‘That’s right, sir. My mother taught me.’
‘Then it looks like I have chosen well. If you succeed in breaking the prisoner and getting the information I want, the post comes with excused-duties status at pay and a half.’ Macro paused to let the terms of the offer sink in. ‘Interested?’
Lomus glanced at the prisoner and slowly clenched his right fist, stroking it with the other hand. Then he nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go, sir.’
‘Good man. If you do the job half as well as I hope, there may be a chance for you to become an interrogator on a permanent basis. And a transfer to a better unit, perhaps. The Blood Crows could use a man like you.’
Lomus cocked an appreciative eyebrow and nodded in gratitude.
‘You’re in charge of the interrogation, Pandarus. Report to me in my quarters when you are done here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Carry on.’ Macro made to move away, but winced as a fiery agony lanced down his wounded leg. He muttered a curse, and watched as Pandarus and Lomus hauled the man to his feet. They stripped him down to his breeches before binding him tightly to the post so that he could not slip down. The defiant expression dimmed as the prisoner looked at each man anxiously, knowing full well what was to come. Lomus stood in front of him, fists clenched and arm muscles bunched, waiting for the command.
‘Begin,’ said Pandarus.
Lomus threw his first punch, a powerful arcing blow into the prisoner’s gut. He followed up with his left, and then, as the warrior gasped for breath, began to work his sides, each fist thudding into the ribs and driving the air from the native’s lungs.
Macro nodded with satisfaction, then turned carefully, keeping the weight off his throbbing leg, before proceeding stiffly towards the entrance to the main hall of the headquarters building.
Back in his quarters, he eased himself down into a chair and stretched out his leg. Though the wound was healing well and the flesh had knitted together, the garrison surgeon had insisted that the dressing should remain in place to support the limb until the stitches were removed. The trouble was, the wound itched like mad, and Macro had to resist the urge to scratch the area furiously. The kick he had received from the prisoner had caused the leg to throb painfully, and as the pain subsided, so the itching increased in intensity.
He reached down and rubbed softly, gritting his teeth at the sharp prickling sensation. Even though he knew he was fortunate that the wound was not going to permanently disable him, as he had seen happen to other soldiers, he still fretted about the length of time it would take him to fully recover. All because some fool of a native had chosen to take a potshot at him and then run for the hills. It took a moment before he recalled that it had been his own idea to go after the boy in the first place. He could quite easily have waited for him to take to his heels, or sent some other man forward in his place, but it was not in Macro’s nature to exercise such patience, and he roundly condemned the native boy once again, heaping every curse he could on his young enemy.
Once the pain and irritation had eased, he shifted position to the small desk at one side of the room and began to deal with the routine bureaucracy that was the burden of every garrison commander across the empire. After lighting the lamps suspended from a small stand, he completed the daily entry in the garrison’s log, detailing the number of active men, any sick or injured, as well as those absent on other duties, which, given the present posting, rarely needed any notation. In a more peaceful setting there would be frequent authorised absences as men saw to the purchase of food, equipment and horses, or were detached to guard tax collectors, while junior officers were sent to adjudicate disputes in the local population. Then there were those who had been granted a period of leave who might travel to their homes if the unit was raised locally. None of that applied to the garrison of the fort, since any individual who ventured more than a short distance from its ramparts alone was asking for trouble. Next, Macro moved on to the requests from the fort’s stores, checking them against the inventory before approving or turning down each submission.
By the time he had finished, it was dark outside. He closed the shutters and called for his orderly to light the fire in the corner of the room and bring him something to eat. Outside in the courtyard he could occasionally hear the sounds of the interrogation: the soft thud of blows landing, and the keening cries and groans of the prisoner, gradually becoming more feeble as his torment continued. The gentle crackle of the flames consuming the kindling and then the split logs drowned out the sound, and Macro ate in peace at his table. He had all but finished his meal of stew and hard bread when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come!’
Optio Pandarus strode into the room and stood erect in front of his superior’s desk. ‘Beg to report, interrogation is completed, sir.’
Macro lowered his spoon and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Well? Did we get anything useful out of the bastard?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s bad. If he’s told us the truth, then Legate Quintatus is leading his army into a trap.’
‘A trap?’
‘As far as our man knows, the Druids are drawing the column deep into the mountains and on towards the island of Mona itself. That’s where they’ll turn and make their stand.’
Macro nodded. ‘Which is what the legate is pinning his hopes on.’
‘Yes, sir. But what he can’t know is that the Druids have called on the Silures and the Ordovices to join the Deceanglians. They are marching to sever Quintatus’s communications with the rest of the province. They aim to cut him off from his supplies and block his line of retreat until his men starve or he gives the order to surrender.’
‘Surrender?’ Macro snorted. ‘That’s bollocks. He’d never dishonour himself, or the army, by doing that.’
‘Then he’s going to have to cut his way out of the trap and fight every inch of the way back to Mediolanum, sir. The legate’s outnumbered by far more than he realises. And the enemy know the ground. If the weather turns and it makes the going even harder, then-’
‘Quite,’ Macro concluded tersely. ‘He needs to be warned at once.’
‘But how are we going to get a message through to him, sir? If the prisoner’s right, the enemy have already cut him off.’
‘That’s as may be, Optio. But we have to get through all the same. And the only men we have who might succeed are you and the other men of the Blood Crows still here in the fort.’
Pandarus’s eyebrows rose. ‘But there’s only my section, sir.’
‘You won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’
‘You? Sir, with respect, you’re not in a fit state to-’
‘I know damn well what state I am in!’ Macro snapped. ‘I’ll be fine in the saddle. We’ll be leaving at first light. Go and get your men ready!’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The wind was biting, and Cato had to squint as he climbed the steep slope towards the top of the mountain. The Blood Crows had gone as high as they could on horseback before the prefect had given the order to dismount and taken one of the squadrons on with him. The men had slung their shields over their backs and used their spears to help support them as they ascended. It had been cold enough at the top of the pass where they had left the others, but as they climbed, the wind moaned around them and strong gusts roared in their ears, while raindrops stung their exposed skin like fiery needles.
‘Fuck this,’ gasped Thraxis, a short distance behind his commander. ‘The gods only know why the emperor would want to add this wasteland to the empire. Better to leave it to the barbarians. This is no place for civilised men.’
Cato pulled his neckerchief down to reply. ‘You know the saying well enough, Thraxis. We’re here because we’re here.’