The Blood Crows

CHAPTER TWENTY

Two days later, just before dawn, Cato was lying on a bed of bracken in a shallow fold in the ground on the side of a steep hill. It had been a cold night and the clammy damp of the dew had caused him to shiver in the last hour before the glow of the rising sun crept above the crest of the mountains to the east. For the first time in many days the sky was clear and a fine day lay ahead. Cato had left his scarlet cloak back with the rest of the men camped in the trees and donned one of the black cloaks so as not to stand out against the landscape when dawn came. At his side Quertus was silently scanning the peaceful scene below them. To their right and left sprawled the heavily forested slopes of the ridge. A wide vale, a mile across, was filled with gently rolling cultivated land, sown in strips and interspersed with stone pens in which herds of goats lay still on the ground, providing warmth for the kids that had been born in the spring and now slept pressed into their mothers. There were several clusters of round huts, the largest occupying a hillock in the centre of the vale overlooking the surrounding landscape. The main hut was more than fifty feet across, Cato calculated, and a thin trail of smoke lifted lazily from the opening in the thatched roof. Two men leaned against the daubed walls either side of the entrance that they were guarding. More men were asleep around the remains of the fires that still smouldered on the open ground in front of the hut. Several small buildings were close by.

‘That’s our first target,’ Quertus said quietly as he pointed towards the main hut. ‘The tribe’s chief and his retinue. He’s got at least a hundred men down there. That’s quite a number for a village this size. He must have some visitors. Then there’ll be more men in the farmsteads. Perhaps another hundred men in their prime, but I doubt many of them have ever wielded anything more dangerous than a club or a scythe.’

‘Even a scythe can bring a tear to your eye.’ Cato suppressed a bitter smile as he thought of the grievous wound that had once been inflicted on him by a scythe-wielding Druid. The scar still made the skin around the side of his chest feel tight from time to time. He thrust the memory aside. ‘So, what is your usual plan of attack?’

Quertus studied the ground briefly before replying. ‘The vale at the far end opens out on to that river valley. I’ve sent four squadrons round the back of the hills to cut across the open ground and block any escape in that direction.’

Cato looked at him sharply. ‘This is the first I’ve heard about it. When did you give them their orders?’

‘Last night. When you and Centurion Macro were asleep.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me when I woke? As the prefect of the cohort I should be told.’

Quertus met his glare calmly. ‘As you said, sir, before we started out, you wanted to observe the tactics I have developed for my raids. Therefore I presumed that you wished to take no active part in the decisions of this operation. There was no need to tell you.’

Cato was silent for a moment. ‘If I am to understand your tactics, Quertus, then I need to follow every detail. Make sure that I am informed of every decision in future. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. Carry on.’

The Thracian sucked in a deep breath and continued. ‘Once the main escape route is covered, we launch our attack against the chief and his retinue. We ride down from the trees and charge towards the hillock the moment the alarm is raised. When it is, my men will make as much noise as possible. Helps to put the shits up the enemy. We hit the chief and his retinue as swiftly as possible and go in hard and take no prisoners. With no one to lead them and no standard to rally around, the rest of the men in the vale usually try to surrender. Some villagers will try and make a break for it, but they will run into the four squadrons spread out across their path. Then we move in and kill everything and burn every building to the ground. There will be some who manage to evade us, and they’ll bide their time until we have gone, and then emerge from their holes and run to the nearest tribes and relate what has happened to their allies. They in turn will send a patrol here to see for themselves and report back that the survivors were telling the truth.’ Quertus’s lips parted in a wolfish grin. ‘And that is how I strike terror into the hearts of the enemy. That is how the legend of the Blood Crows spreads across the land of the Silures and fills the bastards with fear.’

There was a strained tone to his voice as he concluded and Cato shot him a quick look. There was hatred there, and something more. But there was no time to reflect on that. The enemy would be stirring soon and the Thracian cohort must launch its attack to make the most of the element of surprise. But there was one matter that Cato was determined to resolve before the attack began.

‘Your plan is sound. There is only one change I want to make.’

Quertus looked at him sharply. ‘You said you were here to observe. Not interfere.’

‘Whatever I said, I am the commander of the cohort and I give the orders, and you will call me sir when you address me.’

Quertus stared back, struggling to keep his expression neutral. ‘I know what I am doing, sir. I’ve used these tactics many times before without any problems. There’s no need to change anything.’

‘That is for me to decide,’ Cato said firmly.

