The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  A handful of other Thracians called out their support for their leader and clenched their hands into fists and shook them at Cato. At once the smaller number of legionaries responded with cries of support for Cato. More joined in and the air was thick with shouts. Cato was reminded of the atmosphere of a gladiator spectacle and was thankful that he had never had to endure the fear and shame of those forced to fight for the entertainment of the mob.

  Keeping a wary eye on his opponent, Quertus steadily paced his way round the ring of spectators until he had his supporters at his back and Cato was forced to gaze into their hostile expressions. The encouragement from the legionaries struggled to make itself heard over the din of the Thracians but one voice rang out.

  ‘Get stuck in, sir! Kill that Thracian dog!’

  ‘Quiet, you fool!’ another voice cut in behind Cato’s back. ‘You want that Thracian dog to come looking for you afterwards?’

  Cato smiled bitterly to himself. So, even the legionaries, much as they feared and disliked Quertus, were cautious about their commander’s chances of winning the fight. Well, he would show them, Cato resolved. He would prove them wrong, and prove that he had the right to command the garrison by force of arms as well as by the Emperor’s authority.

  Quertus stood, calm and relaxed, as if in contempt for his foe, and then he turned his back on Cato and faced his men, arms raised to acknowledge their acclaim. The sound of their cheering rose in response and Quertus punched both fists into the air repeatedly.

  Cato gritted his teeth and moved towards the man’s back, momentarily visualising the point of his sword plunging in, cutting through his spine and angling into his black heart. The auxiliaries shouted a warning to their officer and Quertus spun round and lowered himself into a crouch. He forced a laugh for the benefit of his men and called out in a loud voice, ‘Attack me while my back’s turned, would you? And you call me a coward!’

  As his men responded excitedly to his taunt, Quertus paced forward confidently, swinging his blade in a broad ellipse. Cato did not stop, did not hesitate, but moved directly into contact, viciously striking the spatha aside and lunging for the other man’s chest. Quertus parried the blow firmly and stepped forward, punching the guard into Cato’s chest and knocking him back. Cato rode the blow to lessen its impact but even so the air was driven from his lungs and pain burned across his ribs. At the same time he was forced to throw his sword up to block a rushed chop to his head as Quertus tried to take advantage of the winding blow he had struck. The blade clattered to the side, but a moment later there was a searing pain in Cato’s thigh, just above the knee, as the point of the Thracian’s sword tore a shallow wound across his flesh.

  The two men parted and Quertus let out a triumphant cry as he saw the crimson streak across the prefect’s knee. His supporters cheered while the legionaries fell silent, staring anxiously at their commander, trying to determine the seriousness of his injury. Cato risked a quick glance down and saw the blood running down his shin and over the top of his leather boots. He lowered and raised himself cautiously but felt no increase in the pain and no telltale twinge that would indicate serious damage to his muscles. Even so, he was bleeding, and it would sap his strength the longer the fight lasted. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward again and feigned a slight stumble, letting out a genuine groan.

  Quertus laughed drily. ‘I’m disappointed, Prefect Cato. I’d have hoped for more of a contest. But look at you. Thin and weak and bleeding like a stuck pig. I could let you bleed out but I want a good kill. Something that will show all the men that I am fit to be their commander.’

  Cato leaned over his injured leg and looked up from under his dark fringe, breathing deeply. He licked his lips and rasped, ‘You’re not fit to be in the Roman army, let alone command one of its forts.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Quertus lowered himself slightly and approached cautiously. Cato let him come and raised his sword, the point wavering as he straightened his back and prepared to fight for his life once again. As Quertus raised his sword to strike and lifted his right foot to swing forward, Cato launched himself forward with a throat-tearing roar. There was just enough time for the Thracian’s eyes to widen in surprise before the point of Cato’s sword flashed up, forward and into the other man’s left shoulder. The blade tore through cloth, skin and muscle before jarring against a bone. Quertus grunted explosively under the impetus of the blow and staggered. Cato pressed on, throwing his weight behind the sword, twisting the handle as he drove forward.

