Quintatus beckoned to the soldier holding his horse and the man hurriedly led the beast over and handed the reins to the legate, before bowing and offering his hands to give the officer an easy step up into the saddle. He looked down at Cato and his voice took on a curt tone of command.
‘Destroy the fort, assemble what’s left of your command and join the column.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They exchanged a salute and Quintatus urged his mount into a trot, down the track towards the parade ground over which a column of legionaries was marching. Cato watched him for a moment, wondering if he could share the legate’s optimism about the imminent end to the war against Caratacus and those who still resisted the brute power of Rome. Despite his reservations, he wanted to hope that the long campaign would soon be over. With Britannia at peace, he could safely send for Julia to join him. In time, many of the units of the island’s garrison would be redeployed and a better posting could be found. Somewhere warmer, more civilised. He looked up at the grey crags on the mountains on either side of the valley and shivered. This was wild, hostile country and it was hard to see how it could ever be tamed. It would be better never to bring Julia to these shores. When the natives eventually gave in, it would be best to request a new command closer to Rome. He did not yet dare to hope for a position in the capital. Not while there were still those at the palace who bore him ill will. But that would not last forever, Cato reflected wryly. Those who plotted the fate of Rome at the emperor’s side seldom lasted the distance. Soon there would be a new Emperor. More than likely it would be Nero, the adopted son of Claudius, and Cato had once saved the young prince’s life. If the spirited youth became Emperor, there would be a purge of the old guard and Cato would be free to return to Rome, and Julia, and live in peace.
With that warm thought in his heart, he turned away from the passing column of infantry and picked his way through the breach beside the ruined gatehouse and went to find Macro.
The interior of the fort was heavy with the stench of burned timber and the more acrid odour of pitch. Small parties of men were preparing piles of combustible materials in the doorways of the barrack blocks and stables. Cato could not help observing the irony that Roman soldiers would complete the destruction that their enemies had failed to achieve.
He found Macro at headquarters, supervising the loading of the garrison’s pay chest and records into a wagon. A section of legionaries had been assigned the duty. It seemed that Macro still did not trust the Thracians.
‘How is it going, Macro?’
The centurion saluted as his friend approached and ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck as he collected his thoughts.
‘The sick and wounded have already joined the baggage train. Along with the Silurian prisoners. The cavalry mounts have been removed from the stables, along with all the equipment we can carry in the remaining wagons.’ He nodded towards the chests being loaded. ‘Once that lot’s sorted then we’re done.’
‘And our own kit?’
He gestured towards the wagon in the courtyard. ‘Already loaded.’
Cato nodded. ‘Good. Once the wagon is out of the fort you can give the order for the fires to be lit.’
‘I’ll be glad to do it.’
Cato glanced at his friend with a curious expression. ‘You’re pleased by the prospect?’
‘Why not? Why feel sorry for the loss of this place?’ Macro cast his eyes around the courtyard in front of the headquarters building. ‘It has too much of the feel of Quertus about it. It’s as if his shadow still lingers here. No surprise in that, I guess. He was not the kind of bastard who would be welcomed into the afterlife. Quertus deserves an underworld all of his own, to my mind.’
Cato was taken aback. It was unlike Macro to be in such low spirits. He addressed his friend in a gentle tone.
‘Macro. Quertus is dead. I killed him. It’s over.’
Macro shook his head slowly. ‘Not for me, lad. I’ve served for twenty years in the legions, seen plenty of sights in my time and known some bad characters, but nothing like Quertus. His heart was touched by darkness.’
‘Darkness?’ Cato pursed his lips and thought a moment before he continued. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Suppose?’ Macro chuckled humourlessly. ‘Fuck that. He was insane. Quertus had an evil streak in him as wide as the Tiber. He was little better than a wild animal and cunning as a snake. He needed to be put down. I only wish I had been the one to do it. Not you.’ He regarded Cato anxiously. ‘I hope there’s going to be no repercussions.’
‘Not for a while, at least. The legate assumes from what I said that he died in battle. If I’m required to write a full report then the truth will be known. As I’m sure it will in any case. There were witnesses. Word will get out.’
‘True, but there’ll be few of them spoken in praise of Quertus, given that he was about to abandon the rest of us to Caratacus. I won’t be the only one to back up your account. Not by a long way.’
Cato smiled gratefully. ‘I know. I have no worries on that account.’ His expression became more thoughtful. ‘It’s a pity that it had to happen. There was some merit in Quertus’s tactics.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Why not? Fear is the best weapon that can be deployed in war. And he put fear into the hearts of the enemy sure enough. His mistake was in putting fear into the hearts of his own men.’
‘You do him too much credit, Cato. He was a bad ’un. That’s all. Bad, and mad, to the core, and he touched others with it. His men, the Silurians. . even me.’ Macro’s gaze slid away from Cato as he vividly recalled the deaths of Mancinus and Maridius. He winced, as if in pain. ‘Don’t make the mistake of speaking well of the dead. Some don’t deserve it.’ Macro glanced past Cato towards the wagon and called out, ‘All right, the bloody thing’s loaded so what are you waiting for? Get the wagon out of the fort and down to the parade ground and make sure no thieving bastards get their hands on it. Move!’
The driver of the wagon cracked his whip and the heavy wheels rumbled into motion as the vehicle and its escort left the courtyard and made for the side gate and the track leading round the fort to the parade ground. The melancholy spell of a moment earlier was broken and both men assumed the veneer of their rank as they turned back to each other.
‘That’s the lot.’ Macro drew himself up. ‘Fort’s ready to be fired, sir.’
Cato nodded. ‘Then I’ll wait for you with the rest of the men outside. Carry on.’
As Cato made his way back towards the burned remains of the wall facing the parade ground he heard Macro’s voice barking out the orders to the incendiary parties. By the time Cato reached the bottom of the slope and turned to look up, dark columns of smoke were swirling into the sky. Macro and a handful of his men emerged from one of the breaches in the wall and descended the track to join their comrades. Cato waved aside the man holding his horse. He felt that he wanted to walk for a while. The survivors of the garrison formed up and Cato waved his arm forward to signal them to advance and they fell into line at the rear of the column.
Far ahead, Legate Quintatus’s cavalry were snapping at the heels of Caratacus and his warriors. Soon they would be forced to turn and fight. There would be a great battle which would test the courage and skill of the men of both armies, Cato knew. If Rome triumphed, there was a chance for peace in the new province. If not, the bitter war would drag on year after year. The prospect depressed Cato. More death. More suffering. The natives would desperately cling to the hope that they would ultimately humble Rome. That would never happen, Cato mused. No emperor of Rome would allow it to happen, whatever the cost. That was what Caratacus and his followers should really fear.
Again, it came back to fear. Perhaps, in that regard, Quertus had been right all along.
‘We’re a bit thin on the ground,’ Macro said, breaking Cato’s thoughts. He turned to gesture at the small column of men and horses behind them. ‘Both cohorts have suffered heavy losses.’
‘True, but the legate has promised us first call on the replacements coming up from Londinium. We’ll return to the front line soon enough.’
Macro smiled at the prospect of breaking in some new recruits. ‘Back to straightforward, proper soldiering. At last.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato grinned at his friend. ‘We’ll drill them until they drop and when we do go up against the enemy, they’ll do us proud. Your men and the Blood Crows will be the best cohorts in the army. There won’t be a tribe in Britannia that can stand against us.’
