'A good haul! A small fortune for the cohort from the proceeds of selling the prisoners, and a clap on the back from the legate for capturing these beauties. One of the lowest butcher's bills I've ever had after a fight. And now a fine clear morning for marching back to the legion. We're lucky men, Optio!'
'Yes, sir. How many did we lose in the end?'
'Five dead, twelve wounded and a few scratches.'
'The gods were kind, sir.'
'Kinder to some than others,' Diomedes added quietly.
'Well, yes, that's true.' Hortensius nodded. 'Still, we've got the buggers now. That'll be an end to their games.'
'No, it won't, Centurion. There are plenty more Druids and Durotrigan warriors hovering on our borders, waiting to continue the "game". Many more of these people are going to die before you Romans finally wipe out the Druids.'
Hortensius ignored the slight. The legions would only begin campaigning when it was prudent to do so. No amount of enemy provocation or appeals to Rome to honour the integrity of their alliance with the Atrebates would change that. But when the time came to take the sword to the Durotriges and their Druid leaders, there would be no mercy as the iron-shod legions rolled forward the new frontier of the empire. Hortensius smiled sympathetically at the Greek and laid a finn hand on his shoUlder.
'Diomedes, you'll have your reveng6, in time.'
'I could have my revenge now…' Diomedes nodded his head towards the Druids, and Cato saw the murderous darkness in the Greek's expression. If the cohort's commander allowed him to have his way, Diomedes would be sure that his revenge was as protracted and painful as possible. For a moment the memory of what he had seen in the well made Cato incline to support the man's thirst for bloody vengeance, but then he recoiled from the prospect with disgust. A fearful awakening of self-knowledge caused him to shudder at this will to violence he had discovered in himself.
Hortensius shook his head. 'Not possible, Diomedes.
We're taking them back to the legate for questioning.'
'They won't talk. Believe me, Centurion, you'll learn nothing from them.'
'Maybe.' Hortensius shrugged. 'Maybe not. We've got some lads at headquarters trained in the art of loosening tongues.'
'They won't achieve anything.'
'Don't be so sure.'
'I'm telling you, they won't. Better to make an example of the Druids here and now. K j, "11 them, mutilate them as they have mutilated others. Then we can leave their heads on stakes as a warning to their followers of what they can expect.'
'Nice idea,' Hortensius agreed. 'It might discourage their mates, but we can't do it. I've got orders concerning these lads. All Druids who fall into our hands are to be taken back for questioning. The legate needs 'em in good condition if he's thinking of trading them for that Roman family the Druids have got. Sorry, but there it is.'
Diomedes moved closer tO the centurion. Hortensius raised his eyebrows in surprise:but did not flinch or recoil at the fierce expression on the face now inches from his own.
'Let me kill them,' Diomedes said quietly through clenched teeth. 'I can't bear to live while those monsters still draw breath. They must die, Centurion. I must do it.'
'No. Now be a good fellow and calm down.'
Cato watched as Diomedes glared into the centurion's face, lips trembling as he tried to control his rage and frustration. Hortensius, by contrast, calmly returned the look with no hint of any emotion in his expression.
'I hope you won't live to regret your decision, Centurion.'
'I'm sure I won't.'
Diomedes's lips shifted into a thin smile. 'An ambiguous choice of words. Let's hope the gods are not tempted by your carelessness.'
'The gods will do as they please.' Centurion Hortensius shrugged, then turned to Cato. 'Get back to your century.
Tell Macro to get his men ready to march as soon as possible.'
'After breakfast, sir?'
Hortensius stabbed a finger into Cato's chest. 'Did I say anything about fucking breakfast? Well, did I?'
'No, sir.'
'Right. Never interrupt an officer before he's finished giving orders,' Hortensius spoke in the low menacing tones of a drill instructor, and continued to stab his finger to emphasise his point. 'Do it again and I'll have your fucking balls for paperweights. Got that?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Now then, I want the cohort formed up outside the gate as soon as the sun has fully risen.'
