The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  Now that they were in sight of the fort, Quertus and his scouts reined in and waited for the rest of the column to catch up before continuing along the track to the approaches of the fort. There was no vicus, nor any bathhouse built outside the wall. Only the thatched haystacks that served as part of the stockpile of feed for the horses. These were protected by a modest palisade with two sentries on the gate. The track turned up towards the main gate of Bruccium.

  ‘What are those?’ asked Macro, pointing up the slope.

  Cato turned in the saddle and raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the rain as he looked in the direction that Macro had indicated. From the gates of the fort a line of short posts ran down either side of the track at intervals of ten feet for a distance of perhaps two hundred paces. On top of each was a crude orb. Cato felt his stomach lurch as he guessed at once what they were. A moment later his fear was confirmed. Heads. An avenue of grisly trophies, their expressions frozen in pain and terror at the moment of their deaths, glistening in the rain as water dripped from the tendrils of hair hanging from their scalps.

  Cato swallowed as he fought to control the wave of disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. Then, as he looked up at the fort, he saw more heads along the rampart, facing out over the valley as if to warn any onlooker that this had become a place of death and darkness. A darkness of the human soul as black as night itself, Cato thought as he rode beside Macro in silence, passing between the severed heads of the victims of Quertus and his men.

  As they reached the narrow causeway across the outer ditch, an order was shouted inside the fort and the gates began to open, the hinges groaning and creaking under the burden of the heavy timbers. Quertus halted and turned his horse across the track so that he could face the two officers behind him. The rain had drenched his dark hair and cloak, which seemed to merge into one, slick with a dull gleam, like pitch. His beard parted as he grinned and waved a hand towards the gloomy opening beneath the gatehouse.

  ‘Centurion Macro, Prefect Cato. . welcome to Bruccium.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There was a knock on the door and a moment later Decimus entered and bowed his head in salute. ‘Sir, the last of the officers has arrived. They’re waiting in the hall.’

  ‘Very well.’ Cato eased himself up from the stool behind the desk. ‘Help me with the armour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Decimus crossed the commander’s office to the wooden frame on which Cato’s armour and weapons hung. Two hours had passed since they had reached the fort. The prisoner had been taken to the fort’s guardhouse while Decimus had managed to unpack Cato and Macro’s baggage in the quarters they had been assigned in the fort’s headquarters block. There had been no need for Quertus to remove his kit since he had never chosen to occupy the rooms that had belonged to Cato’s predecessor. The former prefect’s meagre possessions had been left in place and Decimus had summoned the last two clerks from the headquarters staff to remove them to one of the storerooms. The clerks were aged veterans, grey-haired and too feeble to take their place in the ranks alongside their younger, fitter comrades. Earlier, they had explained to Cato that since Quertus had taken command, the rest of the headquarters staff had been plucked from behind their desks to join the ranks of the men that Quertus led against the surrounding tribes. There had been no attempt to maintain the records of the two cohorts in the garrison and the headquarters block had been largely abandoned. Only the two clerks remained, doing such tasks as their temporary commander deigned to give them.

  Cato had changed out of the tunic and boots he had worn for the ride from Glevum. In their place he had put on a fresh tunic and a leather jerkin trimmed with shoulder strips, and calfskin boots which were more comfortable and practical than the sturdy soldier’s sandals that he favoured in the field. He held his arms out as Decimus fitted the back and front plates of his cuirass and started fastening the buckles. Once he had finished one side, the servant shuffled round and started work on the other, clearing his throat as he addressed his superior.

  ‘This ain’t what I was expecting, sir,’ he began cautiously.

  ‘It isn’t what either of us was expecting,’ Cato replied wryly. ‘Centurion Quertus has some rather individual notions about the duties of a garrison commander and officer in the Roman army.’

