The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Did I say that?’ Macro feigned innocence, and then rubbed his hands together. ‘Still, here we are. Back where there’s a decent campaign on the go and a chance for more promotion and awards and, best of all, a chance to top up my retirement fund. I’ve been listening to reports as well, my lad, and there’s talk of a fortune in silver to be had in the mountains to the west of the island. If we’re lucky we’ll be sitting pretty once the natives have been given a good kicking and come to their senses.’

  Cato could not help smiling. ‘Kicking a man seldom induces him to be reasonable, in my experience.’

  ‘I disagree. If you know where to kick a man, and how hard, he’ll do whatever you need him to.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Cato had no wish to enter into a debate. His mind was still troubled by the prospect of being parted from Julia. They had met a few years earlier, on the empire’s eastern frontier where her father, Senator Sempronius, had been serving as the Emperor’s ambassador to the King of Palmyra. Marriage into a senatorial family was a considerable advance in status for a junior legionary officer like Cato, and the cause of some anxiety at the prospect of being sneered at by those from old aristocratic families. But Senator Sempronius had recognised Cato’s potential and had been pleased for him to marry his daughter. The wedding had been the happiest day of Cato’s life, but there had been little time to become accustomed to being a husband before he had received his marching orders from the imperial secretary. Narcissus was under growing pressure from the faction which had chosen the young prince Nero to succeed Emperor Claudius. The imperial secretary had sided with those supporting Britannicus, the Emperor’s natural son, and they were steadily losing influence over the doddery old ruler of the greatest empire in the world. Narcissus had explained that he was doing Cato a favour in sending him as far from Rome as possible. When the Emperor died, there would be a scramble for power and no mercy would be shown to those on the losing side, nor to anyone associated with them. If Britannicus lost the struggle, he was doomed, and Narcissus with him.

  Since both Cato and Macro had served the imperial secretary well, albeit unwillingly, then they, too, would be in danger. It would be better if they were fighting on some far-flung frontier when the time came, beyond the vengeful attention of Nero’s followers. Even though Cato had only recently saved Nero’s life, he had crossed the path of Pallas, the imperial freedman who was the brains behind the prince’s faction. Pallas was not inclined to forgive those who stood in the way of his ambitions. Nero’s debt to Cato would not save him. So, barely a month after the marriage had been celebrated in the house of Julia’s father, Cato and Macro were summoned to the palace to receive their new appointments: for Cato, the command of a Thracian cohort, and for Macro the command of a cohort in the Fourteenth Legion, both units serving with the army of Governor Ostorius Scapula in Britannia.

  There had been tears when the time came for Cato to depart. Julia had clung to him and he had held her close, feeling her chest shudder as she buried her face in the folds of his cloak, the dark tresses of her hair falling across his hands. Cato felt his heart torn by her grief at separation, which he shared. But the order had been given, and the sense of duty that had bound Rome’s citizens together and made it possible for them to overcome their enemies could not be denied.

  ‘When will you return?’ Julia’s voice was muffled by the folds of wool. She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed, and Cato felt a rush of anguish flow through his heart. He forced himself to smile lightly.

  ‘The campaign should be over soon, my love. Caratacus cannot hold out for much longer. He will be defeated.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then, I shall await word of the new Emperor, and when it is safe to return I will apply for a civil post in Rome.’

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘But that could be years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They were both silent for a moment before Julia spoke again. ‘I could join you in Britannia.’

  Cato tilted his head to one side. ‘Perhaps. But not yet. The island is still little more than a barbaric backwater. There are few of the comforts you are used to. And there are dangers, not least the unhealthy airs of the place.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I have experienced the worst of conditions, Cato. You know I have. After all that we have been through we deserve to be together.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then promise to send for me as soon as it is safe for me to join you.’ She tightened her grip on his cloak and stared intently into his eyes. ‘Promise me.’

