Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

By the time the army returned to its base at Viroconium the men’s spirits had fully recovered and there was a jaunty swagger to their step as they marched through the gates of the fortress behind their standards. General Ostorius and his staff rode at the head of the column, in gleaming breastplates and armour, in clean scarlet tunics. The garrison of the fortress had been forewarned of the general’s return and lined the walls to cheer their victorious comrades. The men on the march returned the cheer with interest and looked forward to the comforts of their barracks, regular meals and a long anticipated visit to the bathhouse in the sprawling vicus a short distance from the wall and ditch of the great fortress.

The legionary units who had been involved in the battle had pride of place at the front of the column. Behind them came the auxiliary units who had been responsible for mopping up the remnants of the enemy army. The faint cheers from far ahead reached their ears and they smiled grudgingly at the celebrations of their legionary comrades, and shared their longing for the comforts of Viroconium.

Behind the auxiliaries came the long column of prisoners, chained and bound together, a shuffling tide of despairing misery, mostly men, but women and children too, the latter condemned to a life of slavery before they had any chance to savour the freedom that was the birthright of the offspring of the warriors of their tribe. A cohort of Batavian cavalry rode either side of the prisoners, watching over them and ensuring that they kept up the pace and did not cause the column to spread out too far. A thrust of a spear butt or prick of its point was sufficient to spur on any who began to lag.

Behind the prisoners came the baggage train, some miles back from the head of the column, and beyond earshot of the triumphant entry of the general and his legions. The army’s wagons and carts came first, the latter carrying the dismantled artillery, a mix of ballistas and the larger catapults. The heavy wagons carried the grain and spare kit needed to feed and supply the army while on the march. Then came the wagons allocated to the legions’ surgeons, filled with the men still recovering from the wounds they had suffered on the battlefield.

Those who had died from their wounds had been added to the huge funeral pyres that had burned outside the camp, while a handful who died later were buried outside the marching camps. Their graves were marked with simple stones hurriedly engraved with their names and units, and a brief request to the gods to look after their spirits. Even though they were wounded, the men in the wagons were in good humour, thanks to a generous issue of wine on the order of General Ostorius. Many were soon drunk and the warm country air resounded to tuneless marching songs, toasts and laughter.

At the rear of the column came the camp followers, several hundred merchants, traders, pimps, whores, entertainers, slave dealers and the long-suffering unofficial families of the soldiers. By law any man of the rank of centurion or below was not allowed to enter into a marriage. Nevertheless soldiers are creatures of flesh and blood and some had formed attachments with the women who lived outside the fortresses of the empire, and had children by them. These poor creatures, Cato reflected, were destined to trudge along in the wake of the army, wholly reliant on the meagre pay of the soldier to whom they were attached. If he fell in battle they might be left a small sum in the soldier’s will, provided that he had written one. Otherwise they would be without support, until the mother could find another man. Around these small family groups trundled the carts of the commercial camp followers, piled high with the trinkets, drink and little luxuries that soldiers craved when they were off duty.

In the distance, behind the tail end of the camp followers, marched the auxiliary cohort of the rearguard. At the start of the march the ground had still been wet and the men of the Segovian Cohort had had to negotiate the churned ground left by the passage of thousands of boots, hoofs and wheels ahead of them. But the sun had now dried the ground and had yet to reach the almost as annoying point where the ground was so dry that the passage of a large army disturbed a cloud of dust that clung to every surface and filled mouths and eyes with a fine grit.

Macro and Cato were marching a short distance to one side of the baggage train, their men strung out in an extended screen on either side of the line of march. Having decided he could do with a break from the saddle, Cato had handed his mount to Thraxis and was walking the remainder of the way to Viroconium. So reduced were the escort’s numbers that even a small raiding party could have caused mayhem and fled with their spoils long before Cato could have gathered a sufficient number of men to repel them. But there was no sign of any enemy on the march back to Viroconium.

