The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (21 page)

‘Really? And who will do that?’

Macro shook his head disbelievingly. ‘This is the fucking army. An order is given and the men jump to it.’

‘Oh, this is the army, all right. But in this fort it belongs to Quertus. Who do you think the Thracians will obey if there is a confrontation between your prefect and Quertus? And what goes for them goes for most of the surviving legionaries as well. None of them dares to step out of line. Not any more. You remember that cross we passed earlier? After the last prefect died, there were some officers and men in this cohort who refused to accept Quertus as their new commander. They confronted him in front of the whole garrison. He had his men arrest them for mutiny, and they were crucified and left to die, one by one. No one has dared to challenge him since then. Worse still, there is a reward promised to anyone who brings word of someone plotting mutiny. You can imagine how that might still any tongues.’ Severus drained his cup. ‘You should never have come here, Macro. But you weren’t to know. No one does outside of this valley, except those poor Silurian bastards.’

Macro was silent for a moment. ‘Why hasn’t anyone attempted to inform the legate what is going on at Bruccium?’

‘None of the legionaries is allowed to leave the fort, except as part of a Thracian patrol. When he took over, Quertus announced that anyone who tried to leave would be regarded as a deserter and executed.’

‘And has anyone attempted to reach Glevum?’

‘One of the optios. He got no further than five miles from the fort when one of the Thracian patrols ran him down.’

‘What happened?’ Macro asked quietly.

‘Quertus was as good as his word.’ The centurion reached for a strip of mutton and chewed on the end until he separated a chunk. As his jaw worked he looked across the table at Macro. ‘You rode past the optio when you reached the fort. His head is on one of those stakes and what’s left of his body is in the outer ditch.’

There was silence as Macro took it all in and then shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is madness. Complete madness. The legate must be told.’

Severus looked doubtful. ‘As long as we’re carrying out his orders to take the fight to the Silures, why would he worry? As far as Quintatus is concerned, everything is going to plan and there are no problems at Bruccium. Why else would he send you and Prefect Cato here? You can forget about any help from that quarter.’

‘Then we must act. Someone has to do something about it.’

‘You’re welcome to try, Macro. Just don’t involve me in it. I’ve given you fair warning of what has been going on here, for the sake of an old comrade. But that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

‘You won’t back me?’

Severus sat still for a moment and shrugged helplessly. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Not now, at least. I’m hoping that Caratacus will throw in the towel. That’s the only way I’m getting out of here alive. If Caratacus defeats Ostorius and forces the Romans out of the lands of the Ordovices and Silures, then he’ll turn his attention on us. Given what Quertus has done to the tribes around Bruccium you can be sure there will be little pity in the heart of Caratacus when he deals with any survivors of the garrison.’

Macro sat back and took a deep breath. He could never have imagined a situation like this. His next thought was for Cato and he felt his heart leap in panic. He had left Cato alone with Quertus. He made to rise and knocked the edge of the table. Severus had to thrust out a hand to steady the jug.

‘Oi! Careful, Macro. That’s my bloody wine!’

‘Sod your wine,’ Macro growled. ‘The prefect’s in danger!’

‘No . . . No, he’s not. For the moment. Think it through, Macro. Sit down and think about it.’

He waved at the stool Macro had been sitting on and the latter hesitated a moment before he allowed himself to resume his place. ‘Go on.’

‘At first Quertus will try to win the new prefect over. If he can do that, then he will avoid any conflict, and be free to continue as before. His men follow him because he took command of the garrison by the book when Albinus was killed. If he tries to murder Cato, or seize his position, then it will divide the men. That’s not to say that he won’t try to stage an accident. Particularly if the new prefect tries to wrest control of the garrison from Quertus’s hands. As long as Cato’s back is covered he will be safe. But he’s going to have to be very careful about how he deals with Quertus and his Thracians. The same applies to you, my old friend.’

Before Macro could respond, the door opened revealing a dark shadow in the street. The two centurions started uneasily and there was a dry chuckle before the figure stepped into the warm glow of the fire. Macro recognised one of the officers from the Thracian cohort.

