Free The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) by Simon Scarrow Page A

but you’ve got a hard and ruthless streak. She’s your mum all right, Macro . . . The price is still ten.’
    ‘Nine.’
    ‘And five hundred.’
    Portia chewed her lip briefly. ‘Nine thousand, five hundred.’
    He frowned. ‘Well, since you’re kin of Macro, it’s a deal. But I’m robbing myself.’ He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out. Portia took it at once, before there was any chance of him changing his mind, and sealed their business. The serving girl arrived with a fresh jar of wine and set it down on the table and hurriedly withdrew. Tullius poured them each a cup, filled right to the brim, and raised his. ‘To the Second Augusta!’
    ‘To the Second!’ Macro and Cato chorused and drained their cups. The wine was better than Macro had expected and at once he reached for the jug to refill their cups.
    ‘Go easy on that,’ Portia said firmly. ‘That’s part of my stock now. You pay for the next jug, you hear?’
    Tullius smiled ruefully. ‘Hard as nails. Anyway, I take it you two are here to beef up the ranks of the legions for Ostorius’s new campaign.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Cato. ‘Macro’s going to the Fourteenth as a senior centurion.’
    ‘Pfftt! Fourteenth, bunch of pansies. Not fit to lick the boots of the Second, I reckon.’
    Macro was cautious about knocking the reputation of his new unit as he was sure to develop pride in the Fourteenth as a matter of course. He pursed his lips and poured himself some more wine as he muttered, ‘We’ll see.’
    Tullius turned to Cato. ‘And what about you? Going to join Macro’s lot? I’m sure he could use a good centurion like you.’
    Cato felt a moment’s awkwardness. ‘No. I’ll be going to a different unit. Thracian cavalry cohort. I’ve been given the command.’
    Tullis looked surprised. ‘You? Then . . . you must have made prefect. Fuck me, that’s a turn-up for the books. You were just a junior centurion when we last knew each other . . .’ He paused and shuffled sheepishly. ‘Bloody hell . . . Well done, lad. I mean, sir.’
    ‘There’s no need for that,’ Cato responded. ‘We’re off duty. I mean . . . you’re out of the army now.’
    ‘Maybe so, but I still have respect for the rank. And the man that bears it. Prefect Cato. Now that’s something. Really something. By the gods, you must have seen some action and covered yourself in glory to be promoted to prefect. That or you’ve gone and shagged the Emperor’s missus. Or perhaps been shagged by Claudius. Randy old dog, from what I hear.’
    Macro drained his cup and raised a finger. ‘That’s enough. Cato won his rank the hard way. I know. I watched him do it.’
    ‘Fair play to him then,’ Tullius conceded. ‘And now you’ve both fetched up here, the graveyard of ambition, or so they say.’
    ‘Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning that there’s no glory to be won here. Not any more. The big battles are over. Caratacus and his mob have taken to the hills. Most of our lads are stuck in small forts keeping a wary eye on the natives and trying not to get themselves bumped off when they go out on patrol. Once in a while we manage to chase a few of the painted bastards to ground and stick it to ’em. But the rate things are going I dare say Rome will still be struggling to tame these Britons long after anyone has forgotten there ever was an invasion. You want my advice? Apply for a transfer as soon as you get the chance.’
    Macro replied, ‘You’re wrong. Ostorius is about to give them one last chance to bend to Rome, then he’s going to hit them with everything he’s got.’ His voice was beginning to slur.
    Tullius chuckled. ‘Is that right? You think it’s the first time a governor’s tried to wipe the floor with the bastards? What makes you think he’s got any more chance of finishing the job than Aulus Plautius before him?’
    Macro waved a finger at Cato and slapped himself on the chest. ‘Because this time we’re going to