Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

They reached the Brigantian capital at dusk three days later. Isurium had once been a hill fort whose ditches circled the crest of a steep-sided hill overlooking a river valley. Now the crest was covered with the thatched roofs of scores of huts of varying sizes. A large timber hall had been constructed on the highest point and dominated the fort. A narrow track curved through the lines of ditches and palisades and led down to a large settlement at the foot of the hill. Small farmsteads dotted the surrounding valley.

The shadows were lengthening by the time the Roman column halted half a mile from the track leading up into Isurium. The native force that had shadowed them continued into the settlement while the horsemen climbed the hill and disappeared from view amongst the complex of earthworks guarding the entrance to the fort. As soon as the column halted, the soldiers began their usual routine. A screen of pickets was sent out to guard their site while their comrades downed packs and took up their picks to start work on the ditch and rampart.

As the shadows lengthened, scores of natives, more daring than most of their tribe, ventured closer for the first view any of them had ever had of the Romans who had swept all before them in the lands to the south. They kept to a safe distance and simply watched as the camp rose from the ground before their eyes. Before the light had completely faded, the palisade was in place and the ballistas were being assembled on strongpoints at each corner.

‘I want gate towers constructed tomorrow,’ Tribune Otho ordered as he inspected the camp with his senior officers. ‘We may be here for several days. Or longer if the situation turns against us.’ He turned to Centurion Statillus. ‘I want the camp’s defences improved as far as possible. We’ve no caltrops, so we’ll have to make do with stakes and whatever other obstacles we can deploy. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They were standing on the rampart nearest Isurium and the dark mass of the hill loomed high above them in the night. The hall was lit by braziers positioned a safe distance from the thatched roofs and in the red hue the structure seemed even larger than it had in natural light. All the officers were looking in the same direction and there was a brief silence before Prefect Horatius cleared his throat and spoke for all of them.

‘When are they going to acknowledge us?’

There had been no contact with the queen or any of her officials since the column had arrived and that struck Cato as ominous. He turned to Vellocatus.

‘These are your people. Why do you think the queen hasn’t sent someone to greet us?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vellocatus admitted. ‘But if I was allowed to ride up there, I can find out and report back.’

Otho shook his head. ‘No. I need you here in case anyone approaches the camp with a message. If there’s nothing by tomorrow morning, then I’ll send a small party with you to present greetings from General Ostorius. We’ll gauge the queen’s mood then. And that of the rest of her court.’

‘But I could do it tonight, sir. Right now, if you give the word.’

Otho thought a moment and shook his head. ‘Too dark. It might be dangerous to leave the camp. We’ll wait until we have light. I wouldn’t want to put you at any risk.’

‘Risk?’ The Brigantian was not fooled. ‘You would prefer to keep me hostage, you mean.’

For an instant Cato was sure that the tribune was going to protest but then Otho nodded. ‘Of course. You could be leading us into a trap, for all I know. You might not realise it, but that’s irrelevant. If your queen, or whoever is in charge, values your life then it might give us something to bargain with. If not, and the Brigantes have betrayed our trust, you will be the first of your people to die. You had better pray to your gods that Cartimandua’s guarantee of free passage for my column holds true. In the meantime, you will not leave my side. If you attempt to escape the camp I will assume your motives are treacherous and I will have you executed. Understand?’

Otho issued his threat firmly and the native nobleman simply nodded. Cato arched an eyebrow at the ruthless streak revealed by the young tribune.

‘Very well.’ Otho turned to address the others. ‘We’ll set one cohort on watch at a time. Half the men on the ramparts and half resting in the dead ground behind, ready to man the palisade at once if the alarm is raised.’

He sensed the uneasiness of his officers and explained his thinking. ‘I know the men are exhausted, but I’d rather be cautious than caught by surprise. We’re far beyond the frontier, gentlemen, in the heart of Brigantian territory. Even though they are supposed to be our allies, we’ve already seen that there is little love for Rome amongst their warriors, some of them at least. So a full cohort will stand each watch. That is my decision. We’ll discover the true situation in the morning. One way or another. You are dismissed, gentlemen.’

The party exchanged salutes before Otho strode away with his staff officers, Vellocatus and his personal bodyguards. The remainder waited until their commander was out of earshot before they began to speak quietly.

