The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  There was a strained tone to his voice as he concluded and Cato shot him a quick look. There was hatred there, and something more. But there was no time to reflect on that. The enemy would be stirring soon and the Thracian cohort must launch its attack to make the most of the element of surprise. But there was one matter that Cato was determined to resolve before the attack began.

  ‘Your plan is sound. There is only one change I want to make.’

  Quertus looked at him sharply. ‘You said you were here to observe. Not interfere.’

  ‘Whatever I said, I am the commander of the cohort and I give the orders, and you will call me sir when you address me.’

  Quertus stared back, struggling to keep his expression neutral. ‘I know what I am doing, sir. I’ve used these tactics many times before without any problems. There’s no need to change anything.’

  ‘That is for me to decide,’ Cato said firmly.

  ‘Oh really?’ Quertus shuffled back from the edge of the dip before raising himself up on to his knees. He moved with a sinuous grace for such a large man, Cato noted. Quertus casually flipped the side of his cloak across his shoulder to reveal his sword. Both men were still for a moment and Cato stared defiantly at the centurion. Then Quertus chuckled and rose to his feet so that he towered over the prone figure of his commander. ‘So what is it that you think I should change, sir?’

  Cato was propped up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder, and felt both uncomfortable and vulnerable. He eased himself back, out of sight of the huts in the vale below and scrambled to his feet before he addressed the Thracian on more level terms, while watching him for any sign of treachery.

  ‘We’ll carry out your plan as you’ve stated it, but at the end I want prisoners. Once we’ve broken their resistance, we’ll take those that surrender alive.’

  ‘And why would we do that?’

  Cato knew that he did not need to explain himself to any subordinate, but there was a dangerous gleam in the other man’s eyes and he did not want to force a confrontation while the two of them were alone.

  ‘Prisoners provide intelligence on the enemy, and they are worth good money.’ There was a third reason, that Cato did not hold with slaughtering women, children and other non-combatants. But he felt certain that to say this would only open him to Quertus’s ridicule.

  ‘They are the enemy, sir. Even the children. Savage barbarians, all of ’em!’ He spat. ‘Why let little nits grow up to become lice? Better put an end to them at one stroke.’

  ‘We spare them because when this campaign is over they will be part of the empire, and paying their taxes. I suspect that the Emperor would not take kindly to the prospect of having those whom he will one day rule put to the sword.’

  ‘The Emperor is not here. The Emperor does not know what savages these people are. They can never be civilised, only killed like the vermin they are.’ Quertus spoke through gritted teeth, as if in pain, and his eyes blazed with rage. ‘They deserve to be wiped out, every one of them! Village after village, man after man, even their cattle, their pigs, sheep and dogs. We must let nothing survive.’

  Cato was momentarily shocked by his vehemence, and then he knew just how dangerous the Thracian was. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stared at the man, and fear, ice-cold, spread through his guts. He swallowed and tried to speak as calmly as possible. ‘Why? Why do you hate them so much?’

  Quertus stared at Cato from under his thick brows. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Why should I? If there’s a reason, then tell me.’

  The Thracian lowered his head so that Cato could no longer clearly see his expression. ‘Roman, I know the Silures. I have lived amongst them. I was once their prisoner. They treated me worse than a dog. Bound me and tormented me with hunger and thirst, and beat me. Mocked me. Made fun of me. . Humiliated me. Not just their warriors, but their women and children as well. You think children are innocent? Think again. Give them licence to do as they will and there is nothing they aren’t capable of. Nothing. Look.’ He rolled up his right sleeve and raised his arm. Cato saw that there was a crude lattice of white scar tissue. Quertus smiled grimly. ‘They did that with spear tips heated in the heart of a fire. On my arms, my legs, my back and chest. Children. . They must die along with the rest. I will have it no other way.’

  Cato felt some sympathy for the other man’s torment. Both Macro and Julia had once been prisoners of a rebel gladiator and his band of followers, and even though they had rarely spoken of it, he knew the experience had scarred them both. But experience does not justify behaviour, he firmly believed. There were no exceptions. He took half a step away from the Thracian and he responded gently, ‘I am giving you an order, Centurion Quertus. We will take prisoners.’

  ‘No!’ Quertus lowered himself into a crouch, like a cornered beast, and his sword hand grasped the handle of his weapon. ‘They die! And I will kill any man who shows them mercy.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to kill me.’ Cato spoke without thinking and was horrified by his foolishness. His fingers crept up his thigh towards his sword.

  ‘Kill you?’ Quertus chuckled. ‘Do you think I couldn’t?’

  Cato’s heart was beating like a hammer inside his chest. ‘I wouldn’t be the first Roman you have killed, right?’

  ‘Not by a long way, Prefect.’ There was a faint scrape as he began to draw his blade.

  Cato reached for his weapon but resisted the temptation to rip it from the scabbard. ‘That’s enough, Quertus. Think about what you’re doing. You threaten me with a weapon and, by the gods, I swear I’ll have you crucified.’