From time to time they had passed a small village or settlement whose remaining inhabitants had run to hide as the army passed by. A few times Cato had seen distant figures on the tops of hills watching them. Never more than a handful. Hunting parties more than likely; rather than war bands. They had never ventured any closer and fled the moment any Roman horseman turned in their direction. The defeat of Caratatacus’s army seemed to have broken the will to fight of the Silurian and Ordovician nations. But Cato knew that if Caratacus raised his standard again there would still be many who would rally to him, as they had in the past after previous defeats.

‘I shan’t be sorry to trade a tent and sleeping roll for a nice dry barracks and a proper bed,’ said Macro, straining his eyes to scan the landscape ahead for the first sign of Viroconium.

‘I wouldn’t say no to that,’ Cato agreed absently. He was preoccupied with the disappearance of Caratacus and the need to discover the identity of the agent Pallas had sent to kill them. The only advantage they had at the moment was that the agent was unaware that he was being hunted by Septimus. That was the only reason that he had been permitted to live when they took his cart, Cato reasoned. If Pallas’s man had known Septimus for what he was, he would have been discovered with a knife in his back instead of a knock on the head. With luck, they would find and eliminate the enemy agent before he had a chance to do any more mischief.

‘And there’s the prospect of reinforcements,’ Macro tried to get the conversation going again. ‘Be good to flesh out our ranks. There’s hardly any of us left. Let’s hope the general’s sent for some fresh draughts from the Second.’

At the mention of their old legion Cato recalled that the elite unit that Vespasian had once commanded was now stationed down at Isca Dumnoniorum. Apart from keeping a watchful eye on the local tribes, the legion was mainly a training establishment these days. It took in the convoys of recruits shipped over from Gaul and completed their basic training on British soil before sending them on to the other units of the army in Britannia. Cato decided that he would leave their induction into the Blood Crows to a veteran cavalryman like Miro. Yes, let Decurion Miro handle it, he decided. He had more important matters to deal with.

Conscious that he had not immediately replied to his friend, Cato quickly replayed their last exchange in his mind and cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Macro. The baggage train escort, and its commanding officers, are still very much in the general’s black book. If there are any reinforcements available I rather fear that you and I are going to be at the back of a very long queue.’

‘My, you are full of the joys of life, aren’t you?’

‘Can you blame me? Ostorius has pinned the blame for Caratacus’s escape on us and you can be sure he’ll make that known back in Rome. If his version of events is accepted, I’d be surprised if we were entrusted with any command larger than a latrine block in future.’

‘Back in the shit again, eh?’ Macro quipped.

Cato could not help a chuckle and Macro slapped him lightly on the back. ‘There you go, lad! The boy can be taught to smile.’

‘Seriously though, Macro, I don’t see much to smile about at the moment. Our return to soldiering has hardly been a glorious success.’

‘Oh, we haven’t done so badly. We held Bruccium against Caratacus’s army and we did for him back on the hill. No one can take that away from us. The lads here on the ground know what we did.’

Cato sighed. ‘I suppose so. But that won’t count for much back in Rome. We’re in the lap of the gods now, Macro. And the gods tend to have an odd sense of humour at the best of times.’

‘Then you’d get on well with them. Time for a sacrifice to Fortuna, I’d say. Look here, Cato. There’s nothing we can do about the situation at the moment, right?’

‘True.’

‘Then what’s the point in spending all your time fretting about it? Tell you what. Tonight, once we’re back in barracks, let’s go into the vicus and get totally rat-arsed. The drinks are on me.’

Cato thought a moment and nodded. ‘All right then. Rat-arsed it is.’

Two days later Cato and Macro were standing in front of the review platform outside Viroconium. The fortress had been extended to accommodate a second legion and a series of smaller forts had been constructed for the auxiliary units attached to the army for the campaigns against the mountain tribes. In front of the two officers lay the training ground, a vast rectangle cleared by the army’s engineers when the fortress was first built two years earlier. The men of the escort detachment, their ranks bolstered by replacements, stood formed up facing their commanders.

With Caratacus still at large, the general had not yet issued orders for his forces to disperse and the vexillation from the Ninth Legion had added to the crowded barracks in the fortress. Despite the casualties from the recent battle, the arrival of a column of replacements had meant that some of the legionary cohorts had been assigned to the smaller forts. For that reason, and the faint possibility that the army might have to march to war again, the baggage train escort was retained and the legionaries and Thracians shared a fort on the far side of the training ground from the main fortress.

