Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Tribune Otho gave the order for the men of his column to stand to the moment he returned to the camp. The optios and centurions bawled at their soldiers and the Romans stumbled out of their tents in the last glimmer of the failing light and hurriedly put on their armour and began to form up. Meanwhile, the senior officers met in the tribune’s tent. His wife had retired to their sleeping quarters and drawn the curtain behind her, as if that would shut out the danger that she felt herself to be in. Cato could understand her fears. The mission that her husband had been sent out to accomplish had been overturned by events. Now there was a very real possibility that instead of being welcomed as allies of the Brigantian tribe, their hosts might be persuaded into becoming the enemies of Rome. The prospect of the most powerful tribe in Britannia throwing its support behind someone as wily and determined as Caratacus filled Cato with dread.

Nor was he the only officer who feared the outcome of the confrontation between Queen Cartimandua and her consort taking place in the hill fort that towered above the Roman camp. A sombre mood settled on the Roman officers as they sat around the tribune’s desk. Otho had briefly described the evening’s events and now paused to let his officers consider the situation. He cleared his throat so that he might sound calm when he continued.

‘What are our options, gentlemen?’

‘Options?’ Cato folded his hands together. ‘Sir, we have no idea what is happening up there. Until we know otherwise we have to hope that Cartimandua can calm her people down. We should stay in camp until we find out what has happened.’

Prefect Horatius shook his head. ‘By then it could be too late. We can’t afford to sit on our hands, sir. I say we send a cohort of legionaries in to support the queen. They can arrest those who oppose her and get their hands on Caratacus. Come the morning it will all be over. Order will be restored and no one will dare to question the queen’s authority.’

Otho nodded slowly before he replied. ‘Do you think one cohort will be sufficient? What if we sent two? There must have been at least several hundred men up there earlier.’

Cato felt his heart grow heavy as he listened to the exchange and forced himself to expand on the concerns that plagued his mind. ‘Sir, if we send men up to the fort, there will be violence. It doesn’t matter who starts it — blood will be shed. The moment the rest of the tribe hears that Roman soldiers have killed some of their people, no matter what the circumstances, it will turn them against us. We will be playing directly into the hands of Venutius and Caratacus. They will hold it up as an example of what Rome intends for the Brigantes.’

‘Not if we clap those two in irons first,’ Horatius responded. ‘If we arrest the ringleaders of the anti-Roman faction we can put an end to their opposition to Rome right now.’

‘Or we might just provoke the rest of the tribe into war,’ Cato countered. ‘We can be certain of one thing. Whatever the differences between the factions and tribes of the Brigantian nation, they will bury those differences and turn on us the moment we are seen to be using force against them. Besides, with this moonlight, the moment Roman soldiers advance on the fort they will be seen. Venutius and Caratacus will have plenty of time to make their escape.’

‘True, but in that case, they’ll be running with their tails between their legs. We’ll demonstrate our support for the queen’s authority and restore some order at Isurium.’

Cato bit back on his frustration and forced himself to keep his tone even. ‘It will only serve to make her look powerless. To her people she will seem like a Roman puppet. Any authority over her people that she has right now will collapse.’ He turned to the tribune. ‘We have to give Cartimandua the chance to settle this by herself, sir. You’ve seen that she has a forceful personality. She may yet persuade her nobles to back her against Venutius. We must give her a chance.’

Otho’s brow creased as he tried to think the matter through. ‘You may be right, Prefect Cato. It could be dangerous to intervene.’

Horatius snorted. ‘And it might be even more dangerous to sit here and wait on events, sir. I say we go in.’

‘And I say I am considering our options,’ Otho replied curtly. ‘We were sent here on a diplomatic mission, Horatius. Not to invade Brigantia.’

Horatius chewed his lip and was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. ‘If you recall, sir, the legate said that I was to assume command if military action was required.’

‘But it isn’t required yet,’ protested Cato. ‘I say we should wait until we know what has happened.’

‘And I say we don’t take the risk of letting things get out of control. The time for action is now.’ Horatius slapped his hand on the table. ‘If Prefect Cato is nervous, then he can remain in the camp with his men, and protect our baggage. After all, that’s what he’s good at.’

This was too much for Macro and he leaned forward aggressively. ‘It was Prefect Cato who turned the battle against Caratacus, in case you’d forgotten, sir. And there’s many of our men still alive now thanks to his quick thinking, and courage, who might otherwise have been killed on that fucking hill.’

