‘Most kind of you, but I fear I shall be too busy to enjoy her. Besides I prefer them slightly older – they have more experience.’
‘Experience?’ Verica frowned. ‘I grow more sick of experience every day. At my age one craves the life one had before experience soiled it. . . Sorry,’ Verica smiled and raised a hand in greeting. ‘I’ve become a bit too preoccupied by questions of age lately. Please sit down, Tribune, here at the table. I’ve sent for some wine. I know how my Roman friends prefer wine to our beer.’
‘Thank you, sire.’
As the two men seated themselves at the table a slave boy arrived with a pair of Samian cups and a jug. He poured a dark red stream into each cup. As soon as the task was complete the boy scurried from the room. Verica nodded his head towards a chair at the far end of the table and the Briton who had escorted the tribune joined his king and the Roman.
‘Cadminius is captain of the royal bodyguard,’ explained Verica. ‘I keep him close to me. Whatever you have to say to me can be trusted to him also.’
‘I see.’
‘Now then, Tribune Quintillus, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
Quintillus deplored the man’s bluntness. But one had to make allowances for the Celt’s lack of social grace and diplomatic finesse. After all, the man had been raised amid barbaric squalor and had only spent a few brief years as a guest of Rome. Even so, Quintillus forced himself to smile.
‘I appreciate your directness, sire.’
‘I have little time for formalities, Tribune. I have too little time for anything these days.’
Except indulging his appetite for young flesh, Quintillus reflected, then made himself smile again. ‘My general sends his warmest greetings to King Verica, most close of Rome’s friends.’
Verica laughed. ‘It’s an odd world where a tribe as insignificant as the Atrebatans can assume any degree of importance in the eyes of a power as great as Rome.’
‘Nevertheless, sire, you and your people are important to the Emperor, and my general, as you must know.’
‘Surely. Any man who stands with another at his back is inclined to wonder if that man is a friend or enemy. That is the measure of our importance, is it not?’
Quintillus laughed. ‘You describe both our situations in an admirably succinct way, sire. And that brings us to the purpose of my visit.’
‘Aulus Plautius wants to know how far he can depend on me.’
‘Oh, no, sire!’ Quintillus protested. ‘The general has no doubts at all about your loyalty to Rome. None at all.’
‘How very reassuring.’
Verica raised his cup and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing backwards and forwards in his scrawny throat as the base of the cup rose higher and higher. Then, with red drops dribbling down the white hair of his beard, Verica drained the cup and set it down with a sharp tap on the table.
‘Good stuff! Try it, Tribune.’
Quintillus raised his cup to his lips, found the scent to his liking and took a sip. The sweet liquid was resonant with flavour and had a pleasing warming sensation as it passed down his throat. This was no cheap wine. He could not place it exactly, but could guess at its cost.
‘Very nice, sire. A legacy of your days as Rome’s guest?’
‘Of course. And do you think for a moment I’d be mad enough to turn on Rome and give this up?’
They both laughed, then Verica shook his head.
‘Seriously, Tribune, there’s much to gain from our alliance with Rome. Even if that were not so, I’d rather take my chances with Rome than throw my hand in with that bastard Caratacus. I’d be dead in a matter of days, and some anti-Roman fanatic would be sitting here in my place.’
‘And such a man would be easy to find from amongst the Atrebatans?’ Quintillus probed.
Verica looked at him for a moment, all trace of amusement gone from his expression. ‘There are some who might think our tribe is on the wrong side, yes.’
‘Some? Many?’
‘Enough to cause me concern.’
‘What concerns you concerns Rome, sire.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it does.’
‘Do you know who these men are?’
‘I know of some,’ Verica admitted. ‘I suspect many more. As for the rest, who knows?’
‘Then why not take care of them, sire?’
‘Take care of them? What kind of a euphemism is that? Say what you mean, Tribune. We must be clear about what we say. Euphemisms are for cowards and only ever lead to later misunderstanding and recrimination. You want me to kill my people?’
