The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Go, Macro! As fast as you can! I’ll follow!’

  The centurion slapped his hand on the rump of his mount before leaning forward and urging it on towards the distant trees. The mules, spooked by the sudden action, brayed and trotted after the horses for a short way before the burden of the baggage and the prisoner slowed them to a halt and they stood uncertainly, strung out along the route, abandoned.

  As soon as they realised what their prey was up to, the riders on either flank gave chase, making for an opening in the trees where the track entered the wood in an attempt to cut the Romans off. Macro had already drawn a short distance ahead and Cato was tempted to call out to him so that he would not leave his companions behind. It was an unworthy thought and Cato banished it in an instant as he gritted his teeth and dug his heels in, forcing his mount to rush headlong down the track, kicking up small stones and divots of turf in its wake. The cold and chill of the day were lost in the anxious hot thrill of the chase and the details of the world around him were leaping before his eyes as the powerful muscles of the horse galloped for the safety of the trees.

  ‘Come on, Cato!’ Macro shouted over his shoulder. ‘Keep up!’

  The other men were close enough now for their shouts to be heard even above the din of the hoofs thrumming on the ground beneath Cato. But he could not make out the words, and leaned slightly further forward in his saddle as he and Decimus galloped on. Then the trees rushed up on either side and the track passed into the wood. Ahead, the route continued more or less straight, before bending around a clump of tall oaks and out of sight.

  ‘Macro!’ The driving impact of the horse made it hard for Cato to call out his instruction. ‘Once we get — past those oaks — get off the track — to the right!’

  Macro nodded and the two horses pounded down the narrow route. Risking a glance back, Cato could not see their pursuers. Then, a short distance from the bend, he heard an excited cry and saw that the first of their pursuers had already reached the forest track, barely a hundred paces away. They still had enough of a lead for his plan to work, Cato thought desperately, and urged his horse on. Ahead, there was a short distance to the bend, and already Macro was swerving round the fallen branches and brambles at the foot of the ancient oaks and disappearing from sight. Cato could feel the flanks of his horse swelling and falling like bellows against his calves as the beast struggled under the weight of two men. It was already slowing down, despite his desperate urging. Then they reached the oaks and Cato leaned to the side as the horse galloped round the bend. He saw Macro no more than ten feet in front of him, sword in hand, facing down the track while his horse snorted and pawed at the ground. Cato pulled hard on his reins and his horse swerved to the left and glanced off the rear quarter of the other animal with a frightened whinny. Decimus was thrown forward by the abrupt halt and knocked Cato so that the coarse hair of the horse’s mane brushed his face.

  He straightened up at once. ‘Macro, what the-’

  Then he saw them. No more than fifty feet ahead, the track was blocked by more riders, sitting silently in their saddles, staring at the Romans. They wore dark cloaks and their hair straggled on to their shoulders. Each man carried a spear and an oval shield. That was as much as Cato took in before his attention was drawn to the sound of hoofs rapidly approaching from behind.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ Decimus groaned as Cato reached down and drew his sword.

  ‘Shut up!’ the prefect snapped, drawing his horse up alongside Macro.

  ‘So much for the plan.’ Macro smiled grimly. ‘What now? Cut our way through?’

  Cato nodded. ‘That’s all we can do. Ready?’

  Both men tightened their grip on their sword handles and pressed their legs against the sides of their mounts as they prepared to charge. Cato heard a dull scrape as Decimus drew his blade.

  Behind them there was a sudden rumble of hoofs and cries of alarm as their pursuers reached the bend, saw the confrontation ahead of them and drew up in confusion. This was the moment to strike, Cato decided, while at least some of their opponents were disrupted. He drew his breath, ready to let out his battle cry, when a deep voice bellowed through the air. A figure emerged from the ranks of the men blocking the way ahead. He walked his horse forward casually and turned it so that it stood across the track, neck raised, ears pricked, breath pluming from its nostrils. Cato’s heart was beating so fast he felt sure that it must be heard by everyone around him. He stared hard at the man confronting them. Like the others, his hair was dark and tied back by a broad headband. His brow was prominent and his eyes dark and deep set above a thick beard that masked his jaw. Even though he wore a cloak, Cato could see that he was massively built and his bare arms were like hams, covered with dark bristles. The man stared at them impassively while his men waited on his command, spears poised to strike down the three Romans that had dared to ride into the heart of these wild mountains.

