The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (15 page)

‘Fuck,’ Cato muttered fiercely to himself. ‘I am not going to die here.’

He tried to free himself again, bracing his left boot against the horse’s rump as he strained his muscles to try and free his trapped leg. But it was hopeless, the weight of the dying animal bore down on the saddle and made the task impossible. At length Cato slumped back on to his elbows. ‘Shit . . . shit . . . shit . . .’

There was nothing he could do, and he held his sword ready and waited for someone to come for him, friend or foe.

Macro slashed his blade down, grimacing as the edge bit deeply into his opponent’s skull with a sound like the cracking of a large egg. The tribesman’s body convulsed and his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. A moment later the man collapsed beside his weapon, eyelids fluttering wildly as blood and brains spattered out of his shattered head. Straightening up in his saddle, Macro swept his gaze over the men fighting around him. None of the enemy was near enough to present a direct threat and Macro hurriedly assessed the situation.

The enemy’s formation had broken and now a series of duels were being fought out across the ground in front of the fort. There were plenty of bodies lying on the ground, and Macro could see that perhaps a third of Trebellius’s men were down. The rest were outnumbered and now that the initial impact of the charge had passed, the tribesmen were beginning to have the upper hand, as they heavily outnumbered the Romans. Even as Macro watched, several of the warriors, led by their chief, had surrounded the standard-bearer of the squadron. He held the staff close to his body while cutting at any native that came within reach of the long blade of his spatha. But there were too many of the enemy and one, more daring than his comrades, leaped forward and snatched the reins from the hand of the standard-bearer and savagely wrenched the horse’s head round to unbalance its rider. The chief stepped in and thrust his sword into the Roman’s side, while another man ripped the shaft of the standard away and held it aloft with a cry of glee. Macro could see the mortified expression on the face of the standard-bearer as he used what strength he had left to steer his horse round with his knees and slash his sword across the back of the warrior who had seized the squadron’s insignia. The standard dropped to the ground as the native collapsed and then his comrades fell on the Roman, hauling him from his saddle before they butchered him on the ground.

Macro saw that Trebellius and four of his men were closer to the fallen standard and he cupped his left hand to his mouth.

‘Decurion! Save the standard!’

Trebellius looked round and saw Macro, who stabbed his finger in the direction of the natives who had finished off the standard-bearer and were already making off with their trophy. Their success had encouraged their comrades and Macro saw that the fight was in the balance. He turned towards the fort.

‘Come on, you bastards! Help us!’

The commander of the garrison had already correctly read the situation and even as Macro’s words died on his lips, the gates opened and the auxiliaries quick-marched in tight formation towards the skirmish. Macro felt a surge of relief as he raised his sword again and looked round for a fresh opponent. Then it struck him: there was no sign of Cato. He felt an icy stab of anxiety at the base of his spine as he scanned the scene.

‘Cato! Sir! Where are you?’

Then he saw the flutter of red in the grass fifty paces away, the thin horsehair crest of the prefect’s helmet, and Macro pulled harshly on his reins to turn his horse towards his friend. Close by lay the bulk of a horse and Macro realised at once that Cato must be trapped underneath. A short distance away one of the natives had just finished off a legionary with his spear and pulled the bloodied tip free. He looked round and the same red crest now caught his attention. With a look of cruel intent he turned and paced towards Cato.

‘No, you bloody don’t!’ Macro growled as he spurred his horse forward.

Cato sensed the man’s approach before he saw him and turned to see the tall figure striding through the wild tussocks of grass towards him. He wore a thick brown cloak over a black tunic and strapped leggings. The ends of a silver torc gleamed at his throat and his hair, drenched by the drizzle, hung lankly across his shoulders. All this Cato saw in an instant, then he strained to free his leg again, groaning with the effort. The horse had bled out and lay still, a dead weight pressing down on the saddle and the leg caught beneath. He turned on his side and propped himself as best he could on his left elbow as he raised his sword and aimed the point at the oncoming warrior.

The man saw that he had an easy kill and grinned cruelly as he raised his spear and made to strike at the helpless Roman officer. Cato clenched his teeth and glared back, determined not to show any fear at his imminent death. There was only fleeting regret that it had to be this way, slaughtered like a tethered goat, so ignominious, so shameful. He hoped that when his death was reported to Julia back in Rome, the details would not be revealed and that she would grieve for him as the hero he wanted to be. Not like this.

