Britannia

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Hey, Optio!’ one of the men called out. ‘Since they’re handing out promotions to the rank and file, do you think you could put in a word for me? I’m sick of staring at your horse’s arse at the head of the line.’

The other men of the patrol laughed loudly, and Pandarus shifted in his saddle to look back down the narrow track.

‘Diomedes, if they ever promote you, then the rest of the rankers will be hard pressed to tell you from the back end of your horse. The army could not afford such confusion.’

The men laughed again, this time at their comrade’s expense, and after the briefest of delays, Diomedes joined in, anxious to be seen to take it as well as he dished it out.

It had been a month since Optio Pandarus had been elevated to his new rank, and yet he was still being ribbed by his comrades. And mightily wearing it was becoming too, he mused with a flick of the reins. He was leading the patrol along the forest track that angled up the side of the valley towards a prominent ridge. In the last few days the sky had been mostly clear. But the change in weather had been accompanied by a sharp drop in temperature, and the morning frosts had been bitter indeed. It was close to noon, yet the sun was still low in the sky and gave off little warmth.

The clouds and mists had dissipated, and Pandarus hoped to gain a clear view over the surrounding landscape from the top of the ridge. It would be good to have something of note to report back to the centurion when the patrol returned to the fort at the end of the day – rather than the usual run of fleeing shepherd boys and abandoned villages that had greeted their approach. Occasionally they had seen women and children disappearing into the forests, but there had been no sign of any men. And that was concerning Pandarus and the fort’s commander, since it implied only one thing: that the men had gone off to fight somewhere. Perhaps against rival tribes, or, more worrying, they might be gathering to cause grief to the nearest Roman outposts.

Still, he reflected, there had been no sign of any problems yet, and no attempt to make trouble for the garrison at the fort. Which was just as well given the poor state of the Illyrian auxiliaries sent to replace the Blood Crows and the cohort from the Fourteenth Legion. Although they had been drilled hard over recent days, they would only be able to mount a token resistance against a determined enemy attack. Pandarus wondered if they were typical of the reserve formations called forward to garrison the frontier forts stripped of good fighting men to fill out the ranks of the army advancing deep into the mountains. If that was the case, then the first line of defence of the new province was very delicate indeed.

Despite his lowly rank, Pandarus had a sound grasp of the perennial problem afflicting every Roman commander since the invasion of Britannia had begun. Namely that in order to claim new territory, or to meet a threat, it was necessary to concentrate all available forces, but to maintain control over territory it was necessary to disperse forces. Either way, the initiative passed to the enemy, who could harass the frontier defences and then retreat into the mountains at the first sign of a larger Roman force, only to emerge again and continue their harassment once the danger had passed. It was the kind of warfare that the Deceanglians and their allies excelled at, resulting in the long years of attrition as the frontier rippled forward and ebbed back. The tribes’ only weakness lay in the occasional desire of their leaders to quench their thirst for glory by meeting the Romans in battle. It had been the undoing of Caratacus, and in time it would be the same for those that succeeded him. At least that was what the Roman high command was depending on, thought Pandarus.

‘We should be heading back to the fort,’ said Diomedes, breaking into his train of thought. ‘At this rate it’ll be dark before we do.’

‘Scared of the dark, are we?’ another rider chuckled. ‘Perhaps you joined the wrong cohort, Diomedes. You sound more like one of them Illyrians than a Blood Crow.’

Pandarus looked back over his shoulder and saw Diomedes rein in and drop back alongside his comrade with an angry expression.

‘You can fuck right off with that notion, mate. Call me one of those good-for-nothing bastards again and I’ll take your bloody head off.’

The man raised a hand and leaned away from Diomedes. ‘Easy there! I just said you sounded like one of ’em.’

‘That’s enough!’ Pandarus snapped. ‘Get moving, Diomedes. We’ll turn back to the fort when I say. Not before. Now, all of you, keep your mouths shut and your eyes and ears open. This is the enemy’s turf, and it’s better that we see them before they see us.’

The men fell silent and the patrol continued up the track. They were passing through a belt of pine trees beneath which dark shadows crowded in on either side, and Pandarus felt a light chill at the base of his neck. He could understand the men’s nervous chatter, their need for relief from the wearisome tension that came with every patrol into the enemy’s lands. The bitterness of the conflict between Rome and the mountain tribes meant there were few illusions about the fate of any Roman unfortunate enough to be captured. The Celts had a fondness for decorating their huts with the heads of their enemies.

