‘If that was the case, then I think the enemy would have let us know by now. Caratacus always insists on trumpeting any good news for his side. No, I think Quertus is still very much in the game.’
Cato was examining the map and saw that Bruccium was deep inside Silurian territory, over sixty miles from Glevum, he estimated. Forty miles beyond the nearest Roman-occupied fort of any size. It was too exposed, he decided. Far too exposed. Any supply convoy making for Bruccium would have to cross the passes through the mountains before marching through densely forested valleys: perfect terrain for setting ambushes.
‘How often is the fort resupplied, sir?’
‘It isn’t.’
Cato frowned. ‘How is that, sir? Surely they have to be supplied. There must be several hundred men at Bruccium. Not to mention the horses.’
Quintatus shrugged. ‘The first few convoys got through. Heavily escorted. Then the Silurians got stuck in and we couldn’t get any more to the garrison. I sent word to Quertus that he had permission to fall back before his supplies ran out. He replied that he and his men would live off the land. That was his last word on the subject, so he must have found a way.’
‘That’s hard to believe, sir,’ said Macro. ‘He’s surrounded by the enemy. Surely they could starve him out if they put their minds to it.’
‘Well they haven’t, as far as I know. However Quertus keeps his men going, it works. You’ll see for yourselves once you reach the fort. You’re going to find that there’s a lot Quertus can teach you. If you are wise, Prefect, you’ll pay heed to the man.’
The implied criticism angered Cato and he struggled not to let it show. He was a professional soldier who had served his Emperor loyally and effectively for many years. He knew damn well that it was wise to listen to his subordinates, especially one as evidently capable as Centurion Quertus. Cato swallowed his irritation. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Good. Then you can leave at first light. I’ll assign you an escort to get you to the fort. A squadron from the legion’s mounted contingent should suffice. After you take command at Bruccium I want a more detailed report of the strength and condition of the two cohorts, as well as the progess they are making against the Silurians. That’s if it is safe to send a rider back to Glevum. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I am hard pressed to prepare the rest of my column for the coming campaign. Good fortune go with you.’
He gestured towards the door and Cato and Macro saluted and left the legate’s office. Outside in the corridor, as they made their way back to the courtyard to rejoin Decimus, Macro spoke quietly.
‘I’m not so sure about this Centurion Quertus. Sounds like he might cause us a bit of trouble.’
Cato thought a moment. ‘He’s playing by his own rules, that’s for sure. But, as you heard, he is hitting the enemy hard. That’s what the legate and the governor want. I just hope we can maintain the standard when I take command.’
Macro breathed in deeply. ‘Somehow, I don’t think Centurion Quertus is going to be very welcoming. He’s run the show his way for some months now. What makes you think he’ll be happy to hand over the reins to you?’
‘Because he’s a soldier and he does as he’s told.’
Macro pursed his lips. ‘I hope you’re right.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
It began to rain shortly after dawn and Glevum disappeared behind a grey veil of drizzle as the riders hunkered down inside their cloaks and urged their mounts along the track that led towards the distant line of hills. Macro and Decimus had visited the vicus the night before and shared a few jars of cheap wine in one of the simple inns. Cato had remained in headquarters, searching the records office for as much information as he could find about his new unit, and the officer temporarily in command of it. The Thracians had performed creditably in the years they had been posted to Britannia but in the last few months they had accounted for more of the enemy than they had in the previous eight years.
As for Quertus, there was nothing on record that revealed any more than Quintatus had already told him — except for one minor complaint from the previous commander of the Thracians. Following a skirmish on the banks of the Severnus, prefect Albinus had issued an order for Quertus to escort their captives to Glevum. They never reached the fortress. According to Quertus they had all attempted to escape on the first night of the march and were killed in the process. None survived. There was no mention of any disciplinary action and a few days later the prefect was killed when he was thrown from his horse and his skull was caved in when it struck a rock.
The cohort of legionaries that made up the rest of the garrison of Bruccium had an equally competent and unspectacular record up until their success of recent months. The only curious aspect was that neither unit had reported any breaches of discipline since Centurion Quertus had led them into the mountains. Normally, such infractions were part of the reports that were regularly sent back to the legion’s headquarters. But after the first few reports, there were only brief outlines of the number of enemies killed and villages burned. And nothing more for over a month now.
Cato, his companions and the escort crossed the timber bridge thrown across the Severnus by the engineers of the Fourteenth Legion and followed the route along the riverbank. There were fewer signs of the natives here than at any point on their journey through the new province. A handful of small farmsteads dotted the landscape. The inhabitants, wild-looking people in furs and rags, tended a handful of goats and worked small fields in the rich soil beside the river. Every five miles, the riders encountered one of the small fortlets that had been built to guard the route. Each garrison of twenty or thirty auxiliaries sheltered behind a turf wall topped with a stout wooden palisade, and a sentry kept watch over the surrounding landscape from a small tower rising up above the meagre fortifications.
At the end of the day they reached a large fort at Isca, garrisoned by a cohort of Gauls. After the mounts and baggage animals had been stabled for the night, Cato and his comrades joined the decurion leading the cavalry escort in the cohort’s mess. There was only one small room with two tables and a small counter where a skinny merchant sold bad wine for a premium to his captive market. This side of the Severnus was Silurian territory and none of the Roman army’s camp followers had been brave enough to settle into a vicus outside the walls of the fort.
Macro and Decimus had worked off their hangover during the day’s ride and Macro ordered some wine from the merchant with the begrudging attitude of a man who knows he is being exploited.
‘Five sestertii for this piss?’ Macro growled as his lips wrinkled away from the rim of the cup following his first sip. ‘Fucking outrage is what it is.’
‘It’s not so bad, sir.’ Decimus raised his cup and drank again.
Macro looked at him sourly. ‘Never is so bad when you haven’t had to pay for a drop of it. I ought to take deductions from your pay for the wine you consume.’
‘Then you’d only go and have to drink more of this piss, sir.’ Decimus pretended to look hurt. ‘Really, you should be thanking me for helping you out with it.’
‘Really?’ Macro narrowed his eyes a moment, then turned to Cato. ‘What do you think?’
‘Eh?’ Cato looked up vacantly. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘The wine. Taste it and tell me what you think.’
Cato looked down into the Samian-ware cup and sniffed it. It was not unlike vinegar, but somehow suffused with a very ancient blend of goat’s cheese and sewage. Still, for Macro’s sake, he took a sip and as the foul liquid flowed across his tongue he winced. He set the cup down with a sharp rap. ‘That’s wine?’
‘According to our friend behind the counter. The sewer brewer. I’ve a mind to have a word with him.’