  Decimus grunted and continued to the next buckle. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this place before, sir. Never want to see anything like it again, for that matter. All those heads. And the bodies left in the ditch. It ain’t right. And those men of his, it’s like they’re in a trance. None of them wanted to speak to me while we were marching to the fort. Just ignored me, though I did see a look in their eyes. Like they were too afraid to talk.’

  ‘Really? Perhaps they were just observing good discipline.’

  Decimus fastened the last buckle and took a step back. ‘Is that what you think, sir?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell my servant what I think, Decimus. Nor do I think it is proper for you to voice such opinions about a senior centurion. Is that clear?’ Cato did not want to dress the man down but he needed to know there were boundaries which had to be observed, unless permission was given to cross them. Cato relaxed his tone as he continued, ‘That’s the official line, in normal circumstances. But the situation here is far from normal. We must tread very carefully about Centurion Quertus for the moment. I need you to be my eyes and ears amongst the rankers of the garrison. Find out what has been going on here. See if anyone knows anything about the fate of my predecessor, Prefect Albinus. But be careful, Decimus.’

  ‘I will be, sir. Since you left me with no choice about coming here, I aim to get out of Bruccium in one piece and get what you promised to pay me.’

  ‘Assuming I live long enough to honour my debt.’

  Decimus stared at him. ‘Do you think we’re in that much danger, sir?’

  Cato looked at him with a surprised expression. ‘Of course we are. These mountains and valleys are home to the toughest, most ruthless warriors in Britannia. They hate us with a passion, and they’ll fight until the bitter end. And it’s possible that we don’t just have to worry about the enemy. I won’t lie to you, Decimus. I’ve never seen anything like this place either. I’ll have to be careful. So will you and Macro. Keep your wits about you at all times, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I hope I’m being overcautious and things aren’t as bad as they seem. Maybe in a few days we’ll have a laugh about it.’

  ‘Somehow I doubt that.’

  ‘We’ll see. Now for the band.’

  Decimus took the bright red strip of cloth from the stand and passed it round the midriff of the cuirass before tying it off at the front and tucking the loose ends in so that the slack hung in decorative loops.

  ‘How do I look?’ asked Cato.

  Decimus pursed his lips. ‘If it was anywhere else, I’d say fine. But here, you look out of place, sir.’

  Cato did not respond but pointed to his sword and Decimus placed the strap over his shoulder and settled the scabbard to Cato’s right, and then plucked up the collar of the tunic to ensure there was no point at which the neck of the cuirass would chafe against the prefect’s skin. He stepped back to admire his handiwork and forced a smile. ‘You look ready to present to the Emperor himself, sir.’

  ‘One last thing.’ Cato hated vainglory but considered that it would strengthen his position at the fort if the officers realised that their new commander was not just some chinless wonder straight from a comfortable household in Rome. ‘Over there, in that chest. My medal harness.’

  Decimus did as he was told and retrieved the set of polished discs fastened to the gleaming leather of the harness. Cato was gratified to see the frank look of admiration in the veteran’s eyes as he placed the harness over the breastplate. Cato held them in place while his servant fastened the buckle at the back.

  ‘You’ve seen quite a lot action then, sir. They don’t hand these out just for showing up.
’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Cato smiled briefly. ‘As for action, I’ve seen more than enough. But I’ve got the feeling that I’ll be seeing plenty more, and soon, if the gods have their way.’

  ‘Don’t know about the gods, sir. But I’m sure that’s what Caratacus has in mind for us. And if not him, then Centurion Quertus.’

  ‘That is for me to decide now,’ Cato responded firmly. He took a deep breath and faced the door, pausing a moment to collect his thoughts and calm his troubled mind. Then he picked up the leather document holder that contained his authority to assume command of the garrison and strode towards the door. He stepped out into the corridor and made his way towards the main hall of the headquarters block, his boots echoing off the walls.

  The centurions and optios of the Thracian unit and the cohort of infantry from the Fourteenth Legion were sitting on a series of benches as Cato entered the hall. The space was lit by tallow lamps set in iron brackets along the walls, and heated by a brazier burning at one end.

