The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (7 page)

‘You don’t sound very optimistic,’ said Macro.

‘Oh, I’m optimistic enough. Because that’s what the governor has told us to be in his standing orders. Doesn’t want us to unsettle the reinforcements who are joining our happy little band. No more defeatism is his line and he’ll come down hard on any of his subordinates who even suggests that we won’t have the beating of Caratacus this time round. So yes, I’m an optimist. But before that, I’m a realist. And I’d say anyone who really thinks this is going to be just a stroll in the forum is in for a great big fucking surprise. Pardon, madam.’

Portia sighed with exasperation and waved the apology aside. Then she froze and looked towards the doorway of the inn. Cato turned to follow the direction of her gaze and saw that two large warriors had entered the room. They wore heavy capes woven with a checked design in brown and white. Their hair was tied back and braided in a thick queue that hung down their backs. Swirling tattoos covered their hairy arms and long swords hung from baldrics. The native warriors slowly shuffled inside, followed by several more of their companions, including one huge man who had to bow his head to avoid the beams that stretched across the interior. At his side was a woman, her head covered with the hood of a cloak. The serving girl took one look at the giant and hurried through a doorway behind the counter, calling for her master.

As the newcomers made their way to the counter, the leader of the party looked round the room until his gaze rested on the small party of Romans. His expression was fierce, but then a look of puzzlement worked its way through as he stared directly at Macro and Cato.

‘I don’t fucking believe it . . .’ Macro grasped Cato’s arm. ‘Look who it is! Recognise him?’

‘Of course,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘Prasutagus.’

There was a scraping as Macro rose from his bench and called across the room. ‘Prasutagus! It’s me. I mean us. Macro and Cato!’

Decianus nearly choked on his wine. ‘You mean you know that brute?’

Macro ignored the tribune and took two steps towards the native leader and held out his hand. Prasutagus stood still for a moment before he smiled faintly and nodded without offering his hand in return. Macro lowered his and shook his head in wonder. ‘I don’t believe it . . . Prasutagus.’

‘Hello, Centurion,’ a woman’s voice interrupted the startled silence of the inn. Macro turned and saw that the woman had lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal thick tresses of coppery red hair. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled a greeting.

The power of speech failed Macro for an instant before he swallowed nervously and cleared his throat. ‘Boudica . . .’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Queen Boudica, as it happens.’ She affected an aloofness that was betrayed by the smile that she could not suppress.

‘Queen?’ Macro frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I am the wife of Prasutagus, and so queen of the Iceni nation. I assume that you, too, have risen in status since we last saw each other. No longer the centurion we once knew.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Centurion Macro still, though I am more senior than I was.’

Boudica stepped away from the bar and made for the side of her husband and took his hand. ‘We are pleased to see you again.’

The two Roman officers exchanged looks with the rulers of the Iceni tribe, and for a moment no one spoke as memories of shared hardships and dangers flooded back into their minds. Macro felt a deeper pang of loss as he gazed at the woman whose affections he had once known, when Boudica had been no more than the wayward daughter of an Iceni nobleman. At length Prasutagus could maintain his regal aloofness no longer and let out a hearty bellow of mirth, before surging forward and throwing his arms round Macro in a rib-cracking embrace of friendship.

‘Hah! It is good to see you again, Roman! Too many years have passed.’

Macro clasped the giant’s arms and eased himself free of the powerful grip. He took a deep breath before he responded. ‘I see you’ve picked up a bit more Latin since last time.’

‘It is well to speak the tongue of your friend,’ Prasutagus responded, his accent heavy but his words readily comprehensible. He turned to Cato and grasped his hand and smiled warmly. ‘And you, Cato. Still as cunning and brave, I think.’ He tapped the scar that ran down from Cato’s forehead. ‘The mark of a warrior, eh?’

‘The mark of a man who did not get out of the way of a blade in time, more like,’ Cato replied with a smile.

His wife approached and looked Cato over with a slight expression of concern. ‘You were little more than a youth when last we met. Now you look more like Macro did then.’

‘What?’ Macro interrupted. ‘Then what do I look like now?’

Boudica scrutinised him. ‘Your face is more lined, and there is grey in your hair, but you are still the same Macro I knew. Which is as well. It is good to see an old friend . . .’ Her tone became more serious. ‘Friendship is needed now more than ever. Relations between Rome and the Iceni are fragile. I take it you are aware of our recent history?’

‘We heard about the rebellion,’ said Cato. ‘It is a pity.’

‘Pity?’ Prasutagus’s eyebrows knitted together. ‘It was a tragedy. A betrayal of the bond between our people and Rome. Ostorius demanded we surrender weapons, even after I gave my word of honour that we hold true to our alliance with the Emperor. Some gave up weapons. Others did not and died with sword in hand.’ Prasutagus lowered his gaze. ‘They were fools, but brave fools. Perhaps . . .’

‘You did the right thing.’ Boudica squeezed his hand. ‘You survived and now you serve the Iceni people. They need you.’

Prasutagus shrugged. Cato sensed his wounded honour but could not help the urge to discover the full story. ‘So, how did you come to be King?’