‘I don’t deny it,’ Horatius replied. ‘Then again, it’s because of Cato that we’re here at all. If he’d kept a better eye on Caratacus. .’

‘That’s enough!’ Otho called out. ‘Be quiet, gentlemen!’

There was a tense silence before Macro eased himself back, his jaw clenched. Horatius stared back angrily but restrained himself from further comment, for the moment.

‘Prefect Cato is right to point out that this is not yet a military matter. I pray to Jupiter that remains the case. We’ll not precipitate any action until we find out what has happened. If it comes to a fight then I will relinquish control of the column to you, Horatius, but not before. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘In the meantime, we’ll keep a double watch on the camp walls. Stand down the other units. They can rest behind the ramparts between watches. Horatius, Cato, remain here. The rest of you are dismissed.’

Once the other officers had filed out of the tent, Otho waited a moment to be sure that they were still not within hearing before he turned his furious expression on his subordinates.

‘I swear to the gods that if ever you two cause a scene like that again, I’ll have you relieved of command. That is in my power to do, Horatius, despite the legate’s instructions concerning military command of this column. I’ll thank you to remember that.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Horatius acknowledged through clenched teeth.

Cato kept his mouth shut. He was angry over being accorded the joint responsibility for the confrontation. He had only been doing his duty in advising his commander of the risks attached to any military action. And the slur Horatius had made about his courage had cut him to the quick. Nevertheless, Otho fixed him with a stem look.

‘And you, Cato.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he responded flatly, unhappy at being treated like a badly behaved child by a man some years younger than he was.

‘Then there’s no more to be said, gentlemen. Join your units. We’ll know which of you is right when the morning comes. Or even before then. Dismissed.’

Cato could not sleep and spent the first hours of the night in the wooden tower above the main gate. Macro stood with him for a while as they gazed towards the hill fort. Torches flared along the palisade and the loom of fires illuminated the roofs of the huts and the hall. There was no sign of flames and Cato guessed that the distant light came from the fire pits used for cooking and others used to light the interior of the fort.

At one point, just after the midnight watch change was sounded in the Roman camp, there had been loud shouting that seemed to resolve into a chant that continued for a while before fading away. Afterwards there had been no more sounds from the hill fort and its inhabitants might well have been sleeping off the wine, beer and mead they had consumed, for all Cato knew. Or, his thoughts continued, they might be quietly, soberly, drawing up their plans to attack the Roman camp as a prelude to launching a full-scale war against the forces of Emperor Claudius. The tribespeople in the settlement at the foot of the hill seemed to share Cato’s foreboding and there was no sign of light, or life, amid the huts dimly visible in the moonlight. Indeed, the only sign of life came from within the Roman camp as the sentries paced steadily up and down between the towers and turrets along the wall.

‘What do you reckon’s happening up there?’ Macro asked softly.

Cato’s shoulders heaved as he drew a deep breath and organised his thoughts. ‘I’ve no more idea than you, Macro. All we can hope is that Cartimandua has persuaded enough of her people to remain loyal to her. If not, and Venutius has taken control, then we’ll have a war on our hands.’

‘In which event Isurium is not going to be a great place to be a Roman.’

‘It’ll take a while to summon the tribes. We’ll have a few days’ grace to try and rescue the situation here. That, or get a decent head start on any force that Venutius sends after us.’

Macro turned to his friend and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Better to make a run for it, you think?’

‘I don’t know. . We’d have to make some attempt to take the fort and capture Caratacus before we considered a retreat. But it’s going to be a difficult and bloody job. You’ve seen the defences up there. Even with half our number, Venutius could hold us off until he’s relieved. And those men up there are the cream of the tribes’ warriors. They’ll put up a stiff fight.’

‘They’ve done that before, and it hasn’t done ’em much good,’ Macro replied with a grin, his teeth gleaming dully in the pale moonlight. ‘One hill fort’s just the same as any other.’

‘Not this one.’ Cato gestured towards the line of earthworks, visible only as shadowy bands stretching round the crest of the hill below the line of the palisade. ‘Steeper slopes than most, and higher. There’s only one practical line of attack and that’s covered by the outer redoubt. And there are hard-fighting men behind the defences.’

Macro considered this for a moment before he responded. ‘Do you think Horatius is up to the job?’