The horses’ hooves padded softly over the bed of needles lying over the track. The only other sounds were the faint rustle of the breeze blowing through the tops of the trees close to the ridge, and the cawing of crows wheeling like flecks of soot high above the rocky crest of the mountain. Soon the track widened and passed out of the trees, and Pandarus saw the crest of the ridge no more than a quarter of a mile away. He felt relieved to be back in the open and decided that they would quickly survey the valley on the far side before turning back to the safety of the fort. As they approached the crest, he slowed his mount and halted the patrol. Then he swung his leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground. He gently patted his horse’s flank to steady the animal.

‘Dismount,’ he ordered, then held his reins out to Diomedes. ‘Keep nice and quiet while I’m gone, eh? Same goes for the rest of you.’

Diomedes bowed his head in mock respect. ‘Whatever the optio commands.’

‘That’s right, Trooper. Don’t you forget it.’

Pandarus thought about taking his shield and spear, but dismissed the idea. It was his role to observe, not to get involved in a fight. He patted the sword at his side, out of a sense of superstitious habit, and strode up the short stretch of track to the crest. The wind picked up sharply as it gusted over the ridge, which was bare of anything but rocks and tussocks of grass, and Pandarus shivered as he hunched his neck down into the folds of his cloak. He had grown up in the mountains of Thrace and was well used to the bitter weather that winter brought to such a landscape. Only the most hardy beasts ventured abroad, while the people huddled in their smoky huts and sat out the worst of the snow, ice and wind. It would be no different here in Britannia. Pandarus and the rest of the garrison would spend most of the winter in their barracks, when not on sentry or other duties. He offered a quick prayer to the gods on behalf of the rest of the cohort that Quintatus would crush the Deceanglians and the Druids swiftly and be back behind the ramparts of Viroconium before the first snow fell.

He was breathing more deeply as he reached the crest, and the steam from his breath was torn away in faint shreds as he gazed down into the valley adjacent to the one the patrol had been assigned to explore. The heavily forested hillside dropped away sharply before levelling out far below. At once his eyes were drawn to a large expanse of cleared and cultivated land. In the middle of it lay a modest ditch and palisade enclosing several large huts and small livestock pens. Thin trails of smoke issued from the huts, but there was little sign of movement: just a solitary woman splitting logs. All the same, Pandarus hurried a short distance down the slope so that he would not stand out against the skyline should anyone down in the valley happen to look in his direction. He found a cluster of bare rocks and settled there to shelter from the wind as he continued his observation. At length he spotted a small group of figures, children as far as he could make out, laden with more fuel for the village’s fires. But there was no sign of any men.

He raised his hands and blew some hot breath into them before rubbing them together vigorously. There was little to report here. The village posed no threat and might yield a few slaves if Centurion Macro could be persuaded to authorise a raid. As the acting commanding officer of the garrison, Macro stood to gain the lion’s share of the value of any captives, and Pandarus would come out of it with a handsome sum to add to his savings. Enough maybe to set aside a decent amount for the funeral club, so that he would have a tombstone worthy of him rather than the usual plain affair, cheaply inscribed, that was all most common soldiers could afford to mark their lives.

The optio watched long enough to conclude that the native village was defended by women and children only, and presented an easy target. He was about to emerge from the rocks and return to his men when he caught sight of movement at the edge of the forest further down the valley. A solitary rider emerged into the open, cloaked and armoured, with feed nets strung behind his saddle. A shield hung across his back and he carried a spear in his right hand. There was no doubting that this was one of their warrior caste. Within moments, another rider emerged from the trees, then more, forming a column that extended out of the forest like the head of a vast snake. At first Pandarus thought it might be a hunting party, returning to the village, but they kept coming, hundreds of them. This was no small band of warriors, he realised with a growing chill tingling at the back of his neck.

The last of the horsemen cleared the forest, and now came the head of a column of infantry, wrapped in furs and carrying an assortment of shields, spears, swords and axes. Some appeared to be wearing armour, helmets and greaves looted from Roman patrols they had ambushed and cut down. Pandarus watched as the enemy column extended along the floor of the valley. There was no mistaking that he was looking at a powerful force marching north towards the line of advance taken by Legate Quintatus. He grasped the significance of the enemy’s direction at once, and knew he must return to the fort to make his report without further delay.

