Brothers in Blood (22 page)

‘If by that you infer a wealthy background, then no.’

‘I inferred nothing as crass as wealth. I spoke of breeding.’

‘I have none of that either. I rose through the ranks.’

‘Then you must have proved yourself a consummate soldier to have risen so swiftly, nay?’

Cato shrugged diffidently but did not reply.

Poppaea shifted her gaze back to Macro. ‘And what of you, Centurion? What is your background?’

Macro sniffed and cuffed his nose. ‘Joined up as a lad. Took eight years to reach the rank of optio, then two more years before I got the promotion to the centurionate. That’s when I met the prefect. He served as my optio back then.’

Her neatly plucked eyebrows lifted a little in surprise. ‘Prefect Cato was
your
subordinate? And how do you feel about that now?’

‘How do I feel?’ Macro shifted and puffed his cheeks. ‘Prefect Cato is my commanding officer, Lady Poppaea. I obey his orders. That’s how I feel about it.’

She stared at him for a moment and let out a brief laugh before reaching for her goblet and taking a delicate sip. ‘I can see we are in for an evening of the most animating conversation.’

Otho shot her a concerned look and then raised his goblet. ‘A toast, gentlemen. To the successful pursuit and apprehension of the fugitive, Caratacus. And the peace and prosperity that will ensue.’

The other officers dutifully raised their cups and did their best to repeat the lengthy toast, mumbling through the final phrase. Poppaea looked on with wry amusement as her husband gestured to the slave standing silently to one side. ‘You may bring the first course now.’

‘Yes, master.’ The slave bowed and disappeared through a door beneath the colonnade.

Macro looked around the garden and nodded. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, sir.’

‘Nice? I suppose so. In a clean, basic sort of way. Of course, it’s a seller’s market out here on the frontier of the empire. The rent I pay for this hovel would cover a modest palace back in Rome. But it’s a small price to pay for the comfort and privacy that it affords.’

‘Hovel?’ Macro muttered under his breath.

Poppaea wafted a hand around the garden. ‘It’ll be a shame for us to swap this for the hardship of sleeping in a tent for the next month or some, but duty calls.’

Cato coughed. ‘Do you intend your wife to accompany us to Brigantia, sir?’

‘Of course. My dear Poppaea and I cannot bear to be parted from one another. Besides, it’s a diplomatic mission. The presence of my wife will demonstrate our peaceful intent. I’m sure that Queen Cartimandua would appreciate some female company during the course of our negotiations.’

Macro was not so sure. He recalled his brief dalliance with a young Iceni woman during his first tour in Britannia. Boudica had been a spirited individual who enjoyed a drink and other earthy pursuits. He did not think there were many interests she would share with this brittle-looking aristocrat. Perhaps Cartimandua was different, but he doubted it.

‘Is that wise, sir?’ asked Cato. ‘It may be a diplomatic mission but there is a good chance it might turn into a military action. In which case Lady Poppaea would be in grave danger.’

‘Oh, I very much doubt it will come to that,’ Otho responded confidently. ‘It will be Queen Cartimandua who is in grave danger if she fails to comply with our demands. If she is rash enough to side with Caratacus she will be swept away with the other malcontents when Legate Quintatus brings the rest of the army up. Frankly, I think she will know the game is up the moment my column arrives. But I trust we can keep things on a civil basis, and in that I am sure my wife can assist with smoothing things over between Rome and those benighted barbarians. Isn’t that so, my love?’

‘I shall play my part. That is my duty.’

‘There!’ Otho smiled at Cato. ‘You see?’

Cato shrugged.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the first course, a large shallow dish carried by the slave. He set it down on the table and a rich aroma wafted over the guests.

‘Strips of mutton, quick fried with a garum and vinegar glaze,’ Poppaea explained. ‘To a recipe passed on to our cook from that of Agrippina.’

The slave served neatly presented portions on small silver platters, handing the first to the hosts before the other officers. As soon as Otho began eating, the others joined in with gusto, using their knife points to pick up the strips of meat and popping them into their mouths. Macro quickly finished and gestured to the slave for another helping, while Cato proceeded at a more sedate pace, refusing to show that he found the flavour quite delicious.

‘Damn fine dish!’ Horatius enthused, reaching out for more. The other centurions nodded heartily. Cato noted that Statillus was making hard work of it and then, as his lips parted, he understood the reason why. The man had no teeth. Cato realised the veteran must be older than he had first thought.

‘It’s simple enough,’ said Poppaea. ‘Sadly our cook was only able to bring one chest of spices and other ingredients with him. And there’s precious little variety of meat and fruit available in this wretched island. So we make do. It is a little more sophisticated than the fare of the common legionary, I imagine.’