The tribesman drew back his shaft to strike and Cato tensed his arm. Down flashed the head of the spear, tapering like a broad leaf to tear as great a wound as possible. Cato timed his parry well, not lashing out too soon and risking missing the strike; the edge of his sword connected with the head of the spear with a loud clang and the point deflected away from his throat, over his shoulder and whispered close to his ear so that he felt the brush of air on his skin.

With a frustrated grunt his opponent whipped the spear back for another attempt. This time he targeted Cato’s sword, viciously cutting horizontally and knocking the blade aside so hard that Cato nearly lost his grip and pain coursed through his fist at the impact. Then the man swung the butt of the spear round and delivered a heavy blow to the side of Cato’s helmet. Stunned, Cato slumped back helplessly and the warrior let out a roar of triumph and raised his spear a last time, to deliver the killing blow.

‘No you don’t!’ Macro bellowed and the warrior hesitated and looked round. Then the horse was upon him and Macro threw himself from the saddle on to the spearman and they crashed to the ground side by side. It was a hard landing and both lost hold of their weapons. Macro snatched out the dagger from his belt and stabbed it into his enemy, tearing through the coarse material of the cloak. The thickness of the material saved the man as only the tip of the blade penetrated his flesh. By the time Macro stabbed again he was already rolling away and took a flesh wound in the shoulder. The centurion’s stocky build gave him the edge in such close-quarter fighting and he quickly rose into a crouch and fell heavily on his opponent with his knees. At the same time he snatched at the man’s hair to yank the head to one side and expose the throat. He drew his elbow back to stab his enemy under the chin.

‘Macro! Wait!’ Cato shouted.

The centurion snarled, ‘What the fuck for?’

‘I want him spared, for questioning.’

Macro drew a deep breath of frustration and nodded before he muttered, ‘Lights out for you then, pal.’

Reversing his fist he smashed the pommel of his dagger against the man’s head and knocked him senseless. With a grunt his body went limp and his head thudded to the ground as Macro released his hair. He sheathed his dagger and then his sword and turned to Cato, hands on hips. ‘What are you playing at down there? Sleeping on the job?’

‘Funny,’ Cato grunted. ‘Actually, I’m in a bit of difficulty here, Macro. Would you mind?’

There was a rustle in the grass nearby as a section of auxiliaries, led by their optio, came trotting over to Macro. The optio stopped and hurriedly saluted.

‘Caius Lentulus, sir.’

Macro looked at them sourly.

‘Great timing, Optio. You missed the fight. But you can at least do something useful. Get this bloody horse off the prefect.’

The optio and his men downed their spears and shields and dragged the carcass away from Cato. He gritted his teeth as the movement caused fresh agony in his leg.

‘Careful!’ he snapped. Then his boot came free and Cato sat up to inspect his leg. The brass studs on the leatherwork had gouged the flesh below his knee where the hem of the breeches exposed his skin. Blood flowed freely and Cato swore as he struggled to stand up. His leg was numb and he staggered as he tried to take a step. At once Macro grabbed him by the arm and held him up.

‘Sir, you all right?’

‘Oh, fine, thank you. Next stupid question?’

Macro looked down at his friend’s leg anxiously. ‘Anything broken?’

Cato shook his head and straightened up to survey his surroundings. The enemy had been defeated. Scores of bodies lay sprawled on the ground, together with a handful of horses. Trebellius was reassembling the survivors of his squadron and Cato saw that barely half the number that had charged with him were still in their saddles. Several others were wounded, hunched over. A few mounts stood riderless, pawing at the ground. The last of the tribesmen could be seen disappearing into the shadows beneath the trees and Cato quickly estimated that the enemy had lost at least thirty men. The auxiliaries were picking their way over the bodies, finishing off any that still lived. Cato nodded with satisfaction. It had been a quick, violent struggle, but the outpost had been saved, and the enemy had been taught a sharp lesson.

Then he recalled that Trebellius’s squadron had lost its standard. It would be foolhardy indeed to chase after the enemy into the woods to attempt to retrieve it. A pointless waste of lives. The loss would go hard with the decurion when he returned to Glevum. The army did not tolerate any excuse in relation to the loss of one of its standards, even from the smallest of its units. He would be disgraced and demoted to the ranks at the very least and the stain on his record would never be erased. But better that than lose what remained of the squadron in an attempt to rescue his honour. Perhaps in time the standard would be recovered – once the Silurians had been crushed and their lands added to the province of Britannia.