Quintillus nodded. ‘For you own safety, and as an example to others.’
‘I assume the good Centurion Macro has told you that I’ve already tried that approach, and it’s failed.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t remove enough of your enemies, sire?’
‘Perhaps I “removed” more than enough. Perhaps I should never have removed any of them. That’s what Cadminius thinks, though he dare not say it.’
At the end of the table the captain of the king’s bodyguard lowered his gaze. Quintillus ignored the man and leaned closer to King Verica.
‘That would have looked like weakness, sire. It would have encouraged others to speak out against you. In the end tolerance always leads to weakness. Weakness leads to defeat.’
‘It’s all so easy to you, isn’t it, Roman?’ Verica shook his head. ‘All so black and white. One solution fits all situations. Rule with an iron fist.’
‘It works for us, sire.’
‘Us? How old are you, Tribune?’
‘Twenty-four, sire. Next month.’
‘Twenty-Four. . .’ The Atrebatan looked him in the eyes for a moment, and shook his head. ‘Calleva is not Rome, Quintillus. My situation is more finely balanced. I kill too many of my enemies and I provoke a rebellion from those who resent oppression. I kill too few and I provoke a rebellion from those who abuse my tolerance. You see my problem? Now, I ask you, how many should I kill to achieve the desired effect, without provoking a rebellion?’
Quintillus could not answer, and was angry for letting himself fall into such an obvious rhetorical trap. He had been trained by the most expensive tutors his father could afford, and felt ashamed. Damn King Verica. Damn this wizened old man. He had made a mess of things and now Rome must sort it out. Always Rome.
‘Sire,’ the tribune responded quietly. ‘I appreciate that ruling a kingdom is not a precise science. But you have a problem. Your people are divided, and some are hostile to Rome. That makes it our problem too. You must find a solution, for the good of your people.’
Or else?’
Or else Rome will have to solve the problem.’
There was a silence, and the tribune was aware that Cadminius had straightened up in his chair and had bunched one hand into a fist. At the other end of the table Verica leaned back and pressed his hands together, resting his lips on the fingertips as he watched Quintillus through narrowed eyes.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, sire. Of course not. But let me describe the options for your people as I see it, if I may?’
‘Go ahead, young man.’
‘The Atrebatans must remain allies of Rome. We need to be sure that our supplies can pass safely through your lands. As long as you can guarantee that then you will find us a grateful and valuable friend. And, as long as whoever eventually succeeds you pursues the same policy, Rome shall be content to let the Atrebatans run their own affairs – as long as we do not perceive any developments that might endanger our interests.’
‘And if you do?’
‘Then we would have to help you administer your kingdom.’
‘You mean annex us? Turn us into a province.’
‘Of course I hope that it would never come to that, sire.’
There was a tense pause before Verica continued speaking. ‘I see. And if our “policy” changes?’
‘Then we will be forced to crush any forces operati
ng against Rome. All weapons will be confiscated. Your lands and those of your nobles who oppose us will be forfeit, and any prisoners we take will be sold into slavery. That is the fate of those who break faith with Rome.’
Verica stared at the tribune for a moment, then his eyes flicked over to the captain of his bodyguard. Cadminius was having difficulty containing his rage at the naked threat posed by the Roman envoy.
‘You don’t leave me and my people much choice for our future.’
‘No, sire. None.’
Chapter Twenty
Two days after the tribune’s arrival King Verica announced that he was going to hold a hunt. One of the forests several miles from Calleva was a royal hunting ground and farmers living nearby were forbidden to hunt any animals within its leafy boundary.
