Brothers in Blood (24 page)

‘I hardly think that extends to all associated with him. Not the Emperor’s wife, nor Nero.’

‘You think not? He had Messalina put to death for plotting against him. And Claudius loved her. He married Agrippina for political reasons as much as anything else. If it was proven that she had acted with Pallas in attempting to undermine the Emperor then I’m not so sure Pallas would be the only one for the chop.’ Cato paused. ‘Anyway, as I said, Pallas’s agent cannot afford to act in the open. He has to be cautious. Right now, that makes Otho a likely suspect. Unless you know anything you haven’t shared with us.’

‘I’m no closer to the truth than you are,’ Septimus admitted. ‘It’s possible that the agent is not even in the column. It could be someone back at Viroconium. The legate, for example.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Cato decided. ‘Quintatus came clean about being told to make life difficult for Macro and me.’

Macro snorted. ‘And that makes you less suspicious of him?’

‘Precisely,’ said Septimus. ‘Look here, Prefect Cato. We’re dealing with Pallas and his circuit of agents. They’ve every bit as cunning and deadly as anyone used by Narcissus. And I know what they’re capable of. It could be Otho. It could be his wife . . .’

‘What?’ Macro snorted. ‘You think she cut down two of my men and set Caratacus free?’

‘Why not? Can you think of anyone less likely to put two men on their guard if they were approached by her? You really think that there aren’t any female imperial agents? By Jupiter’s cock, you’ve got a lot to learn, Centurion Macro! And you’d better learn it fast if you don’t want anyone to cut your throat.’ He paused, and moderated his tone. ‘Of course I suspect her. And anyone else who has the means to do what Pallas wants. That could be Otho, his wife, Horatius, almost anyone.’

‘Even you?’ Macro growled.

Septimus scowled. ‘I serve Narcissus. He serves the Emperor. That makes me above suspicion. About the only people I don’t suspect are you two. If only because your lives are in danger from the man we’re looking for. Or woman,’ he added.

‘The way I’m feeling about your boss Narcissus right now, I might as well be Pallas’s agent. I’d happily do you and Narcissus in just to get you off our backs, no matter what happened to the empire as a result.’

The two men glared at each other in the baleful gloom of the moonlight and Cato eased himself away from the wagon. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere. I’ve said what I’ve come to say. You should keep a close eye on Otho. That’s what I think.’

‘Duly noted. Now, I’d better get back to my customers, before someone starts wondering why we’ve got so much to talk about.’

Septimus shoved the jar back into the wagon and moved towards his counter, raising his voice a little. ‘I am sorry, dear sirs, if my price is too high. I had assumed Roman officers had sufficient coin to live like gentlemen.’ He added with a critical note to his voice, ‘Things are not always what they seem.’

The two officers nodded curtly to him and threaded their way back through the crowd and away from the makeshift inn.

‘A fat lot of use that was, talking to him,’ Macro complained.

‘Yes,’ Cato said softly. ‘Not helpful . . . Not helpful at all.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

C
ato sat silently in his saddle as he cast his eyes over the men he had selected for the mounted vanguard. There were fifty of them, standing by their horses as they waited for him to address them. He had given orders for their kit to be carried on the baggage carts so that they would be unburdened and ready to respond to any threat. Most were Thracians, men who had followed him into battle before. Their discipline had been vouched for by their squadron commanders. A handful were drawn from the recent intake of Batavians who had proven themselves reliable.

‘They look like good men,’ Cato said quietly to Decurion Miro, standing by his side.

‘Yes, sir. Our best. More than a match for that mob on the hill.’

Both men’s gaze shifted upwards to where a thin line of horsemen stood on a ridge less than a mile away. They had changed position during the night and now stretched across the track that the column would have to climb when they broke camp. That task was already well under way. The wooden palisade had been taken down and the pointed stakes packed on to the wagons. The last section of the rampart was being swiftly shovelled back into the ditch so that only the raised spoil marked the outline of the previous night’s camp. The tents had been struck and the last of them were being tied over the saddle packs of the column’s mules. The draught animals were hitched to the wagons and carts and the drivers steered them into line. Ahead and behind, the infantry were forming up, marching yokes resting against their shoulders. The cavalry of Horatius’s cohort and the balance of the Blood Crows had formed up on the flanks and rear of the column, no more than twenty paces from the infantry. Poppaea Sabina’s carriage was positioned in the middle of the short baggage train, with a section of legionaries assigned to protect her.

‘Let’s hope we don’t have to put it to the test,’ Cato responded. Then he cleared his throat and spoke formally. ‘Thank you, Decurion. You may join the main column now.’

‘Sir?’ Miro turned to him.

‘I’ll take command here. You’ll be in command of the rest of the cohort, until further notice.’ Cato had been anticipating this moment. He had already made his mind up to exclude the decurion from the vanguard. Miro’s nerves the previous day had betrayed his unsuitability for the job. Cato needed men who could be relied on to be steady in testing circumstances. But he had no desire to say as much to the decurion. Even though Miro lacked the correct temperament for command, or even the task at hand, he was a competent enough officer and did not deserve to be offended. He had risen in rank as high as he was going to go and would serve out his enlistment as a decurion. His value to Cato lay in him serving contentedly in that capacity.

