The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (38 page)

‘Be my guest.’

Cato bowed his head and turned to half walk, half stumble from the room. The legate watched him go and was silent for a moment before he shook his head and muttered to himself, ‘What a remarkable young man . . . A pity he has earned himself such powerful enemies.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

For most of the following day the enemy were content to remain in their camp and the men of the garrison of Bruccium looked on with a sense of relief. The screams of the men who had been burned alive had unnerved many in the fort and even Macro, tired as he was, had been unable to get much sleep. It was long after midnight before the Silurians finished celebrating their victory and began to settle for the night, leaving their fires to die down. When the sun rose and there was no sign of any pending attack, Macro allowed most of the men to return to barracks to rest. A quarter of their number remained on duty, manning the wall and keeping watch for any sign of enemy activity. Orders given, Macro curled up on the floor of the tower and surrendered to the leaden weariness that weighed so heavily on his limbs.

He was woken at midday by one of the sentries, as he had ordered, and stirred stiffly to regard the enemy still sleeping off their festivities of the night before. Some small parties of younger men and boys were scouring the valley for firewood. Food was evidently running short, as a small herd of cattle and another of goats were driven into the camp from a nearby valley and were being slaughtered a short distance away from Caratacus’s shelter. The first of the carcasses was dragged over to the parade ground and cut into chunks for roasting on a spit over a freshly lit fire. More cooking fires were lit as the remainder of the slaughtered animals were distributed to the rest of the camp. As the afternoon wore on, the smell of roasting meat drifted up to the defenders

Macro felt his stomach rumbling and contemplated just how good a roast leg of beef would taste after the meagre rations he had been enduring in the fort. He even considered having some of the horses slaughtered but put the notion aside. It would be bad for the morale of the surviving Thracians. If it seemed inevitable that the fort would fall then Macro resolved to have the animals killed to deny them to the enemy. But only then. In the meantime there was only thin gruel and the last chunks of dried-out cheese and stale bread to look forward to. Thankfully, he mused, hunger had a way of making even the most unappetisingly bland food seem like a banquet.

Late in the afternoon, as the enemy feasting came to an end, a small party headed up the slope towards the main gate. They announced their approach with blaring horns and Macro saw that it was Caratacus, together with four men. One of them wore the black cloak of a Druid, while another was one of the prisoners. He had been stripped of his armour and boots and wore only a torn tunic. He was held firmly in the grip of two burly warriors and his head hung on his chest as they dragged him towards the fort. At the sound of the horns, Centurion Petillius climbed the tower and joined Macro. They exchanged a nod before Petillius gestured over the rail.

‘What are they playing at now?’

‘We’ll know soon enough.’

Caratacus stopped beyond javelin range and put his hands on his hips as he addressed the defenders.

‘Romans! Last night you witnessed the fate of some of your comrades. It is a pity that you had to watch the entertainment from afar. If you had shared the warmth of our fires you would have been there to see their flesh burn and hear the prayers they offered to your gods, begging for mercy.’ Caratacus paused and looked round theatrically. ‘Where are they now? Where is your Jupiter? Your Mars? It seems that your gods lack any interest in you. Or is it that they fear the power of our deities? In any case, the words of the dying fell on deaf ears. As I say, it is a shame you could not share such entertainment with us. To that end, I have come to offer you a small spectacle of your own. Here, where you can see and hear clearly.’ He stepped up to the prisoner and roughly raised his chin so that his face was visible to the defenders.

‘This is the commander of the Roman column we annihilated yesterday,’ Caratacus announced.

Petillius cursed ‘Shit. That puts paid to the prefect and the Thracians.’

The enemy commander continued addressing the garrison. ‘This man is Tribune Gaius Mancinus, a proud and haughty aristocrat. No doubt one of those Romans who can trace his family line all the way back to Aeneas. Let us see how a Roman aristocrat dies. A simple execution would be too merciful. I have never been too proud to learn from my enemies, and the Blood Crows have proved to be excellent teachers. You have terrified my Silurian friends and I must show them that you are, after all, just mortal men. Not demons. So, when we take the fort I shall hand any survivors over to the Silurians to do with as they wish. The purpose of this afternoon’s lesson is to show you that you will reap what you have sowed . . .’ The enemy general stared at the faces watching him from the wall and then stepped aside and gestured to the Druid to continue.

