The decurion nodded and then saluted. ‘Yes, sir. You can count on me.’
‘Very well.’ Cato returned the salute.
Miro turned and briskly made his way to where the rest of the cohort was waiting for the column to set off. Cato turned his attention back to the men of the vanguard.
‘You all know why you were picked for this duty! You are the best men in the cohort. And that marks you out from every other cavalry unit in the army. There is no finer cohort than the Second Thracian – the Blood Crows. But that honour comes with a price. Our reputation has been hard won over the years that the cohort has been campaigning in Britannia. And like all reputations, what takes years to build can be torn down in a single moment of disgrace . . .’ Cato paused to look sternly at his men. ‘That I will not allow. Today we may face a stern test of our self-discipline and courage. I want every man here to understand what I require of him. And that is, absolute obedience. Whatever happens, however you are goaded or provoked, you will ignore it. You will not react. You will do nothing unless I explicitly order it. I do not care if some stinking, hairy Brigantian goatherd leaps up into your saddle and fucks you in the arse. If it happens, it happens, and if you so much as wince, then I’ll have you shovelling the shit from the latrine of Centurion Macro’s cohort for the rest of your days!’
There was a smattering of laughter at the comment, and Cato blessed the rivalry between the two units that had served together for the best part of a year. Although he had made a joke of it, he knew his men would heed his stricture all the more avidly for fear of being shamed in front of their comrades.
‘Blood Crows!’ His smile faded. ‘Mount!’
The horsemen turned towards their saddles, paused for the standard silent count of one-two-three and then swung themselves up into their saddles and took up their reins to steady their mounts and dress their ranks. When they were ready, Cato turned his horse towards the front of the column and swept his arm forward.
‘In column of fours, advance!’
They walked past the infantry of Horatius’s cohort and then began to pass the men of Macro’s cohort who would back them up in the event of a fight. Macro was waiting at the head of the First Century and saluted as his friend approached.
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘And you, Centurion.’
A formal exchange, and yet both men were conscious of the deep bond they shared. How many times over the years had they faced such moments? Cato wondered. And yet this was different. A new kind of courage was required to hold back all the training that had taught them to strike first at an enemy. Training and an instinct for self-preservation, thought Cato.
‘If anything goes wrong, I want you to be the one who tells Julia.’
‘Perish the thought, sir.’
‘Interesting choice of words.’ Cato smiled and continued forward on to the track until the rearmost rank of the vanguard was ten paces ahead of Macro’s cohort.
‘Blood Crows! Halt!’
The horsemen drew up and their mounts stood ready, ears twitching, and the occasional thud or scrape of a hoof on the packed earth of the track. There was nothing to do now until the command was given for the column to advance. The sun had already risen and was washing the landscape with warm glow. The tribesmen waiting ahead of them were bathed in the same light, which somehow made them seem larger than life to Cato’s eyes. He wondered if it was simply the tension gnawing at his stomach. Even though he could not quite believe that Belmatus and his handful of men would really sacrifice themselves so willingly to start a war, he could not still his nerves. Something was not quite right about the situation, and he could not pin the doubt down.
There was only a brief delay before the last element of the column was in position and then a horn sounded through the morning air, a clear, carrying note that echoed back off the slopes of the closest hills.
Cato filled his lungs and called over his shoulder, ‘Blood Crows! Advance!’
With a click of his tongue and a gentle nudge of his heels he urged his mount to walk forward, eyes fixed on the tribesmen blocking his path no more than half a mile ahead. The air filled with the clop of hoofs, the dull pounding of nailed boots and the rumble of the baggage train. Above, flights of swifts whipped through the air in search of their first meal of the day, some soaring above while others flashed between the shrubs and longer clumps of grass, speckled with yellow and white flowers. All of which imposed themselves on Cato’s heightened senses as he steadily climbed the gentle rise to the crest of the hill where Belmatus and his men were waiting.
He could already pick their leader out. The warrior sat on his stallion in the middle of the track, hand on hip in a haughty pose that Cato had come to recognise as typical of the men who led the tribes of the island. For a moment he wished he had Vellocatus at hand to translate if there was any exchange of words. But Vellocatus had been ordered to travel in Poppaea’s carriage where he would be out of sight. The tribune had been right to do that, Cato reflected. The sight of one of their own, riding with the Romans, could well stir the passions of the natives into an act of violence that all would regret. And, Cato reasoned, there was no need for a translator. He knew exactly what he must do and words would be superfluous, and possibly dangerous in such a situation. At the root of it all Cato recognised that he was only wishing for the man’s presence because he felt exposed riding at the front of the column alone. His heart was beating quickly and he felt the blood racing through his veins as he maintained a composed air and stared straight ahead.
Then, when he was no more than a hundred paces from the crest, a great roar filled the air, startling birds into flight. Beyond the small party of waiting horsemen, the ground was suddenly alive with more men, hundreds of them, surging forward to swell the ranks of the riders. A cold stab of fear thrust up inside Cato’s chest but he clenched his jaw and continued advancing, true to his orders. He looked back quickly and noted with pride that none of his men had faltered, even though they had readied their spears and raised their shields to cover their bodies. Cato did the same with his own shield and shifted his reins to the right hand to remove the temptation to rest it on the pommel of his sword.
