The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro echoed his cry, as did the legionaries standing on the parade ground, but the dark figures sitting in their saddles remained still and silent.

  When the thin cheers of the legionaries had died away, Quertus stirred himself and drew his long-bladed cavalry sword and raised it directly towards the heavens, and his voice bellowed out over the parade ground.

  ‘Honour to the Blood Crows!’

  At once, all the riders punched their spears up, a wavering forest of gleaming points, and their cry rang in the ears of the three officers on the reviewing platform. Quertus repeated the cry over and over again, his men responding with frenzied roars. Macro glanced at Cato and saw the firm set of his jaw and the bitter look of resentment in his expression. They exchanged a quick look and Macro felt a stab of concern for his friend.

  At length Quertus lowered his sword and sheathed the weapon, and at once his men fell eerily silent. As the Thracian resumed his place at the prefect’s side, Cato swallowed, stepped forward and turned to face the other officers.

  ‘That all but concludes the formalities, gentlemen. There only remains one final matter before I inspect the men.’ Cato paused, knowing that what he was about to say would come as a shock to Macro, but it was a necessary step in the present circumstances. The cheering of the Thracians a moment earlier simply confirmed his decision. He cleared his throat. ‘I have decided to appoint you as my second-in-command, Centurion Quertus. You have the ear of the men and know them well. Do you accept?’

  He stared at Quertus, until at length the Thracian’s lips curled in a slight smile and he said, ‘I accept, sir.’

  ‘Good. I trust you will carry out your responsibilities in an efficient, and obedient, manner.’

  ‘Of course. You can rest assured that I will give you the benefit of my experience and advice, for as long as you command the garrison, sir.’

  ‘I thank you. Now, I’d like to inspect the men. Have the Thracians dismount and form two lines.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus offered a salute and then turned away to descend the platform and stride across to his men, bellowing orders.

  Cato stared after him, acutely aware of the silent presence of Macro at his shoulder.

  ‘I imagine that you are wondering about my decision.’

  ‘Not my place to, sir,’ Macro replied curtly. ‘You are the commander of the garrison. You give the orders.’

  Cato nodded to himself and felt a surge of irritation at the impulse to explain himself to Macro. His promotion to the rank of prefect after two years of temporary commands had made him superior in authority to his friend. He would have to be sparing with his moments of friendship and especially in seeking advice from the only man he had ever considered a close friend. Cato felt a brief sense of loss as he thought of the years in which he had shared the same rank as Macro. That sense of equality was lost to him now. Lost to both of them, he realised, understanding that Macro would rue its passing at least as much as himself. It was tempting to indulge himself in a moment of loneliness but Cato grimly suppressed his emotions, cursing himself for being weak enough to let them divert him from the obligations and dangers of the present. It had been a hard thing to do to choose Quertus as his second-in-command. He had considered confronting the man, removing him from his command and putting an end to his intolerable challenge to the discipline of the army. But if he tried to face Quertus down now, there was every chance that most of the men in the garrison would back the Thracian. If that happened, he and Macro would be in grave danger. Until the reinforcements arrived, Cato knew that he had to let Quertus think that he could exercise control over his new prefect. Once Cato had enough men at his back who owed no allegiance to the Thracian, then he could put Quertus back in his place.

  ‘The men are ready for inspection, sir,’ Macro prompted.

  ‘Very well.’ Cato drew himself up and marched down towards the lines of waiting men. Quertus stood with the colour party of his cohort, beneath the black crow on his standard. He waited until the prefect had passed by before falling into step beside Macro as they followed the garrison commander along the front line of soldiers. Cato’s experienced eyes took in every detail of the men before him. The troopers of the Thracian cohort would have broken the heart of any legionary centurion responsible for drilling these men. The black cloaks that they wore were spattered with mud and streaked with grime and no attempt had been made to repair any fraying edges or small tears. Their hair was wild and unkempt and most of them sported tattoos on their faces. Although Cato had seen some of these men the day before, the impact of viewing an entire cohort was unnerving from a professional point of view. He had been in the army long enough to have certain expectations about the appearance of soldiers, as well as their performance, and to recognise the link between the two. But the barbaric sight that the cohort presented was itself unnerving, and he could well understand the effect this might have on an enemy who had grown used to the spit and polish of the Roman army. Quertus and his men appearing out of the mists that wreathed the mountainous landscape would strike terror into the hearts of their victims.

  He stopped in front of a tall, gaunt man. ‘Show me your sword.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man leaned his spear against his shoulder and drew the long blade from its scabbard. The spatha came out freely and the man flashed it up to the vertical for Cato to see it clearly. The metal gleamed and there was no sign of the pitting and specks of rust of a poorly maintained weapon. Cato raised his hand and tested the edge with his fingers and found it to be well honed and as sharp as could be expected. He nodded.

  ‘That’s fine. Now open your cloak.’

