Britannia, page 16
Macro indicated the tethering rail to one side of the courtyard. ‘Tie him up over there while you make your report.’
The afternoon sun was low in the sky and the fort was bathed in the thin blue gloom of a winter dusk. The air was cold and a breeze moaned lightly over the ramparts and watchtowers. Looking up at the sky, Macro saw a thick band of clouds moving in from the west and wondered if that heralded the icy downpours that were common in Britannia at this time of year, or worse, the first fall of snow. Either would hamper the progress of Quintatus and his army away to the north. And no doubt the Druids would tell their followers that it was a sign that their gods were taking their side against the invader. The thought caused Macro to wonder briefly if there was some plane of existence where the rival deities struggled in parallel to those who worshipped them on a more earthly level. If that was so, he hoped that the gods of Rome had the upper hand. The Roman soldiers needed their help now more than ever.
He waited until Pandarus had carried out the order and posted his comrade to watch over the prisoner. Then, beckoning to the optio to follow him, he limped back into the main hall and eased himself down on a bench while Pandarus stood in front of him.
‘So, what’s the story? Where did you find our surly guest?’
Pandarus took an instant to gather his thoughts. ‘Fifteen miles or so to the west, sir. I had gone ahead of the patrol to observe the lie of the land when I ran into the prisoner.’
‘Ran into?’ Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘How many times?’
‘You know what they’re like. They take some persuading before they come along meekly.’ Pandarus’s expression became serious. ‘It’s what I saw before I took him down that’s the reason I got back here as soon as I could, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘The enemy’s on the march. The man I captured was scouting for a column. Perhaps seven or eight hundred strong. They were heading north, sir.’
‘North? Towards Quintatus, then.’ Macro paused and rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Still, not enough of them to pose much of a threat.’
‘Assuming that’s all there is of them. The track they were following looked pretty well used to me, sir. I doubt they were the only men to pass that way recently.’
Macro considered this and felt a prickle of anxiety at the prospect of a powerful force marching against Cato and his comrades as they advanced on the Druid stronghold of Mona. He took a sharp breath. ‘Right. We need to find out exactly what the bastards are up to. Let’s have a word with your prisoner.’
‘I doubt he’ll say much. Nothing we can understand, at least. Unless there’s someone amongst the civilians who can speak his tongue.’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Macro smiled faintly. ‘I know just the man we need. Get yourself down to the drill ground. There’s a fellow in the Illyrian cohort. Tall, blond-haired and strong as a bull. Lomus. I want him here at once. Tell him that he’s just been made acting interrogator.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pandarus gave a curt nod and hurried away. Macro leaned forward and carefully rested his elbows on his knees. The enemy was clearly up to something. Though whether that constituted a palpable danger to the Roman army was uncertain. A few hundred more or less of the native warriors made little difference. But what if it was part of a wider plan? He strained his mind to try and divine the enemy’s precise intentions, but he could not fathom their thinking and found himself wishing that Cato was here with him.
‘The lad would be sure to hit on the answer soon enough,’ he muttered to himself. Then, with a hiss of frustration, he rose from the bench and went outside to inspect the captive.
The light was failing and shadows filled the courtyard. One of the auxiliaries was lighting the first of the small braziers that provided a modicum of warmth to the men who would be on sentry duty during the night. Over by the hitching post, the prisoner was squatting, his back to the post, his hands tethered behind him. The man Pandarus had posted to watch over him quickly stood to attention at Macro’s approach.
‘Diomedes, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How is our friend?’
‘Apart from stinking the place out and being as cheerful as a tombstone, he’s been a real delight, sir.’
Macro shot him a warning glance. ‘Better leave the quips to your superiors, soldier. No one in the army likes a smart-arse.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro stood over the warrior and tucked his thumbs into his belt as he inspected the man more closely. Aside from his injuries, the warrior looked to be in good shape. He wore a tunic, a mailed vest, breeches, and boots cut in a Roman style, no doubt looted from the same victim who had provided the armour vest. The centurion leaned over and took his chin roughly, forcing his head back. The man glared up at him as Macro noted the scars on his cheek and forehead.
‘I can see you’ve been in a fight or two. And from what you’re wearing, not all of the fights went badly. So, you’re something of a veteran, then. Might even have fought alongside Caratacus in his time.’
At the mention of the defeated enemy leader, the warrior tore himself from Macro’s grasp and lowered his head.
‘Touchy, aren’t we? You can try and play the silent hero if you like, my friend, but trust me, you won’t hold out for ever, and you will tell me exactly what I want to know.’ Macro prodded the prisoner with the toe of his boot to emphasise the point, and was about to turn away when the native kicked out his bound feet with all the strength he could muster. His boots caught the centurion hard on the shin and he stumbled back, arms flailing, before falling heavily on his backside, jarring his spine.
‘Ha!’ The prisoner spat and grinned wickedly. Diomedes cuffed him brutally on the side of his head, then hurried over to help his superior to his feet, but Macro scowled at him and thrust aside the soldier’s hand, stifling a wince at the pain shooting through his injured leg.