The tribesmen made no attempt to move forward but stood and jeered, brandishing fists and weapons. As Cato closed on them, a thin young warrior darted forward and turned his back to the oncoming Romans. Grasping the hem of his tunic, he hauled it up to reveal his buttocks and then bent forward to thrust the pale cheeks towards Cato. He stifled a smirk at the youngster’s hubris and pretended to ignore the gesture. The youth darted aside at the last moment and left Cato face to face with Belmatus.
The Brigantian nobleman stood his ground and Cato subtly tweaked his reins so as to pass just to the side of the man. No words were spoken, only their eyes clashed, a steely, unbending exchange of glares, and then Cato passed by him. Beyond lay a mass of shouting, gesticulating tribesmen, and Cato looked over their heads as he walked his horse on. Like all cavalry mounts it had long since been battle-trained and was inured to the sounds of shouting, the blasts of horns and the clash of weapons. Even so, the beast snorted and jerked its neck as it raised its head away from the men in its path.
Cato felt a man brush past his leg and tried not to flinch. No attempt was made to stop his horse, nor to lay a hand on it, or him. Then there was a flicker of movement to his right and some muck landed on his chest, splattering his chin. The smell of shit assaulted his nostrils, but he forced himself not to react. Not even to brush it off. Then he was through the line of tribesmen and emerged, unscathed, on to the crest of the hill. Before him the track continued into the hills of Brigantia. He rode on a short distance before looking back and saw that his men were holding their discipline, ignoring the abuse and filth thrown at them. Then he caught sight of Belmatus, who had shifted to the side of the track. The nobleman turned and saw Cato at the same time and Ca
to could see the frustration in his expression.
At once, all the tension seemed to drain from Cato’s body and he felt an urgent desire to laugh out loud as he realised that Belmatus and his men had been given precisely the same orders as he had. They, too, had been instructed not to land the first blow, but were free to do anything short of that to provoke the Romans to violence. Now that the bluff had been exposed, that was not going to happen, Cato thought with relief.
The column trudged forward through the heart of the baying mob but not one blow was exchanged, not one Roman turned to hurl abuse back at the Brigantians, and a short time later the vanguard left Belmatus and his men in its wake. From the top of the next hill Cato turned aside to look back and saw the nobleman wave his arm angrily at his men until they fell silent and stood still, watching the backs of the Roman soldiers as they marched off across the serene sprawl of the countryside. Cato took out his canteen and rinsed off as much of the shit as he could. The next time, he might not be so lucky, he mused. It would be an arrow, spear or slingshot that was hurled at him.
The column continued into the hills that stretched into the distance on both sides and the natives kept pace with them on either flank. There were no more attempts to stand in their way and that night the two forces set up camp less than a mile apart. The sprawl of the Brigantian fires illuminated the natives in a ruddy glow as they gathered about the flames and talked in the animated way of the Celts. Their voices carried to the orderly lines of the ramparts where Roman soldiers patrolled in silence, stopping from time to time to cast a wary eye on their neighbours, before resuming their steady pace as their eyes scanned the darkness for any sign of danger. As the night drew on, the natives fell to singing. At first the tunes were raucous and good-spirited, but by and by they fell to more gentle, soulful songs that sounded sorrowful to Cato’s ear as he walked the section of the perimeter entrusted to his men.
In the normal course of events it was the duty of the optio in charge of the watch to ensure that the men remained alert, but Cato had not been able to sleep. Taking up his cloak he had made his way on to the sentry walk and passed from post to post, giving the password each time he was challenged. Cato approached one of the corner platforms where the dark mass of a ballista loomed against the lighter shades of the landscape, barely lit by the distant curved gleam of a crescent moon, no wider than the lethal curve of the daggers Cato had once seen in Judaea. He heard a muttered exchange between two men and his lips pressed together in an angry line as he prepared to berate the sentries. Then he made out Macro’s voice.
‘Tuneful lot, ain’t they? What are they singing about now?’
There was a pause before the other man replied. ‘It’s a lament . . . About the wife of a warrior waiting for her man to return from battle. She doesn’t know it, but her man has fallen. A hero’s death. She stands at the gate of her village with the other women and searches for the face of her beloved amongst those returning, until the last of them has passed. And then she knows . . .’
Cato recognised the voice of Vellocatus as he spoke. The Brigantian was interrupted by a gruff snort.
‘Not very cheerful,’ said Macro. ‘Still, the tune isn’t too bad. Not too bad at all. You’ll have to teach it to me some day . . .’
He turned as he sensed Cato’s presence and nodded a greeting as he recognised his friend. ‘Evening, sir.’
‘Centurion.’ Cato nodded and his eyes shifted to the native translator. The man’s features were just discernible in the faint glow of the moon. Enough to see the pained expression as he glanced towards the distant campfires. ‘Anything to report?’
‘No. Belmatus and his boys are being as good as gold. And they’re providing a bit of entertainment.’
