The Blood Crows
( Cato - 12 )
Simon Scarrow
Simon Scarrow
The Blood Crows
CHAPTER ONE
February, AD 51
The column of horsemen struggled up the track to the crest of the hillock and then their leader raised a hand to halt them as he reined in. The recent rainfall had turned the surface of the track into a pitted and rutted expanse of glutinous mud and the cavalry mounts snorted and wheezed as their hoofs were sucked into the quagmire. The chilly air was filled with the sound of the wet slap of the horses’ hoofs as they slowed and then stood at rest, snorting jets of steamy breath. Their leader wore a thick red cloak over his gleaming breastplate, across which ran the looped bands that signified his rank. Legate Quintatus, commander of the Fourteenth Legion, entrusted with maintaining the western frontier of the empire’s recently acquired province of Britannia.
That was no easy task, he mused bitterly. It had been nearly eight years since the army had landed on the island that stood at the limits of the known world. At the time, Quintatus had been a tribune in his early twenties, filled with a sense of mission and a desire to win glory for himself, Rome and the new Emperor, Claudius. The army had fought its way inland, defeating the mighty host that had been gathered by the native tribes, under the command of Caratacus. Battle after battle had ground down the natives, until finally the legions had crushed the warriors as they made their final stand in front of their capital at Camulodunum.
That battle had seemed decisive at the time. The Emperor himself had been there to witness the victory. And claim full credit for it. Once the rulers of most of the native tribes had made treaties with the Emperor, Claudius returned to Rome to claim his triumph and announce to the mob that the conquest of Britannia was complete. Only it wasn’t. The legate frowned. Not by a long way. That final battle had not broken Caratacus’s will to resist. It had merely taught him that it was foolhardy to pit his brave, but poorly trained, warriors against the legions in a pitched battle. He had learned to play a deeper game, luring the Roman columns into ambushes and sending fast-moving bands to raid the legions’ supply lines and outposts. It had taken seven years of campaigning to drive Caratacus into the mountain fastness of the tribes of the Silures and the Ordovices. They were warlike, spurred on by the fanatic fury of the Druids, and determined to resist the might of Rome until their last breaths. They had accepted Caratacus as their commander and this new centre of resistance had attracted warriors from across the island who nursed a resolute hatred of Rome.
It had been a hard winter and the cold winds and icy rain had forced the Roman army to limit its activities during the long, dark months. Only towards the end of the season the lowering clouds and mists lifted from the mountainous lands beyond the frontier and the legions were able to renew their campaign against the natives over the winter. The governor of the province, Ostorius Scapula, had ordered the Fourteenth to push forward into the forested valleys and establish a chain of forts. They would serve as bases for the main offensive that would come in the spring. The enemy had responded with a speed and ferocity that had surprised Legate Quintatus and attacked the strongest of the columns he had sent into their lands. Two cohorts of legionaries, nearly eight hundred men. The tribune in command of the column had sent a rider to the legate the moment the attack had begun, urgently requesting support. Quintatus had led the rest of the legion out of its base at Glevum at first light and as they approached the site of the fort, he had ridden ahead with an escort to reconnoitre, his heart heavy with dread at what they might find.
Beyond the hillock lay the valley leading deep into the lands of the Silures. The legate strained his ears, striving to filter out the sounds of the horses behind him. But there was no sound from ahead. No dull rhythmic thudding of axes as the legionaries felled trees to provide timber for the construction of the fort, and create a wide cordon of clear land around the perimeter ditch. No sound of voices echoing off the slopes of the valley on either side. Nor any sound of fighting.
‘We’re too late,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Too late.’
He frowned irritably at his failure to keep his concerns to himself and glanced round quickly in case his words had been overheard. The nearest men of his escort sat impassively in their saddles. No, he corrected himself. Not impassive. There was anxiety in their expressions, eyes flickering over the surrounding landscape as they searched for any sign of the enemy. The legate drew a deep, calming breath and swept his arm forward as he eased his heels into the flanks of his mount. The horse walked on, dagger-like ears twitching, as if sensing its master’s nervousness. The track levelled out and a moment later the leading horsemen had a clear view down into the mouth of the valley.
The construction site lay half a mile in front of them. A wide open space had been carved out of the pine trees and the stumps looked like broken teeth scattered across the churned earth. The outline of the fort was still discernible, but where there should have been a deep ditch, rampart and palisade, there was just a ruined jumble of burned timber piles and wagons and the remains of tent lines where the goatskin shelters had been torn down and trampled into the mud. Many sections of the rampart had been destroyed and the soil and the log foundations tumbled into the ditch. There were bodies, too, men and some mules and horses. The bodies had been stripped and the pale flesh reminded the legate of maggots from this distance. He shuddered at the thought and hurriedly thrust it aside. He heard his men sucking in their breath at the sight and a handful mumbled curses as they surveyed the scene. His horse slowed to a halt and Quintatus angrily jabbed his heels in and snapped the reins to force it into a trot.