‘Macro, tell Trebellius to get his men inside the fort before he does anything stupid.’

Macro nodded. ‘I understand.’

Cato ordered two of the auxiliaries to help him to the gate, and two more men to carry the unconscious warrior. Once his leg had been seen to, and the wounded made comfortable, there would be plenty of time to see what information they could get out of their prisoner.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Trebellius took a step back from the prisoner and wiped the blood from his knuckles with a rag. ‘I think he’s ready for questioning now.’

Cato nodded from where he sat on a stool in the outpost’s mess. The minor wounds to his leg had been cleaned and dressed, but the knee joint had been badly wrenched during his brief fight with the spearman and made walking an agony. So one of the auxiliaries had fashioned a simple crutch for him to get about until his knee had recovered. It was inconvenient, Cato reflected, but he would recover in a day or so. Which was more than could be said for the spearman who was paying a heavy price for his attempt on the prefect’s life.

Stripped to the waist, the Silurian’s hands were chained together in front of him and a spear shaft had been passed through the crook of his elbows behind his back. A rope was tied to the shaft and the other end had been thrown over the sturdy beam running across the mess room. Trebellius had hauled the rope to drag the prisoner up on to his feet, then his toes, before tying it off on the beam. After that, he had administered a steady beating to the Silurian’s stomach and face. Not so hard as to cause any disabling injury, but hard enough to cause considerable pain and fear. Trebellius had explained that he had been trained as a frumentarius, an interrogator, and watching him at work Cato could see that he had learned his craft well. Macro sat at a table nearby, hunched over a bowl of steaming barley stew as he watched proceedings. A jar of wine and two cups stood on the table, and another bowl for Cato, which he had not touched.

‘Very well.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘Ask him where his war party came from. I want to know where his settlement is.’

Trebellius translated the question as best he could into the native tongue. The Silurian looked up at Cato and spat a crimson gobbet of blood and spittle in his direction before he muttered briefly. Trebellius wrenched his head up with one hand and slapped him hard across the face.

‘That’ll do,’ said Cato. ‘What did he say?’

Trebellius released the man’s hair and the Silurian’s head slumped forward. ‘He told us to go fuck ourselves, sir.’

Macro lowered his bronze spoon and made a shocked expression. ‘Such incivility! I tell you, the prospect of putting a clean tongue in the mouths of barbarians like him makes it all worth while. Decurion, tell him that I’ll go and fuck his sister if he doesn’t show us a bit of respect. And his mother, and his daughters. Shit, I’ll even fuck his prize hunting dogs within an inch of their lives if he doesn’t start being a bit more cooperative.’ Macro waved his spoon. ‘You tell him.’

There was a brief exchange before the decurion grinned. ‘He says, why would his dogs fuck you while there are still pigs in the world?’

Macro glared for a moment before suddenly laughing out loud and shaking his head. ‘He’s got balls, this one . . . For now at least,’ he added in a harsher tone.

Cato gestured to his friend to stop speaking. ‘Tell him that he’s going to reveal what I want to know one way or another. He can make it easy on himself, or we can continue this for the rest of the day. For as long as we like, until we get what we want. There’s no shame in speaking up now and saving himself a lot of pain.’

Trebellius translated and punched the Silurian in the guts for emphasis, but the tribesman groaned and gasped for breath and then clenched his teeth together defiantly. Cato ordered the decurion to continue and Trebellius laid into the prisoner methodically, a steady series of blows to his stomach, head and ribs. The Silurian endured it without saying a word, and merely groaned in pain and sucked in shallow breaths when his tattooed chest hurt too much to breathe normally.

‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ Cato decided at length. ‘We’d better try another tack. Decurion, let him down and bring him some water and bread.’

Trebellius wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘I could try applying a bit of heat if you like, sir. A hot iron to the arse can be effective.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Not now. Maybe later on, if we need to. Let’s just try to get him talking. Let him down. Find Decimus and tell him to bring some food and water, and some wine for myself and the centurion.’

