‘I am sure he has family in Rome. They will care for him, as best they can.’
Macro stared a moment longer. ‘It would have been kinder to kill him. Fucking barbarians. No better than animals.’
‘Maybe, but they’re clever. Everyone who sees Marcellus on his journey home is going to learn what happens to those soldiers captured by the enemy and it’s going to shake them. Even more so back in Rome, far from the battlefield. A mutilated young aristocrat is going to be something of a talking point. It may add weight to the words of those arguing that we should not expand our territory in Britannia, and even abandon the province altogether. Caratacus knows how to make his point eloquently, and ensure that it is rammed home as deeply as possible. Killing Marcellus would have been a wasted opportunity.’
Macro stared at his friend. ‘By the gods, you’re as cold-hearted as he is.’
‘No, I just understand the thinking behind his deeds. My only worry is that Ostorius may be playing into the enemy’s hands. If he brings fire and sword to the mountain tribes, he may turn some of the others against us. There’s a wider problem too. If our men get used to treating the natives harshly, it’s going to be hard to rein them in when they are redeployed after the campaign. That’s assuming we manage to hunt down Caratacus and force him to turn and fight.’
‘I was under the impression that he was spoiling for a fight,’ Macro replied. ‘He made a bloody great song and dance about defeating Marcellus’s column, and how it was only the beginning.’
‘Yes, he did. So perhaps that’s the impression he is keen to give us.’
Macro sighed irritably. ‘And what exactly do you think he intends, then?’
‘I’m not certain. If we strike deep into the mountains looking for his army, or his main stronghold, then we’ll be stretching our lines of communication, and leaving them vulnerable to raids. Looks to me like he’s reverting to his old tactics. Luring us on, only to strike at our rear. He’s certainly succeeded in goading Ostorius.’
‘Or he’s getting over-confident and looking for a set-piece battle on favourable terms.’
Cato shrugged doubtfully. ‘There’s a further possibility.’
‘Which is?’ Macro queried with forced patience.
‘The show he put on was as much for his own followers as us. He’s fighting a long war. It’s going to stretch the resources and will of his own followers as much as our side. And whereas our soldiers have discipline, the tribesmen need to be inspired to fight. I wonder how far Caratacus can depend on them. As long as he presents them with victories they will stand by him. If we grind them down then he’s going to be forced to fight a battle while he still has enough men prepared to follow his standard.’
‘Then let’s hope that’s what happens. I don’t fancy spending the next few years chasing shadows through mountains and forests.’
‘Quite.’ Cato reflected for a moment. ‘At least one of our officers appears to have the right idea. That centurion Quertus has made his mark on Caratacus. Sounds like a good man to have around when I take command of the Thracians.’
Macro scratched his chin. ‘Quertus might not be so pleased about it. He’s making a name for himself, and then you fetch up. Could be a difficult situation.’
‘Not if he’s half the officer you are, Macro.’ Cato stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘Better get some rest.’
They retrieved their saddlebags from the stable and made their way across to their quarters. Inside the small barrack block a single oil lamp provided just enough light to see. The tribunes had already settled down on their bedrolls, wrapped in their thick military cloaks. A handful were still awake as Macro and Cato picked their way over to the far corner and laid out their thin rolls of coarse cloth stuffed with horsehair.
‘I’m telling you,’ Decianus was muttering to his companions. ‘This campaign is going to be a disaster. These people are savages. No better than wild animals. .’
There was a pause before another tribune replied, ‘I don’t want to end up like Marcellus.’
‘We should leave the bastards to their mountains,’ Decianus continued. ‘Build a line of forts and hem them in. That would be best.’
Macro eased himself down on to his bedroll and cleared his throat. ‘Tribune, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to sleep. It ain’t easy if you’re going to sit there all night scaring the women.’