  Cato felt his resolve to shelter her from the dangers and discomforts of the new province dissolve. ‘I promise.’

  She eased her grip and shifted half a step away from him, with an expression of pained relief, and nodded. ‘Don’t make me wait too long, my dearest Cato.’

  ‘Not one day longer than necessary. I swear it.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth and then stepped back and gave his hands a last squeeze before straightening her back. ‘Then you must go.’

  Cato took one long last look at her and then bowed his head and turned away from the senator’s house and marched along the street that led in the direction of the city gate where he would take one of the boats down the Tiber to join Macro at the port of Ostia. He looked back when he reached the end of the street and saw her there, standing at the door, and forced himself to turn and stride out of sight.

  The pain of their parting had not dimmed over the long journey across the sea to Massillia and then overland to Gesoriacum where they had boarded the cargo ship for the final leg to Britannia. It felt strange to return to the island after several years. Earlier that day the cargo ship had passed the stretch of riverbank where Cato and his comrades in the Second Legion had fought their way ashore through a horde of native warriors urged on by screaming Druids hurling curses and spells at the invaders. It was a chilling reminder of what lay ahead and Cato feared that it would be some years yet before he considered it safe to send for his wife.

  ‘Is that it ahead? Londinium?’

  Cato turned to see a slender, hard-faced old woman picking her way across the deck from the direction of the hatch leading down to the cramped passenger quarters. She wore a shawl over her head and a few strands of grey hair flickered in the breeze. Cato smiled in greeting and Macro grinned a welcome as she joined him at the side rail.

  ‘You’re looking much better, Mum.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said sharply, ‘now this wretched boat has stopped lurching all over the place. I thought that storm would sink us for sure. And, frankly, it would have been a mercy if it had. I have never felt so ill in my life.’

  ‘It was hardly a storm,’ Macro said disdainfully.

  ‘No?’ She nodded at Cato. ‘What do you think? You were throwing up as much as me.’

  Cato grimaced. The tossing and pitching of the ship the previous night had left him in a state of utter misery, curled up in a ball as he vomited into a wooden tub beside his cot. He disliked sea voyages in the Mediterranean at the best of times. The wild sea off the coast of Gaul was pure torture.

  Macro sniffed dismissively. ‘Barely blowing a gale. And good, fresh air at that. Put some salt back into my lungs.’

  ‘While taking out absolutely everything from your guts,’ his mother replied. ‘I’d rather die than go through that again. Anyway, best not to remember. As I was saying, is that Londinium over there?’

  The others turned to follow the direction she indicated and gazed at the distant buildings lining the northern bank of the Tamesis. A wharf had been constructed with great timber piles driven into the river bed, supporting the cross-beams packed with stones and earth and finally paved. Several cargo ships were already moored alongside and as many others were anchored a short distance upriver, waiting for their turn to unload their freight. On the wharf, chain gangs were busy carrying goods from the holds of ships into the long low warehouses. Beyond them o
ther buildings spread out, many still under construction as the new town took shape. A hundred paces back from the riverbank they could make out the second storey of a large complex rising above the other buildings. That would be the basilica, Cato realised, site of the market, courts, shops, offices and administrative headquarters of towns that Rome founded.

  ‘That’s Londinium all right,’ the captain answered as he joined his passengers. ‘Growing faster than an abscess on the backside of a mule. And just as vile.’

  ‘Oh?’ Macro’s mother frowned.

  ‘Why yes, Miss Portia. The place is a rat-hole. Narrow streets, filled with mud, cheap drinking joints and knocking shops. It’ll be a while yet before it settles down and becomes the kind of town you’re used to.’

  She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’

  The captain frowned at her and Macro let out a laugh.

  ‘She’s come here to go into business.’

