The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (20 page)

‘Yes, sir!’ Macro saluted smartly and marched from the hall.

As the door closed, Cato turned his attention to the thickset Thracian. Now that he had removed his cloak and sat in his tunic, Cato could see that he was even more powerfully built than he had thought. The man had a physique to match the best of the wrestlers in the arena at Rome and his glowering features were enough to arm him with an irresistibly intimidating demeanour. Cato had to forcibly remind himself of his superior rank, and the need to ensure that it was honoured. He narrowed his eyes a fraction as he stared at the Thracian.

‘What is going on here?’

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘Don’t play the fool with me, Quertus! The men look like savages, and the bodies, and heads, you have put on display... It’s beyond any notion of what is acceptable. It is not civilised.’

‘Spare me your fine sentiments, Prefect. We are at war. We are not playing at war.’ He gestured contemptuously at Cato’s polished armour and medals. ‘There is no place for civilised values here. Rome has been fighting the mountain tribes for the last six years with precious little result. I have lost many comrades in the struggle, men I was close to. The people who live in these lands are the real savages. They are fanatical in their hatred of Rome and they are driven on by the Druids. Until they are wiped out, and their Druids with them, there will be no Roman peace in the province. I’ve fought them long enough to know that they will keep on fighting Rome until the last drop of their blood. Every defeat only hardens their resolve. There is only one way to break their spirit and bring this to an end.’

‘And what would that be?’

The Thracian leaned forward and his eyes bored into Cato’s. ‘You have to show them no mercy. Show them that we can be even more savage, cruel and ruthless, than the darkest of their Druids. I make them afraid. So afraid that they will think of me in their every waking thought with dread, and I will be there haunting their dreams with visions of blood and fire.’

‘That is the reason for the gruesome displays that surround the fort?’

‘Of course, and also the reason why I encourage the men to adopt an even more barbaric look than the enemy.’

‘On that, I congratulate your achievement,’ Cato responded acidly. ‘But there is more to it than that, isn’t there?’

Quertus did not reply for a moment, and then smiled thinly at Cato. ‘Very good. You’re right, Prefect. My tactics and the appearance of my men is only part of the plan. What’s more important is that the men think and act like savages when the time comes. That’s something you can’t simply order them to do. They must do it without thinking. They must become more barbaric than the barbarians they are fighting. Only then can we win. And we are winning. Every village we destroy, every man, woman and child we slaughter, every mutilated body we display serves to weaken the resolve of our enemy.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘When we first built this fort the Silurians would attack us every night. They ambushed our patrols, massacred our forage parties and taunted us with the heads of our comrades. When I took command we put their farms to the torch, destroyed their villages and drove every last one of them out of the valley – those we didn’t put to the sword. Then we moved on to the surrounding valleys and made sure that they understood who was responsible for their suffering. Word of our actions spread and soon we began to encounter entire villages that had been abandoned. Fear is like any other contagion, it spreads from man to man and weakens the resolve, and the ability, to resist. We are close to breaking their spirit. I know it. Another month is all it will take. Then they will come to us on their knees, begging for peace on any terms.’

Cato listened in silence, taking it all in. It made sense of what he had seen, he reflected, but there was something that Quertus was holding back. And besides, it did not excuse the challenge to his authority. Above all, there was still the matter of the circumstances surrounding the death of the previous prefect.

‘This . . . success of yours has come at a cost, I should think. How many men have you lost since taking command here?’

‘No more than Rome can afford.’

‘How many?’

‘I haven’t been keeping strength returns.’

‘But you must have some idea,’ Cato insisted.

Quertus folded his hands. ‘There is a price for success in war. A price that is paid in men’s lives. It has cost my cohort over half of its men. I made good the losses from those legionaries who volunteered to take their places. And there are many who freely volunteered. And some who did not. Men like Petillius and Severus who did not have the stomach for such work. They were left to defend the fort when I led the rest to fight the enemy. But now we are short of legionaries. It is good that we can expect reinforcements. Enough men to finish what I started.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

‘Quertus, I am in command now. I will decide what happens next.’

The Thracian regarded him coolly. ‘You would be wise to let me continue my work . . . sir.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Cato asked, resisting the urge to let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword.

Quertus was still for a moment before he shook his head. ‘We are on the same side. We work for the same ends. It is simply a question of method, and I believe that mine works. Let me show you. Come on the next raid and judge for youself. I understand that you witnessed a Silurian war band attacking the outpost in the next valley.’

‘Yes. And how exactly did you come to understand that?’

‘One of my scouts saw it. He reported it to me and we set out to hunt down the Silurians. Instead we found you. And your prisoner. Once I have questioned him and we have the location of his village we can make an example of them.’

‘I’d prefer to have Centurion Macro interrogate him.’

‘Has he been trained in interrogation techniques?’