  As soon as Cato entered, Macro shot to his feet and barked out, ‘Commanding officer present!’

  The other men hesitated until Quertus rose slowly to his feet and then they followed his lead. Cato made his way round the room to the space in front of the officers and indicated to Macro that he was ready.

  ‘At ease!’

  The officers sat down and Cato gave them a moment to make themselves comfortable, and to run his eye over the men he now commanded. He had assumed that there would be a marked difference between the appearance of the officers of the Thracian cavalry cohort and those from the legion. Instead he was shocked to see that nearly every man was unshaven, with uncut hair tied back in the manner of Centurion Quertus. Only two of the centurions from the Fourteenth and their optios were recognisably Roman, with cropped hair and standard-issue tunics and boots. Cato felt his heart sink at the sight, and knew that he faced even more of a challenge than he had thought. He took a breath and clasped his authorisation in his hands behind his back.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. If this fort is like any other then word will already have got round about my arrival, but, for the record, I am Prefect Cato, appointed to command the garrison at Bruccium.’ He held the document holder up and flipped open the lid of the tube before extracting the authorisation bearing the Emperor’s seal. He raised it so all could see and then returned it to the leather case. He indicated Macro. ‘The other officer is Centurion Macro, taking up the command of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth. Before I commence the briefing I wish to know more about the men I shall be commanding. One officer at a time.’

  Before Cato could choose the first, Quertus was on his feet, arms folded. ‘Very well. I am Centurion Sycharus Quertus of Dacia. I was a prince among my people before I was forced to flee after my father was murdered. I was raised in Thrace, where I was conscripted into the regiment and sent to serve on the Rhine. There I remained until the regiment was ordered to join the army gathering for the invasion of Britannia. In the following campaigns I was promoted to optio and then centurion and twice decorated for valour in battle. On the death of Prefect Albinus, I became commander of the cohort, and the fort, and since then we have carried the war into the heart of Silurian territory and burned scores of villages and slaughtered thousands of the enemy. I have made Rome a word to be feared in the lands between Glevum and the sea. The enemy know my name, and it strikes terror into the hearts of all who hear it.’ He stretched out his arms and clenched his fists. ‘I am Quertus, the destroyer of all who dare stand in my path! None can defeat me!’

  The other officers stamped their feet in approval and Quertus basked in their praise until he lowered his arms and they instantly fell silent again. He turned to Cato with a cold smile of satisfaction. ‘These officers are my brothers. They command my horse squadrons.’ He indicated them each in turn. ‘Fermatus, Cremax, Stellanus, Pindarus, Mithridates and Miro. Brave warriors all. Those others,’ he nodded to the legionary centurions, ‘they are infantry. Centurions Publius Severus and Gaius Petillius. They are tasked with defending the fort, since that is all they are fit for.’

  The two centurions flushed with anger and shame but dared not respond to the insult directed at them. Quertus glared contemptuously at them before he turned his gaze back to Cato and cocked his head slightly to one side.

  ‘For months now we have waged our war against the Silurians, without interference from the legate at Glevum. I did not request anyone to replace Prefect Albinus. With respect, sir, you are not required, nor wanted here. You should return to Glevum. Tell the legate that I am carrying out his orders and will continue to do so until Silurians only exist in memory.’

  Cato could see the blood draining from Macro’s face as he listened to this torrent of insolence and feared that his friend would intervene. He stepped between them and faced Quertus.

  ‘Centurion, you don’t get to say who is required here and who is not. You, and I, are subject to the rules and regulations of the Roman army. We have both sworn an oath to the Emperor to obey those he places over us without question. I have been ordered to assume command here and you will recognise my authority to do so. We both know the severe penalties that are applied to those who refuse to obey their orders. In recognition of the success of your operations here, I will, on this occasion, overlook your insubordination and put it down to the consequences of the zeal with which you have taken the war to the enemy. But I will not tolerate such behaviour from you again. Is that understood?’