In the gloom, Cato could just make out the tribune opening his mouth to respond, then thinking better of it. Instead he lay down and pulled his cloak up to his chin and fell silent. Macro tutted gently and then shuffled into a comfortable position and a moment later began to snore lightly. Cato knew that there would only be a brief opportunity to get to sleep before Macro began snoring in earnest. He had taught himself a trick on their journey from Rome to clear his mind and drift off. He imagined building a small villa in the Alban Hills close to Rome. Room by room. Before he got as far as the triclinium he was asleep. However, if he ever came to that part, then he knew that a troubled night lay ahead. . A long day in the saddle and the nervous strain of the assembly took their toll and Cato was asleep even before he had completed the atrium, and thankfully, long before Macro’s deep rumbling filled the room, disturbing the slumber of the more anxious of the tribunes huddled along the far wall.
It was more than half a day’s hard ride to Glevum where the governor and his retinue continued north along the road to Cornoviorum. As they reined in at the top of a gentle slope, Cato, Macro and Decimus surveyed the scene below them. The Fourteenth Legion had constructed a large fortress on low ground close to the River Severnus and, as was usual, a large civilian vicus had established itself a short distance from the outer ditch of the fortress, just beyond bowshot. Most of the buildings were constructed in the native style, round huts of wattle and daub with thatched roofs. A small opening at the apex of the thatch served to let the smoke escape from the hearth inside. Some of the structures were more substantial affairs, erected by traders from Gaul who had followed their customers when the legions had been transferred to the army that had invaded Britannia. The vicus was where the off-duty soldiers could indulge their appetites for drink and women and, if the legion remained in the location, some of the men would take women for wives and raise families. Such arrangements were unofficial as common soldiers were forbidden to enter formal marriages whilst serving, but it was a long-established custom, and the men were only human after all.
In addition to the fortress, there were two smaller forts for the auxiliary, cavalry and infantry units attached to the Fourteenth Legion, and the entirety had the appearance of a modest town in the making as it lay beneath a thin skein of woodsmoke. On the far side of the river the landscape was open and flat, and in the distance Cato could see the grey mass of the line of hills that marked the boundary of Silurian territory. Clouds hung over the hills, obscuring the heavily forested mountains that lay beyond.
‘Not the most cheery of prospects,’ Macro commented. ‘But at least we’re no longer skulking around doing dirty work for Narcissus.’
‘Given the situation, that’s a small mercy, I think you’ll find.’ Cato clicked his tongue and urged his horse down the broad, muddy track that led to the eastern gate of the fortress. The route passed by a few small farms where the natives were sowing seeds in strip fields for summer crops of barley and wheat. They were so used to soldiers passing by that hardly anyone paid attention to the three riders. Only a small child, a boy, squatting in the muddy soil beside his mother, stared up from beneath a fringe of dark hair and smiled suddenly at Macro. The spontaneity of the infant’s expression touched his heart.
‘Look, Cato. Not everyone seems to hate us.’ Macro smiled back and winked at the child.
Cato shook his head. ‘Give ’em time. That one will reach for his sword soon enough.’
‘Quite the little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?’
Cato didn’t reply but spurred his horse into a trot and with a reluctant sigh Macro a
nd Decimus followed suit. The servant edged his pony towards Macro and muttered, ‘Excuse my asking, sir, but is the prefect often like this? You know, miserable?’
‘Oh no!’ Macro chuckled. ‘Only when he’s in a good mood.’
The child watched them for a moment longer before the smile disappeared and he turned his mind back to the simple straw figures clutched in his tiny fists. With a light growl he charged them towards each other and mashed them together.
As they made their way past the vicus, Macro gave it the once-over, a professional soldier’s assessment of the kinds of pleasures the makeshift settlement might provide, and made a mental note to pay a visit at the first opportunity. Two legionaries stood guard at the ramp leading across the ditch to the fortress gates. Cato had put on his armour that morning, after Decimus had given the breastplate a quick polish, and the gleaming metal and the red ribbon tied round his midriff indicated his rank and the sentries instantly snapped to attention. Behind them, the optio in command of the watch hastily called out the rest of the section who fell in either side of the gateway as Cato walked his horse across the ramp and returned the optio’s salute.
