Cato 03 - When the Eagle Hunts (9 page)

'You'd better tell him, Albinus. After all, you were there. You saw it.'

'Yes, sire.'

Vespasian switched his attention to the centurion, a scarred and weathered man well on in his career. Albinus was thin, but the muscle in his forearms was clearly defined. He had the look of a man who would not shock easily, and spoke with the brisk tonelessness of a hardened professional.

'After word of the first raids reached Calleva, the king here sent me and one century down to investigate, sir.'

'Only one century?' Vespasian was horrified. 'Hardly the kind of caution the army encourages, Centurion.'

'No, sir,' replied Albinus with a slight tilt of this head towards Verica who was busy taking another deep gulp of the legate's Falernian. 'But I thought it would be best if the rest of the cohort remained to look after the king's interests.'

'Well yes, quite. Carry on.'

'Yes, sir. Two day's march from Calleva we found the remains of a village. I scouted thoroughly before we approached. It was like King Verica says, not a thing left alive, not a single building left standing. Only, we didn't find more than a handful of bodies, all men, sir.'

'Must have taken the others prisoner.'

'That's what I thought, sir. There was some snow on the ground, and we could follow their tracks easily enough.' Albinus paused to look directly at the legate. 'I had no intention of trying anything stupid, sir. Just wanted to see where they'd come from, then report back.'

'Fair enough.'

'So we followed the tracks for another day, until just before dusk we caught sight of some smoke rising above a small ridge. I thought it might be another village being sacked. We crept up the slope, quiet like, and then I ordered the men to stay back while I went on alone. At first I could hear women and children screaming, then the fire itself — not far over the crest of the ridge. It was well into dusk when I had crept far enough forward to see what was going on.' He paused, not quite sure how to continue under the scrutiny of his superior, and quickly glanced at Verica, who had stopped drinking and eyed the centurion with a fearful expression, even though he had heard the tale before.

'Well, spit it out, man!' ordered Vespasian, in no mood for any dramatics.

'Yes, sir. The Druids had built themselves a huge wicker man, made from twisted withies and branches. It was hollow, and they'd packed it with all the women and children. It was well ablaze by the time I could see what was going on. Some of them who were inside were still screaming. Not for much longer though…' He pursed his lips, and his gaze dropped for a moment. 'The Druids watched for a while longer, then mounted up and rode off, into the night. Like shadows, in black robes they were. So, I rejoined my men and we marched straight back to Calleva to report.'

'These Druids. In black, you say?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any other distinctive features, or insignia?'

'It was getting dark, sir.'

'But there was a fire.'

'I know, sir. I was watching it…'

'All right.' Vespasian could understand that, but it was disappointing that a veteran centurion could lose his attention to the important details so readily. He turned to Verica. 'I've read about the Druids' human sacrifices, but there must be more to this. A warning of the fate waiting for those who side with Rome, perhaps?'

'Perhaps.' Verica nodded. 'Nearly every one of the Druid cults has gone over to Caratacus. And now, it seems, even the Lodge of the Dark Moon.'

'The Dark Moon?' Vespasian frowned for an instant, before the memory of the prisoner compound outside Camulodunum resolved into a vivid image in his mind. 'These Druids bear a dark crescent on their foreheads, don't they? A kind of tattoo. A black moon.'

'You know of them?' Verica's eyebrows rose.

'I've met some.' Vespasian smiled. 'Guests of General Plautius. We took them prisoner after Caratacus was defeated outside Camulodunum. Now I think of it, they were the only Druids we took prisoner. The others were all dead, mostly by their own hand.'

'I'm not surprised. You Romans are not renowned for your tolerance of Druids.'

'Depends on who is Emperor at the time,' Vespasian responded irritably. 'But if Druids prefer death to capture, why did the Dark Moon allow themselves to be taken?'

"They believe they are the chosen ones. They are not allowed to take their own lives. They're the servants of Cruach — the night-bringer. In time, so the legend goes, he will rise and smite the day into a thousand pieces and will rule a world of night and shadow forever.'

