The Blood Crows

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was a storm during the night and rain slashed down on to the wood shingle tiles and gushed in torrents down the narrow streets between the barrack blocks. But it eased and then stopped just before dawn and the sun rose into a sky that was a patchwork of blue and scattered cloud. The garrison marched out on to the levelled ground below the fort and formed up in front of the mound of earth that served as the commander’s review stand. The ground was sodden and the boots and hoofs of the men and the cavalry mounts quickly turned the track leading from the gate into a quagmire. A handful of the stakes burdened by the heads had collapsed in to the mud and Quertus had set a small party to work putting them back up more securely.

Cato and Macro left the fort before Severus and the first century of legionaries marched out and made their way to the stand to watch proceedings closely. The legionaries, as was their privilege, formed up in their centuries, four ranks deep, at the centre of the parade ground. Even though he knew how few effectives remained in his new command, Macro felt a bitter disappointment as he looked out over the surviving pair of centuries. Their number made a mockery of the colour party where the six standards joined the cohort standard-bearer and the men carrying the curved brass horns over their shoulders.

By contrast, the Thracian cohort appeared to be at full strength and fielded ten squadrons of riders, forming five on each flank of the legionaries. The unit’s standard-bearer advanced his mount to the right of the line and unfurled a red banner with a black crow clutching a small skull in its claws. Cato’s force looked woefully unbalanced as it stood, formed up, in silence. The last man to reach the parade ground was Centurion Quertus. He rode down the length of the formation, sitting erect in his saddle and surveying them with a haughty air of ownership. Then he turned his horse and walked it slowly over to the review stand where he casually dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly before climbing the ramp.

‘Good of you to join us,’ said Macro as he stepped forward to the right of Cato.

The Thracian said nothing but took up his position on the prefect’s left and stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. A light breeze was blowing and it stirred the manes of the horses, the dark cloaks of the Thracians, the banner of the Blood Crows and the crests of the officers’ helmets.

Cato took out the leather tube and extracted the document authorising him to take command. After the conversation he had had with Quertus the previous night, and another with Macro before dawn, he felt anxious. If the Thracian centurion chose this moment to challenge him, in front of the men he had ruled for months with a rod of iron, then Cato had no illusions about his fate. If he was lucky he would be arrested and locked in the safe room below the headquarters. Accordingly he had decided to play it cautiously, until he had had a chance to establish himself at the fort; he would bide his time until he discovered Quertus’s weak point.

Cato unrolled the document and began to read.

‘I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Germanicus, first citizen, chief priest, father of the nation, do hereby proclaim that Quintus Licinius Cato has been appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry Cohort. The said Quintus Licinius Cato is entrusted to uphold the honour of the cohort, obey the officers placed over him, and swear to devote his life to the Emperor and the Senate and people of Rome.’ Cato paused to add emphasis to what followed. ‘This appointment is by imperial decree, and the officers and men over whom Quintus Licinius Cato has been placed in command are reminded that they are bound by the oath that they took on enlistment to obey those placed in authority over them as they would their Emperor, without question, upon pain of the full rigour of military law. By my hand I affirm this.’

Cato turned the document round and held it aloft so that all could see the imperial seal at the bottom. He waited a moment before lowering the authority, rolling it up again and placing it back in the leather tube. Then he surveyed the men before him for a moment before he began his address.

‘You know my name. You know my rank. And you may know that I have come from Rome to take up this command. But that is all you know. Some of you will have served under a number of different commanders. Most of them will have been the sons of wealthy and well-connected noble families in Rome. Some of your commanders may have worked their way up the ranks. I come from the second tradition. I joined the Second Legion while it was stationed on the Rhine. That is where I fought my first battle, against German tribesmen. After that, the legion joined the army being formed to invade Britannia. I was there at the landing, and at every battle before Caratacus was defeated before his capital at Camulodunum. Since then I have fought the Durotriges, the Druids of the Dark Moon and many other enemies of Rome.

