Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The open ground in front of the royal hall began to fill with those invited to the feast as the sun dipped towards the horizon. The day had been hot and those who had stood in the sunshine for much of it were feeling the prickle of skin that had been burned in the glare of the sun. The beasts that had been slaughtered earlier in the afternoon were roasting over the raked coals of the fire pits, a safe distance from the thatched roofs of the nearest buildings. The air was thick with the delicious smell of roasting meat and Macro lifted his nose and breathed in with a beatific smile.

‘Mmmm. I’m bloody starving. Make a change from marching rations.’

Cato shifted beside him on one of the long benches that had been placed outside the entrance of the hall for the queen’s guests to rest while they waited to be summoned inside.

‘I suppose so,’ he replied absently. He was preoccupied by observing the comings and goings of the Brigantian nobles. The dice game had finished late in the afternoon, once Macro had won all the ready coin from the tribune’s bodyguards, and most of Cato’s. Small wonder that his friend was in such a fine humour, Cato brooded.

Tribune Otho and his wife had returned from their exploration of the settlement below the fort shortly afterwards. Both were flushed and sweating from the exertion of struggling back up the hill, and a small party of children followed them, carrying baskets of fruit, bundles of furs and small rolls of the thick patterned cloth favoured by the natives. Otho directed them to leave their burdens in the charge of his bodyguard and paid them off with some bronze coins from his purse. The queen’s guards then herded them back out of the fort as the tribune and his wife made their way across the fort to Cato and Macro.

In the warm glow and long shadows of dusk, Poppaea sat beside her husband, opposite the other Roman officers, attempting to cool herself with a straw fan while struggling to drive off the cloud of gnats that swirled round her head like tiny flakes of gold.

‘When is this wretched feast going to start?’

Her husband was idly eating an apple he had taken from a small basket sitting on the bench between them. ‘If you’re hungry, try one. Quite delicious.’

Otho took another bite and offered the basket to her. Poppaea stared back coldly.

‘You look like a suckling pig if you want to. I’ll keep up the civilised standards on your behalf.’

Cato glanced at her and bit his tongue. Like the rest of them, Poppaea looked hot and dishevelled and her stola clung to her flesh where she had been perspiring. He doubted whether she would have cut a very fine figure amongst her society friends in Rome at the precise moment.

‘Hello, at least someone looks happy.’ Macro broke into his thoughts and pointed. Cato followed the direction indicated and saw Septimus approaching. The imperial agent had tied a strip of cloth round his head to keep the sweat from his eyes.

‘Centurion! Prefect!’ Septimus called out cheerfully then adopted a more respectful manner as he caught sight of the tribune and his wife. ‘I bid you good afternoon, sir, and to your fine lady.’

‘You look like a pig in clover,’ Macro remarked. ‘Had a good day’s trading? You seemed busy enough earlier on. I saw that Venutius and some his mates buying up most of your stock.’

Cato smiled. He had also watched the queen’s consort making his purchases before taking the small hoard of wine jars off to one of the larger huts.

‘You know how it is with these Celts.’ Septimus smiled knowingly and patted the heavy purse hanging at his side. ‘They do love their wine. I sold the lot. Auctioned the last three jars, and they bid like it was their last day on earth.’

Cato looked past him towards the noblemen standing in small groups nearby. Many were talking loudly and most were clearly under the influence. He turned to smile at Septimus. ‘Just as long as it has the desired effect.’

The imperial agent gave him a faint nod before he replied. ‘As long as they’re in their cups, and I’m deep into their purses, then all’s well. I can see this is going to prove a fine market for the first trader who can bring his business regularly to Isurium.’ He paused. ‘Of course, that all depends on there being peace in this part of the world.’

‘We’ll see to that all right.’ Macro nodded. ‘Even if we have to give them a bloody thrashing to make sure of it. Rome doesn’t care who she has to destroy in order to bring peace.’

Cato glanced at his friend and tried to reassure himself that Macro was dusting off his seldom-used sense of irony.

‘Er, yes.’ Septimus frowned. ‘I’ll have to be off. Need to fetch more stock from the camp.’

