The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (39 page)

Macro stared at them and was gratified that none seemed to show any sign of fear. ‘You all know what’s coming. Caratacus means to take the fort with the next attack. The enemy’s blood is up and we can expect that they will take heavy casualties and still keep going. Once they get over the wall and establish a foothold, then the game is up for us. If it happens then it would be better to die than risk capture. Make certain your men understand that. We need to match their resolve if we are to stand any chance of surviving this. I won’t lie to you. We may hold off the first attack, but after that it’s anyone’s guess. If the fort falls, then we’re dead men. And it will fall. There’s too few of us to hold the wall. Too many of them, and no prospect of help from outside. The only choice that concerns us now is how we die: like soldiers, or like dogs.’ Macro paused and softened his tone as he turned to the fort’s surgeon. ‘I don’t want any men taken alive. If the wall is taken I’ll have the trumpeter sound five long notes. That is the signal. You and your orderlies will deal with the wounded. Understand?’

The surgeon nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see to it that it’s quick.’

‘Good man.’ Macro looked at the senior officer of the Thracian cohort. ‘The same goes for the horses. Have some of your men ready. The moment the signal is given they are to lame them. It’ll be quicker than killing them and just as effective.’

‘Why not kill them now, sir? While there’s time.’

Macro shook his head and smiled. ‘Despite everything, I never give in. Never. Even now, there may be a way out of this. I’ll not admit defeat until the end. And if that’s the fate the gods have decided for us, then and only then do we accept it. Now, lads, to your posts.’ He held out his hand and clasped forearms with each officer before they left to rejoin their men. Then, with a heavy sigh, Macro climbed back up to the tower and strapped on his helmet and waited for the enemy.

In the dying light the Silurians formed up in front of their camp, a dark mass of men and weapons set against the glow of their fires. For a time there was silence, and then a horn sounded a deep note that echoed off the surrounding hills and the tribesmen surged forward without a sound.

Macro cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to the garrison, ‘Here they come! Stand to!’

Along the wall the legionaries and Thracians stepped up to the parapet. Macro watched as the tribesmen swarmed up the slope. There was another blast from the horn and this time it was met with a deafening roar from the warriors. He could not help a cruel smile. Even though Caratacus had chosen to attack from the darkness, his men would arrive in a wave and be hard to miss. Especially as they neared the outer ditch.

He called out again. ‘Torches!’

All along the wall fire glittered in shallow arcs as the defenders hurled small blazing bundles of kindling tied to lengths of wood. The torches struck the slope and rolled a short distance. Their flames cast pools of light by which Macro could see the first of the attackers loom out of the darkness. Their cheering had died down as they struggled up the incline towards the fort.

‘Ready javelins!’

The defenders raised their weapons, throwing arms drawn back, waiting for the order.

Macro waited until he could see men all along the line of the slope, clambering up towards the outer ditch. He calmly waited a moment longer until he was certain they were within range so that not a single weapon would be wasted.

‘Loose!’

A chorus of grunts greeted the order as the men hurled their weapons out into the darkness. Then the shafts flickered into view of the glow of the torches as they rained down into the packed ranks of the enemy. Macro saw several of the tribesmen struck down and there were cries of pain from the horde racing towards the ditch.

‘Continue, at will!’

His men snatched up more javelins and launched them into the oncoming enemy. The last of the fort’s stock would quickly be exhausted, but Macro had decided that it would be better to use up the weapons while his men still could. Scores of warriors were felled by the deadly missiles before the first of them reached the ditch and rushed down the slope. Now Macro could see the enemy’s intention. Each man carried a small bundle of sticks. The warriors crossed the ditch and climbed the inner slope before placing their burdens at the foot of the wall and rushing away. And out of the gloom came the first of the wicker shelters, carried up to the edge of the ditch and set down, side by side, to form lengths of a makeshift wall to protect the attackers. The steady flow of javelins continued to claim casualties and the bodies of the dead and the wounded lay strewn across the top of the slope and in the ditch in front of the fort. And still they came on, dashing out from behind their shelters to add more combustible material to the steadily growing piles ranged along the wall. Most of the warriors’ efforts were concentrated on the outside of the gatehouse, thrusting faggots into the gaps left where the garrison had hurriedly blocked the ruined outer gate.