Miro hesitated and Cato smiled patiently. ‘I need someone I can rely on to take over if anything happens to me. Do you understand?’

The decurion nodded and then saluted. ‘Yes, sir. You can count on me.’

‘Very well.’ Cato returned the salute.

Miro turned and briskly made his way to where the rest of the cohort was waiting for the column to set off. Cato turned his attention back to the men of the vanguard.

‘You all know why you were picked for this duty! You are the best men in the cohort. And that marks you out from every other cavalry unit in the army. There is no finer cohort than the Second Thracian – the Blood Crows. But that honour comes with a price. Our reputation has been hard won over the years that the cohort has been campaigning in Britannia. And like all reputations, what takes years to build can be torn down in a single moment of disgrace . . .’ Cato paused to look sternly at his men. ‘That I will not allow. Today we may face a stern test of our self-discipline and courage. I want every man here to understand what I require of him. And that is, absolute obedience. Whatever happens, however you are goaded or provoked, you will ignore it. You will not react. You will do nothing unless I explicitly order it. I do not care if some stinking, hairy Brigantian goatherd leaps up into your saddle and fucks you in the arse. If it happens, it happens, and if you so much as wince, then I’ll have you shovelling the shit from the latrine of Centurion Macro’s cohort for the rest of your days!’

There was a smattering of laughter at the comment, and Cato blessed the rivalry between the two units that had served together for the best part of a year. Although he had made a joke of it, he knew his men would heed his stricture all the more avidly for fear of being shamed in front of their comrades.

‘Blood Crows!’ His smile faded. ‘Mount!’

The horsemen turned towards their saddles, paused for the standard silent count of one-two-three and then swung themselves up into their saddles and took up their reins to steady their mounts and dress their ranks. When they were ready, Cato turned his horse towards the front of the column and swept his arm forward.

‘In column of fours, advance!’

They walked past the infantry of Horatius’s cohort and then began to pass the men of Macro’s cohort who would back them up in the event of a fight. Macro was waiting at the head of the First Century and saluted as his friend approached.

‘Good luck, sir.’

‘And you, Centurion.’

A formal exchange, and yet both men were conscious of the deep bond they shared. How many times over the years had they faced such moments? Cato wondered. And yet this was different. A new kind of courage was required to hold back all the training that had taught them to strike first at an enemy. Training and an instinct for self-preservation, thought Cato.

‘If anything goes wrong, I want you to be the one who tells Julia.’

‘Perish the thought, sir.’

‘Interesting choice of words.’ Cato smiled and continued forward on to the track until the rearmost rank of the vanguard was ten paces ahead of Macro’s cohort.

‘Blood Crows! Halt!’

The horsemen drew up and their mounts stood ready, ears twitching, and the occasional thud or scrape of a hoof on the packed earth of the track. There was nothing to do now until the command was given for the column to advance. The sun had already risen and was washing the landscape with warm glow. The tribesmen waiting ahead of them were bathed in the same light, which somehow made them seem larger than life to Cato’s eyes. He wondered if it was simply the tension gnawing at his stomach. Even though he could not quite believe that Belmatus and his handful of men would really sacrifice themselves so willingly to start a war, he could not still his nerves. Something was not quite right about the situation, and he could not pin the doubt down.

There was only a brief delay before the last element of the column was in position and then a horn sounded through the morning air, a clear, carrying note that echoed back off the slopes of the closest hills.

Cato filled his lungs and called over his shoulder, ‘Blood Crows! Advance!’

With a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels he urged his mount to walk forward, eyes fixed on the tribesmen blocking his path no more than half a mile ahead. The air filled with the clop of hoofs, the dull pounding of nailed boots and the rumble of the baggage train. Above, flights of swifts whipped through the air in search of their first meal of the day, some soaring above while others flashed between the shrubs and longer clumps of grass, speckled with yellow and white flowers. All of which imposed themselves on Cato’s heightened senses as he steadily climbed the gentle rise to the crest of the hill where Belmatus and his men were waiting.

He could already pick their leader out. The warrior sat on his stallion in the middle of the track, hand on hip in a haughty pose that Cato had come to recognise as typical of the men who led the tribes of the island. For a moment he wished he had Vellocatus at hand to translate if there was any exchange of words. But Vellocatus had been ordered to travel in Poppaea’s carriage where he would be out of sight. The tribune had been right to do that, Cato reflected. The sight of one of their own, riding with the Romans, could well stir the passions of the natives into an act of violence that all would regret. And, Cato reasoned, there was no need for a translator. He knew exactly what he must do and words would be superfluous, and possibly dangerous in such a situation. At the root of it all Cato recognised that he was only wishing for the man’s presence because he felt exposed riding at the front of the column alone. His heart was beating quickly and he felt the blood racing through his veins as he maintained a composed air and stared straight ahead.