The dark-robed figure approached Mancinus and took out a knife. He cut into the neckline of the tunic and then ripped it down as far as the tribune’s groin. Then he made another cut until the cloth was rent top to bottom, exposing the front of the Roman officer.

‘Sweet Mithras . . .’ Petillius muttered. ‘They’re going to gut the poor bastard.’

Macro quickly turned to him. ‘Get Maridius up here, fast as you can!’

Petillius ran back to the ladder and descended two rungs at a time. A moment later Macro heard his boots pounding towards the barracks where the Catuvellaunian prince was imprisoned. In front of the fort the Druid scored a shallow cut across Mancinus’s chest. The tribune strained to free himself from the grip of the two warriors but they were strong men and held him firmly and his efforts came to nothing. The blood flowed down over his pale skin. The Druid waited for a moment before he cut into Mancinus’s flesh again, an inch or so higher up where the Druid could see his handiwork more clearly. This time the Roman could not help crying out and the sound cut into Macro’s heart. He raged against his enemy and his inability to do anything to help Mancinus.

As the Druid began to make a third cut, Macro turned away and hurried across to the rear of the tower and looked down into the fort, willing Petillius to appear with the prisoner. Another cry sounded from in front of the fort and Macro clenched his jaw in a silent grimace. Then he saw Petillius appear between two of the stable blocks, thrusting Maridius before him. The prisoner wore only the baggy breeches he had been left with after his questioning some days earlier. Although his face and body were bruised, the swelling around his eyes and lips had subsided.

‘Bring the bastard up, quick!’ Macro bellowed.

He turned and ran across the tower and waved his hands to attract the attention of Caratacus. ‘Enough! Tell your Druid to put aside his blade!’

The enemy commander and his companions looked up at Macro while Mancinus’s head rolled back and he let out a faint groan.

‘What is it?’ Caratacus called back. ‘Do you think to try and stop our entertainment? I thought Romans were used to this. I thought you had stronger stomachs. Are you so easily unmanned by the sight of blood?’

Macro did not respond to the taunt. He knew he had to delay Mancinus’s torment long enough for Maridius to reach the top of the tower. His mind struggled to outline a means of saving Mancinus.

‘Listen, you fucking savage, I’ve had enough of your game. You want to play rough with your prisoners? Then so can we. If your Druid puts that knife to the tribune again then I swear to all the gods that you will regret it for what’s left of your miserable bloody life.’

Caratacus laughed. ‘Don’t waste your breath on empty threats! Besides, my army would be most disappointed if I put an end to this spectacle. I have promised the tribune to the Druids to make a blood offering to our gods. Nothing can save him now!’

Macro heard sounds on the ladder behind him and saw Maridius being bundled up the ladder. He crossed to him and hauled him up on to the platform before dragging him across to the wooden rail. Clenching his fist in the long hair of the prisoner, Macro jerked his head up so that his face would be clearly visible to Caratacus and the others.

‘Do you recognise your brother, Caratacus?’ Macro shouted down the slope. ‘If you do any more harm to Tribune Mancinus, then I’ll match you cut for cut.’ He drew his dagger from its scabbard and held it up for the enemy commander to see.

There was a tense stillness before Caratacus responded. ‘You wouldn’t dare. He is too valuable a hostage to Rome.’

‘We are not in Rome!’ Macro called back. ‘We are in the arse end of the world. There is you, me and the two men we hold prisoner. If you harm the tribune, then I will harm Maridius. That is what will happen. Understand?’

Caratacus did not reply for a moment as he stared up at his younger brother and the Roman officer standing at his side. Then he spoke again. ‘If you harm my brother, then I swear that you, and any of your men I take alive when the fort falls will be subject to every cruelty, every torture, every humiliation before you are allowed to die. And I will do the same for every Roman prisoner that my army takes until we have driven you Roman scum from our lands. This I swear!’

Macro ignored the threat and kept his silence. Behind him, Centurion Petillius muttered, ‘He means it.’

‘So do I.’

The Druid turned to Caratacus and there was a brief exchange before the Druid raised his voice and turned back to the prisoner and cut him again, this time opening up his cheek with a swift slash of the blade. Macro did not hesistate. He turned to Maridius and stabbed him in the jaw. Blood splattered down on to the floorboards of the tower. Maridius let out a deep bellow of pain.