'Yes, sir!' Cato saluted, turned and trotted away. He glanced back once, and saw Hortensius having one last quiet word with Diomedes.
'There you are, Optio!' Figulus grinned as he stood up. By his feet a thin trail of smoke curled gently into the chill morning air. 'Fire's going nicely. Weren't easy though.'
'Leave it,' Cato snapped. 'We're on the move.'
'But what about breakfast?'
For an instant Cato was sorely tempted to subject Figulus to the same roasting he had just had from Hortensius. But that would have been churlish, and against the odds the legionary had managed to gdt a fire started.
'Sorry, Figulus. No breakfast. Put the fire out and get ready to move.'
'Put the fire out?' Figulus's expression took on the kind of pained expression usually.associated with the death of a cherished family pet. 'Put out my fire?'
Cato sighed, and then quickly used the side of his boot to scrape a small mound of snow over the heap of smouldering twigs. With a spit of steam and a hiss the tiny lick of flame was extinguished.
'There. Now get moving, soldier.'
Macro had only just awakened when Cato returned to the Sixth Century's billet. He nodded in response to the orders, and then stretched his shoulders with a deep growl before he turned to bellow at his men.
'Up, you idle bastards! Oh your feet! We're moving out!'
A low chorus of groans and complaints rippled round the ruins.
'What about breakfast?' someone piped up.
'Breakfast? Breakfast is for losers,' Macro replied irritably. 'Now move!'
As the men raised themselves and wearily pulled on their armour, Macro stamped around delivering encouraging kicks to those whose lack of haste was most obvious. Cato hurried back to his marching yoke. Once his mess tin and the rest of the field equipment was securely fastened to the yoke, Cato struggled into his chain mail vest and was fastening his sword belt when a man from one of the other centuries came running up.
'Where's Macro?' the man panted.
'Centurion Macro is over there.' Cato pointed over the remains of a wall and the runner began to move.
'Wait!' Cato shouted. He was angry at the way some of the men of the other centuries were inclined to let their resentment of his youth override the respect due to his rank.
The man paused, then reluctantly turned round to face the optio and came to attention.
'That's better.' Cato nodded. 'You address me as Optio, or sir, next time you speak to me. Understand?'
'Yes, Optio.'
'Very well. You can carry on.'
The man disappeared round the end of the wall and Cato continued to put on his equipment. Moments later the runner reappeared, heading back towards the gate, and then came Macro, looking for his subordinate.
'What's the matter, sir?'
'It's that bloody fool Diomedes. He's done a runner.'
Cato smiled at the apparent foolishness of the statement.
Where would the Greek run to? More importantly, why would he flee the safety of the cohort? 'That's not all,' Macro continued with a grim expression.
'He knocked out one of the lads guarding the Druids, and then gutted them before he disappeared.'
Chapter Fourteen
'Hmmm. Not a pretty sight,' Centurion Hortensius muttered.
'Diomedes made a pretty thorough job of it.'
The robes of the Druids had been wrenched aside and each man savagely slashed from groin to ribcage. A tangle of glistening guts and viscera lay in a pool of blood by each man. With a
convulsive heave, vomit rose up in Cato's throat and he choked on the bitter taste of it.
He turned away as Hortensius began to brief the other centurions.
'There's no sign of the Greek. Shame, that.' Hortensius's brow creased in anger. 'I'm looking forward to kicking seven shades out of him. No one kills my prisoners unless they've bought them off me first.'
The other officers grumbled their agreement. Prisoners who were to be sold as slaves were won at great personal risk, and were too infrequently come by to be wasted in such a profligate manner, even when vengeance was an issue. If Diomedes reappeared, Hortensius would be sure to insist on compensation.
He raised a hand to still the angry undertone. 'We're heading back to the legion with the other prisoners..There's too many of them to Send back under guard – the cohort would be too weak. And without the Greek to speak for us, I doubt we'd get much of a welcome from the other Atrebate villages we're supposed to visit. So we go straight back.'
It was a breach of orders, but the situation merited it and Macro nodded with approval.