A sharp, splintering crack caused Macro to duck down. The were more impacts on either side and he hissed a curse. The enemy had brought forward some slingers who were loosing their shot at close range from behind the shelters. Risking a quick glance along the wall to the right of the gatehouse, he could see one man was already down, sprawled on his back on the inner slope of the turf rampart. Another man was struck as he took aim with his javelin, his head snapping back with a sharp clang, his weapon dropping from his fingers as he collapsed and lay still. It was too dangerous to keep it up with the slingers so close to the wall, Macro decided. He snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Cease javelins! Take cover!’

The other officers repeated the order and the defenders lowered their weapons and crouched down behind the palisade as more shot zipped over and rattled off the timbers of the wall. The fort’s medical orderlies hurried forward to pick up the casualties and carry them away to the infirmary and Macro wondered how many more men would fall during the night.

For the first hour of the night the enemy continued to pile their combustibles against the fort and their slingers were watchful for any sign of movement along the wall, loosing off their deadly shot at any Roman who dared to show himself. Macro risked the occasional glance to follow the enemy’s progress and for a time he saw Caratacus and his shield bearer striding behind the shelters, surveying the work of his men. At length Caratacus called down to the camp and a short while later small flames flickered as they approached the fort and Macro saw teams of men scurry up to the piled wood with buckets. The sharp smell of pitch reached his nose and he knew that time was running out for the garrison. Then the stench of acrid smoke caught in his throat. The crackling sound of burning timber spread along the wall as one pile of wood after another was ignited. The rim of the parapet and hoardings were sharply defined against the loom of the fire burning at the foot of the gatehouse. A yellow tongue of fire licked up into Macro’s field of vision.

‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.

There was a cry of alarm from below. ‘There’s smoke in here! Get out! Get out!’

Macro turned and saw that the handful of men with him on the tower were looking at him anxiously. He smiled calmly. ‘Time to move, lads. I don’t fancy being a burned offering to some fucking barbarian god.’

The legionaries scrambled over to the ladder and descended out of sight. As Macro rose to follow suit, he felt the stinging heat of the flames rising up in front of the gatehouse. He swung himself on to the ladder and stepped down the rungs, immediately aware of the smoke starting to fill the watchroom. The doors leading out on to the walkway behind the wall were both open and there was a light breeze as air was sucked inside to feed the flames. Thin slivers of brilliant light were visible through the chinks in the gatehouse’s timbers, and the roar of flames and crackle of burning wood filled Macro’s ears. He breathed in and abruptly doubled over, coughing violently, and his eyes smarted. Making for the nearest door, he emerged from the gatehouse and staggered a short distance along the wall before crouching down.

It took a moment to clear his lungs and blink away the tears from his stinging eyes before he could take in the situation. Several fires were burning along the length of the wall facing the slope down to the parade ground, the biggest of which was the blaze raging up the front of the gatehouse.

‘Sir!’

Macro looked round to see Centurion Petillius standing below him at the foot of the rampart, his face lit by the flames. Petillius was pointing towards the gatehouse. ‘Shall I get one of the centuries to fetch water?’

Macro thought a moment and shook his head. ‘They’d be too exposed to the slingers. Besides, there’s too little left in the cistern to make a difference. Just pull the men back from those sections on fire. The rest can stay in place.’

Petillius saluted and hurried away to carry out Macro’s order. He stayed on the wall for a short while longer, until the pain in his lungs had passed off, and then descended into the fort and stood back by the end of the nearest barrack block. The fires had established themselves now and flames licked around the angle of the gatehouse. There was nothing that could be done to save the structure, Macro realised. It would be gradually consumed by the flames and eventually collapse. The fire would burn on for a few hours before it died down. Come the dawn, it would be a smouldering ruin, and there would be nothing to prevent Caratacus and his army from picking their way over the charred remains and falling on the waiting men of the garrison.

