Macro turned to Cato. ‘Mind explaining what the fuck that was all about?’
Cato was still catching his breath and dealing with the pain from his broken nose. He held up a hand, the blood in his nostrils making his voice sound thick. ‘A. . moment. .’
‘They were out to kill you, lad. I saw it all. No question.’
Cato nodded and paced over to the man Macro had felled. He leaned down and saw the terrible wound where Macro’s sword had cut at an angle into his neck, shattering the collarbone and some ribs before coming to a stop six inches deep. The blood pulsed from the wound, pooling on his chest and overflowing on to the grass as the Thracian gritted his teeth and stared into the pale sky. Cato knelt down at his side.
‘Why did you attack me?’
The Thracian’s eyes flickered towards Cato but he did not reply. The prefect leaned closer. ‘Tell me!’
The man’s lips lifted in a faint, mocking smile.
‘Bastard needs a bit of prompting,’ said Macro. He moved round his friend and stood by the Thracian’s head. Lifting his boot, Macro pressed it down on the wound, gently at first, then increased the pressure so that the Thracian cried out in agony and writhed. Macro ground his boot into the wound, the hobnails biting into the bloodied flesh and bone, before he eased up.
‘You answer the prefect’s question, or you get some more of that.’
‘Why did you attack me?’ Cato repeated.
The Thracian was panting as he fought against the waves of pain from his injury. He licked his lips as he summoned up the strength to reply. ‘I did it. . for the centurion.’
‘The centurion? Quertus?’
The man nodded feebly. ‘The cohort. . belongs to him. . Not you. Never you.’
‘Did he order you to do this?’
The Thracian slumped back into the grass and began to tremble uncontrollably as he bled out. Cato grabbed his blood-saturated neckcloth and pulled his head up sharply. ‘Did Quertus order you to kill me?’ he growled at the man.
The man’s eyes rolled up into his head as he choked on his blood. Then, as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth, he spoke again, faintly. ‘Quertus. .’
‘What?’ Cato demanded. ‘What about Quertus? Speak!’
But it was too late. The Thracian’s head lolled back lifelessly and Cato glared at him for a moment before releasing his grip on the neckcloth and withdrawing his hand angrily. ‘Bastard!’
As he stood up, Macro removed his boot and wiped it in the grass nearby to get some of the blood off. The centurion stared down at the body and clicked his tongue. ‘Have to hand it to Quertus, he inspires loyalty in his men.’
‘Loyalty?’ Cato spat the word out bitterly. ‘Loyalty to what? Not Rome. Only to that sick bastard who wants to bathe himself in blood.’
Macro looked at his friend. ‘I was being ironic.’
They stared at each other before Cato smiled nervously, glad to release the tension that had built up in his chest. Macro grinned. ‘There you go. I think I must have known you for too long, Cato. Irony — now that’s not something that used to come so easily to me. Anyway, what in Hades’ name is going on? Do you think these bastards were acting on their own, or on the orders of Quertus?’
‘What do you think? He’s behind this. He wants me dead, just like the last prefect, so he can carry on running Bruccium like his own little kingdom.’
Macro puffed. ‘He’s taking a big risk. One dead prefect looks like bad luck. Two looks like a conspiracy.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘Fuck. . Conspiracy. It hangs about us like a bloody cloud. I thought we’d be living the good life once we got back to the army. Not this. . Are you sure Quertus is behind this?’
‘I’m certain. I was set up, Macro. The standard-bearer must have been in on it. He let the Silurians take the standard, knowing that I would give chase and be led away from the fight. As soon as I was separated from the rest of the cohort, these two went after me. They gave the enemy a chance to do for me first, before they stepped in to finish the job. All very neat. I’d have died a good death trying to save the standard and Quertus would have a story he could sell to you, and report back to headquarters when the time came.’ Cato nodded grimly. ‘He’s as cunning as a snake.’
Macro prodded the dead Thracian with the toe of his boot. ‘What do we do? He’s failed in his attempt, and you’re still alive. What now? Stick a knife between Quertus’s shoulder blades? Bastard deserves as much.’
