Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  They reached the counter and were waved to the front of the queue by bleary-eyed comrades. As they turned away with two brass beakers filled to the brim, they were at once accosted by General Ostorius. The old man’s lined face was split by a wide smile that exposed his stained teeth.

  ‘Ah! Prefect Cato. The reason why we are all here celebrating.’ He placed his hand on Cato’s shoulder and his bony fingers squeezed tightly, just enough to be painful. Then he released his grip and turned to one of the junior tribunes near at hand. ‘You, boy! Fetch me something to stand on. And be quick about it!’

  The young man scurried into the throng and returned a moment later with a simple wooden stool. Ostorius climbed stiffly on to it and straightened up so that he was visible above the crowd.

  ‘Gentlemen! Your attention!’

  Those immediately surrounding their commander fell dutifully silent but there were pockets of raucous singing and laughter towards the far fringes of the tent and Ostorius scowled as he drew a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Quiet!

  As the last of the officers fell silent and turned to face him, there was a stillness inside the tent, though the goatskin walls shook and flapped and the rain drummed overhead, and dripped through whatever small gaps it could find. Ostorius gestured to Cato to stand at his side before he began to speak.

  ‘Gentlemen, comrades, this has been a great day for us, for our men, for Emperor Claudius and for Rome! A victory!’ He raised his cup, spilling some of the contents down the front of Cato’s tunic as the other officers cheered. ‘A victory that finally sets the seal on the conquest of Britannia. The enemy is beaten, humbled, and squats in chains as our prisoner. His army is shattered and thousands of them will be sold as spoils of war. Every man here and in the legions stands to make a small fortune from the proceeds!’

  There was more cheering at the prospect of the flow of silver coins to come and Macro nudged Cato and grinned. ‘That’ll piss off the lads in the auxiliary cohorts sent to block the enemy’s retreat. They won’t be taking a share of the prisoners from the battlefield. Just those running away that they can net. All the more for us.’ He laughed cheerfully at the thought of his comrades going short, in the long-standing tradition of rivalry between the legions and the men of the auxiliary cohorts.

  The general raised a hand to calm the officers and the cheering died away. His expression grew more serious as he continued his address.

  ‘A victory, yes, but a hard-won victory. The men fought like lions today, braving every arrow, rock and slingshot that the cowardly enemy rained down on them from the safety of their fortifications. We took them on, slogging our way to the top of the hill and scattering them like chaff in the wind. Their defeat was inevitable. But it cost us dear, and would have cost us more but for the timely intervention of Prefect Cato, Centurion Macro and their small band of heroes on the enemy’s flank. It tipped the balance between a narrow victory and a shattering blow. For that we must raise our cups and toast Cato and Macro!’ He beamed down at Cato and raised his cup high before taking a deep draft of wine.

  ‘Cato and Macro!’ the others echoed and downed their wine.

  Ostorius stepped down unsteadily from the stool. ‘I’ll make sure you are given full credit for the role you played in the fight for the flank.’ The general smiled. ‘Who knows? You might even be invited to Rome when my victory is celebrated.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Cato responded, while Macro merely nodded. Then the general turned away and disappeared into the crowd, and the officers returned to their loud conversation and laughter.

  ‘Well, that was uncommonly decent of him,’ Macro sniffed. ‘You’d think we played a small part in some skirmish from the way he put it. Invited to his triumph . . . Fucking quality grab all the glory for themselves.’

  ‘Well, what did you expect? A ride down the Sacred Way on a chariot all by yourself? Come on, Macro. That’s just the way it is. Always will be. Doesn’t change what we know really happened.’ He forced a smile and held up his cup. ‘To Centurion Macro, the hardest fighting officer in the Fourteenth, or any other legion.’

  Macro’s face cracked in a drunken smile and he raised his cup in turn. ‘And to Prefect Cato, the hardest bullshitting thinker in the whole fucking army.’

  Cato hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ll drink to that.’

  They butted the brass beakers together and drained them before heading back to the counter for a refill.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The celebrations continued into the night, with officers arriving late, or leaving, as their duties dictated. Cato did not try to keep up with his friend, but drank just enough to allow himself to enter into the cheerful mood of his companions. Macro took his fill and assumed his customary role of a roaring drunk, singing his heart out along with the other centurions as they ran through their repertoire of marching songs. A number of officers had drunk themselves insensible and had stumbled over to the benches and tables to the side of the tent and slumped over their folded arms. A junior tribune leaned forward, hands on knees, vomiting just inside the entrance of the tent.

  Later in the evening Cato spied a small group of women in the far corner, sitting on benches around a table. Officers’ wives. Most were draped in simple cloaks, except for Poppaea, who had changed the clothes she had worn when she came to inspect Cato’s prisoner. Her hair had dried, been combed and pinned up in an elegant bun. As he stared at her, she turned and caught his eye directly. Cato felt embarrassed and nearly succumbed to the urge to look away, but there was a challenge in her expression and he would not give Poppaea the satisfaction. At length she smiled thinly and raised her cup and bowed her head in salute. Cato nodded in reply and then turned away and worked his way towards the counter.

