Brothers in Blood (19 page)

‘N-no, sir,’ the recruit gasped.

‘I don’t believe you. Optio!’ Macro turned to the recruit’s superior. ‘Legionary Lorenus. Fatigues. Five days!’

‘Yes, sir!’ The optio inscribed a hurried note on his waxed tablet.

Cato had stood by impassively during the exchange. He readily recalled his own harsh treatment when he had first joined the Second Legion. The aptly named Centurion Bestia had made his life a misery and Cato mentally cringed at the fear the instructor had instilled in him. At the time he had believed that Bestia had been a cruel monster, but he had long since come to recognise the true purpose of the harsh treatment meted out during training. Soldiers had to keep a cool head in any conditions. They had to be disciplined from within as well as without. That process began on the training ground where they learned to keep their eyes ahead, answer directly and not let themselves become unsettled. It ended when they coolly faced an enemy in battle and put instinct behind them and placed their trust in their training.

Macro continued along the line with Cato in step beside him. Several more men received similar treatment before Macro handed over to their officers to begin the morning drill. As the First Century tramped off, Macro turned to his friend and rubbed his hands together in glee.

‘Ah! I haven’t lost my touch. I can still put the wind up ’em.’

‘True. But I thought the point was to train them, not terrify them.’

‘They’ll pick it up soon enough, once they’ve stopped shitting themselves. Just like old times, eh? Proper soldiering. There’s nothing like it! Every drill a bloodless battle and every battle a bloody drill.’

Cato smiled indulgently. This was Macro’s ideal. The opportunity to mould men into tough, disciplined professional soldiers filled him with pride and a sense of achievement. What seemed to come to Macro so naturally was an onerous duty for Cato. He still felt self-conscious about shouting insults into the faces of fresh-faced soldiers and thanked the gods that he had been promoted to a rank that set him above such tasks.

The replacements allocated to the Second Thracian presented a different kind of problem. They were almost all from Batavia and already seasoned riders and fighters. Tall, big-boned and mostly fair-haired, their appearance was in stark contrast to the dark-featured Thracians who made up the original unit. The Batavians would need to accept the ethos of their comrades. The Blood Crows had a hard-won reputation for ferocity and had cultivated a look that made them appear more like a group of irregular cavalry than an established unit of the Roman army. That had served Cato well so far and he aimed to keep it that way.

As he began his inspection of the troopers standing with their mounts, the contrast between the Batavians and the Thracians concerned him. He stopped in front of the first of the decurions, a new man with a scarred, lined face. Clearly a veteran of some fights, not all of which he appeared to have won.

‘What is your name?’

‘Decurion Avergus.’

‘Avergus? Is that all?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s the name I was given at birth. Don’t see no reason to change it.’ The man’s Latin was good though accented and, like most of his people, he was inclined to talk more loudly than necessary. A good attribute for a soldier but a bit wearing socially, Cato felt.

He glanced at Macro. It was usual for auxiliaries from non-Roman backgrounds to adopt a Roman name on enlistment, especially as Roman citizenship was granted when the soldier had served out his time in the army. The choice to retain his tribal name meant that the decurion was either proud of his heritage or possibly disdainful of Roman ways. Cato decided he would need to keep an eye on Avergus.

‘Avergus, were most of these men recruited along with you?’

‘Yes, sir. Same tribe. Village on the banks of the Rhenus near Moguntum. The entire draught came from the settlement.’

‘How many speak Latin?’

Avergus thought a moment before replying. ‘Most of the lads from the village have a ready grasp, sir. Those from the outlying farms, none.’

‘I see. What about you? You speak it fluently enough.’

‘My dad’s a fur trader, sir. Supplies the local Rhine garrisons. I spent more time in Roman forts than I did at home when I was growing up.’

‘Then I’m making you the language instructor for the new men. Decurion Miro will supply you with the essential commands and terms. They’ll need to grasp those at once. The rest you can teach them when they’re ready.’

Avergus’s thick brow knitted.

‘Problem?’

‘No, sir . . . Yes, sir. I ain’t much of a teacher.’