There was no sign of any danger. The enemy had finished their work many hours ago and left with their victory and their spoils. All that remained was the ruins of the fort, the wagons and the dead. That, and the crows feeding on the carrion. As the horsemen approached down the track, the birds lurched into flight, their raucous cries of alarm filling the air as they were forced to abandon their grim feast. They swirled overhead like strips of black cloth caught in the wind of a storm and filled the ears of the legate with their ugly sound.
Quintatus slowed his mount as he reached the ruin of the main gate. The timber towers of the fort had been the first structures to be built. Now they were reduced to charred frameworks from which thin trails of smoke still rose up against the background of rock and tree covered hillsides before merging with the grey clouds pressing down from the sky. On either side, the ditch ran out to the corners of the fort where the remains of the towers stood. With a click of his tongue the legate steered his horse past the ruined gatehouse. On the far side lay the rampart and the cordon of open ground inside of the defences. Beyond that lay what was left of the tent lines, and the first of the bodies heaped together in a small knot. Stripped of their armour, tunics and boots, they lay twisted, bruised and streaked with blood that flowed from the dark mouths of the wounds that had killed them. There were smaller cuts and tears in their flesh where the beaks of the crows had been at work and several of the corpses had bloody sockets where the birds had plucked out their eyes. The heads had been hacked off some of the corpses and the stumps were caked with dried, blackened blood.
As Quintatus stared at the fallen legionaries, one of his staff officers edged his horse alongside and nodded grimly.
‘At least it looks like some of our men put up a fight.’
The legate did not acknowledge the remark. It was easy to visualise the last moments of these men, fighting back to back as they stood their ground to the last. Afterwards, when the last of the wounded had been finished off, the enemy had stripped them of their weapons and equipment. What could be used by Caratacus and his
warriors would be kept, the rest hurled into the nearest river or buried to prevent the Romans from returning it to the stores of the Fourteenth Legion. Quintatus lifted his gaze and looked round the fort. More bodies lay amid the destroyed tents, singly and in small clusters that told of the chaos that had ensued once the enemy warriors had broken through the half-completed defences.
‘Shall I order the men to dismount and start burying the dead, sir?’
Quintatus looked round at the tribune, and it took a moment for the question to penetrate his gloomy thoughts. He shook his head. ‘Leave them until the rest of the legion comes up.’
The younger officer looked surprised. ‘Are you sure, sir? I fear it will damage the men’s morale. It’s at a low ebb as it is.’
‘I know the mood of my men well enough, thank you,’ the legate snapped. At once he relented. The tribune had only recently arrived from Rome, all gleaming armour and keen to put into practice the military wisdom he had learned at second and third hand. Quintatus recalled that he had been no different when he had joined his first legion. He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak in a calm tone.
‘Let the men see the bodies.’ Many of the soldiers had only just joined the Fourteenth, replacements who had arrived on the first ships to sail from Gaul after the winter storms had passed. ‘I want them to understand what their fate will be if they ever allow themselves to be defeated by the enemy.’
The tribune hesitated a moment before he nodded. ‘As you command.’
Quintatus gently spurred his horse into a walk and continued towards the heart of the fort. Destruction and death sprawled out on either side of the broad, muddy track that cut through the ruins, intersected by a second way that crossed at a right angle. He came across the shreds of what had been the command tent of the cohort. There was another heap of bodies next to it and the legate felt a cold shiver trace its way down his spine as he recognised the face of Salvius, the senior centurion of one of the cohorts. The grey-haired veteran lay on his back staring sightlessly into the overcast, his jaw hanging slack and exposing his uneven yellowed teeth. He had been a fine officer, Quintatus reflected. Tough, efficient and courageous, and highly decorated, Salvius had no doubt maintained the highest standards of the centurionate to the very end. There were several wounds to his chest and stomach and the legate felt confident that there would be none on his back if his body was turned over. Perhaps they had left him his head as a mark of respect, the legate mused.
That still left the tribune Marcellus, the commander of the construction party. Quintatus raised himself up on the saddle horns, slipped his leg over the back of his mount and dropped to the ground with a loud squelch. He approached the corpses and searched for any sign of the young aristocrat whose first independent command had proved to be his last. There was no point in looking amongst the headless corpses and the legate avoided them as he searched. He could not find Marcellus, even after turning some of the bodies lying on their front. Two of the dead had been badly cut about the face, mangled flesh, shattered bone and flaps of scalp making immediate identification impossible. Finding Marcellus would have to wait.
Then the legate froze, struck by a sudden realisation. He straightened up and swept his gaze around the remains of the camp, roughly estimating the number of bodies that lay scattered in the mud. There was no sign of any fallen enemy. But there wouldn’t be. The natives always took their dead away to be buried secretly, where the Romans would not find them and so know how many casualties they had suffered.
‘What is it, sir?’ asked the tribune, anxious at his superior’s sudden reaction.
‘There’s too few of our men here. From what I can see I’d say a quarter of them are missing.’
The tribune looked about him and nodded. ‘Then where are they?’
‘We have to assume they have been taken alive,’ Quintatus said coldly. ‘Prisoners. . The gods have mercy on them. They shouldn’t have surrendered.’
‘What will happen to them, sir?’
