‘The next grain convoy is due to reach us by the end of the month, sir. I’ll send word that we need more to replace the losses.’

Quintatus shook his head. ‘The end of the month is not good enough. I want it replaced within the next five days.’

The quartermaster’s jaw sagged. ‘But—’

‘No excuses. See to it. If you can’t cut a deal with a reserve unit, then you’ll have to buy it from the natives. Dismissed.’

The quartermaster saluted and turned to leave the room, an anxious expression on his face. Quintatus let out a frustrated sigh, then fixed his penetrating gaze on the two officers standing just inside his office. ‘Well?’

Cato made the introductions and they handed over the slates detailing their service records. The legate looked at his visitors curiously for a moment before he read their records and nodded his satisfaction. ‘Glad to see you’ve served here before. And plenty of combat experience besides, though there are one or two gaps in the record.’

‘We were waiting for reassignment, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘On half pay in Rome.’

‘A waste of your talents. Sitting on your hands while some fat-arsed imperial clerk takes his time finding you a new job. Bloody bureaucrats, eh?’ A sympathetic smile flickered on his lips and then it was gone. ‘Now you’re here. No doubt itching to take up your posts and get stuck into the enemy.’

Macro grinned. ‘You’re reading my mind, sir.’

‘If that’s what you weren’t thinking then you’re no use to me. I won’t tolerate anyone who doesn’t pull their weight, gentlemen. No matter what their rank. We’re up against tough opposition and I want results. Clear?’

Cato nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘As it happens, I’ve been fortunate . . . very fortunate to have Centurion Quertus on hand to take command of the outpost at Bruccium while we waited for you to arrive. Quertus has been taking the battle to the enemy at every opportunity. He’s burned more villages and killed more Silurians than any other man in the army. And the enemy have come to fear him. According to some of the prisoners we’ve taken, they call him the Blood Crow, and even the name strikes fear into their hearts.’

‘The Blood Crow . . .’ Macro repeated and cocked an eyebrow at Cato. ‘Did the prisoners say why, sir?’

‘It’s straightforward enough. The Thracian cohort have a crow on their standard. I imagine the blood part is down to the methods used by Quertus and his men. It seems that the cohort has adopted the name for the unit. They call themselves the Blood Crows now.’

Cato felt a cold tingle at the base of his spine. ‘What methods do you mean, sir?’

The legate hesitated for a moment before he replied. ‘Centurion Quertus has risen from the ranks. He was recruited in Thrace, though his family comes from the mountains in Dacia, far from anything we might recognise as civilisation. So some might consider his methods . . . questionable. But then the outpost is in the heart of Silurian territory and perhaps one needs to fight the barbarians on their own terms if we are to achieve victory. Speaking of which . . .’ He reached to the side and drew out a long roll of parchment and spread it out across his desk. Cato saw that it was a map. The marks indicating the position of the Roman forces and the surrounding terrain were detailed, but large sections of the map were blank, beneath the inscription of the names of the Silurian and Ordovician tribes.