The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (12 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As soon as the governor and his party returned to the outpost he dismissed his bodyguards and retired into the optio’s cramped quarters to confer with his officers. The meeting with the tribes had been far shorter than Ostorius had anticipated and there was no prospect of it being resumed the following day. After Caratacus and the Romans had withdrawn, several other contingents had followed suit, some setting off immediately for their homelands even though night had fallen. It was clear that any attempt to agree terms for peace across the island had failed.

‘If Caratacus wants to continue the war then he shall have it,’ Ostorius announced to his officers as they crowded round the small table which, together with a stool and bed, constituted the only furniture. ‘I shall not be returning to Londinium but making for the army headquarters at Cornoviorum at first light. Decianus, you will ride back to Londinium and inform the staff of my decision. They are to pack up and join me as soon as possible. Send word to the commanders of the Ninth and Second Legions that I shall be commencing the campaign as early as possible, and they will be responsible for ensuring the security of the province behind the frontier zone. Prefect Cato, you and Macro will ride to Glevum and report to Legate Quintatus.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Gentlemen, my plans are made, it only remains to put them into effect as swiftly and fully as possible. There will be no mercy shown to those who side with Caratacus. My orders are that there is no requirement to take prisoners. Such women and children as are spared will be marched to the rear and sold to the slave contractors at the depots. All hostile settlements we encounter are to be torched and razed. I meant what I said earlier. Those who take up arms against Rome are to be crushed. Is that quite clear?’

His officers nodded.

‘Then you had best retire for the night and get what sleep you can. That’s going to be something of a luxury in the days ahead. Dismissed.’

The officers saluted and filed out of the room into the darkness. Macro saw that the small garrison was under arms and spread out along the palisade. The optio must have spoken to some of the governor’s bodyguards and heard what had taken place in the sacred ring. He was taking no chances and had ordered his men to keep watch through the night. The legionaries of the bodyguard had settled round the garrison’s cooking fire and were warming themselves as they muttered in low, anxious tones about what they had witnessed. To one side Decimus was carefully bathing the wounds of Marcellus. The tribune had stripped to his loincloth and was carefully spooning gruel into his mouth and making a gurgling noise as he struggled to swallow. As he ate, the servant washed the grime from his pitifully emaciated body, revealing the bruises and cuts that told of the brutal treatment the tribune had been subjected to.

‘What will become of that poor sod?’ Macro wondered.

‘I am sure he has family in Rome. They will care for him, as best they can.’

Macro stared a moment longer. ‘It would have been kinder to kill him. Fucking barbarians. No better than animals.’

‘Maybe, but they’re clever. Everyone who sees Marcellus on his journey home is going to learn what happens to those soldiers captured by the enemy and it’s going to shake them. Even more so back in Rome, far from the battlefield. A mutilated young aristocrat is going to be something of a talking point. It may add weight to the words of those arguing that we should not expand our territory in Britannia, and even abandon the province altogether. Caratacus knows how to make his point eloquently, and ensure that it is rammed home as deeply as possible. Killing Marcellus would have been a wasted opportunity.’

Macro stared at his friend. ‘By the gods, you’re as cold-hearted as he is.’

‘No, I just understand the thinking behind his deeds. My only worry is that Ostorius may be playing into the enemy’s hands. If he brings fire and sword to the mountain tribes, he may turn some of the others against us. There’s a wider problem too. If our men get used to treating the natives harshly, it’s going to be hard to rein them in when they are redeployed after the campaign. That’s assuming we manage to hunt down Caratacus and force him to turn and fight.’

‘I was under the impression that he was spoiling for a fight,’ Macro replied. ‘He made a bloody great song and dance about defeating Marcellus’s column, and how it was only the beginning.’

‘Yes, he did. So perhaps that’s the impression he is keen to give us.’

Macro sighed irritably. ‘And what exactly do you think he intends, then?’

‘I’m not certain. If we strike deep into the mountains looking for his army, or his main stronghold, then we’ll be stretching our lines of communication, and leaving them vulnerable to raids. Looks to me like he’s reverting to his old tactics. Luring us on, only to strike at our rear. He’s certainly succeeded in goading Ostorius.’