‘It’s bloody delicious,’ Macro commented, mouth still half full.

Poppaea flashed him a smile before turning to Cato. ‘And what do you think, Prefect Cato?’

He chewed and swallowed and licked his lips before replying, ‘Salty.’

‘Salty?’ She frowned, but before she could respond, Otho clapped his hands to attract the attention of the slave and indicated that the first course should be removed.

In the interval another slave brought more wine and filled the cups.

‘Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like to turn our attention to the business at hand. You already have your orders from headquarters and know the nature of our task. The question is, how best to go about it. And what contingencies we may have to prepare depending upon a variety of possible outcomes.’

Cato noticed that the tribune had adopted a more businesslike demeanour and there was now a shrewd glint to his eyes that Cato had not noticed before. Otho propped himself up on his elbows and folded his hands together as he continued to address his officers.

‘Caratacus has a head start on us. He will have had plenty of time to address the leaders of the tribe. We know that he is very persuasive and will already have talked some round to his side. We will have some ground to make up when we reach Isurium. From what I have gleaned from Vellocatus, we may be given a hostile reception. If that happens, we’ll fall back here at once. If they receive us in peace, we’ll state our demand that the Brigantes honour the alliance they have agreed with Rome. I don’t expect Cartimandua will come to a decision instantly. She will need to be confident that she can carry the majority of her people with her.’

As he listened to the tribune, Cato could not help being aware of the clarity of the young man’s thinking. It seemed somewhat at odds with the naive hail-fellow-well-met persona he had adopted on most occasions so far. There was clearly another side to his character that was far more shrewd and calculating.

‘Of course,’ Otho continued, ‘it may go the other way, in which case we’ll be facing a new leader of the tribe. At the moment, the most likely candidate is Venutius, a staunch supporter of Caratacus. If that’s the case, we’ll have a fight on our hands. It’s my intention to play safe. We’ll make camp outside Isurium, even if they offer us the hospitality of their capital. It won’t be your standard marching camp. The ditches will be deeper and wider and the rampart higher. We’ll mount ballistas on the corner towers. The natives have little knowledge of siege-craft so we will be able to hold them at bay until relieved by Legate Quintatus.’

He paused and smiled. ‘But let’s assume things go our way and Cartimandua agrees to hand the enemy over to us. In that event I want him taken out of Brigantia as quickly as possible. That will be your job, Prefect Cato.’

‘Yes, sir. I assume you mean just the Blood Crows.’

‘I mean the escort detachment, Prefect.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it would make most sense if my cohort alone brought Caratacus back to the fortress. Otherwise we’ll have to march at the same pace as Macro’s infantry. That would give Venutius and his followers plenty of opportunity to set an ambush for us. Far better that we ride hard for Viroconium and that Macro’s cohort add its strength to the men remaining in the camp.’

‘Who says we will remain in the camp?’ Otho countered. ‘Once we’ve concluded our business with Cartimandua I plan to quit Brigantian territory at once and return to join the army.’

Cato hesitated before putting his objection to his superior. He wanted to ensure that his reasons were explained clearly, and accepted. ‘Sir, even if the queen agrees to hand him over, that is no guarantee that the campaign to subdue Britannia is over. Whatever Cartimandua decides is bound to divide her people. It’s more than likely that surrendering Caratacus to us will provoke Venutius into action. There may be violence between the supporters of Caratacus and the pro-Roman faction. In which case, if your men are at hand you might be able to tip the scales in the queen’s favour. In my opinion it would be best for Rome to maintain a military presence outside Isurium until it is clear that Cartimandua has her people firmly under her control.’

‘Easy for you to say when you’ll be in the clear.’

A tense silence fell over the dinner table and Cato felt a surge of anger at the accusation. Before he could respond, Otho laughed good-naturedly and grinned at him. ‘Just joking, Prefect. Just joking . . . You are right, of course. Very well, if we get our hands on Caratacus, you will return here and report to the legate that I intend to remain in Brigantia until relieved, or I deem it safe to leave, or I receive orders from Quintatus to break camp.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I think we have every eventuality covered.’ He looked round at the other officers questioningly. ‘Horatius, anything to add?’

The prefect in command of the military side of the mission thought a moment and shook his head. ‘No, sir. You can rest assured that I will do my duty.’