‘So, gentlemen, you see before you a soldier who has earned the right to be your prefect and commander of the garrison at Bruccium. I am no pampered aristocrat. I have experienced the freezing cold of sentry duty on a winter’s night, as you have. I have felt the lash of a centurion’s vine cane, as you have. I know what it is to march day after day in full armour loaded down with my kit and rations, and then to have to build a fort each evening. I know what to expect from the men under my command, because I have been in your boots, I have lived and fought as you have and carry the scars to prove it.’ He was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘I expect the highest standards from the men I command and I will be satisfied with nothing less. The campaign against the Silures and the Ordovices has been bitterly fought over the last three years. Many thousands of our comrades have already given their lives to the struggle, but their sacrifice has not been in vain. Governor Ostorius has gathered a powerful army which will strike the decisive blow against the enemy before this year is out. We here today will play our part in that great struggle. We will play our part in that victory. We will win our share of the glory, the spoils and add garlands and medals to our battle standards!’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Honour to the Second Thracian! Honour to the Fourteenth Legion!’

Macro echoed his cry, as did the legionaries standing on the parade ground, but the dark figures sitting in their saddles remained still and silent.

When the thin cheers of the legionaries had died away, Quertus stirred himself and drew his long-bladed cavalry sword and raised it directly towards the heavens, and his voice bellowed out over the parade ground.

‘Honour to the Blood Crows!’

At once, all the riders punched their spears up, a wavering forest of gleaming points, and their cry rang in the ears of the three officers on the reviewing platform. Quertus repeated the cry over and over again, his men responding with frenzied roars. Macro glanced at Cato and saw the firm set of his jaw and the bitter look of resentment in his expression. They exchanged a quick look and Macro felt a stab of concern for his friend.

At length Quertus lowered his sword and sheathed the weapon, and at once his men fell eerily silent. As the Thracian resumed his place at the prefect’s side, Cato swallowed, stepped forward and turned to face the other officers.

‘That all but concludes the formalities, gentlemen. There only remains one final matter before I inspect the men.’ Cato paused, knowing that what he was about to say would come as a shock to Macro, but it was a necessary step in the present circumstances. The cheering of the Thracians a moment earlier simply confirmed his decision. He cleared his throat. ‘I have decided to appoint you as my second-in-command, Centurion Quertus. You have the ear of the men and know them well. Do you accept?’

He stared at Quertus, until at length the Thracian’s lips curled in a slight smile and he said, ‘I accept, sir.’

‘Good. I trust you will carry out your responsibilities in an efficient, and obedient, manner.’

‘Of course. You can rest assured that I will give you the benefit of my experience and advice, for as long as you command the garrison, sir.’

‘I thank you. Now, I’d like to inspect the men. Have the Thracians dismount and form two lines.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus offered a salute and then turned away to descend the platform and stride across to his men, bellowing orders.

Cato stared after him, acutely aware of the silent presence of Macro at his shoulder.

‘I imagine that you are wondering about my decision.’

‘Not my place to, sir,’ Macro replied curtly. ‘You are the commander of the garrison. You give the orders.’

Cato nodded to himself and felt a surge of irritation at the impulse to explain himself to Macro. His promotion to the rank of prefect after two years of temporary commands had made him superior in authority to his friend. He would have to be sparing with his moments of friendship and especially in seeking advice from the only man he had ever considered a close friend. Cato felt a brief sense of loss as he thought of the years in which he had shared the same rank as Macro. That sense of equality was lost to him now. Lost to both of them, he realised, understanding that Macro would rue its passing at least as much as himself. It was tempting to indulge himself in a moment of loneliness but Cato grimly suppressed his emotions, cursing himself for being weak enough to let them divert him from the obligations and dangers of the present. It had been a hard thing to do to choose Quertus as his second-in-command. He had considered confronting the man, removing him from his command and putting an end to his intolerable challenge to the discipline of the army. But if he tried to face Quertus down now, there was every chance that most of the men in the garrison would back the Thracian. If that happened, he and Macro would be in grave danger. Until the reinforcements arrived, Cato knew that he had to let Quertus think that he could exercise control over his new prefect. Once Cato had enough men at his back who owed no allegiance to the Thracian, then he could put Quertus back in his place.

‘The men are ready for inspection, sir,’ Macro prompted.

