The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  Prasutagus shrugged. Cato sensed his wounded honour but could not help the urge to discover the full story. ‘So, how did you come to be King?’

  ‘I was one of the few who had no part in the rebellion. I was too sick to fight alongside my brothers. So when it was over, the governor chose me to replace the old king. He was killed in the battle.’

  ‘I see. I am sure that Ostorius’s choice was wise.’ Cato turned and gestured towards their table. ‘Would you care to drink with us? That is Macro’s mother, and the others are comrades from the army.’

  ‘Macro’s mother?’ Boudica cocked an eyebrow. ‘Now there’s someone I would be fascinated to talk to.’

  But Prasutagus was staring coldly at the two tribunes and shook his head. ‘Another day, my friends. When we can speak freely to each other.’

  Pellinus flushed at the words and stood up. He addressed Cato. ‘Thank you for the drink, sir. We are expected back at headquarters and have to beg our leave of you now.’

  The other tribune looked surprised, but then caught on and nodded in agreement. They bowed their heads to Portia and left the inn, without acknowledging the Iceni rulers. There was a strained silence before Boudica spoke again.

  ‘You know about the assembly of the tribes, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll be part of the governor’s retinue.’

  ‘I see.’ Some of the warmth had drained from her voice. ‘Then we shall see you there, or perhaps somewhere on the road.’

  ‘We look forward to it. Now, how about that drink? We’ve a lot to catch up on.’

  Boudica was about to reply when her husband broke in with, ‘Another time. Somewhere less. . Roman. Come.’ He took Boudica’s arm and gently steered her towards the door. Prasutagus growled a command to his warriors and they withdrew across the inn to join them before the small party quit the inn and closed the door behind them.

  Macro shrugged sadly. ‘Is that the way it has to be between us? So soon after we meet them again?’

  ‘Time takes its toll in many ways, old friend,’ Cato said kindly.

  Macro glared at him. ‘Old? Fuck off. Let’s get back to our wine. Least we don’t have to share it with those freeloading tribunes now.’

  They returned to the bench and sat down opposite Portia. Cato raised the jug, frowned at its lightness and shook it. A faint slop of liquid sounded from inside. He refilled Macro’s cup and tipped what was left into his own before raising it in a toast in an effort to restore some cheer to the atmosphere.

  ‘Here’s to your new business. I’m sure it will be a great success from the amount of passing trade that seems to come through the door.’

  Portia raised her cup half-heartedly. ‘It would be more of a success if some of the trade actually stayed for a drink.’

  Cato glanced into the dregs of his cup. ‘Or even bought a round or two.’

  ‘So where are these troublemakers, then?’ a voice called out from the direction of the counter and Cato turned to see a burly, grey-haired man emerge from the door leading to the storeroom. The serving girl anxiously peered round from behind his back. The innkeeper glanced round the room where his customers were drinking peacefully, then turned on the serving girl. ‘Well?’

  She flinched back towards the door and he cuffed her hard about the head. ‘Stop wasting my time, you stupid bitch! Get in there and stoke up the cooking fire!’

  The girl reeled from the blow and then hunched down and scurried away to do her master’s bidding.

  Cato nodded towards the man. ‘The owner, and vendor, of the inn, I take it?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Portia beckoned to the innkeeper when she caught his eye. ‘Time, I think, to settle the deal, now that my dear son has agreed to invest in my new business.’

  ‘Invest?’ Macro echoed wryly. ‘It feels more like I’ve been mugged.’

  Portia ignored her grumpy son and smiled as the innkeeper made his way over to their table. He moved with the self-assurance of one who was used to command and did not tolerate any subordinate who caused even the least bit of trouble. His hair was thinning but the well-toned physique that had seen him through many a battle was still there. Cato had little doubt that he could swiftly sort out any customers who got out of hand on his premises. As he came close enough for his features to be clearly recognisable, Cato gave a small start of surprise and then called out a greeting.

  ‘Centurion Gaius Tullius!’

  The innkeeper slowed his pace and squinted at his customers, then his expression changed abruptly and he beamed happily.