‘Very cosy in here. And a small banquet besides!’

Severus swallowed nervously. ‘Stellanus . . . What do you want?’

Stellanus laughed humourlessly. ‘Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’

He shut the door behind him, crossed the room and pulled up a stool. ‘No spare cup? Then I’ll have to make do.’ He grasped the jug and swung it into the air so that the spout was over his bearded lips and then poured a stream of the scarlet liquid into his mouth, swallowing greedily until he set the jug down heavily and smacked his lips. ‘A nice drop, that!’

Severus glared back. ‘Like I said, what do you want?’

‘Just came to find the new commander of the Fourth Cohort.’ He stuck out his hand towards Macro. ‘Centurion Marcus Stellanus, seconded to the Second Thracian Cavalry. Greetings. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier, at headquarters. Thought I’d come and track you down.’

‘So you have,’ Macro replied evenly, ignoring the outstretched hand. ‘Though I have to say, you make an unlikely centurion.’

Stellanus grinned through his beard. ‘This get-up? It’s Quertus’s idea. Makes us all look wild and terrifying. Grrrrrr!’ He made a face and laughed.

Macro did not blink. ‘Yes, I can imagine that might put the shits up some small kid on a dark night. But to me you look like a latrine brush.’

Stellanus frowned. ‘Sorry?’

Macro smiled. ‘The kind of thing I’d wipe my arse on.’

Stellanus’s brow creased and he fixed Macro with a glare, and then suddenly he grinned once again. ‘Ah, you’re a hard case. Let’s face it. Any man in the legions who lives long enough to command a cohort of his own has to be a hard case. You and I are cut from the same cloth, Macro. I was the commander of the Fourth before I volunteered to serve Quertus.’

‘So I understand.’ Macro casually reached over and took a fold of the other man’s dark cloak between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed it gently. ‘Somehow I doubt that we are cut from the same cloth. I wear the uniform of a Roman officer, not the rags of some barbarian dog.’

Stellanus pulled his cloak free and eased himself back out of reach. ‘There’s no call for that attitude, my friend. I just called in to welcome you to Bruccium. We need good men, now more than ever. Quertus says that the enemy is close to breaking point. Another month or two and they’ll be finished. So I welcome your arrival, and the prefect, and the column of replacements that are due to arrive. Fresh blood. Just what we need to teach those Silurian cunts a lesson.’

‘Sounds like they’ve been taught quite a few lessons already. Same goes for the men in the fort.’

Stellanus glanced at Severus who quickly looked down at his wine and kept his mouth shut. ‘It seems that someone has been telling you stories, Centurion Macro. The truth is that we do things a little differently around here. Some have difficulty in accepting that and they’d be wise to keep their opinions to themselves. However, once you see things for yourself and understand, then I am sure you’ll give Quertus your full support, like most of the rest of us. If not, then at least you’ll not put any obstacles in his way. That’s my advice.’

Macro forced himself to smile faintly. ‘For which I thank you, Stellanus. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired. I need to retire to my quarters, unpack and settle for the night. I want to be fresh for the inspection tomorrow, when the new prefect introduces himself to the garrison as their new commander.’

‘Ah yes . . . Prefect Cato, commander of the fort at Bruccium. Fine titles indeed. But there’s more to a title than mere words, Macro. Let that be the first lesson of your new appointment, if you know what’s good for you. How well do you ride?’

The abrupt change in subject caught Macro by surprise. ‘As well as any legionary needs to,’ he replied awkwardly.

‘That’s good enough. Quertus could do with another good officer for the Thracian cohort.’

‘Then thank him for the offer. But for now I am in command of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.’

Stellanus smiled coldly. ‘For now . . .’

‘I intend to make the Fourth into the best cohort in the legion. Do me a favour, Stellanus. Tell the Romans that have joined Quertus that there is still a place for them here. At least until the replacement column arrives. After that, I’ll be sending a report back to Glevum to the effect that any legionary serving with the Thracians has surrendered the privileges, pay and bonuses that go with service in the legions. You might want to consider that offer for yourself.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No?’ Macro stood up. ‘A pity. I was sure there was a decent Roman hiding under all that spectacular growth of stinking hair. Seems I was wrong. I bid you goodnight . . . Thracian.’