‘Oh really?’ Quertus shuffled back from the edge of the dip before raising himself up on to his knees. He moved with a sinuous grace for such a large man, Cato noted. Quertus casually flipped the side of his cloak across his shoulder to reveal his sword. Both men were still for a moment and Cato stared defiantly at the centurion. Then Quertus chuckled and rose to his feet so that he towered over the prone figure of his commander. ‘So what is it that you think I should change, sir?’

Cato was propped up on his elbows, looking over his shoulder, and felt both uncomfortable and vulnerable. He eased himself back, out of sight of the huts in the vale below and scrambled to his feet before he addressed the Thracian on more level terms, while watching him for any sign of treachery.

‘We’ll carry out your plan as you’ve stated it, but at the end I want prisoners. Once we’ve broken their resistance, we’ll take those that surrender alive.’

‘And why would we do that?’

Cato knew that he did not need to explain himself to any subordinate, but there was a dangerous gleam in the other man’s eyes and he did not want to force a confrontation while the two of them were alone.

‘Prisoners provide intelligence on the enemy, and they are worth good money.’ There was a third reason, that Cato did not hold with slaughtering women, children and other non-combatants. But he felt certain that to say this would only open him to Quertus’s ridicule.

‘They are the enemy, sir. Even the children. Savage barbarians, all of ’em!’ He spat. ‘Why let little nits grow up to become lice? Better put an end to them at one stroke.’

‘We spare them because when this campaign is over they will be part of the empire, and paying their taxes. I suspect that the Emperor would not take kindly to the prospect of having those whom he will one day rule put to the sword.’

‘The Emperor is not here. The Emperor does not know what savages these people are. They can never be civilised, only killed like the vermin they are.’ Quertus spoke through gritted teeth, as if in pain, and his eyes blazed with rage. ‘They deserve to be wiped out, every one of them! Village after village, man after man, even their cattle, their pigs, sheep and dogs. We must let nothing survive.’

Cato was momentarily shocked by his vehemence, and then he knew just how dangerous the Thracian was. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as he stared at the man, and fear, ice-cold, spread through his guts. He swallowed and tried to speak as calmly as possible. ‘Why? Why do you hate them so much?’

Quertus stared at Cato from under his thick brows. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Why should I? If there’s a reason, then tell me.’

The Thracian lowered his head so that Cato could no longer clearly see his expression. ‘Roman, I know the Silures. I have lived amongst them. I was once their prisoner. They treated me worse than a dog. Bound me and tormented me with hunger and thirst, and beat me. Mocked me. Made fun of me. . Humiliated me. Not just their warriors, but their women and children as well. You think children are innocent? Think again. Give them licence to do as they will and there is nothing they aren’t capable of. Nothing. Look.’ He rolled up his right sleeve and raised his arm. Cato saw that there was a crude lattice of white scar tissue. Quertus smiled grimly. ‘They did that with spear tips heated in the heart of a fire. On my arms, my legs, my back and chest. Children. . They must die along with the rest. I will have it no other way.’

Cato felt some sympathy for the other man’s torment. Both Macro and Julia had once been prisoners of a rebel gladiator and his band of followers, and even though they had rarely spoken of it, he knew the experience had scarred them both. But experience does not justify behaviour, he firmly believed. There were no exceptions. He took half a step away from the Thracian and he responded gently, ‘I am giving you an order, Centurion Quertus. We will take prisoners.’

‘No!’ Quertus lowered himself into a crouch, like a cornered beast, and his sword hand grasped the handle of his weapon. ‘They die! And I will kill any man who shows them mercy.’

‘Then you’ll have to kill me.’ Cato spoke without thinking and was horrified by his foolishness. His fingers crept up his thigh towards his sword.

‘Kill you?’ Quertus chuckled. ‘Do you think I couldn’t?’

Cato’s heart was beating like a hammer inside his chest. ‘I wouldn’t be the first Roman you have killed, right?’

‘Not by a long way, Prefect.’ There was a faint scrape as he began to draw his blade.

Cato reached for his weapon but resisted the temptation to rip it from the scabbard. ‘That’s enough, Quertus. Think about what you’re doing. You threaten me with a weapon and, by the gods, I swear I’ll have you crucified.’

‘What’s going on here, then?’ a gruff voice interrupted. Cato glanced to his left and saw Macro emerging from the gloom, picking his way through the stunted saplings growing along the edge of the hollow. There was a small growl of frustration in Quertus’s throat before he sheathed his weapon and eased himself into a more erect posture. Cato followed suit, his heart still pounding inside his chest. In a wild moment of fancy he thought about calling on Macro to help him kill Quertus here and now while they had the chance. But there was the danger that he might fatally injure one of them. And what if they returned to the camp without the Thracian? How would his men react? Whatever story Cato made up, they would be suspicious and send someone to look for their leader. When they found the body, they would tear Cato and Macro apart. With bitter realisation he knew that this was not the time to act. He turned to his friend and tried to sound calm.