‘Good! Then we can enjoy the rest of the meal without talking shop, to the eternal gratitude of Poppaea, whose boredom over such matters is positively deafening.’ He turned to her with a grin as she scowled back, and then darted his head forward to kiss her on the lips. She made to resist and swat his attentions away but then kissed him back. The officers looked away from the open display of affection awkwardly and Horatius turned to talk to the two centurions next to him. Cato watched a moment longer, painfully reminded of the wife he had left in Rome, yet knowing that he would find it difficult to split himself between his duties as an officer and a husband. Although Tribune Otho seemed to carry it off with aplomb, Cato could not help having reservations about his superior’s decision to bring his wife with him on the march to Brigantia. Aside from the danger to the woman, there was the question of the distraction she would present, just when her husband would need to fully concentrate on negotiating an end to the conflict in Britannia.

A small column of slaves emerged from the kitchen. The first two carried a long tray holding a small glazed piglet, surrounded by delicately patterned pastries. Another followed with a basket of bread loaves, then came another with a tray of mushrooms, roasted onions and other vegetables. The confusion of mouth-watering smells drew the compliments of the officers. Otho and his wife drew apart and smiled at the delight of their guests. Beside Cato, Macro rubbed his hands as he eyed up the pig.

‘Ah, will you look at that crackling! Mmmm!’

Only Cato remained stern and silent, unable to shake off the shroud of misgivings he had over the dangers presented by the mission that lay ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘W
hat’s he doing here?’ asked Centurion Acer as he gestured towards the wine merchant easing his wagon into position at the end of the small column of carts and wagons that carried the supplies and artillery.

Horatius looked round. ‘The tribune gave him permission to join our happy throng. His name’s Hipparchus. Just another Greek latching on to the cloak tails of the Roman army and trying to make his fortune.’

The other officers laughed and Cato and Macro joined in half-heartedly.

‘Seriously, though,’ Acer continued, ‘I thought we were supposed to leave anything that might slow us down behind. No unnecessary clutter was what the tribune’s orders said.’

‘That was just for us, lad,’ said Macro. ‘The tribune clearly thinks that his wife and a ready supply of wine are necessary to ensure the success of his mission.’

The others laughed again.

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ said Horatius. ‘The merchant’s here to trade with the Brigantes. There’s nothing the natives like more than our wine. By the gods, they’d sell their own mothers for a jar of decent Falernian. And they once did, according to my father who served at Gesoriacum, many years before the invasion. A steady flow of wine shipped out to Britannia, with the ships coming back with furs and slaves. The tribune hopes that a supply of wine to the natives might help to grease the wheels and make the natives a little more open to persuasion. Besides, you know how these Greek merchants are. If there’s any useful gossip to pick up on, it reaches their ears first.’

The sun had just risen over the sprawl of the forts and civilian settlement at Viroconium. The first trails of rekindled fires trickled into the rosy hue of a clear sky. The men of Otho’s column were standing in loose formation on the parade ground waiting for the order to march. The horses of the two auxiliary cohorts were saddled and laden with the kit of their riders and nets stuffed with feed. They sensed the expectant mood of the men around them, and pointed ears and delicate muzzles twitched this way and that, accompanied by the light chinking of their metal bits. The mules harnessed to the carts and wagons seemed, by contrast, utterly uncurious and stood still in their harnesses as their drivers walked the lines of their beasts, making slight adjustments to straps and yokes as necessary. The wagon of Poppaea Sabina was the largest vehicle in the column and had been positioned at the front where she would not be troubled by the dust stirred from the wheels and hoofs of the others.

‘Here they come,’ Macro announced quietly and the officers saw the tribune, arm in arm with his wife, stroll up from the direction of their rented villa. ‘No rush then.’

When they reached the wagon, Otho handed his wife up the steps at the rear and then rose on his toes to take one last kiss before he stretched his shoulders and strode past the legionaries and the contingent of auxiliary infantry from Horatius’s mixed cohort. He rubbed his hands together as he approached his officers.

‘Brisk morning, nay?’

Macro whispered to Cato out of the corner of his mouth, ‘What’s with this naying?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Some fad from Rome, I expect.’

‘Well, it’s annoying the shit out of me. Every time, I feel like I should throw ’em a handful of oats.’

‘What’s that, Centurion?’ Otho asked cheerfully.

‘Just saying, sir. It’s good to see a man who dotes. On his wife, I mean.’

‘Poor effort,’ Cato muttered, barely moving his lips.

The tribune nodded happily. ‘I give thanks to the gods every day that Poppaea is my wife. Now, to business, gentlemen. All is ready, I take it?’

Horatius nodded. ‘Just waiting for the order, sir.’

‘Then let’s be off. We have the small matter of a conquest to complete.’

Horatius hesitated, unhappy at the casual manner of his superior. Then he sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Officers! To your units.’