‘Very well.’ Cato drew himself up and marched down towards the lines of waiting men. Quertus stood with the colour party of his cohort, beneath the black crow on his standard. He waited until the prefect had passed by before falling into step beside Macro as they followed the garrison commander along the front line of soldiers. Cato’s experienced eyes took in every detail of the men before him. The troopers of the Thracian cohort would have broken the heart of any legionary centurion responsible for drilling these men. The black cloaks that they wore were spattered with mud and streaked with grime and no attempt had been made to repair any fraying edges or small tears. Their hair was wild and unkempt and most of them sported tattoos on their faces. Although Cato had seen some of these men the day before, the impact of viewing an entire cohort was unnerving from a professional point of view. He had been in the army long enough to have certain expectations about the appearance of soldiers, as well as their performance, and to recognise the link between the two. But the barbaric sight that the cohort presented was itself unnerving, and he could well understand the effect this might have on an enemy who had grown used to the spit and polish of the Roman army. Quertus and his men appearing out of the mists that wreathed the mountainous landscape would strike terror into the hearts of their victims.

He stopped in front of a tall, gaunt man. ‘Show me your sword.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man leaned his spear against his shoulder and drew the long blade from its scabbard. The spatha came out freely and the man flashed it up to the vertical for Cato to see it clearly. The metal gleamed and there was no sign of the pitting and specks of rust of a poorly maintained weapon. Cato raised his hand and tested the edge with his fingers and found it to be well honed and as sharp as could be expected. He nodded.

‘That’s fine. Now open your cloak.’

The trooper did as he was ordered and Cato saw that the iron rings of his body armour gleamed dully from a fresh application of sand and hard rubbing with a leather cloth. Despite the wild appearance of his men, Quertus clearly insisted that their weapons and armour were well looked after. He ordered the man to sheath his sword and examined a random handful of others and noted with approval that they took good care of their kit. Then he turned his attention to their mounts. The horses were large and powerfully built, typical of the stocks bred for the army in Gaul and Hispania. They had shed most of their winter coats, but the flanks of the horses had not been groomed so as to leave them matted with mud which obscured the identifying brands on their rumps. But it was in keeping with the savage look of the cohort. Even so, the saddles and tackle were well maintained and the horses appeared well fed and alert.

Cato turned to Quertus. ‘They have been worked up to hard condition, I take it.’

‘Yes, sir. I had ’em exercised and drilled from the end of winter. They’re good and ready for battle. They’ve already had a fresh taste of it earlier this month.’

‘I see. That’s good. The men and mounts are in good shape, Centurion, despite their appearance. That may be a matter that requires attending to in due course.’

‘What does it matter what they look like, as long as they kill the enemy. . sir?’

Cato raised his voice so that the surrounding men would hear him clearly. ‘It matters because I say so.’

Quertus frowned briefly. ‘Very well, sir.’

Cato was conscious of the need not to push his authority too quickly and turned to Macro. ‘And now the legionaries of your cohort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.

They paced past the gap between the two units and were joined by Centurion Severus as they began their inspection of the legionaries. Cato saw that the majority of them had drawn features and he sensed their wariness as he passed slowly along each rank. In contrast to the Thracians they were neatly turned out and their helmets were polished, shields well maintained and their weapons every bit as lethal as those of their mounted comrades. But they failed to conceal their nervousness.

‘You!’ Cato pointed a finger at a man who was leaning forward slightly, resting his weight on the rim of his shield. ‘Stand up straight.’ He stopped in front of the man and stared hard at him. ‘Name?’

‘Caius Balbus, sir.’

‘Is this how you present yourself on parade? Have you been drinking?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why are you standing there like a pickled old fart?’

Balbus grimaced and forced himself to straighten up, gritting his teeth. Severus stepped closer to Cato and spoke quietly. ‘The man is sick, sir. Most of them are. Sick, or weak. Hardly surprising when they’re on half-rations most of the time. Even less, when supplies grow short between the raids on enemy villages.’

