Most of the men sitting round the table had been quick to see the futility of resisting the advance of the iron might of the legions. They had turned out to welcome Verica when four cohorts of legionaries escorted the former king through the gates of Calleva, up its winding streets, and into the royal enclosure. Only a year before they had been denouncing Verica as the weak and cowardly puppet of Rome. Now they had swallowed their pride and principles and were puppets themselves. And they knew it.
Verica leaned back in his chair and continued, ‘Those men we call traitors are acting out of personal conviction. They have an ideal – something, I might add, that is in short supply around this table tonight. . Verica dared any of them to look him in the eye and deny it. Artax alone met the challenging glint in his king’s eyes. Verica nodded his approval and continued. ‘Such men believe in a bond that unites the Celts across tribal boundaries. They believe in a greater loyalty than mere blind obedience to their king.’
Cadminius shook his head. ‘What greater loyalty could there be than that?’
‘Loyalty to one’s race, to one’s culture, to the bloodline from which we spring. Isn’t that a loyalty worth fighting for? Worth dying for?’ Verica concluded quietly. ‘Well. . .?’
There was a power to the old king’s rhetoric that touched the souls of some of the men round the table. A few were even bold enough to nod their agreement. But Tincommius was staring at his uncle with a calculating expression.
‘What are you suggesting then, sire?’
‘What do you think I am suggesting? If indeed I am suggesting anything at all. I merely wished to try to explain to you why some of our tribe should choose to turn their backs on us, shame their families and go and fight for Caratacus. We must try to understand what drives them to this if we are to resist such forces acting on the minds of others.’
‘Must we also reconsider our alliance with Rome?’ Tincommius asked quietly.
There was a stunned intake of breath as the other nobles wondered at the brash candour of Tincommius’ question. King Verica stared at him, and slowly a smile formed on his lips.
‘Why?’ Verica asked his kinsman. ‘Why would I want to reconsider?’
‘I’m not saying you would want to, I’m merely suggesting that we need to consider all the choices before us. That’s all. . .’ Tincommius’ voice tailed off as he became aware that all the other men were watching him closely.
‘For the sake of argument,’ Verica spoke in an even tone, ‘what choices do we think we have? I’d appreciate it if everyone here spoke his mind. We must have a thorough airing of all the possible positions, even if we decide against them at the end of the evening. So, Tincommius, what choices are there, in your. . . humble opinion?’
The young man knew he had been set up, and tried not to sound resentful when he spoke after a short pause to arrange his thoughts.
‘Sire, it’s obvious that the fundamental choice is between Caratacus and Rome. Neutrality is impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Caratacus might respect our neutrality, because it would cost him nothing and it could only serve to frustrate Roman operations. Rome would never countenance our neutrality, since our lands sit astride the main lines of supply for the legions. So we must choose a side, sire.’
Verica nodded. ‘And so we have. The question is, my lords, have we chosen the right side? Will Rome win this war?’
The nobles reflected a moment, then Mendacus leaned forward on his elbows and cleared his throat. ‘Sire, you know that I’ve seen the legions fight. I was there at the Mead Way last summer, when they crushed Caratacus. No one can beat them.’
Verica smiled. Mendacus had been there, all right – fighting alongside Caratacus, as had some of the others in this room. Verica had been there as well, albeit on the other side of the river, with Tincommius. But that was all in the past. After his restoration, Verica, under orders from Narcissus, had exercised clemency and welcomed the rebel nobles back into his court. He had questioned the wisdom of this, but Narcissus had been adamant. The imperial secretary intended to set a wider example of Roman magnanimity. So Verica had returned their lands to the nobles and pardoned them. He glanced round the table, then back to Mendacus.
‘Unbeatable, you say?’
‘No one is unbeatable!’ Artax snorted his contempt. ‘Not even your Romans.’
‘ “Your Romans”?’ Mendacus repeated, and raised an eyebrow. ‘After your recent service under our two Roman centurions I’d have thought you’d have a greater sense of belonging?’
‘What are you saying, old man? What are you accusing me of? I serve King Verica and no other man. I dare you to say different.’
‘I merely wondered how successful your training had been?’ Mendacus continued smoothly. ‘How far you had been. . . Romanised.’
Artax smashed his fist down on the table, sending some the goblets flying. ‘Outside! Outside now, you old bastard! You and me! We’ll soon settle this.’
‘Peace! Gentlemen, please. . . please,’ Verica intervened wearily. The divisions between the Atrebatan nobles had been hopelessly complicated by the events of the last few years and now there was just too much political dirt that could be flung back and forth. Clarity of understanding and purpose were needed now more than ever. Verica glared at Artax until the latter subsided, and slumped back on to his bench with a sullen expression. Only then did Verica continue.
‘The whole point of this meeting is to find a way that our people can be left in peace, or as much peace as is possible. Now, I know there are differences of opinion amongst us. Put them aside. Clear your minds of past injustices and grievances. Focus on the present situation. If I can summarise. . .