Before Cato could reply, they heard the sound of approaching horses and looked up to see Quertus leading one of his squadrons down the slope towards them. Macro readied his sword as he turned to face them, his expression grim. Cato moved to his side, and placed his hand on top of the pommel of his sword.
‘Macro,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re in great danger. Let me do the speaking.’
His friend nodded, keeping a wary eye on the approaching riders.
Quertus reined in a short distance away and his men rumbled to a halt on either side. There was a brief stillness during which Cato scrutinised the face of the Thracian officer and saw the cold look of frustration there that confirmed his suspicions. Quertus gestured towards the standard.
‘You saved it, then. Saved the cohort’s honour.’
‘I saved the standard,’ Cato replied deliberately. Then he gestured to the bodies of the Thracians. ‘But I could not save these men.’
Quertus glanced at the bodies and then his dark eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What happened here?’ he asked in a flat tone.
‘They tried to take the standard from that Silurian. He slew them both before I could intervene.’
Macro stirred beside him; the explanation had taken him by surprise. Cato fervently prayed that Macro would hold his tongue for the next few moments. Quertus nodded slowly.
‘Then they died heroes.’
‘It would seem so.’
At length the Thracian gestured towards Cato’s face. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Cato turned away and strode across to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Macro hesitated a moment, glaring at Quertus, before he followed suit. Cato looked round the valley and saw the distant figures of the men and women of the tribe running for their lives, clutching their children by the hand as they made for the trees each side of the valley. He wiped the blood from his lips. Already it was beginning to clot in his nose and the flow was no more than an oozing trickle. He cleared his throat.
‘Centurion Quertus, order your men to round up prisoners. They are only to kill those who resist. The prisoners, and our casualties, are to be taken up to the chieftain’s hut. Is that clear?’
Quertus nodded.
‘I said, is that clear, Centurion?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better. Then see to it at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus wheeled his horse round and barked out orders to his men. Riders set off at once to inform the other squadrons as Cato and Macro rode back up the slope. Quertus beckoned to the rest of his men and they fell in behind the prefect and his companion. At the top of the slope, Cato made his way round to the open area in front of the large hut and saw twenty or so of the enemy sitting on the ground, guarded by several of the Thracian auxiliaries. Amongst the prisoners was the blond man, conspicuous by his stature and the lightness of his hair compared to the mostly dark-haired Silurians. He had been stripped of his weapons, his shield and his helmet, and now Cato had a clearer view of his features. He reined in a short distance away and stared at the man.
‘Macro, see that one?’ Cato pointed. ‘He seems very familiar. Do you recognise him?’
Macro looked and shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I do.’
Cato frowned. ‘I’ve seen him before. Recently. Sure of it. .’
Cato steered his horse over towards the man and stopped six feet from where he sat. The native looked up defiantly.
‘On your feet!’ Cato ordered, gesturing with his hand.
The man did not m
ove and Macro trotted up, red-faced. ‘You heard the prefect! On your fucking feet, you mangy dog!’
Slowly, and with as much haughty dignity as he could manage, the warrior stood up and squared his shoulders, regarding his captors with a contemptuous expression.
‘Who are you?’ Cato demanded. ‘You’re not a Silurian.’
‘I am of the Catuvellauni,’ the man replied in lightly accented Latin.
‘Then what are you doing here? Your tribe surrendered to us years ago.’ Cato forced himself to sound cold. ‘Which makes you an outlaw.’
‘Outlaw? I am no outlaw. I pledged to fight Rome to my last breath. Like many in my tribe, I chose to follow Caratacus.’
At the mention of the enemy leader’s name Cato felt a thrill of realisation flow through his mind. That was where he had seen him before. At the stone ring, standing amongst the entourage of the native king who had resisted Rome from the very first moment that the legions had landed on British soil. Like many of the Catuvellauni, he had light-coloured hair, but there was something more about him. His build and his face reminded Cato of Caratacus himself.
