Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato and Macro wore their medal harnesses and the silver discs gleamed in the sunlight. A large gold torc encircled Macro’s neck, a trophy he had taken from the brother of Caratacus whom he had killed in single combat shortly after he and Cato first landed on the island many years before. It was a valuable item and Macro usually kept it wrapped in a cloth at the bottom of his kitbag, away from the prying eyes of camp servants and any light-fingered soldiers. Their decorations were in stark contrast to the unadorned chest of their commanding officer, but Otho affected a proud air that he no doubt hoped would impress the natives as much as the gold and silver awards for valour that adorned his subordinates.

  The small party was watched by Horatius and the other officers from the gatehouse that had been constructed that morning, but neither Otho nor the others deigned to turn back for one last glance towards the safety of the camp. Instead they fixed their gaze on the settlement before them, nestling beneath the steep grassy slopes of the hill upon which the fortified capital of the Brigantes stood. They were not the only party making for the court of the queen, Cato noticed. Another small band was climbing the track from the settlement ahead of them and two more groups approached from the direction of the hills to the north. He pointed them out to Macro.

  ‘A gathering of the nobles?’ the centurion wondered.

  Cato nodded. ‘Caratacus’s fate is going to be witnessed by quite an audience, I imagine. Cartimandua wants to make certain that they all get the message that her authority is not to be questioned. And we’re here so that her nobles know that she has powerful friends. Isn’t that the case, Vellocatus?’

  The Brigantian shrugged. ‘It does no harm to impress the fact upon those fools who follow Venutius.’

  By the time they reached the settlement a small crowd had gathered to watch them pass. They stood in silence, dressed in the worn tunics and leggings of peasants. The warrior caste would be accommodated up in the hill fort, Cato knew. The people who lived in the huts and hovels at the foot of the hill cared little for the distant wars affecting other tribes. Their lives were far more concerned with the daily struggle to feed their families. Some regarded the Romans and their native translator with curiosity, some with suspicion and some with fear but none made any attempt to address them. Macro met the gaze of a teenage girl leaning against the gateposts of the settlement and nodded a subtle greeting to her. She smiled back shyly, until her father cuffed her on the head and shoved her away into the crowd.

  Poppaea glanced from side to side and muttered, ‘If this is what passes for their capital city then we are surely amongst savages, far beyond the very fringes of the civilised world.’

  The tribune shot her a warning look. ‘My dear, I would be obliged if you kept such thoughts to yourself. Some of the, uh, savages speak our tongue.’

  Cato overheard the exchange and felt a stab of embarrassment as he glanced sidelong at Vellocatus. The younger man pressed his lips tightly together and clenched his fist round the reins but made no attempt to respond, Cato noted approvingly. The kind of man who knew how to bite back on his pride and keep his mouth shut was likely to be an asset in the coming days.

  The track continued through the settlement, winding between small clusters of huts and pens holding goats and swine. It was a hot summer day and the smell of animals, sweat and sewage was being cooked to a ripe odour that hung heavily in the still air. The track passed out of the settlement and began to zigzag up the hill towards the fort, four hundred feet above. A small cluster of wide-eyed children followed them a short distance before being called back by their parents, or losing interest now that a steep climb was involved.

  As they approached the outer defences of the fort, Cato and Macro cast a professional eye over the earthworks.

  ‘Smaller than that place Legate Vespasian knocked over down south. You remember? That bloody huge fort held by the Durotriges.’

  ‘I remember,’ Cato replied. Macro had been wounded at the time and had not taken part in the attack, only seeing it once it had fallen. For Cato it had been very different. He had infiltrated the fort to rescue hostages while the rest of the Second Legion had mounted the main assault. ‘This one would be a tougher nut to crack.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Much steeper slopes, and any attacker would be exposed to missile fire all the way to the gate complex. It’s a good thing the Brigantes are allies. I’d hate to have to try and take this place. It’s a well-chosen position – a natural fortress.’