That suited Cato, who was keen to distance himself from General Ostorius. The arrangement also suited the men, who had plenty of space within the fort due to their losses. However, the luxury of space was short-lived when the two units received new recruits to bolster their depleted ranks. Just over two hundred men for Macro and a hundred and fifty Batavians for Cato, together with two hundred remounts. Not enough to bring them up to full strength but welcome nonetheless. As was the custom, the senior centurions of the First Cohorts of each legion had first pick of the replacements, then by order of declining seniority the commanders of the remaining cohorts took their pick. Macro was none too pleased by the men that had been left when his time came.

‘Not quite so impressive as they looked at Bruccium,’ he commented.

Cato scanned the ranks before he responded. The new legionaries were well turned out in their new kit. Their helmets gleamed and were not yet marked by the scores of small dents, scratches and other imperfections that characterised the helmets of the veterans just returned from a campaign. The same was true of their shields. Nor had they customised their sword belts and scabbards like their more experienced comrades, and the plain leather and brass trims were all fresh from the armouries back in Gaul. Most of the men had already received their basic training after they landed at Isca Dumnoniorum, but they would need much more before they would be fit to stand alongside the veterans of the two cohorts.

‘Let’s have a closer look,’ Cato decided.

They paced to the end of the front rank of the legionaries and began to walk slowly down the line. Macro had intended to allow the veterans to remain in their existing sections of eight and add to them from the new men. From his days as a ranker he knew the value of a close-knit team of men accustomed to living together and fighting alongside each other. But Cato had disagreed and instructed that the existing men were to form the kernels of the reconstituted centuries of the Fourth Cohort. They would be able to pass on their knowledge to the new men. There were six centuries in the cohort once again, albeit understrength, and it had been necessary to promote a number of men to the rank of optio, as well as promoting four existing optios to the centurionate. The dilution of experience through the cohort meant that Macro would have to train them hard to bring the unit to battle readiness, a task he was looking forward to. Today’s parade was the first formal introduction of the recruits to their new commanders and Macro’s experienced eye scrutinised each man they passed. Every so often the two officers would stop and examine one of the fresh-faced recruits in detail.

‘You!’ Macro barked, thrusting the tip of his vine cane at one man. ‘Name?’

The tall, slender legionary presented his javelin and snapped to attention. It was neatly done, Cato noted approvingly.

‘Legionary Gnaeus Lorenus, sir!’

‘Where are you from?’ Macro demanded.

‘Massilia, sir.’

‘Age?’

‘Nineteen, sir.’

‘Bollocks! You don’t look old enough to shave.’

The recruit made the mistake of turning his face towards Macro in surprise.

‘Don’t fucking look at me! Look straight ahead!’

‘Yes, sir! Sorry, sir.’

‘And don’t fucking apologise neither! You’re on parade, not at some poncey actor’s garden party!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The recruit committed his second offence by failing to stifle a smile at Macro’s remark.

Quick as a flash Macro stepped closer to the man so that their faces were inches apart. The difference in height meant that the centurion had to tilt his head back to stare up at the recruit.

‘Do I make you laugh, Legionary Lorenus?’ he bawled.

‘No, sir.’

‘Then are you saying I haven’t got a fucking sense of humour? Are you?

‘No, sir.’

‘Then you must be laughing at me, Lorenus! Is that it? Are you bloody making fun of me, you great big streak of piss?’

Again, the man’s gaze wavered towards his superior and Macro jammed the head of his vine cane hard into the mail vest of the recruit. ‘EYES FRONT! I asked if you are making fun of me?’

‘N-no, sir,’ the recruit gasped.

‘I don’t believe you. Optio!’ Macro turned to the recruit’s superior. ‘Legionary Lorenus. Fatigues. Five days!’

‘Yes, sir!’ The optio inscribed a hurried note on his waxed tablet.