The centurions turned and quickly paced to their positions while the prefect strode towards the head of the column. Cato and Macro exchanged a brief nod before the latter made for the cohort formed up behind the wagons. Cato strode towards the trooper holding his horse and swung himself up into the saddle and adjusted his seat before he gave the nod to Decurion Miro. The latter drew a deep breath and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Second Thracian! Mount!’

With some scuffling of hoofs and grunts from the men and whinnies from the horses the troopers quickly mounted their beasts and steadied them.

Across the parade ground Cato saw a slave lead the tribune’s horse to him, a finely groomed white stallion whose coat gleamed where it was not covered by the red and gold saddle blanket and tassels hanging from the leather tackle. The slave bent down and cupped his hands to provide a leg up. Once Otho had finished fastening the straps of his helmet he climbed into his saddle and sat stiffly as he surveyed his small force. In his flowing red cape, trimmed with gold lace, shining breastplate and helmet topped with an elaborate red plume he looked impressive, thought Cato. The kind of appearance that he could imagine Pompey the Great affecting in his younger days. Certainly the young officer’s accoutrements outshone those of General Ostorius himself, let alone the legionary legates whose rank far exceeded that of Otho. Cato smiled as he thought of the Brigantian queen being dazzled by this display when the Romans reached her capital at Isurium.

The tribune lightly spurred his horse into motion and trotted to the head of the column where Horatius was waiting, along with the native translator, Vellocatus. A short distance beyond stood Horatius’s mounted contingent which formed the vanguard of the column and would scout ahead the moment they moved beyond the official frontier of the new province. Otho nodded to his second-in-command and Horatius’s voice carried clearly down the line of men, vehicles and beasts behind him.

‘Column! Advance!’

Behind the two officers the standards of the units attached to the column moved forward, then the leading ranks of the first legionary cohort, commanded by Centurion Statillius, then Acer’s men, followed by the baggage train and Macro’s cohort. The Blood Crows were assigned to the rearguard from where they could easily advance to protect the flanks of the column if the need arose.

The column marched out of the parade ground and joined the road leading north from Viroconium. A handful of women from the vicus had gathered to watch them leave, a few of them unable to contain the tears at being parted from their men. Due to the need to reach Isurium swiftly, Otho had given strict orders that no camp followers would be permitted to join the column, where they might become stragglers. His wife would be the only woman permitted to accompany the soldiers, and the wine merchant the only other civilian.

A small party of officers from the fortress stood outside the main gate to bid farewell to the tribune and his men. Quintatus stepped forward as the head of the column passed by.

‘Good fortune go with you, Tribune Otho, and good hunting.’

The young man smiled back. ‘I’ll bring back Caratacus, dead or alive, sir. You have my word.’

‘And I will see you again within a month. One way or another.’

They exchanged a brief salute and then the tribune edged his horse forward again and led his column towards the land of the Brigantes. Whether they were still an ally of Rome or had become a bitter enemy would soon be discovered.

The first two days they marched through the lands of the Cornovii, a tribe that had sued for peace with the invaders shortly after the legions had landed. But it was only after Ostorius had driven the enemy back into the mountains that the people of the tribe had lived free of raids from their neighbours for the first time in generations. As a consequence the rolling hills were dotted with farms and the column passed herdsmen and traders travelling freely from settlement to settlement, unburdened by the dread of bands of marauders lurking in the forests that spread across the hills.

It was a vision of how the entire province might appear one day, Cato reflected as he rode at the head of his men through the lush green countryside sprinkled with the bright colours of wild flowers. There was a soft beauty to these lands that touched his soul. Quite different to the dramatic scenery of Italia, frequently disfigured by the huge agricultural estates where chain gangs of slaves toiled miserably from first light to last. He offered a prayer to Jupiter that Britannia be spared such excesses. If a lasting peace could be won, then he would bring Julia to see the island for herself and perhaps she too would feel its attraction. A moment later he sniffed with contempt for such easy idealism. He was surrendering to the serenity of the island’s summer. For much of the rest of the year it was wet and cold, and in the depths of winter the short days bathed the bare landscape with a thin light. Julia would hate it, just as Macro did, or claimed to.

They passed through the band of small turf forts and turrets manned by auxiliary detachments on the third day and advanced beyond the frontier of the Roman province. That night the tribune ordered that the men construct a marching camp ‘in the face of the enemy’, as the army termed the construction of a deeper ditch and higher ramparts topped with a palisade. The horses and mules were no longer hobbled and left to graze in roped-off enclosures outside the camp, but were brought in at dusk and herded into far smaller enclosures within the defences where they were safe from raids. The night watch was doubled in strength and the sentries were tense and alert as they surveyed the dark loom of the surrounding landscape cloaked by darkness.