Cato allowed himself a light smile. ‘He, uh, got his training on the job. Macro can loosen a man’s tongue if anyone can. But that can wait until tomorrow.’

Quertus nodded thoughtfully. ‘As you wish, sir.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Centurion. I am not sure what to make of your activities in the last few months. I need to consider the situation. We’ll talk more tomorrow, after the inspection.’

‘The men don’t need inspecting, sir.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Cato yawned.

The Thracian stood up. ‘Will that be all?’

‘Not quite. I want the heads removed from the fort’s walls, by tomorrow.’

Quertus inclined his head in the slightest of salutes before he turned and left the hall. Once he was alone, Cato slumped down on the chair and lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He instinctively disliked and distrusted the Thracian officer. Yet the man had made a reasoned case for his extreme methods and perhaps there was some merit to them. The strains of the long ride from Glevum were beginning to tell and it was hard for Cato to think. He needed rest. A decent sleep to ready his mind for tomorrow, which was sure to be a testing day.

Stifling another yawn he stood up and stretched his shoulders, feeling a satisfying crack in one of his joints. He left the hall, and saw no sign of Macro in the corridor. He felt vaguely uneasy about going to his quarters without knowing that his friend was safe in this strange fort with its garrison of soldiers intoxicated by Quertus’s thirst for war. But Macro was tough enough to look after himself, Cato decided. He walked slowly to his quarters and shut the door behind him. He hesitated a moment before slipping the bolt into place, locking it shut. Then, for good measure, he dragged a document chest against the inside of the door before heading for the sleeping chamber.

Cato removed his sword, struggled out of his harness and unbuckled his armour before setting it all down on the floor beside his cot. Then he eased himself down on to the cot and lay on the thin mattress stuffed with horsehair and closed his aching eyes with relief. For a moment he reviewed the conversation he had had with Quertus, before his mind started drifting. The last image that filtered through his thoughts was the young Silurian impaled at the head of the pass leading into this valley of death. Cato frowned at the image, and knew it was a harbinger of worse sights to come. Then at last he fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘Hey!’ Macro called out to the other centurion as he followed him out of the building into the darkness of the small courtyard at the front of the fort’s headquarters. A single torch flared in a bracket above the entrance gate, though the other officers had already left. ‘Severus!’

The man stopped and turned to face Macro, who grinned.

‘I knew it was you! By the gods, man, how long has it been?’ Macro strode up to him and clasped him by the shoulders. The centurion was thin and his face looked drawn. A thin fringe of wiry grey hair ringed his head and his bald crown gleamed dully in the light of the torch flame. ‘You’ve changed, Severus. I almost didn’t recognise you. What happened to that athletic legionary with the fine head of blond hair? The one who broke the hearts of all the local women in the vicus outside the Second Legion’s fortress?’

‘He grew old, and fearful,’ Severus replied quietly. He glanced past Macro towards the corridor leading to the hall. ‘Will the prefect be keeping Quertus for long?’

‘If I know Cato, they’ll be talking for a good while yet.’

Severus looked relieved and he offered Macro a tired smile. ‘Well, at least you haven’t changed that much. Still the same bull of a man with coarse curly hair you could brush your boots with.’

‘So you recognised me too then?’

‘The moment I saw you in the hall.’

‘Then why didn’t you say? I doubt there’s any of the original training section left these days. Fuck, it’s good to see a familiar face in this nightmare of a place.’

Severus’s smile faded. ‘It’s a nightmare all right.’

‘And that Quertus is a piece of work. A regular cold killer.’

Severus stared back at Macro. ‘You don’t know the half of it. That’s why I didn’t say anything about recognising you back in the hall. I’m in enough danger already without drawing any more attention to myself.’

‘Danger? What do you mean, Severus?’

The other man looked around anxiously, but nothing moved in the shadows of the courtyard. They were alone. ‘Look here, Macro, we need to talk. But not here. Let’s get over to our side of the fort, away from these Thracian bastards. I’ve still got a few jugs of Gallic wine. I’ll share a cup with you.’

‘Fine. Let’s go!’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘There’s a lot to catch up on. Be good to have a drink before I take charge of the cohort.’

They left headquarters and turned into the main thoroughfare that bisected the interior of the fort. To their left Macro could see some of the other officers making for the long barrack blocks where the troopers had their quarters on one side while their mounts were stabled on the other. They turned right, towards the smaller barracks of the legionary cohort. As they made their way through the fort Macro could see signs of neglect. Weeds were thrusting up in the alleys between the timber and daub buildings. Some of the drains had blocked and small pools of foul-smelling water were backing up. There were none of the usual sounds that Macro associated with the forts he had known for most of his life. The barracks were silent – no raucous laughter from men sharing a drink as they played dice. There were no men sitting on stools outside the section rooms cleaning their kit. There were few men to be seen at all. As they reached the quarter assigned to the legionary cohort they passed a high timber cross frame with a footplate nailed into the riser. Macro glanced at it, but said nothing as he made small talk with his companion.