  ‘What’s going on here, then?’ a gruff voice interrupted. Cato glanced to his left and saw Macro emerging from the gloom, picking his way through the stunted saplings growing along the edge of the hollow. There was a small growl of frustration in Quertus’s throat before he sheathed his weapon and eased himself into a more erect posture. Cato followed suit, his heart still pounding inside his chest. In a wild moment of fancy he thought about calling on Macro to help him kill Quertus here and now while they had the chance. But there was the danger that he might fatally injure one of them. And what if they returned to the camp without the Thracian? How would his men react? Whatever story Cato made up, they would be suspicious and send someone to look for their leader. When they found the body, they would tear Cato and Macro apart. With bitter realisation he knew that this was not the time to act. He turned to his friend and tried to sound calm.

  ‘Macro, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You’ve been a long time, sir. I was worried. Came to make sure nothing had happened to you. Both of you.’

  If his meaning was clear to Cato, it was just as clear to Quertus who glanced up at the sky and pressed his lips together before he spoke.

  ‘We’d better get on with it, sir. Before the enemy stir.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on Quertus. ‘Back to the camp. You lead the way.’

  Quertus set off at once, striding up and out of the hollow, his bulky shoulders brushing through the slender limbs of the saplings, spraying dew in his wake. Cato hurried after him and Macro fell into step at his shoulder.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Looks like I turned up at the right moment just then. What was going on?’

  ‘A difference of opinion. That’s all.’

  Macro was quiet for a moment. ‘A difference of opinion with that Thracian cunt is likely to be the death of a man. You’d better keep a close watch on him.’

  ‘I already am, believe me.’

  They struggled to keep up with Quertus as they left the saplings and entered the tall pines that stretched up the slope. Already a pale light was spreading across the sky and filling the trees with a milky hue. Ahead Quertus strode swiftly, occasionally glancing back, but he neither slowed his pace to let them catch up nor tried to draw ahead and leave them behind. He seemed content to maintain
a safe distance between them. A short while later they reached the clearing where the four squadrons of Thracian cavalry had spent the night without fires to warm them. The men had already saddled their mounts and stood in small groups, talking in undertones, their spears against their shoulders and their oval shields resting on the ground.

  As soon as they spied their leader they hurried to their horses, took the reins and waited for their orders. Quertus swung himself up into the saddle and called out as loudly as he dared, ‘Mount up!’

  Cato and Macro took their horses from one of the handlers and mounted. They eased their horses into position amongst the standard-bearer and the horn-blowers. Quertus sat tall in his saddle, a short distance apart surveying the hundred and twenty men of his main force. When the last of them had steadied themselves in their saddles and the only sounds were the champing of the horses and the scrape of their hoofs on the ground, Quertus nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Prepare to move out!’

  He turned his horse towards the narrow trail leading out of the clearing and clicked his tongue. His horse trotted forward and Cato, Macro and the others followed on. Behind them the squadrons followed in column, until the air was filled with the clatter and clop of hoofs and the chinkle of the iron bits and curbs. A hundred paces through the trees the trail emerged on to the ancient track that led into the valley and Quertus turned the column down the gentle slope. For a short distance the trees obscured the landscape ahead and then, suddenly, they were riding in the open with grazing land on either side, where a handful of hardy cattle turned and bolted at their sudden appearance.

  A mile in the distance, Cato could see the hillock upon which the chief’s hut dominated the vale. Ahead, the track passed close by one of the clusters of smaller huts that made up the tribal settlement. Beyond, the track led past some pens and the leather covers of grain pits before dropping down to a fast-flowing stream. On the other side of a ford the track led up the slope of the hillock.

  Quertus raised his sword arm and called out, ‘At the canter!’

  He urged his horse on and the animal kicked down and reared slightly before lurching forward at a faster pace. The men behind him followed suit and the air around Cato filled with the muffled thunder of hundreds of hoofs. A face appeared at the entrance of a hut closest to the track and a man leaned out, his eyes wide with alarm. He shouted a warning and ducked back out of sight. An instant later the column pounded by the hut and Cato saw a woman emerge from another hut further off, an infant clutched to her chest. She glanced at the standard and turned and ran, away from the settlement towards the treeline. More figures appeared and fled, in all directions. One of the horsemen veered off and instantly drew the attention of an officer who bellowed at him to rejoin the column.

  The ford appeared ahead and then Cato was plunging through the water, exploding in a chaos of silver spray as the horses churned through the current. Quertus slowed the pace on the far bank and thrust his arm to the side. ‘Form line!’

  The colour party, with Cato and Macro, formed the centre of the line and the squadrons alternated to the right and left.

  ‘Up there!’ Macro thrust out his arm and pointed up the slope. ‘They’ve seen us.’

  Several men had piled out of the huts and were gesticulating down the slope, calling their comrades to arms.

  In a matter of moments the line was formed. As the last of the men on the flank edged their mounts into place, there was a sharp blare from a horn, and an instant later the sound was taken up by another horn further off.