He knuckled his forehead and then bowed respectfully to Otho and his wife before heading back to fetch his empty cart.

‘Dreadfully boring man,’ Poppaea drawled. ‘Like all tradesmen. All they ever talk about is money. That’s all Rome means to them. It’s our class who dedicates itself to the expansion of the empire and spills our blood to win new lands. And it’s the likes of that wine merchant who profit from our labours. I went to buy some wine from him earlier this afternoon and he would only sell it to me at a ridiculous price, the scoundrel.’

Cato suppressed a smile at this proof of the imperial agent’s skill in playing out his cover story.

Otho swallowed and inspected his half-eaten apple as he replied. ‘Perhaps, but you are hardly labouring in the service of Rome, my dear.’

‘No? You think it is easy for me to live like a common soldier and share all their hardships?’

Macro choked and hurriedly looked down at the ground between his boots as he fought to suppress his laughter.

‘I am beginning to wish I hadn’t been so insistent on accompanying you to this squalid island. It would had been better if I had remained in Rome.’

‘That’s true. .’ Otho said pleasantly and then, realising how his response might be taken, he gushed, ‘I mean, it would be better for you to be in your natural element, my darling. You are like a rose amongst nettles here. I fear for you. My mind would be less troubled if I knew you were safely back in Rome.’

Macro leaned a little closer to Cato and muttered, ‘Not half.’

Poppaea shot her husband a suspicious look, but before she could speak the shrill note of a horn blasted through the evening air. Conversation stopped as everyone turned towards the noise. A large warrior blew several more notes before lowering his shining bronze instrument. Beside him stood Vellocatus. The latter drew a deep breath before he made his announcement. He spoke in the native tongue before he turned to the Romans and repeated his words in Latin.

‘Her majesty, Queen Cartimandua, entreats you to enter her hall and take your place at the feast.’

The noblemen, and their women, immediately began to edge towards the entrance to the hall as the doors were drawn inwards by two of the queen’s servants. Cato watched as Otho made to rise but his wife tugged at his arm and made him sit down, hissing, ‘Wait! I will not see us herded in there like swine. We will enter as Romans should, in a dignified manner that sets us apart from these barbarians.’

The tribune gave a resigned sigh while Cato could clearly hear the sound of Macro grinding his teeth. Vellocatus slipped round the edge of the crowd to join them a moment later.

‘The queen has set aside a place for you at her left. I will sit with you.’

Poppaea arched a plucked eyebrow. ‘To her left? Then who is sitting to her right?’

‘Her consort, Venutius. As is his rightful place.’

Cato could not help picking up on the strained note of bitterness in the young nobleman’s voice.

‘And who is sitting with Venutius?’ He asked.

‘His closest comrades.’

‘And that includes Caratacus, I expect.’

Vellocatus nodded.

Poppaea’s eyes narrowed. ‘Our enemy is be seated in a place of honour, second to the queen, and above us? No. It cannot be permitted.’

The Brigantian’s brow twitched. ‘It cannot be avoided, my lady. It is arranged.’

She turned to her husband. ‘That woman intends to humiliate us. We are her allies and she gives the place of honour to our enemy instead. You cannot permit it, Otho. Tell him.’

‘My love, I can’t-’

‘Tell him! Or tell that woman.’

‘Silence!’ the tribune snapped at her, his expression instantly turning into a savage glare. Poppaea recoiled and he continued in the same angry tone, ‘You keep your tongue still. I don’t want to hear another word of complaint from you. We’re in enough difficulty as it is, without your whining making it worse.’

‘Whining. .’ she pouted, her lower lip trembling.

‘Yes, whining. You wanted to come to the frontier with me. An adventure, you said. And I’ve heard nothing but complaints since we arrived. Right now I need you to shut your mouth until spoken to. And if you have cause to speak then you will be polite and courteous. Is that understood?’

She stared at him, eyes wide in surprise and shock at his uncharacteristic outburst. ‘But, Otho my love, I. .’

‘I asked if you understood. Yes or no? If it’s no, you go straight back to the camp. And then back to Rome the moment we reach Viroconium.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do.’ He stood up and loomed over her. ‘So what’s it to be?’