Cato was aware that the mood of the men had shifted. The light humour of the first two days had faded and they had a more watchful, professional edge to them now. They all knew the broad purpose of the mission they had been sent to accomplish and the danger they might face. Caratacus had become something of a legend to his Roman opponents, as Cato could well understand. Rome had fought few men for so long and the Catuvellaunian king refused to capitulate, even after his kingdom had fallen years before. No defeat had swayed him from his fanatical devotion to the cause of defying Emperor Claudius. And now it seemed to the common soldiers that he possessed magical powers that had enabled him to walk free from his chains in the very heart of the Roman camp on the same day that he had been captured. No such man could be permitted to defy Rome for any longer. He must join the ranks of those who had tested her might and been found wanting, like Hannibal, Mithridates and Spartacus before him.

The following day Cato’s flank guard sighted a small party of horsemen tracking them just below the crest of the hills to their right. Decurion Miro pointed them out to his superior and it took Cato a moment before he spotted the distant movement amid the heather and gorse growing on the steep slope. There were five riders, wearing tunics, leggings and carrying spears. There was no glint of armour, nor any sign of shields.

‘Looks like a hunting party.’

‘Want me to send out a squadron after them, sir?’

Cato considered briefly and then shook his head. ‘No point. They’d outrun us easily enough. Besides, we’re not here to make war. If they are Cornovii, then they’re our allies. If they’re Brigantians the same applies, until we discover otherwise. Leave them be.’

Miro bowed his head but made no effort to conceal his misgivings. He turned his horse aside and trotted back to his men. Cato continued to watch the riders from time to time and noted that they kept pace with the convoy. They made no effort to come any closer or ride further off. If they were hunters, they had clearly abandoned their original intent in order to keep watch on the Romans. More than likely the instant they had caught sight of the column they had sent off some of their number to report its presence. Despite the existing treaty with the Cornovii and the Brigantian queen, Cato could not help feeling anxious about the route that lay ahead. Tribune Otho would be leading them far beyond the established frontier of the province. In the distance Cato could see a line of hills stretching from north to south. That, according to Vellocatus, marked the boundary of Cartimandua’s nation. It was possible that Caratacus had won them over to his cause already and they were even now mobilising a fresh army for him to lead against the Romans. If the column was ambushed in the hills, or the lands that lay beyond, there would be no hope of rescue.

Nor was the only danger from without, Cato reflected sourly. There was a good chance that someone in the column was planning to sabotage Tribune Otho’s mission to arrest Caratacus. But who? Cato turned his attention to the column trudging through the peaceful countryside: the infantry, labouring under the burden of their marching yokes, many with soiled strips of cloth tied around their heads to soak up the sweat; the cavalry leading their mounts, their kit hanging from the sturdy saddlehorns; and the wagons and carts rumbling over the dry track leading towards the line of hills rendered indistinct by the haze. Cato picked out the covered wagon of Septimus and saw the imperial agent sitting beside his slave on the driver’s bench, arms crossed, his body trembling from the vibrations of the vehicle as it passed over the uneven ground.

Septimus had mentioned his suspects but Cato had seen no clear evidence of treachery from any of them. Horatius seemed too much a soldier to be capable of conspiracy, and while there were hidden depths to Tribune Otho and his wife, there was no evidence to indicate they were involved in any treachery. Yet someone had aided the escape of Caratacus, and had been ruthless enough to murder two soldiers in the process. Such a person was a dangerous threat. Particularly if Septimus was right about their intention to eliminate Macro and himself as well. For a while Cato had been content to be back with the army with the clear-cut purpose of defeating the enemy. Since the arrival of the imperial agent with his news of Pallas’s plot, Cato had been forced to live in a state of heightened awareness. His restless mind was looking for any sign of treachery and it was difficult to sleep well. Even then, he had ensured that his sword was within easy reach and his dagger rested beside his bolster. Not that he was under any illusion that a resourceful enemy would not find a way to kill him if the chance presented itself. It was unlikely to happen in the routine course of events since such a murder would entail too much risk for minimal rewards. It was far more likely that Pallas’s man would wait until he could make their deaths look like an accident or, better still, he would use their deaths to further his wider cause, Cato calculated. Supposing he and Macro were killed during the negotiations with Cartimandua? If their deaths were blamed on the tribesmen, it would cause a rift between Rome and the Britgantes. There was one glimmer of hope in all this, Cato mused. Caratacus knew who the traitor was. If it was not already too late to negotiate a peaceful resolution, Cato would keep a close watch on the enemy fugitive and try to discover if he was in contact with someone in the Roman column. Once that happened, Cato would strike, without pity.