‘Or he’s getting over-confident and looking for a set-piece battle on favourable terms.’

Cato shrugged doubtfully. ‘There’s a further possibility.’

‘Which is?’ Macro queried with forced patience.

‘The show he put on was as much for his own followers as us. He’s fighting a long war. It’s going to stretch the resources and will of his own followers as much as our side. And whereas our soldiers have discipline, the tribesmen need to be inspired to fight. I wonder how far Caratacus can depend on them. As long as he presents them with victories they will stand by him. If we grind them down then he’s going to be forced to fight a battle while he still has enough men prepared to follow his standard.’

‘Then let’s hope that’s what happens. I don’t fancy spending the next few years chasing shadows through mountains and forests.’

‘Quite.’ Cato reflected for a moment. ‘At least one of our officers appears to have the right idea. That centurion Quertus has made his mark on Caratacus. Sounds like a good man to have around when I take command of the Thracians.’

Macro scratched his chin. ‘Quertus might not be so pleased about it. He’s making a name for himself, and then you fetch up. Could be a difficult situation.’

‘Not if he’s half the officer you are, Macro.’ Cato stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘Better get some rest.’

They retrieved their saddlebags from the stable and made their way across to their quarters. Inside the small barrack block a single oil lamp provided just enough light to see. The tribunes had already settled down on their bedrolls, wrapped in their thick military cloaks. A handful were still awake as Macro and Cato picked their way over to the far corner and laid out their thin rolls of coarse cloth stuffed with horsehair.

‘I’m telling you,’ Decianus was muttering to his companions. ‘This campaign is going to be a disaster. These people are savages. No better than wild animals . . .’

There was a pause before another tribune replied, ‘I don’t want to end up like Marcellus.’

‘We should leave the bastards to their mountains,’ Decianus continued. ‘Build a line of forts and hem them in. That would be best.’

Macro eased himself down on to his bedroll and cleared his throat. ‘Tribune, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to sleep. It ain’t easy if you’re going to sit there all night scaring the women.’

In the gloom, Cato could just make out the tribune opening his mouth to respond, then thinking better of it. Instead he lay down and pulled his cloak up to his chin and fell silent. Macro tutted gently and then shuffled into a comfortable position and a moment later began to snore lightly. Cato knew that there would only be a brief opportunity to get to sleep before Macro began snoring in earnest. He had taught himself a trick on their journey from Rome to clear his mind and drift off. He imagined building a small villa in the Alban Hills close to Rome. Room by room. Before he got as far as the triclinium he was asleep. However, if he ever came to that part, then he knew that a troubled night lay ahead . . . A long day in the saddle and the nervous strain of the assembly took their toll and Cato was asleep even before he had completed the atrium, and thankfully, long before Macro’s deep rumbling filled the room, disturbing the slumber of the more anxious of the tribunes huddled along the far wall.

It was more than half a day’s hard ride to Glevum where the governor and his retinue continued north along the road to Cornoviorum. As they reined in at the top of a gentle slope, Cato, Macro and Decimus surveyed the scene below them. The Fourteenth Legion had constructed a large fortress on low ground close to the River Severnus and, as was usual, a large civilian vicus had established itself a short distance from the outer ditch of the fortress, just beyond bowshot. Most of the buildings were constructed in the native style, round huts of wattle and daub with thatched roofs. A small opening at the apex of the thatch served to let the smoke escape from the hearth inside. Some of the structures were more substantial affairs, erected by traders from Gaul who had followed their customers when the legions had been transferred to the army that had invaded Britannia. The vicus was where the off-duty soldiers could indulge their appetites for drink and women and, if the legion remained in the location, some of the men would take women for wives and raise families. Such arrangements were unofficial as common soldiers were forbidden to enter formal marriages whilst serving, but it was a long-established custom, and the men were only human after all.

