Macro flashed him a searching look. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You heard what Acer said about the previous prefect. Seems that I might have to be careful I don’t go the same way.’
Macro glanced round anxiously before he responded in an undertone, ‘You really think Quertus would do something like that? Bump off his commander in the middle of a campaign?’
‘Can you think of a better time to do it? With the enemy close at hand and casualties piling up, who is going to question one more death? As long as a killer is careful not to be too obvious he could get away with murder. From the sound of things, Centurion Quertus is a man with a pretty ruthless streak, who doesn’t let anyone stand in his way.’
‘That may be true,’ Macro mused. ‘But still.’
‘But still, what?’ Cato said tersely. ‘We’ve known men do worse things, Macro. Far worse.’
‘And there was me thinking that we only had to watch our backs when in Rome.’ Macro swore under his breath. ‘Fuck, what is it with us, Cato? Everywhere we end up we need eyes in the back of our heads. It’s like we’re cursed or something. I thought we’d left that all behind when we came back to Britannia.’
They continued in silence for a while as the track levelled out and then there was a shout from the man riding point. At once Trebellius gave the order to halt and called for the rider to make his report.
‘Something ahead, sir, on the track!’
‘What is it?’
‘Can’t quite make it out. There was a gap in the mist, now it’s gone again.’ The man’s voice betrayed his nervousness and Macro flicked his reins to urge his horse forward.
‘I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Come on.’
For a moment Cato felt a spark of irritation at his friend taking the initiative before he could react. Then Cato kicked his heels into Hannibal’s flanks and set off after Macro. As they passed the decurion, Macro gestured to him. ‘You too, sunshine.’
The three officers trotted along the track for a hundred paces before they saw the figure of the point rider emerge from the swirling mist, his spear already in his hand as he stared into the gloom beyond.
‘What did you see?’ Macro demanded as they reined in beside the soldier. ‘Out with it, lad!’
‘There was something on the track, sir.’
‘Something?’ Macro growled. ‘Try being more specific. Something, or someone?’
The soldier swallowed. ‘I thought I saw a man, sir, standing on the track. Just for a moment, before the mist thickened.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘I’m not sure. He didn’t seem to move. Not even when I called to challenge him. He made no reply, sir.’
‘I see.’ Macro squinted ahead for a moment. ‘And nothing since then. No sign of movement? No sound?’
‘No, sir. Nothing.’
Macro turned to Cato. ‘What do you think?’
Cato felt his heartbeat quicken and suppressed the urge to tremble that was building at the base of his spine. He swallowed before replying as steadily as he could, ‘I think we should see for ourselves, Centurion.’ He turned to the decurion. ‘Trebellius, if you hear anything, come forward at once with your men. Understand?’
Trebellius nodded and made no offer to join his superiors as they walked their horses forward.
The mist hung across the landscape like a veil wafting in the lightest of airs. Thicker one moment and then thinning in patches before it closed in again. An eerie quiet and sense of menace pressed in from all sides. Then a fluke in the light breeze revealed the track before them and they saw a thin shape emerge from the mist fifty paces ahead. At once the two halted their horses.
‘What’s that?’ Macro squinted. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. Is that a man?’
‘I think so, but he’s not moving.’
If it was a man, there was something odd about his posture, Cato decided. He drew a deep breath and called out, ‘Who goes there?’
There was no reply, and still no sign of movement, and after a short interval Cato walked his mount on, followed closely by Macro.
‘I don’t like it,’ the centurion muttered. ‘What if it’s another ambush?’
‘If it is then they’re doing their level best not to catch us by surprise.’
Despite his calm tone, Cato’s heart was pounding inside his chest and his hands felt clammy with anxiety as he led the way along the track. He glanced to each side, straining his eyes and ears for any sound of movement, but all was as before. Ahead, the figure slowly resolved into a firm outline as they approached. It was clearly a man, and at last they could see why he had made no movement nor responded to Macro’s challenge. He was naked and impaled on a stout wooden stake that had been driven into the middle of the track. The man’s pale, mottled skin was covered in painted native designs and his limbs and head hung lifelessly. As they drew closer, Cato could see that the stake had been driven up under his groin and the wood was covered in a dark stain that had also pooled on the ground around the base of the stake.
‘What in Hades’ name is this?’ Macro asked softly.
‘A marker, I should think. Quertus is setting out the boundary of his territory and warning those who dare to enter the valley.’
‘Warning who? The enemy, or us?’
‘Both, I should think. Why else put it here, where one of our patrols might encounter it?’ As he spoke the last word, it caught in his throat as he spied another body on a stake, off to one side of the track, then another opposite, forming a line across the route leading into the valley beyond. ‘There’s more of them, Macro. Look.’
He pointed them out and his friend swore. They gazed at the bodies a moment before Macro turned back and cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘Decurion! Bring your men on! It’s safe.’
Cato shot him a surprised look. ‘Safe?’
‘These three aren’t going to pose much of a threat, are they?’
Cato glanced at the bodies. ‘No, not them.’
There was a dull rattle of hoofs on loose stones as Trebellius and the rest of the column emerged from the mist and reined in in front of the line of stakes. Even though most of the soldiers had experienced the horrors of war, Cato could see the ashen expression on the faces of the men nearest to him. The prisoner, hanging over the back of one of Decimus’s mules, looked up and his eyes were wide in terror at the sight of the impaled men. He began to speak quickly, in a desperate pleading tone.
‘Decimus!’ Macro called out. ‘Shut him up.’
Decimus tore his gaze away and nodded. He turned his mule back to the prisoner and raised his fist menacingly. Turrus flinched, and clamped his jaw shut, watching the Roman warily.
‘Who are they?’ asked Trebellius.
‘Silurians, I’d guess.’ Cato pointed to the markings on the nearest man. ‘We can find out soon enough. Decimus! Bring the prisoner forward.’
The mules trotted up. Turrus’s jaw sagged slightly at the sight of the three bodies and then he started to tremble.
‘Ask him if these are his people?’
Trebellius translated the question and Turrus nodded anxiously.
‘Then this is the work of Quertus, all right,’ said Macro. ‘Only thing that makes sense.’
He was about to continue when there was a soft groan from the man to the right. The heads of the riders turned towards the figure and Cato saw that he was moving feebly, his feet struggling against the rough wood of the stake.
‘Dear Mithras.’ Decimus’s voice wavered. ‘He’s alive.’
Cato swung his leg over the saddle horns, slipped to the ground and strode through the tussocks of grass towards the man. Macro came after him as the others looked on. When they reached him, Cato could see that he was a young warrior, no older than twenty, thin-limbed, with his matted hair plastered to his head and straggling over his shoulders. His eyes were half open and rolled up as he let out a thin, keening groan of agony. Cato watched as he tried to press the soles of his feet against the stake and lift his weight up. But each time his feet