  They continued up the slope until they reached the first turn alongside the fort’s outer defences. An outlying bastion rose above them and a handful of sentries gazed down at them as they passed by. Fifty paces further on, the track doubled back into a narrow ravine between the earthworks, and ahead lay the gate, a sturdy pair of timber doors on the far side of a drawbridge. Above the gates was a fortified walkway that gave out on to two palisaded mounds each side of the gate. More sentries looked down on them. Now that they had climbed up from the valley floor a welcome breeze was blowing lightly and the yellow banner of the Brigantes billowed above the gate of Isurium. As the cloth rippled, they could clearly see the outline of the black boar at the centre of the banner, seemingly alive with the movement of the material.

  A small party of warriors holding spears and shields were visible through the opening and Otho turned in his saddle to beckon to Vellocatus.

  ‘I’ll need you in a moment.’

  The other man nodded and spurred his horse forward, edging past Poppaea and taking up position beside the tribune. The drawbridge clattered under their hoofs as the riders crossed the ditch and passed through the gate. A line of men barred their way and Otho halted just in front of them and boldly announced, ‘We’re here as guests of Queen Cartimandua. Step aside.’

  Vellocatus interpreted and the natives’ leader, a large warrior with grey-streaked hair tied back with a leather headband, stared at the Roman before he replied.

  ‘This is Trabus, captain of the queen’s bodyguard,’ Vellocatus translated. ‘He has been sent to escort us to the hall.’

  ‘Then thank him.’ Otho bowed his head. ‘And ask him to lead on.’

  The escort formed up on either side of the riders while Trabus strode ahead. In contrast to the settlement below, the inside of the fort was a much more ordered affair. The huts were arranged round the inside of the rampart, leaving a large open area in front of the royal hall. Twenty or so men were training to one side, engaged in mock duels under the eye of a wiry older warrior whose bare torso was covered in blue tattoos. Six more men, wearing ochre tunics and armed with spears, stood guard at the entrance to the hall and they formed up in front of the open doorway as they saw the party approaching across the training ground.

  Casting his gaze around, Cato took in more details, keenly observing anything that might serve him well at a later time. To one side of the hall stood two lines of stables where a large party of men were standing with some horses, exchanging greetings in loud cheery voices. Just beyond them stood Septimus’s cart and Cato caught a glimpse of him going through his patter with one of the noblemen.

  ‘Must be those riders we saw earlier,’ Macro commented.

  ‘Yes.’ Cato looked them over and then glanced to the other side of the hall where several smaller huts were arranged around a number of fire pits with spit trestles at each end. Women and children were busy butchering lambs and pigs and preparing the fire pits with bundles of kindling. Trabus led them to the hall and then turned and gestured at them to dismount. Two of his men stepped forward to hold the horses as they eased themselves on to the ground where they landed with a clink of armour accoutrements. Macro stretched his head back and looked up at the front of the hall. The lintel above the two doors was a massive length of oak, inlaid with carvings of horses and the swirling designs beloved of the Celts.

  ‘Nice work.’

 
Cato looked up. ‘Makes a change from the skulls some of the other tribes collect.’

  ‘Give ’em time.’

  Otho had taken the arm of his wife and turned to his men. ‘Let’s keep this nice and calm. We’re here as guests.’

  Macro made a quick adjustment to his helmet so that it sat squarely on his head. ‘Just as long as they remember that, sir.’

  The tribune took a deep breath then flashed a smile at his wife before turning towards the entrance to the hall and stepping forward with as much purposeful dignity as he could muster. The remaining men followed him, Macro, Cato and Vellocatus together and the two bodyguards bringing up the rear.