Cato had stood by impassively during the exchange. He readily recalled his own harsh treatment when he had first joined the Second Legion. The aptly named Centurion Bestia had made his life a misery and Cato mentally cringed at the fear the instructor had instilled in him. At the time he had believed that Bestia had been a cruel monster, but he had long since come to recognise the true purpose of the harsh treatment meted out during training. Soldiers had to keep a cool head in any conditions. They had to be disciplined from within as well as without. That process began on the training ground where they learned to keep their eyes ahead, answer directly and not let themselves become unsettled. It ended when they coolly faced an enemy in battle and put instinct behind them and placed their trust in their training.

Macro continued along the line with Cato in step beside him. Several more men received similar treatment before Macro handed over to their officers to begin the morning drill. As the First Century tramped off, Macro turned to his friend and rubbed his hands together in glee.

‘Ah! I haven’t lost my touch. I can still put the wind up ’em.’

‘True. But I thought the point was to train them, not terrify them.’

‘They’ll pick it up soon enough, once they’ve stopped shitting themselves. Just like old times, eh? Proper soldiering. There’s nothing like it! Every drill a bloodless battle and every battle a bloody drill.’

Cato smiled indulgently. This was Macro’s ideal. The opportunity to mould men into tough, disciplined professional soldiers filled him with pride and a sense of achievement. What seemed to come to Macro so naturally was an onerous duty for Cato. He still felt self-conscious about shouting insults into the faces of fresh-faced soldiers and thanked the gods that he had been promoted to a rank that set him above such tasks.

The replacements allocated to the Second Thracian presented a different kind of problem. They were almost all from Batavia and already seasoned riders and fighters. Tall, big-boned and mostly fair-haired, their appearance was in stark contrast to the dark-featured Thracians who made up the original unit. The Batavians would need to accept the ethos of their comrades. The Blood Crows had a hard-won reputation for ferocity and had cultivated a look that made them appear more like a group of irregular cavalry than an established unit of the Roman army. That had served Cato well so far and he aimed to keep it that way.

As he began his inspection of the troopers standing with their mounts, the contrast between the Batavians and the Thracians concerned him. He stopped in front of the first of the decurions, a new man with a scarred, lined face. Clearly a veteran of some fights, not all of which he appeared to have won.

‘What is your name?’

‘Decurion Avergus.’

‘Avergus? Is that all?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s the name I was given at birth. Don’t see no reason to change it.’ The man’s Latin was good though accented and, like most of his people, he was inclined to talk more loudly than necessary. A good attribute for a soldier but a bit wearing socially, Cato felt.

He glanced at Macro. It was usual for auxiliaries from non-Roman backgrounds to adopt a Roman name on enlistment, especially as Roman citizenship was granted when the soldier had served out his time in the army. The choice to retain his tribal name meant that the decurion was either proud of his heritage or possibly disdainful of Roman ways. Cato decided he would need to keep an eye on Avergus.

‘Avergus, were most of these men recruited along with you?’

‘Yes, sir. Same tribe. Village on the banks of the Rhenus near Moguntum. The entire draught came from the settlement.’

‘How many speak Latin?’

Avergus thought a moment before replying. ‘Most of the lads from the village have a ready grasp, sir. Those from the outlying farms, none.’

‘I see. What about you? You speak it fluently enough.’

‘My dad’s a fur trader, sir. Supplies the local Rhine garrisons. I spent more time in Roman forts than I did at home when I was growing up.’

‘Then I’m making you the language instructor for the new men. Decurion Miro will supply you with the essential commands and terms. They’ll need to grasp those at once. The rest you can teach them when they’re ready.’

Avergus’s thick brow knitted.

‘Problem?’

‘No, sir. . Yes, sir. I ain’t much of a teacher.’

‘Just as well then,’ said Macro. ‘Because this is the army, not a fucking school. The prefect has given you an order and you hop to it. Clear?’

‘Yes, Centurion.’

Cato nodded. ‘Good.’

He moved on without stopping to beast any more of the new men, since there was little point in shouting at a man who did not understand a word being said to him. When he reached Decurion Miro, he halted.

‘The new draught look like they have the makings of good men.’

‘Yes, sir. They’ll do well enough, once they’ve been drilled thoroughly. In time, they will be worthy of the Blood Crows.’

