Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  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 sea
t, 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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tribune Otho gave the order for the men of his column to stand to the moment he returned to the camp. The optios and centurions bawled at their soldiers and the Romans stumbled out of their tents in the last glimmer of the failing light and hurriedly put on their armour and began to form up. Meanwhile, the senior officers met in the tribune’s tent. His wife had retired to their sleeping quarters and drawn the curtain behind her, as if that would shut out the danger that she felt herself to be in. Cato could understand her fears. The mission that her husband had been sent out to accomplish had been overturned by events. Now there was a very real possibility that instead of being welcomed as allies of the Brigantian tribe, their hosts might be persuaded into becoming the enemies of Rome. The prospect of the most powerful tribe in Britannia throwing its support behind someone as wily and determined as Caratacus filled Cato with dread.

  Nor was he the only officer who feared the outcome of the confrontation between Queen Cartimandua and her consort taking place in the hill fort that towered above the Roman camp. A sombre mood settled on the Roman officers as they sat around the tribune’s desk. Otho had briefly described the evening’s events and now paused to let his officers consider the situation. He cleared his throat so that he might sound calm when he continued.

  ‘What are our options, gentlemen?’

  ‘Options?’ Cato folded his hands together. ‘Sir, we have no idea what is happening up there. Until we know otherwise we have to hope that Cartimandua can calm her people down. We should stay in camp until we find out what has happened.’

  Prefect Horatius shook his head. ‘By then it could be too late. We can’t afford to sit on our hands, sir. I say we send a cohort of legionaries in to support the queen. They can arrest those who oppose her and get their hands on Caratacus. Come the morning it will all be over. Order will be restored and no one will dare to question the queen’s authority.’

  Otho nodded slowly before he replied. ‘Do you think one cohort will be sufficient? What if we sent two? There must have been at least several hundred men up there earlier.’

  Cato felt his heart grow heavy as he listened to the exchange and forced himself to expand on the concerns that plagued his mind. ‘Sir, if we send men up to the fort, there will be violence. It doesn’t matter who starts it – blood will be shed. The moment the rest of the tribe hears that Roman soldiers have killed some of their people, no matter what the circumstances, it will turn them against us. We will be playing directly into the hands of Venutius and Caratacus. They will hold it up as an example of what Rome intends for the Brigantes.’

  ‘Not if we clap those two in irons first,’ Horatius responded. ‘If we arrest the ringleaders of the anti-Roman faction we can put an end to their opposition to Rome right now.’

  ‘Or we might just provoke the rest of the tribe into war,’ Cato countered. ‘We can be certain of one thing. Whatever the differences between the factions and tribes of the Brigantian nation, they will bury those differences and turn on us the moment we are seen to be using force against them. Besides, with this moonlight, the moment Roman soldiers advance on the fort they will be seen. Venutius and Caratacus will have plenty of time to make their escape.’

  ‘True, but in that case, they’ll be running with their tails between their legs. We’ll demonstrate our support for the queen’s authority and restore some order at Isurium.’

  Cato bit back on his frustration and forced himself to keep his tone even. ‘It will only serve to make her look powerless. To her people she will seem like a Roman puppet. Any authority over her people that she has right now will collapse.’ He turned to the tribune. ‘We have to give Cartimandua the chance to settle this by herself, sir. You’ve seen that she has a forceful personality. She may yet persuade her nobles to back her against Venutius. We must give her a chance.’

  Otho’s brow creased as he tried to think the matter through. ‘You may be right, Prefect Cato. It could be dangerous to intervene.’

  Horatius snorted. ‘And it might be even more dangerous to sit here and wait on events, sir. I say we go in.’

  ‘And I say I am considering our options,’ Otho replied curtly. ‘We were sent here on a diplomatic mission, Horatius. Not to invade Brigantia.’

  Horatius chewed his lip and was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. ‘If you recall, sir, the legate said that I was to assume command if military action was required.’