In addition to the fortress, there were two smaller forts for the auxiliary, cavalry and infantry units attached to the Fourteenth Legion, and the entirety had the appearance of a modest town in the making as it lay beneath a thin skein of woodsmoke. On the far side of the river the landscape was open and flat, and in the distance Cato could see the grey mass of the line of hills that marked the boundary of Silurian territory. Clouds hung over the hills, obscuring the heavily forested mountains that lay beyond.

‘Not the most cheery of prospects,’ Macro commented. ‘But at least we’re no longer skulking around doing dirty work for Narcissus.’

‘Given the situation, that’s a small mercy, I think you’ll find.’ Cato clicked his tongue and urged his horse down the broad, muddy track that led to the eastern gate of the fortress. The route passed by a few small farms where the natives were sowing seeds in strip fields for summer crops of barley and wheat. They were so used to soldiers passing by that hardly anyone paid attention to the three riders. Only a small child, a boy, squatting in the muddy soil beside his mother, stared up from beneath a fringe of dark hair and smiled suddenly at Macro. The spontaneity of the infant’s expression touched his heart.

‘Look, Cato. Not everyone seems to hate us.’ Macro smiled back and winked at the child.

Cato shook his head. ‘Give ’em time. That one will reach for his sword soon enough.’

‘Quite the little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?’

Cato didn’t reply but spurred his horse into a trot and with a reluctant sigh Macro and Decimus followed suit. The servant edged his pony towards Macro and muttered, ‘Excuse my asking, sir, but is the prefect often like this? You know, miserable?’

‘Oh no!’ Macro chuckled. ‘Only when he’s in a good mood.’

The child watched them for a moment longer before the smile disappeared and he turned his mind back to the simple straw figures clutched in his tiny fists. With a light growl he charged them towards each other and mashed them together.

As they made their way past the vicus, Macro gave it the once-over, a professional soldier’s assessment of the kinds of pleasures the makeshift settlement might provide, and made a mental note to pay a visit at the first opportunity. Two legionaries stood guard at the ramp leading across the ditch to the fortress gates. Cato had put on his armour that morning, after Decimus had given the breastplate a quick polish, and the gleaming metal and the red ribbon tied round his midriff indicated his rank and the sentries instantly snapped to attention. Behind them, the optio in command of the watch hastily called out the rest of the section who fell in either side of the gateway as Cato walked his horse across the ramp and returned the optio’s salute.

‘Is Legate Quintatus in camp?’

‘Yes, sir. Should be at headquarters.’ He hesitated briefly before he asked, ‘Your authorisation, sir?’

Cato reached into his saddlebag and brought out the small waxed slate bearing the governor’s seal and detailing his name, rank and purpose of travel. The optio examined it quickly before handing it back.

‘Very good, sir. You may pass.’

They rode under the gate and entered the fortress with its neatly ordered timber barracks stretching out either side of the broad avenue that led to the cluster of large buildings that formed the headquarters, senior officers’ accommodation and stores of the Fourteenth Legion. Off-duty soldiers sat outside their section rooms cleaning their armour or playing dice. Others were kitting up ready for the change of watch, or heading out on patrol. Some of the barracks were empty, their former occupants already detached from the legion to garrison the advance outposts. The light plink of hammers sounded from the armoury and a detail of men on fatigues headed towards the latrines carrying buckets, brushes and shovels. Macro smiled at the surroundings that were as familiar to him as any home.

‘Quintatus likes things nice and ordered.’

‘A spit and polish merchant,’ Decimus added sourly.

‘Which is half of what the army is all about. Can’t go out and kill barbarians in the name of Rome unless you look the part.’

The guards on duty at the gate passed them into the legion’s headquarters where Cato and Macro left Decimus with the horses and mules while they went to report to the legate. Despite the pending campaign there was a calm, efficient atmosphere to the place as clerks bent over their records and carried messages to and from the senior officers. Legate Quintatus was with the Fourteenth Legion’s quartermaster as his secretary announced their arrival.

‘A moment,’ Quintatus responded curtly from behind his desk and turned his attention back to the quartermaster, who stood stiffly before him. ‘The granary should have been inspected daily. That’s your responsibility. If you had done your duty then the rats would have been driven out before they ruined a thousand modii of grain. Now it needs making up.’