  But Quertus’s fearsome reputation on the battlefield was well-earned and he recovered swiftly, tearing himself free of the blade then twisting away from Cato so that the prefect’s momentum carried him a few paces past before he scrabbled to a halt and turned to face Quertus. At once Cato threw himself forward and there was a desperate exchange of blows. The men began to cheer again, each side urging their officer on, and now the legionaries were shouting almost as loudly as the auxiliaries. With a last ringing clatter of blades, both men retreated from each other and crouched, chests heaving as they exchanged hostile glares.

  ‘You’re a crafty bastard. .’ Quertus growled. ‘I’ll give you. . that.’

  Cato kept his silence and began to circle slowly. The wound in his opponent’s shoulder was deep but it was hard to make out the blood seeping into the folds of Quertus’s black tunic, save for the glistening where the cloth had become saturated. Cato nodded with satisfaction. While it was not a mortal wound, it was bleeding badly and would get worse if the Thracian exerted himself.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ a groggy voice demanded.

  Out of the corner of his eye Cato was aware of Macro rising unsteadily to his feet, a hand clutched to his head. He stared at the two officers and quickly sized up the situation. ‘Gut him, lad!’ he bellowed. ‘Kill the bastard!’

  With an angry growl Quertus came on again, slashing left and right with his longer blade, driving Cato back as he parried each blow, feeling the force of the blows jar his sword arm with a tingling pain that threatened to loosen his grasp of the handle.

  Then it happened.

  The full, savage weight of the Thracian’s cavalry sword smashed against the hilt of Cato’s gladius. His fingers spasmed and he felt the blade slip from his grasp. At once Quertus let out a triumphant roar and moved in for the kill. Cato leaped to the side and heard the swish of the blade as the sword swept down behind him and struck the ground with a dull metallic note. He sidestepped quickly as his opponent drew his sword back and came on with the point at waist height, ready to strike a final, killing blow.

  ‘You can’t run from me,’ Quertus sneered. ‘Stand and take your death like a man, not like a cowardly Roman!’

  Cato kept his arms wide, his legs braced, ready to spring in any direction the moment he detected his foe was about to strike. At the same time he knew he was being manoeuvred back against the gatehouse. Around him the air was thick with the cries of the Thracian’s supporters, baying raucously for his blood. The calmness that had filled his mind had shattered. Now his senses vied with his racing mind in a desperate jumble of glimpses of the faces in front of him, the pureness of the patch of blue sky in the clouds above, the vision of Julia as he smiled down at her the morning after their marriage, Macro laughing heartily as he cast a winning throw of dice, and the sweet smell of the air after a summer shower. . A man snatching at the myriad treasures of his life for that last taste of their delight before he was claimed by oblivion.

  Something glittered briefly before it fell to the sand close by Cato’s feet. He glanced down and saw a cavalry sword by his boots and instinctively snatched the weapon up, his senses registering the difference in weight and balance to the short sword of the legions. His arm muscles tensed under the burden and he saw Quertus’s face harden as the triumphant victory that had been so certain only moments before began to slip from his grasp.

  ‘No more fucking about,’ the Thracian snarled as he hefted his weapon. ‘Now you
die, Roman scum.’

  His lips drew back to reveal his clenched teeth as he charged straight at Cato, sword arm outstretched and the point flying towards the prefect’s throat. Cato fell back. His heel struck the timbers of the gate and pain flared up his calf. There was no retreat, no chance of dodging to the side. He knew he could do nothing now but stand his ground. He raised the spatha, as if to try and parry the blade cutting through the air towards him with the full weight of the Thracian behind it. Cato swallowed hard, and felt the muscles of his throat tighten in fear, and then dived for the ground directly at the feet of his opponent. The sword flashed overhead and splintered the gate as the blow struck. A heavy boot kicked Cato in the side of his head, jarring his neck. Then he hit the ground and rolled on to his shoulder and the handle of the spatha lurched in his grip as the point bit deeply into Quertus’s flesh. Cato held the weapon tightly as the sword was wrenched down in his hand, forcing his wrist to twist the blade. Boots scuffed the ground and there was a deep groan from the Thracian and then stillness.