  The captain scrutinised the old woman. ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘I intend to open an inn,’ she replied. ‘There’s always a need for drink, and other comforts, at the end of a sea voyage, and I dare say that Londinium sees plenty of merchants, sailors and soldiers passing through its gates. All good customers for the kind of services I will offer.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty of business, all right,’ the captain nodded. ‘But it’s a hard life. Even harder in a new province like this. The kind of merchants who make their fortunes here are tough men. They won’t take kindly to a Roman woman trying to compete with them.’

  ‘I dealt with tough men at the inn I owned in Ravenna. I doubt the locals here will cause me any difficulty. Particularly when they find out my son happens to be a senior centurion of the Fourteenth Legion.’ She took Macro’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  ‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Anyone messes about with my mum and they mess with me. And that hasn’t worked out well for anyone who has tried it in the past.’

  The captain took in the muscular physique of the stocky Roman officer and the scars on his face and arms and could believe it.

  ‘Even so, why would you come here, ma’am? You’d be more comfortable setting up back in Gesoriacum. Plenty of trade there.’

  Portia pursed her lips. ‘This is where the real money can be made, by those who get stuck in quickly. Besides, this boy is all I have in the world now. I want to be as close to him as I can. Who knows, when he gets his discharge, he could join me in the business.’

  Macro’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. All the wine and women that a man could want, under one roof!’

  Portia swatted his arm. ‘On second thoughts. . You soldiers are all the same. Anyway, I will make my fortune here in Londinium, and this is where I will stay until the end of my days. It’s up to you what you do with your life, Macro. But I’ll be remaining here. This is my last home.’

  With a steady rhythm the cargo ship approached the wharf. As they neared the town, those on board caught their first whiff of the place, an acrid, peaty, sewage smell that mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and caught in their throats.

  ‘There might be something to be said for sea air after all,’ Cato muttered as he wrinkled his nose.

  There was no mooring space along the wharf and the captain gave the order to steer for the end of the line of vessels anchored further upriver. He turned apologetically to his passengers.

  ‘It’ll be a while before our turn comes. You’re welcome to stay on board, or I’ll have some of my boys row you ashore in the skiff.’

  Cato eased himself up from the side rail and adopted the military manner he had learned from Macro, standing tall and being decisive. ‘We’ll go ashore. The centurion and I need to report to the nearest military authority as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The captain knuckled his forehead, instantly aware that the informalities of the voyage had passed. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

  He was as good as his word and by the time the anchor splashed down into the current and the crew shipped the oars, the kitbags of the two officers and the chests and bags belonging to Portia had been carried up from the hold. The skiff, a small blunt-bowed craft with a wide beam, was lowered over the side and two oarsmen nimbly leaped down and offered their hands up to assist the passengers. There was only space for the three of them; their belongings would have to be ferried ashore separately. Cato was the last and as he stepped down into the flimsy craft he frantically waved his arms to retain his balance, before sitting heavily on a thwart. Macro shot him a weary look and tutted and then the oarsmen pulled on their blades and the skiff headed towards the wharf. Now that they were closer to Londinium they could see that the surface of the river was streaked with sewage running from the drain outlets along the wharf. In the still water trapped by the wharf lay lengths of broken timber amid the other flotsam, and rats scurried from piece to piece, scavenging for anything edible. A set of wooden steps rose from the river at one end of the wharf and the oarsmen made for them. When they were alongside, the nearest man snatched his oar in and reached to grasp the slimy hawser that acted as a fender. He held on while his friend slipped a looped line over the mooring post.

  ‘There you are, sirs, ma’am.’ He smiled and then handed them ashore. With Cato leading the way, they climbed the steps to the top of the wharf and looked along the crowded thoroughfare between the ships and the warehouses. A cacophony of voices filled the cool spring afternoon and in amongst them were the brays of mules and the crack of whips and the shouts of the overseers of the chain gangs. Though the scene looked chaotic, Cato knew that in every detail it was proof of the transformation that had come to the island that had defied the power of Rome for almost a hundred years. For better or worse, change had come to Britannia and once the last pockets of resistance had been crushed, the new province would take shape and become part of the empire.

