crows.
Cato glanced round. The Thracians returned his gaze steadfastly, as if not caring that they were under scrutiny from the new prefect in charge of the fort at Bruccium. Many of them bore tattoos on their faces, dark swirling patterns, unlike the ornate blue patterns favoured by the Britons. Their cloaks and tunics were heavily worn and stained and their equipment was a mixture of that issued to auxiliary troops, captured Silurian weapons and some examples of more exotic design that Cato guessed came from their native Thrace.
At the rear of the column Decimus was riding by the edge of the track where he could stay in sight of Cato and Macro and be reassured. Behind him, tied to the saddle horn of one of the other mules, was the prisoner, a look of acute misery etched on his face. Cato turned back to his companion and spoke quietly.
‘What are you thinking, Macro?’
His friend replied in hushed tones. ‘Centurion Quertus is not taking it well.’
‘I’ll say.’
Macro gestured discreetly in the direction of the men riding behind them. ‘And I’ve never seen such a rabble before, even amongst some of the sorriest-looking auxiliary units in the army. They look like barbarians. It’s hard to tell this lot apart from the natives.’
Cato nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s the intention. That, or Quertus is going one step further and making his men seem even more frightening than the Silurians.’
‘They don’t frighten me,’ Macro said firmly.
‘Not much does, I’m glad to say.’
Macro smiled at the compliment and then his expression hardened again. ‘Even so, I don’t like the situation. We’ll have to watch Quertus closely. He’s probably already thinking about how he can dispose of us without drawing too much attention from headquarters.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Cato. ‘And while he continues to strike fear into the hearts of the local tribes the legate is going to want to keep him at it. We shall have to watch our step.’
Macro nodded. ‘Something else worries me. If this lot are typical of the men at the fort, what else are we going to have to deal with? They’re not going to take kindly to a bit of spit and polish and some square- bashing.’
‘No.’
Cato felt a drop of rain fall on the hand holding the reins and looked up at the sky. A band of dark clouds was blowing in across the mountains, bringing a downpour with it. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and hunched down inside the thick folds of the material. More drops fell and soon the rain closed in around the riders, hissing as it spattered off the ground and turned the surface of the track into a glistening stream of mud.
‘You know,’ Macro grumbled, ‘it’s times like this when I wonder if it might not be better to leave these particular Elysian fields to the locals. Why the fuck does Claudius want to add this miserable pit to the empire?’
‘Macro, you know how it is. We don’t get to ask the questions. We’re here because we’re here, and that’s all there is to it.’
Macro laughed. ‘Finally, you’re learning.’
The rain continued to fall for the rest of the day without let-up. As the pallid light began to fade, the landscape of the upper valley gave way to what had once been cultivated land. Abandoned farms spread out on either side of the track. Some clusters of huts still stood, empty with no smoke rising from their hearths. Others had been burned leaving ugly blackened ruins rising up from the ground like the rotten teeth of an old hag. About them lay neglected fields, overgrown with weeds and wild barley. Close to the track, in the long grass, Cato spied the remains of animals, weathered pelts hanging over bone, lying where they had been slaughtered. There were the corpses of people as well, wizened, blackened faces stretched over skulls with empty eye sockets. More evidence of the handiwork of Quertus and his men.
The track reached the bank of a narrow river and followed its course as the rain exploded off the surface of the water like a shower of silver coins. A few miles further on, as the last of the daylight began to fade, the riders at last came in sight of the fort of Bruccium. Cato sat up in his saddle and stared ahead. From Trebellius’s earlier description he already had some idea of what to expect and he saw that the site had been well chosen indeed. The course of the river ran around the low hill upon which the fort had been built, providing a natural defence along three sides. An attacker would have to abandon any notion of assaulting the turf ramparts overlooking the steep slopes that fell down to the riverbank. On the fourth side the fort was protected by a ditch in front of the rampart.
‘Impressive,’ Macro conceded. ‘Caratacus hasn’t much hope of taking Bruccium.’
Cato nodded. No matter how brave the natives were, they lacked understanding of siege weapons. That was why they had placed so much faith in the hill forts they had constructed on a lavish scale. But while they had proved effective in the conflicts between the tribes of the island, they stood little chance against the bolt-throwers and onagers of the Roman legions. The latter had battered down the palisades and gates of one hill fort after another, while the bolt-throwers had scourged the ramparts, striking down any warriors brave enough to stand their ground and show their defiance to their enemy. After that it had simply been a matter of forming a tortoise to approach the breaches in the defences and then charging home to overwhelm the remaining defenders.
As yet the native warriors were only beginning to discover ways to counter the superiority that the soldiers of Rome had on the battlefield or in siegecraft. It had taken Caratacus several defeats before he learned to avoid pitched battles with the legions and to use the ponderous pace of the Roman army against itself. For some years now he had devoted his energies to striking at the legions’ supply lines, raiding deep behind the frontier and withdrawing before the Romans could react. It had proved an effective and profitable strategy and the raiders had returned to their tribes laden with the spoils they had taken from raiding villas and ambushes of supply columns and unwary patrols. For their part, having lost the initiative, the Romans could only respond to the raids by sending columns racing to the scene, too late to intervene. Inevitably, Governor Ostorius came to the realisation that the long war against the native tribes would only come to an end if there was no safe haven for Caratacus and his warriors. Without the defeat of the Silures and the Ordovices there would never be peace in the new province of Britannia.
Now that they were in sight of the fort, Quertus and his scouts reined in and waited for the rest of the column to catch up before continuing along the track to the approaches of the fort. There was no vicus, nor any bathhouse built outside the wall. Only the thatched haystacks that served as part of the stockpile of feed for the horses. These were protected by a modest palisade with two sentries on the gate. The track turned up towards the main gate of Bruccium.
‘What are those?’ asked Macro, pointing up the slope.
Cato turned in the saddle and raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the rain as he looked in the direction that Macro had indicated. From the gates of the fort a line of short posts ran down either side of the track at intervals of ten feet for a distance of perhaps two hundred paces. On top of each was a crude orb. Cato felt his stomach lurch as he guessed at once what they were. A moment later his fear was confirmed. Heads. An avenue of grisly trophies, their expressions frozen in pain and terror at the moment of their deaths, glistening in the rain as water dripped from the tendrils of hair hanging from their scalps.
Cato swallowed as he fought to control the wave of disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. Then, as he looked up at the fort, he saw more heads along the rampart, facing out over the valley as if to warn any onlooker that this had become a place of death and darkness. A darkness of the human soul as black as night itself, Cato thought as he rode beside Macro in silence, passing between the severed heads of the victims of Quertus and his men.
As they reached the narrow causeway across the outer ditch, an order was shouted inside the fort and the gates began to open, the hinges groaning and creaking under the burden of the heavy timbers. Quertus halted and turned his horse across the track so that he could face the two officers behind him. The rain had drenched his dark hair and cloak, which seemed to merge into one, slick with a dull gleam, like pitch. His beard parted as he grinned and waved a hand towards the gloomy opening beneath the gatehouse.
‘Centurion Macro, Prefect Cato. . welcome to Bruccium.’