‘Just as well then,’ said Macro. ‘Because this is the army, not a fucking school. The prefect has given you an order and you hop to it. Clear?’

‘Yes, Centurion.’

Cato nodded. ‘Good.’

He moved on without stopping to beast any more of the new men, since there was little point in shouting at a man who did not understand a word being said to him. When he reached Decurion Miro, he halted.

‘The new draught look like they have the makings of good men.’

‘Yes, sir. They’ll do well enough, once they’ve been drilled thoroughly. In time, they will be worthy of the Blood Crows.’

Cato smiled. ‘Make sure they understand that’s a name to be proud of. Carry on, Decurion Miro.’

They exchanged a salute and Miro took a pace back and turned to the men. ‘Officers! On me!’

Cato nodded with satisfaction. Miro knew his business and could be trusted to get on with the training. He turned to Macro.

‘Walk with me.’

They paced away from the two formations as the officers bellowed the orders for the men to begin their training rota: formation drilling, weapons practice and strength and stamina exercises. Cato strode up the ramp to the review stand and glanced over the men and horses of the escort detachment before turning his attention to Macro.

‘The word from headquarters is the general has given the order to stop questioning the native camp followers and release them.’

‘About time too. Did the interrogators find anything out that we don’t already know?’

‘Nothing. Whoever helped Caratacus to escape is one of ours.’

Macro cracked his knuckles. ‘You’re pretty certain this is the work of Pallas’s agent, aren’t you?’

Cato nodded. ‘It seems to make sense. Given what Septimus told us.’

‘And you trust him?’

‘Not without reservation. He is his father’s son, after all. But the escape of Caratacus proves what he said about Pallas’s intention to scupper the province and destroy support for Claudius back in Rome.’

Macro nodded. ‘But there’s worse things that could happen. To us.’

‘Exactly.’ Cato sighed. ‘Seems we’d better watch our backs, thanks to our dealings with Narcissus. We’ve been lucky so far . . .’

‘So far.’

The following evening General Ostorius summoned his officers to a briefing at headquarters, the first such meeting for several days. The praetorium was a huge timber-framed structure that dominated the other large buildings clustered at the heart of the fortress: the granaries, tribunes’ quarters, armoury, hospital and the stables for the mounts of the officers and the Twentieth Legion’s scouts. It was just before dusk and a honeyed light slanted across the fortress, throwing long shadows up the street ahead of Macro and Cato as they approached the arched entrance.

They were surrounded by the subdued noises of the camp as the men ceased their duties and turned their attention towards preparing their evening meal. Those who had been issued with a pass would be looking forward to the delights of the vicus sprawling across the rolling countryside a short distance beyond the walls of Viroconium. After the hardships of the campaign, the army was content to slip into the peaceful routine of garrison life and a sense of well-being permeated the fortress.

Macro breathed in the tang of woodsmoke from the cooking fires and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Life doesn’t get much better than this.’

Cato’s brow furrowed for a moment. ‘Really? I could easily hope for better. I could do without the opprobrium of the general over the escape of Caratacus – which was hardly my fault. We have a wily enemy on the loose and I would prefer not to have to worry about an assassin sent from Rome to do us in. Right now, I really would prefer to be far from here, safely in the arms of my wife.’

Macro chuckled. ‘I bet.’

They walked on in silence for a moment before Macro spoke again. ‘I was only talking about this moment, Cato. Right now. Put everything else aside and tell me this isn’t good.’

A short distance ahead of them one of the general’s slaves was walking two of his master’s hunting dogs. One of them abruptly stopped, directly in Cato’s path, and hunched its back to defecate. Cato could not help smiling as he nodded towards the dog. ‘That about sums up the situation from my point of view.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Macro growled, then drew a breath and shouted at the slave, ‘Oi! You clear that up, you hear?’

The slave turned anxiously and bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

They turned into the gateway and strode across the courtyard, passing through the open doors into the cool shaded interior of the main hall. Most of the officers had already arrived and taken their places on the benches arranged before the dais at the far end. Cato saw a few spaces near the front and made towards them, until he saw Prefect Horatius sitting along the bench. He paused, but before he could change direction, Horatius glanced round, and beckoned.