  ‘But it isn’t required yet,’ protested Cato. ‘I say we should wait until we know what has happened.’

  ‘And I say we don’t take the risk of letting things get out of control. The time for action is now.’ Horatius slapped his hand on the table. ‘If Prefect Cato is nervous, then he can remain in the camp with his men, and protect our baggage. After all, that’s what he’s good at.’

  This was too much for Macro and he leaned forward aggressively. ‘It was Prefect Cato who turned the battle against Caratacus, in case you’d forgotten, sir. And there’s many of our men still alive now thanks to his quick thinking, and courage, who might otherwise have been killed on that fucking hill.’

  ‘I don’t deny it,’ Horatius replied. ‘Then again, it’s because of Cato that we’re here at all. If he’d kept a better eye on Caratacus . . .’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Otho called out. ‘Be quiet, gentlemen!’

  There was a tense silence before Macro eased himself back, his jaw clenched. Horatius stared back angrily but restrained himself from further comment, for the moment.

  ‘Prefect Cato is right to point out that this is not yet a military matter. I pray to Jupiter that remains the case. We’ll not precipitate any action until we find out what has happened. If it comes to a fight then I will relinquish control of the column to you, Horatius, but not before. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In the meantime, we’ll keep a double watch on the camp walls. Stand down the other units. They can rest behind the ramparts between watches. Horatius, Cato, remain here. The rest of you are dismissed.’

  Once the other officers had filed out of the tent, Otho waited a moment to be sure that they were still not within hearing before he turned his furious expression on his subordinates.

  ‘I swear to the gods that if ever you two cause a scene like that again, I’ll have you relieved of command. That is in my power to do, Horatius, despite the legate’s instructions concerning military command of this column. I’ll thank you to remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Horatius acknowledged through clenched teeth.

  Cato kept his mouth shut. He was angry over being accorded the joint responsibility for the confrontation. He had only been doing his duty in advising his commander of the risks attached to any military action. And the slur Horatius had made about his courage had cut him to the quick. Nevertheless, Otho fixed him with a stem look.

  ‘And you, Cato.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he responded flatly, unhappy at being treated like a badly behaved child by a man some years younger than he was.

  ‘Then there’s no more
to be said, gentlemen. Join your units. We’ll know which of you is right when the morning comes. Or even before then. Dismissed.’

  Cato could not sleep and spent the first hours of the night in the wooden tower above the main gate. Macro stood with him for a while as they gazed towards the hill fort. Torches flared along the palisade and the loom of fires illuminated the roofs of the huts and the hall. There was no sign of flames and Cato guessed that the distant light came from the fire pits used for cooking and others used to light the interior of the fort.

  At one point, just after the midnight watch change was sounded in the Roman camp, there had been loud shouting that seemed to resolve into a chant that continued for a while before fading away. Afterwards there had been no more sounds from the hill fort and its inhabitants might well have been sleeping off the wine, beer and mead they had consumed, for all Cato knew. Or, his thoughts continued, they might be quietly, soberly, drawing up their plans to attack the Roman camp as a prelude to launching a full-scale war against the forces of Emperor Claudius. The tribespeople in the settlement at the foot of the hill seemed to share Cato’s foreboding and there was no sign of light, or life, amid the huts dimly visible in the moonlight. Indeed, the only sign of life came from within the Roman camp as the sentries paced steadily up and down between the towers and turrets along the wall.

  ‘What do you reckon’s happening up there?’ Macro asked softly.

  Cato’s shoulders heaved as he drew a deep breath and organised his thoughts. ‘I’ve no more idea than you, Macro. All we can hope is that Cartimandua has persuaded enough of her people to remain loyal to her. If not, and Venutius has taken control, then we’ll have a war on our hands.’

  ‘In which event Isurium is not going to be a great place to be a Roman.’

  ‘It’ll take a while to summon the tribes. We’ll have a few days’ grace to try and rescue the situation here. That, or get a decent head start on any force that Venutius sends after us.’