‘We’ve been had. The enemy are long gone. They left a handful behind who made up these dummies, set a few fires and retreated several hours ago. Probably as soon as it got dark.’
‘Then where are they, sir?’
Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘Who knows? They could be hiding up in the mountains, or dispersing to other settlements. More likely they have fallen back to Mona and think they’ll be safe once they have put some sea between them and us.’
Miro looked out over the village. ‘What if they’re still here? What if this is some kind of trap?’
Cato looked at him and clicked his tongue. ‘And exactly what kind of trap would that be? To let your enemy walk through your defences? Take it from me, Decurion. They’ve gone.’
A shouted order from outside the gate interrupted the exchange. Cato was striding across the tower when there was a loud crash and the structure shook under his feet.
‘Miro, on me!’ He trotted down the steps to the open space behind the gate. ‘Give me a hand with the locking bar.’
Before they could lift it out of the brackets, the gate shook again as the ram struck the other side. Dust trickled down from the seams in the wood above, and Cato blinked it away, then looked across to Miro and nodded. Bracing their feet, they heaved the bar out and dropped it a short distance behind the gate, just as the optio in charge of the party carrying the ram gave the timing for the next strike.
‘One . . . two . . . three!’
Without the bar, the gates parted at once and the point of the ram smashed them aside as the legionaries stumbled forward with surprised expressions.
‘Nice try, lads,’ Miro sniffed. ‘But the Blood Crows beat you to it.’
Cato had no desire to indulge any banter and strode out past the ram, calling Centurion Festinus over.
‘The enemy’s pulled a fast one and abandoned the place.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve gone. But just in case they’ve left anyone behind, I want your men to search every hut. If you find any stragglers, you bring them to me unharmed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato hurried back through the gatehouse. ‘Miro! Send a rider to report to the legate. He’s to say the enemy has abandoned their capital. At once.’
Miro saluted and returned to where his men were gathering at the foot of the rampart, casting suspicious glances towards the nearest huts. Cato knew their anxiety would turn to frustration and anger soon enough. The enemy had evaded them once again and denied them the booty they had been expecting, as well as the chance to win recognition for breaking into the fortification.
As the man Miro had chosen hurried out to find his mount, Cato gave orders for the Blood Crows to join the search, all except one squadron, which was tasked with securing the gate until more forces arrived. He joined Miro’s men as they unslung their shields and advanced cautiously up the main thoroughfare leading towards the heart of the settlement. They searched the huts along the route as they advanced, but there was no sign of life, just whatever goods the tribesmen had abandoned in their haste to escape from the Romans. There were not even any animals remaining, these having been driven away with the inhabitants. Cato soon discovered what had happened to their grain supply, as he shifted the ash from the fringes of the smouldering remains of a fire. There would be little of use for the Romans to pick over, and he could not help but admire an enemy who would destroy their possessions rather than allow them to fall into the hands of the foe.
The way ahead curved in the direction of a large hut that dominated the heart of the settlement. Cato guessed it must be the hall of the tribe’s ruler. There, if anywhere, they would find anything of value that had been left behind by the enemy. As the Romans turned the corner, the street opened out into a large clear space before the entrance to the compound in which stood the royal hall. There was the remains of another fire – a large pile of ash, thin trails of smoke rising from several sources. A few baskets lay abandoned on the ground.
Cato halted the squadron and ordered the men to search the surrounding huts, then beckoned to Miro and made for the entrance to the royal compound, a wooden arch topped with a display of weathered skulls. A low palisade enclosed the hall and a handful of huts. It was not on the scale of the buildings that Cato had seen in the tribes of the south of Britannia, and the skulls, along with the squalor of the place, spoke of the barbaric nature of the Deceanglian tribe. They paused outside the entrance to the hall, and Cato glanced at Miro.
‘You look over the rest of the compound.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Miro swallowed, clearly anxious about his surroundings. Cato thought about offering him some reassurance, but decided not to. Miro had to master his fear by himself. It came with the rank.
He left the decurion on the threshold and entered the hall. Even though the door was wide open, there was a residual warmth within, and the air was heavy with the stink of sweat, roast meat and woodsmoke. There was a large hearth in the centre of the hall, beneath an opening in the roof, surrounded by long tables and benches. Abandoned platters and drinking horns littered the tables, and it was clear that the enemy had left in a hurry. Towards the rear of the hall was a large wooden chair decorated with swirled patterns carved into every surface. A pile of furs served as a cushion. In front of the throne were two open chests. As Cato approached, he could see that they contained Samian-ware pottery. He took a bowl out of the straw packing and held it up to examine the decorated surface. It was the kind favoured by those who traded with the natives, who had a fondness for its fine appearance and paid well for it, even though it was mass-produced back in Gaul.
‘Sir!’
Cato looked up at the cry from outside.
‘Sir! Come quick!’
He quickly replaced the bowl and hurried out of the hall. Miro called out again, from behind the building, and Cato ran round to join him, anxiety pricking the base of his neck. Miro was standing a short distance from a cart, his face ashen, his sword arm hanging limply. As Cato strode over to join him, he saw the cause of the decurion’s shock. A naked body was bound to the rear of the cart, his arms tightly stretched along the vehicle’s sides. A pile of organs and intestines lay in a pool of dried blood at his feet. His stomach had been cut open and the flaps pegged back to reveal the gory cavity. His head was rolled back, eyes shut, mouth gaping where his severed penis had been forced into it, the flesh bruised and cut but still recognisable.
‘Petronius Deanus,’ Cato said softly. ‘Poor bastard.’
Miro swallowed. ‘Why did they do this to him? Fucking animals . . .’
Cato tore his gaze away from the corpse and looked further along the side of the cart. ‘A warning to us. No, not a warning. A challenge. Look.’
He pointed out a short phrase, crudely written in blood on the side of the cart beneath Petronius’s right hand. There was dried blood on his finger, and an icy chill tumbled down Cato’s spine as he realised that the merchant had been forced to write the message in his own blood before he had been disembowelled. The words were large enough to make out without stepping any closer.
He cleared his throat and read them aloud as steadily as he could.
‘Romans, we await you at Mona. There, you will all die . . .’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Macro tried hard not to reveal his misgivings as he glanced at the officer doing the rounds at his side in the half-light of dawn. Centurion Fortunus had been informed that he was taking command of the fort shortly before, and had reacted precisely as Macro had feared he would. Life had been too easy in the Illyrian cohort for too long, and most of the men and officers had grown used to garrison duty in the comfort of a settled province. Even after being transferred to the army in Britannia, they had served as part of the reserve and had yet to face battle against the island’s warlike natives. That particular experience might be closer than they wished, Macro reflected ruefully. The fort was on the frontier, and enemy warriors lurked in the surrounding hills and mountains. It was possible that the natives might have concentrated their forces against the main Roman column. Equally, it was possible that they might have much wider ambitions that included an offensive against the frontier forts and outposts. If they attacked Fortunus and his men, Macro had serious doubts that the Illyrians would prevail. Even though his efforts to toughen them up had gone some way to improving their fitness and fighting skills, they were far from ready to lead into battle. More worrying still was the fact that command of the fort would be entrusted to Fortunus, as the senior remaining officer.