reached the fortress. According to Quertus they had all attempted to escape on the first night of the march and were killed in the process. None survived. There was no mention of any disciplinary action and a few days later the prefect was killed when he was thrown from his horse and his skull was caved in when it struck a rock.
The cohort of legionaries that made up the rest of the garrison of Bruccium had an equally competent and unspectacular record up until their success of recent months. The only curious aspect was that neither unit had reported any breaches of discipline since Centurion Quertus had led them into the mountains. Normally, such infractions were part of the reports that were regularly sent back to the legion’s headquarters. But after the first few reports, there were only brief outlines of the number of enemies killed and villages burned. And nothing more for over a month now.
Cato, his companions and the escort crossed the timber bridge thrown across the Severnus by the engineers of the Fourteenth Legion and followed the route along the riverbank. There were fewer signs of the natives here than at any point on their journey through the new province. A handful of small farmsteads dotted the landscape. The inhabitants, wild-looking people in furs and rags, tended a handful of goats and worked small fields in the rich soil beside the river. Every five miles, the riders encountered one of the small fortlets that had been built to guard the route. Each garrison of twenty or thirty auxiliaries sheltered behind a turf wall topped with a stout wooden palisade, and a sentry kept watch over the surrounding landscape from a small tower rising up above the meagre fortifications.
At the end of the day they reached a large fort at Isca, garrisoned by a cohort of Gauls. After the mounts and baggage animals had been stabled for the night, Cato and his comrades joined the decurion leading the cavalry escort in the cohort’s mess. There was only one small room with two tables and a small counter where a skinny merchant sold bad wine for a premium to his captive market. This side of the Severnus was Silurian territory and none of the Roman army’s camp followers had been brave enough to settle into a vicus outside the walls of the fort.
Macro and Decimus had worked off their hangover during the day’s ride and Macro ordered some wine from the merchant with the begrudging attitude of a man who knows he is being exploited.
‘Five sestertii for this piss?’ Macro growled as his lips wrinkled away from the rim of the cup following his first sip. ‘Fucking outrage is what it is.’
‘It’s not so bad, sir.’ Decimus raised his cup and drank again.
Macro looked at him sourly. ‘Never is so bad when you haven’t had to pay for a drop of it. I ought to take deductions from your pay for the wine you consume.’
‘Then you’d only go and have to drink more of this piss, sir.’ Decimus pretended to look hurt. ‘Really, you should be thanking me for helping you out with it.’
‘Really?’ Macro narrowed his eyes a moment, then turned to Cato. ‘What do you think?’
‘Eh?’ Cato looked up vacantly. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘The wine. Taste it and tell me what you think.’
Cato looked down into the Samian-ware cup and sniffed it. It was not unlike vinegar, but somehow suffused with a very ancient blend of goat’s cheese and sewage. Still, for Macro’s sake, he took a sip and as the foul liquid flowed across his tongue he winced. He set the cup down with a sharp rap. ‘That’s wine?’
‘According to our friend behind the counter. The sewer brewer. I’ve a mind to have a word with him.’
‘What good would it do? This is as good as it gets this far beyond the frontier.’
Macro looked shocked. ‘By the gods, I hope not. What in Hades’ name must they be drinking up at Bruccium?’
The comment stirred Cato’s thoughts and he turned to the decurion who had been drinking quietly, clearly preoccupied. Cato cleared his throat.
‘It’s Trebellius, isn’t it?’
The decurion looked round and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t seem to be enjoying your little trip up into the mountains very much. At least the wine will keep your mind off it. Drink up.’
Trebellius dutifully took a sip, without any change of expression.
‘Seems like someone has a taste for it,’ said Macro.
Decimus chuckled. ‘Like I said, sir. Not so bad. You get used to such things in Britannia. The worst of everything. Weather, wine and even the women are as rough as you’ll find anywhere in the whole empire. It’s a wonder that Claudius and his advisers think there’s anything good to be had out of the bloody place. If you ask me, we should never have invaded and left the barbarians to themselves. If they want to live in mud huts, worship bloody Druids and fight each other all the time, then let ’em. If the Emperor had given Britannia a miss then I’d still have a good leg.’
Macro stared hard at him. ‘And did I ask you? No. You knew the score when you signed up. You go where you’re sent and don’t stop to ask questions. You kill who you’re told to kill and that’s it. If the buggers get you first then that’s the risk you take. Otherwise, you might as well be some shirt-lifting ponce who spends his life reading philosophy.’ Macro shot a quick glance at Cato. ‘Present company excepted.’
‘Thank you, Macro,’ Cato responded testily before turning his attention back to the decurion. ‘How long have you served with the Fourteenth?’
‘Twenty years, sir. Come summer.’
‘And how long has the Thracian cavalry been serving with the Fourteenth?’
‘That lot? Seem to be something of a fixture, sir. As long as I’ve been with the legion.’
Cato smiled. ‘I’ve seen plenty of auxiliary units in my time. Some good, some bad. Never served with Thracian cavalry, though. So what are they like?’
The decurion sniffed. ‘They don’t stink, like some of them. Germans is worst. But at least with your Germans you know where you are. Them Thracians is different. Got a cruel streak in ’em, they have. Bloody good horsemen, though. Glad they’re on our side, is all.’
‘I see.’ Cato reached for the jar and topped up the decurion’s cup. ‘And what about Centurion Quertus?’
The decurion answered warily. ‘Can’t really say. The Thracians tend to keep to themselves. I’ve come across him on the parade field when we’ve been on training manoeuvres. He’s a big man. Built like a brick shithouse and has the guts to match.’
‘You have to be so careful what you eat,’ Macro chipped in.
Cato shot a frown at him before he spoke to the decurion again. ‘What else?’
‘Like I said. He’s brave and the men would follow him anywhere.’
‘Inspiring, then?’
‘You could say that, sir. Depends what kind of inspiring you mean. He’s a born fighter, the kind who would die rather than give an inch of ground. Trouble is, he wants the same from those who he leads. I saw him beat a man senseless on the parade field once because he wouldn’t leap his horse over a ditch. Let’s just say he takes discipline seriously. And loyalty. I’ve heard he’s supposed to be some kind of prince in his homeland.’ Decimus looked round and leaned closer. ‘That, and some kind of priest. The kind who knows magic. The kind of magic that needs blood sacrifices.’
‘Magic?’ Cato repeated slowly. ‘I’ve yet to see any genuine magic in my lifetime.’
Macro tilted his head to the side. ‘Don’t be so quick to pass judgement. After all, someone’s put a curse on this bloody wine, that’s for certain.’
The decurion scowled briefly, then drained his cup and pushed it away with a nod of thanks. ‘Better see to the horses, sir. They’ll need feeding before the second watch.’
He rose from the bench and left the mess. Macro stared after him and muttered wryly, ‘Was it something I said?’
‘Best not to make fun of someone’s beliefs, sir,’ Decimus suggested mildly.
‘Oh, come on!’ Macro chuckled. ‘Magic? Priests? Sacrifices? That’s a load of old bollocks. Anyone with half a brain knows that the only gods with any clout are Roman gods. That’s why Rome rules the world.’
‘I thought Rome ruled the world because our soldiers were better than everyone else,’ said Cato. ‘In any case, we clearly don’t rule half the tribes on this island.’
Decimus made to reply to Macro but then closed his mouth and looked down into his cup. He was silent for a moment before he said quietly, ‘Some gods are false. Perhaps most of them. But there’s one who is powerful. One