  Cato’s head was ringing, yet he was aware that the shouting had stopped. He was dazed by the blow to his skull and it was a moment before he saw Quertus’s features no more than a pace away. His eyes were wild and staring and his jaw sagged, gasping for breath. Then nausea filled Cato’s guts as his head spun, forcing him to clench his eyes shut briefly.

  ‘He’s done for,’ a voice muttered thickly, and Cato tried to nod, thinking to accept his fate. He felt hands reach under his arms and draw him up, away from the ground. His head began to clear and the nausea passed so he risked opening his eyes. A familiar face was anxiously looking at him.

  ‘Cato. . sir?’

  He blinked and forced himself to reply, slowly and clearly. ‘Macro. You all right?’

  ‘Am I all right?’ Macro let out a deep laugh and tapped the side of his head. ‘Ain’t been a weapon yet made that’ll get through this skull!’

  Cato nodded. ‘I dare say. What. . Quertus?’

  ‘Like I said. Done for.’ Macro nodded towards the ground and Cato looked down and saw the Thracian lying on his side, the cavalry sword buried almost to the hilt in his groin and angled up into his vital organs. He rocked from side to side as a pool of blood expanded beneath him, a low keening note in his voice as he gasped for breath.

  Cato’s mind quickly cleared. ‘Good.’

  He looked up at the faces of the men surrounding the rear gatehouse of the fort. Some of the Thracians seemed stunned. Others were clearly angry, their expressions darkening as the legionaries began to cheer Cato’s name.

  ‘Better get that leg seen to, sir,’ Macro was saying. He took off his neckcloth and bent down and carefully dressed the wound.

  Cato struggled to keep his mind focused. He had done it. He had bested the Thracian. In front of the whole garrison. He had taken a terrible risk, gambled his life, in order to put an end to the struggle for supremacy over the garrison and now he stared at the auxiliaries with cold authority. A figure stepped forward and Cato’s eyes flickered towards the man and he recognised Centurion Stellanus.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Stellanus gestured towards the dying man. ‘My sword, sir. I’ll take it back now.’

  ‘Your sword?’ Cato arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes. . Yes, of course.’

  Stellanus nodded and approached. He hesitated as he stood over Quertus, and then rolled the Thracian on to his back and reached down to grasp the sword handle. Bracing a boot on the man’s groin, Stellanus worked his sword free. A rush of dark, almost black, blood gushed out after the blade came free with a sucking sound. Quertus’s body tensed and he let out a last, rasping gasp, and sagged slowly as the light went out of his eyes and he died. Stellanus wiped the blood from the blade and sheathed his weapon before he stood stiffly in front of Cato.

  ‘At your command, sir.’

  Cato nodded, then spoke softly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why did you throw me your sword?’

  Stellanus frowned. ‘He called you a cowardly Roman, sir. It ain’t true. It ain’t true of any Roman officer. In any case, you had the right to die with a sword in your hand.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  Stellanus stared back in silence for a moment before he responded flatly, ‘I’d have done the same for him, sir.’

  ‘Him?’ Macro intervened scornfully. ‘That bastard?’

  Stellanus nodded. ‘Whatever you may think of him, he had a warrior’s heart, and deserved a warrior’s death.’

  He was interrupted by the sound of the horn at the front gate. The alarm was being raised. Every man turned towards the sound, a series of strident notes carrying across the fort. It was Cato who recovered first. ‘To your positions! Every man on the wall!’

  Macro jerked his thumb towards the group who had supported Quertus. ‘What about them? Bloody deserters.’

  Cato glanced at the men. ‘We’ll deal with that later. For now I need every single man. Send ’em back to their units.’

  ‘Even Decimus?’