‘I don’t like it,’ Centurion Acer muttered. ‘If we’re still at peace with the Brigantians then why haven’t they come out to greet us?’

‘Any number of reasons,’ Cato responded.

Acer rounded on him. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as, sir,’ Cato reminded him of the requirement to defer to his rank. He paused to let the point sink in and then continued. ‘The queen might want to keep it formal. We arrived too late for her to put on any ceremony. If she’s going to make a show of it, then it would better to do it in broad daylight. In front of her people. There’s nothing sinister in that.’

‘Assuming you’re right, sir.’

‘If he’s not, we’ll find out soon enough,’ said Macro.

The summons arrived at dawn. A rider approached the camp with a message from the ruler of the Brigantes. Cartimandua requested the attendance of the commander of the Roman column, together with a small party of officers and bodyguards should he feel the need for such protection. The queen gave her word that no harm would come to the Romans while they enjoyed the hospitality of her people. Her guests were to attend on her at noon, in the royal hall atop the hill fort. Once her envoy had received Otho’s acknowledgement, he mounted his horse and rode out of the camp.

‘Do we trust her, gentlemen?’ Otho looked round at the officers in his tent. ‘Or do we insist that she comes to us?’

‘I don’t like the look of it, sir,’ Horatius spoke up. ‘If you go up there and it’s a trap, they’re going to have hostages.’

‘But we already have one of our own,’ Otho pointed out. ‘Vellocatus.’

‘Which gives us a slight advantage, sir. If they take some of ours then we lose the advantage.’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Which is why I don’t consider it a good idea to keep Vellocatus here, sir. If the Brigantes think that we’re holding one of their noblemen against his will it might encourage them to do the same if the opportunity arises. We should let him leave the camp, or at least you should take him with you when you meet Cartimandua.’

Otho arched an eyebrow. ‘If I go.’

‘With respect, sir, you have to.’

‘Why is that, Prefect?’

‘For two reasons,’ Cato explained. ‘Firstly, the Brigantes are watching us closely. This is the first military column to march into the heartland. Like it or not, we are being judged by them. If you fail to respond to the queen’s summons, it will cause offence. Worse, it will damage her authority, in front of her own people. That will only strengthen the hand of those who support Venutius, and his friend, Caratacus.’ Cato paused. ‘Then there’s the other matter. If we are seen to be too nervous to venture out of the camp and enter the tribal capital, Venutius will accuse us of being cowards. He is sure to use that line when he tries to whip up support for war with Rome.’

Otho nodded thoughtfully as he considered Cato’s remarks. ‘Then it seems I have no real choice in the matter.’

‘You do have a choice, sir,’ Horatius protested. ‘We’re Romans. We don’t take orders from barbarians. That’s what you tell her. You order her to come to us. That will show ’em who is in charge. And it means we won’t have to take any risks.’

Otho smiled thinly. ‘For a diplomat you make a damn fine soldier, Horatius. Therein lies your problem. We’re here to take possession of Caratacus, at the request of Queen Cartimandua, our ally. It ill becomes us to treat an ally so shamefully, even if they happen to be, as you say, a barbarian. For that reason I shall be leaving you here, in command of the camp, when I meet Cartimandua. You will be under strict orders to remain behind these walls until I return.’

Horatius pressed his lips together as he controlled his anger at the rebuff, before he replied stiffly, ‘Assuming you do return, sir.’

‘If I do not return by nightfall, or I do not send word that I am safe, then you are to assume that I, and those with me, have been taken prisoner. In which case you will not enter into negotiations for our release. You will demand it. If that fails then send a message back to report to Legate Quintatus. The column must remain here until instructed otherwise. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Horatius replied with a show of reluctance.

‘Good.’ Otho looked round at the others in the tent. ‘I will take Prefect Cato with me, as I need a man with quick wits. And you, Centurion Macro, just in case there is any trouble and I need a man with a ready sword. Vellocatus will come too, and a pair of my bodyguards, and also my wife.’

‘Your wife?’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Your wife?’

‘Why not? As Prefect Cato has pointed out, we cannot be seen to be nervous of these people. It will create a favourable impression amongst the locals. I doubt even a barbarian would have the effrontery to attack an unarmed woman.’