Trebellius untied the rope and the Silurian collapsed on to the ground with a pained grunt as the impact drove the air from his lungs. While the decurion left the room to fetch some water and bread, Trebellius wrenched the spear shaft away from the prisoner, freeing his arms. The Silurian lay on his side, panting, until his breath returned and then he eased himself on to his backside and shuffled towards the wall and sat propped up, glaring at the two Roman officers.

Macro finished his soup and pushed the bowl to one side. He wiped his lips on the back of his forearm. ‘You know, I don’t think he likes us, Cato.’

Cato smiled thinly.

‘We come all this way to share the benefits of civilisation,’ Macro continued, ‘and this is the thanks we get. Sometimes I wonder if these barbarians deserve us. What do you plan to do with him, once Trebellius has finished his work?’

Cato tapped the end of his crutch against the instep of his boot. ‘I rather think this one’s going to present a bit of a challenge to the decurion. He’s a hard case, right enough. We’ll have to take him on with us. Tie him down over one of the mules and try questioning him again once we reach Bruccium. I’m sure Quertus has an interrogator in the garrison.’

The Silurian looked up sharply and for an instant Cato saw the look of fear in his expression before the prisoner clenched his jaw and glared back at him.

‘You see that, Macro?’

‘What?’

‘How he reacted when I mentioned Quertus’s name. Seems the centurion’s reputation amongst the local tribes is as infamous as we’ve been told.’

The door to the mess opened and Trebellius held it ajar as Decimus entered carrying a sturdy wooden tray bearing a jug, three plain Samian cups, a canteen and a small hunk of bread. He set the tray down on the table and poured wine into the cups and passed them to each of the officers.

‘Give him some water,’ Cato ordered. ‘And feed him the bread.’

Decimus nodded and approached the prisoner warily before he knelt at his side. He pulled the stopper from the waterskin and held it out for the prisoner to see. The Silurian hesitated a moment before nodding curtly and opening his lips so that the Roman could angle the nozzle into his mouth. He gulped greedily, spilling water down his front. Once he’d done, he drew back and waited for Decimus to press the bread into his hands. He strained to reach up to his mouth and tore a chunk off to chew. Cato let him eat a moment before he turned to Trebellius.

‘Ask him what his name is.’

‘His name?’ Macro frowned. ‘What do you need to know that for? You’re not planning on being his best mate.’

‘Macro, let me deal with this.’ Cato indicated to the decurion to translate his question. The Silurian viewed the prefect suspiciously for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of giving his name, and then he made his decision and gave his answer.

‘Turrus, he says.’

‘I see.’ Cato nodded and then tapped his chest. ‘Prefect Cato. The surly one there is Centurion Macro.’

Given that Trebellius had been beating the prisoner for the last hour or so, Cato decided there was no profit to be had from introducing the decurion’s name. Instead he continued with his attempt to find a crack in the prisoner’s tough veneer. The man looked to be in his late twenties and Cato hazarded a guess.

‘Do you have a woman, Turrus? A family?’

After the decurion had translated, the Silurian deliberately took another mouthful of bread and chewed slowly to buy himself a little time. Cato indulged him, while Macro leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. At length the man swallowed the final morsel of bread and nodded.

‘
Sa
 . . .’

Cato smiled slightly. ‘I have a wife, back in Rome. She worries about me. Can’t wait for this campaign to be over so that I can return to her. Or she can join me here, once the new province is settled and we have peace.’

Turrus listened to the translation and then replied.

‘He says that if the Romans returned across the sea and left this island to its people then everyone could return to their families.’

Cato shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, it’s not so simple. Most of the tribes have already become our allies, and accepted the rule of Rome, along with all the benefits that come with that. Benefits that come at a price, admittedly. We can’t abandon our new friends to the ravages of Caratacus and his warriors. Moreover, the reputation of the Emperor depends upon bringing peace to Britannia, no matter what the cost, or how long it takes. And you should know that when Rome sets her mind to achieving something, it will be achieved and no one can stand in the way. Tell him, Trebellius.’

The Silurian listened and then nodded thoughtfully before he responded.

‘He says that Romans and Silurians have much in common. Neither is prepared to give way to the will of the other. It will be a long war.’

Cato shrugged. ‘That may be so. But I doubt it. Our soldiers are the best in the known world. The result is not in doubt, Turrus. Believe it. If the Silures continue to follow Caratacus then they will be led down a path that ends in destruction. Along the way, there is only suffering, for both sides. It would be far better to face up to realities and for the warriors of the Silures to seek peace with Rome. Then I can return to my wife, and you, Turrus, can return to your family. Surely that is for the best?’