She looked up at him with a pained expression and tears glistened in the corner of her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s better.’ Otho softened his tone and offered her his hand. She took it hesitantly and rose to her feet. The tribune turned to Vellocatus and his two subordinates. ‘I apologise for that little scene.’

Cato said nothing but tilted his head in acknowledgement. Macro merely gave muted, meaningless mumble, while Vellocatus smiled tolerantly.

‘Now, if you would be so good as to lead us to our places.’ Otho gestured towards the entrance and Vellocatus led them into the hall.

‘About bloody time,’ Macro whispered to his friend. ‘She’s had it coming to her.’

‘Indeed,’ Cato replied softly and shot him a quick grin.

By the time the small group had entered the hall, most of the other guests had already taken their places on the benches either side of the long tables stretching the length of the hall. There was none of the polished silver platters and delicate snacks that one might have expected at a banquet in Rome, thought Cato. Instead, bread and cheeses had been set down along the middle of each table and each man and woman either had a Samian ware cup, or had brought their own drinking horn or decorated cup. There were jugs of mead and beer. Some had already downed their first helping and the air was filled with the cheery din of their laughter and noisy exchanges. Vellocatus led his guests down the centre of the hall and Cato tried to keep looking directly ahead and ignoring the curious and hostile glances on either side. Ahead of them he could see that Cartimandua’s throne had been removed to the rear of the hall and three trestle tables had been placed on the royal dais with simple chairs set up behind. The queen’s place was empty but Venutius and several other men were already seated and talking animatedly. Cato felt his blood grow cold as he picked out Caratacus. Their eyes met and the Catuvellaunian king froze. Those around him picked up on his sudden change of mood and turned to stare with undisguised hostility at the approaching Romans.

‘So much for Brigantian hospitality,’ said Macro.

‘No surprises there,’ Cato responded. ‘But let’s keep it peaceful.’

‘I will if they will.’

‘You will, come what may, my friend.’

Macro frowned at him. ‘Killjoy.’

‘And that’s the only killing that’ll be on the menu tonight,’ Cato concluded firmly, resolving to make quite sure that Macro kept the peace. He would need watching, especially as far as the drink was concerned. When Macro was the worse for wear, things tended towards outbreaks of violence, Cato knew of old. Under the circumstances, a drunken brawl might not be the best conclusion to the feast.

They climbed on to the dais and Otho took the seat nearest the queen’s table. Then came his wife, Vellocatus, Cato and Macro. Directly opposite, Venutius and his comrades stared at them with cold, unyielding expressions of hatred and contempt.

‘Well, this is awkward,’ said Macro. He picked up the cup sitting in front of him and reached for the nearest jug. He sniffed the contents suspiciously before giving an approving nod. He made to pour his cup, then remembered his manners and turned to the others.

‘Want some?’

Poppaea shook her head and looked down at the weathered tabletop.

‘Perhaps later,’ Otho answered.

Vellocatus and Cato held out their cups and Macro filled them close to the brim before turning to his own and then setting the jug down. Raising his cup, he held it up and out in the direction of Caratacus. ‘To the guest of honour.’

Venutius looked furious and was on the verge of rising when the Catuvellaunian king placed his hand firmly on his companion’s arm to keep him in his seat. With an amused smile, Caratacus filled his drinking horn, a finely decorated affair with a bull’s head on the base, and returned Macro’s toast, calling across the gap, ‘To my redoubtable Roman enemies.’

‘Redoubtable,’ Macro repeated with pleasure. ‘That’s us all right.’

He lifted his cup and took a sip. The brew was sweet and tasted lighter than the Gaulish beers Macro had drunk before. Beside him, Cato also drank, while Vellocatus refused to touch his cup.

‘Quite a nice drop,’ Macro said, and then took a healthy swig. ‘Better than that Kourmi crap back in Gaul.’

‘Very pleasant,’ Cato agreed and glanced at his friend. ‘But go easy on it, eh?’

Macro leaned forward to peer round his friend at Vellocatus. ‘What’s up with you, lad? Why aren’t you drinking?’

‘I will not share a toast with the man who plots against my queen,’ Vellocatus answered.