‘Sir, there’s a reason why they are called barbarians,’ Macro protested.

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Otho dismissed the objection with a curt flick of his hand. ‘I’ve made my decision. I want you, the prefect, and my guards to be smartly turned out. I want the natives’ first impression to be as favourable as possible. Horatius?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’ll have your orders in writing before I leave. And you’ll obey them to the letter.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all, gentlemen. Dismissed.’

‘What the fuck is he playing out?’ Macro growled as they strode back through their camp to their tents. ‘It’s madness to bring his wife along. What does he think this is? Some bloody picnic in the Tuscan countryside?’

Cato shook his head. ‘He’s right. It demonstrates that the tribune trusts Cartimandua. If he’s wrong, and there’s trouble, then I doubt Poppaea Sabina is going to be much safer back here in the camp. The column won’t be able to hold out for long once the Brigantes mobilise their warriors.’

Macro looked up and pointed. ‘There’s one who’s getting out while he can.’

Cato followed the direction Macro indicated and saw the wine merchant’s wagon a short distance from the gate facing Isurium. A small cart, harnessed to two mules, stood beside the wagon and Septimus was loading a heavy wine jar on to the back of the cart. He heaved it into position and stopped to mop his brow before he caught sight of the two officers approaching him. An anxious expression flitted across his face before he slipped back into his role as a wine trader.

‘What’s this?’ Macro demanded. ‘Leaving us already?’

‘Hardly, my dear Centurion!’ Septimus called back, affecting his tradesman’s patter. ‘I would never abandon such good customers. No, I seek to trade with the natives. Wine for furs or, better still, silver and gold.’

Cato glanced into the cart and saw several large jars and twenty or so small vessels, each marked with the name of the wine inside. ‘You’re selling them the cheap wine, then?’

‘Of course. Gives me a chance to shift the stuff no Roman in his right mind would touch.’ Septimus’s eyes glanced round quickly to make sure that no one would overhear them. ‘I saw that native enter the camp earlier. What’s happening?’

Macro jerked his thumb in the direction of headquarters. ‘Their queen’s sent for the tribune. He’s going up there at noon. Together with Cato and me, a few men, and his wife.’

‘His wife?’ Septimus’s eyes widened in surprise.

Macro held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask. Apparently, it’s a good idea.’

‘So what are you really up to?’ asked Cato.

‘You know how it is with wine and the Celts. If anything is going to loosen their tongues, it’s this stuff.’ Septimus patted one of his jars. ‘I’ll try it out on those around the queen. With luck someone might let some useful information slip. The trail’s gone cold on my traitor.’

‘If you hear anything, make sure you share it with us,’ said Cato.

‘Same goes for you two.’

Macro affected a horrified expression. ‘What, don’t you trust us?’

‘Just reminding you that we’re on the same side, Centurion.’

‘Are we? Which side would that be? You’re working for Narcissus. The traitor is working for Pallas. On top of that we have Caratacus, and Venutius. And then there’s Vellocatus and his queen.’ Macro scratched his head theatrically. ‘There are so many sides in this I’m losing track.’

The imperial agent stared back coldly. ‘There are only two sides. Those who serve the true interests of Rome, and those who oppose them. That’s the plain and simple reality, Macro.’

Macro leaned forward and whispered menacingly, ‘Where your dad is concerned there’s no such thing as plain and simple reality, my friend.’

Septimus glared back and then smiled. ‘Watch your back, Macro. You too, Prefect.’ Then he turned away and made for the rear of the wagon to fetch another jar. Macro clenched his fists and his jaw set into the familiar line that meant he was bracing himself for a fight. Cato recognised the symptoms well enough and steered Macro away from the back of the cart.

‘Come on. There’s no time for this. We’ve got to make sure our kit is spick and span for the royalty.’

Macro shifted reluctantly and cracked his jaw. ‘All right. I’ll leave it, for now. But next time that bastard makes a crack about watching our backs, I’ll have him.’

‘Of course you will,’ Cato said soothingly and his friend shot him such an angry look that Cato could not help laughing at his expression. ‘That’s the spirit. Now save it for the enemy, eh?’