Stellanus’s eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brow but he said nothing as Macro left the mess. Outside he drew a deep breath and strode towards the barracks at the end of the street. When he had landed in Britannia he had been excited by the prospect of returning to his career in the legions. It had felt like coming home, he mused. All the once familiar sights, sounds, smells and routine of life in the service of Rome. Now that he was here in Bruccium, that dream taunted him cruelly. Instead he found himself in the darkest of nightmares where death was a constant shadow mere inches from his back.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was a storm during the night and rain slashed down on to the wood shingle tiles and gushed in torrents down the narrow streets between the barrack blocks. But it eased and then stopped just before dawn and the sun rose into a sky that was a patchwork of blue and scattered cloud. The garrison marched out on to the levelled ground below the fort and formed up in front of the mound of earth that served as the commander’s review stand. The ground was sodden and the boots and hoofs of the men and the cavalry mounts quickly turned the track leading from the gate into a quagmire. A handful of the stakes burdened by the heads had collapsed in to the mud and Quertus had set a small party to work putting them back up more securely.

Cato and Macro left the fort before Severus and the first century of legionaries marched out and made their way to the stand to watch proceedings closely. The legionaries, as was their privilege, formed up in their centuries, four ranks deep, at the centre of the parade ground. Even though he knew how few effectives remained in his new command, Macro felt a bitter disappointment as he looked out over the surviving pair of centuries. Their number made a mockery of the colour party where the six standards joined the cohort standard-bearer and the men carrying the curved brass horns over their shoulders.

By contrast, the Thracian cohort appeared to be at full strength and fielded ten squadrons of riders, forming five on each flank of the legionaries. The unit’s standard-bearer advanced his mount to the right of the line and unfurled a red banner with a black crow clutching a small skull in its claws. Cato’s force looked woefully unbalanced as it stood, formed up, in silence. The last man to reach the parade ground was Centurion Quertus. He rode down the length of the formation, sitting erect in his saddle and surveying them with a haughty air of ownership. Then he turned his horse and walked it slowly over to the review stand where he casually dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly before climbing the ramp.

‘Good of you to join us,’ said Macro as he stepped forward to the right of Cato.

The Thracian said nothing but took up his position on the prefect’s left and stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. A light breeze was blowing and it stirred the manes of the horses, the dark cloaks of the Thracians, the banner of the Blood Crows and the crests of the officers’ helmets.

Cato took out the leather tube and extracted the document authorising him to take command. After the conversation he had had with Quertus the previous night, and another with Macro before dawn, he felt anxious. If the Thracian centurion chose this moment to challenge him, in front of the men he had ruled for months with a rod of iron, then Cato had no illusions about his fate. If he was lucky he would be arrested and locked in the safe room below the headquarters. Accordingly he had decided to play it cautiously, until he had had a chance to establish himself at the fort; he would bide his time until he discovered Quertus’s weak point.

Cato unrolled the document and began to read.

‘I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Germanicus, first citizen, chief priest, father of the nation, do hereby proclaim that Quintus Licinius Cato has been appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry Cohort. The said Quintus Licinius Cato is entrusted to uphold the honour of the cohort, obey the officers placed over him, and swear to devote his life to the Emperor and the Senate and people of Rome.’ Cato paused to add emphasis to what followed. ‘This appointment is by imperial decree, and the officers and men over whom Quintus Licinius Cato has been placed in command are reminded that they are bound by the oath that they took on enlistment to obey those placed in authority over them as they would their Emperor, without question, upon pain of the full rigour of military law. By my hand I affirm this.’

Cato turned the document round and held it aloft so that all could see the imperial seal at the bottom. He waited a moment before lowering the authority, rolling it up again and placing it back in the leather tube. Then he surveyed the men before him for a moment before he began his address.