  The wine merchant was sweating profusely and Cato waited patiently as he cleared away his empty jars and rushed out through the side flap to fetch some more stock from his cart. As Cato leaned on the counter, drumming his fingers, he suddenly smelt a sweet scent and turned to see Poppaea standing beside him. At once he pushed himself up and nodded a greeting.

  ‘Poppaea Sabina.’

  ‘Prefect Cato.’ She smiled again. A very attractive smile, Cato thought. It reminded him of Julia, and he promptly wished it had not.

  ‘It seems the good general is a little underwhelmed by the contribution you made to what he is claiming as his success.’

  Cato struggled to focus his thoughts. Drink and tiredness were a distracting combination but he was determined not to say anything indiscreet to the wife of Tribune Otho. ‘He gave me, and Centurion Macro, the credit we deserved.’

  ‘Oh, come on. He hardly did that.’ She poked him playfully in the chest. ‘My husband told me exactly what happened on that miserable hill. You saved the day.’

  ‘We played our part.’

  ‘You did rather more than that. Why so modest? Surely it must irk you to see your actions pushed to the margins. You must know that by the time Ostorius reports to the Emperor, your part in the outcome will have been relegated to a minor detail.’

  Cato stared at her. She was quite beautiful, and there was a playful intelligence in her expression that added to her allure. Yet her very directness discomforted him, and he did not trust her. Nor did he trust himself to speak as carefully as the situation required. Any comment that he made that could be remotely construed as disloyal to Ostorius would be bound to be repeated to Poppaea’s husband and Otho did not seem the tight-lipped kind. Repetition engendered exaggeration and if word of his boasting reached the ears of Ostrorius then Cato would be viewed with disdain. All the good will he had won on the battlefield would vanish and Ostorius would be looking for any excuse to punish Cato with an appointment even less appetising than commanding the baggage train escort.

  ‘I am a simple soldier, my lady,’ he responded stiffly. ‘I do my duty. What the general says and d
oes are no concern of mine.’

  She laughed. A light, pleasant sound. ‘Oh dear. I seem to have upset you, Prefect. Allow me to get you another cup of wine.’

  The wine merchant had returned, struggling with a large jar of wine under each arm. He set them down quickly as Poppaea waved him over.

  ‘Yes, my lady?’

  ‘I’ll have a small jar of the Oscan wine you keep back for your best customers.’

  ‘Oscan?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t play the fool with me. I know all about it. My husband is Tribune Otho. Put it on his account.’

  As soon as the name was mentioned the wine merchant bowed his head and turned his attention to the stack of jars behind the counter.

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ Cato objected.

  ‘Rubbish.’ Poppaea smiled sweetly. ‘You deserve to be rewarded, nay? Wine will have to do for now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But there are other rewards that a man of your evident ability deserves.’

  Cato froze. ‘I, er, I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Prefect. You know exactly what I am saying.’

  ‘But your husband—’

  ‘Has drunk himself insensible and is asleep in our tent. He’s not quite the man I thought he was. Charming in public, but quiet and moody in private. He doesn’t always fulfil all that a wife might require of a husband . . .’

  Cato’s jaw sagged for a moment, but he could not think of a safe reply. He was saved by the return of the wine merchant carrying a finely glazed jar. He took out the cork and carefully poured a measure into a cup he took from beneath the counter. Poppaea moved between Cato and the merchant to take the cup. Just then a strong gust of wind howled over the camp and the tent flaps slapped open and flapped wildly like the broken wings of a large bird. Cato looked round at the sound for a moment and turned back to see Poppaea close up, holding the cup out for him to take.

  ‘Your reward. And there’s more to come, if you wish it.’ She leaned forward slightly to reveal the shadowy cleavage between her breasts.

  The wind strengthened, roaring across the camp and abruptly the rear of the tent, where the women were seated, whipped up as the guy ropes on that side wrenched the wooden pegs out of the earth. The wind and rain blasted inside, sweeping away the thick atmosphere inside the tent. There were shouts of alarm from the women and anger from the men as they fled from the unwelcome intrusion of the elements. More guy ropes gave way and the far end of the tent began to collapse.

  Cato’s thoughts instantly turned to his men huddled in their shelters. His place was with them if the storm threatened the safety of the camp. He turned to Poppaea.

  ‘Excuse me, I must go.’

  Before she could protest he pressed the cup back into her hands and looked round for Macro. His friend was pushing through the throng towards him.

  ‘Bloody fun and games, this.’ Macro smiled ruefully. ‘We’d better get back to the men.’

  Cato nodded, noting that his friend seemed sober enough to make the walk to the tent lines, despite the amount he had drunk earlier. Several of the other officers were of a like mind and jostled for the cloaks at the entrance. Outside, Cato led the way, clutching the hood of his cloak tightly over his head. They had only gone a short distance before Macro stopped.

  ‘A moment, lad.’

  He moved to the side of the muddy thoroughfare and leaned forward. A torrent of vomit gushed from his gaping mouth as he made a deep heaving grunt. Most hit the ground but the wind whipped a small quantity back against his tunic and Macro swore before he lurched again, this time turning downwind as he let fly with another jet of vomit. He paused briefly then straightened up.