‘For now we serve Rome, and Rome appears to be winning the fight. But, as Artax has pointed out, this does not mean that Rome must win in the end. They’ve been defeated in the past, and doubtless they’ll be defeated again. If Caratacus can beat them, then what will be the consequences for us? I doubt we could expect much mercy from the Catuvellaunians. If the Romans look like being defeated, or are forced to retreat, we could abandon our alliance with them and join Caratacus. We would be perfectly positioned to deal the Romans a lethal blow from the rear. That would serve us well in the subsequent division of spoils amongst the tribes. Of course, there is the chance that we switch sides and then the Romans still win the war. In that case our nation would be finished. Rome would show us no pity, I am certain of that.’ Verica lowered his voice to emphasise his final words. ‘Everyone here would be hunted down and executed. All our families would have their land seized and they would be enslaved. Think on that. . . Now, what should we do?’
‘You gave your word to Rome,’ said Artax. ‘You swore a treaty with them. Surely that’s what matters, sire?’
Tincommius shook his head. ‘No. What matters is the result of the struggle between Rome and Caratacus. That’s all that matters.’
‘Wise words, my boy,’ Verica nodded. ‘So then, who will win?’
‘Rome,’ said Mendacus. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’
‘You already have,’ Tincommius smiled. ‘But I’d say the odds are slowly shifting.’
‘Oh, would you?’ Mendacus folded his arms, and smiled back. On what basis do you offer such a view? From what vast experience of military matters? Pray tell. I’m sure we’re all ears.’
Tincommius refused to rise to the bait. ‘We don’t have to look very far for the evidence. Why would Rome be prepared to train and arm our two cohorts if they weren’t desperate for manpower? They’re overstretched. Their supply lines are more vulnerable than ever and Caratacus can send raiding columns far behind the Roman legions, almost with impunity.’
‘I thought you’d beaten one of them a few days ago?’
‘We defeated one column. How many more are out there? How many more can Caratacus send out? The raids are getting more frequent. The legions, for all their might in battle, are only as strong as their lines of supply. Destroy those and
General Plautius and his army will slowly be starved of food and weapons. They’ll be forced to retreat to the coast, harassed every step of the way. They’ll bleed to death.’
Mendacus laughed. ‘If it’s so obvious the Romans will be defeated then why fight for them?’
‘They’re our allies,’ Tincommius explained simply. ‘As Artax said, our king swore a treaty with them and we must honour that. Unless, or until, the king changes his mind. . .’
Everyone looked surreptiously at the king but Verica was gazing over their heads, at the dim framework of timbers in the rafters. He appeared not to have heard the last remark and there was a troubled silence, filled with quiet shuffling and one or two coughs as the nobles waited for him to respond. In the end Verica simply changed the subject.
‘There is something else we have to consider. Whatever decision I make about our alliance with Rome, we must consider how the other nobles will respond, and our people.’
‘Your people will do your will, sire,’ said Mendacus. ‘They are sworn to.’
An amused expression flickered across Verica’s lined face. ‘Your desire to do my will is rather short-lived, wouldn’t you say?’
Mendacus coloured with embarrassment and barely checked anger. ‘I speak now as one of your most loyal servants. You have my word on it, sire.’
Oh, that’s reassuring,’ muttered Artax.
‘Quite.’ Verica nodded. ‘With all deference to your word, Mendacus, I know that many of our finest warriors take a dim view of our alliance with Rome, as do many of our subjects on the streets of Calleva. I’m old. I’m not stupid. I know what people are saying. I know that there are some nobles who are already plotting to overthrow me. It would be strange if there weren’t, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before they take the chance to put their plans into action. Who knows how many of our warriors would follow their lead? But if I join with Caratacus, would my own position be any more secure? I doubt it. . .’
Mendacus made to speak but Verica raised his hand to stop him. ‘Don’t. Don’t say another word about the loyalty of my subjects.’
Mendacus opened his mouth, then good sense got the better of sycophancy and he closed it with as much dignity as he could, and heaved his shoulders in a quick shrug of resignation as the king continued.
‘I think the course I must take has become clearer to me tonight, my lords. It would seem that maintaining our alliance with Rome best serves the needs of our people. For the present, then, we play as full a part as we can in aiding the Emperor, and his legions.’
‘And what of those people who oppose the alliance, sire?’ asked Tincommius.
‘The time has come to show them the cost of defying my decisions.’
‘Why do harm to them, sire? Surely they’re a small minority. Small enough for us to ignore.’
‘No opposition to a king is ever small enough to ignore!’ Verica snapped. ‘I’ve learned that to my cost once already. No, I’ve made the decision, and we must brook no opposition. I offered my opponents peace on good terms last time. If I allowed opposition to thrive, to the smallest degree, I would look weak this time, not merciful. I need to show General Plautius that the Atrebatans are utterly loyal to Rome. I need to show my people what will become of them if they ever defy me.’
‘How will you do that, sire?’ asked Tincommius. ‘How can you?’