When Petillius returned to his side, Macro told him to leave a handful of men on watch and order the others to come down and rest between the barrack blocks.

‘And what of the horses and the men in the hospital, sir?’ Petillius asked quietly.

Macro stared at the flames for a moment before he answered. ‘We’ll deal with it at the last moment. Best not to lower the men’s spirits before then. I’ll give the order when the time comes.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Once you’ve seen to the men, get some rest yourself, Petillius.’

‘So should you, sir.’

Macro patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m fine.’ He jerked his thumb towards the fires. ‘Until that lot burns out, we’re not going to be troubled. I’ll be at headquarters for a while, if anything comes up.’

Petillius nodded, then strode away to the nearest section of men hunched down behind the wall. Macro turned towards the heart of the fort and saw the resigned expressions in the faces of the men he passed, lit by the ruddy hue of the flames. There was no doubting the fate that would face them the following morning and Macro felt too tired to humour them with any words of false hope as he trudged past. Back in the garrison commander’s office, he sat down and took out a blank waxed tablet. Picking up a stylus, he composed a letter to his mother. The sentiments he offered were simple and honest; regret for the events of the past, and hope that she would be proud that he had died with honour. It was a short farwell, and when he had finished the handful of lines pressed into the wax, Macro read them over, then shut the tablet and bound it together. He took it down to the underground strongroom and placed it carefully under one of the chests of records. As he emerged from headquarters, he felt a calmness in his heart, a sense that all but one of his duties had been carried out.

The fires burned on through the hours of night, the flames peaking and then slowly beginning to subside. Just after midnight the tower groaned and slowly lurched out towards the slope before crashing across the causeway and into the ditch, provoking a cheer from the enemy beyond. After a while the cheering faded and the only sound was the crackle of the flames, steadily diminishing. For a while a few of the timber frames of the gatehouse still stood to remind Macro of its outline. Then they, too, collapsed on to the shrinking mass beneath the flames. As the first smear of grey light spread along the eastern horizon, Macro donned his helmet, took up his shield and climbed the rampart to join one of the legionaries tasked with keeping watch on the enemy. Glancing warily over the parapet, Macro could see the wicker shelters and a handful of the enemy looking on from behind.

‘Rest of ’em fell back a while ago, sir,’ the sentry reported. ‘Resting up while the fires burned out.’

Macro nodded. ‘They’ll be back soon enough.’

The sentry was quiet for a moment before he responded. ‘Better that it’s over with quickly.’

‘Just as long as you take a few of the bastards with you, eh?’

They exchanged a weary smile before continuing to watch for any sign of the enemy stirring to make their final assault on the fort. Little by little dawn stole across the horizon and the darkness began to withdraw, revealing the slope below the fort, and then the parade ground, and the valley beyond. A landscape almost devoid of life and movement. Only a handful of figures were visible, picking over the ground before hurrying away towards the far end of the valley. At length even those behind the wicker shelters fell back, formed a small column and marched off.

‘What the fuck are they playing at?’ Macro growled suspiciously, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

‘Sir!’ The sentry stood up and pointed to the east, towards the head of the valley. Macro turned and saw the head of a column of horsemen cresting the pass and descending the track that led to the fort. For a moment he dared not give in to hope. He uttered no word, not even as the other sentries strung out along those sections of the wall still standing started to shout in excited voices, calling the other men up on to the wall to see for themselves. Centurion Petillius ran up to join Macro, squinting towards the column edging towards them like a giant centipede.

‘Ours?’

‘Ours?’ Macro laughed harshly. ‘Of course they’re fucking ours.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Legate Quintatus surveyed the bodies scattered across the ground and in the ditch before turning his gaze towards the gaping ruins where the gatehouse and several sections of the wall had burned down. His nose wrinkled at the acrid stench of charred timber as he turned to face Macro.

‘Must have been quite a fight, Centurion.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied flatly.