Quintatus shrugged. ‘If they are lucky they will be used as slaves and worked to death. Before that they will be taken from tribe to tribe and shown to the hill people as proof that Rome can be beaten. They’ll be abused and humiliated all the way.’
The tribune was silent for a moment and then swallowed nervously. ‘And if they are not lucky?’
‘Then they’ll be handed over to the Druids and sacrificed to their gods. Flayed, or burned alive. That is why it is best not to permit yourself to fall into their hands.’ Quintatus caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look up the track leading from the main gate. The leading century of the main body had crested the hill and begun to descend the slope, struggling to maintain the pace as the ground became steadily more muddy. For a moment there was a brief break in the clouds and a thin shaft of light fell on the head of the column. A shimmering glitter showed the position of the eagle standard of the legion, and the other standards bearing the image of the Emperor and the insignia and decorations of the lesser formations. Quintatus wondered if that was supposed to be a good omen. If so, then the gods had a strange sense of timing.
The tribune enquired, ‘What now, sir?’
‘Hmm?’
‘What are your orders?’
‘We finish what we started. As soon as the legion gets here I want the ditch and rampart repaired, and then work can continue on the fort.’ Quintatus stiffened his back and looked up at the dark forested slopes of the valley. ‘Those savages have won their small victory today. There’s nothing we can do about that. They’ll be celebrating in the hills. The fools. This will only harden the resolve of Rome to crush the last vestige of resistance to our will. No matter how long it takes, you can be sure that Ostorius, and the Emperor, will not allow us any rest until the job is done.’ His lips flickered in a brief, bitter smile. ‘Better not get used to the comforts of the fort at Glevum, my boy.’
The young officer nodded solemnly.
‘Right, I’ll need a headquarters tent set up here. Have some men clear the ground and get to it. Send for my secretary. The governor will need a report on this as soon as possible.’ Quintatus stroked his jaw as he stared back towards the bodies of Centurion Salvius and his comrades. His heart felt heavy with grief at the loss of his men and the burden of knowing that the coming campaign was going to be as hard and bloody as any Roman had known since setting foot on this accursed island.
This was a new kind of warfare. Rome’s soldiers would need to be utterly ruthless if the enemy’s spirit was to be broken. And those soldiers would need to be led by officers who would pursue the enemy with a merciless sense of purpose and no pity in their hearts. Fortunately such men existed, Quintatus reflected. There was one man in particular whose very name froze the blood of his enemies. Centurion Quertus. With a hundred officers like him, Rome’s difficulties in Britannia would be over very quickly. Such men were needed in war. But what would become of them in peace? That, Quintatus said to himself, was somebody else’s problem.
CHAPTER TWO
The River Tamesis, two months later
‘By the gods, this place has changed.’ Centurion Macro gestured at the sprawl of buildings on the northern bank of the river. The cargo ship had just tacked round a wide sweeping bend in the Tamesis and now the bows turned directly into the steady breeze and the sail began to flap against the dull, grey overcast.
The captain cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed across the broad deck, ‘Hands aloft! Take the sail in!’
As several men scrambled up the narrow ratlines, the captain turned to the rest of his crew. ‘Unship the oars and make ready!’
The sailors, a mix of Gauls and Batavians, hesitated for the briefest of moments before going about their duty with sullen expressions. Macro could not help a grin as he watched them, seeing their mute protest for what it was: a matter of form rather than substance. It was the same with the soldiers he had known for most of his life. His gaze returned to the low, rolling
landscape that spread out on either side of the river. Much of it had been cleared of trees and small farmsteads dotted the countryside. There was also a handful of larger buildings with tiled roofs, evidence that the stamp of Rome was making its mark on the new province. Macro broke off his musing to glance at his companion a short distance away, resting his elbows on the ship’s side rail as he stared blankly at the ruffled surface of the river gliding past. Macro cleared his throat none too subtly.
‘I said, the place has changed.’
Cato stirred and then looked up and smiled quickly. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
Macro nodded. ‘Your thoughts are turned towards Rome, no doubt. Don’t worry, lad, Julia’s a good woman, and a fine wife. She’ll keep it warm for you until you get back.’
Despite the fact that his friend outranked him, an easy familiarity had been forged between them over the eight years they had served together. Once Macro had been the senior officer, but now Cato had surpassed him and risen to the rank of prefect and was ready to take up his first permanent command of a cohort of auxiliaries: the Second Cohort of Thracian cavalry. The Second’s previous commander had been killed during the last campaign season and the imperial staff back in Rome had chosen Cato to fill the vacancy.
‘And when will that be, I wonder?’ the younger man responded, his voice edged with bitterness. ‘From what I’ve heard, the Emperor’s triumphant celebration of the conquest of Britannia was somewhat premature. Like as not we’ll still be fighting Caratacus and his followers until we’re old men.’
‘Suits me.’ Macro shrugged. ‘Better some honest soldiering back with the legions than all that cloak and dagger stuff we’ve had to put up with since we were last here.’
‘Thought you hated Britannia. Always going on about the bloody damp, the cold and lack of decent food. Couldn’t wait to leave, you said.’
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