The afternoon before the hunt was to take place the air was breathless. A brilliant sun blazed down on the quiet streets of Calleva as the townspeople sought out shade. Inside the royal enclosure servants and slaves scurried about making preparations. The romantic, spontaneous image of noble man pitting his wits against the cunning forces of nature was far removed from the logistical realities of the exercise. Hunting spears had to be carefully selected to make sure their shafts were still true after months in storage. Then they had to be cleaned and their edges honed to a lethal sharpness before being put into thick leather cases for transporting. Horses had to be checked for fitness and the weaker mounts returned to the stables for general duties. Riding tackle was greased and polished and carefully fitted to the animals that would be ridden by the royal hunting party. Sweating slaves struggled under the burden of bedding and furs as these were packed away into the wagons parked along one side of the enclosure. Anxious stewards directed kitchen servants as they heaved sacks of bread, haunches of meat and jars of beer and wine from the dark storerooms at the back of the king’s hall and carried them across to the wagons. The captain of the king’s bodyguard sat at a trestle table busy recruiting able-bodied beaters from the long line straggling towards the gate. With food in such short supply the people of Calleva were desperate to win a share of the meat that was to be divided up after the hunt.
‘Anyone’d think this lot were about to launch an invasion,’ muttered Macro as he and Cato made their way through the bustling mass. ‘Thought we were just going for a nice simple hunt.’
Cato smiled. ‘For the other half there’s no such thing as a simple hunt.’
He spoke from experience, having been brought up behind the scenes at the imperial palace in Rome. Every time the Emperor had decided, often on a whim, that he wished to ‘pop over to Ostia’, or ‘nip up into the hills’ to escape the dead heat of a Roman summer, it was Cato’s father who had been tasked with organising the myriad necessities and luxuries that accompanied such a trip.
Caligula had been the worst, Cato recalled. The mad Emperor’s whims had exhaustingly tested the boundaries of the possible and nearly driven Cato’s placid father to despair. Like the time Caligula had decided he rather fancied a stroll across the bay at Misenum. There was no hope of reasoning with him. After all, the man was a god and when a god wished a thing done, it was done. And so thousands of engineers constructed a pontoon bridge between Baiae and Puteoli on the backs of commandeered shipping and fishing boats. While Caligula and his entourage paraded back and forth across the bridge thousands of starving fishermen and ruined merchants looked on, and were encouraged to cheer the Emperor, at the point of a Praetorian sword. Cato had seen all this, and now the practical implications of Verica’s decision to go hunting did not surprise him.
Macro was still gazing around with a disapproving frown. ‘I thought it’d just be a matter of picking up some spears and running down a few of the feral buggers in the forest. Not all this. Where’s the bloody tribune got to?’
They had been summoned from the depot late in the afternoon and had dismissed the two cohorts from training before heading through the hot stinking streets to find Tribune Quintillus. Both centurions were uncomfortable in their thick tunics and Cato shivered as he felt sweat trickle down from his armpits under the prickly wool.
‘Can you see him?’ asked Macro, craning his neck round. Being several inches shorter than Cato, his field of vision was limited by the lofty Celts surrounding them. What Macro lacked in height he made up for in the solid muscle of his broad frame. Right now, Cato sensed, he was irritable enough to want to throw some of that bulk around.
‘No.’
‘Then ask someone, idiot.’
For an instant Cato glared back at his comrade, and only just managed to bite back on the desire to tell Macro that he should have made a greater effort to learn the native tongue.
‘All right.’ Cato looked round and caught the eye of a royal bodyguard, lounging against one of the wagon wrheels, thumbs tucked into the cord that held checked breeches around his hairy stomach. Cato beckoned to the man, but the Briton merely flickered a smile back, and continued to stare languidly at the slaves toiling around him. With a low curse Cato pushed his way over to the bodyguard.
‘Hey! You!’
The bodyguard looked round at the approaching Romans with an irritated expression.
‘You seen the tribune?’
Cato knew that his accent was clear enough, but the man stared at him blankly.
‘The tribune. The Roman who arrived four days ago. Is he here?’
‘Sa!’ The bodyguard nodded, once.
‘Where?’
The Briton tipped his head towards the great hall.
‘Inside?’
‘Na! Training.’
Cato turned to Macro. ‘He’s here. Behind the hall.’