'Sounds nasty.' Vespasian smiled. 'Can't say I care to meet this Cruach.'

'His servants are terrible enough, as Albinus has discovered.'

'Indeed. I wonder why the tribes of this island tolerate them.'

'Fear,' Verica admitted readily. 'If Cruach ever comes, the suffering of those who worship him will be as nothing to the eternal torments of those who have abused his servants and made light of his name.'

'I see. And where do you stand on this, sire?'

'I believe what it is important for my people to think I believe. So I offer prayers to Cruach, along with the other gods, as often as I need to. But his priests, these Druids, are a different matter. As long as they raid my villages and slaughter my people I can portray them as extremists. Perverted fanatics worshipping the most terrible of our gods. I doubt if many of the Atrebates, or any other tribe, would shed any tears over the ruthless suppression of this particular lodge of Druids.' He looked away from Vespasian, into the heart of the glowing fire. 'I hope Rome will see to it as soon as possible.'

'I have no specific orders concerning Druids,' countered Vespasian. 'But the general has made it clear that he wants your lands to be secured before the spring campaign begins. If that means dealing with these Dark Moon Druids, then our interests coincide.'

'Good.' Verica eased himself to his feet, and the Romans politely rose from their seats. 'Now, I'm tired, and I'm returning to Calleva with my men. I expect you'll want a word with the centurion.'

'Yes, sire. If that's no trouble.'

'None. I'll see you later then, Albinus.'

'Yes, sire.' The centurion saluted as Vespasian led his guest out of the tent, responding to the British king's leave-taking with as much display of respectful formality as possible. Then Vespasian returned, casting a resentful eye into the empty jug resting on the table, before waving the centurion back into his chair.

'I take it that Verica is finding the resumption of his rule something of a challenge.'

'I suppose so, sir. We've not had too many problems with the Atrebates themselves. They seem more sullen than rebellious. The Catuvellauni were pretty hard masters. The change in rule might not have improved matters much, but it hasn't made things worse.'

'Wait until they meet some Roman land agents,' muttered Vespasian.

'Well, yes, sir.' The centurion shrugged; the depredations of the civil bureaucracy following in the wake of the legions was not his concern. 'Anyway, Calleva, and the immediate area are pacified. I keep two centuries out on local patrols all the time. A third is doing a wider sweep through the villages that border on the Durotriges.'

'Have any patrols encountered the Druids?'

The centurion shook his head. 'Apart from that time I saw them, we've never come into contact, sir. All we've found is the remains of the villages and the bodies. They're mounted, of course, and that means they have us at an immediate disadvantage since pursuit is out of the question.'

'Then I'll lend you half my mounted force while we're stationed near Calleva. I need the rest for my own scouting.'

Sixty of the legion's cavalry scouts were not going to make much of an impact on the Druids' raids, but it was better than nothing and Albinus nodded his thanks.

'How's the training of the locals coming on?'

A flicker of despair showed in the centurion's expression as the mask of stolid professionalism momentarily slipped.

'I wouldn't say it's hopeless, sir. But I wouldn't say I'm very hopeful either.'

'Oh?'

'They're tough enough,' Albinus said grudgingly. 'Tougher than many of the men who serve with the eagles. But the moment you try and make them drill in a formal and disciplined way, it's an utter fucking shambles. Pardon my Gallic, sir. They can't co-ordinate; it's every man for himself in a mad charge at the enemy. About the only thing they will do is individual weapons practice. Even then they use the swords we've equipped them with like bloody meat cleavers. Keep telling 'em that six inches of point is worth any amount of edge, but I'm not getting through. They just won't be trained, sir.'

'Won't be?' Vespasian raised his eyebrows. 'Surely a man of your experience can make them train? You've dealt with difficult cases before.'

'Difficult cases, sir. But not difficult races.'