  Macro joined him and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Welcome back to Britannia. . arse end of civilisation.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once the boat returned with their belongings, Macro approached a small group of men gathered outside the nearest warehouse.

  ‘I need some porters,’ he announced, addressing them in his loud, clear, parade-ground voice. At once they hurried forward and he chose several of the burliest-looking men, one of whom had a strip of leather about his head to clear his brow of thick, wiry blond hair. A brand was visible on his forehead, beneath the leather. Macro recognised the mark at once. The brand of Mithras, a religion from the east that was steadily spreading through the ranks of the Roman army. ‘You, a soldier once, if I’m not mistaken?’

  The man bowed his head. ‘I was, sir. Before I took a Silurian spear through the leg. Left me with a limp, I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the lads. Army had no choice but to discharge me, sir.’

  Macro looked him over. The man wore a threadbare military cloak over his tunic and his boots were held together by strips of cloth. ‘Let me guess. You pissed away your discharge bonus and this is what you’ve been reduced to.’

  The ex-soldier nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’

  ‘What is your name and unit?’

  ‘Legionary Marcus Metellius Decimus, Second Legion, Augusta, sir!’ The man straightened to attention and winced before stretching a hand down to steady his thigh.

  ‘The Second, eh?’ Macro stroked his jaw. ‘That’s my old mob. Or, I should say, our old mob.’ He jerked his thumb towards Cato. ‘We served under Legate Vespasian.’

  Decimus tilted his head regretfully. ‘Before my time, sir.’

  ‘Pity. Very well, Decimus, you take charge of these men. Our baggage is over there on the wharf by my friend there, and the woman.’

  Decimus glanced across the thoroughfare and sniffed. ‘She’s a bit old for him. Unless she’s got money. . Then they’re never too old.’

  Macro gritted his teeth. ‘The woman in question is my mother. . Now move y
ourself!’

  Decimus quickly turned away and gestured to the other men to follow. As they hefted the chests and kitbags, Cato tried to get his bearings. ‘Which way to the local garrison?’

  ‘There’s no garrison, sir. No fort. Not even any fortifications, for that matter. There was a fort a few years back, but the place was growing so fast it got swallowed up. That’s where they’re building the new basilica, on the site of the old fort.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato sighed in frustration. ‘Then where can I find someone on the governor’s staff?’

  Decimus thought about it. ‘You could try the governor’s quarters, sir. They’re to the side of the building site. Anyway, that’s where you’ll find him.’

  Cato was surprised. ‘Ostorius is here in Londinium?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But the provincial capital is Camulodunum.’

  ‘Officially, sir, yes. After all, that’s where Caratacus came from, and that’s where Emperor Claudius has pledged to have a temple erected in his honour. But it’s too far east. Despite what they may want back in Rome, it seems that everyone here has chosen Londinium as the main town. Even the governor. And that’s why you’ll find him here.’

  Cato took in the information and nodded. ‘Very well, take us to his headquarters.’

  Decimus bowed his head and then, shouldering one of the kitbags, and grunting under the weight of the armour it contained, he limped off into a side street. ‘Follow me, sir.’

  Londinium proved to be every bit as unpleasant as the captain of the cargo ship had warned them. The streets were narrow and crowded and, unlike Rome, there were no restrictions on wheeled vehicles in daylight hours. Cato and the others had to fight their way up the narrow thoroughfares crowded with carts, horses and people. Familiar with the streets, Decimus and his companions hurried on and Cato feared that he might lose sight of them. He gestured subtly to Macro to chivvy his mother through the throng. From the dress and features of those they passed, Cato could see that most were from elsewhere in the empire, no doubt in search of easy money in the new province. Portia was going to face stiff competition, Cato reflected, and he hoped that the rank of her son would indeed be enough to protect her interests from the con men, thieves and gangsters who were already preying on Londinium.