  Quertus stared at Cato with a bemused expression that only angered, and alarmed, Cato even more. Quertus bowed his head mockingly.

  ‘As the prefect wishes. .’

  ‘I do. Sit down,’ Cato said firmly and, to his relief, the Thracian did as he was told. Cato waited a moment for the tension in the atmosphere to ease. ‘Regardless of the success you have enjoyed in recent months, the aim of the governor’s campaign must be kept in mind. The purpose of constructing forts like Bruccium is to restrict the movements of the enemy and to harass the tribes with a view to forcing Caratacus to concentrate his forces to deal with us. It is at that point that the main Roman army can advance against the enemy and try to force them into a decisive battle. If we crush the Silures and the Ordovices then Caratacus will be a spent force. No other tribe will be prepared to let him lead them to defeat. And since there is no more able commander amongst the natives, then the threat to Roman interests in Britannia will be dealt with, once and for all. My task is to see that the garrison of Bruccium plays its part in this overall plan. I will not tolerate any officer, or soldier, who does not understand and accept their duty. This garrison is part of the Roman army, and I will see to it that it conforms to the standards expected of Roman soldiers. The first step along that road will be a full inspection of every man in the garrison at first light tomorrow. I shall also want strength returns, inventories of kit, food supplies for the men and feed for the horses. Those records will be kept up to date and relevant copies sent to the headquarters staff. There will be changes in the way the garrison operates from now on and you would be wise to cooperate as fully as possible.’ He paused briefly. ‘Until tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Dismissed!’

  Once again there was a pause while the officers waited for Quertus to provide the lead. He stood up and turned to them. ‘You heard the prefect. Dismissed!’

  They rose obediently and began to file out of the hall. Meanwhile, Cato fought hard to suppress the humiliation that burned in his veins. He waited until there were only a couple of officers remaining, and Quertus, before he called out to him.

  ‘Centurion Quertus. A word, if you please.’

  Quertus shrugged and turned back and sat on one of the rearmost benches while the last of the officers disappeared into the corridor outside, casting curious looks over their shoulders. Macro remained where he stood.

  ‘Want me to remain behind as well, sir?’

  ‘No need, Centurion. You may go.’

  ‘Yes, sir!�
� Macro saluted smartly and marched from the hall.

  As the door closed, Cato turned his attention to the thickset Thracian. Now that he had removed his cloak and sat in his tunic, Cato could see that he was even more powerfully built than he had thought. The man had a physique to match the best of the wrestlers in the arena at Rome and his glowering features were enough to arm him with an irresistibly intimidating demeanour. Cato had to forcibly remind himself of his superior rank, and the need to ensure that it was honoured. He narrowed his eyes a fraction as he stared at the Thracian.

  ‘What is going on here?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me, Quertus! The men look like savages, and the bodies, and heads, you have put on display… It’s beyond any notion of what is acceptable. It is not civilised.’

  ‘Spare me your fine sentiments, Prefect. We are at war. We are not playing at war.’ He gestured contemptuously at Cato’s polished armour and medals. ‘There is no place for civilised values here. Rome has been fighting the mountain tribes for the last six years with precious little result. I have lost many comrades in the struggle, men I was close to. The people who live in these lands are the real savages. They are fanatical in their hatred of Rome and they are driven on by the Druids. Until they are wiped out, and their Druids with them, there will be no Roman peace in the province. I’ve fought them long enough to know that they will keep on fighting Rome until the last drop of their blood. Every defeat only hardens their resolve. There is only one way to break their spirit and bring this to an end.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  The Thracian leaned forward and his eyes bored into Cato’s. ‘You have to show them no mercy. Show them that we can be even more savage, cruel and ruthless, than the darkest of their Druids. I make them afraid. So afraid that they will think of me in their every waking thought with dread, and I will be there haunting their dreams with visions of blood and fire.’