‘Right.’ Macro was staring hard at the bodyguard. ‘Chatty type, aren’t you?’
The Latin was incomprehensible to the bodyguard and he simply returned Macro’s stare, silent and unyielding.
‘Come on,’ said Cato. ‘Can’t keep the tribune waiting. Save that one for later.’
With Cato leading the way, the two centurions pushed through the throng towards the entrance to the great hall. The two guards knew them well enough by now to wave them through. The interior was dark and cool, and it took a moment for Cato and Macro to adjust to the contrast. Then Cato could see a few of the nobles resting quietly along the benches lining each side of the hall. Discarded cups and the remains of a meal lay on wooden platters strewn along the wide wooden tables. Lying stretched out on the floor were the dim shapes of hunting dogs – all still, save one bitch who was licking one of the puppies nestling against her side. Overhead, a few stray beams of light pierced the thatch and shafted through the gloom.
‘Not everyone is hard at work,’ Macro sneered. Then they heard the sharp ring of swords clashing through the smaller doorway directly opposite. ‘Sounds like one of ‘em at least is working up a sweat.’
They walked towards the rear entrance of the hall and screwed up their eyes as they emerged into the bright sunshine that filled the timber doorframe. Behind the great hall was a wide bare space contained by the far palisade of the royal enclosure. Several racks of spears and swords stood to one side. A handful of the royal bodyguard sat in the shade against the side of the great hall, watching the display taking place in the centre of the training area. There, bathed in the bright sunshine, stood tribune Quintillus, poised on the balls of his feet, sword arm fully extended towards the British warrior ten feet in front of him. Cato caught his breath at the sight of the tribune. Quintillus looked superb. Stripped to the waist, his perfect physique would have graced a champion gladiator: the oiled skin glistened over perfectly contoured muscles and his chest swelled and subsided in an easy rhythm as he faced his opponent.
The Briton was armed with a longer, heavier sword than the tribune, but seemed to have come off worse so far in this bout. A livid red streak extended across one shoulder and blood oozed from the shallow cut. He was breathing heavily and could not keep his sword still. He suddenly gasped a deep breath and rushed the tribune with
a roar. Quintillus feinted, ducked under the Briton’s rising blade, then neatly tapped it to one side and smashed the pommel against the side of the man’s head. The Briton grunted and crashed to the ground. There was a murmur of approval from the bodyguards sitting in the shade and one or two jeers for their fallen comrade. Quintillus casually flicked his sword into the ground and leaned over to help the man back on to his feet.
‘There you are. No harm done. Thanks for the exercise.’
The Briton looked at the tribune uncomprehendingly and shook his dazed head.
‘I’d sit down for a while if I were you. Catch your breath, and that sort of thing.’
As the two centurions emerged from the entrance to the hall, Quintillus looked up with a frown that was instantly replaced with a genial smile.
‘Ah! Wondered where you’d got to!’ He straightened up, letting go of the Briton, who sagged back on to the ground.
‘Came as soon as we could, sir,’ replied Macro, saluting.
‘Yes, well, fair enough. But next time, put a little more effort into it, eh?’
‘We’ll do our best, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Quintillus flashed a quick smile. ‘Now then, to business. I gather you’ve been invited to the hunt by King Verica.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, that raises an interesting question of protocol, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it, sir?’
‘Oh, yes!’ Quintillus’ eyebrows rose in surprise at the centurion’s ignorance. ‘You see, I’ve been invited as well.’
‘I wouldn’t imagine that Verica would have left you out, sir.’
The tribune’s look of surprise switched to one of annoyance. ‘Of course not! The thing is, it really won’t do for me to be mixing with the other ranks. It lacks a certain dignity wouldn’t you agree? I am, after all, a procurator acting in the Emperor’s name.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied patiently. ‘I do recall.’
Quintillus nodded. ‘Excellent! Then I imagine you’ll be wanting to get off and make your apologies to King Verica.’
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 18