‘Here, Cato. There’s enough space. You too, Centurion Macro.’

There was no choice and Cato and Macro did as they were bid. Horatius shifted towards them. ‘How are the new Batavians working out?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Good riders, but a little slow to adapt to our tactics. They’ll come round soon enough if Decurion Miro has anything to do with it.’

‘Bloody Batavians,’ Horatius said with feeling. ‘I had to make do with some as well. No love lost between them and the Hispanians. I’ve had three fights in the last two days, left one of my new men with a cracked skull. Surgeon reckons he’ll be lucky not to come out of it witless. Not that you can tell with most Batavians, eh? How about you, Macro?’

‘The replacements are a bit green, sir. But I’m knocking ’em into shape quick enough.’

‘Just as well. With Caratacus still at large we may be on the march again before the summer is over.’ Horatius lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘That’s assuming the general is up for it.’

Cato said nothing but cocked an eyebrow.

‘Word is that he’s fallen ill. Been in his bed for days. That’s why there’s been no briefings.’

‘Ill?’ Macro shot a look towards the dais as if expecting the general to appear any moment. ‘How ill?’

Horatius frowned. ‘What am I? A bloody surgeon? Just repeating what I’ve heard. But you know what he’s like. Tough as old boots. It’d have to be serious to keep Ostorius in bed. By the way, Cato, for what it’s worth, I don’t hold you to blame for Caratacus’s escape. Could have happened on anyone’s watch.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Still, if it had been up to me, I’d have doubled the number of guards you had. No point in taking a risk, eh?’

Cato forced himself to control his irritation at the remark and replied in a flat voice, ‘I suppose not.’

He looked round in order to break eye contact with Horatius, and saw that the last of the officers was arriving and joining the others who were obliged to stand now that the benches had been filled. A moment later the camp prefect stepped up in front of the dais and barked the announcement, ‘Commanding officer present!’

There was an instant din of scraping boots as the seated men rose and stood stiffly, then there was quiet and the sound of faltering footsteps echoed down the hall. Out of the corner of his eye Cato saw the general making his way along the side, accompanied by a tall young native in a finely woven cloak. Ostorius signalled to the tribesman to stand to the side of the dais and then climbed the three steps on to the platform. The general looked even more gaunt than usual and his skin had taken on an ashen pallor. He seemed to have shrunk inside his elaborately embroidered tunic and polished leather cuirass, like a decrepit tortoise in its shell, thought Cato.

The general paused a moment and then drew himself up in front of his officers, running the tip of his tongue across his lips to moisten them. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

‘Gentlemen, I am the bearer of ill news. This afternoon I received a messenger from Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes.’ He gestured towards the native standing beside the stage. ‘Our ally tells us that Caratacus has made his appearance at her tribal capital at Isurium. He is under the protection of her consort, Venutius, who has demanded that Caratacus be given a chance to plead his case before the assembled tribes of the Brigantian confederation.’

Ostorius paused as his officers stirred uneasily.

‘Jupiter’s cock,’ Macro muttered. ‘That’s thrown the cat amongst the pigeons.’

Once he had his men’s attention again the general continued. ‘I need hardly warn you that if Caratacus gets his way he could stir the whole of the north against us. We know he is a powerful orator and if he can sway enough of the hotheads amongst the Brigantian leadership then Cartimandua’s authority will crumble, Venutius will become the new leader of his people and Caratacus will have a powerful army at his back to renew the struggle against us. It’s bad timing. Our men are still recovering from the campaign in the mountains. We suffered heavy casualties and even though we have some replacements, they are unseasoned. The Brigantians outnumber us at least two to one. If I turn to counter the new threat then I must leave the west thinly defended. All that we have just won could be lost if the Silurians and the Ordovicians decide to take advantage of the situation. We’ll face a war on two fronts. I will be forced to deal with the Brigantian threat first, then we may have to win back any ground we lose to the mountain tribes afterwards.’

‘Assuming we beat the Brigantians,’ Cato whispered.

Macro was only half listening to his friend. He was staring at the general, whose last words had sounded slurred. ‘I don’t believe it. The old man’s drunk . . .’