Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  Otho rubbed his brow slowly. ‘Are you suggesting that if we are opposed then we should turn back?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. If we turn back Venutius will claim the credit for it and it will weaken the queen’s position.’

  ‘Either way, the situation at Isurium gets worse for us. We are damned if we do push on, and damned if we don’t.’

  Cato repressed his irritation. He disliked this kind of categoric thinking. It forced all real possibilities of outcome into two channels and limited the scope for action as a result.

  ‘No, sir. I’m just pointing out that the decision isn’t between going on and turning back. Either of those will damage any support that we have amongst the Brigantes. Therefore neither is the best course of action.’

  ‘Then what is?’ Otho demanded in frustration.

  ‘We must continue our advance tomorrow,’ Cato said patiently. ‘Besides, as Horatius has pointed out, those are our orders – unless the legate has included a contingency against proceeding if we are opposed.’

  Otho shook his head.

  ‘Then we go on,’ Cato said firmly. ‘But we must not provoke any violence. We must avoid it at all costs.’

  Horatius leaned forward. ‘At all costs short of defending ourselves.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Cato conceded. ‘But if any blows are struck, then we have to ensure that theirs is the first.’

  There was a brief pause before Macro spoke. ‘The lads ain’t going to like that. They’re not trained to stand there and take it from the enemy.’

  ‘But they aren’t the enemy,’ Cato responded. ‘Not yet, at least, and that’s how we want to keep things. If it comes to a fight then we may lose a few men to start with. Better that than be the cause of a war that costs many more lives, all because our men lack the discipline to see this through.’ He turned his attention back to the tribune. ‘Sir, you need to change the marching order tomorrow. If we are confronted, then we’re going to need the right men in the vanguard. Men we can trust to do exactly as they are told.’

  Tribune Otho gave a thin smile. ‘Your men, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But haven’t they something of an unfortunate reputation amongst the natives? I’d heard that your men are a bloodthirsty lot, Cato. Hardly the sort we can entrust with keeping the peace.’

  ‘That’s the point, sir. Their reputation will march ahead of them. When Belmatus and his men see the Blood Crows’ standard at the head of the column, it may cause them to think twice before they engage us.’

  ‘It’s not their side that concerns me. What if you can’t control your men? What if they strike first?’

  ‘They won’t,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I’ll pick the men myself, and make sure they understand what I require of them. I trust them, sir. So can you.’

  Otho stared at Cato and weighed up the choices available to him. At length he folded his hands together and glanced round at the other officers. ‘Any comment?’

  No one responded and there was a short silence before Otho sighed. ‘Then it seems I am obliged to continue the advance towards Isurium. Given the situation, we will march as if in enemy territory. Besides the nightly fortifications, we’ll double the guard on the camp. We’ll also advance in close formation. On the morrow, Prefect Cato and half of his cohort will lead the vanguard. Prefect Horatius, your men will guard the flanks of the column. Gentlemen, make sure that your officers tell their men that it is vital they not let themselves be provoked by the tribesmen. Nor, if we pass any settlements, are they to take anything from the natives. If there is any theft, any violence, then I will shit on the man responsible, and his commanding officer, from a very great height. Do I make myself clear?’

  The officers nodded and muttered their assent.

  Otho turned his eyes back to Cato. ‘You’ll be leading the way. If anything happens, I’ll hold you directly responsible, Prefect. If a conflict breaks out between Rome and Brigantia, I will make sure that everyone from Legate Quintatus up to the Emperor himself knows that you were the cause of it.’

  Cato stared back, struggling to retain his composed expression. Inside he felt contempt for the tribune’s readiness to shift responsibility from his shoulders to that of his subordinate. The column was Otho’s command. He had his orders. He knew his duty. And yet he shirked from exposing himself to the full consequences of assuming the rank he had been entrusted with. Cato felt disappointed in the man. Much as Otho seemed typical of his class, he had been spirited enough in the battle against Caratacus and his army. Perhaps he had exceeded the measure of confidence that was innate to his nature. That was what ultimately separated the lesser officers from the best, Cato had come to learn. Confidence was the source of competence. Arrogance might also help a man, but it was a brittle quality and founded on delusion rather than good judgement and therefore dangerous. Was that Otho’s weak spot? His Achilles’ heel?

  Then a dark suspicion seeped into Cato’s mind. What if he was misjudging the tribune? What if he was deliberately, albeit very cautiously, seeking to undermine his mission? It might be that he was the enemy agent sent to Britannia by Pallas to do all that he could to deny peace to the province. His eagerness to place Cato in charge of the vanguard might be motivated by the chance that Cato would be amongst the first to perish if there was a confrontation with the tribesmen. It would be a most economical solution, Cato thought with a touch of admiration. Pallas would have provoked the war with Brigantia that he wanted and the elimination of his prey at one stroke. Otho’s column would be forced to withdraw and Macro could be disposed of later.

