Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘What’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.

Late in the afternoon, just after Otho had given the order to halt and make camp, a larger party of horsemen appeared on the crest of a hill little more than a mile from the column. Cato was standing with Macro as the legionaries broke up the ground with their picks ready to commence constructing their allotted section of the defences. The alarm had been raised amongst the men of Centurion Acer’s cohort and now the rest turned to look, craning their necks to stare towards the hill. Cato calculated that there must be at least fifty in the party. This time it was immediately apparent that these were no hunters. The angled light from the sun gleamed on polished helmets and shield bosses. Cato turned towards the centre of the camp where the tribune was standing with Vellocatus and some of the other officers. Otho gazed towards the horsemen but made no effort to order the cornicen to call the men to arms. Instead he turned briefly to one of his orderlies and pointed in Cato’s direction. The man nodded and began to run over.

Macro had seen the brief exchange. ‘What’s he want with us?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Cato replied and then glanced round to see that Macro’s men had all stopped to scrutinise the distant natives.

‘Macro. .’ Cato nodded towards the work detail.

The flesh around his friend’s eyes puckered into an angry glare and he drew a breath. ‘What is this? A fucking public holiday?’ he roared at his men, brandishing his vine cane. ‘Lift those picks and put your bloody backs into it!’

At once the legionaries returned to their work and the air filled with the sound of iron points thudding into the earth, accompanied by the grunts of the men wielding them. Macro paced down the line to make sure none of them was slacking, just as the orderly drew up in front of Cato, short of breath after his quick dash.

‘Tribune Otho sends his respects, sir, and requires that you lead one of your squadrons out to confront those horsemen.’

‘Confront? Does he wish me to chase them off?’

‘No, sir. Just discourage them from coming any closer.’

Cato stared hard at the orderly for an instant, wondering just what discouraging the native warriors might entail if they did decide to approach. ‘Very well. Tell the tribune I’ll not be the first to strike a blow if I can avoid it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly saluted and turned to trot back to his commander.

Cato sought out Decurion Miro who had just unfastened the girth of his saddle and was lowering his heavy leather burden to the ground.

‘Miro! On me!’

A short while later Cato led the first squadron of the Blood Crows out towards the horsemen watching over the camp. He kept the pace to a steady walk in order not to alarm the natives. The dull clink of the picks was drowned out by the easy rumble of horses’ hoofs. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and bathing the countryside in a warm golden hue. The shadows of the Roman riders stretched out across the grass to their side as a faint haze of dust rose gently in their wake. Decurion Miro was clenching his free hand over and over again as he rode beside Cato.

‘We should have brought the whole cohort with us, sir.’

‘The tribune just wants us to keep an eye on them,’ Cato responded calmly.

‘We could have done that from the camp.’

‘But that might have encouraged them to venture a little closer. It’s better we keep them at a distance for now. We have our orders, Decurion,’ he concluded firmly, disapproving of the way his subordinate allowed his anxiety to interfere with his duty.

They advanced in silence until they reached the foot of the hill where the native horsemen waited, unmoving. Cato raised his arm and ordered his men to halt and form line, and the Blood Crows fanned out on either side and turned to face the slope. The Thracians were tense and held their spears and shields at the ready. Cato could understand their nervousness. The unit had been campaigning for two years against the hill tribes and every native they had seen in that time had been an enemy. Why should the men at the top of the hill be any different? Nevertheless, Cato was determined that his men should not inadvertently cause any hostilities.

As the shadows lengthened and the grass and heather were tinged with the flare of the fading sun, the work of constructing the marching camp continued. Every so often Cato would turn and look back and see that the rampart had risen a little higher, while below, the men toiling in the ditch seemed to sink lower into the ground. Eventually only their heads showed above ground, and later all that was visible was the flicker of picks and clods of earth thrown up to add to the rampart. Beyond, other men had started to erect the tents, long, neat lines of brown leather held taut by pegged ropes. The duty cohort formed a cordon round the camp and watched for the approach of any enemy. Once the defences were complete, they were called in and the first watch manned the rampart while their comrades removed their armour and began to prepare the evening meal.

‘How much longer are we going to be kept out here?’ Miro fretted to himself but just loud enough to provoke a response from his superior.

‘Until we hear the recall, that’s how long.’

Miro made ready to reply, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut.

‘Sir!’ A trooper raised his spear and gestured up the slope.

Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that one of the horsemen had left the rest of the group and had started down the slope at a nonchalant pace, his horse flicking its tail lazily from side to side. At once the Blood Crows began to stir, tightening their grips on reins and spears.

‘Easy there!’ Cato called out. ‘No one is to do anything without my express order! Hold your ground and wait for my order. I’ll have the skin off the back of the first man who acts out of turn!’