  ‘That’s stirred them up,’ Quertus growled. ‘No time to waste. We strike now.’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Blood Crows! At the command! Charge!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Quertus swept his sword down and spurred his horse forward with an inchoate roar. His men took up the cry, as did Macro, while Cato clamped his jaw shut and breathed deeply and quickly through flaring nostrils as he urged his horse on, drawing his sword and using the flat of the blade to slap the animal’s rump. The line of horsemen rapidly gathered speed as they surged away from the bank of the stream, over the rich calf-deep grass that was bejewelled with dewdrops and speckled with bright yellow flowers. The sun was rising above the hills behind the horsemen and the first rays flooded the valley, burnishing it with pale gold light.

  As the horses built up their speed to a full gallop, Cato felt the wind roaring in his ears and his body swayed and jolted at the impact of the horse galloping beneath him. He tightened his grip on the reins, clamped his thighs against the flanks of his mount and leaned forward, keeping his sword hand low and out to the side where it could not accidentally wound him, or Macro to his right. On either side the Thracians kept their spears vertical for the same reason and Cato saw that they were holding to their discipline; not a man had lost his head and lowered his point yet. The din of Macro’s excited shouts filled his ears. The faster horses began to pull ahead and Quertus bellowed above the din for his men to hold the line.

  A hundred and fifty paces ahead, the Silurian warriors were hurrying towards the chief’s hut to form a defensive perimeter. They snatched up the first pieces of armour and weapons that came to hand. Most had shields, large, flat and round, with elegantly painted faces depicting wild animals. In their other hands they gripped an assortment of spears, swords and axes. As the gentle slope began to flatten out, Cato saw the chief emerge from his hut, a tall, broad figure, the top of his head bald, with the red hair of the fringe tied back in two plaits. His men had bought him enough time to pull on a chain-mail vest and he clutched a long-handled battleaxe in his right hand as he shouted orders to them.

  As the Blood Crows swept on to the crest of the hillock, the outer huts forced them to flow round and crowd together, causing the riders to curse and the horses to whinny as they pressed up against each other. There were still men emerging from the huts and as Cato approached an entrance, the leather curtain swept back and a Silurian stood behind his raised shield and thrust a hunting spear out at the passing riders. The point tore into the flank of the standard-bearer’s horse, just ahead of Cato. A shrill neigh split the air as the animal jerked to the side, snatching the spear from the warrior’s grasp. The butt caught against the side of the hut and snapped with a sharp report and the splintered end spun towards Cato’s face. He ducked his head just in time and felt the impact as the wood glanced off the crown of his helmet. Then he looked up and twisted in his saddle to thrust his sword towards the man. The spatha he had drawn from the fort’s stores had a longer reach than the gladius he was used to, and the warrior leaped back as the sword struck the wooden door frame. Cato snatched it back and then the hut was behind him.

  To his right he saw Macro strike down a short Silurian wearing a brown tunic. The man half turned just in time to see Macro’s blade slash through the air and into the side of his head, cutting flesh and shattering the jawbone. The warrior collapsed and was lost from view beneath the horses. There was a brief cry of pain, before it died, with him, crushed into the ground.

  ‘Kill them all!’ Quertus screamed, a manic expression etched into his features. His men echoed his cry as they cut down the handful of men who had responded too late to the alarm to join their comrades in front of the chief’s hut. A second man emerged from the largest hut, tall and powerfully built. He was protected by armour and a helmet, beneath which his blond hair flowed over his shoulders. He carried a spear and a shield and thrust himself between two men to take his place in the battle line. There was something about his face that struck Cato. Something familiar. But there was no time to give the thought more than an instant.

  The Blood Crows surged forward, thundering across the open space, kicking over the remains of the fires and sending swirls of ash and bright cinders into the air. Some of the Thracians surged in between Macro and Cato, forcing them apart, and Cato found himself twenty feet to the left of his friend and the rest of the command party, just as the first of the horsemen lowered t
he points of their spears and charged headlong into the line of Silurian warriors. There was a rippling clatter and thud as weapons clashed and struck shields. Battle cries died on men’s lips as they locked in combat, furiously wielding their weapons as they hacked and thrust at each other. There was an opening between two horsemen ahead of Cato and he pulled on his reins to direct his mount into the gap, sword held up, ready to strike.

  An enemy warrior sprang in front of him, baring his teeth through the thick dark hair of his beard. He raised his shield and stabbed a spear at the neck of Cato’s horse. The beast reared away, front legs lashing out as Cato threw his weight forward and clutched the reins tightly to avoid toppling back out of his saddle. A hoof connected with the point of the warrior’s spear, knocking it downwards, and the warrior retreated a few paces from the danger of the hoofs. Then the horse dropped forward and Cato struggled back into an erect position, just in time to parry another thrust from the Silurian. His long blade clanged and he twisted his arm to deflect the spear point, then spurred his horse forward, into the enemy warrior, thudding into his shield and knocking him back. Cato gave him no time to regain his balance and swung his sword down, reaching as far forward as he could. The edge hissed through the air and struck the man on the woad-patterned skin of his shoulder. The blade bit through his flesh and struck the man’s collarbone, which snapped beneath the savage force of the blow. He uttered an agonised cry and staggered back, his shield slipping from his fingers. Yet he still had the wit to wield his spear, even through the red veil of his pain, and thrust the point up at Cato.