  Cato turned and stared at his servant. The man was trembling under the withering gaze of the two officers. Cato felt a stab of pity for a man, any man, who was in the thrall of fear to such an extent. Pity, and a degree of empathy. But it was the greater fear of being found out that caused Cato to force himself to carry out the deeds that Macro ascribed to courage. So it was with a mixture of pity and guilt that Cato shook his head. ‘Send him back to my quarters.’

  When he reached the tower above the main gate Cato could see the full length of the valley as the rising sun burnished the rim of the hills to the east. The sky was clearing and the coming day promised to be dry and warm with only the mildest of breezes. Perfect conditions to light the signal fire. The smoke would be clearly seen for ten or twenty miles. Down below, the enemy camp was bristling with activity as men hurriedly formed into war bands and the thickly coated ponies favoured by the mountain tribes were saddled and mounted. Already, the first bands were moving towards the head of the valley in the direction of Gobannium. A small force advanced towards the fort and halted at the foot of the slope. Its purpose was clear enough to Cato: to contain the garrison while the main body dealt with whatever had roused them. It could only be the presence of Roman soldiers nearby. For an instant Cato felt his heart soar at the prospect, and then his fierce joy turned to an icy dread as he realised what that must mean. There might still be time to avert the disaster.

  Cato whirled round and rushed across the tower and leaned over the rail into the fort. He thrust his arm towards the optio in charge of the signal beacon, a large iron basket filled with kindling dipped in pitch. To one side lay the dried leaves that would make plenty of smoke when the flames had taken hold. ‘Light the signal fire! At once!’

  Turning his attention back towards the head of the valley while the optio carried out his orders, Cato cursed whatever gods had seen fit to sweep back the cloud and rain from the sky only on the very morning that the column of reinforcements marching from Glevum were nearing the fort, too close for the signal beacon to warn them off in time. The enemy’s intention was clear. Caratacus was preparing to ambush the Roman column. The reinforcements would be surrounded by the native warriors and cut to pieces. The Romans were blissfully ignorant of the danger. As far as they were aware, the enemy commander and his host were far to the north, their attention fixed on the ponderous advance of Governor Ostorius and his army. They would discover the truth soon enough, Cato mused bitterly.

  There was only the slimmest of chances to save the column, Cato knew, but he was not going to simply stand by and watch his comrades massacred.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Why not let me go?’ Macro asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been wounded, sir. And the men need you here in the fort.’

  Cato shook his head as he finished strapping his greaves on. He straightened up and smiled at his friend. ‘I was appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cohort a
s well as commander of the garrison. I think it’s time I exercised my rank now that Quertus is out of the way.’

  They stood beside the side gate opening on to the slope nearest the track that led to the head of the valley. Two squadrons of the cavalry cohort were hurriedly mounting up in the open space between the wall and the barracks and stables of the fort. Sixty riders were all that could be spared for the task that Cato had in mind. Any more would leave Macro with too few men to defend Bruccium. Cato could see the thick column of smoke billowing into the air from the signal fire. It rose steadily enough for a short distance but a light breeze had come with the dawn and the smoke soon dispersed into distant wisps of grey. If the men in the reinforcement column were alert, there was a chance they might see the signal and have the sense to turn back while they still had a remote chance of escape.

  Macro looked round at the Thracians and clicked his tongue. ‘What do you think you can achieve with sixty men?’ He looked anxiously at his friend. ‘It’s nothing short of suicide.’

  ‘I hope it’s something short of that,’ Cato replied with a thin smile. ‘We are better mounted than the enemy, and we have the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us to ride out to support the reinforcement column.’

  ‘Really? I wonder why?’ Macro responded drily.

  Cato’s smile vanished and he lowered his voice so that only Macro would hear him. ‘Would you have me stand by while our comrades are massacred? I have to try and help them cut a way out of the trap. You’d do the same if you were in my position, and you know it.’

  Macro could not deny the truth of that but he persisted with his argument. ‘Where’s the logic of it, Cato? You charge out there and try to rescue our lads and it’s fifty to one against that you come through it. You’ll just be throwing away your life, and the lives of the Thracian lads. The reinforcement column hasn’t got a chance.’