Simon Scarrow
Britannia
CHAPTER ONE
October, AD 52
‘What do you think?’ Prefect Cato asked as he stared down the slope towards the fortified settlement sprawling along the floor of the valley. While it was not nearly so formidable as the vast hill forts he had seen in the southern lands of Britannia, the Deceanglian tribesmen had constructed their defences well. The settlement had been built on raised ground close to the river that flowed swiftly through the valley. A deep ditch surrounded a turf rampart topped with a sturdy palisade. There was a fortified gateway at each end of the settlement where sentries kept watch up and down the valley. Cato estimated that there must be several hundred round huts within the defences. There were many animals penned in there as well, together with what looked like a cluster of tents – the covers of the stone-lined grain pits used by the natives.
Lying next to the young officer was Centurion Macro, his lined face crinkling as he squinted into the late-afternoon sunlight flooding the valley, giving a burnished glow to the stubbled fields and the dark-green boughs of the pine trees covering the slopes either side of the settlement. Both men had taken off their helmets and left them with the small patrol waiting on the other side of the ridge. The same men who had reported the unusual activity at the village the day before. With their dull brown cloaks and their cautious approach to the vantage point through the stunted trees covering the hill, Cato and Macro had avoided being seen by the enemy as they took stock of the Deceanglian warriors’ preparations.
Macro, a tough veteran, pursed his lips briefly. ‘Looks clear enough to me. They’ve gathered in men from the outlying villages. See that mob by the horse lines? Right by that stock of spears and shields. Ten denarii gets you one; that ain’t no hunting party.’ He paused and made a quick estimate of the enemy’s strength. ‘Can’t be more than five or six hundred of them. No immediate danger to us.’
Cato nodded. It was true. The fort they had been posted to ten miles to the east was well positioned and garrisoned by the two units under his command: Macro’s cohort of legionaries from the Fourteenth, and his own part-mounted auxiliary cohort. The Blood Crows, as they were known, thanks to the design on their banner, had once been a cavalry unit. The recent campaigns in the mountains of the west of the province had caused the loss of many of the army’s horses. The training depot at Luntum had been working hard to supply remounts, but there were far too few to satisfy the needs of the army. As a result, half the men of Cato’s cohort now served as infantry, and the unit had been posted, along with Macro’s men, to one of the outposts tasked with protecting the frontier of Emperor Claudius’s new province. A fresh draft of replacement troops had filled out the ranks of both units and brought them nearly up to the strength with which they had started the campaign against the mountain tribes. With over four hundred legionaries together with as many auxiliary troops, they were in no danger from the war party gathering in the settlement.
Which raised a question.
‘So what are they up to?’ Cato exchanged a brief look with his subordinate and guessed that Macro’s thoughts were heading in the same direction. ‘I’ll send word to the Legate. Chances are there’ll be similar reports from other outposts. In which case it looks like the Druids are back in business and we’re going to have trouble again.’
‘Bastards,’ Macro hissed. ‘Bloody Druids. Don’t those wild-haired shits ever know when to give in?’
‘It’s their land, Macro. These are their people. Would we respond any differently if we were in their boots?’
‘If we were in their boots, sir, the legions would never even have got a toehold on this island.’
Cato chuckled at his friend’s hubris. ‘While I admire your estimation of our fighting qualities, I can’t help but grieve at your lack of empathy.’
Macro snorted. ‘Any warm feeling I might have had for those hairy barbarians disappeared a long while back, about the time they should have been smart enough to realise that they weren’t ever going to give us a beating.’
‘They’ve come close enough at times.’
Macro cocked an eyebrow. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘And it’s not as if they haven’t contested us every step of the way.’ Cato sighed. ‘It’s been nigh on ten years since the army first landed, and we don’t feel much closer to securing the province. Of course, it doesn’t help when even the natives who are supposed to be on our side are treated little better than animals.’
His companion shot him a weary look. Macro had heard his friend talking like this before and put it down to the younger man’s peculiar appetite for the affectations of Greek philosophy, and a corresponding tendency to overthink the situation. It did not seem to have done the Greeks much good, he mused. After all, their land was now a province of Rome, just as the whole of Britannia would become one day. He cleared his throat before he responded.
‘Yes, well, they’ll get better treatment the moment they stop behaving like animals and accept our ways. But first we have to put the stick about and beat some sense into ’em.’ He jabbed his thumb towards the settlement. ‘Starting with them Druids. I’m telling you, our job here is going to be a lot less difficult the moment we nail the last of the bastards to a cross and leave him out to dry.’
‘Maybe so,’ Cato reflected. Macro’s hostility to the Druidic cult was well founded. Though the island’s tribal kingdoms were thoroughly divided, with half of them having made treaties with Rome before the first legionary had set foot on these shores, they were all steeped in reverence towards the Druids and were susceptible to their appeals to resist the invader. Even now, Cato knew, many of the tribes that had supposedly been subdued still looked to the Druids to continue the struggle. Many of their warriors had slipped across the frontier into these mountains to join the ranks of those still fighting Rome. The situation had been exacerbated by the death of the province’s governor. Ostorius had been a seasoned commander when he had been assigned to Britannia. Too seasoned, as it turned out. The strain of fighting the mountain tribes had worn him out, and he had collapsed at an officers’ briefing and died less than a month later.
It was poor timing. The legions had just won a hard-fought victory over the native warriors. Their commander, Caratacus, had been captured and sent to Rome with his family, and the spirit of his followers had been all but broken. And then the governor had died. At once the Druids seized on this as a sign from their gods that the Romans were cursed and that the tribes must continue the fight now that they had won divine approval. The outposts of the frontier were attacked, supply columns and patrols ambushed and the army had been obliged to fall back towards the more easily defended territory that fringed the lands of the Silurians, Ordovicians and Deceanglians. The lack of clear leadership had undermined the Roman position; the replacement governor would be unlikely to take command before spring. And now this fresh evidence that the tribes were gathering to renew the onslaught.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Cato decided. ‘Let’s go.’
They crept back towards the treeline. Once they were safely within the shadows, the two men clambered to their feet and adjusted their sword belts and cloaks. Above them the boughs were already shedding their leaves. The foliage was russet and yellow, and the gentle breeze sent the more brittle leaves tumbling through the air. Cato, taller and more thin-framed than his friend, gave a shudder. He did not relish the thought of spending the long months of winter confined to the fort, which some wag on the previous governor’s staff had given the name Imperatoris Stultitiam – The Emperor’s Folly. It had been one of those quips that had passed into practice, and that was how the fort’s name was described on all official correspondence. The winter climate of the island was miserable enough, Cato reflected, but here in the hills and mountains it was relentlessly cold, wet and windy.