‘Good to see that we both made centurion,’ said Macro. ‘It took me a fair amount of time, and the usual helping of good luck. How about you? You were transferred out of the Second fairly quickly, as I recall.’

Severus nodded. ‘They were stripping men from the Rhine to fill out the ranks of the legions earmarked for a campaign across the Danuvius into Scythia. Where our commander hails from originally. As you can imagine, I keep quiet about that part of my career.’

‘He’s not the commander any longer. The fort has a new prefect now.’

Severus shot him a quick look. ‘You think so? I doubt that Quertus is going to hand over control of the garrison that easily.’

‘He has no choice. Chain of command.’

Severus laughed bitterly. ‘I think you’ll find that things operate a little differently at Bruccium.’ He changed the subject. ‘So what happened to the rest of the lads in the section after I left the Augusta?’

Macro scratched his jaw as he recalled their old comrades. ‘Postumus was drowned when his boat capsized on a river patrol. Lucullus was bitten by a hunting dog. The wound went bad and killed him. Barco, the big bastard, you remember? He got picked for the legate’s bodyguard, then caught the eye of Caligula and was transferred to the Praetorian Guard. Last I heard he’d got a promotion to centurion in the fleet at Misenum. Aculeus became a clerk at headquarters and was discharged for fiddling the books. Piso was killed in a skirmish with some Germans who had refused to cough up their taxes, and Marius, well, you’ll find this one hard to believe: Marius was kicked to death by a mule.’

They both laughed before Severus looked at his companion curiously. ‘I heard something about your promotion to centurion. I gather you were summoned to Rome to be decorated and promoted by Claudius himself.’

‘Yes,’ Macro replied quickly. ‘Just a bit of a ceremony, a few months’ leave in the city and back to the Rhine.’

‘Oh.’ Severus looked disappointed. ‘I heard rumours there was more to it than that.’

‘So how did you end up here?’ Macro clumsily redirected the conversation. ‘Bruccium, the absolute arse end of the empire.’

Severus shrugged. ‘You go where you are sent. Ostorius is determined to push on and crush the last centre of resistance to Rome. So he’s been constructing a number of big forts like this, strong enough to hold off any attacks and with enough men to make life difficult for the surrounding tribes. The forts are out on a limb, but that was a risk the governor was prepared to take, with our lives.’

Macro glanced round. ‘Some forts are more out on a limb than others.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I was rather hoping you’d tell me.’

Severus said quietly, ‘Not out here.’

He raised his hand and pointed out the end of a barrack block twenty paces ahead. ‘That’s mine. Home to the Second Century, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. Or what’s left of my century. The cohort commander’s quarters are there at the end of the street.’

‘Who is the ranking centurion at the moment?’

‘That would be me. It should be Stellanus but he’s gone over to the Thracians. As it is, only Petillius and I are left. And we’ve barely enough men to fill out the ranks of two centuries.’

‘Two centuries?’ Macro raised his eyebrows. The full complement of a legionary cohort was four hundred and eighty men, organised into six centuries of eighty soldiers. Barely a third of that number remained. ‘What happened to the rest?’

They had reached the door to Severus’s quarters and he ushered Macro inside. An orderly had been sitting by the small fireplace warming himself and he jumped to his feet as the officers entered.

‘Titus, build the fire up, then fetch me a jug of wine from my stores.’ He turned to Macro. ‘Have you eaten?’

Macro shook his head.

‘Then bring us some bread. Any of the cheese left?’

‘No, sir. You ate the last of it two days ago. Same with the bread. There’s biscuit, sir.’

Severus sighed. ‘Biscuit then, and more bloody dried mutton.’

The orderly bowed his head and then turned his attention to the fire, carefully stacking some split logs on to the low flames.

‘Trouble with food supplies?’ Macro queried.

‘Not if you like salted or dried mutton and biscuit. Quertus has resorted to living off the natives as part of his effort to cut himself free from Glevum. It means we eat what Quertus and his men pillage from their villages. Since their crops have only recently been planted that leaves only what they set aside for winter.’

‘Well, I’m hungry enough to eat anything. And not a little thirsty.’

‘Happily, in that regard I can provide you with something a little more interesting than the native beer which would otherwise be all that is on the menu.’

‘Beer?’

‘That’s what they call it. Frankly, I’ve smelled more appetising horse piss. But Quertus is happy for the men to drink the stuff. Reckons a plain diet helps them keep their minds focused on killing.’

The orderly finished building the fire and left the room. Macro was keen to press Severus on his earlier question. ‘Seems like there’s been a lot of that on both sides. So what happened to the rest of the Fourth Cohort?’