Then, when he was no more than a hundred paces from the crest, a great roar filled the air, startling birds into flight. Beyond the small party of waiting horsemen, the ground was suddenly alive with more men, hundreds of them, surging forward to swell the ranks of the riders. A cold stab of fear thrust up inside Cato’s chest but he clenched his jaw and continued advancing, true to his orders. He looked back quickly and noted with pride that none of his men had faltered, even though they had readied their spears and raised their shields to cover their bodies. Cato did the same with his own shield and shifted his reins to the right hand to remove the temptation to rest it on the pommel of his sword.

The tribesmen made no attempt to move forward but stood and jeered, brandishing fists and weapons. As Cato closed on them, a thin young warrior darted forward and turned his back to the oncoming Romans. Grasping the hem of his tunic, he hauled it up to reveal his buttocks and then bent forward to thrust the pale cheeks towards Cato. He stifled a smirk at the youngster’s hubris and pretended to ignore the gesture. The youth darted aside at the last moment and left Cato face to face with Belmatus.

The Brigantian nobleman stood his ground and Cato subtly tweaked his reins so as to pass just to the side of the man. No words were spoken, only their eyes clashed, a steely, unbending exchange of glares, and then Cato passed by him. Beyond lay a mass of shouting, gesticulating tribesmen, and Cato looked over their heads as he walked his horse on. Like all cavalry mounts it had long since been battle-trained and was inured to the sounds of shouting, the blasts of horns and the clash of weapons. Even so, the beast snorted and jerked its neck as it raised its head away from the men in its path.

Cato felt a man brush past his leg and tried not to flinch. No attempt was made to stop his horse, nor to lay a hand on it, or him. Then there was a flicker of movement to his right and some muck landed on his chest, splattering his chin. The smell of shit assaulted his nostrils, but he forced himself not to react. Not even to brush it off. Then he was through the line of tribesmen and emerged, unscathed, on to the crest of the hill. Before him the track continued into the hills of Brigantia. He rode on a short distance before looking back and saw that his men were holding their discipline, ignoring the abuse and filth thrown at them. Then he caught sight of Belmatus, who had shifted to the side of the track. The nobleman turned and saw Cato at the same time and Cato could see the frustration in his expression.

At once, all the tension seemed to drain from Cato’s body and he felt an urgent desire to laugh out loud as he realised that Belmatus and his men had been given precisely the same orders as he had. They, too, had been instructed not to land the first blow, but were free to do anything short of that to provoke the Romans to violence. Now that the bluff had been exposed, that was not going to happen, Cato thought with relief.

The column trudged forward through the heart of the baying mob but not one blow was exchanged, not one Roman turned to hurl abuse back at the Brigantians, and a short time later the vanguard left Belmatus and his men in its wake. From the top of the next hill Cato turned aside to look back and saw the nobleman wave his arm angrily at his men until they fell silent and stood still, watching the backs of the Roman soldiers as they marched off across the serene sprawl of the countryside. Cato took out his canteen and rinsed off as much of the shit as he could. The next time, he might not be so lucky, he mused. It would be an arrow, spear or slingshot that was hurled at him.

The column continued into the hills that stretched into the distance on both sides and the natives kept pace with them on either flank. There were no more attempts to stand in their way and that night the two forces set up camp less than a mile apart. The sprawl of the Brigantian fires illuminated the natives in a ruddy glow as they gathered about the flames and talked in the animated way of the Celts. Their voices carried to the orderly lines of the ramparts where Roman soldiers patrolled in silence, stopping from time to time to cast a wary eye on their neighbours, before resuming their steady pace as their eyes scanned the darkness for any sign of danger. As the night drew on, the natives fell to singing. At first the tunes were raucous and good-spirited, but by and by they fell to more gentle, soulful songs that sounded sorrowful to Cato’s ear as he walked the section of the perimeter entrusted to his men.

In the normal course of events it was the duty of the optio in charge of the watch to ensure that the men remained alert, but Cato had not been able to sleep. Taking up his cloak he had made his way on to the sentry walk and passed from post to post, giving the password each time he was challenged. Cato approached one of the corner platforms where the dark mass of a ballista loomed against the lighter shades of the landscape, barely lit by the distant curved gleam of a crescent moon, no wider than the lethal curve of the daggers Cato had once seen in Judaea. He heard a muttered exchange between two men and his lips pressed together in an angry line as he prepared to berate the sentries. Then he made out Macro’s voice.

‘Tuneful lot, ain’t they? What are they singing about now?’

There was a pause before the other man replied. ‘It’s a lament . . . About the wife of a warrior waiting for her man to return from battle. She doesn’t know it, but her man has fallen. A hero’s death. She stands at the gate of her village with the other women and searches for the face of her beloved amongst those returning, until the last of them has passed. And then she knows . . .’

Cato recognised the voice of Vellocatus as he spoke. The Brigantian was interrupted by a gruff snort.