‘True, but there’ll be few of them spoken in praise of Quertus, given that he was about to abandon the rest of us to Caratacus. I won’t be the only one to back up your account. Not by a long way.’
Cato smiled gratefully. ‘I know. I have no worries on that account.’ His expression became more thoughtful. ‘It’s a pity that it had to happen. There was some merit in Quertus’s tactics.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Why not? Fear is the best weapon that can be deployed in war. And he put fear into the hearts of the enemy sure enough. His mistake was in putting fear into the hearts of his own men.’
‘You do him too much credit, Cato. He was a bad ’un. That’s all. Bad, and mad, to the core, and he touched others with it. His men, the Silurians. . even me.’ Macro’s gaze slid away from Cato as he vividly recalled the deaths of Mancinus and Maridius. He winced, as if in pain. ‘Don’t make the mistake of speaking well of the dead. Some don’t deserve it.’ Macro glanced past Cato towards the wagon and called out, ‘All right, the bloody thing’s loaded so what are you waiting for? Get the wagon out of the fort and down to the parade ground and make sure no thieving bastards get their hands on it. Move!’
The driver of the wagon cracked his whip and the heavy wheels rumbled into motion as the vehicle and its escort left the courtyard and made for the side gate and the track leading round the fort to the parade ground. The melancholy spell of a moment earlier was broken and both men assumed the veneer of their rank as they turned back to each other.
‘That’s the lot.’ Macro drew himself up. ‘Fort’s ready to be fired, sir.’
Cato nodded. ‘Then I’ll wait for you with the rest of the men outside. Carry on.’
As Cato made his way back towards the burned remains of the wall facing the parade ground he heard Macro’s voice barking out the orders to the incendiary parties. By the time Cato reached the bottom of the slope and turned to look up, dark columns of smoke were swirling into the sky. Macro and a handful of his men emerged from one of the breaches in the wall and descended the track to join their comrades. Cato waved aside the man holding his horse. He felt that he wanted to walk for a while. The survivors of the garrison formed up and Cato waved his arm forward to signal them to advance and they fell into line at the rear of the column.
Far ahead, Legate Quintatus’s cavalry were snapping at the heels of Caratacus and his warriors. Soon they would be forced to turn and fight. There would be a great battle which would test the courage and skill of the men of both armies, Cato knew. If Rome triumphed, there was a chance for peace in the new province. If not, the bitter war would drag on year after year. The prospect depressed Cato. More death. More suffering. The natives would desperately cling to the hope that they would ultimately humble Rome. That would never happen, Cato mused. No emperor of Rome would allow it to happen, whatever the cost. That was what Caratacus and his followers should really fear.
Again, it came back to fear. Perhaps, in that regard, Quertus had been right all along.
‘We’re a bit thin on the ground,’ Macro said, breaking Cato’s thoughts. He turned to gesture at the small column of men and horses behind them. ‘Both cohorts have suffered heavy losses.’
‘True, but the legate has promised us first call on the replacements coming up from Londinium. We’ll return to the front line soon enough.’
Macro smiled at the prospect of breaking in some new recruits. ‘Back to straightforward, proper soldiering. At last.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato grinned at his friend. ‘We’ll drill them until they drop and when we do go up against the enemy, they’ll do us proud. Your men and the Blood Crows will be the best cohorts in the army. There won’t be a tribe in Britannia that can stand against us.’
Macro nodded. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘The first jar is on me, as soon as we make camp tonight.’
‘Why wait?’ Macro flipped his cloak back and drew out his canteen. ‘Took the liberty of helping myself to what was left of the Falernian. Not bad stuff.’ He offered the canteen to Cato. ‘You first. Rank has its privileges.’
Cato shook his head. ‘So does friendship. After you.’
Macro laughed, pulled out the stopper and took a healthy swig before he passed the canteen over to Cato. The prefect thought for a moment before he raised the canteen in a toast.
‘To Rome, to honour and, above all, to friendship!’
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The Blood Crows c-12 Page 41