  ‘Bugger me, if it ain’t Cato and Macro! What on earth are you two doing here? Thought the Second Legion had seen the back of you years ago.’

  ‘So it had.’ Macro grinned. ‘But it seems like you lads have been having a little difficulty with the locals and need to call on the services of some real soldiers to sort ’em out.’

  ‘Ah, get away with you!’ Tullis swatted Macro on the shoulder. ‘We managed well enough without you two troublemakers. Anyway, this is a turn-up, and I’m always glad to see old comrades. The gods know there are few enough of us about.’ He turned to Portia. ‘Oh, it’s you, ma’am. You with them?’ He winked. ‘Or are they with you?’

  Portia regarded him coolly. ‘If that’s supposed to be amusing, then I fail to see why. As it happens, Centurion Macro is my son.’

  Tullius turned to stare at Macro with a look of astonishment. ‘You have a mother?’

  He pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Tullia!’ he shouted. ‘Bring another jar of wine. The good stuff! Wait. . That Gaulish stuff’ll do! Anyway, what’s the story, lads? How come you’re back in this shithole? Can’t be because you like the weather.’

  ‘Shithole?’ Portia fixed him with a stare. ‘Is that why you’re selling up? I might have to knock a thousand or two off the price.’

  Tullius dipped his head in acknowledgement of his clumsy remark. ‘I’m selling up because I want to retire to some place warm in Campania, miss. There’s nothing really wrong with Londinium. There’s good money to be made here. I’m hardly likely to try and put one over the dear old mother of one of my former comrades in arms, am I? Besides,’ his tone hardened slightly, ‘I thought we made a deal.’

  ‘No. I made an offer. You said you’d think about it. And now, I’m having a rethink about the offer I made, in view of your eagerness to sell. I think nine thousand is a more reasonable price.’

  Tullius could not hide his surprise at the sharpness of her tone. ‘Fuck me, but you’ve got a hard and ruthless streak. She’s your mum all right, Macro. . The price is still ten.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘And five hundred.’

  Portia chewed her lip briefly. ‘Nine thousand, five hundred.’

  He frowned. ‘Well, since you’re kin of Macro, it’s a deal. But I’m robbing myself.’ He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out. Portia took it at once, before there was any chance of him changing his mind, and sealed their business. The serving girl arrived with a fresh jar of wine and set it down on the table and hurriedly withdrew. Tullius poured them each a cup, filled right to the brim, and raised his. ‘To the Second Augusta!’

  ‘To the Second!’ Macro and Cato chorused and drained their cups. The wine was better than Macro had expected and at once he reached for the jug to refill their cups.

  ‘Go easy on that,’ Portia said firmly. ‘That’s part of my stock now. You pay for the next jug, you hear?’

  Tullius smiled ruefully. ‘Hard as nails. Anyway, I take it you two are here to beef up the ranks of the legions for Ostorius’s new campaign.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cato. ‘Macro’s going to the Fourteenth as a senior centurion.’

  ‘Pfftt! Fourteenth, bunch of pansies. Not fit to lick the boots of the Second, I reckon.’

  Macro was cautious about knocking the reputation of his new unit as he was sure to develop pride in the Fourteenth as a matter of course. He pursed his lips and poured himself some more wine as he muttere
d, ‘We’ll see.’

  Tullius turned to Cato. ‘And what about you? Going to join Macro’s lot? I’m sure he could use a good centurion like you.’

  Cato felt a moment’s awkwardness. ‘No. I’ll be going to a different unit. Thracian cavalry cohort. I’ve been given the command.’

  Tullis looked surprised. ‘You? Then. . you must have made prefect. Fuck me, that’s a turn-up for the books. You were just a junior centurion when we last knew each other. .’ He paused and shuffled sheepishly. ‘Bloody hell. . Well done, lad. I mean, sir.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ Cato responded. ‘We’re off duty. I mean. . you’re out of the army now.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I still have respect for the rank. And the man that bears it. Prefect Cato. Now that’s something. Really something. By the gods, you must have seen some action and covered yourself in glory to be promoted to prefect. That or you’ve gone and shagged the Emperor’s missus. Or perhaps been shagged by Claudius. Randy old dog, from what I hear.’