  The trooper did as he was ordered and Cato saw that the iron rings of his body armour gleamed dully from a fresh application of sand and hard rubbing with a leather cloth. Despite the wild appearance of his men, Quertus clearly insisted that their weapons and armour were well looked after. He ordered the man to sheath his sword and examined a random handful of others and noted with approval that they took good care of their kit. Then he turned his attention to their mounts. The horses were large and powerfully built, typical of the stocks bred for the army in Gaul and Hispania. They had shed most of their winter coats, but the flanks of the horses had not been groomed so as to leave them matted with mud which obscured the identifying brands on their rumps. But it was in keeping with the savage look of the cohort. Even so, the saddles and tackle were well maintained and the horses appeared well fed and alert.

  Cato turned to Quertus. ‘They have been worked up to hard condition, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I had ’em exercised and drilled from the end of winter. They’re good and ready for battle. They’ve already had a fresh taste of it earlier this month.’

  ‘I see. That’s good. The men and mounts are in good shape, Centurion, despite their appearance. That may be a matter that requires attending to in due course.’

  ‘What does it matter what they look like, as long as they kill the enemy. . sir?’

  Cato raised his voice so that the surrounding men would hear him clearly. ‘It matters because I say so.’

  Quertus frowned briefly. ‘Very well, sir.’

  Cato was conscious of the need not to push his authority too quickly and turned to Macro. ‘And now the legionaries of your cohort.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.

  They paced past the gap between the two units and were joined by Centurion Severus as they began their inspection of the legionaries. Cato saw that the majority of them had drawn features and he sensed their wariness as he passed slowly along each rank. In contrast to the Thracians they were neatly turned out and their helmets were polished, shields well maintained and their weapons every bit as lethal as those of their mounted comrades. But they failed to conceal their nervousness.

  ‘You!’ Cato pointed a finger at a man who was leaning forward slightly, resting his weight on the rim of his shield. ‘Stand up straight.’ He stopped in front of the man and stared hard at him.
‘Name?’

  ‘Caius Balbus, sir.’

  ‘Is this how you present yourself on parade? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then why are you standing there like a pickled old fart?’

  Balbus grimaced and forced himself to straighten up, gritting his teeth. Severus stepped closer to Cato and spoke quietly. ‘The man is sick, sir. Most of them are. Sick, or weak. Hardly surprising when they’re on half-rations most of the time. Even less, when supplies grow short between the raids on enemy villages.’

  Cato took a deep breath as he considered the situation. Another of the challenges he faced in dealing with Quertus. But perhaps this would be easier to resolve. It made no sense for Quertus and his cohort to ride out and leave the fort in the hands of men in poor condition to defend Bruccium. But then, the Thracian had probably calculated that the Silures would not dare to enter the valley guarded by the grisly trophies of the savage warriors who had thrust their way into the heart of the tribe’s lands and built themselves an almost impregnable fort there.

  ‘How many men are too sick to attend parade?’ Cato asked.

  Severus quickly consulted his wax tablet. ‘Fifteen men from the First Century and twelve from the Second.’

  ‘And none from the other centuries.’

  ‘There are no other centuries, sir. I merged what was left of the cohort into two centuries ten days ago. The sick are on the rolls of the merged units. There should be ten or so more of ’em but I gave the order that every man who could still stand was to take part in the parade.’

  Cato gestured towards Balbus. ‘This one is having difficulty even standing. Get him off the parade ground and into the infirmary. He’s to rest and be fed until his strength has returned. Same for the rest of them.’

  Severus glanced towards Quertus who was standing with his officers, laughing and talking together informally. ‘The standing orders are that legionaries are to be given no more than the specified ration, sir.’

  ‘Then I’m specifying a new ration for them,’ Cato responded irritably. ‘We can’t have men too weak to hold the walls of the fort.’

  ‘Then can I have your order in writing, sir? I’ll need to present my authority to draw extra rations to the quartermaster. He’s one of the Thracians.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Macro muttered. ‘This is getting too bloody much to bear. Those auxiliary bastards need to be put in their place, sir.’

  Cato was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll deal with it, as soon as the parade is over. Centurion Severus!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Send Balbus to the infirmary. Him and anyone else too weak to take their place in the battle line. Centurion Macro, you may dismiss your cohort.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and turned to the men and drew a deep breath. ‘Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, dismissed!’

  The legionaries stiffened to attention, then turned in unison and stamped down their right boots, before breaking ranks and turning towards the gate of the fort. Macro waited a moment before he spoke to Cato. ‘I’ll come to headquarters to collect the authorisation for the ration increase then, sir.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll join you there directly. Once I’ve dismissed Quertus and his men.’

  Macro saluted and beckoned to Severus to join him as he made for the fort. Cato headed back to the Thracian cohort and gave Quertus permission to dismiss his men. As the men led their mounts away, Cato called their commander to join him.

  ‘There’s one other thing. The Silurian prisoner. He needs to be interrogated.’

  ‘I’ve already seen to that, sir. My lads dealt with it last night.’

  Cato gave him a cold look. ‘I said Centurion Macro would handle the interrogation. I did not order you to do it.’

  ‘I took the initiative, sir. Seemed to me that the sooner we made the bastard talk, the better.’

  ‘I see. And did he reveal the location of his village?’