Cato smiled. ‘Make sure they understand that’s a name to be proud of. Carry on, Decurion Miro.’

They exchanged a salute and Miro took a pace back and turned to the men. ‘Officers! On me!’

Cato nodded with satisfaction. Miro knew his business and could be trusted to get on with the training. He turned to Macro.

‘Walk with me.’

They paced away from the two formations as the officers bellowed the orders for the men to begin their training rota: formation drilling, weapons practice and strength and stamina exercises. Cato strode up the ramp to the review stand and glanced over the men and horses of the escort detachment before turning his attention to Macro.

‘The word from headquarters is the general has given the order to stop questioning the native camp followers and release them.’

‘About time too. Did the interrogators find anything out that we don’t already know?’

‘Nothing. Whoever helped Caratacus to escape is one of ours.’

Macro cracked his knuckles. ‘You’re pretty certain this is the work of Pallas’s agent, aren’t you?’

Cato nodded. ‘It seems to make sense. Given what Septimus told us.’

‘And you trust him?’

‘Not without reservation. He is his father’s son, after all. But the escape of Caratacus proves what he said about Pallas’s intention to scupper the province and destroy support for Claudius back in Rome.’

Macro nodded. ‘But there’s worse things that could happen. To us.’

‘Exactly.’ Cato sighed. ‘Seems we’d better watch our backs, thanks to our dealings with Narcissus. We’ve been lucky so far. .’

‘So far.’

The following evening General Ostorius summoned his officers to a briefing at headquarters, the first such meeting for several days. The praetorium was a huge timber-framed structure that dominated the other large buildings clustered at the heart of the fortress: the granaries, tribunes’ quarters, armoury, hospital and the stables for the mounts of the officers and the Twentieth Legion’s scouts. It was just before dusk and a honeyed light slanted across the fortress, throwing long shadows up the street ahead of Macro and Cato as they approached the arched entrance.

They were surrounded by the subdued noises of the camp as the men ceased their duties and turned their attention towards preparing their evening meal. Those who had been issued with a pass would be looking forward to the delights of the vicus sprawling across the rolling countryside a short distance beyond the walls of Viroconium. After the hardships of the campaign, the army was content to slip into the peaceful routine of garrison life and a sense of well-being permeated the fortress.

Macro breathed in the tang of woodsmoke from the cooking fires and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Life doesn’t get much better than this.’

Cato’s brow furrowed for a moment. ‘Really? I could easily hope for better. I could do without the opprobrium of the general over the escape of Caratacus — which was hardly my fault. We have a wily enemy on the loose and I would prefer not to have to worry about an assassin sent from Rome to do us in. Right now, I really would prefer to be far from here, safely in the arms of my wife.’

Macro chuckled. ‘I bet.’

They walked on in silence for a moment before Macro spoke again. ‘I was only talking about this moment, Cato. Right now. Put everything else aside and tell me this isn’t good.’

A short distance ahead of them one of the general’s slaves was walking two of his master’s hunting dogs. One of them abruptly stopped, directly in Cato’s path, and hunched its back to defecate. Cato could not help smiling as he nodded towards the dog. ‘That about sums up the situation from my point of view.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Macro growled, then drew a breath and shouted at the slave, ‘Oi! You clear that up, you hear?’

The slave turned anxiously and bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’

They turned into the gateway and strode across the courtyard, passing through the open doors into the cool shaded interior of the main hall. Most of the officers had already arrived and taken their places on the benches arranged before the dais at the far end. Cato saw a few spaces near the front and made towards them, until he saw Prefect Horatius sitting along the bench. He paused, but before he could change direction, Horatius glanced round, and beckoned.

‘Here, Cato. There’s enough space. You too, Centurion Macro.’

There was no choice and Cato and Macro did as they were bid. Horatius shifted towards them. ‘How are the new Batavians working out?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Good riders, but a little slow to adapt to our tactics. They’ll come round soon enough if Decurion Miro has anything to do with it.’

‘Bloody Batavians,’ Horatius said with feeling. ‘I had to make do with some as well. No love lost between them and the Hispanians. I’ve had three fights in the last two days, left one of my new men with a cracked skull. Surgeon reckons he’ll be lucky not to come out of it witless. Not that you can tell with most Batavians, eh? How about you, Macro?’

