The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (25 page)

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 move 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 that 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.

‘Too right,’ Macro responded. ‘And I thought working for that slimy rat Narcissus was dangerous. The gods will have their fun with us.’

‘I wonder who is laughing. Macro, I’m serious. We’re in grave danger as long as Quertus remains here in the fort and challenges my authority. If we’re going to deal with him, we must do it one step at a time. Right now, we bide our time until the reinforcements turn up. Once they’re here, we can get things back to where they should be. Quertus will have little choice but to accept it.’

‘And what? We let bygones be bygones? Sir, he tried to kill you.’

‘What proof is there of that? Without proof what can I do?’

Macro opened his mouth to protest, then frowned, and shook his head. ‘Bollocks. Due legal process again, I take it.’

Cato nodded. ‘As things stand I cannot bring charges against Quertus. Not for the attempt on my life, nor for the murder of the previous prefect. Besides, there’s more to this than dealing with Quertus. You remember I mentioned that being here might have something to do with Pallas? That he might have wanted to send us someplace where there was a good chance we might be killed?’

Macro waved his spoon around. ‘You really think such a place is hard to find in this corner of the empire?’

‘We’re not in the empire. We’re well over the frontier of the province. Far enough from any help if we get into trouble. And we
are
in trouble. If we try and take a short cut in dealing with Quertus, you can be sure that Pallas’s man here in Britannia will have us charged with the crime. You don’t just get away with murdering a senior centurion, or bringing disciplinary charges against him without adequate evidence. Anything like that is likely to rebound on us. Especially if someone is looking for any excuse to drop us in the shit. Like I said, we have to be extremely careful. If it’s to be done, Quertus must be disposed of in a way that can be justified. You understand, Macro?’

The centurion sighed heavily. ‘This ain’t on, Cato. I thought we’d left all this sort of thing behind us. I thought we were going back to the legions to do some proper soldiering and leaving all the skulduggery to those with a taste for it.’ He shook his head, then took another, joyless, spoon of stew before muttering, ‘It ain’t on, I’m telling you.’

Cato could not help a wry smile. ‘Come now, did you ever think it would really be so simple?’

Decimus opened the door to the officers’ mess and peered round before he crossed the threshold. There was no one there due to the late hour and a fire was burning low in the hearth, providing a warm glow that lit up the modest room. He breathed a sigh of relief that he would not have to be in the same room as any of the officers of the Thracian cohort. He quickly shut the door behind him and crossed to the doorway leading through to the storeroom where the officers’ food was stored. General items were shelved on one side, with named shelves for each officer’s private stores opposite. Not that there was much left on any of the shelves, Decimus tutted to himself. There had been little of worth taken from the village, just a few roundels of goat’s cheese, some jugs of their sweet ale and the hard flat loaves of bread that tasted as unappetising as they looked. Decimus picked up two from the common stores and marked the wax slate hanging from a thong by the door. He heard the door open and close a moment later and swallowed anxiously as he emerged from the storeroom and saw the looming bulk of Centurion Quertus standing in front of the door. The glow from the fire cast a gently wavering shadow behind him and lit his dark features with a ruddy glow so that he looked even larger than he did in daylight. His eyes fixed on the prefect’s servant but he said nothing.

Decimus approached hesitantly and nodded towards the door. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir.’

‘Not yet.’ Quertus spoke in a rumbling undertone. ‘I’m hungry. Fetch me some cheese and bread. And a jug of beer.’

‘Sir, I was just taking these to headquarters.’

‘Later.’

‘The prefect and Centurion Macro are expecting me to return as soon as I can, sir.’

‘Once I’ve finished with you, you can go. Now, build the fire up and then get me my food.’

Decimus hesitated a moment. The Thracian scowled and the servant hurriedly turned about and set the loaves down on a table. He went over to the fire and took some logs from the pile in the corner and stacked them over the embers in tiers before picking up the fan and carefully stirring up some flames until they consumed the lowest logs. All the while he felt the presence of the Thracian officer who had sat down on the nearest bench and watched him work in silence.

‘That’ll do,’ said Quertus. ‘Now the food.’

Decimus scrambled up and made for the foodstore where he heaped a wooden platter with the requested items and returned to serve them to the centurion. ‘There you are, sir. Now if there’s nothing more . . .’

‘There is something else.’ Quertus tore off a corner of his bread and chewed steadily until his mouth was empty enough to speak. ‘Your name is Decimus, isn’t it?’

Decimus nodded, not happy that the Thracian officer knew even that much about him.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘N-no, sir.’

‘That’s better. Well then, Decimus, perhaps you can help me.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Are you happy serving the prefect?’

Decimus chewed his lip. ‘Happy, sir? I hadn’t given it any thought.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that you have. I would find it hard to believe that you would be happy in a place as far flung and wild as Bruccium. You have the look of a former soldier about you. The limp suggests you were discharged unfit. Am I right?’

Decimus nodded, then as the Thracian officer’s brow knitted he quickly spoke up. ‘Yes, sir. I served in the Second Legion. Before I met the prefect I was in Londinium working the wharves.’

‘And you gave up the comforts of Londinium to come here?’

‘The prefect offered to pay me well to serve him, sir. It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘But not so good now, I’ll bet.’ Quertus smiled thinly. ‘I imagine that you are thinking that no amount of silver is worth being in a place like this.’