  Quertus smiled. ‘He was as good as gold. Gave us very precise directions as well as the number of men under arms.’

  ‘Very good.’ The anger Cato felt over the Thracian’s taking on the interrogation faded as he contemplated the opportunity afforded by the information given up by the prisoner. ‘Then we can prepare a punitive expedition as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll tell the men.’

  ‘I will be leading the raid, and Centurion Macro will be joining us. I’m keen to see my new cohort in action.’

  Quertus’s smile faded quickly. ‘That’s not necessary, sir. My boys and I know the ropes. Leave it to me and we’ll deal with the Silurians.’

  ‘I’ve made my decision, Centurion. I’ll see you at headquarters at noon to plan the raid. Bring the prisoner with you. He may be able to provide a few further details if they’re needed.’

  Quertus raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Problem, Centurion?’

  ‘It’s just that we don’t have the prisoner any more.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s escaped?’

  ‘No, he’s still here. It’s just that I decided we had got all the information that we needed from him.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Just tell me where he is.’

  Quertus raised a hand and pointed towards the track leading up to the fort. ‘Just over there.’

  Cato turned and glanced round. ‘Why is he out here? I can’t see him. Where is he?’

  ‘There. Last stake.’

  Cato felt a cold dread chill his flesh. He forced himself to look at the avenue of impaled heads, the nearest of which looked more freshly butchered than the rest. He felt his stomach knot as he recognised the bruised features of the young man they had captured two days earlier.

  ‘Turrus. .’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Two days later, just before dawn, Cato was lying on a bed of bracken in a shallow fold in the ground on the side of a steep hill. It had been a cold night and the clammy damp of the dew had caused him to shiver in the last hour before the glow of the rising sun crept above the crest of the mountains to the east. For the first time in many days the sky was clear and a fine day lay ahead. Cato had left his scarlet cloak back with the rest of the men camped in the trees and donned one of the black cloaks so as not to stand out against the landscape when dawn came. At his side Quertus was silently scanning the peaceful scene below them. To their right and left sprawled the heavily forested slopes of the ridge. A wide vale, a mile across, was filled with gently rolling cultivated land, sown in strips and interspersed with stone pens in which herds of goats lay still on the ground, providing warmth for the kids that had been born in the spring and now slept pressed into their mothers. There were several clusters of round huts, the largest occupying a hillock in the centre of the vale overlooking the surrounding landscape. The main hut was more than fifty feet across, Cato calculated, and a thin trail of smoke lifted lazily from the opening in the thatched roof. Two men leaned against the daubed walls either side of the entrance that they were guarding. More men were asleep around the remains of the fires that still smouldered on the open ground in front of the hut. Several small buildings were close by.

  ‘That’s our first target,’ Quertus said quietly as he pointed towards the main hut. ‘The tribe’s chief and his retinue. He’s got at least a hundred men down there. That’s quite a number for a village this size. He must have some visitors. Then there’ll be more men in the farmsteads. Perhaps another hundred men in their prime, but I doubt many of them have ever wielded anything more dangerous than a club or a scythe.’

  ‘Even a scythe can bring a tear to your eye.’ Cato suppressed a bitter smile as he thought of the grievous wound that had once been inflicted on him by a scythe-wielding Druid. The scar still made the skin around the side of his chest feel tight from time to time. He thrust the memory aside. ‘So, what is your usual plan of attack?’

  Quertus studied the ground briefly before replying. ‘The vale at the far end opens o
ut on to that river valley. I’ve sent four squadrons round the back of the hills to cut across the open ground and block any escape in that direction.’

  Cato looked at him sharply. ‘This is the first I’ve heard about it. When did you give them their orders?’

  ‘Last night. When you and Centurion Macro were asleep.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me when I woke? As the prefect of the cohort I should be told.’

  Quertus met his glare calmly. ‘As you said, sir, before we started out, you wanted to observe the tactics I have developed for my raids. Therefore I presumed that you wished to take no active part in the decisions of this operation. There was no need to tell you.’

  Cato was silent for a moment. ‘If I am to understand your tactics, Quertus, then I need to follow every detail. Make sure that I am informed of every decision in future. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Carry on.’

  The Thracian sucked in a deep breath and continued. ‘Once the main escape route is covered, we launch our attack against the chief and his retinue. We ride down from the trees and charge towards the hillock the moment the alarm is raised. When it is, my men will make as much noise as possible. Helps to put the shits up the enemy. We hit the chief and his retinue as swiftly as possible and go in hard and take no prisoners. With no one to lead them and no standard to rally around, the rest of the men in the vale usually try to surrender. Some villagers will try and make a break for it, but they will run into the four squadrons spread out across their path. Then we move in and kill everything and burn every building to the ground. There will be some who manage to evade us, and they’ll bide their time until we have gone, and then emerge from their holes and run to the nearest tribes and relate what has happened to their allies. They in turn will send a patrol here to see for themselves and report back that the survivors were telling the truth.’ Quertus’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. ‘And that is how I strike terror into the hearts of the enemy. That is how the legend of the Blood Crows spreads across the land of the Silures and fills the bastards with fear.’