Simon Scarrow - The Blood Crows

‘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.’