He was about to rise to his feet when he heard the snort of a horse close at hand, and froze. At once he reached for the handle of his sword, and drew a sharp breath as he peered cautiously around the boulder that was sheltering him from the wind. A horseman was approaching. A bearded warrior wrapped in furs. His mount was one of the small, stocky breeds favoured by the mountain tribes, and it whinnied as the rider urged it along the slope. Pandarus shifted back into cover, furious with himself for having waited too long before returning to the patrol. He should have anticipated that the enemy would be deploying scouts too, especially if they were concerned to close up on the Roman army unawares.

He considered whether it would be best to try and let the man pass by and then slip back to the others, then realised that if the enemy scout chose to ride along the crest, he would be sure to spot the waiting auxiliaries and raise the alarm. With their superior knowledge of the terrain and horses better suited to negotiating it, the enemy stood a good chance of running the patrol down. He had no choice. The scout had to be dealt with. And it would be better to take him alive, if possible, to gain intelligence of the enemy’s precise intentions.

Pandarus released his grip on the handle of the sword and reached into his side bag for the iron knuckle guard he had bought back in Londinium to give him the edge in the drunken scrimmages that had frequently broken out between off-duty men of rival units. He slipped his fingers into the grip and clenched his fist. The rider was passing the rocks, the soft thump of hooves filling Pandarus’s ears. He caught the tang of horse sweat and the more acrid odour of the enemy warrior. The muzzle, head and flank of the animal loomed close by, and he braced his feet, ready to spring forward. His boots ground against the scree, and the horse shimmied as the rider glanced to the side, his jaw dropping in surprise.

Pandarus exploded from behind the boulder and hurled himself at the rider, grabbing him by the arm and wrenching him sideways from his saddle. The warrior just had time to let out a thin cry before the optio smashed his knuckle guard against the side of his head. The blow glanced off at an angle, ripping through the man’s scalp. Then they tumbled together on to the slope as the horse bucked and lurched away. Pandarus strained to keep his grip on the warrior’s sword arm, slamming his other hand down to steady himself so that he could get purchase with his boots. The tribesman swiftly recovered from his surprise and now lashed out wildly with his spare hand and his feet, kicking at Pandarus’s body. Blood flowed freely from the tear in his scalp, and flicked into the optio’s face as they fought.

The warrior’s free hand came up, fingers stretched out as he clawed at Pandarus’s throat. Pain exploded in the optio’s neck, and he clamped down with his chin to stop the man throttling him. Swinging his arm back, he bunched his muscles and slammed the knuckle guard into his foe’s gut, driving the air from his lungs. Hot breath flushed across his face. For an instant, the grip on his throat slackened, and he jerked back, opening a small gap between their bodies. He struck again, directly at the man’s face, and the iron guard tore at his broad nose and crushed the bone beneath. The warrior’s eyes widened in agony and rage, and his yellowed teeth bared in a wild snarl as blood coursed from his nostrils. Pandarus drew his fist back and threw all his weight into the next blow, striking directly at the temple. He connected squarely, and the warrior’s head snapped to the side, limbs spasming, before his body went limp and slumped into the tussocks of grass on the slope of the hill.

Pandarus crouched over him, fist raised, then saw that his foe was out cold and eased himself back on his heels, breathing hard. Once he had caught his breath, he stood and slipped the bloodied knuckle guard from his trembling hand and returned it to his side bag. The warrior’s horse stood a short distance away, eyeing him warily, its ears twitching.

‘Easy there, boy.’ Pandarus spoke softly, edging slowly towards the beast. He took the reins and stroked the horse’s cheek until the animal had calmed sufficiently to be led back to its fallen rider. Then, cutting strips from the man’s woven tunic, Pandarus bound his hands and feet, before gagging him and lifting him across the saddle. Satisfied that his prisoner was secure and would not fall off, he took a last glance at the native army snaking across the floor of the valley. He made a quick estimate of their strength and then turned to lead the horse towards the crest of the ridge and his men waiting for him on the far side.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘Out of bounds!’ Macro shouted from the reviewing mound looking over the drill ground outside the fort. In front of him, an area had been marked out for a Harpastum pitch, with posts at each corner and a shallow chalk-filled ditch marking the halfway line. He had decided to introduce the sport into the training for the Illyrians to toughen them up and get them acting more closely with their comrades. Two sections of eight men were playing at a time, while the rest of the Illyrians and the civilians, who had been given permission to watch, stood on the sidelines and cheered or shouted ribald insults. The officers were included in the games, and Macro grinned openly as Centurion Fortunus picked himself up from the muddy surface and handed the feather-stuffed leather ball over to the opposing side.