‘Let’s hope they continue to behave.’ Cato stepped up to the palisade beside them and looked out over the intervening ground. ‘I wonder if they’re going to keep this up all the way to Isurium.’
‘The singing I can live with. But, if they want a fight, then they’ll come off worst.’
‘Unless they’re reinforced. Besides, the further we go into their territory, the longer the retreat, if it comes to that.’
‘Do you know,’ Macro responded, ‘I had worked that out for myself.’
Cato was irritated with himself for the unnecessary comment. It betrayed his nerves. He flashed his friend a quick smile. ‘Sorry.’
The three men fell silent as they listened to the soft sound of the singing drifting through the night. Then Cato was aware that Vellocatus was quietly humming along with the melody and it occurred to him that the translator would rather be with his compatriots than here on the rampart. He cleared his throat.
‘Why are you here, Vellocatus?’
The Brigantian turned to him sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, why are you with us rather than with them?’ Cato gestured towards the distant figures gathered round the campfires.
Vellocatus looked at the Roman officer shrewdly. ‘You mean, why am I helping you rather than my compatriots?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am here on the orders of my queen.’
‘Why did she choose you?’
‘Because I speak your tongue. Because she trusts me. Those are reasons enough. Besides, she ordered me to. I have no choice in the matter.’
‘We all have choices. You could have chosen to side with those who would rather not hand Caratacus over to us. You could have joined the faction of Venutius. But you didn’t. I’m curious to know why.’
The other man casually rubbed the back of his neck. ‘In truth, I am a shield-bearer of Venutius. Something of an honour in our tribe. I will not deny I was proud that he chose me. Venutius is a great warrior. As courageous as he is strong. Our people admire him. That is why he came to the attention of Cartimandua in the first place. That is why she took him as her consort. With Venutius at her side she purposed to strengthen her hold over our people and unite them.’ Vellocatus gave a wry smile. ‘Unity is a quality that most of the tribes on this island pay scant heed to, as you Romans may have noticed. If we had placed greater value in uniting against you then your legions would have been driven back into the sea long ago.’
‘You think so?’ Macro intervened. ‘I think our determination to see a job through is more than a match for your unity.’
‘Good as your legions are, even they would never be able to overcome the combined might of our tribes. If the Brigantes go to war against Rome, there is a very real prospect that you will be defeated.’
‘I think you overestimate your chances, young man.’
‘Vellocatus,’ Cato turned to face him. ‘If what you say is true, then why doesn’t every man in your tribe choose to follow Venutius?’
The translator hesitated. ‘There are two main factions amongst the Brigantes, the western tribes and those in the east. Venutius comes from the western tribes and there are many there who have ties to the Ordovices. Their sympathies are with Caratacus and his allies. There are some who would willingly fight Rome. That’s why the queen chose Venutius for a consort, to hold our people together. She, and I, come from the eastern lands. We have less cause to hate Rome. Besides, there is always the risk of defeat, and the queen is cautious of exposing her people to the consequences. I agree with her.’
‘Spoken like a true warrior,’ Macro jibed.
Vellocatus stiffened. ‘Even a shield-bearer to a hero like Venutius can understand that war is not the answer to everything, Centurion. I saw that my queen was right to tread carefully. The certainty of peace with Rome is better than the risk of defeat and the crushing of our people under your heel. I have no desire to share the fate of the Catuvellauni or the Durotriges. Nor do many in our tribe. The queen knows this, and shares their concerns.’
‘You seem to know the queen’s mind rather well,’ Cato said evenly. ‘For som
eone who serves as the shield-bearer of Venutius.’
The young nobleman opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, then looked away.
Cato sensed he had stepped on troubled ground and needed to proceed more tactfully. He changed the line of enquiry. ‘And what does the queen’s consort make of her caution?’
‘Venutius is a warrior, born and bred. He has led our tribe in battle many times. But being a leader is not the same thing as being a ruler. That requires wisdom along with courage, as I have come to learn through my service to the queen. He is no longer content to be her consort but has ambition to rule in her place so that he can lead his people in a war with Rome, with Caratacus at his side.’
‘Caratacus is the not the kind of man to stand at anyone’s side,’ said Cato. ‘He won’t be content to let Venutius command your people. That is the role he wants for himself. And another army to oppose us with. He’ll fight us to the last drop of blood of any man in Britannia that he can talk into following him. Only Queen Cartimandua stands in his way.’
‘Not just her. There are still many of us who are loyal to her,’ Vellocatus replied fiercely. ‘We’ll not stand by and let Ventius take the throne.’
Macro cocked his head. ‘Loyal to the queen, but not loyal to your warlord, eh?’
‘My duty is to my people, my queen and then Venutius.’
‘Very laudable.’ Macro nodded to Cato. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cato replied, and then kept quiet as he waited for the young man to continue. Instead, Vellocatus took one last look at the glow of the fires before he turned back to the two Roman officers.
‘I’m exhausted. I shall retire if you don’t mind.’
Cato stared fixedly at him and then nodded. ‘Of course. Sleep well.’
The Brigantian nobleman nodded curtly and hurried down the interior slope of the rampart before striding in the direction of the headquarters tent.
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