‘Is Legate Quintatus in camp?’
‘Yes, sir. Should be at headquarters.’ He hesitated briefly before he asked, ‘Your authorisation, sir?’
Cato reached into his saddlebag and brought out the small waxed slate bearing the governor’s seal and detailing his name, rank and purpose of travel. The optio examined it quickly before handing it back.
‘Very good, sir. You may pass.’
They rode under the gate and entered the fortress with its neatly ordered timber barracks stretching out either side of the broad avenue that led to the cluster of large buildings that formed the headquarters, senior officers’ accommodation and stores of the Fourteenth Legion. Off-duty soldiers sat outside their section rooms cleaning their armour or playing dice. Others were kitting up ready for the change of watch, or heading out on patrol. Some of the barracks were empty, their former occupants already detached from the legion to garrison the advance outposts. The light plink of hammers sounded from the armoury and a detail of men on fatigues headed towards the latrines carrying buckets, brushes and shovels. Macro smiled at the surroundings that were as familiar to him as any home.
‘Quintatus likes things nice and ordered.’
‘A spit and polish merchant,’ Decimus added sourly.
‘Which is half of what the army is all about. Can’t go out and kill barbarians in the name of Rome unless you look the part.’
The guards on duty at the gate passed them into the legion’s headquarters where Cato and Macro left Decimus with the horses and mules while they went to report to the legate. Despite the pending campaign there was a calm, efficient atmosphere to the place as clerks bent over their records and carried messages to and from the senior officers. Legate Quintatus was with the Fourteenth Legion’s quartermaster as his secretary announced their arrival.
‘A moment,’ Quintatus responded curtly from behind his desk and turned his attention back to the quartermaster, who stood stiffly before him. ‘The granary should have been inspected daily. That’s your responsibility. If you had done your duty then the rats would have been driven out before they ruined a thousand modii of grain. Now it needs making up.’
‘The next grain convoy is due to reach us by the end of the month, sir. I’ll send word that we need more to replace the losses.’
Quintatus shook his head. ‘The end of the month is not good enough. I want it replaced within the next five days.’
The quartermaster’s jaw sagged. ‘But-’
‘No excuses. See to it. If you can’t cut a deal with a reserve unit, then you’ll have to buy it from the natives. Dismissed.’
The quartermaster saluted and turned to leave the room, an anxious expression on his face. Quintatus let out a frustrated sigh, then fixed his penetrating gaze on the two officers standing just inside his office. ‘Well?’
Cato made the introductions and they handed over the slates detailing their service records. The legate looked at his visitors curiously for a moment before he read their records and nodded his satisfaction. ‘Glad to see you’ve served here before. And plenty of combat experience besides, though there are one or two gaps in the record.’
‘We were waiting for reassignment, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘On half pay in Rome.’
‘A waste of your talents. Sitting on your hands while some fat-arsed imperial clerk takes his time finding you a new job. Bloody bureaucrats, eh?’ A sympathetic smile flickered on his lips and then it was gone. ‘Now you’re here. No doubt itching to take up your posts and get stuck into the enemy.’
Macro grinned. ‘You’re reading my mind, sir.’
‘If that’s what you weren’t thinking then you’re no use to me. I won’t tolerate anyone who doesn’t pull their weight, gentlemen. No matter what their rank. We’re up against tough opposition and I want results. Clear?’
Cato nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘As it happens, I’ve been fortunate. . very fortunate to have Centurion Quertus on hand to take command of the outpost at Bruccium while we waited for you to arrive. Quertus has been taking the battle to the enemy at every opportunity. He’s burned more villages and killed more Silurians than any other man in the army. And the enemy have come to fear him. According to some of the prisoners we’ve taken, they call him the Blood Crow, and even the name strikes fear into their hearts.’
‘The Blood Crow. .’ Macro repeated and cocked an eyebrow at Cato. ‘Did the prisoners say why, sir?’