  There was a pause that made every moment linger on Cato’s heightened senses; he took in every visual detail, every sound, and smell in what might be the last few breaths of his life. Then the figure settled back in his saddle and he rested his left hand on his hip.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded in Latin.

  ‘Romans,’ Macro replied.

  ‘You don’t say.’ There was a hint of amusement in his tone. ‘Well, that’s a shame. I had hoped to make an example of some more of those Silurian scum. . What are you doing here?’

  Cato eased himself up in his saddle and sheathed his sword. ‘I’m Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato. This is Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro. I’ve been sent to take command of the fort at Bruccium. I assume you’re Thracians from the garrison.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘And who are you?’ Macro asked as he lowered his sword but kept it tightly gripped at his side.

  The man clicked his tongue and walked his horse towards the Romans. He stopped again, directly in front of them, and raised his head. His dark eyes bored into Cato.

  ‘I am Centurion Quertus.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The mist had lifted by the time the horsemen emerged from the wood and followed the track across open land. The sky was still overcast and the sun was no more than a faint loom amid the grey shroud that hung over the landscape. A light drizzle added to the discomfort of Cato and his companions as they rode with the Thracian auxiliaries. Once he had examined Cato’s authority to assume command, Centurion Quertus gave orders for the mules and the prisoner to be rounded up. Then he re-formed his men and led the column in the direction of the fort. As they reached open ground, he sent two riders to scout ahead while he dropped back and fell in alongside Cato and Macro.

  ‘Mind telling me what all that was about?’ said Macro. ‘Back there when you and your men were hunting us down.’

  Quertus pursed his lips so that they disappeared behind the bristles of his beard before he replied. ‘This is Silurian territory. Or it was until we established the fort here. It’s my job to take the war to the enemy. You were spotted by one of my patrols, even before you entered the pass. They couldn’t get close enough in the mist to identify you as Romans. In any case, it’s been a while since we’ve seen any Romans from outside the garrison.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Cato. ‘You’ve also failed to send any reports to Glevum for quite a while. I imagine that some of those at headquarters were on the verge of giving you and your men up for lost.’

  ‘Not enough to stop you being sent out here, apparently.’

  Cato and Macro exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘Why haven’t you been in contact with headquarters for so long?’ Cato asked.

  ‘We’re surrounded by the enemy. If I send a man back with a report, then the chances are the Silurians would take him. In which case I lose a man, and the report fails to get through in any case. So there’s no point. If I have anything significant to tell the legate I’ll make sure he gets a report. Otherwise I’ll carry on with my orders to harrass the enemy.
Which is why I led one of my squadrons out to set an ambush for you, if you turned out to be the enemy. By the way, you fell into the trap nicely. Though I was under the impression there were more than three of you, not counting the prisoner back there.’

  ‘Our escort turned back at the pass leading into the valley,’ Cato explained. ‘Where we found three Silurians that had been left out to die. That was your work, I take it.’

  ‘I like to let the enemy know what they can expect if they dare to cross my path. There are others at every route into the valley. And we leave some behind every time we raid a village or clash with one of their war parties.’

  ‘Why?’

  Quertus turned to give him a withering look. ‘It’s obvious. It scares the enemy.’

  Macro gave a dry laugh. ‘Scares our lads as well.’

  ‘Then they should stay out of my way.’ Quertus scowled. ‘I don’t need anyone interfering with my work.’