Already the other players, in their mud-streaked tunics, were jostling for position around the man holding the ball, and he quickly hurled it towards a comrade who had broken free of the pack and now sprinted for the home side of the centre line, chased down by his opponents. He got within ten paces of the line before being tackled and pitching face first into the churned-up ground and slithering to a halt. At once the other players piled in, desperately struggling to wrestle the ball away.

Macro cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Get stuck in, Fortunus. Get on with it, man!’

The overweight officer hitched up his tunic belt and jogged towards the fray. The two teams fought for possession of the ball, and at length it slipped free and splashed into a puddle at Fortunus’s feet. He was slow to react but managed to sweep it up and advance a few paces before he was flattened by one of the opposition. The spectators roared with delight as their commander went down and more men piled in, so covered in mud that it was hard to distinguish which side they were on, despite what was still visible of the red and blue strips of cloth tied around their right arms.

A well-built player with blond hair and beard wrenched the others aside and plunged into the scrimmage, ripping the ball free before making for the halfway line. The other teams threw themselves at him, but he thrust them aside with contemptuous ease, trampling down the last defender. With a triumphant shout he half ran and half slithered the remaining distance to the line marking the home territory and slammed the ball down to the ground before punching both fists into the air and bellowing his war cry. Fortunus and the rest of the team crowded around him to slap him on the back and share his triumph, while the other team looked on in dejection.

‘The first section of Fortunus’s century wins!’ Macro announced. ‘The game’s over! Next two sections, on the pitch now!’

As the weary, filthy teams left the field and the new contestants took up their positions, Macro called Optio Diodorus over.

‘Sir?’

‘The big fellow. What’s his name?’

Diodorus glanced at the tall figure still grinning as he celebrated with the rest of his section. ‘That’s Junius Lomus, sir. An excellent man.’

‘I can see that. He’s got good spirit. Of course, it helps that he’s built like a brick shithouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro considered Lomus for a moment. ‘Doesn’t look to me like he’s from Illyrian stock.’

‘He’s not, sir. He was recruited here in Britannia. His father was a wine trader from Gaul and his mother is from the Cornovii.’

Macro nodded. ‘That would explain it.’

Like many long-established auxiliary units, the Illyrian cohort had largely become Illyrian in name only, having accrued replacements from its various postings across the empire. Macro clicked his tongue. ‘He’s wasted on a second-rate unit like this. I’ll see if he’s interested in a transfer to the Blood Crows. Lomus is just the type to put the fear of the gods into the enemy. Have him come to see me after the first watch is sounded.’

Diodorus nodded.

Macro waited until the ball was placed to the rear of the team that had won the toss and elected to defend. Then the two sections lined up each side of the halfway line and waited for the signal to begin. The babble from the spectators quickly died away as Macro raised his vine cane. He waited until all was quiet and still, and then slashed the cane down to point towards the playing field. ‘Begin!’

At once the attacking team raced forward. The defenders did their best to hold them back by barring the way and roughly shoving them. Inevitably, one of the attackers slipped through, and then both teams turned and rushed towards the ball as the excited spectators shouted their encouragement. The leading attacker grabbed the ball and turned back towards the far end of the pitch, sidestepping the first tackle before he was held by a second man. Then another went low, grabbing his leg and upending him with a vicious lift that sent the ball-carrier splashing into the mud on his back. Another scrimmage started as both sides charged in to fight for possession.

As the crowd cheered, Diodorus leaned towards Macro and pointed towards the nearest of the hills. ‘Sir, up there!’

Macro squinted in the direction indicated and saw a small party of riders cantering down towards the fort. He felt a brief moment of anxiety before he picked out their red tunics.