‘You know my name. You know my rank. And you may know that I have come from Rome to take up this command. But that is all you know. Some of you will have served under a number of different commanders. Most of them will have been the sons of wealthy and well-connected noble families in Rome. Some of your commanders may have worked their way up the ranks. I come from the second tradition. I joined the Second Legion while it was stationed on the Rhine. That is where I fought my first battle, against German tribesmen. After that, the legion joined the army being formed to invade Britannia. I was there at the landing, and at every battle before Caratacus was defeated before his capital at Camulodunum. Since then I have fought the Durotriges, the Druids of the Dark Moon and many other enemies of Rome.

‘So, gentlemen, you see before you a soldier who has earned the right to be your prefect and commander of the garrison at Bruccium. I am no pampered aristocrat. I have experienced the freezing cold of sentry duty on a winter’s night, as you have. I have felt the lash of a centurion’s vine cane, as you have. I know what it is to march day after day in full armour loaded down with my kit and rations, and then to have to build a fort each evening. I know what to expect from the men under my command, because I have been in your boots, I have lived and fought as you have and carry the scars to prove it.’ He was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘I expect the highest standards from the men I command and I will be satisfied with nothing less. The campaign against the Silures and the Ordovices has been bitterly fought over the last three years. Many thousands of our comrades have already given their lives to the struggle, but their sacrifice has not been in vain. Governor Ostorius has gathered a powerful army which will strike the decisive blow against the enemy before this year is out. We here today will play our part in that great struggle. We will play our part in that victory. We will win our share of the glory, the spoils and add garlands and medals to our battle standards!’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Honour to the Second Thracian! Honour to the Fourteenth Legion!’

Macro echoed his cry, as did the legionaries standing on the parade ground, but the dark figures sitting in their saddles remained still and silent.

When the thin cheers of the legionaries had died away, Quertus stirred himself and drew his long-bladed cavalry sword and raised it directly towards the heavens, and his voice bellowed out over the parade ground.

‘Honour to the Blood Crows!’

At once, all the riders punched their spears up, a wavering forest of gleaming points, and their cry rang in the ears of the three officers on the reviewing platform. Quertus repeated the cry over and over again, his men responding with frenzied roars. Macro glanced at Cato and saw the firm set of his jaw and the bitter look of resentment in his expression. They exchanged a quick look and Macro felt a stab of concern for his friend.

At length Quertus lowered his sword and sheathed the weapon, and at once his men fell eerily silent. As the Thracian resumed his place at the prefect’s side, Cato swallowed, stepped forward and turned to face the other officers.

‘That all but concludes the formalities, gentlemen. There only remains one final matter before I inspect the men.’ Cato paused, knowing that what he was about to say would come as a shock to Macro, but it was a necessary step in the present circumstances. The cheering of the Thracians a moment earlier simply confirmed his decision. He cleared his throat. ‘I have decided to appoint you as my second-in-command, Centurion Quertus. You have the ear of the men and know them well. Do you accept?’

He stared at Quertus, until at length the Thracian’s lips curled in a slight smile and he said, ‘I accept, sir.’

‘Good. I trust you will carry out your responsibilities in an efficient, and obedient, manner.’

‘Of course. You can rest assured that I will give you the benefit of my experience and advice, for as long as you command the garrison, sir.’

‘I thank you. Now, I’d like to inspect the men. Have the Thracians dismount and form two lines.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus offered a salute and then turned away to descend the platform and stride across to his men, bellowing orders.

Cato stared after him, acutely aware of the silent presence of Macro at his shoulder.

‘I imagine that you are wondering about my decision.’

‘Not my place to, sir,’ Macro replied curtly. ‘You are the commander of the garrison. You give the orders.’