‘We started losing men as soon as we arrived in the valley and began work on the fort. Nothing serious, just the usual skirmishes when the natives had a crack at our lumber parties. Then, when the fort was ready, the prefect began to send patrols out into the valley. We were under orders to take the fight to men under arms only. The rest were to be left unharmed. We were even encouraged to trade with them.’ Severus smiled. ‘Seems the prefect had some quaint notion that there’s more ways to build an empire than simply using force.’

‘Yes, I’ve come across his kind myself.’ Macro sighed. ‘Bloody odd notions of how to go about the business of being a soldier.’

‘Quite. Anyway, the Silures were happy to stage ambushes and harass the patrols, and then hide their weapons and slip back into their villages as if nothing had happened, and we had to go along with it. Except for Quertus. He refused. His unit had been fighting the Silures for years, and he argued that he knew their mind, and that the prefect’s approach was futile. Maybe he’s right. He should know. A few years earlier, before he was promoted to command the unit, he was captured, along with the survivors of a squadron he led. It seems the Silures held them for some months, and killed a handful off, before handing the rest over to the Druids to sacrifice. Quertus managed to escape, after he’d seen his companions burned alive. So I guess he has some grasp of the way the Silures live and think. In any case it convinced him that they could never be won over. More than that, he thinks that they can only be defeated if we turn their barbarism on them, and make the Silures as afraid of Romans as we are of the Druids.’

Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘So that’s his strategy?’

Severus lowered his voice as he continued. ‘It’s only half the story. Quertus knew that those who follow him need to be committed to his way of waging war. That’s why he’s encouraged his men to change their appearance and go back to the old ways of Thrace. He began to change their training, making them concentrate on killing, and absolute obedience to his will. One day he brought back some prisoners from a village at the far end of the valley. Twenty or so men, women, and a handful of kids. He had them tied to stakes on the training ground below the fort and then ordered his men to use them for spear practice. One of the men refused, and Quertus took his sword out and killed him on the spot. I didn’t see it happen, but I’m told he showed no emotion when he did it, and simply told his men that the same would happen to them if they ever refused an order.’

‘Shit . . . That’s taking things a bit too far.’

‘That’s what Prefect Albius thought.’

They were interrupted by the return of the orderly who set down a jar, two cups and a wooden platter on which he had arranged a few strips of dried mutton and a handful of barley-flour biscuits. He bowed his head and left the room, closing the door behind him. Severus waited until he heard the man’s footsteps receding before he continued.

‘The prefect summoned Quertus and, so I heard, warned him not to do it again. If he did then he would be reported to the legate for disciplinary charges. So Quertus took to killing his victims on the spot, but word of that got back to the prefect, who announced that he would accompany Quertus on patrol from then on.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Macro. ‘That’s the patrol the prefect didn’t return from.’

Severus nodded. ‘The official version is that they charged into a village and the prefect was killed in the fighting when he fell from his horse. That was the first of the villages to be burned to the ground and every living thing in it put to the sword, in revenge for the death of the prefect, Quertus said. That became the pattern afterwards. Village after village, farm after farm. Until the only living people in the valley were here at Bruccium. Then, earlier this year, he started work on the surrounding valleys. Of course, he lost men in the process, but then he offered the legionaries a chance to join the Thracians. By that time food was running short, and since the legionaries were left behind to protect the fort, Quertus said that they did not need as much food as the auxiliaries. Then the reason was that they did not deserve it, since they took no risk. A man can only go so far on an empty stomach, and our lads went to him willingly. The only conditions were that they obeyed his will completely, and that they take on the appearance of the Thracians. That’s what happened to Stellanus and Fermatus.’

Macro’s eyes widened. ‘They’re Roman officers?’

‘They were. And a third of the Thracian cohort used to be legionaries. There was one other requirement before men could count themselves as followers of Quertus.’ Severus poured them both a cup of wine and then looked down into the dark liquid in his cup. ‘Quertus told them they had to take the head of one of their enemies and drink his blood.’

Macro stared at him. ‘You are fucking joking . . .’

‘I wish I was. By all the gods, I wish I was joking. But it’s true.’

Despite the horrors he had seen in the campaigns he had fought across the years, Macro felt his guts clench tight, and cold, with fear.

‘It can’t be true.’

‘You’ll see for yourself, soon enough. You, and the new prefect. He won’t last long, though.’

Macro stared across the table. ‘Is Cato in danger?’

‘Of course he is. If he tries to take any action against Quertus then he’s as good as dead.’

‘But he’s the bloody prefect!’ Macro protested. ‘Appointed to the command by the Emperor himself. What he says goes. The moment Quertus tries anything on, Cato will have him disciplined. Or arrested.’