoughts were interrupted as two of the general’s servants entered the tent with a sizzling, glazed roast pig. It was skewered on a stout wooden shaft, the ends of which were supported by the servants’ shoulders. They struggled to a small side table and laid their burden down. The tent filled with the rich aroma of the cooked meat and the officers eyed the main course of the feast appreciatively. One of the servants looked to the general for permission to continue and Ostorius flicked his hand in curt assent. Taking out a sharp knife from his belt, the servant began to hack off chunks of pork on to a platter for his companion to distribute to the officers, starting at the head of the table. While the rest of the most senior officers ate hungrily, Ostorius simply picked at his meal, Cato noticed.

  Once he had been served, Cato drew his dagger and cut his chunk of pork into more manageable pieces. Opposite, Macro tore at his meat, jaws working furiously. He caught Cato’s eye and grinned, juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Cato returned the smile before turning back to his neighbour.

  ‘What do you know about the new arrival?’

  Horatius pointed the tip of his knife up towards the head of the table. ‘Tribune Otho?’ He paused briefly to think. ‘Not much. Only what I’ve heard from a mate who was reporting from Lindum a few days ago. Our lad arrived from Rome less than two months ago, the ink still wet on his letter of appointment. Popular enough, though he’s still got plenty to learn about the army. Like most of them broad-stripers. Give ’em a couple of years and they’ll do us no harm. Best we can hope for really.’

  He paused to eat another mouthful and then, when he did not continue, Cato cleared his throat. ‘Nothing else? Is that all your friend had to say about Otho?’

  ‘Near enough. There was something else.’ Horatius lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘There was a rumour about the reason behind his fetching up here on this miserable island.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You know how it is, Cato. One servant mutters something to the next and before you know it they’re saying two and two make five. In this case, it seems that our friend Otho was sent here on the orders of the Emperor, as a punishment. If you’re going to punish someone, that’s the way to do it, sure enough – send ’em to Britannia.’

  Cato’s curiosity was piqued and he swallowed hurriedly in order to urge his comrade to say more. ‘What was the punishment for?’

  Horatius winked. ‘Something to do with his wife. She insisted on coming with him from Rome. Read into that what you will. According to my mate, she’s quite a looker.’

  Cato sucked in air between his teeth. He had wondered about bringing his own wife, Julia, with him, but had decided against it due to the danger posed by an unsettled province, swarming with the enemies of Emperor Claudius. If Otho had chosen to permit his wife to accompany him then it was possible that he felt she would be in greater danger if she remained in Rome. That, or perhaps the tribune was obsessively jealous and dare not leave his wife to her own devices in the capital.

  The thought sparked off a stab of jealousy in Cato’s gut and unbidden images and anxieties about Julia’s fidelity rushed into his thoughts. She was part of the social world of the aristocrats; there were plenty of wealthy, powerful, well-groomed men to catch her eye, and with her beauty she could have the pick of them if she wished. He forced such fears from his mind, furious and ashamed with himself for doubting her. After all, was he not availed of the same opportunities to indulge himself in the towns and tents of the camp followers, albeit that the company was somewhat less select and self-regarding? And Cato had not broken faith. He must trust that Julia had similarly honoured him. What else could he do? Cato asked himself. If he tormented himself with such fears it would be a dangerous distraction – for him and, more importantly, for his men.

  He tried to clear his mind as he ate some more meat and washed it down with another sip of wine. ‘Is that all you know about the tribune?’

  Horatius looked at him sharply. ‘That’s all. I ain’t the town gossip, Cato. And frankly that’s the limit of my fucking interest in the new lad and his wife.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  But the other prefect was not done with Cato yet and turned to look across the table. ‘Hey, Centurion Macro!’

  Macro looked up.

  ‘You’ve served with Cato for a while, right? Is he always so nosy?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You know, asking questions all the time?’

  Macro chuckled, the wine working its effect on him as he responded with a slurred edge of his words. ‘You don’t know the half of it. If something happens, the prefect wants to know the reason why. I keep telling him, it’s the will of the gods. That’s all a man has to know. But not him. He has the mind of a Greek.’

  ‘Really?’ Horatius shuffled on the bench. ‘Just as long as that’s as far as his taste for Greek ways takes him.’

  Macro roared with laughter. ‘Oh, in that respect he’s as straight as a javelin. And with good reason. You should see his wife. Prettiest girl in Rome.’

  Cato frowned and gritted his teeth as he pointed a finger at Macro. ‘That’s enough, Centurion. Understand?’

  His friend’s sharp tone cut through the fog in Macro’s mind and he lowered his gaze guiltily. ‘Apologies, sir. I spoke out of turn.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Quite. And I’ll thank you to remember that.’

  A difficult silence fell over the other officers in earshot of the sharp exchange, but the hubbub in the rest of the tent continued and a moment later the men on either side of Cato and Macro had returned to their good-humoured banter. But the mood between the two friends remained soured
for the rest of the feast.

  As the last of the dishes were cleared away and the officers began to rise and take their leave, Cato made his way over to the junior tribune responsible for supplies on the general’s staff.

  ‘Gaius Portius, a word.’

  A short, round-faced young officer with a mop of dark curly hair turned from his companions and smiled blearily at Cato. ‘Yes? P-prefect Cato, isn’t it?’

  Cato stared at him coldly. He himself had only drunk the one cup of wine, as he disliked the feeling of being drunk, or more particularly the consequences of the feeling, and was quite sober.

  ‘I wish to speak to you about the supply situation.’

  ‘Of course, sir. First thing in the m-morning. Oh, hang on. The hunt. After that then, sir. S-soon as possible.’

  ‘I wish to speak now, Portius.’

  The younger officer hesitated a moment, as if he might protest, but Cato’s stern expression brooked no defiance and the tribune turned to his friends. ‘You fellows carry on. I’ll s-see you in the mess.’

  His comrades exchanged sympathetic looks with Portius and he clapped a couple of them on the shoulder as they stumbled out of the tent. Portius turned back to Cato and tried to focus his mind. ‘I’m all yours, sir.’

  ‘Good. Since you seem to have some trouble remembering my name, I’ll remind you. Quintus Licinius Cato, Prefect of the Third Thracian Cavalry and, for now, the commander of the baggage train escort. Mind you, you should already be aware of that, given how many requests I’ve sent to headquarters over the last month chasing up our rations and the kit my two units require, urgently. But I’ve had no response. It’s not an acceptable state of affairs, is it, Tribune Portius?’

  The tribune raised a hand in protest. ‘Sir, I understand your situation. However, yours is not a front-line command. Supplies are limited and there are other units with a higher pr-priority.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Cato snapped. ‘The auxiliaries and legionaries under my command are front-line troops. We don’t need to prove our worth. In any case, the general has entrusted us with guarding the baggage train. There wouldn’t be any bloody supplies if we failed in our job. If my horses and men go without adequate feed and rations then they’re not going to be on top form should the enemy decide to strike at the wagons and people I’m protecting. My men are going to be even less effective if they can’t get their kit repaired due to lack of the materials needed to fix them. We’re short-handed as it is. If we are attacked and the enemy manage to break through, it will be in no small part your responsibility, Tribune Portius. I will make sure that everyone knows it, from the common soldier right up to the general, and the Emperor back in Rome.’ He leaned forward so that their faces were no more than a foot apart and tapped the tribune firmly on the chest. ‘Think what that will do to your prospects. You’ll be lucky if your next post is supervising the sewers in some desert shithole on the edge of the known world.’