‘This is the kind of action that makes heroes out of the men who fought it,’ the legate continued. ‘I’m sure there will be something in it for you when my report reaches Governor Ostorius, and he sends it on to Rome. The garrison at Bruccium has distinguished itself and there will be awards to fix to the standards of your cohort, and your Thracians as well.’ He turned and flashed a smile at Cato. ‘The Blood Crows have won themselves something of a fierce reputation. Of course much of that was down to the efforts of Centurion Quertus. It is a shame he did not live to see this day.’

‘Yes, sir. It is a shame.’

‘Never mind. I’m sure his name will live on.’

Cato nodded. ‘I’m certain of it.’

Quintatus turned his attention back to Macro. ‘You have your orders. Make sure that the fort is completely destroyed. I don’t want any of the enemy occupying this position after we leave the valley. That will be all, Centurion.’

Macro saluted and turned away to make his way back through the breach and into the fort. The legate stared after him for a moment and shrugged.

‘A hard fighter, that man, but something of a surly character.’

Cato stifled his anger at this description of his friend. ‘The centurion is exhausted, sir. He can hardly be expected to provide stimulating conversation in his state.’

Quintatus rounded on him sharply. ‘By all means defend your officers, but I’ll thank you not to express yourself in such an insubordinate manner. You, and the centurion, may have come out of this heroes but I advise you not to test my good will too far. Do we understand each other?’

‘Yes, sir. Clearly.’

‘Very well. Once your men have completed the destruction of Bruccium, have them join the rearguard. There’ll be no time to rest them, I’m afraid. We have to march fast if we are to keep up with Caratacus. We can’t afford to lose contact and let him give us the slip again. Ostorius would not be very forgiving.’ Quintatus smiled. ‘Even though it was the governor who lost track of him the first time. It would be gratifying to put an end to Caratacus before Ostorius reached the scene. Most gratifying indeed.’

Cato felt a stab of irritation. The commanders of armies had no right to pursue their political rivalries in the field. Men’s lives were at stake, and a general owed it to those whose fates he controlled to focus his thoughts on the successful outcome of the campaign. The defeat of the enemy was all that mattered. Who claimed the credit for it was irrelevant. Or at least it should be. But there were times when it seemed that war was only ever a continuation of politics, Cato mused. No more so than in Rome where the two fields so frequently overlapped in the careers of those at the highest levels of society.

Legate Quintatus was surveying the column of his army marching past the ruined fort, thousands of men, mules, horses and wagons heavily laden with the accoutrements of war.

‘We have wasted too many years trying to bring peace to this province. There has been little chance to win glory thanks to the Emperor claiming that the place was conquered a few months after we first landed. But there’s a world of difference between the official view and the reality on the ground, eh? I’ll be glad to be posted to a frontier where a reputation can be made. But I am getting ahead of myself.’ Quintatus made a self-deprecating gesture with his hand. ‘First we must complete the destruction of the enemy. With Caratacus beaten we can finally put an end to native resistance on this miserable island.’

‘I hope so, sir.’

The legate turned to frown at Cato. ‘You doubt it?’

Cato framed his reply carefully. ‘We have to defeat Caratacus first, sir. We’ll only know if it is all over after that has happened. Even then, he has proved to be a resourceful enemy. Who knows? He may still have plenty of surprises up his sleeve. There are other tribes who haven’t paid homage to Rome. And then there’s the Druids, always ready to stir up hatred towards us.’ He shrugged. ‘I fear that it will be a while yet before Britannia knows peace.’

Quintatus let out an impatient sigh. ‘Your spirit of optimism is somewhat less than awe-inspiring, Prefect Cato. I am sure you are a delight to have around when the morale of the men needs a lift.’

‘Optimism is a commendable enough quality, sir, but the hard realities of a situation seldom pay heed to good humour, in my experience.’

‘In your experience?’ The legate’s lips curled slightly in amusement. ‘I trust that you will live long enough to do justice to the term.’

Cato met his gaze steadily. ‘So do I, sir.’