A little demonstration is called for tonight, at the end of the feast. I have an idea. Once it’s done then I can assure you it will be a very brave man indeed who even thinks about defying me and my authority.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not quite finished yet,’ muttered Cato, gaze flickering up from the draft report Macro had dictated. The clerk had obviously had a hard time of it, judging from the number of crossed-out phrases and other corrections. Cato wished that Macro had not had quite so much to drink before beginning work on the report that would be sent to Vespasian and copied to the general. Now that the sun was setting, and they were sitting in the thin gleam of oil lamps at the wooden table in Macro’s office, the effects of the wine were receding a little. Enough, at least, for them to check through the reports. Macro had been brief to the point of terseness in his description of the ambush, but the salient facts were there clearly enough, and the two senior officers who would read the document should be pleased with the result, Cato decided. Only the final part concerned him.
‘I’m not sure about this bit.’
‘Which bit?’
‘Here, where you describe the situation in Calleva.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Well,’ Cato paused a moment to consider. ‘I think the situation’s a bit more complicated than you make it sound.’
‘Complicated?’ Macro frowned. ‘What’s complicated about it? We’ve got the population onside and Verica’s bathing in the glory won by his troops under our command. Things couldn’t be better. Our allies are happy, we’ve given the enemy a good kicking and it hasn’t cost us one Roman life.’
Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t think that we can count on the happiness of a great many of the Atrebatans, judging from what I saw today.’
A few sour grapes, and that shrieking old crone you told me about? Hardly amounts to a serious threat of insurrection, does it?’
‘No,’ Cato admitted, ‘but we don’t want Plautius getting the wrong impression.’
‘And we don’t want to worry the general about a few malcontents when he’s got his mind fixed on pushing the legions forward against Caratacus. Cato, old lad, the way to get on in this man’s army is always to err on the side of optimism.’
‘I’d prefer to err on the side of realism,’ Cato replied bluntly.
‘That’s up to you.’ Macro shrugged. ‘But don’t count on any further promotions. Now, if there’s nothing else you think I should change, let’s get tarted up and join the celebrations.’
The royal enclosure was brightly illuminated by torches blazing around its perimeter. Every noble, every warrior held in any regard, and the most respectable of the foreign traders and merchants, had been summoned to Verica’s feast. As Cato glanced round at the loose throng of people making their way across the compound to the great hall he felt more than a little shabby. He and Macro were wearing their best tunics and, neat as they were, the dull material could not compare with the exotic weaves of the local Celts, or the fine cloth adorning the merchants and their wives. The only concession to luxury permitted by the centurions’ military wardrobe were the tores Macro wore on his wrist and around his neck. The latter was a fine example. So it should be, having once been the possession of Togodubnus, brother of Caratacus. Macro had killed him almost a year earlier, in single combat, and the tore was already drawing admiring glances from Verica’s other guests. For his part, Cato possessed only a single set of medallions and he tried to console himself with the thought that the character of a man was worth more than anything he might buy to display his worth.
‘Going to be quite a night,’ said Macro. ‘Seems like half the population of Calleva must be here.’
‘Just the well-heeled half, I think/
‘And us.’ Macro winked at him. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I’ve never yet met a centurion who hasn’t done well out of a campaign. That’s the main reason Rome goes to war – to keep the legions grabbing enough booty to stay happy.’
‘And distracted from any political ambitions.’
‘If you say so. But personally I don’t give a shit about politics. That’s the traditional hobby of your aristocrats, not the likes of us footsloggers. All I want is enough loot to retire to a nice little estate in Campania, and have plenty left over to spend my twilight years in a permanent drunken stupor.’
‘Good luck, then.’
‘Thanks. Just hope I can get a little practice in tonight.’
They were greeted at the entrance to the great hall by Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince had discarded his army-issue tunic
and wore a finely patterned native tunic over his leggings and boots. He smiled a greeting and waved the Roman guests inside.
‘You joining us for a drink?’ asked Macro.
‘Maybe later, sir. I’m on guard duty right now.’
‘What? No night off with the rest of us to celebrate?’
‘All right,’ Tincommius laughed. ‘Once everyone’s here. Until then, I’m afraid I’m going to have to search you for weapons.’
‘Search us?’
‘Everyone, sir. Sorry, but Cadminius was very firm about that.’
‘Cadminius?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s he? I’m not familiar with the name.’
‘He’s the captain of the bodyguard. Verica appointed him while we were away.’
‘What happened to the last one?’
‘Died in an accident, apparently. Got drunk, fell off his horse and caved his skull in.’
‘Tragic,’ Cato muttered.
‘Yes, I suppose so. Now, sir, if I may. . .?’
Tincommius quickly frisked them both and then stood aside respectfully as they passed into King Verica’s great hall. The cool evening air outside instantly gave way to a warm, clammy atmosphere. A raised fire burned at each end, providing a wavering orange glow throughout the hall, throwing strange shadows against the walls that made it seem as if all the guests were taking part in some slow, sinuous dance. Long trestle tables had been set up on three sides, lined with benches. Only Verica was permitted any trappings of splendour, and sat on an ornately carved wooden throne at the head of the hall, close to one of the fires. To either side of him the bodyguard stood armed and watchful.
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 12