  Macro drained his cup and raised a finger. ‘That’s enough. Cato won his rank the hard way. I know. I watched him do it.’

  ‘Fair play to him then,’ Tullius conceded. ‘And now you’ve both fetched up here, the graveyard of ambition, or so they say.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that there’s no glory to be won here. Not any more. The big battles are over. Caratacus and his mob have taken to the hills. Most of our lads are stuck in small forts keeping a wary eye on the natives and trying not to get themselves bumped off when they go out on patrol. Once in a while we manage to chase a few of the painted bastards to ground and stick it to ’em. But the rate things are going I dare say Rome will still be struggling to tame these Britons long after anyone has forgotten there ever was an invasion. You want my advice? Apply for a transfer as soon as you get the chance.’

  Macro replied, ‘You’re wrong. Ostorius is about to give them one last chance to bend to Rome, then he’s going to hit them with everything he’s got.’ His voice was beginning to slur.

  Tullius chuckled. ‘Is that right? You think it’s the first time a governor’s tried to wipe the floor with the bastards? What makes you think he’s got any more chance of finishing the job than Aulus Plautius before him?’

  Macro waved a finger at Cato and slapped himself on the chest. ‘Because this time we’re going to be doing the fighting for him. That’s what!’

  Cato folded his fingers together and gently shook his head.

  Macro had warmed to his theme and raised his fist. ‘We’ll give Caratacus what for, you’ll see! Bloody his nose and whip him like the cur he is. It’ll all be over by Saturnalia.’

  ‘Care to place a bet on that?’ Tullius asked slyly.

  ‘Course I will.’ Macro nodded vigorously.

  ‘Macro!’ Portia snapped. ‘Don’t!’

  Before her son could respond there was a cold draught as the door opened and a headquarters clerk came into the inn. He looked round until he spied the table at which Cato and the others were sitting, just as Macro glared over his shoulder and bellowed, ‘Put the bloody wood in the hole!’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ The clerk pushed the door to and the latch clicked home then he made his way over to the table and stood to attention. ‘Begging your pardon, Prefect, but the governor sends his compliments and says that you are both to be ready to join him tomorrow morning when he rides to Durocornovium.’

  ‘Very well.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll be there. You may go.’

  The clerk bowed his head and departed. Cato stood up. ‘Come, Macro. We must find Decimus and have our packs made ready. Then an early night is in order.’

  ‘Stuff that. I’m enjoying a drink with Tullius here. I’ll be along when I’m done.’

  For an instant Cato considered ordering his friend to join him. But he knew that would only put Macro in a sour mood. Better to let him drink his fill and roll back into their quarters happy and drunk. Besides, the inevitable hangover the next morning would give Cato some peace and quiet on the road to Durocornovium.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Portia came to see them off shortly after dawn the following day. Cato had provided Decimus with enough silver to buy three mules, two to carry their baggage, and one for the servant to ride. The governor had authorised the provision of two horses for Cato and Macro. There was no tearful parting scene at the gates of the town because they had not been constructed yet and Londinium merely petered out amid a shanty town of shelters either side of the road leading west. Fearing for his mother’s safety amongst the barbaric-looking denizens of this fringe community, Macro stopped his horse, waited until the last men in the small column had passed by, and briefly kissed her on the forehead. He wished his own head was not pounding so. Nor did he like the raw nausea in his guts that threatened to humiliate him in front of his companions should he have to throw up.

  ‘It’s best that we part here,’ said Macro. ‘I’m not sure how far I trust this lot.’

  He nodded to some of the inhabitants who had risen early and watched the Romans leading their horses down the rutted roadway.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She lifted her cloak aside to reveal a cosh hanging from her tunic belt. ‘A souvenir from my Ariminum days.’

  ‘Try not to kill too many of the natives,’ Macro joked, attempting to lighten the mood at their parting. ‘Leave some for me. That’s my job.’