‘It’s the patrol. They’re in a bit of a hurry. Looks like Pandarus has something to report. I’ll see to it. You take charge here. It’ll be dusk soon. Better make this the last game for today.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They exchanged a brief salute before Macro made his way down from the mound and set off towards the nearest gate of the fort. Behind him, a loud cheer went up as a player broke free of the ruck and gained several paces towards his home territory, before being caught and brought down by the other side. Macro glanced back, tempted to watch a little longer, then sighed and continued towards the gate. Pandarus would make for headquarters as soon as he returned to the fort, since that was where the garrison commander was most likely to be. And if the optio had anything significant to report, it was Macro’s duty to hear the news as soon as possible.

‘I see you’ve brought home the catch of the day,’ Macro said with a grin a short while later when he emerged from the headquarters building and saw the prisoner firmly in the grasp of Optio Pandarus and one of his men. The enemy warrior’s blood had dried, leaving a thick dark crust across much of his face and matting his straggly hair. He glared at his captors and pressed his lips together as if to impress upon the Romans that he would say nothing in answer to their inevitable questions.

Macro indicated the tethering rail to one side of the courtyard. ‘Tie him up over there while you make your report.’

The afternoon sun was low in the sky and the fort was bathed in the thin blue gloom of a winter dusk. The air was cold and a breeze moaned lightly over the ramparts and watchtowers. Looking up at the sky, Macro saw a thick band of clouds moving in from the west and wondered if that heralded the icy downpours that were common in Britannia at this time of year, or worse, the first fall of snow. Either would hamper the progress of Quintatus and his army away to the north. And no doubt the Druids would tell their followers that it was a sign that their gods were taking their side against the invader. The thought caused Macro to wonder briefly if there was some plane of existence where the rival deities struggled in parallel to those who worshipped them on a more earthly level. If that was so, he hoped that the gods of Rome had the upper hand. The Roman soldiers needed their help now more than ever.

He waited until Pandarus had carried out the order and posted his comrade to watch over the prisoner. Then, beckoning to the optio to follow him, he limped back into the main hall and eased himself down on a bench while Pandarus stood in front of him.

‘So, what’s the story? Where did you find our surly guest?’

Pandarus took an instant to gather his thoughts. ‘Fifteen miles or so to the west, sir. I had gone ahead of the patrol to observe the lie of the land when I ran into the prisoner.’

‘Ran into?’ Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘How many times?’

‘You know what they’re like. They take some persuading before they come along meekly.’ Pandarus’s expression became serious. ‘It’s what I saw before I took him down that’s the reason I got back here as soon as I could, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘The enemy’s on the march. The man I captured was scouting for a column. Perhaps seven or eight hundred strong. They were heading north, sir.’

‘North? Towards Quintatus, then.’ Macro paused and rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Still, not enough of them to pose much of a threat.’

‘Assuming that’s all there is of them. The track they were following looked pretty well used to me, sir. I doubt they were the only men to pass that way recently.’

Macro considered this and felt a prickle of anxiety at the prospect of a powerful force marching against Cato and his comrades as they advanced on the Druid stronghold of Mona. He took a sharp breath. ‘Right. We need to find out exactly what the bastards are up to. Let’s have a word with your prisoner.’

‘I doubt he’ll say much. Nothing we can understand, at least. Unless there’s someone amongst the civilians who can speak his tongue.’

‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Macro smiled faintly. ‘I know just the man we need. Get yourself down to the drill ground. There’s a fellow in the Illyrian cohort. Tall, blond-haired and strong as a bull. Lomus. I want him here at once. Tell him that he’s just been made acting interrogator.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pandarus gave a curt nod and hurried away. Macro leaned forward and carefully rested his elbows on his knees. The enemy was clearly up to something. Though whether that constituted a palpable danger to the Roman army was uncertain. A few hundred more or less of the native warriors made little difference. But what if it was part of a wider plan? He strained his mind to try and divine the enemy’s precise intentions, but he could not fathom their thinking and found himself wishing that Cato was here with him.

‘The lad would be sure to hit on the answer soon enough,’ he muttered to himself. Then, with a hiss of frustration, he rose from the bench and went outside to inspect the captive.

The light was failing and shadows filled the courtyard. One of the auxiliaries was lighting the first of the small braziers that provided a modicum of warmth to the men who would be on sentry duty during the night. Over by the hitching post, the prisoner was squatting, his back to the post, his hands tethered behind him. The man Pandarus had posted to watch over him quickly stood to attention at Macro’s approach.

‘Diomedes, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How is our friend?’

