CHAPTER NINETEEN
There was a storm during the night and rain slashed down on to the wood shingle tiles and gushed in torrents down the narrow streets between the barrack blocks. But it eased and then stopped just before dawn and the sun rose into a sky that was a patchwork of blue and scattered cloud. The garrison marched out on to the levelled ground below the fort and formed up in front of the mound of earth that served as the commander’s review stand. The ground was sodden and the boots and hoofs of the men and the cavalry mounts quickly turned the track leading from the gate into a quagmire. A handful of the stakes burdened by the heads had collapsed in to the mud and Quertus had set a small party to work putting them back up more securely.
Cato and Macro left the fort before Severus and the first century of legionaries marched out and made their way to the stand to watch proceedings closely. The legionaries, as was their privilege, formed up in their centuries, four ranks deep, at the centre of the parade ground. Even though he knew how few effectives remained in his new command, Macro felt a bitter disappointment as he looked out over the surviving pair of centuries. Their number made a mockery of the colour party where the six standards joined the cohort standard-bearer and the men carrying the curved brass horns over their shoulders.
By contrast, the Thracian cohort appeared to be at full strength and fielded ten squadrons of riders, forming five on each flank of the legionaries. The unit’s standard-bearer advanced his mount to the right of the line and unfurled a red banner with a black crow clutching a small skull in its claws. Cato’s force looked woefully unbalanced as it stood, formed up, in silence. The last man to reach the parade ground was Centurion Quertus. He rode down the length of the formation, sitting erect in his saddle and surveying them with a haughty air of ownership. Then he turned his horse and walked it slowly over to the review stand where he casually dismounted and handed the reins to an orderly before climbing the ramp.
‘Good of you to join us,’ said Macro as he stepped forward to the right of Cato.
The Thracian said nothing but took up his position on the prefect’s left and stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back. A light breeze was blowing and it stirred the manes of the horses, the dark cloaks of the Thracians, the banner of the Blood Crows and the crests of the officers’ helmets.
Cato took out the leather tube and extracted the document authorising him to take command. After the conversation he had had with Quertus the previous night, and another with Macro before dawn, he felt anxious. If the Thracian centurion chose this moment to challenge him, in front of the men he had ruled for months with a rod of iron, then Cato had no illusions about his fate. If he was lucky he would be arrested and locked in the safe room below the headquarters. Accordingly he had decided to play it cautiously, until he had had a chance to establish himself at the fort; he would bide his time until he discovered Quertus’s weak point.
Cato unrolled the document and began to read.
‘I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Germanicus, first citizen, chief priest, father of the nation, do hereby proclaim that Quintus Licinius Cato has been appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry Cohort. The said Quintus Licinius Cato is entrusted to uphold the honour of the cohort, obey the officers placed over him, and swear to devote his life to the Emperor and the Senate and people of Rome.’ Cato paused to add emphasis to what followed. ‘This appointment is by imperial decree, and the officers and men over whom Quintus Licinius Cato has been placed in command are reminded that they are bound by the oath that they took on enlistment to obey those placed in authority over them as they would their Emperor, without question, upon pain of the full rigour of military law. By my hand I affirm this.’
Cato turned the document round and held it aloft so that all could see the imperial seal at the bottom. He waited a moment before lowering the authority, rolling it up again and placing it back in the leather tube. Then he surveyed the men before him for a moment before he began his address.
‘You know my name. You know my rank. And you may know that I have come from Rome to take up this command. But that is all you know. Some of you will have served under a number of different commanders. Most of them will have been the sons of wealthy and well-connected noble families in Rome. Some of your commanders may have worked their way up the ranks. I come from the second tradition. I joined the Second Legion while it was stationed on the Rhine. That is where I fought my first battle, against German tribesmen. After that, the legion joined the army being formed to invade Britannia. I was there at the landing, and at every battle before Caratacus was defeated before his capital at Camulodunum. Since then I have fought the Durotriges, the Druids of the Dark Moon and many other enemies of Rome.
‘So, gentlemen, you see before you a soldier who has earned the right to be your prefect and commander of the garrison at Bruccium. I am no pampered aristocrat. I have experienced the freezing cold of sentry duty on a winter’s night, as you have. I have felt the lash of a centurion’s vine cane, as you have. I know what it is to march day after day in full armour loaded down with my kit and rations, and then to have to build a fort each evening. I know what to expect from the men under my command, because I have been in your boots, I have lived and fought as you have and carry the scars to prove it.’ He was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘I expect the highest standards from the men I command and I will be satisfied with nothing less. The campaign against the Silures and the Ordovices has been bitterly fought over the last three years. Many thousands of our comrades have already given their lives to the struggle, but their sacrifice has not been in vain. Governor Ostorius has gathered a powerful army which will strike the decisive blow against the enemy before this year is out. We here today will play our part in that great struggle. We will play our part in that victory. We will win our share of the glory, the spoils and add garlands and medals to our battle standards!’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Honour to the Second Thracian! Honour to the Fourteenth Legion!’
Macro echoed his cry, as did the legionaries standing on the parade ground, but the dark figures sitting in their saddles remained still and silent.
When the thin cheers of the legionaries had died away, Quertus stirred himself and drew his long-bladed cavalry sword and raised it directly towards the heavens, and his voice bellowed out over the parade ground.
‘Honour to the Blood Crows!’
At once, all the riders punched their spears up, a wavering forest of gleaming points, and their cry rang in the ears of the three officers on the reviewing platform. Quertus repeated the cry over and over again, his men responding with frenzied roars. Macro glanced at Cato and saw the firm set of his jaw and the bitter look of resentment in his expression. They exchanged a quick look and Macro felt a stab of concern for his friend.
At length Quertus lowered his sword and sheathed the weapon, and at once his men fell eerily silent. As the Thracian resumed his place at the prefect’s side, Cato swallowed, stepped forward and turned to face the other officers.
‘That all but concludes the formalities, gentlemen. There only remains one final matter before I inspect the men.’ Cato paused, knowing that what he was about to say would come as a shock to Macro, but it was a necessary step in the present circumstances. The cheering of the Thracians a moment earlier simply confirmed his decision. He cleared his throat. ‘I have decided to appoint you as my second-in-command, Centurion Quertus. You have the ear of the men and know them well. Do you accept?’