  After the bright sunlight it took a moment to adjust to the dim light inside the hall, then Cato could see that it was lit by gaps along the ridge where shafts of sunlight penetrated the gloomy interior, catching dust motes and insects in their honeyed glow. The floor was paved with smooth slabs of slate and their boots sounded loudly as they entered. Scores of tribespeople, men and women, lined each side of the hall, standing in silence. A broad avenue stretched towards the far end which was dominated by a large wooden throne raised up on a stone platform. It had been positioned beneath a large opening in the thatched roof and the angled light caught the top half of the throne, bathing it in a golden hue. Seated there, still and silent, was a tall, slender woman with a mass of strawberry-blond hair which seemed to glow about her fine features. Cartimandua looked to be in her forties, as far as Cato could judge from his initial impression.

  No one spoke, or even murmured, as the Romans and their translator paced down the length of the hall and approached the queen of the Brigantes, the most powerful tribe in Britannia. To her right Cato could see a powerfully built warrior with plaited hair hanging over his tunic, beneath which his muscular shoulders bulged. He stood with folded arms and eyed the newcomers defiantly. Venutius, Cato guessed.

  Tribune Otho slowed the pace as they approached and stopped a short distance from the step leading up to the throne. Now that Cartimandua was no more than ten feet from him, Cato could see that she was quite beautiful, even though she had left her youth behind many years before. Her eyes were brown, dark and penetrating and her cheekbones were high and made her jaw look slim and deep. She scrutinised each Roman in turn, starting and ending with Poppaea.

  The tribune bowed his head. ‘I am Marcus Salvius Otho, senior tribune of the Ninth Legion. This is my wife, Poppaea Sabina.’

  Poppaea bowed her head stiffly.

  ‘And these officers are Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro of the Fourteenth Legion.’

  Cato and Macro saluted.

  ‘We have come here on the orders of General Ostorius, who sends warm messages of friendship to Queen Cartimandua and her people, to apprehend an enemy of Rome. And therefore an enemy of us both.’

  Cartimandua smiled faintly before she turned to Vellocatus and spoke for the first time in a commanding tone, more deep and resonating than was typical for a woman. Vellocatus quickly stepped forward and dropped to one knee in front of her as he intoned a formal greeting. Cartimandua’s eyes fell on him and Cato saw the corners of her mouth lift momentarily in pleasure. She reached forward and cupped his cheek in a slender hand and then patted him lightly.

  Cato’s eyes flickered to the man he had taken to be Venutius; he glared coldly at Cartimandua and her young favourite.

  ‘No love lost there,’ Macro whispered. ‘And she’s not exactly hiding her affections.’

  Cartimandua lowered her hand and sat back, fixing her eyes on the tribune. She was still for a moment, and the rest of the hall took their lead from her so that the new arrivals felt the gaze of hundreds of eyes upon them. She spoke to Vellocatus and he nodded before he rose to his feet and took his station beside the Romans. Then Cartimandua spoke again for all to hear, and her words were translated for the tribune and his companions.

  ‘I bid our Roman guests and allies welcome to the great hall of the Brigantes. They will be shown every courtesy by our royal order. We have pledged our friendship to Rome, as they have pledged to support our interests and independence and gifted us gold and silver as guarantee of their intent to honour the treaty between us. All here know this and are bound by the sacred oath I swore as our pledge to Rome. Now comes the first great test of that treaty.’

  Cato saw her left hand give the merest flicker of movement and a figure to the side of the platform eased himself towards a small doorway at the side of the hall as the queen continued.

  ‘There comes amongst us a fugitive who was once a great king in the south of the island. A great warrior who has been an unflinching enemy of Rome since they first set foot on Britannia. In the course of his struggle, he has been defeated time and again by the legions of Rome. Losing his realm, he chose to lead other tribes against Rome and all have been defeated and destroyed and their lands are filled with cries of lamentation and despair. A fate the Brigantes have been spared. A fate we shall not countenance for our people.’ Her gaze travelled across the assembled nobles, daring any of them to defy her will. ‘This king, having been defeated and driven from the mountains of the Silures and the Ordovices, now comes to us to ask for shelter and sustenance, demanding our hospitality, which our custom obliges us to provide. But there are limits to such obligations when they endanger their hosts and a decision has to be made between our customs and our very survival. It is for this reason that we have summoned you to bear witness to the fate of this king . . . Caratacus.’