‘Apart from stinking the place out and being as cheerful as a tombstone, he’s been a real delight, sir.’

Macro shot him a warning glance. ‘Better leave the quips to your superiors, soldier. No one in the army likes a smart-arse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro stood over the warrior and tucked his thumbs into his belt as he inspected the man more closely. Aside from his injuries, the warrior looked to be in good shape. He wore a tunic, a mailed vest, breeches, and boots cut in a Roman style, no doubt looted from the same victim who had provided the armour vest. The centurion leaned over and took his chin roughly, forcing his head back. The man glared up at him as Macro noted the scars on his cheek and forehead.

‘I can see you’ve been in a fight or two. And from what you’re wearing, not all of the fights went badly. So, you’re something of a veteran, then. Might even have fought alongside Caratacus in his time.’

At the mention of the defeated enemy leader, the warrior tore himself from Macro’s grasp and lowered his head.

‘Touchy, aren’t we? You can try and play the silent hero if you like, my friend, but trust me, you won’t hold out for ever, and you will tell me exactly what I want to know.’ Macro prodded the prisoner with the toe of his boot to emphasise the point, and was about to turn away when the native kicked out his bound feet with all the strength he could muster. His boots caught the centurion hard on the shin and he stumbled back, arms flailing, before falling heavily on his backside, jarring his spine.

‘Ha!’ The prisoner spat and grinned wickedly. Diomedes cuffed him brutally on the side of his head, then hurried over to help his superior to his feet, but Macro scowled at him and thrust aside the soldier’s hand, stifling a wince at the pain shooting through his injured leg.

‘Very funny. I’d like to see you keep smiling when Lomus gets to work. Meanwhile, you can take this on account.’ Without any warning, he balled his hands into tight fists and struck the man hard on both ears in succession, smashing his head from side to side.

The prisoner’s eyes rolled up and he let out a deep groan before leaning forward and vomiting into his lap. The sharp stench wafted into Macro’s nostrils, and he stepped back, rubbing his lower back. The prisoner heaved again, head hanging low, then coughed and spat before straightening up, easing himself against the tethering post. There was no fear in his eyes, Macro noted, just defiance, and the two men stared at each other until the sound of footsteps interrupted them. Macro turned to see Pandarus and Lomus approaching. The auxiliary’s tunic was still streaked with filth, and his beard and hair were matted with mud. Combined with his large, powerful physique, the effect was unintentionally intimidating.

Lomus stood to attention a few paces away and saluted. ‘You sent for me, sir.’

‘Indeed. I have some work requiring rather specific skills.’ Macro limped aside and nodded at the prisoner. ‘Our chippy little friend here needs to be taught a lesson, as well as being persuaded to tell us what he knows of the enemy’s plans. I want to know exactly where his column was headed and to what purpose. The Blood Crows’ interrogator is unavailable, so I’m offering the job to you as you’re just the man to put the frighteners on the prisoner. And, I’m told, you have some understanding of native dialects.’

‘That’s right, sir. My mother taught me.’

‘Then it looks like I have chosen well. If you succeed in breaking the prisoner and getting the information I want, the post comes with excused-duties status at pay and a half.’ Macro paused to let the terms of the offer sink in. ‘Interested?’

Lomus glanced at the prisoner and slowly clenched his right fist, stroking it with the other hand. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go, sir.’

‘Good man. If you do the job half as well as I hope, there may be a chance for you to become an interrogator on a permanent basis. And a transfer to a better unit, perhaps. The Blood Crows could use a man like you.’

Lomus cocked an appreciative eyebrow and nodded in gratitude.

‘You’re in charge of the interrogation, Pandarus. Report to me in my quarters when you are done here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Carry on.’ Macro made to move away, but winced as a fiery agony lanced down his wounded leg. He muttered a curse, and watched as Pandarus and Lomus hauled the man to his feet. They stripped him down to his breeches before binding him tightly to the post so that he could not slip down. The defiant expression dimmed as the prisoner looked at each man anxiously, knowing full well what was to come. Lomus stood in front of him, fists clenched and arm muscles bunched, waiting for the command.

‘Begin,’ said Pandarus.

Lomus threw his first punch, a powerful arcing blow into the prisoner’s gut. He followed up with his left, and then, as the warrior gasped for breath, began to work his sides, each fist thudding into the ribs and driving the air from the native’s lungs.