  Cato took a long deep breath before he responded to his commanding officer. ‘I will do my duty, sir. I will not provide the excuse for a new war.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Otho replied flatly. ‘Now, unless there’s any other matter that anyone wants to raise? No? Then you’re dismissed.’

  The officers rose from their stools and left the tent. Macro let out a relieved puff as they emerged into the cool night. Above them the sky was completely clear and the stars glimmered like tiny gems. A half-moon hung low in the sky, not far above the line of the hills, and by its light they could just make out a single horseman watching over the Roman camp from the nearest crest. The other officers turned and strode back towards their units. Macro and Cato lingered a moment a short distance from the tribune’s headquarters tent.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ asked Macro. ‘Is there going to be trouble tomorrow?’

  ‘Who knows? All I can do is play my part in seeing that our side doesn’t cause it.’

  ‘Yes. Nice of the tribune to finger you for the job.’

  Cato gave a dry chuckle. ‘It was my idea. I’ll take responsibility for it.’

  Macro glanced at his friend. The pale glow of the moon made the prefect’s skin look cold, like marble. ‘You take care, lad. I don’t care what you said back in the tent. If one of them barbarians comes at you tomorrow then take no risks. Skewer the bastard before he gets the chance to do the same.’

  Cato’s lips parted in a quick smile. ‘I’ll have to see about that.’ His expression hardened. ‘Actually, it’s not just the danger from the barbarians that concerns me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  They were interrupted by the soft laughter of the tribune’s wife, carrying easily to their ears. Four of the tribune’s bodyguards stood silently by the entrance to the tent, within listening distance. Cato steered his friend away from the tent. ‘Not here. I think it’s time we had a little drink.’

  Macro’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. ‘Ah! Now, you’re talking.’

  Then he grasped the true import behind Cato’s words and his shoulders sagged a little as they turned to make their way across to the small wagon parked in the corner of the camp.

  A brazier lit the open area in front of the w
ine merchant’s wagons and a modest crowd stood, or sat, in small clusters as they sipped from simple clay beakers and talked in the quiet manner of soldiers who were weary from the day’s march but broadly content with their lot. The men parted to let the two officers through to the counter set up a short distance from the side of the wagon. Septimus’s slave was busy serving customers while his master stood to one side mixing cheap wine with water.

  ‘We’ll have two cups,’ Cato announced as he reached into his purse and took out a few brass coins. ‘Decent wine, mind you.’

  Septimus had looked up the moment he recognised the prefect’s voice. He lowered the jug he was holding and smiled obsequiously. ‘Alas, no wine, my dear sirs. Only posca, carefully blended with fresh spring water by my own hand. Most refreshing.’

  ‘We want wine,’ Macro insisted.

  Septimus raised his hands and shrugged his regret. ‘I cannot, on the orders of his excellency, Tribune Otho. He does not wish any man under his command to become drunk. So watered wine it is. Or no wine.’ Septimus lowered his voice, just enough so that he could still be heard by the nearest soldiers. ‘But, for my special customers, dear sirs, there is always wine. I have a few choice jars in my wagon, if you are interested?’

  Cato nodded and Septimus casually waved them in the direction of the end of the wagon. Some of the nearest men shot glances at their superiors and exchanged brief grumbles about the privileges of rank before returning to their original muted conversations. Septimus led the two officers to the tailgate and reached through the leather flaps of the cover to extract a small jar. He gestured at it occasionally as he spoke.

  ‘It’s best if we keep this brief. What’s the matter?’

  ‘You saw the men watching us earlier in the day?’

  Septimus nodded.

  ‘They’re threatening to block our way tomorrow.’

  ‘I heard as much from your Decurion Miro. He was here a short time ago, trying to drown his sorrows.’

  ‘He’s not going to get far down that road on posca,’ said Macro.

  ‘Just as well. Don’t think the man would like a hangover on top of his other woes.’ Septimus turned his attention back to Cato. ‘So?’

  Cato hesitated a moment. ‘Otho’s looking for an excuse to turn the column round.’ He briefly recounted the briefing that he and Macro had attended at headquarters.

  ‘I see . . . And you think there may be more to it than a case of rattled nerves?’

  ‘The tribune didn’t lack for courage in his first battle,’ Macro pointed out. ‘He’d hardly turn tail because a sorry-arsed bunch of tribesmen told him not to trespass on their turf.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Cato. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

  Septimus scratched his nose. ‘You think he’s our man? Pallas’s agent?’

  ‘He could be. He’s in a perfect position to make sure this mission fails, long before we even get close enough to Caratacus to take him into our custody.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Septimus conceded. ‘And the fact that he’s keen to put you in harm’s way would seem to support your interpretation. But it’s hardly conclusive proof.’

  ‘He has to play this carefully,’ Cato continued. ‘Whoever turns out to be the agent has to cover his tracks. Not only to protect himself, but to protect Pallas. If there’s a crisis here in Britannia, and someone can trace the origins back to the Emperor’s freedman then Pallas is going to get nailed to a cross, and all those associated with him.’

  ‘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

  Cato 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?’