‘I don’t know. He’s certainly no Vespasian.’

‘True enough.’ Macro chuckled. ‘The legate went through those hill forts like grease through a goose, from what I heard. We could do with him now. Instead we’ve got that wet-behind-the-ears tribune and his nursemaid, Horatius. A sorry lookout all round.’

Cato pursed his lips briefly. ‘They might surprise us both yet.’

‘And then again they might not.’

Cato turned to him with a light smile. ‘I thought I was the one who was inclined to see the downside of everything.’

‘That’s you all right.’ Macro laughed and patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Seems like you’ve finally worn me down to your way of seeing things.’

Cato shrugged. ‘What can I say?’

‘Best you didn’t, eh?’ Macro yawned and stretched his shoulders. ‘As long as it’s quiet I’ll get some rest. Could be busy tomorrow.’

The centurion crossed to the rear of the tower and took off his helmet and unclasped his cloak. Folding the cloth into a tight bundle, Macro lay down and rested his head on his makeshift bolster. He breathed easily for a while before settling into a deep slumber. A smile flickered across Cato’s lips as he heard the familiar faint rumbling that acted as a prelude to his friend’s usual snoring.

Then he caught a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye and turned to look towards the hill fort as sparks burst into the air a short distance below the palisade. There was a short-lived pool of light on the grass slope before it died away. Another torch arced into the air, followed by others, falling in a fiery arc against the darkness before they, too, hit the ground with distant bursts of flame. This time there was enough light for Cato to pick out a figure scrambling down the slope. Then the scene was plunged into darkness again. He strained his eyes and ears and caught the faint sound of shouting before the note of a horn pierced the quiet night and echoed briefly off the surrounding hills.

Cato turned and called over his shoulder. ‘Macro!’

His friend seemed to stir before turning his back to Cato and grumbling something about a tent. Cato hurried across and bent down to shake his shoulder vigorously. ‘Wake up, Centurion!’

This time Macro’s eyes shuddered open and he blinked as he focused. As soon as he made out Cato’s anxious expression, he snapped back into full consciousness and climbed to his feet, helmet in hand. ‘What is it, sir?’

‘Someone’s making a bid to escape the fort. Looked like they’re heading this way. I want a half-century of your men ready by the gate, now.’

Macro fastened his chinstrap and nodded before turning towards the ladder. ‘Right, lads! First Century, Fourth Cohort! On your feet!’

As the figures lying at the base of the rampart stirred, Cato returned to the front of the tower to try and follow the action close to the hill fort. A few more torches were descending the slope, this time held above the men bearing them as they half ran, half slid down the slope in pursuit. There were more torches rippling along the palisade in the direction of the fort’s gate complex. Cato felt his pulse quicken. Whoever had come out on top in the struggle between Queen Cartimandua and her consort, it did not look like it had ended peacefully.

It might have been a trick of the moonlight but Cato thought he detected movement on the dark grey landscape stretching out towards Isurium. A moment later he was certain of it. A figure was running towards the Roman camp. He felt tempted to raise the alarm and call the entire column to readiness. But there was only one man as yet, and it would be better for his soldiers to be left to rest and save their strength for the morrow.

He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Macro?’

‘Sir!’ The reply sounded from below and behind the gate.

‘Are your men ready?’

‘Any moment, sir.’

‘Good. Stand by the gate.’

The runner was no more than a quarter of a mile away, racing through the long grass in the stifling heat of the hot summer night. Then, above the clink of armour and shuffling of the boots of Macro’s men, Cato heard another unmistakable sound. The pounding of horses’ hoofs. They came from the settlement and he saw them at once, several riders, fanning out slightly as they galloped after their prey, determined to run him to ground before he could reach the Roman camp.

Cato hurried to the rear of the tower and leaned over as he spotted Macro’s foreshortened figure.

‘Open the gate! There’s someone approaching from the fort. With horsemen not far behind. Get out there and bring the man in.’

Macro’s dimly visible face stared up. ‘Yes, sir!’

He glanced round to the front rank of the First Century of his cohort. ‘You heard the prefect! Get that locking bar out!’

Dark shapes rushed forward and Cato heard the men gasp as they lifted the heavy timber beam from its brackets. A moment later the hinges groaned as the gates were hauled aside. Then Macro issued a curt command.

‘First Century! At the double. . Advance!’