Macro nodded with satisfaction, then turned carefully, keeping the weight off his throbbing leg, before proceeding stiffly towards the entrance to the main hall of the headquarters building.

Back in his quarters, he eased himself down into a chair and stretched out his leg. Though the wound was healing well and the flesh had knitted together, the garrison surgeon had insisted that the dressing should remain in place to support the limb until the stitches were removed. The trouble was, the wound itched like mad, and Macro had to resist the urge to scratch the area furiously. The kick he had received from the prisoner had caused the leg to throb painfully, and as the pain subsided, so the itching increased in intensity.

He reached down and rubbed softly, gritting his teeth at the sharp prickling sensation. Even though he knew he was fortunate that the wound was not going to permanently disable him, as he had seen happen to other soldiers, he still fretted about the length of time it would take him to fully recover. All because some fool of a native had chosen to take a potshot at him and then run for the hills. It took a moment before he recalled that it had been his own idea to go after the boy in the first place. He could quite easily have waited for him to take to his heels, or sent some other man forward in his place, but it was not in Macro’s nature to exercise such patience, and he roundly condemned the native boy once again, heaping every curse he could on his young enemy.

Once the pain and irritation had eased, he shifted position to the small desk at one side of the room and began to deal with the routine bureaucracy that was the burden of every garrison commander across the empire. After lighting the lamps suspended from a small stand, he completed the daily entry in the garrison’s log, detailing the number of active men, any sick or injured, as well as those absent on other duties, which, given the present posting, rarely needed any notation. In a more peaceful setting there would be frequent authorised absences as men saw to the purchase of food, equipment and horses, or were detached to guard tax collectors, while junior officers were sent to adjudicate disputes in the local population. Then there were those who had been granted a period of leave who might travel to their homes if the unit was raised locally. None of that applied to the garrison of the fort, since any individual who ventured more than a short distance from its ramparts alone was asking for trouble. Next, Macro moved on to the requests from the fort’s stores, checking them against the inventory before approving or turning down each submission.

By the time he had finished, it was dark outside. He closed the shutters and called for his orderly to light the fire in the corner of the room and bring him something to eat. Outside in the courtyard he could occasionally hear the sounds of the interrogation: the soft thud of blows landing, and the keening cries and groans of the prisoner, gradually becoming more feeble as his torment continued. The gentle crackle of the flames consuming the kindling and then the split logs drowned out the sound, and Macro ate in peace at his table. He had all but finished his meal of stew and hard bread when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come!’

Optio Pandarus strode into the room and stood erect in front of his superior’s desk. ‘Beg to report, interrogation is completed, sir.’

Macro lowered his spoon and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Well? Did we get anything useful out of the bastard?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s bad. If he’s told us the truth, then Legate Quintatus is leading his army into a trap.’

‘A trap?’

‘As far as our man knows, the Druids are drawing the column deep into the mountains and on towards the island of Mona itself. That’s where they’ll turn and make their stand.’

Macro nodded. ‘Which is what the legate is pinning his hopes on.’

‘Yes, sir. But what he can’t know is that the Druids have called on the Silures and the Ordovices to join the Deceanglians. They are marching to sever Quintatus’s communications with the rest of the province. They aim to cut him off from his supplies and block his line of retreat until his men starve or he gives the order to surrender.’

‘Surrender?’ Macro snorted. ‘That’s bollocks. He’d never dishonour himself, or the army, by doing that.’

‘Then he’s going to have to cut his way out of the trap and fight every inch of the way back to Mediolanum, sir. The legate’s outnumbered by far more than he realises. And the enemy know the ground. If the weather turns and it makes the going even harder, then-’

‘Quite,’ Macro concluded tersely. ‘He needs to be warned at once.’

‘But how are we going to get a message through to him, sir? If the prisoner’s right, the enemy have already cut him off.’

‘That’s as may be, Optio. But we have to get through all the same. And the only men we have who might succeed are you and the other men of the Blood Crows still here in the fort.’

Pandarus’s eyebrows rose. ‘But there’s only my section, sir.’

‘You won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’

‘You? Sir, with respect, you’re not in a fit state to-’

‘I know damn well what state I am in!’ Macro snapped. ‘I’ll be fine in the saddle. We’ll be leaving at first light. Go and get your men ready!’