‘It’s straightforward enough. The Thracian cohort have a crow on their standard. I imagine the blood part is down to the methods used by Quertus and his men. It seems that the cohort has adopted the name for the unit. They call themselves the Blood Crows now.’
Cato felt a cold tingle at the base of his spine. ‘What methods do you mean, sir?’
The legate hesitated for a moment before he replied. ‘Centurion Quertus has risen from the ranks. He was recruited in Thrace, though his family comes from the mountains in Dacia, far from anything we might recognise as civilisation. So some might consider his methods. . questionable. But then the outpost is in the heart of Silurian territory and perhaps one needs to fight the barbarians on their own terms if we are to achieve victory. Speaking of which. .’ He reached to the side and drew out a long roll of parchment and spread it out across his desk. Cato saw that it was a map. The marks indicating the position of the Roman forces and the surrounding terrain were detailed, but large sections of the map were blank, beneath the inscription of the names of the Silurian and Ordovician tribes.
The legate tapped his finger on the map. ‘Glevum. I have the Fourteenth and two cohorts of auxiliary cavalry and four cohorts of infantry under my command. A third of my column is garrisoning the forts we have built, or are in the process of building. Our job is to control the valleys and act as the anvil upon which the main weight of the Roman army will strike like a hammer. The hammer is the main column under the governor. He is based further north, here, at Cornoviorum, with the Twentieth Legion, and twelve cohorts of auxiliaries. When he is ready to march, Ostorius intends to strike hard against the Ordovices, and then turn south against the Silures. If it goes to plan, then Caratacus and his forces will be trapped between us, and crushed.’
Cato studied the map, and though the lack of knowledge about much of the terrain over which the Roman forces would march concerned him, he could see the sense of the governor’s strategy. He nodded. ‘Seems like a sound plan, sir.’
Quintatus arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m so glad that you agree, Prefect. I’m sure that Ostorius would be pleased to know that he has your blessing. In any case, he has to find Caratacus first. The bastard’s proved to be as slippery as an eel. All that we know for certain is that he is in the territory of the Ordovices at present.’
Cato flushed, thought about replying but decided it would be better to keep his mouth shut and n
ot risk further opprobrium over his moment of hubris.
‘Your task, assuming it meets your approval, is to control the valley in which Bruccium is located.’ The legate indicated a symbol on the map. ‘You are to patrol the valley and keep it free of the enemy. If you see fit, you may extend the scope of your operations somewhat further. The last report I had from Quertus was over a month ago. He said that he had burned several native villages further to the west and south and claimed that he has killed over a thousand of the enemy. He has suffered considerable losses himself and I will be sending a reinforcement column to the fort as soon as the latest batch of reinforcements arrive from Gaul.’
Macro clicked his tongue ‘There’s been no word for over a month, sir? Anything could have happened in that time. It’s possible that the fort might have been overrun.’
‘If that was the case, then I think the enemy would have let us know by now. Caratacus always insists on trumpeting any good news for his side. No, I think Quertus is still very much in the game.’
Cato was examining the map and saw that Bruccium was deep inside Silurian territory, over sixty miles from Glevum, he estimated. Forty miles beyond the nearest Roman-occupied fort of any size. It was too exposed, he decided. Far too exposed. Any supply convoy making for Bruccium would have to cross the passes through the mountains before marching through densely forested valleys: perfect terrain for setting ambushes.
‘How often is the fort resupplied, sir?’
‘It isn’t.’
Cato frowned. ‘How is that, sir? Surely they have to be supplied. There must be several hundred men at Bruccium. Not to mention the horses.’
Quintatus shrugged. ‘The first few convoys got through. Heavily escorted. Then the Silurians got stuck in and we couldn’t get any more to the garrison. I sent word to Quertus that he had permission to fall back before his supplies ran out. He replied that he and his men would live off the land. That was his last word on the subject, so he must have found a way.’
‘That’s hard to believe, sir,’ said Macro. ‘He’s surrounded by the enemy. Surely they could starve him out if they put their minds to it.’
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