  ‘You done?’ Cato asked, hands on hips.

  Macro nodded with a meek expression. ‘Better out than in. And a word to the wise, always go downwind.’ He gestured to the mess on his tunic.

  Cato frowned with disgust. ‘Let’s go.’

  The storm was raging across the mountains, the howling wind lashing the rain against the tents and every living thing inside the camp. There was a cry from behind and Cato looked back to see the end of the mess tent fly up in the air, tearing out the guy ropes and swirling violently, before collapsing. The general’s guards had abandoned their weapons to hammer down the pegs holding the other tents in place. On all sides the storm was wreaking havoc and the men hurried from the shelter of their section tents to hold them down. Even with the chaos unfolding around him, Cato was gratified by the sight of the dim shapes of the sentries remaining at their posts on the ramparts.

  ‘Jupiter’s fucking balls!’ Macro shook his head. ‘Have you ever seen the like? Someone’s got right up the noses of the gods and no mistake.’

  ‘It’s as well that it happens now rather than last night,’ Cato responded, trying to look on the bright side. ‘Can you imagine what that hill is going to be like after this lot?’

  They struggled on, leaning into the gale, the hems of their cloaks whipping at their legs. At length they reached the partial shelter of the rampart and turned towards the corner of the camp where the baggage train was parked.

  ‘What did the tribune’s wife want with you?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Ah, you saw that.’

  ‘Indeed. Looked rather cosy. Is she the kind of army wife who puts it about then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. She wanted to give me a pat on the back and buy me a drink. That’s all.’

  Macro chuckled. ‘Sure. Pat on the back. Right.’

  Cato sighed wearily. ‘Macro, I’m a married man. And I love my wife.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, I’d rather we left it there, Centurion. That’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When they reached the tent lines of the escort, or what was left of them, Cato’s heart sank. At least half the tents were down and the dark figures of men were struggling to save the rest. The Blood Crows had abandoned their tents to go and calm the horses and their shrill whinnies cut through the wild night.

  ‘I’ll see to the men,’ said Cato. ‘You check on the prisoners.’

  ‘Prisoners? Fuck ’em. A little bit of rain won’t hurt them.’

  ‘Maybe, but I want them in good shape when they’re handed over to the Emperor, whenever that is. Make sure they’re safe and their chains are secure.’

  ‘All right.’ Macro dipped his head in salute and hurried off towards the larger of the stockades. Cato turned to his own tent first and was relieved to see that it was still standing. Thraxis was hammering down extra pegs as his commander approached.

  ‘Any damage inside?’ Cato asked.

  His servant lowered his hammer and looked up. ‘No, sir. I got most of your clothes into the chest earlier. Same with the paperwork and slates.’

  ‘Good man!’ Cato gestured to the tent. ‘I’ll leave you to secure this. I need to check on the others.’

  Thraxis nodded quickly and turned back to his work as Cato strode towards the nearest line of tents belonging to the legionaries of Macro’s cohort. He saw the giant outline of Centurion Crispus bellowing orders to his men and strode through the wind towards him.

  ‘Centurion, report!’

  Crispus wiped the streaks of rain from his face. ‘Not good, sir. Lost most of the tents and we’ll be lucky if we save any that are still left. I’ve told the lads to collapse them and sit on the bastards until the storm has passed.’

  Cato yawned, weariness settling heavily on his tired limbs. ‘Best thing, I suppose. As soon as the wind dies down get the tents back up and the men inside. They’ll have to double up as best they can until daylight. We’ll sort things out then.’

  ‘It’s going to get cosy in them tents, sir.’

  ‘Then it’ll help keep ’em warm.’

  ‘Cato! Cato!’r />
  The both turned towards the desperate shout and Cato could just make out Macro’s stocky figure waving frantically in front of the smaller stockade. He ran to meet them.

  ‘What is it?’ Cato demanded.

  ‘He’s gone!’ Macro shouted, eyes wide in alarm. ‘Caratacus. The bastard’s gone.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Gone?’ Cato froze. His guts clenched with dread.

  He didn’t wait for any further clarification but sprinted across the mud and puddles towards the stockade. The door was open and it was too dark to see inside, but as he drew closer he saw two bundles lying on the ground just inside. The two sentries, he realised at once. He charged past them and into the stockade. The gloomy interior was empty, except for the post and the chains lying in the mud.

  ‘No!’ Cato bunched his hand into a fist and punched the wooden frame at his side. He crouched down and picked up the chains for closer examination. They were covered in mud but his probing fingers found no breaks in the links and the pins on the shackles had been cleanly knocked out. Rising quickly he turned and joined Macro and Crispus as they examined the bodies.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Both of them,’ Macro answered. ‘Throats slashed. Whoever did this got up close to them . . . Some bastard’s going to pay for this.’

  Cato tried to calm his racing mind. ‘We’ll deal with that later. Right now we must find Caratacus. Get the men. I want them to start searching at once. Send a runner to each of the gates. No one is to leave the camp. Go!’