‘Very funny. I’d like to see you keep smiling when Lomus gets to work. Meanwhile, you can take this on account.’ Without any warning, he balled his hands into tight fists and struck the man hard on both ears in succession, smashing his head from side to side.
The prisoner’s eyes rolled up and he let out a deep groan before leaning forward and vomiting into his lap. The sharp stench wafted into Macro’s nostrils, and he stepped back, rubbing his lower back. The prisoner heaved again, head hanging low, then coughed and spat before straightening up, easing himself against the tethering post. There was no fear in his eyes, Macro noted, just defiance, and the two men stared at each other until the sound of footsteps interrupted them. Macro turned to see Pandarus and Lomus approaching. The auxiliary’s tunic was still streaked with filth, and his beard and hair were matted with mud. Combined with his large, powerful physique, the effect was unintentionally intimidating.
Lomus stood to attention a few paces away and saluted. ‘You sent for me, sir.’
‘Indeed. I have some work requiring rather specific skills.’ Macro limped aside and nodded at the prisoner. ‘Our chippy little friend here needs to be taught a lesson, as well as being persuaded to tell us what he knows of the enemy’s plans. I want to know exactly where his column was headed and to what purpose. The Blood Crows’ interrogator is unavailable, so I’m offering the job to you as you’re just the man to put the frighteners on the prisoner. And, I’m told, you have some understanding of native dialects.’
‘That’s right, sir. My mother taught me.’
‘Then it looks like I have chosen well. If you succeed in breaking the prisoner and getting the information I want, the post comes with excused-duties status at pay and a half.’ Macro paused to let the terms of the offer sink in. ‘Interested?’
Lomus glanced at the prisoner and slowly clenched his right fist, stroking it with the other hand. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go, sir.’
‘Good man. If you do the job half as well as I hope, there may be a chance for you to become an interrogator on a permanent basis. And a transfer to a better unit, perhaps. The Blood Crows could use a man like you.’
Lomus cocked an appreciative eyebrow and nodded in gratitude.
‘You’re in charge of the interrogation, Pandarus. Report to me in my quarters when you are done here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Carry on.’ Macro made to move away, but winced as a fiery agony lanced down his wounded leg. He muttered a curse, and watched as Pandarus and Lomus hauled the man to his feet. They stripped him down to his breeches before binding him tightly to the post so that he could not slip down. The defiant expression dimmed as the prisoner looked at each man anxiously, knowing full well what was to come. Lomus stood in front of him, fists clenched and arm muscles bunched, waiting for the command.
‘Begin,’ said Pandarus.
Lomus threw his first punch, a powerful arcing blow into the prisoner’s gut. He followed up with his left, and then, as the warrior gasped for breath, began to work his sides, each fist thudding into the ribs and driving the air from the native’s lungs.
Macro nodded with satisfaction, then turned carefully, keeping the weight off his throbbing leg, before proceeding stiffly towards the entrance to the main hall of the headquarters building.
Back in his quarters, he eased himself down into a chair and stretched out his leg. Though the wound was healing well and the flesh had knitted together, the garrison surgeon had insisted that the dressing should remain in place to support the limb until the stitches were removed. The trouble was, the wound itched like mad, and Macro had to resist the urge to scratch the area furiously. The kick he had received from the prisoner had caused the leg to throb painfully, and as the pain subsided, so the itching increased in intensity.
He reached down and rubbed softly, gritting his teeth at the sharp prickling sensation. Even though he knew he was fortunate that the wound was not going to permanently disable him, as he had seen happen to other soldiers, he still fretted about the length of time it would take him to fully recover. All because some fool of a native had chosen to take a potshot at him and then run for the hills. It took a moment before he recalled that it had been his own idea to go after the boy in the first place. He could quite easily have waited for him to take to his heels, or sent some other man forward in his place, but it was not in Macro’s nature to exercise such patience, and he roundly condemned the native boy once again, heaping every curse he could on his young enemy.
Once the pain and irritation had eased, he shifted position to the small desk at one side of the room and began to deal with the routine bureaucracy that was the burden of every garrison commander across the empire. After lighting the lamps suspended from a small stand, he completed the daily entry in the garrison’s log, detailing the number of active men, any sick or injured, as well as those absent on other duties, which, given the present posting, rarely needed any notation. In a more peaceful setting there would be frequent authorised absences as men saw to the purchase of food, equipment and horses, or were detached to guard tax collectors, while junior officers were sent to adjudicate disputes in the local population. Then there were those who had been granted a period of leave who might travel to their homes if the unit was raised locally. None of that applied to the garrison of the fort, since any individual who ventured more than a short distance from its ramparts alone was asking for trouble. Next, Macro moved on to the requests from the fort’s stores, checking them against the inventory before approving or turning down each submission.