Cato nodded to himself and felt a surge of irritation at the impulse to explain himself to Macro. His promotion to the rank of prefect after two years of temporary commands had made him superior in authority to his friend. He would have to be sparing with his moments of friendship and especially in seeking advice from the only man he had ever considered a close friend. Cato felt a brief sense of loss as he thought of the years in which he had shared the same rank as Macro. That sense of equality was lost to him now. Lost to both of them, he realised, understanding that Macro would rue its passing at least as much as himself. It was tempting to indulge himself in a moment of loneliness but Cato grimly suppressed his emotions, cursing himself for being weak enough to let them divert him from the obligations and dangers of the present. It had been a hard thing to do to choose Quertus as his second-in-command. He had considered confronting the man, removing him from his command and putting an end to his intolerable challenge to the discipline of the army. But if he tried to face Quertus down now, there was every chance that most of the men in the garrison would back the Thracian. If that happened, he and Macro would be in grave danger. Until the reinforcements arrived, Cato knew that he had to let Quertus think that he could exercise control over his new prefect. Once Cato had enough men at his back who owed no allegiance to the Thracian, then he could put Quertus back in his place.

‘The men are ready for inspection, sir,’ Macro prompted.

‘Very well.’ Cato drew himself up and marched down towards the lines of waiting men. Quertus stood with the colour party of his cohort, beneath the black crow on his standard. He waited until the prefect had passed by before falling into step beside Macro as they followed the garrison commander along the front line of soldiers. Cato’s experienced eyes took in every detail of the men before him. The troopers of the Thracian cohort would have broken the heart of any legionary centurion responsible for drilling these men. The black cloaks that they wore were spattered with mud and streaked with grime and no attempt had been made to repair any fraying edges or small tears. Their hair was wild and unkempt and most of them sported tattoos on their faces. Although Cato had seen some of these men the day before, the impact of viewing an entire cohort was unnerving from a professional point of view. He had been in the army long enough to have certain expectations about the appearance of soldiers, as well as their performance, and to recognise the link between the two. But the barbaric sight that the cohort presented was itself unnerving, and he could well understand the effect this might have on an enemy who had grown used to the spit and polish of the Roman army. Quertus and his men appearing out of the mists that wreathed the mountainous landscape would strike terror into the hearts of their victims.

He stopped in front of a tall, gaunt man. ‘Show me your sword.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man leaned his spear against his shoulder and drew the long blade from its scabbard. The spatha came out freely and the man flashed it up to the vertical for Cato to see it clearly. The metal gleamed and there was no sign of the pitting and specks of rust of a poorly maintained weapon. Cato raised his hand and tested the edge with his fingers and found it to be well honed and as sharp as could be expected. He nodded.

‘That’s fine. Now open your cloak.’

The trooper did as he was ordered and Cato saw that the iron rings of his body armour gleamed dully from a fresh application of sand and hard rubbing with a leather cloth. Despite the wild appearance of his men, Quertus clearly insisted that their weapons and armour were well looked after. He ordered the man to sheath his sword and examined a random handful of others and noted with approval that they took good care of their kit. Then he turned his attention to their mounts. The horses were large and powerfully built, typical of the stocks bred for the army in Gaul and Hispania. They had shed most of their winter coats, but the flanks of the horses had not been groomed so as to leave them matted with mud which obscured the identifying brands on their rumps. But it was in keeping with the savage look of the cohort. Even so, the saddles and tackle were well maintained and the horses appeared well fed and alert.

Cato turned to Quertus. ‘They have been worked up to hard condition, I take it.’

‘Yes, sir. I had ’em exercised and drilled from the end of winter. They’re good and ready for battle. They’ve already had a fresh taste of it earlier this month.’

‘I see. That’s good. The men and mounts are in good shape, Centurion, despite their appearance. That may be a matter that requires attending to in due course.’

‘What does it matter what they look like, as long as they kill the enemy . . . sir?’

Cato raised his voice so that the surrounding men would hear him clearly. ‘It matters because I say so.’

Quertus frowned briefly. ‘Very well, sir.’

Cato was conscious of the need not to push his authority too quickly and turned to Macro. ‘And now the legionaries of your cohort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.

They paced past the gap between the two units and were joined by Centurion Severus as they began their inspection of the legionaries. Cato saw that the majority of them had drawn features and he sensed their wariness as he passed slowly along each rank. In contrast to the Thracians they were neatly turned out and their helmets were polished, shields well maintained and their weapons every bit as lethal as those of their mounted comrades. But they failed to conceal their nervousness.