‘I was one of the few who had no part in the rebellion. I was too sick to fight alongside my brothers. So when it was over, the governor chose me to replace the old king. He was killed in the battle.’

‘I see. I am sure that Ostorius’s choice was wise.’ Cato turned and gestured towards their table. ‘Would you care to drink with us? That is Macro’s mother, and the others are comrades from the army.’

‘Macro’s mother?’ Boudica cocked an eyebrow. ‘Now there’s someone I would be fascinated to talk to.’

But Prasutagus was staring coldly at the two tribunes and shook his head. ‘Another day, my friends. When we can speak freely to each other.’

Pellinus flushed at the words and stood up. He addressed Cato. ‘Thank you for the drink, sir. We are expected back at headquarters and have to beg our leave of you now.’

The other tribune looked surprised, but then caught on and nodded in agreement. They bowed their heads to Portia and left the inn, without acknowledging the Iceni rulers. There was a strained silence before Boudica spoke again.

‘You know about the assembly of the tribes, I take it?’

‘Yes. We’ll be part of the governor’s retinue.’

‘I see.’ Some of the warmth had drained from her voice. ‘Then we shall see you there, or perhaps somewhere on the road.’

‘We look forward to it. Now, how about that drink? We’ve a lot to catch up on.’

Boudica was about to reply when her husband broke in with, ‘Another time. Somewhere less . . . Roman. Come.’ He took Boudica’s arm and gently steered her towards the door. Prasutagus growled a command to his warriors and they withdrew across the inn to join them before the small party quit the inn and closed the door behind them.

Macro shrugged sadly. ‘Is that the way it has to be between us? So soon after we meet them again?’

‘Time takes its toll in many ways, old friend,’ Cato said kindly.

Macro glared at him. ‘Old? Fuck off. Let’s get back to our wine. Least we don’t have to share it with those freeloading tribunes now.’

They returned to the bench and sat down opposite Portia. Cato raised the jug, frowned at its lightness and shook it. A faint slop of liquid sounded from inside. He refilled Macro’s cup and tipped what was left into his own before raising it in a toast in an effort to restore some cheer to the atmosphere.

‘Here’s to your new business. I’m sure it will be a great success from the amount of passing trade that seems to come through the door.’

Portia raised her cup half-heartedly. ‘It would be more of a success if some of the trade actually stayed for a drink.’

Cato glanced into the dregs of his cup. ‘Or even bought a round or two.’

‘So where are these troublemakers, then?’ a voice called out from the direction of the counter and Cato turned to see a burly, grey-haired man emerge from the door leading to the storeroom. The serving girl anxiously peered round from behind his back. The innkeeper glanced round the room where his customers were drinking peacefully, then turned on the serving girl. ‘Well?’

She flinched back towards the door and he cuffed her hard about the head. ‘Stop wasting my time, you stupid bitch! Get in there and stoke up the cooking fire!’

The girl reeled from the blow and then hunched down and scurried away to do her master’s bidding.

Cato nodded towards the man. ‘The owner, and vendor, of the inn, I take it?’

‘That’s him.’ Portia beckoned to the innkeeper when she caught his eye. ‘Time, I think, to settle the deal, now that my dear son has agreed to invest in my new business.’

‘Invest?’ Macro echoed wryly. ‘It feels more like I’ve been mugged.’

Portia ignored her grumpy son and smiled as the innkeeper made his way over to their table. He moved with the self-assurance of one who was used to command and did not tolerate any subordinate who caused even the least bit of trouble. His hair was thinning but the well-toned physique that had seen him through many a battle was still there. Cato had little doubt that he could swiftly sort out any customers who got out of hand on his premises. As he came close enough for his features to be clearly recognisable, Cato gave a small start of surprise and then called out a greeting.

‘Centurion Gaius Tullius!’

The innkeeper slowed his pace and squinted at his customers, then his expression changed abruptly and he beamed happily.

‘Bugger me, if it ain’t Cato and Macro! What on earth are you two doing here? Thought the Second Legion had seen the back of you years ago.’

‘So it had.’ Macro grinned. ‘But it seems like you lads have been having a little difficulty with the locals and need to call on the services of some real soldiers to sort ’em out.’

‘Ah, get away with you!’ Tullis swatted Macro on the shoulder. ‘We managed well enough without you two troublemakers. Anyway, this is a turn-up, and I’m always glad to see old comrades. The gods know there are few enough of us about.’ He turned to Portia. ‘Oh, it’s you, ma’am. You with them?’ He winked. ‘Or are they with you?’

Portia regarded him coolly. ‘If that’s supposed to be amusing, then I fail to see why. As it happens, Centurion Macro is my son.’

Tullius turned to stare at Macro with a look of astonishment. ‘You have a mother?’

He pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Tullia!’ he shouted. ‘Bring another jar of wine. The good stuff! Wait . . . That Gaulish stuff’ll do! Anyway, what’s the story, lads? How come you’re back in this shithole? Can’t be because you like the weather.’

‘Shithole?’ Portia fixed him with a stare. ‘Is that why you’re selling up? I might have to knock a thousand or two off the price.’