‘Macro, what are you doing here?’

‘You’ve been a long time, sir. I was worried. Came to make sure nothing had happened to you. Both of you.’

If his meaning was clear to Cato, it was just as clear to Quertus who glanced up at the sky and pressed his lips together before he spoke.

‘We’d better get on with it, sir. Before the enemy stir.’

‘Yes.’ Cato nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on Quertus. ‘Back to the camp. You lead the way.’

Quertus set off at once, striding up and out of the hollow, his bulky shoulders brushing through the slender limbs of the saplings, spraying dew in his wake. Cato hurried after him and Macro fell into step at his shoulder.

‘You all right, sir?’ he asked softly.

‘Fine.’

‘Looks like I turned up at the right moment just then. What was going on?’

‘A difference of opinion. That’s all.’

Macro was quiet for a moment. ‘A difference of opinion with that Thracian cunt is likely to be the death of a man. You’d better keep a close watch on him.’

‘I already am, believe me.’

They struggled to keep up with Quertus as they left the saplings and entered the tall pines that stretched up the slope. Already a pale light was spreading across the sky and filling the trees with a milky hue. Ahead Quertus strode swiftly, occasionally glancing back, but he neither slowed his pace to let them catch up nor tried to draw ahead and leave them behind. He seemed content to maintain a safe distance between them. A short while later they reached the clearing where the four squadrons of Thracian cavalry had spent the night without fires to warm them. The men had already saddled their mounts and stood in small groups, talking in undertones, their spears against their shoulders and their oval shields resting on the ground.

As soon as they spied their leader they hurried to their horses, took the reins and waited for their orders. Quertus swung himself up into the saddle and called out as loudly as he dared, ‘Mount up!’

Cato and Macro took their horses from one of the handlers and mounted. They eased their horses into position amongst the standard-bearer and the horn-blowers. Quertus sat tall in his saddle, a short distance apart surveying the hundred and twenty men of his main force. When the last of them had steadied themselves in their saddles and the only sounds were the champing of the horses and the scrape of their hoofs on the ground, Quertus nodded with satisfaction.

‘Prepare to move out!’

He turned his horse towards the narrow trail leading out of the clearing and clicked his tongue. His horse trotted forward and Cato, Macro and the others followed on. Behind them the squadrons followed in column, until the air was filled with the clatter and clop of hoofs and the chinkle of the iron bits and curbs. A hundred paces through the trees the trail emerged on to the ancient track that led into the valley and Quertus turned the column down the gentle slope. For a short distance the trees obscured the landscape ahead and then, suddenly, they were riding in the open with grazing land on either side, where a handful of hardy cattle turned and bolted at their sudden appearance.

A mile in the distance, Cato could see the hillock upon which the chief’s hut dominated the vale. Ahead, the track passed close by one of the clusters of smaller huts that made up the tribal settlement. Beyond, the track led past some pens and the leather covers of grain pits before dropping down to a fast-flowing stream. On the other side of a ford the track led up the slope of the hillock.

Quertus raised his sword arm and called out, ‘At the canter!’

He urged his horse on and the animal kicked down and reared slightly before lurching forward at a faster pace. The men behind him followed suit and the air around Cato filled with the muffled thunder of hundreds of hoofs. A face appeared at the entrance of a hut closest to the track and a man leaned out, his eyes wide with alarm. He shouted a warning and ducked back out of sight. An instant later the column pounded by the hut and Cato saw a woman emerge from another hut further off, an infant clutched to her chest. She glanced at the standard and turned and ran, away from the settlement towards the treeline. More figures appeared and fled, in all directions. One of the horsemen veered off and instantly drew the attention of an officer who bellowed at him to rejoin the column.

The ford appeared ahead and then Cato was plunging through the water, exploding in a chaos of silver spray as the horses churned through the current. Quertus slowed the pace on the far bank and thrust his arm to the side. ‘Form line!’

The colour party, with Cato and Macro, formed the centre of the line and the squadrons alternated to the right and left.

‘Up there!’ Macro thrust out his arm and pointed up the slope. ‘They’ve seen us.’

Several men had piled out of the huts and were gesticulating down the slope, calling their comrades to arms.

In a matter of moments the line was formed. As the last of the men on the flank edged their mounts into place, there was a sharp blare from a horn, and an instant later the sound was taken up by another horn further off.

‘That’s stirred them up,’ Quertus growled. ‘No time to waste. We strike now.’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Blood Crows! At the command! Charge!’