By the time he had finished, it was dark outside. He closed the shutters and called for his orderly to light the fire in the corner of the room and bring him something to eat. Outside in the courtyard he could occasionally hear the sounds of the interrogation: the soft thud of blows landing, and the keening cries and groans of the prisoner, gradually becoming more feeble as his torment continued. The gentle crackle of the flames consuming the kindling and then the split logs drowned out the sound, and Macro ate in peace at his table. He had all but finished his meal of stew and hard bread when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come!’
Optio Pandarus strode into the room and stood erect in front of his superior’s desk. ‘Beg to report, interrogation is completed, sir.’
Macro lowered his spoon and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Well? Did we get anything useful out of the bastard?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s bad. If he’s told us the truth, then Legate Quintatus is leading his army into a trap.’
‘A trap?’
‘As far as our man knows, the Druids are drawing the column deep into the mountains and on towards the island of Mona itself. That’s where they’ll turn and make their stand.’
Macro nodded. ‘Which is what the legate is pinning his hopes on.’
‘Yes, sir. But what he can’t know is that the Druids have called on the Silures and the Ordovices to join the Deceanglians. They are marching to sever Quintatus’s communications with the rest of the province. They aim to cut him off from his supplies and block his line of retreat until his men starve or he gives the order to surrender.’
‘Surrender?’ Macro snorted. ‘That’s bollocks. He’d never dishonour himself, or the army, by doing that.’
‘Then he’s going to have to cut his way out of the trap and fight every inch of the way back to Mediolanum, sir. The legate’s outnumbered by far more than he realises. And the enemy know the ground. If the weather turns and it makes the going even harder, then—’
‘Quite,’ Macro concluded tersely. ‘He needs to be warned at once.’
‘But how are we going to get a message through to him, sir? If the prisoner’s right, the enemy have already cut him off.’
‘That’s as may be, Optio. But we have to get through all the same. And the only men we have who might succeed are you and the other men of the Blood Crows still here in the fort.’
Pandarus’s eyebrows rose. ‘But there’s only my section, sir.’
‘You won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’
‘You? Sir, with respect, you’re not in a fit state to—’
‘I know damn well what state I am in!’ Macro snapped. ‘I’ll be fine in the saddle. We’ll be leaving at first light. Go and get your men ready!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The wind was biting, and Cato had to squint as he climbed the steep slope towards the top of the mountain. The Blood Crows had gone as high as they could on horseback before the prefect had given the order to dismount and taken one of the squadrons on with him. The men had slung their shields over their backs and used their spears to help support them as they ascended. It had been cold enough at the top of the pass where they had left the others, but as they climbed, the wind moaned around them and strong gusts roared in their ears, while raindrops stung their exposed skin like fiery needles.
‘Fuck this,’ gasped Thraxis, a short distance behind his commander. ‘The gods only know why the emperor would want to add this wasteland to the empire. Better to leave it to the barbarians. This is no place for civilised men.’
Cato pulled his neckerchief down to reply. ‘You know the saying well enough, Thraxis. We’re here because we’re here.’
The Thracian sighed. ‘Well I wish we weren’t, sir.’
Cato slipped the thick cloth back over his mouth and nose and paused a moment to catch his breath before continuing. His military cloak whipped around him and he felt his helmet shift on his head as the wind caught the plume. He twitched it straight and set himself to climb one step at a time. According to the merchant who had offered his services to Legate Quintatus, the Deceanglian capital was no more than five miles distant, and would be clearly visible from the top of the mountain. Looking up, Cato doubted it. The sky was leaden, and darker patches of cloud were scudding overhead, threatening more rain on top of the freezing squalls. Nevertheless, it was his duty as commander of the army’s vanguard to scout ahead of the main column and take every opportunity to report the lie of the land, as well as any sightings of the enemy.
There had been precious few of the latter since the incident at the gorge several days earlier. Aside from small parties of riders keeping watch on the Roman advance, the tribesmen and their Druid leaders had refused to give battle or attempt any further delaying actions. Even so, there had been plenty of reminders of their presence: tracks blocked by fallen trees; piles of rocks dislodged from cliffs and crags either side of choke points; reports of harassing raids on the army’s thinly guarded lines of communication. With more men, Quintatus might have been able to establish a chain of well-garrisoned forts to cover the supply route back to Mediolanum. As it was, there were scant few outposts or cavalry patrols, and they were prone to sudden attacks. These were more of a nuisance than a genuine threat, and Cato could not help wondering why the enemy was not making greater efforts to strike at the perennial weak spot of a campaigning army.
A sudden cry interrupted his thoughts, and he stopped and looked back down the slope. One of his men had tumbled off the path and was lying prone beside a large rock that had broken his fall. Two of his comrades were hurrying to his side as Cato turned to Thraxis.
‘Keep the men moving. I’ll catch you up.’
Thraxis climbed on as Cato made his way back to the fallen man. He exchanged a brief nod with Livonius as the tribune and his secretary toiled up the hill behind the auxiliaries.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked as he drew up, breathing heavily.
One of the Blood Crows glanced round. ‘It’s Borminus, sir. Don’t look good.’