‘What is your name?’
‘My name?’ The warrior’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘My name is for my people and those men who fight at my side as brothers.’
‘Is that so?’ Macro smiled cruelly. ‘Sir, if he won’t give us his name, he has no need of his tongue any more. Let me cut the bastard’s tongue out.’
Macro reached for his dagger and drew the blade, holding it up so that the warrior could see it clearly. Cato said nothing for a moment, allowing Macro’s bloodthirsty request to do its work. He saw the warrior look away from the dagger as his mask slipped and he revealed a glimpse of the fear in his heart.
‘Tell me your name,’ Cato ordered. ‘While you still have a tongue in your head.’
The warrior looked up, hurriedly composing himself, and stared back at his captors. ‘Very well. I am Maridius.’
‘Maridius,’ Cato repeated. ‘Warrior of the Catuvellauni and, if I am not mistaken, brother of King Caratacus.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘So what do we do with him, this Maridius?’ Macro asked as he warmed his hands over the brazier. Even though summer was not far off, the Silurian mountains were wreathed with cold winds and frequent mists and rain. Outside the walls of the headquarters building a breeze gusted in the night, rattling the shuttered window of Cato’s office. Decimus had brought them a simple meal of stew. Some of the horses injured in the recent attack had not been passed fit for any further service by the horsemaster of the Thracian cohort and had been slaughtered for their meat. The garrison of Bruccium relished the addition of fresh meat to their diet for a few days before the usual issue of gruel would resume.
Cato poured himself a cup of posca, the common legionary’s drink of cheap wine, watered down. ‘We were damned lucky to get our hands on him.’
‘True,’ Macro agreed with feeling. ‘But what was he doing in that village in the first place?’
Cato took a sip, and thought a moment. ‘It’s likely he was sent there by Caratacus. Perhaps to recruit more men. Or perhaps to see at first hand the effect that Quertus was having on their allies and try to rally them. Unless he tells us, we can’t be sure.’
‘He hasn’t said a word. I’ve had some of Severus’s lads work him over, but the bastard is as tough as he looks. We haven’t got anything useful out of him yet. Perhaps we’ll have better luck this evening.’
‘I hope so. I’ve told Quertus to send some of his men to do the interrogating tonight.’
Macro looked up sharply. ‘Why involve him?’
‘I am the prefect of the Thracian cohort as well as commander of the fort. I need to make sure I take every opportunity to remind him, and the rest of his. . my men.’
Macro sighed wearily. ‘I doubt the Thracians will have any more luck than my boys. Although the way they look might just give them an edge in putting the frighteners on Maridius. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
‘Well, if we can’t make him talk, then he might serve as a hostage — assuming there’s any fraternal sentiment between him and Caratacus. In any case, he’ll need to be taken to Glevum. He’s too important to keep here.’
Macro nodded and then turned to another matter. ‘What do we do with the rest of the prisoners? We can’t keep ’em here.’
Only fifty or so of the Silurians had been captured in the valley eight days previously. Many more had chosen to die fighting, or had been cut down by the Thracians before they could make a choice. When the column had returned to Bruccium the captives had been herded into one of the empty barrack blocks and the doors locked behind them. They were fed meagre rations once a day and allowed to slop out their latrine tubs each morning. The garrison had already consumed much of the food looted from the village and would soon start eroding the limited reserves held inside the fort’s granary.
‘I’ve made a decision about them,’ Cato replied from behind the simple trestle table that acted as his desk. He leaned back as Decimus lifted a bowl from his tray and set it down, along with a bronze spoon, in front of his commander. ‘They’ll be escorted back to Glevum. I’ll send four squadrons of the Thracians along with them to guard the prisoners. Quertus will be in command.’
Macro looked up from his bowl at his friend. ‘What makes you think he’ll go along with that?’
‘Because it’ll be an order. I’ll arrange it so that if he refuses, then he will have to do so in front of the entire garrison. Then we’ll see who the men obey.’