The line steadied and waited in tense silence as the rider slowly descended from the crest of the hill. As he approached, Cato could see that he sat tall in the saddle of his finely groomed chestnut stallion whose coat gleamed in the fiery light. He wore a patterned tunic and blue leggings bound with leather straps. An oval shield hung from his saddle and he held a long lance in his right hand. His arms were thickly muscled and his dark hair hung in plaits on his broad shoulders. There was no trace of fear in his expression as he walked his horse towards Cato’s squadron and halted a mere ten paces from its commander. He stared at Cato a moment and then wheeled his horse to the right and rode towards the flank, glaring at the Blood Crows. At the end of the line he turned round and walked back until he stopped in front of Cato again and jabbed the tip of his spear at the Roman officer. Miro instinctively made to draw his sword.

‘Don’t!’ Cato growled. ‘Do nothing until I say so.’

Miro hesitated a moment and then forced himself to release his grip and eased his hand up on to his saddle horn.

The rider began to speak in a deep voice, tinged with pride and anger as he addressed Cato in his native tongue, pointing his spear at the Romans to emphasise his words. It took a moment before Cato realised that he was indicating the camp as much as the line of horsemen he was confronting.

‘What’s he on about, sir?’ Miro asked in an undertone.

‘I imagine he’s demanding to know what we’re doing here. And it’s a fair enough question. We may be allies but we might look like an invading column.’

‘What we need is that translator the tribune’s brought along. Shall I fetch him, sir?’

‘No. Stand firm, and keep your mouth shut.’

The rider continued his tirade and his eyes glittered from time to time as they caught the glare of the setting sun so that he seemed the very embodiment of outrage, on the cusp of spurring his horse forward to try and impale Cato on the tip of his spear. Then Cato became aware of the thrumming of hoofs and risked a look over his shoulder to see a horseman racing towards them from the fort. He swiftly recognised him as Vellocatus and smiled thinly as he addressed the decurion.

‘Seems like the tribune has second-guessed you.’

The shouting stopped as the rider craned his neck to look past Cato. A moment later Vellocatus reined in and eased himself into a space beside Cato. The other man’s expression creased into a contemptuous sneer and he spat into the grass in front of the new arrival.

Cato scratched his earlobe casually. ‘Friend of yours?’

‘A cousin. Belmatus. Younger brother of Venutius.’

‘Ah, now I understand something of his pleasure in seeing you here.’ Cato nodded in the direction of the fiery native. ‘Better find out exactly what he wants.’

Vellocatus cleared his throat and addressed his relative. Cato had learned some of the tongue of the tribes further to the south but he could not follow the more guttural dialect of the two northerners. There was a sharp exchange before the translator turned back to Cato.

‘Besides some colourful insults directed at me, Belmatus demands to know why the Romans have ventured beyond the frontier of the lands they lay claim to.’

‘I see.’ Cato tilted his head slightly as a worrying thought struck him. ‘Do I take it that your queen has not yet informed her people that she has requested our assistance?’

Vellocatus shifted uncomfortably in his saddle before he replied. ‘I do not know, sir. I merely carried the message.’

‘I don’t believe you. Try again.’

The young nobleman lowered his gaze as he replied, ‘She said it would be better not to give too much warning of your approach.’

‘It seems that events have rather overtaken her intention.’ Cato nodded to the waiting native. ‘Word of our advance is going to reach Isurium a while before we arrive.’

Vellocatus shrugged. Before Cato could continue, they were interrupted by Belmatus who spoke quickly and harshly.

‘He demands an answer.’

‘Then we’d better tell him the truth.’

The translator shot Cato an anxious look. ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’

‘What choice have we got? If we don’t tell the truth then it looks like we’re invading Brigantian territory. Tell him we’re here at the request of his queen. She has asked to speak to a representative of the Roman governor.’ Cato lowered his voice. ‘Don’t mention anything about who we have come to arrest. They’ll guess our true purpose quickly enough, but let’s not give it to them on a plate. Tell him what I said.’

There was another exchange, more lengthy this time and more heated, before Belmatus gritted his teeth and thrust his arm out, pointing south, back the way the column had marched.

‘Let me guess,’ Cato said drily. ‘He demands that we turn back and return to the province.’

Vellocatus nodded. ‘He says that he has heard nothing about Cartimandua’s request. In any case, he takes his orders from his brother. If your column continues then the Brigantes will take it as a declaration of war.’

Cato stiffened. That changed the situation rather unpleasantly. This had gone beyond the scope of his authority. He must report back to Tribune Otho and allow him to consider matters before deciding how to proceed.

‘Hrrrmm.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘Tell Belmatus that I will convey his message to my commander, and tell him that we mean no harm to his people. Remind him that we come here at the request of Queen Cartimandua, our ally. I advise him to confirm that with her before he carries out any action that his people might have cause to regret.’

Vellocatus spoke and there was a sharp retort from the other native that seemed to strike the translator like a blow. He turned to Cato and winced. ‘My cousin says that if your column takes another step in the direction of Isurium then he, and the warriors of his tribe, will cut you down and take your heads as trophies.’

The warrior had been watching Cato closely as his words were conveyed and now he smiled coldly and drew his finger slowly across his throat. Then he turned his horse round and spurred it back towards his men waiting on the crest of the hill. The sun was setting on the horizon and even though the evening was warm and close, Cato felt a cold shiver trace its way down his spine.