Tullius dipped his head in acknowledgement of his clumsy remark. ‘I’m selling up because I want to retire to some place warm in Campania, miss. There’s nothing really wrong with Londinium. There’s good money to be made here. I’m hardly likely to try and put one over the dear old mother of one of my former comrades in arms, am I? Besides,’ his tone hardened slightly, ‘I thought we made a deal.’

‘No. I made an offer. You said you’d think about it. And now, I’m having a rethink about the offer I made, in view of your eagerness to sell. I think nine thousand is a more reasonable price.’

Tullius could not hide his surprise at the sharpness of her tone. ‘Fuck me, but you’ve got a hard and ruthless streak. She’s your mum all right, Macro . . . The price is still ten.’

‘Nine.’

‘And five hundred.’

Portia chewed her lip briefly. ‘Nine thousand, five hundred.’

He frowned. ‘Well, since you’re kin of Macro, it’s a deal. But I’m robbing myself.’ He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out. Portia took it at once, before there was any chance of him changing his mind, and sealed their business. The serving girl arrived with a fresh jar of wine and set it down on the table and hurriedly withdrew. Tullius poured them each a cup, filled right to the brim, and raised his. ‘To the Second Augusta!’

‘To the Second!’ Macro and Cato chorused and drained their cups. The wine was better than Macro had expected and at once he reached for the jug to refill their cups.

‘Go easy on that,’ Portia said firmly. ‘That’s part of my stock now. You pay for the next jug, you hear?’

Tullius smiled ruefully. ‘Hard as nails. Anyway, I take it you two are here to beef up the ranks of the legions for Ostorius’s new campaign.’

‘That’s right,’ said Cato. ‘Macro’s going to the Fourteenth as a senior centurion.’

‘Pfftt! Fourteenth, bunch of pansies. Not fit to lick the boots of the Second, I reckon.’

Macro was cautious about knocking the reputation of his new unit as he was sure to develop pride in the Fourteenth as a matter of course. He pursed his lips and poured himself some more wine as he muttered, ‘We’ll see.’

Tullius turned to Cato. ‘And what about you? Going to join Macro’s lot? I’m sure he could use a good centurion like you.’

Cato felt a moment’s awkwardness. ‘No. I’ll be going to a different unit. Thracian cavalry cohort. I’ve been given the command.’

Tullis looked surprised. ‘You? Then . . . you must have made prefect. Fuck me, that’s a turn-up for the books. You were just a junior centurion when we last knew each other . . .’ He paused and shuffled sheepishly. ‘Bloody hell . . . Well done, lad. I mean, sir.’

‘There’s no need for that,’ Cato responded. ‘We’re off duty. I mean . . . you’re out of the army now.’

‘Maybe so, but I still have respect for the rank. And the man that bears it. Prefect Cato. Now that’s something. Really something. By the gods, you must have seen some action and covered yourself in glory to be promoted to prefect. That or you’ve gone and shagged the Emperor’s missus. Or perhaps been shagged by Claudius. Randy old dog, from what I hear.’

Macro drained his cup and raised a finger. ‘That’s enough. Cato won his rank the hard way. I know. I watched him do it.’

‘Fair play to him then,’ Tullius conceded. ‘And now you’ve both fetched up here, the graveyard of ambition, or so they say.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that there’s no glory to be won here. Not any more. The big battles are over. Caratacus and his mob have taken to the hills. Most of our lads are stuck in small forts keeping a wary eye on the natives and trying not to get themselves bumped off when they go out on patrol. Once in a while we manage to chase a few of the painted bastards to ground and stick it to ’em. But the rate things are going I dare say Rome will still be struggling to tame these Britons long after anyone has forgotten there ever was an invasion. You want my advice? Apply for a transfer as soon as you get the chance.’

Macro replied, ‘You’re wrong. Ostorius is about to give them one last chance to bend to Rome, then he’s going to hit them with everything he’s got.’ His voice was beginning to slur.

Tullius chuckled. ‘Is that right? You think it’s the first time a governor’s tried to wipe the floor with the bastards? What makes you think he’s got any more chance of finishing the job than Aulus Plautius before him?’

Macro waved a finger at Cato and slapped himself on the chest. ‘Because this time we’re going to be doing the fighting for him. That’s what!’

Cato folded his fingers together and gently shook his head.

Macro had warmed to his theme and raised his fist. ‘We’ll give Caratacus what for, you’ll see! Bloody his nose and whip him like the cur he is. It’ll all be over by Saturnalia.’

‘Care to place a bet on that?’ Tullius asked slyly.

‘Course I will.’ Macro nodded vigorously.

‘Macro!’ Portia snapped. ‘Don’t!’

Before her son could respond there was a cold draught as the door opened and a headquarters clerk came into the inn. He looked round until he spied the table at which Cato and the others were sitting, just as Macro glared over his shoulder and bellowed, ‘Put the bloody wood in the hole!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The clerk pushed the door to and the latch clicked home then he made his way over to the table and stood to attention. ‘Begging your pardon, Prefect, but the governor sends his compliments and says that you are both to be ready to join him tomorrow morning when he rides to Durocornovium.’