Quintatus beckoned to the soldier holding his horse and the man hurriedly led the beast over and handed the reins to the legate, before bowing and offering his hands to give the officer an easy step up into the saddle. He looked down at Cato and his voice took on a curt tone of command.

‘Destroy the fort, assemble what’s left of your command and join the column.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They exchanged a salute and Quintatus urged his mount into a trot, down the track towards the parade ground over which a column of legionaries was marching. Cato watched him for a moment, wondering if he could share the legate’s optimism about the imminent end to the war against Caratacus and those who still resisted the brute power of Rome. Despite his reservations, he wanted to hope that the long campaign would soon be over. With Britannia at peace, he could safely send for Julia to join him. In time, many of the units of the island’s garrison would be redeployed and a better posting could be found. Somewhere warmer, more civilised. He looked up at the grey crags on the mountains on either side of the valley and shivered. This was wild, hostile country and it was hard to see how it could ever be tamed. It would be better never to bring Julia to these shores. When the natives eventually gave in, it would be best to request a new command closer to Rome. He did not yet dare to hope for a position in the capital. Not while there were still those at the palace who bore him ill will. But that would not last forever, Cato reflected wryly. Those who plotted the fate of Rome at the emperor’s side seldom lasted the distance. Soon there would be a new Emperor. More than likely it would be Nero, the adopted son of Claudius, and Cato had once saved the young prince’s life. If the spirited youth became Emperor, there would be a purge of the old guard and Cato would be free to return to Rome, and Julia, and live in peace.

With that warm thought in his heart, he turned away from the passing column of infantry and picked his way through the breach beside the ruined gatehouse and went to find Macro.

The interior of the fort was heavy with the stench of burned timber and the more acrid odour of pitch. Small parties of men were preparing piles of combustible materials in the doorways of the barrack blocks and stables. Cato could not help observing the irony that Roman soldiers would complete the destruction that their enemies had failed to achieve.

He found Macro at headquarters, supervising the loading of the garrison’s pay chest and records into a wagon. A section of legionaries had been assigned the duty. It seemed that Macro still did not trust the Thracians.

‘How is it going, Macro?’

The centurion saluted as his friend approached and ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck as he collected his thoughts.

‘The sick and wounded have already joined the baggage train. Along with the Silurian prisoners. The cavalry mounts have been removed from the stables, along with all the equipment we can carry in the remaining wagons.’ He nodded towards the chests being loaded. ‘Once that lot’s sorted then we’re done.’

‘And our own kit?’

He gestured towards the wagon in the courtyard. ‘Already loaded.’

Cato nodded. ‘Good. Once the wagon is out of the fort you can give the order for the fires to be lit.’

‘I’ll be glad to do it.’

Cato glanced at his friend with a curious expression. ‘You’re pleased by the prospect?’

‘Why not? Why feel sorry for the loss of this place?’ Macro cast his eyes around the courtyard in front of the headquarters building. ‘It has too much of the feel of Quertus about it. It’s as if his shadow still lingers here. No surprise in that, I guess. He was not the kind of bastard who would be welcomed into the afterlife. Quertus deserves an underworld all of his own, to my mind.’

Cato was taken aback. It was unlike Macro to be in such low spirits. He addressed his friend in a gentle tone.

‘Macro. Quertus is dead. I killed him. It’s over.’

Macro shook his head slowly. ‘Not for me, lad. I’ve served for twenty years in the legions, seen plenty of sights in my time and known some bad characters, but nothing like Quertus. His heart was touched by darkness.’

‘Darkness?’ Cato pursed his lips and thought a moment before he continued. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Suppose?’ Macro chuckled humourlessly. ‘Fuck that. He was insane. Quertus had an evil streak in him as wide as the Tiber. He was little better than a wild animal and cunning as a snake. He needed to be put down. I only wish I had been the one to do it. Not you.’ He regarded Cato anxiously. ‘I hope there’s going to be no repercussions.’

‘Not for a while, at least. The legate assumes from what I said that he died in battle. If I’m required to write a full report then the truth will be known. As I’m sure it will in any case. There were witnesses. Word will get out.’