  She smiled weakly then cupped her son’s cheek in her hand and stared intently at him. ‘Take care of yourself, and that boy, Cato. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you. I know what you’re like. Just don’t take unnecessary risks. Understand?’

  Macro nodded.

  She sighed and shook her head. ‘Maybe one day you’ll have a son of your own. Then you’ll understand. Now go. Before you make me cry.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Macro drawled. ‘Tough as old boots, you are.’

  ‘Just go!’

  Without another word, or any lingering hesitation, Portia dropped her hand and turned to walk back down the road towards the heart of Londinium. Macro watched her briefly, but she did not look back.

  ‘Tough as old boots. .’ he repeated under his breath. Then, tugging on the reins of his mount, he strode forward to catch up with the rest of the governor’s escort while the natives, their curiosity sated, turned away and went back to their rude huts. Once they had passed beyond the last of the huts and emerged into open countryside, the governor gave the order for his men to mount.

  Cato had been taught to ride as a recruit and had had some practice in the following years, but he still did not feel wholly comfortable in the saddle and the horse he had been given had a tendency to nervous jerks and twitches at the slightest flicker of movement in the periphery of its vision. Ostorius rode a length ahead of his men and glanced over his shoulder once in a while at Cato, and the latter understood his intent well enough. The governor was testing his new cavalry commander to see how he handled a difficult mount. Accordingly, Cato concentrated on keeping the beast in check and trying to anticipate its reactions to its surroundings to make sure that it did not bolt, or rear, or cause any embarrassment to him.

  The road was a rough affair, often no more than a muddy track, and where the ground was particularly soft the army’s engineers had constructed corduroys of logs packed with earth to provide a stable surface for marching columns, riders and wheeled traffic. Although there was no rain, the sky was overcast and pockets of mist filled the hollows of the landscape. With no sun to burn them off they were set to remain there through most of the day and Cato could well understand why that was the prevailing impression of the island in Roman minds. The country-scented air was cool and a relief after the cloying stench of Londinium. It was late in April and the bare limbs of trees and shrubs were budding and hardy flowers provided a splatter of bright colours across the landscape. Soon, the town had fallen behind them and only a faint brown hue on the undulating horizon marked its presence.

  Cato soon c
ame to master the idiosyncrasies of his horse and could give some attention to his comrades. There had been a brief round of introductions at the governor’s headquarters before setting out but Cato had forgotten most of their names. He was familiar with the types, though. Aside from Ostorius, there were ten picked legionaries who acted as his personal bodyguard. Tough veterans with good records who could be trusted to give their lives to protect the governor. Then there were the tribunes. Six junior officers who would go on to a succession of appointments in civil administration and who might one day be rewarded with promotion to the Senate. From there, the select few would be awarded the post of governor of one of Rome’s provinces. Ostorius Scapula was such a man. He had devoted his life to the twin ideals of Rome and to adding lustre to his family name. No doubt he had hoped to tame Britannia as a fitting end to his long career, Cato reflected. Too bad the native tribes had different ideas about being tamed.

  The last member of the party was a native translator, though with his neatly cut brown hair, red tunic and cape he could easily be taken for a Roman. It was only the gleam of the ornately patterned torc round his neck that indicated his true heritage. Marcommius, the latinised version of his native name, was in his thirties, slender and well-groomed. It was clear that he had abandoned the ways of his people.

  Cato rode behind the tribunes while Macro had slipped back to join the bodyguards and engage them in conversation. Their cheerful chatter mingled with the rumbling clop of hoofs as the small column followed the track across the green downs of the lands of the Atrebates. There was heavy cultivation and small farms, and a handful of villas with their more regular pattern of fields lay scattered amongst the remaining woodlands of ancient oaks and smaller trees. Now and then they passed some of the natives working their land; Ostorius smiled a greeting, and his officers followed his example, Cato noted approvingly. He could never understand the haughty, high-handed attitude of many Romans to the peoples they had conquered. The swiftest way to Romanise a population was to encourage good relations. The quickest way to antagonise them was to beat them down and treat them as inferiors, a policy that only caused bitter resentment where it did not result in outright revolt.