'Now then,' continued Hortensius. 'A few of those bastards and their mounts managed to slip away and you can be sure that they'll be running back to their little mates as quick as boiled asparagus. The nearest Durotrigan hill fort is a good day's ride awiy. If they're going to mobilise a force to come after us, we 'shouldn't be seeing them for at least another day. Let's make'the most of it. Drive your men hard – we've got to put as.much distance between this place and ourselves as possible before tonight. Any questions?'
'What about the bodies sir?'
'What about 'em, Macro?'
'Are we just going to leave them?'
'The Durotriges can look. after their own. I've made arrangements for our dead and the locals. The cavalry squadron has orders to place our men in the well with the locals and fill it in before they.set offafter us. That's the best we can do. There's no time for any funeral pyres. Besides, I believe the local preference is for burial.'
The Romans shuddered with distaste at the thought of subjecting the dead to gradual decay. It was one of the more disgusting practices employed by the less civilised nations of the world. Cremation was a neat and tidy end to corporeal existence.
'Back to your units. We leave at once.'
The sun inscribed a shallow parabola across a clear sky on the second day of the cohort's march back to the Second Legion. The previous night had been spent in a hastily erected marching camp and despite the exhausting effort of breaking up the frozen ground to make the ditch and inner rampart, the cold and fear of the enemy denied sleep to the men of the cohort. From first light Hortensius permitted no rest stops and watched the men like a hawk, swooping to bawl out any legionary who showed signs of slackening his pace, and freely wielding his vine cane if further encouragement was required. Even though the air was cold, and the snow compacted to ice underfoot, the men soon broke into a sweat under the burden of their equipment yokes. The British prisoners, though chained, were unburdened and had the best of it. One, who was wounded in the legs, had dropped out of the column towards the end of the first day. Hortensius stood over him and laid into the Briton with his vine stick, but the man just curled up in a protective ball and would not get up. Hortensius nodded grimly, stuck his vine into the ground and in one sweeping movement drew his sword and cut the Briton's throat. The body was left by the track as the column moved on. No more prisoners had fallen out of line since then.
Without any rest periods to relieve the pressure of the hard yoke poles on the men's shoulders, the march was an agony. The men in the ranks grumbled about their officers in increasingly bitter undertones as they forced themselve to place one foot in front of the other. Not many had slept since the night before the attack on the Durotriges. By early afternoon on the second day, as the sun began to dip towards the smudgy grey of the winter horizon, Cato wondered how much longer he could bear the strain. His collarbone was being rubbed raw under its burden, his eyes were stinging with weariness and every pace sent shooting pains up from the soles of his feet.
Looking round at the rest of the century, Cato could see the same strained expressions etched on every face. Even when Centurion HortensiuS called a halt to the march at the end of the afternoon, the men would have to begin the backbreaking work of preparing a marching camp. The prospect of having to tackle the frozen soil with his pickaxe filled Cato with dread. As so often before, he cursed himself for being in the army and his imagination dwelt on the relative comforts of the life he had previously enjoyed as a slave in the imperial palace in Rome.
Just as he surrendered to the need to shut his eyes and savour the image of a neat little desk close by the warm, flickering glow of a brazier, Cato was snapped back to reality by a sudden cry. Figulus had. stumbled and fallen and was scrabbling to retrieve his scattered equipment. Gratefully dropping out of the column, Cato dumped his pack and helped Figulus back onto his feet.
'Pick up your stuff and get back in line.'
Figulus nodded and reached for his yoke.
'Sweet mother! What the fuck is going on here?'
Hortensius bawled as he raced down the column towards the two men. 'You ladies are not being paid by the fucking hour! Optio, is he one of yours?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Then why aren't you giving him a Moody kicking?'
' Sir?' Cato Mushed. 'A kickingT' He looked up the column towards Macro, in the hope of support from his centurion.
But Macro was veteran enough to know when not to intervene in a confrontation and did not even glance back.
'Deaf as well as dumb?' Hortensius roared into his face.
'Only dead soldiers are allowed to fall out of line in my cohort, understand? Any other bastard who gives it a try will fucking wish he was dead! Get it?'