‘What, him?’ Macro gestured across towards Caratacus. ‘His plotting days are over, my friend. This time tomorrow he’ll be in our hands and on his way to Viroconium. He’s not going to trouble us, or you, ever again. Trust me. Meanwhile, let the man enjoy his last night of liberty, eh?’

The consort’s shield-bearer remained silent, and folded his arms to emphasise his protest.

‘Suit yourself.’ Macro topped up his cup and cracked his shoulders as he looked round. The smell of the roasting meat pervaded the stuffy interior of the hall, lit by the gleam of the evening sun pouring through the entrance. ‘Where’s the queen, then?’

As if in answer to his question, a figure stepped out of the gloom at the side of the hall and gracefully ascended the dais. At once there was a deafening scraping of chairs and benches and the conversation died away. Cartimandua eased herself down into her seat and sat, straight backed, as she surveyed her guests. Then she raised a hand and ushered them down into their seats. Again there was a scraping and the conversation began to resume, rising slowly in volume.

There was no preamble to the eating. No entertainment. Servants laden with platters of cut meat entered through side doors and served them to those at the furthest end of the hall first, so that the queen would have her meat hot when she was served last and ate first. Macro’s stomach began to rumble at the sight of the glistening piles of roast meats and he licked his lips.

Then Venutius abruptly stood up and raised his arms wide to draw attention to himself as he called out above the din of the other voices filling the hall.

‘What is he playing at?’ asked Cato. He glanced to his right and saw the look of alarm on Cartimandua’s face as she beheld her consort’s intervention. ‘What’s he saying, Vellocatus?’

There was a brief pause before he translated. ‘He demands to be heard. He says he has an announcement to make, he must inform us that our gods have revealed an omen to him. They have sent a sign that they have cursed Rome.’

‘Curse?’ Otho’s brow knitted. ‘What rubbish is this?’

But Cato could already guess. The queen stabbed her finger at her consort and spoke imperiously. Venutius turned to her with a sneer and shook his head. Before she could repeat her command, he turned to face the Roman tribune directly and called out to him in a loud voice that carried to the furthest corners of the hall. As he spoke, Cato nudged Vellocatus sharply.

‘What is he saying?’

‘He says that Governor Ostorius is dead.’

Cato and Otho exchanged an anxious glance, but it was enough for Venutius to seize upon and he bounded across to their table and bellowed at them.

‘He demands to know if that is true.’

‘Fuck,’ Macro growled. ‘He knows.’

‘How can that be?’ Otho shook his head. ‘How could he have found out so soon?’

Venutius rested his hands on the edge of the table and Poppaea flinched as he repeated his question in a voice laced with menace.

When he received no reply, Venutius moved away from the Romans, turned his back on the glowering features of Cartimandua, and addressed those in the hall.

‘He says your silence proves that what he said is true. It is a sign from the gods. A sign that they have turned against Rome. A sign that the Brigantes should rise up and wage war on Rome. Our gods will strike down the legions just as surely as they struck down their general.’

Most of the queen’s guests looked on aghast, but Cato could see some nodding, a defiant gleam in their eyes as they listened to Venutius.

‘He says that the gods are angry with our queen’s alliance with Rome. They are angry with her decision to hand Caratacus over to the enemy.’

‘We have to shut him up,’ said Macro, hand slipping down to the pommel of his sword. ‘Quickly.’

‘No,’ Cato ordered. ‘We draw a weapon in here and we’re dead.’

‘But we can’t do nothing. We can’t let the bastard stir them up.’

Cato nodded, thinking quickly. Glancing at Otho, he saw that the tribune’s face was frozen in horror. Snatching a deep breath, Cato stood up and filled his lungs and bellowed at the top of his voice to drown out Venutius.

‘Enough! Enough! Hear me! Brigantians, hear me!’ He turned to Vellocatus. ‘Tell them what I say. Exactly what I say.’

The nobleman nodded.

Venutius did not try to compete with Cato but stepped aside and folded his arms and smiled coldly.

‘It is true that General Ostorius is dead. But it is not a sign from the gods. He was old and ill. Even as I speak another officer is taking his place. The legions will serve him just as effectively as they ever served Ostorius. They will crush any tribe that opposes them. Venutius speaks falsely when he says that your gods have cursed us.’