The prisoner smiled and replied in a regretful tone.

‘Even if I agreed with you, our desires would never sway those of our leaders. Your Emperor and Caratacus will continue this conflict until the last drop of our blood. So we must fight on.’

‘Not you,’ Macro growled. ‘The fighting’s over for you, sunshine. One way or another.’

Cato ignored his friend and focused his attention on the prisoner. He felt a small thrill of satisfaction at the Silurian’s last comment. So, he was disenchanted with his leader. No doubt there were others like Turrus, many others, tribesmen who had answered the call to arms with full hearts, thinking that it would be a more glorious cause than the usual round of tribal feuds and minor conflicts. Caratacus knew how to inspire the hearts of warriors and the proud tribes of the mountains would have responded eagerly. But instead of marching to battle they had been dragged into a drawn-out war of attrition that had become more bitter with each passing month. Unlike the soldiers of the Roman army, the Silurians were farmers and herders. They would surely long to return to their families and the warmth of their hearths, rather than stalking the Romans through the icy winds and rain of the mountains. It was time to press home his advantage, Cato decided. He forced a smile as he spoke to Trebellius.

‘Ask him why he’s afraid of Centurion Quertus?’

The decurion seemed surprised by the question but shrugged and turned to the prisoner and translated. At once Turrus stopped chewing, then swallowed nervously and stared down at the ground.

‘That got his attention,’ said Macro. He made his way across the room and dug his boot into the man’s thigh. ‘Speak up.’

The tribesman drew his legs close to his body and hunched down, like a whipped dog, and he began to speak in a low, haunted voice.

‘He says Quertus is a devil. That he has burned many villages and slaughtered every living thing in his path. Right down to the last infant, dog and lamb. He is evil and cruel and he worships dark gods and makes blood sacrifices in their name. There is no black deed that he does not inflict upon the Silures. When he rides into battle, he wears the skins of the greatest of the warriors he has defeated. He drinks the blood of those he kills and eats their flesh. Those that follow him are slaves to his will, and follow his example. Wherever they go, they leave death and devastation in their wake. They are . . .’

Trebellius asked the man to repeat his final words and there was a brief exchange before he turned to the two officers. ‘The nearest Latin word for it is barbarians.’

‘Barbarians?’ Macro burst into laughter. ‘Barbarians! Our side? The cheeky fucking sod! Here, Trebellius, stand aside. I’ll show him fucking barbarians.’

‘That’s enough, Macro,’ Cato interrupted. ‘Leave him be.’

The prefect regarded the prisoner thoughtfully. Centurion Quertus clearly had earned himself a frightening reputation amongst the Silures. That was all to the good. If you could strike fear into an enemy’s heart before they faced you in battle then the fight was half won. Of course, the man was exaggerating the details. That was to be expected when rumour fed on rumour. No doubt the centurion’s methods were harsh and he made full use of surprise to achieve his victories over the enemy, but the rest of it was nonsense. The stuff of nightmares. Still, it gave Cato an edge over his prisoner. He glanced at Trebellius and spoke in a harsh tone.

‘Ask him where his village is again. Tell him that if he does not give me the location we’ll take him with us to Bruccium and let Quertus continue the interrogation there.’

As he heard the translation Turrus flinched, as if he had been kicked, and Cato saw that he was genuinely terrified by the prospect of falling into the hands of Centurion Quertus. The Silurian clasped his hands together and shuffled slightly towards Cato and pleaded with him.

A cold look of satisfaction was on the decurion’s face as he conveyed the prisoner’s words. ‘He begs you to spare him. Don’t take him to Bruccium. Send him to Glevum instead. He’d rather be a slave than face Quertus . . . Then there was some stuff about begging his gods to save him.’

Cato leaned forward and prodded the end of his crutch into the prisoner’s chest. ‘Then tell me where your village is! Tell me that and you have my word that you and your people will be spared. Slaves you will become, but you will escape sword and fire. Now tell me!’

Turrus made a keening noise in his throat and shook his head, torn between the dread of facing the enemy who haunted his darkest nightmares and the shame of betraying his tribe. He gritted his teeth and bowed his head as he shrank back into himself.