‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.
They paced past the gap between the two units and were joined by Centurion Severus as they began their inspection of the legionaries. Cato saw that the majority of them had drawn features and he sensed their wariness as he passed slowly along each rank. In contrast to the Thracians they were neatly turned out and their helmets were polished, shields well maintained and their weapons every bit as lethal as those of their mounted comrades. But they failed to conceal their nervousness.
‘You!’ Cato pointed a finger at a man who was leaning forward slightly, resting his weight on the rim of his shield. ‘Stand up straight.’ He stopped in front of the man and stared hard at him. ‘Name?’
‘Caius Balbus, sir.’
‘Is this how you present yourself on parade? Have you been drinking?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why are you standing there like a pickled old fart?’
Balbus grimaced and forced himself to straighten up, gritting his teeth. Severus stepped closer to Cato and spoke quietly. ‘The man is sick, sir. Most of them are. Sick, or weak. Hardly surprising when they’re on half-rations most of the time. Even less, when supplies grow short between the raids on enemy villages.’
Cato took a deep breath as he considered the situation. Another of the challenges he faced in dealing with Quertus. But perhaps this would be easier to resolve. It made no sense for Quertus and his cohort to ride out and leave the fort in the hands of men in poor condition to defend Bruccium. But then, the Thracian had probably calculated that the Silures would not dare to enter the valley guarded by the grisly trophies of the savage warriors who had thrust their way into the heart of the tribe’s lands and built themselves an almost impregnable fort there.
‘How many men are too sick to attend parade?’ Cato asked.
Severus quickly consulted his wax tablet. ‘Fifteen men from the First Century and twelve from the Second.’
‘And none from the other centuries.’
‘There are no other centuries, sir. I merged what was left of the cohort into two centuries ten days ago. The sick are on the rolls of the merged units. There should be ten or so more of ’em but I gave the order that every man who could still stand was to take part in the parade.’
Cato gestured towards Balbus. ‘This one is having difficulty even standing. Get him off the parade ground and into the infirmary. He’s to rest and be fed until his strength has returned. Same for the rest of them.’
Severus glanced towards Quertus who was standing with his officers, laughing and talking together informally. ‘The standing orders are that legionaries are to be given no more than the specified ration, sir.’
‘Then I’m specifying a new ration for them,’ Cato responded irritably. ‘We can’t have men too weak to hold the walls of the fort.’
‘Then can I have your order in writing, sir? I’ll need to present my authority to draw extra rations to the quartermaster. He’s one of the Thracians.’
‘Fuck,’ Macro muttered. ‘This is getting too bloody much to bear. Those auxiliary bastards need to be put in their place, sir.’
Cato was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll deal with it, as soon as the parade is over. Centurion Severus!’
‘Sir?’
‘Send Balbus to the infirmary. Him and anyone else too weak to take their place in the battle line. Centurion Macro, you may dismiss your cohort.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and turned to the men and drew a deep breath. ‘Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, dismissed!’
The legionaries stiffened to attention, then turned in unison and stamped down their right boots, before breaking ranks and turning towards the gate of the fort. Macro waited a moment before he spoke to Cato. ‘I’ll come to headquarters to collect the authorisation for the ration increase then, sir.’
‘Of course. I’ll join you there directly. Once I’ve dismissed Quertus and his men.’
Macro saluted and beckoned to Severus to join him as he made for the fort. Cato headed back to the Thracian cohort and gave Quertus permission to dismiss his men. As the men led their mounts away, Cato called their commander to join him.
‘There’s one other thing. The Silurian prisoner. He needs to be interrogated.’
‘I’ve already seen to that, sir. My lads dealt with it last night.’
Cato gave him a cold look. ‘I said Centurion Macro would handle the interrogation. I did not order you to do it.’
‘I took the initiative, sir. Seemed to me that the sooner we made the bastard talk, the better.’
‘I see. And did he reveal the location of his village?’
Quertus smiled. ‘He was as good as gold. Gave us very precise directions as well as the number of men under arms.’
‘Very good.’ The anger Cato felt over the Thracian’s taking on the interrogation faded as he contemplated the opportunity afforded by the information given up by the prisoner. ‘Then we can prepare a punitive expedition as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll tell the men.’
‘I will be leading the raid, and Centurion Macro will be joining us. I’m keen to see my new cohort in action.’
Quertus’s smile faded quickly. ‘That’s not necessary, sir. My boys and I know the ropes. Leave it to me and we’ll deal with the Silurians.’
‘I’ve made my decision, Centurion. I’ll see you at headquarters at noon to plan the raid. Bring the prisoner with you. He may be able to provide a few further details if they’re needed.’
Quertus raised his eyebrows.
‘Problem, Centurion?’
‘It’s just that we don’t have the prisoner any more.’
‘What do you mean? He’s escaped?’
‘No, he’s still here. It’s just that I decided we had got all the information that we needed from him.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Just tell me where he is.’
Quertus raised a hand and pointed towards the track leading up to the fort. ‘Just over there.’
Cato turned and glanced round. ‘Why is he out here? I can’t see him. Where is he?’
‘There. Last stake.’
Cato felt a cold dread chill his flesh. He forced himself to look at the avenue of impaled heads, the nearest of which looked more freshly butchered than the rest. He felt his stomach knot as he recognised the bruised features of the young man they had captured two days earlier.
‘Turrus. .’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Two days later, just before dawn, Cato was lying on a bed of bracken in a shallow fold in the ground on the side of a steep hill. It had been a cold night and the clammy damp of the dew had caused him to shiver in the last hour before the glow of the rising sun crept above the crest of the mountains to the east. For the first time in many days the sky was clear and a fine day lay ahead. Cato had left his scarlet cloak back with the rest of the men camped in the trees and donned one of the black cloaks so as not to stand out against the landscape when dawn came. At his side Quertus was silently scanning the peaceful scene below them. To their right and left sprawled the heavily forested slopes of the ridge. A wide vale, a mile across, was filled with gently rolling cultivated land, sown in strips and interspersed with stone pens in which herds of goats lay still on the ground, providing warmth for the kids that had been born in the spring and now slept pressed into their mothers. There were several clusters of round huts, the largest occupying a hillock in the centre of the vale overlooking the surrounding landscape. The main hut was more than fifty feet across, Cato calculated, and a thin trail of smoke lifted lazily
