Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Quite.’ Otho nodded sourly. ‘And if the payment isn’t made after I have given my word then I am dishonoured.’

  ‘If that’s the price to pay for taking our most dangerous enemy out of the game then it’s worth paying, sir.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I’m the one in command.’

  ‘Goes with the rank, sir.’ Macro pursed his lips. ‘Sometimes you eat the wolf. Sometimes the wolf eats you.’

  Otho frowned. ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’

  ‘Just a saying, sir. It’s your decision.’

  ‘Thank you for pointing that out, Centurion Macro. You’re very helpful.’ Otho clenched his eyes shut for a moment, sucked in a deep breath and sighed bitterly before his eyes snapped open. ‘Right. We take Caratacus at the first opportunity and get out of here. Meanwhile, no one is to breathe a word about Ostorius.’

  ‘You’ll have to notify Horatius to do the same in the camp, sir,’ Cato pointed out.

  ‘Yes . . . Of course. At once.’ Otho flipped open the waxed tablet and hesitated. He glanced up. ‘Stylus, anyone?’

  Macro looked at him blankly and Cato instinctively began to reach for his sidebag before realising he had left it back in camp.

  ‘Terrific,’ Otho muttered, then drew his dagger and as carefully as he could with the clumsy instrument, he inscribed a brief response to Horatius. Snapping the wooden tablet shut he sheathed his dagger and beckoned to the messenger. The soldier had been watching and ran across to the tribune.

  ‘Take this back to camp. It is to be handed directly to Prefect Horatius. Tell him to act upon my orders precisely. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go.’

  The messenger turned hurriedly.

  ‘Wait,’ Otho growled. ‘Don’t rush. That will only draw the natives’ attention to you. Show ’em that Romans keep cool heads, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier walked steadily towards the horses, swung himself up into the saddle and urged it into a gentle trot as he made for the gatehouse and disappeared out of sight down the track towards the settlement.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Otho concluded. ‘The die is cast. Nothing to do now but wait for the feast to begin.’

  Cato smiled encouragingly, relieved that the tribune had made the best possible decision under the circumstances. It hardly equated to crossing the Rubicon but if that thought allowed the young aristocrat to flatter himself that he was making a difficult but right decision then Cato was content to let it pass.

  ‘Speaking of dice . . .’ Macro nodded towards the two bodyguards. ‘Might as well pass the time usefully. Sir?’

  Otho raised an eyebrow. ‘What? Oh, yes. As you wish, Centurion.’

  Macro saluted and glanced at Cato. ‘How about you?’

  Cato was tempted to turn the offer down. There was too much to think about. Then he realised that there was nothing he could do about the situation. He had done all that he could to influence the matter. Now it was up to the gods to look kindly on their plans, or throw a completely new twist of fate in their path. He nodded at Macro.

  ‘Why not? Our luck has to change for the better some day.’

  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 forehe
ad 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 turn
ed 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?’