‘I see you’ve brought home the catch of the day,’ Macro said with a grin a short while later when he emerged from the headquarters building and saw the prisoner firmly in the grasp of Optio Pandarus and one of his men. The enemy warrior’s blood had dried, leaving a thick dark crust across much of his face and matting his straggly hair. He glared at his captors and pressed his lips together as if to impress upon the Romans that he would say nothing in answer to their inevitable questions.
Macro indicated the tethering rail to one side of the courtyard. ‘Tie him up over there while you make your report.’
The afternoon sun was low in the sky and the fort was bathed in the thin blue gloom of a winter dusk. The air was cold and a breeze moaned lightly over the ramparts and watchtowers. Looking up at the sky, Macro saw a thick band of clouds moving in from the west and wondered if that heralded the icy downpours that were common in Britannia at this time of year, or worse, the first fall of snow. Either would hamper the progress of Quintatus and his army away to the north. And no doubt the Druids would tell their followers that it was a sign that their gods were taking their side against the invader. The thought caused Macro to wonder briefly if there was some plane of existence where the rival deities struggled in parallel to those who worshipped them on a more earthly level. If that was so, he hoped that the gods of Rome had the upper hand. The Roman soldiers needed their help now more than ever.
He waited until Pandarus had carried out the order and posted his comrade to watch over the prisoner. Then, beckoning to the optio to follow him, he limped back into the main hall and eased himself down on a bench while Pandarus stood in front of him.
‘So, what’s the story? Where did you find our surly guest?’
Pandarus took an instant to gather his thoughts. ‘Fifteen miles or so to the west, sir. I had gone ahead of the patrol to observe the lie of the land when I ran into the prisoner.’
‘Ran into?’ Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘How many times?’
‘You know what they’re like. They take some persuading before they come along meekly.’ Pandarus’s expression became serious. ‘It’s what I saw before I took him down that’s the reason I got back here as soon as I could, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘The enemy’s on the march. The man I captured was scouting for a column. Perhaps seven or eight hundred strong. They were heading north, sir.’
‘North? Towards Quintatus, then.’ Macro paused and rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Still, not enough of them to pose much of a threat.’
‘Assuming that’s all there is of them. The track they were following looked pretty well used to me, sir. I doubt they were the only men to pass that way recently.’
Macro considered this and felt a prickle of anxiety at the prospect of a powerful force marching against Cato and his comrades as they advanced on the Druid stronghold of Mona. He took a sharp breath. ‘Right. We need to find out exactly what the bastards are up to. Let’s have a word with your prisoner.’
‘I doubt he’ll say much. Nothing we can understand, at least. Unless there’s someone amongst the civilians who can speak his tongue.’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Macro smiled faintly. ‘I know just the man we need. Get yourself down to the drill ground. There’s a fellow in the Illyrian cohort. Tall, blond-haired and strong as a bull. Lomus. I want him here at once. Tell him that he’s just been made acting interrogator.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pandarus gave a curt nod and hurried away. Macro leaned forward and carefully rested his elbows on his knees. The enemy was clearly up to something. Though whether that constituted a palpable danger to the Roman army was uncertain. A few hundred more or less of the native warriors made little difference. But what if it was part of a wider plan? He strained his mind to try and divine the enemy’s precise intentions, but he could not fathom their thinking and found himself wishing that Cato was here with him.
‘The lad would be sure to hit on the answer soon enough,’ he muttered to himself. Then, with a hiss of frustration, he rose from the bench and went outside to inspect the captive.
The light was failing and shadows filled the courtyard. One of the auxiliaries was lighting the first of the small braziers that provided a modicum of warmth to the men who would be on sentry duty during the night. Over by the hitching post, the prisoner was squatting, his back to the post, his hands tethered behind him. The man Pandarus had posted to watch over him quickly stood to attention at Macro’s approach.
‘Diomedes, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How is our friend?’
‘Apart from stinking the place out and being as cheerful as a tombstone, he’s been a real delight, sir.’
Macro shot him a warning glance. ‘Better leave the quips to your superiors, soldier. No one in the army likes a smart-arse.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro stood over the warrior and tucked his thumbs into his belt as he inspected the man more closely. Aside from his injuries, the warrior looked to be in good shape. He wore a tunic, a mailed vest, breeches, and boots cut in a Roman style, no doubt looted from the same victim who had provided the armour vest. The centurion leaned over and took his chin roughly, forcing his head back. The man glared up at him as Macro noted the scars on his cheek and forehead.
‘I can see you’ve been in a fight or two. And from what you’re wearing, not all of the fights went badly. So, you’re something of a veteran, then. Might even have fought alongside Caratacus in his time.’
At the mention of the defeated enemy leader, the warrior tore himself from Macro’s grasp and lowered his head.
‘Touchy, aren’t we? You can try and play the silent hero if you like, my friend, but trust me, you won’t hold out for ever, and you will tell me exactly what I want to know.’ Macro prodded the prisoner with the toe of his boot to emphasise the point, and was about to turn away when the native kicked out his bound feet with all the strength he could muster. His boots caught the centurion hard on the shin and he stumbled back, arms flailing, before falling heavily on his backside, jarring his spine.
‘Ha!’ The prisoner spat and grinned wickedly. Diomedes cuffed him brutally on the side of his head, then hurried over to help his superior to his feet, but Macro scowled at him and thrust aside the soldier’s hand, stifling a wince at the pain shooting through his injured leg.
‘Very funny. I’d like to see you keep smiling when Lomus gets to work. Meanwhile, you can take this on account.’ Without any warning, he balled his hands into tight fists and struck the man hard on both ears in succession, smashing his head from side to side.
The prisoner’s eyes rolled up and he let out a deep groan before leaning forward and vomiting into his lap. The sharp stench wafted into Macro’s nostrils, and he stepped back, rubbing his lower back. The prisoner heaved again, head hanging low, then coughed and spat before straightening up, easing himself against the tethering post. There was no fear in his eyes, Macro noted, just defiance, and the two men stared at each other until the sound of footsteps interrupted them. Macro turned to see Pandarus and Lomus approaching. The auxiliary’s tunic was still streaked with filth, and his beard and hair were matted with mud. Combined with his large, powerful physique, the effect was unintentionally intimidating.
Lomus stood to attention a few paces away and saluted. ‘You sent for me, sir.’
‘Indeed. I have some work requiring rather specific skills.’ Macro limped aside and nodded at the prisoner. ‘Our chippy little friend here needs to be taught a lesson, as well as being persuaded to tell us what he knows of the enemy’s plans. I want to know exactly where his column was headed and to what purpose. The Blood Crows’ interrogator is unavailable, so I’m offering the job to you as you’re just the man to put the frighteners on the prisoner. And, I’m told, you have some understanding of native dialects.’