‘True, but there’ll be few of them spoken in praise of Quertus, given that he was about to abandon the rest of us to Caratacus. I won’t be the only one to back up your account. Not by a long way.’

Cato smiled gratefully. ‘I know. I have no worries on that account.’ His expression became more thoughtful. ‘It’s a pity that it had to happen. There was some merit in Quertus’s tactics.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Why not? Fear is the best weapon that can be deployed in war. And he put fear into the hearts of the enemy sure enough. His mistake was in putting fear into the hearts of his own men.’

‘You do him too much credit, Cato. He was a bad ’un. That’s all. Bad, and mad, to the core, and he touched others with it. His men, the Silurians . . . even me.’ Macro’s gaze slid away from Cato as he vividly recalled the deaths of Mancinus and Maridius. He winced, as if in pain. ‘Don’t make the mistake of speaking well of the dead. Some don’t deserve it.’ Macro glanced past Cato towards the wagon and called out, ‘All right, the bloody thing’s loaded so what are you waiting for? Get the wagon out of the fort and down to the parade ground and make sure no thieving bastards get their hands on it. Move!’

The driver of the wagon cracked his whip and the heavy wheels rumbled into motion as the vehicle and its escort left the courtyard and made for the side gate and the track leading round the fort to the parade ground. The melancholy spell of a moment earlier was broken and both men assumed the veneer of their rank as they turned back to each other.

‘That’s the lot.’ Macro drew himself up. ‘Fort’s ready to be fired, sir.’

Cato nodded. ‘Then I’ll wait for you with the rest of the men outside. Carry on.’

As Cato made his way back towards the burned remains of the wall facing the parade ground he heard Macro’s voice barking out the orders to the incendiary parties. By the time Cato reached the bottom of the slope and turned to look up, dark columns of smoke were swirling into the sky. Macro and a handful of his men emerged from one of the breaches in the wall and descended the track to join their comrades. Cato waved aside the man holding his horse. He felt that he wanted to walk for a while. The survivors of the garrison formed up and Cato waved his arm forward to signal them to advance and they fell into line at the rear of the column.

Far ahead, Legate Quintatus’s cavalry were snapping at the heels of Caratacus and his warriors. Soon they would be forced to turn and fight. There would be a great battle which would test the courage and skill of the men of both armies, Cato knew. If Rome triumphed, there was a chance for peace in the new province. If not, the bitter war would drag on year after year. The prospect depressed Cato. More death. More suffering. The natives would desperately cling to the hope that they would ultimately humble Rome. That would never happen, Cato mused. No emperor of Rome would allow it to happen, whatever the cost. That was what Caratacus and his followers should really fear.

Again, it came back to fear. Perhaps, in that regard, Quertus had been right all along.

‘We’re a bit thin on the ground,’ Macro said, breaking Cato’s thoughts. He turned to gesture at the small column of men and horses behind them. ‘Both cohorts have suffered heavy losses.’

‘True, but the legate has promised us first call on the replacements coming up from Londinium. We’ll return to the front line soon enough.’

Macro smiled at the prospect of breaking in some new recruits. ‘Back to straightforward, proper soldiering. At last.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato grinned at his friend. ‘We’ll drill them until they drop and when we do go up against the enemy, they’ll do us proud. Your men and the Blood Crows will be the best cohorts in the army. There won’t be a tribe in Britannia that can stand against us.’

Macro nodded. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘The first jar is on me, as soon as we make camp tonight.’

‘Why wait?’ Macro flipped his cloak back and drew out his canteen. ‘Took the liberty of helping myself to what was left of the Falernian. Not bad stuff.’ He offered the canteen to Cato. ‘You first. Rank has its privileges.’

Cato shook his head. ‘So does friendship. After you.’

Macro laughed, pulled out the stopper and took a healthy swig before he passed the canteen over to Cato. The prefect thought for a moment before he raised the canteen in a toast.

‘To Rome, to honour and, above all, to friendship!’