Simon Scarrow - The Blood Crows

‘State your business,’ one of the guards said evenly as he ran his eyes over the two men and the older woman, hurriedly assessing their status. The two officers were dressed in neat, new tunics and military cloaks purchased in Rome before their departure. Although there were no insignia to show rank, nor any ornate rings to indicate wealth, the bearing of the two officers and the visible scars told their own story. Particularly the long white line that stretched across Cato’s face from forehead to chin. The sentry cleared his throat and moderated his tone. ‘How may I assist you, sir?’

‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro.’ He nodded towards Macro before continuing. ‘Just arrived from Rome to take up our commands. We wish to report to the governor’s staff and find accommodation for ourselves.’

‘You won’t find much of that here, sir. They knocked the fort down two months back.’

‘So I gather. I assume that Ostorius and his staff are not working out in the open?’

‘Fat chance of that, sir!’ The sentry turned and lowered the tip of his javelin and indicated the scaffolding surrounding a large, single-storey complex. ‘That’s the start of the governor’s palace. He ordered the builders to finish up the ground floor and get out. Still, they managed to get the hypocaust in before they left so they’re all nice and cosy inside. Unlike those of us seconded to escort the governor. Sleeping in tents outside.’

‘That’s what soldiers do, lad.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘If it’s too tough for you then perhaps you should have joined a pansy troupe of actors or something.’

‘Come on!’ Cato waved his arm forward and made his way along the path that had been cleared through the building site. On either side, piles of timber, stacks of bricks and roof tiles and cement-mixing troughs stretched out. The foundations for several large structures had been completed and walls, waist-high, demarcated the first great civic building of the new province that would dominate the landscape and inspire awe in the heart of every native who set eyes on it. Hundreds of men were labouring across the site, with a handful of chain gangs being used to carry materials where they were needed. The sounds of their grunts, the sawing of timber and sharp clatter of stones being cut to size mingled with shouted instructions from the overseers.

Macro nodded approvingly as they passed through. ‘Should be quite a place, once it’s finished.’

On the far side of the site a gap had been left in the scaffolding to give access to the half-completed building beyond, which served as the headquarters of Governor Ostorius and his staff. Two of his escort stood guard at the entrance. Once again Cato explained their purpose and then turned to pay off the porters who set their burdens down just inside the makeshift entrance. He reached for his belt purse and loosened the drawstrings.

‘That’ll be a sestertius, sir.’ Decimus tapped a finger to his forehead by way of an informal salute. ‘Each.’

Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘By the gods, that’s a bit steep.’

‘It’s the going rate in Londinium, sir.’

Cato turned to one of the guards. ‘Is it?’

The legionary nodded.

‘Very well.’ He delved into the purse for a few coins, counted them out and handed them over to Decimus and the others. ‘Seems like Londinium’s going to be an expensive town to live in. You may leave us. . Decimus, a word.’

The ex-legionary waved his mates on and turned to Cato. ‘Sir?’

Cato stared at him, trying to see beyond the ragged soiled clothing and unkempt hair to the man who had once been a legionary. If Decimus was speaking the truth then his army career had been cut short by the fortunes of war. The same fortunes that had seen fit to spare Cato and Macro through all the campaigns and desperate battles they had endured over the years. It sometimes felt to Cato that he was sorely testing the luck that had been apportioned to him. Sooner or later a spear, or sword thrust, or arrow would find him, just as it had Decimus and countless others.

‘How many years have you served in Britannia?’

Decimus scratched his chin. ‘I came over five years ago from the training depot in Gesoriacum. Served with the Second against the Decangli before being sent up with a detachment to reinforce the Fourteenth at Glevum. Then two years campaigning against the Silures before this.’ He patted his lame leg.

‘All right, then.’ Cato nodded and thought a moment before he continued. ‘How do you like working as a wharf rat?’

‘Fucking hate it, sir.’ He hurriedly turned to Portia. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

Portia looked back levelly. ‘I spent the best part of fifteen years living with a marine. So keep your fucking apology to yourself.’

Macro stared at his mother in shock; his mouth sagged open and then shut quickly as he decided it was best to ignore what she had said.

Decimus turned back to Cato. ‘But what’s an invalid soldier to do? I was lucky to get a partial pay-out of the discharge bonus. Enough to set me up in digs here, but not enough to live on.’

‘I see,’ Cato responded. ‘Well, I may have work for you. Nothing too onerous, but there might be some danger. If you’re interested, come back here at first light.’

Decimus looked surprised for a moment before he bowed his head and limped away.

Macro watched him until he was out of earshot and then turned to Cato. ‘What was that all about?’

‘Things have changed since we were last here. Sure, we’re going to get a briefing from the governor, but he’ll paint the scene from his perspective. The usual blend of confidence and underplaying the threat posed by the enemy. Ostorius is like any other governor. He’ll want to make out that his period in office was a great success and he’ll want any letters or reports that we write home to reflect that. So, it might be useful to hear the views of one of Marius’s mules. Besides, I’ll need a servant in camp to take care of my kit. Someone I hope I can trust.’

‘Trust?’ Portia sniffed. ‘That vagabond? He looks like a common crook to me.’

Cato wagged a finger. ‘Don’t rush to judgement. Appearance is not everything. If it was, everyone would run a mile from your son.’

‘They already do,’ Macro growled. ‘If they know what’s good for them.’

‘Oh, you!’ His mother lightly slapped his shoulder. ‘You’re a pussycat in tiger’s clothing. Don’t think I can’t see that. Cato too.’

Macro flushed with embarrassment. He hated talking about feelings and the idea that he even had a sensitive side to his nature filled him with disgust. Feelings were for poets, artists, actors and other classes of lesser mortal. A soldier was different. A soldier was required to put his heart and brains in check and get on with doing his duty. When he was off duty, he should play as hard as he could. Of course, he admitted to himself, some soldiers were different. He stole a glance at Cato, thin, sinewy and, until recently, youthful-looking. Now there was a certain hardness to his gaze and the gawky awkwardness of earlier years had largely gone. He moved purposefully and with an economy of effort that was the hallmark of a veteran. Yet Macro knew his friend well enough to know that his mind was ever restless, steeped in the works of the philosophers and historians that he had studied so earnestly as a boy. Cato was a very different kind of soldier, Macro reflected, and he grudgingly accepted that the younger man was all the better for it.

He cleared his throat with a deep rumble of irritation before addressing Cato.

‘Well, it’s your decision. But why not just buy yourself a slave? You can afford to. And there’ll be bargains to be had in Londinium with the prisoners the army has taken.’