Roman 12 - The Blood Crows Read online

  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.’

  Mac
ro 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.’

  ‘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 stor
m,’ 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 other 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.’