Cato took a deep breath as he considered the situation. Another of the challenges he faced in dealing with Quertus. But perhaps this would be easier to resolve. It made no sense for Quertus and his cohort to ride out and leave the fort in the hands of men in poor condition to defend Bruccium. But then, the Thracian had probably calculated that the Silures would not dare to enter the valley guarded by the grisly trophies of the savage warriors who had thrust their way into the heart of the tribe’s lands and built themselves an almost impregnable fort there.

‘How many men are too sick to attend parade?’ Cato asked.

Severus quickly consulted his wax tablet. ‘Fifteen men from the First Century and twelve from the Second.’

‘And none from the other centuries.’

‘There are no other centuries, sir. I merged what was left of the cohort into two centuries ten days ago. The sick are on the rolls of the merged units. There should be ten or so more of ’em but I gave the order that every man who could still stand was to take part in the parade.’

Cato gestured towards Balbus. ‘This one is having difficulty even standing. Get him off the parade ground and into the infirmary. He’s to rest and be fed until his strength has returned. Same for the rest of them.’

Severus glanced towards Quertus who was standing with his officers, laughing and talking together informally. ‘The standing orders are that legionaries are to be given no more than the specified ration, sir.’

‘Then I’m specifying a new ration for them,’ Cato responded irritably. ‘We can’t have men too weak to hold the walls of the fort.’

‘Then can I have your order in writing, sir? I’ll need to present my authority to draw extra rations to the quartermaster. He’s one of the Thracians.’

‘Fuck,’ Macro muttered. ‘This is getting too bloody much to bear. Those auxiliary bastards need to be put in their place, sir.’

Cato was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll deal with it, as soon as the parade is over. Centurion Severus!’

‘Sir?’

‘Send Balbus to the infirmary. Him and anyone else too weak to take their place in the battle line. Centurion Macro, you may dismiss your cohort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and turned to the men and drew a deep breath. ‘Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, dismissed!’

The legionaries stiffened to attention, then turned in unison and stamped down their right boots, before breaking ranks and turning towards the gate of the fort. Macro waited a moment before he spoke to Cato. ‘I’ll come to headquarters to collect the authorisation for the ration increase then, sir.’

‘Of course. I’ll join you there directly. Once I’ve dismissed Quertus and his men.’

Macro saluted and beckoned to Severus to join him as he made for the fort. Cato headed back to the Thracian cohort and gave Quertus permission to dismiss his men. As the men led their mounts away, Cato called their commander to join him.

‘There’s one other thing. The Silurian prisoner. He needs to be interrogated.’

‘I’ve already seen to that, sir. My lads dealt with it last night.’

Cato gave him a cold look. ‘I said Centurion Macro would handle the interrogation. I did not order you to do it.’

‘I took the initiative, sir. Seemed to me that the sooner we made the bastard talk, the better.’

‘I see. And did he reveal the location of his village?’

Quertus smiled. ‘He was as good as gold. Gave us very precise directions as well as the number of men under arms.’

‘Very good.’ The anger Cato felt over the Thracian’s taking on the interrogation faded as he contemplated the opportunity afforded by the information given up by the prisoner. ‘Then we can prepare a punitive expedition as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll tell the men.’

‘I will be leading the raid, and Centurion Macro will be joining us. I’m keen to see my new cohort in action.’

Quertus’s smile faded quickly. ‘That’s not necessary, sir. My boys and I know the ropes. Leave it to me and we’ll deal with the Silurians.’

‘I’ve made my decision, Centurion. I’ll see you at headquarters at noon to plan the raid. Bring the prisoner with you. He may be able to provide a few further details if they’re needed.’

Quertus raised his eyebrows.

‘Problem, Centurion?’

‘It’s just that we don’t have the prisoner any more.’

‘What do you mean? He’s escaped?’

‘No, he’s still here. It’s just that I decided we had got all the information that we needed from him.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Just tell me where he is.’

Quertus raised a hand and pointed towards the track leading up to the fort. ‘Just over there.’

Cato turned and glanced round. ‘Why is he out here? I can’t see him. Where is he?’

‘There. Last stake.’

Cato felt a cold dread chill his flesh. He forced himself to look at the avenue of impaled heads, the nearest of which looked more freshly butchered than the rest. He felt his stomach knot as he recognised the bruised features of the young man they had captured two days earlier.

‘Turrus. .’