  ‘Your work? You mean your orders. You’re supposed to be harrassing the enemy, not waging a private war.’

  Quertus shrugged and looked ahead. ‘My valley, my rules. As long as I do what the legate wants.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m in command now,’ Cato responded warily. ‘Things may change at Bruccium.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘And while we’re on the issue, since I am the new prefect, you will call me sir, Centurion Quertus.’

  The other man looked at him, scarcely bothering to conceal his contempt as he replied, ‘As you wish, sir.’

  Cato felt an icy fist close round his heart. A dark cloud of menace seemed to surround the Thracian officer. Cato was cautious, and not a little afraid. He had no desire to provide this man with an opportunity to get rid of any new rival for control of his men. He decided it would be wise to make Quertus aware of the wider picture.

  ‘I expect you have taken quite a few casualties since the fort was constructed.’

  ‘Some. Mostly the weaker men.’

  ‘Then you’ll be glad to know that a column of replacements will be marching from Glevum to join us in a matter of days.’

  Quertus looked at him sharply. ‘More Romans?’

  Cato nodded. ‘Legionaries for the most part. Though those that can ride well can replace some of the men you lost, should I decide to do so.’

  It was a subtle reminder that the Thracian officer would go back to his unit and surrender the overall command of the garrison to Cato.

  ‘When we reach the fort I shall expect a full report from you on the period of your command, together with an inventory of supplies and up-to-date strength returns,’ Cato continued. ‘Then I shall want both cohorts paraded for inspection at dawn tomorrow.’

  Quertus did not reply and Cato felt himself flush with anger. He cleared his throat and spoke clearly. ‘Did you hear my orders, Centurion?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then be so good as to acknowledge them in future.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Quertus replied flatly. ‘If that’s all, I need to check on my scouts.’

  ‘I thought you said this valley was your turf,’ Macro commented. ‘That was the point of the men you impaled for the enemy to see. To warn them off.’

  ‘It does that. And it unnerves them, and it serves to remind my men of the kind of war we are fighting. That is the fate of any men who allow themselves to be taken prisoner. A lesson I think even you two must learn. The sooner the better.’ He glowered at Macro. ‘Even so, there are some enemy warriors made of sterner stuff who we have to look out for.’

  He spurred his mount forward, breaking into a canter as he rode ahead of the column towards the scouts, some distance ahead. Cato and Macro watched him recede, his cloak flapping around his body like a swirl of crows.

  Cato glanced round. The Thracians returned his gaze steadfastly, as if not caring that they were under scrutiny from the new prefect in charge of the fort at Bruccium. Many of them bore tattoos on their faces, dark swirling patterns, unlike the ornate blue patterns favoured by the Britons. Their cloaks and tunics were heavily worn and stained and their equipment was a mixture of that issued to auxiliary troops, captured Silurian weapons and some examples of more exotic design that Cato guessed came from their native Thrace.

  At the rear of the column Decimus was riding by the edge of the track where he could stay in sight of Cato and Macro and be reassured. Behind him, tied to the saddle horn of one of the other mules, was the prisoner, a look of acute misery etched on his face. Cato turned back to his companion and spoke quietly.

  ‘What are you thinking, Macro?’

  His friend replied in hushed tones. ‘Centurion Quertus is not taking it well.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  Macro gestured discreetly in the direction of the men riding behind them. ‘And I’ve never seen such a rabble before, even amongst some of the sorriest-looking auxiliary units in the army. They look like barbarians. It’s hard to tell this lot apart from the natives.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s the intention. That, or Quertus is going one step further and making his men seem even more frightening than the Silurians.’

  ‘They don’t frighten me,’ Macro said firmly.

  ‘Not much does, I’m glad to say.’

  Macro smiled at the compliment and then his expression hardened again. ‘Even so, I don’t like the situation. We’ll have to watch Quertus closely. He’s probably already thinking about how he can dispose of us without drawing too much attention from headquarters.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Cato. ‘And while he continues to strike fear into the hearts of the local tribes the legate is going to want to keep him at it. We shall have to watch our step.’