‘The replacements are a bit green, sir. But I’m knocking ’em into shape quick enough.’

‘Just as well. With Caratacus still at large we may be on the march again before the summer is over.’ Horatius lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘That’s assuming the general is up for it.’

Cato said nothing but cocked an eyebrow.

‘Word is that he’s fallen ill. Been in his bed for days. That’s why there’s been no briefings.’

‘Ill?’ Macro shot a look towards the dais as if expecting the general to appear any moment. ‘How ill?’

Horatius frowned. ‘What am I? A bloody surgeon? Just repeating what I’ve heard. But you know what he’s like. Tough as old boots. It’d have to be serious to keep Ostorius in bed. By the way, Cato, for what it’s worth, I don’t hold you to blame for Caratacus’s escape. Could have happened on anyone’s watch.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Still, if it had been up to me, I’d have doubled the number of guards you had. No point in taking a risk, eh?’

Cato forced himself to control his irritation at the remark and replied in a flat voice, ‘I suppose not.’

He looked round in order to break eye contact with Horatius, and saw that the last of the officers was arriving and joining the others who were obliged to stand now that the benches had been filled. A moment later the camp prefect stepped up in front of the dais and barked the announcement, ‘Commanding officer present!’

There was an instant din of scraping boots as the seated men rose and stood stiffly, then there was quiet and the sound of faltering footsteps echoed down the hall. Out of the corner of his eye Cato saw the general making his way along the side, accompanied by a tall young native in a finely woven cloak. Ostorius signalled to the tribesman to stand to the side of the dais and then climbed the three steps on to the platform. The general looked even more gaunt than usual and his skin had taken on an ashen pallor. He seemed to have shrunk inside his elaborately embroidered tunic and polished leather cuirass, like a decrepit tortoise in its shell, thought Cato.

The general paused a moment and then drew himself up in front of his officers, running the tip of his tongue across his lips to moisten them. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

‘Gentlemen, I am the bearer of ill news. This afternoon I received a messenger from Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes.’ He gestured towards the native standing beside the stage. ‘Our ally tells us that Caratacus has made his appearance at her tribal capital at Isurium. He is under the protection of her consort, Venutius, who has demanded that Caratacus be given a chance to plead his case before the assembled tribes of the Brigantian confederation.’

Ostorius paused as his officers stirred uneasily.

‘Jupiter’s cock,’ Macro muttered. ‘That’s thrown the cat amongst the pigeons.’

Once he had his men’s attention again the general continued. ‘I need hardly warn you that if Caratacus gets his way he could stir the whole of the north against us. We know he is a powerful orator and if he can sway enough of the hotheads amongst the Brigantian leadership then Cartimandua’s authority will crumble, Venutius will become the new leader of his people and Caratacus will have a powerful army at his back to renew the struggle against us. It’s bad timing. Our men are still recovering from the campaign in the mountains. We suffered heavy casualties and even though we have some replacements, they are unseasoned. The Brigantians outnumber us at least two to one. If I turn to counter the new threat then I must leave the west thinly defended. All that we have just won could be lost if the Silurians and the Ordovicians decide to take advantage of the situation. We’ll face a war on two fronts. I will be forced to deal with the Brigantian threat first, then we may have to win back any ground we lose to the mountain tribes afterwards.’

‘Assuming we beat the Brigantians,’ Cato whispered.

Macro was only half listening to his friend. He was staring at the general, whose last words had sounded slurred. ‘I don’t believe it. The old man’s drunk. .’

Cato turned to look and saw that Ostorius was swaying slightly, his words crumbling into incoherence in his throat as one side of his mouth seemed to droop. The general staggered back, stumbled and collapsed on to the dais with a thud. At once the camp prefect rushed up the steps and hurried to the side of his superior. Several of the officers were already on their feet, including Cato. He knew at once that this had nothing to do with drink and turned to point to one of the centurions nearest the entrance to the hall.

‘Get the surgeon! Go!’ he called across the alarmed hubbub.