'Yes, sir.'
To one side, Figulus quickly continued hooking his equipment to the yoke. The senior centurion spun round.
'Did I say you could move?'
Figulus shook his head and the senior centurion's vine cane instantly lashed out and smashed onto the side of the legionary's helmet with a sharp clang. 'Can't hear you!
You've got a bloody mouth. Use it!'
'Yes, sir,' Figulus snapped back, clenching his teeth against the ringing pain in his head. He dropped his equipment and stood to attention. 'No, sir. You did not say I could move.'
'Right! Now pick up your shield and javelin. Leave the rest. Next time you'll think twice about dropping your equipment.'
Figulus burned with the injustice of the order. It would cost him several months' pay to replace the equipment. 'But, sir. I was tired, I couldn't help it.'
'Couldn't help it!' Hortensius shouted. 'Couldn't help it?
YOU CAN FUCKING HELP IT! One more word out of you and I'll cut your hamstrings and leave you here for the Druids. Now get back in line!'
Figulus snatched up his fighting equipment, and with a pained glance at his yoke and his scattered belongings, ran back towards the gap in the Sixth Century where he had been marching. Hortensius turned his wrath back onto Cato.
He leaned closer, speaking in a menacing whisper.
'optio, if I have to step tn and discipline your men for you aga.in I swear it'll be you I beat senseless and leave for the enemy. How do you think it looks to the other men if you bloody go and act like his nursemaid? Before you know it, they'll all be dropping lik flies and whining that they're too tired. You've got to make 'em too terrified to even think of resting. Do that and yotr can save their lives. But if you piss around like I just saw you do, every straggler the enemy slaughters will be down to you Got it?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I fucking hope so, sunshine. Because if there's one thing-'
'Enemy in sightl' a distant voice called out, and from beyond the head of the cohort ne of the horsemen from the cavalry squadron was galloping down the line, looking for Hortensius. The beast slewed to a halt in front of the centurion. To the side, on the track, the men of the cohor
t continued to march past as no order to halt had been given, but the horseman's cry had raised every head and the men looked around for sign of the enemy.
'Where?'
'Ahead, across the track, sir.' The cavalry scout pointed up the track to where it curved round a low forested hill.
The rest of the squadron, tiny dark figures set against the snowy landscape, were forming up in a line at the point where the track began to bend round the hill.
'How many?'
'Hundreds, sir. And they've got chariots and some heavy infantry.'
'I see.' Hortensius nodded, and bellowed the order to halt the cohort. He turned back towards the scout. 'Tell your decurion to keep them under observation. Let me know the moment they make a move.'
The scout saluted, wheeled.his horse round and pounded back towards the distant figures of the squadron, hooves spraying snow into the faces of the infantry as he passed.
Hortensius cupped his hands. 'Officers! To me!'
'Not much light left,' Cato muttered, gazing anxiously at the sky.
Macro nodded but kept his eyes oH the thick line of enemy warriors barring the track ahead where it passed through a narrow vale. Unusually for the Britons, these men stood still and silent, heavy infantry drawn up in the centre, light infantry to each side and a small force of chariots on each flank. Well over a thousand men, he estimated. Set against the four hundred and fifty effectives of the Fourth Cohort the odds did not look good. The cavalry squadron was no.longer with them; Hortensius had ordered them to slip round the enemy and make best speed to the legion's headquarters and beg the legate to send out a relief column. The legion was nearly twenty miles distant but the scouts should reach them during the night, if all went well.
The cohort had another problem as it stood to in a hollow box astride the track. In the centre, tinged by half a century of nervous legionaries, squatted the prisoners taken at the settlement. They were excited, and craned their necks for sight of their comrades, whispering urgently to one another until a harsh shout and a brutal blow of a shield stilled their tongues. But it was like damming an irresistible current and as soon as one section was.silenced, the whispering flowed elsewhere. ,: 'Optio!' Hortensius shouted to the officer in charge of the prisoners. "Get 'em to shut their fucking mouths! Kill the next Briton who opens his trap.'
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