  Macro nodded. ‘Something else worries me. If this lot are typical of the men at the fort, what else are we going to have to deal with? They’re not going to take kindly to a bit of spit and polish and some square-bashing.’

  ‘No.’

  Cato felt a drop of rain fall on the hand holding the reins and looked up at the sky. A band of dark clouds was blowing in across the mountains, bringing a downpour with it. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and hunched down inside the thick folds of the material. More drops fell and soon the rain closed in around the riders, hissing as it spattered off the ground and turned the surface of the track into a glistening stream of mud.

  ‘You know,’ Macro grumbled, ‘it’s times like this when I wonder if it might not be better to leave these particular Elysian fields to the locals. Why the fuck does Claudius want to add this miserable pit to the empire?’

  ‘Macro, you know how it is. We don’t get to ask the questions. We’re here because we’re here, and that’s all there is to it.’

  Macro laughed. ‘Finally, you’re learning.’

  The rain continued to fall for the rest of the day without let-up. As the pallid light began to fade, the landscape of the upper valley gave way to what had once been cultivated land. Abandoned farms spread out on either side of the track. Some clusters of huts still stood, empty with no smoke rising from their hearths. Others had been burned leaving ugly blackened ruins rising up from the ground like the rotten teeth of an old hag. About them lay neglected fields, overgrown with weeds and wild barley. Close to the track, in the long grass, Cato spied the remains of animals, weathered pelts hanging over bone, lying where they had been slaughtered. There were the corpses of people as well, wizened, blackened faces stretched over skulls with empty eye sockets. More evidence of the handiwork of Quertus and his men.

  The track reached the bank of a narrow river and followed its course as the rain exploded off the surface of the water like a shower of silver coins. A few miles further on, as the last of the daylight began to fade, the riders at last came in sight of the fort of Bruccium. Cato sat up in his saddle and stared ahead. From Trebellius’s earlier description he already had some idea of what to expect and he saw that the site had been well chosen indeed. The course of the river ran around the low hill upon which the fort h
ad been built, providing a natural defence along three sides. An attacker would have to abandon any notion of assaulting the turf ramparts overlooking the steep slopes that fell down to the riverbank. On the fourth side the fort was protected by a ditch in front of the rampart.

  ‘Impressive,’ Macro conceded. ‘Caratacus hasn’t much hope of taking Bruccium.’

  Cato nodded. No matter how brave the natives were, they lacked understanding of siege weapons. That was why they had placed so much faith in the hill forts they had constructed on a lavish scale. But while they had proved effective in the conflicts between the tribes of the island, they stood little chance against the bolt-throwers and onagers of the Roman legions. The latter had battered down the palisades and gates of one hill fort after another, while the bolt-throwers had scourged the ramparts, striking down any warriors brave enough to stand their ground and show their defiance to their enemy. After that it had simply been a matter of forming a tortoise to approach the breaches in the defences and then charging home to overwhelm the remaining defenders.

  As yet the native warriors were only beginning to discover ways to counter the superiority that the soldiers of Rome had on the battlefield or in siegecraft. It had taken Caratacus several defeats before he learned to avoid pitched battles with the legions and to use the ponderous pace of the Roman army against itself. For some years now he had devoted his energies to striking at the legions’ supply lines, raiding deep behind the frontier and withdrawing before the Romans could react. It had proved an effective and profitable strategy and the raiders had returned to their tribes laden with the spoils they had taken from raiding villas and ambushes of supply columns and unwary patrols. For their part, having lost the initiative, the Romans could only respond to the raids by sending columns racing to the scene, too late to intervene. Inevitably, Governor Ostorius came to the realisation that the long war against the native tribes would only come to an end if there was no safe haven for Caratacus and his warriors. Without the defeat of the Silures and the Ordovices there would never be peace in the new province of Britannia.