  As her words echoed down the length of the hall, Cato saw the man emerge from the side door at the head of a small party. Four large warriors in ochre tunics and wearing swords in shoulder slings escorted an even larger man in their midst. Caratacus was finely dressed in a blue tunic and white leggings. His hair had been plaited and hung down his broad back. A gold torc gleamed about his neck. He strode towards the platform with his head tilted slightly so that he seemed to tower over those around him. His appearance and demeanour was not so much that of a prisoner of the Brigantes as a king advancing into the hall with his personal bodyguard.

  Despite the fact he was the sworn enemy of Rome, Cato could not help feeling admiration for his proud bearing. He sensed the same mood in the rest of the hall and felt a sickening sense of foreboding in his stomach. The enemy leader was a man who commanded instant respect by his very presence. It was small wonder that so many had been willing to follow him to defeat and death across the long years of conflict with Rome.

  The one-time king of the Catuvellauni made to address the gathering but he was cut off by a sharp word from Cartimandua and she glared at him threateningly. Caratacus bowed his head with a small smile and the queen drew a fresh breath to address the hall.

  ‘We are bound by our treaty with Rome to deliver this man into their custody,’ Vellocatus translated, ‘and we shall honour that obligation.’

  What seemed like a sigh swept through the crowd and there were pockets of muttering. The queen rose to her feet and spoke again in a cold, determined voice.

  ‘We have made our decision and it will not be undone!’ She glared round defiantly before she continued in a more moderate tone, ‘However, there is no need to abandon our good reputation for hospitality. Tonight, there will be a feast in honour of Caratacus, before he is taken into Roman custody.’

  ‘Feast?’ Macro sucked in a breath through his teeth. ‘For that bastard?’

  ‘Shh!’ Cato hissed softly.

  Tribune Otho could not help revealing his surprise and then a flash of anger at the announcement. He turned swiftly to Vellocatus. ‘Tell your queen that is not acceptable. This man is an enemy of Rome, a fugitive from our justice. He should be in chains.’

  ‘No!’ She stabbed a finger at him to silence the Roman and spoke in Latin. ‘You too are guests here and it ill behoves a
guest to dictate terms to their host. So you will keep such thoughts to yourself, Tribune, if you have even the slightest conception of civilised manners. Is that understood?’

  Otho was taken aback by her outburst, delivered in his tongue, and his jaw sagged briefly before he nodded. But his wife was not so easily discomforted and she took half a step forward and tilted her head towards the Brigantian queen. ‘Now you listen here, no one speaks to a Roman like that. No one.’

  ‘But I just did,’ Cartimandua replied evenly. ‘And if you wish for a place at the feast you would do well to speak only when spoken to, Lady Poppaea.’

  Poppaea’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot up in outrage and her husband took her arm. ‘No more, my dear. This is not the time or place for it.’

  Caratacus had been watching the brief altercation with wry amusement and now his gaze turned to Cato.

  ‘Ah, Prefect Cato. My short-lived captor. I trust that my escape did not cause you too much personal inconvenience.’

  Cato bowed his head to the enemy king. ‘Sir, I will not deny that it displeased General Ostorius. However, it now seems that it is your escape that is short-lived.’

  ‘You think so? Truly?’

  ‘The queen has spoken. You will be back in our hands come the morrow. We already have your brothers, your wife, your children, and tomorrow we shall have you. The war you have waged against Rome is over. There will be peace. So I suggest you enjoy the feast tonight, sir. It will be the last one you enjoy as a free man.’

  Caratacus’s expression darkened for a moment before he smiled coldly and spoke in a menacing undertone. ‘Perhaps it is you who should be enjoying the feast, Prefect Cato. Who knows? It might well be the last meal you ever eat.’