‘Hold him still!’ Macro commanded.

Petillius and the two sentries closed round the prisoner and grasped his shoulders as vivid red blood coursed down his neck and into the hairs on his chest.

Caratacus hurled a wild curse at the fort and took several steps forward, his hand making to draw his sword. Then he stopped abruptly, slowly let the blade settle back in its scabbard and thrust his finger towards Macro.

‘I will kill you! Kill you with my bare hands, and take your heart and feed it to my hounds!’

Macro smiled grimly. ‘First you will have to take the fort.’

‘The fort will be mine! You cannot hold out against me.’

‘We’ll see. Until then, take the tribune back to your camp and look after him. I shall want to see him alive every morning. If not, I will execute your brother.’

Caratacus let out a pained animal growl. ‘It is out of my hands, Roman. The tribune belongs to the Druids now.’

‘Then take him back.’

‘I can’t!’

‘Who is in command? You, or that clown in the black cloak?’

Caratacus struggled to choke back his outrage. ‘He is the High Druid of the Silurians, the chosen man of our gods. He is not mine to command.’

‘I don’t give a shit. Tell him to step away from the tribune!’

Caratacus turned to the Druid and they spoke again in heated tones. Then, with an impatient flick of his spare hand, the Druid turned back to Mancinus and stabbed him deep in the side and ripped the blade diagonally across his stomach. The tribune half groaned, half screamed, as his intestines bulged out of the wound and slid down over his groin. Raising his bloodied blade again, the Druid plunged it into Mancinus’s heart, then stood back and raised his arms to the sky and began a shrill chant. The warriors released his arms and the body of the tribune collapsed to the ground.

‘No!’ Macro lurched at the wooden rail in the tower. ‘You bastards! Fucking barbarians! Bastards!’ Then he snatched out his sword and thrust the point towards Maridius’s throat. His eyes blazed down at Caratacus. ‘See this, and remember!’

Then, with all the brute strength he could muster, Macro rammed his sword up into the prisoner’s skull and his crown erupted as scalp, bone and brains burst into the air. The body tensed like stone, veins standing out, before jerking savagely and then collapsing on to the floor of the tower as Macro wrenched his sword free.

There was a wild cry of rage from Caratacus and a moment later the rest of his army who had been watching from their camp let out a roar of fury.

Macro turned back and saw Caratacus take out his sword and stand over Mancinus’s body. Then he rained down blows, hacking the flesh like a frenzied butcher. Macro tore his gaze away, steeling himself for what he must do. Taking a deep breath he hacked through Maridius’s neck. It took several blows before the final bit of gristle parted. Switching his sword to his left hand, he picked up the head by the hair and swung it at arm’s length before sending it sailing through the air. It bounced on the slope and then rolled before coming to rest a short distance from Caratacus.

Still with his bloodied blade in hand, Caratacus stared at the head, his body trembling, then he thrust his sword directly at Macro and screamed, ‘I will kill you! Kill you all! Kill every Roman! Every man, woman and child! I will tear down this cursed fort with my own hands! You will not live to see another day! None of you!’ He swept his sword across the wall of the fort, then turned away, clumsily sheathed his blade and began to stride down the slope towards the camp, his hands clasped to his face as his shoulders heaved with grief. One of his men stooped to pick up the head of Maridius and joined the others who kept their distance from their commander as they followed him.

‘Now we’re for it,’ Petillius said quietly.

Macro nodded. ‘They’ll be coming for us as soon as it’s dark. I want every man on the wall, fed and ready for the fight of their lives.’

He looked down at the headless body in its pool of spreading blood. ‘First, get rid of that.’

Macro took a last look at Mancinus, though there was nothing left to recognise of the young man. Now the same fate threatened him. Macro’s lips pressed together tightly and he shook his head. No. He would deny Caratacus his sport. When the end came, he would go down fighting, sword in hand, spitting curses at the enemy until the very last beat of his heart.

They came even before the final glimmer of the setting sun had faded in the western sky. As soon as Caratacus had returned to his camp the enemy had begun to assemble, and fresh bundles of faggots were hastily prepared and piled high on the parade ground. The tribesmen went about their work with a sullen quietness that was out of character and it was clear to Macro that they were determined to avenge the death of Maridius. In the failing light of dusk, Macro sent for his surviving officers. The small group of men faced him him behind the main gate.