As soon as the words were translated, Venutius interposed himself between Cato and the rest of the hall. There was a fresh note of triumph in his voice as he addressed his people again. Cato looked round and gestured to Vellocatus to resume his translation.

‘He says that he can prove the gods are against Rome. .’

Venutius paused and thrust his hand towards the entrance to the hall where the dying sun painted the wooden frame in a fiery glow. A tall, robed figure stepped on to the threshold and spread his arms wide, black against the bloody red hue of the sky.

‘A Druid,’ said Cato. ‘Shit. .’

At once the new arrival began to speak in a rich, deep timbre, uttering his words in a spell-like rhythm.

‘He says he is Druid of the order of the Dark Moon.’

‘Oh no,’ Cato whispered to himself as he felt an icy trickle of dread flow down his spine. He had encountered the order before, and had nearly paid for it with his life, as had Macro. At the same time he knew that the performance had been carefully planned, even down to his own attempt to deny the omens that Venutius had claimed. While the natives might not wholly believe the queen’s consort, they would readily accept the word of a Druid. Cato looked across to the other table and saw Caratacus smiling at him as Vellocatus continued to translate.

‘The Druid says Venutius speaks the truth. He has seen the omens. The death of the Roman general is a sign that the gods are calling on the Brigantes to rise up and follow the example of Caratacus. They call for war against Rome. They have shown him a vision of a golden eagle drowning in a sea of Roman blood.’

Before the Druid could speak on, Cartimandua was on her feet shouting her reply. She was forced to raise her voice and where it had been mellifluous earlier in the day it now sounded shrill. The Druid fell silent before her edgy onslaught and then she turned her wrath on her consort who gave as good as he got.

Vellocatus had stopped translating, shocked into silence by the bitter confrontation taking place before him.

‘What are they saying?’ Otho demanded, then grabbed his arm and shook him. ‘Translate, damn you!’

Vellocatus blinked and nodded. ‘She tells him to send his Druid away and to leave Isurium at once. Now Venutius says he refuses to leave. He demands a meeting of the tribal council to discuss the omens and the decision to hand Caratacus over to the Romans.’

A chorus of shouts greeted Venutius’s words and his supporters were joined by others, while the remainder looked to their queen with fearful expressions. Some stood up and shouted angrily at those on the side of Venutius.

‘The situation’s turning to shit,’ said Macro. ‘We have to grab Caratacus now and get out of here, before it’s too late.’

‘It’s already too late,’ said Cato. ‘If we touch him, then we’re as good as dead.’

As the angry exchanges in the hall continued, Cartimandua approached her Roman guests and spoke earnestly in Latin. ‘You must go. Get back to your camp. I’ll deal with this.’

Otho shook his head. ‘We can’t leave without Caratacus.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘Are you a fool, Roman? I tell you, go now. Leave by the side entrance and take to your horses.’

‘What will you do?’ Cato asked.

Cartimandua glanced at her consort. ‘I’ll give Venutius his hearing in front of the council. Then I’ll banish him from my court, and from my realm. I’ll have him cut down the moment he ever shows his face here again.’

‘And Caratacus?’

‘He’ll be sent to you at first light. You have my word on it. Now go!’

Cato turned to Tribune Otho who nodded reluctantly and rose from his seat, helping Poppaea up before steering her towards the side entrance Cartimandua had indicated. Cato and Macro followed, keeping a wary eye on those nearest them. A handful of Venutius’s men jeered and whistled. Outside the hall the Romans hurried along its length in the direction of the hill fort’s gate. Otho wrapped his arm protectively round his wife’s shoulder. Macro and Cato grasped their sword handles, ready to draw them the instant there was any danger. On the far side of the open ground, the bodyguards were waiting anxiously, roused to their feet by the uproar. Cato looked up and saw that the sky along the western horizon was stained a deep crimson. Far above the band of light a crescent moon shone against the backdrop of velvet night, like the blade of a scythe. He shuddered at the sight and could not prevent the thought that perhaps the Druid was right about the omens after all.