‘What good would it do? This is as good as it gets this far beyond the frontier.’
Macro looked shocked. ‘By the gods, I hope not. What in Hades’ name must they be drinking up at Bruccium?’
The comment stirred Cato’s thoughts and he turned to the decurion who had been drinking quietly, clearly preoccupied. Cato cleared his throat.
‘It’s Trebellius, isn’t it?’
The decurion looked round and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t seem to be enjoying your little trip up into the mountains very much. At least the wine will keep your mind off it. Drink up.’
Trebellius dutifully took a sip, without any change of expression.
‘Seems like someone has a taste for it,’ said Macro.
Decimus chuckled. ‘Like I said, sir. Not so bad. You get used to such things in Britannia. The worst of everything. Weather, wine and even the women are as rough as you’ll find anywhere in the whole empire. It’s a wonder that Claudius and his advisers think there’s anything good to be had out of the bloody place. If you ask me, we should never have invaded and left the barbarians to themselves. If they want to live in mud huts, worship bloody Druids and fight each other all the time, then let ’em. If the Emperor had given Britannia a miss then I’d still have a good leg.’
Macro stared hard at him. ‘And did I ask you? No. You knew the score when you signed up. You go where you’re sent and don’t stop to ask questions. You kill who you’re told to kill and that’s it. If the buggers get you first then that’s the risk you take. Otherwise, you might as well be some shirt-lifting ponce who spends his life reading philosophy.’ Macro shot a quick glance at Cato. ‘Present company excepted.’
‘Thank you, Macro,’ Cato responded testily before turning his attention back to the decurion. ‘How long have you served with the Fourteenth?’
‘Twenty years, sir. Come summer.’
‘And how long has the Thracian cavalry been serving with the Fourteenth?’
‘That lot? Seem to be something of a fixture, sir. As long as I’ve been with the legion.’
Cato smiled. ‘I’ve seen plenty of auxiliary units in my time. Some good, some bad. Never served with Thracian cavalry, though. So what are they like?’
The decurion sniffed. ‘They don’t stink, like some of them. Germans is worst. But at least with your Germans you know where you are. Them Thracians is different. Got a cruel streak in ’em, they have. Bloody good horsemen, though. Glad they’re on our side, is all.’
‘I see.’ Cato reached for the jar and topped up the decurion’s cup. ‘And what about Centurion Quertus?’
The decurion answered warily. ‘Can’t really say. The Thracians tend to keep to themselves. I’ve come across him on the parade field when we’ve been on training manoeuvres. He’s a big man. Built like a brick shithouse and has the guts to match.’
‘You have to be so careful what you eat,’ Macro chipped in.
Cato shot a frown at him before he spoke to the decurion again. ‘What else?’
‘Like I said. He’s brave and the men would follow him anywhere.’
‘Inspiring, then?’
‘You could say that, sir. Depends what kind of inspiring you mean. He’s a born fighter, the kind who would die rather than give an inch of ground. Trouble is, he wants the same from those who he leads. I saw him beat a man senseless on the parade field once because he wouldn’t leap his horse over a ditch. Let’s just say he takes discipline seriously. And loyalty. I’ve heard he’s supposed to be some kind of prince in his homeland.’ Decimus looked round and leaned closer. ‘That, and some kind of priest. The kind who knows magic. The kind of magic that needs blood sacrifices.’
‘Magic?’ Cato repeated slowly. ‘I’ve yet to see any genuine magic in my lifetime.’
Macro tilted his head to the side. ‘Don’t be so quick to pass judgement. After all, someone’s put a curse on this bloody wine, that’s for certain.’
The decurion scowled briefly, then drained his cup and pushed it away with a nod of thanks. ‘Better see to the horses, sir. They’ll need feeding before the second watch.’
He rose from the bench and left the mess. Macro stared after him and muttered wryly, ‘Was it something I said?’
‘Best not to make fun of someone’s beliefs, sir,’ Decimus suggested mildly.
‘Oh, come on!’ Macro chuckled. ‘Magic? Priests? Sacrifices? That’s a load of old bollocks. Anyone with half a brain knows that the only gods with any clout are Roman gods. That’s why Rome rules the world.’
‘I thought Rome ruled the world because our soldiers were better than everyone else,’ said Cato. ‘In any case, we clearly don’t rule half the tribes on this island.’
Decimus made to reply to Macro but then closed his mouth and looked down into his cup. He was silent for a moment before he said quietly, ‘Some gods are false. Perhaps most of them. But there’s one who is powerful. One who comes from the east. And he promises a life in paradise to all those who choose to follow him.’
Macro laughed. ‘I’ve heard that kind of rubbish before! Cato, you remember? Back in Judaea? The fools who called themselves servants of some wandering holy man. I hope that’s not who you’re talking about, Decimus.’
The former legionary shook his head. ‘Never heard of no Judaean nonsense. I’m talking about Lord Mithras, sir. He’s the one.’
‘Mithras. .’ Macro scratched his stubbly jaw. ‘Bit of a cult in some units, so I understand. Can’t see the attraction myself. What’s he got to offer that Jupiter hasn’t, eh? Believing in Mithras is no better than that nonsense Trebellius was talking about our Thracian friend.’
Decimus pursed his lips. ‘I think there’s more to it than that, sir.’
Macro pointed at the brand on Decimus’s forehead. ‘I can see why. But you’re wasting your time, I’m telling you. Jupiter, best and greatest, and the rest of our lot piss all over anyone else’s gods.’
‘Maybe that’s what you believe now, sir. But I’ll pray to Mithras that he shows you the righteous path all the same.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Pray all you like. It ain’t going to change a bloody thing. I’ll personally put a curse on any man who says different.’
Cato sighed and turned his mind back to the matter of Centurion Quertus. It was evident the man had quality as a warrior and leader and was carrying out his orders to the satisfaction of his superiors. Such a man would not relinquish his position eagerly, or even willingly. Bruccium was far enough away from Glevum for Cato to have to rely on his own authority to take command of the fort and its garrison. It was an acutely uncomfortable prospect and the more he brooded over it, the more of a challenge it seemed.
The following morning the track entered the Silurian mountains and wound its way up the broad valley through which the River Isca flowed. The river was wide and glassy, swollen by the rain that had fallen during the early months of the year, and the snow on the tops of the mountains that had melted into the streams and tributaries of the Isca. The route was guarded by more of the fortlets, whose sentries peered anxiously from behind their palisades at the grim landscape around them. The engineers had felled trees either side of the track to remove the cover that could be used to ambush any patrols or supply columns travelling through the valley. Beyond the cleared ground the trees reared up, and the shadows beneath their boughs were dark and impenetrable. In the distance, as the ground rose steeply, the treeline gave out on to rocky slopes with long grass and shrubs, bent over in the wind that blew across the mountains.
The track began to twist and turn around the rocky outcrops and hills and the conversation of the riders died away as the oppressive landscape and the possibility that they were being watched by the enemy played on their nerves. Cato, having strapped his helmet on, rode beside the decurion at the head of the column and noted the anxious glances that Trebellius directed to each side.
‘Do you think we are in danger here?’ Cato asked quietly.
‘There was a patrol ambushed not far from here several days ago, sir. Lost half their men before they could reach the nearest outpost. In any case, the enemy has become more bold recently. The Silurians have raided the frontier zone as far as the Severnus on several occasions.’