Vespasian nodded. All the Celts he had met shared the same arrogant belief in their culture's innate superiority, and affected a profound contempt for what they considered the unmanly refinements of Roman and Greek civilisations. These Britons were the worst of the lot. Too stupid by half, Vespasian concluded.

'Do what you can, Centurion. If they won't learn from their betters they'll never be a threat to us.'

'Yes, sir.' Albinus's gaze dropped despondently.

The muffled blaring of a signal trumpet sounded beyond the tent. Moments later they could hear orders being shouted. The centurion glanced towards the legate but Vespasian refused to be seen as a man who would be ruffled by any stray distraction. He leaned back in his chair to address the centurion.

'Very well, Centurion. I'll send a report back to the general to let him know about your situation, and these Druid raids. In the meantime, you're to carry on with the training, and keep the patrols going. We might not keep the Druids out but at least they'll know we're looking for them. The scouts should make that job easier. Anything else to tell me?'

'No, sir.'

'Dismissed.'

The centurion picked up his helmet, saluted and marched smartly out of the tent.

Vespasian was aware that the shouting had increased, and the chinking of weapons and armour indicated that a large body of men was on the move. It was difficult to resist the impulse to rush from the tent to discover what was happening, but he would be damned if he allowed himself to behave like some excitable junior tribune on his first day in the army. He forced himself to pick up a scroll and start reading the latest strength reports. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards immediately outside the tent.

'Is the legate there?' someone shouted to the sentries guarding the entrance flap to Vespasian's tent. 'Then let me pass.'

The folds of leather parted and Plinius, the senior tribune, pushed through, panting for breath. He swallowed anxiously. 'Sir! You have to see this.'

Vespasian looked up from the lines of figures on the scroll. 'Calm yourself, Tribune. This is no way for a senior officer to act.'

'Sir?'

'You don't go belting about the camp unless there is the gravest of emergencies.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And are we in grave danger, Tribune?'

'No, sir.'

'Then keep a cool head and set a good example for the rest of the legion.'

'Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'

'All right then. What have you come to report that is so urgent?'

'There are some men approaching the camp, sir.'

'How many?'

'Two men, sir. And a few more are holding back at the treeline.'

'Two men? So what's all the fuss about?'

'One of them's a Roman…'

Vespasian waited patiently for a moment. 'And the other?'

'I don't know, sir. I've never seen anything like it before.'

Chapter Seven

The Sixth Century had pulled the second watch of the day. After a hurried breakfast of steaming porridge, they relieved the century patrolling the walls of the fortified camp. The centurion coming off duty briefly informed Cato of the arrival of the horsemen from Calleva. Mid-morning sunlight streamed over the ramparts. Cato squinted, having climbed up from the cold shadows around the neat lines of tents. He was forced to shield his eyes for a moment.

'Nice morning, Optio!' a legionary greeted him. 'Might actually get warm today.'

Cato turned to the man; a large, round youth with a jolly face and a handful of crooked teeth that looked like the remains of one of the stone circles the legion had marched past the previous summer. Being thin with little fat on him, thanks to his nervous disposition, Cato found it difficult to keep warm and was still shivering inside his tightly belted wool cloak. He simply nodded at the legionary, not wanting to let the man see his teeth chatter. The legionary was one of the recent replacements, a Gaul by the name of Horatius Figulus. Figulus was an adequate enough soldier, and the youngster's cheerful nature had made him popular with the century.

With a sudden jolt of awareness, Cato recalled that Figulus was the same age as he was. The same age, and yet the few months longer he had served with the eagles made him look upon this recruit with the cool gaze of a veteran. Certainly, a casual onlooker might well imagine the optio to be a veteran; the scars of the terrible burns he had suffered the previous summer were clearly visible. And yet the hair on his cheeks was still so sparse that it would be risible for him to even consider a shave. Figulus, by contrast, shared the hairy physiognomy of his Celt forebears; the fine growth of light hair across his cheeks and chin needed almost daily attention from a carefully whetted blade.