Macro sighed. ‘I hate to be the one to tell you, but the Thracians will back him, almost to a man.’
Cato nodded. ‘I expect you’re right. That’s why we’re waiting for the reinforcement column to turn up. Once your legionaries are up to strength I’ll have more than enough men to swing things our way. If I pick the right moment, Quertus will have to give in or fight against superior odds. He’s stepped over the line, but not so far that he can’t see a way back. I intend to give him a chance.’
Macro was silent for a moment before he replied in a strained voice, ‘For the love of all the gods, Cato, why? That bastard tried to have you killed.’
Cato folded his hands together and rested his chin on them as he considered his friend’s protest. Macro was right. The Thracian was dangerous, and driven by a madness Cato could barely understand. There was more to the extreme manner in which he waged war than simply the bloodthirsty proclivities of his race. He wanted revenge, consumed by the desire to destroy the Silures, right down to the last living creature that they possessed. And yet the effect on the enemy of the horror of the Thracian’s campaign — the heads, the rotting corpses and the burned-out remains of villages — had been impressive. They feared the men of the cohort. The very sight of the Blood Crow banner had sent them running for their lives. Perhaps fear was the very best of weapons, Cato mused. Nothing could stand before it, neither the best armour nor the highest of ramparts. Only courage of equal intensity stood any chance against a strategy based on instilling such terror as Quertus and his men inflicted. Terror then, the supreme tool of war. .
Part of Cato’s mind recoiled from this line of thought. The cool calculation of a moment before made him despise himself. He was not Quertus. He never could be. But at the same time he knew he was perfectly capable of such ruthlessness. The difference between himself and the Thracian was that he chose not to be ruthless. . Or perhaps that was merely the excuse he offered himself to justify his moral cowardice. He raised his eyes and looked at Macro, wondering if he should try to explain his doubts. As far as his friend was concerned, Quertus had condemned himself the moment he had tried to have Cato killed. Nothing else mattered. Macro was inclined to take a more direct route in his judgement of people.
‘If Quertus can be persuaded to leave Bruccium and escort the prisoners back to Glevum,’ Cato began, ‘then he will be out of the way while we take full control of the situation and make sure tha
t he cannot try to resume control when he returns. If he does try, I’ll be able to play by the rules and have him arrested for insubordination, and even mutiny. Due legal process will be served.’
‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Cato?’ Macro groaned. ‘Where was due legal bloody process when he tried to stab you in the back, eh? When your enemy fights dirty, you do the same. Say the word, and I’ll stick a sword in the bastard’s guts and I won’t shed a fucking tear over the cunt. That’s my kind of due legal process.’
Cato was momentarily taken aback by his friend’s words. ‘Er. . Quite so.’
There was a brief silence in which Cato allowed his friend to simmer down a bit before he continued. Decimus took the chance to clear his throat. Cato glanced at him.
‘Might I go now, sir?’
Cato nodded. ‘Get yourself something to eat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Decimus turned towards the door and was about to leave the room when Macro called to him.
‘Hey, Decimus, see if there’s any of that Silurian bread left in the officers’ stores. If there is, bring us a loaf each.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Decimus replied and left the office, shutting the latch quietly behind him.
Cato did not have much of an appetite, thanks to his concerns. ‘I’ll be fine with just the stew.’
‘Suit yourself. If you don’t want the bread, I’ll eat yours.’
Macro fell on his stew, slurping the steaming liquid from the spoon as Cato stirred his thoughtfully and then spoke again.
‘Macro, we must be careful. We have never been in a situation like this before.’
As he spoke, Cato recalled the march back from the Silurian village. He and Macro had made sure to stay within the column, day and night, always one watching while the other slept. Quertus had made one attempt on Cato’s life, and he was bound to have more men amongst his followers who were prepared to do his bidding and murder a superior officer. As soon as they had returned to the fort Cato had given orders for the headquarters guards to be drawn from the legionary cohort alone. Men that Centurion Severus had hand-picked for their trustworthiness.
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