‘I’ve already thought of that.’ Callaecus turned towards the road and waved his hand from side to side. At once the men who had been posing as horse-traders vaulted onto their saddles and led strings of mounts up the slope. ‘We’ll be miles away before they get off their fat Roman arses and start any pursuit.’
‘Good man.’ Iskerbeles grinned with approval. Then his expression hardened. ‘But then what becomes of us? They will be sure to burn our village to the ground. We’ll have to take the women and children and hide in the mountains.’
His comrade shrugged. ‘It won’t be easy, but we know the ground. We’ll survive.’
‘Survive?’ Iskerbeles’ brow creased in thought. ‘No. Survival is not enough. I’ll not let our people live to be hunted down like starving dogs. That is not worthy of them. We must give them a cause to fight for, my friend. We must raise the standard of our tribe and call on all our people to rise up and fight Rome. Unless we can drive them out of our land then we will only ever be their slaves.’
‘You think we can fight Rome?’ Callaecus’ eyebrows rose in surprise at the hubris of his chief. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by the other men. ‘Have you lost your mind? We cannot defeat Rome.’
‘Why not? We would not be the first people in Hispania to try. Nor the last should we fail, I’ll warrant. Viriathus and Sertorius came very close to victory. They only failed because they were betrayed. I’ll not make the same mistake.’ The chieftain’s eyes blazed. ‘Besides, the province is ripe for revolt. Our people are not alone in being ground under the enemy’s boots. There’s a hunger for rebellion, and we will feed that appetite, my friend. Our example will give heart to all those who hate Rome . . . But now is not the time to talk about this. Later, when we have led our people to safety.’
Callaecus nodded and was about to turn towards the approaching horses when he paused and gestured towards the three survivors of the prisoner escort. ‘What about them?’
Iskerbeles considered the centurion and his comrades for an instant before he decided. ‘Kill the soldiers. As for the centurion, it would be a shame not to make use of the crucifix and these nails . . .’
CHAPTER ONE
The Port of Ostia, a day’s march from Rome
‘What’s all the fuss about, friend?’ Macro asked the inn-keeper as he nodded at the drunken crowd at the far end of the bar called ‘Neptune’s Bounty’. Several men were talking in excited tones as they shared a large jug of wine. A pair of the inn’s prostitutes had joined the party and were sitting on the men’s laps as they angled for a share of the wine, and subsequent business if they were lucky.
Without answering the question, the inn-keeper, a weathered-looking individual with a patch over one eye, fixed his diminished gaze on his customer and took a guess. ‘Just come off a ship, eh?’
Macro nodded at his gruff question and indicated his tall, rangy companion who was using the hem of his cloak to wipe down the surface of a bench near the entrance. Cato removed the worst of the sticky mess with a quick wince and then sat down, silhouetted against the bright light outside. The street was busy and the cries of scavenging gulls swirling in the clear blue sky cut across the hubbub of voices and the shouts of street-sellers. Even though it was mid-morning the heat was oppressive and the shade of the inn provided a welcome respite from the blistering sunshine.
‘That’s right. Needed a drink before taking a boat up the Tiber to Rome.’
‘Boat? Fat chance of that. Won’t be space on any boat now. There’s a public holiday in the capital coming up. So every boat is piled high with wine, treats and tourists. You’ll have to go by road, my friend. You on your own?’
‘No. It’s me and the prefect there.’
‘Prefect?’ The inn-keeper’s one eye widened, and then shrewdly narrowed as he reassessed his latest customers. There was not much outward sign of rank or wealth. Both men were dressed in military cloaks and plain tunics. The shorter man at the bar was wearing sturdy soldier’s boots, but his companion, the prefect, had expensive-looking calf-skin boots, dyed red. Both had small haversacks slung over the shoulder, and the pendulous bulge of each betokened a heavy purse. The inn-keeper cracked a gap-toothed smile. ‘Always a pleasure to serve gentlemen of quality. So he’s a prefect and how about you? Same rank?’
‘Not me.’ Macro smiled back. ‘I work for a living.’ He patted his chest. ‘Centurion Macro. Late of the Fourteenth Legion, serving in Britannia, and before that the Second Augusta, best legion in the entire army. So, like I said, what’s the fuss? The whole town seems to be in high spirits.’
‘And why not, sir? You should know the reason as well as any, given that you’ve come back from Britannia. It’s over that King Caratacus, the one who’s been giving our generals the runaround.’
Macro sighed. ‘No need to tell me about it. That bastard was as slippery as an eel and as fierce as a lion. Good thing we finally ran him to ground. What about him? Last I heard of Caratacus was that he was being sent to Rome under lock and key.’
‘And so he was, sir. Him and his kin have been held in the Mamertine prison for the last six months while the Emperor decided what to do with him. Now we know. Claudius has decided to have the lot of ’em paraded through Rome and taken up to the Temple of Jupiter for strangling. Going to be quite a celebration. His nibs is going to feast the city and put on five days of gladiator fights and chariot races at the Circus Maximus.’ The inn-keeper paused and shrugged. ‘Of course, Ostia is going to be quiet as the grave when all that happens. Bad for business. So I might as well sell as much now as I can. What’ll you have, sir?’
‘What’s your best? We deserve something good to celebrate our home-coming. None of that watered-down piss that you sell to the usual customers just off the boat, eh?’
The inn-keeper looked offended and took a deep breath before he stiffened his neck with indignation. ‘I do not run that kind of establishment, sir. I’ll have you know that Lucius Scabarus serves some of the finest wines to be found in all the inns of Ostia.’
That’s not saying much, thought Macro. This inn, like all the others crowding the streets close to the wharf, enjoyed a roaring trade with recent arrivals desperate for a drink, as well as those needing one before setting off on a voyage. Such customers were inclined to be more mindful of the effects rather than the taste of the inn-keepers’ wares.
‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Your best?’
The inn-keeper nodded towards a small row of jugs on the top shelf behind the counter. ‘Had some nice stuff come in from Barcino last month.’
‘Good vintage?’
‘Well, it is now, sir.’
Macro nodded. ‘A jar then, and two cups. Make ’em clean. The prefect has standards.’
The inn-keeper frowned. ‘As do I, sir. Anything to eat with that?’
‘Maybe later. When the wine’s settled our guts after that passage from Massilia. Quite a storm.’
‘Very well, sir. I’ll have one of the girls rustle up something good, if you need food. And speaking of girls; they’re clean, eager and know plenty of tricks. For a fair price.’
‘I’m sure. At least as far as the last two qualities go. I didn’t survive three campaigns in Britannia to be taken down by a dose of the clap. So, I’ll pass on your tarts this time, thanks. Bring the drink to our table.’
Macro turned away and made his way to the table where Cato had settled, his back leaning against the cracked and stained plaster. His expression was sombre and Macro felt a stab of pity for his friend. A few months earlier, while in Britannia, Cato had received news of his wife’s death. The return to his home in the capital would renew the terrible grief he had suffered. Julia had been a lovely girl, Macro reflected, and he grieved for her. But all was not lost. She had given birth to a boy who might yet offer Cato some comfort, when he met his son for the first time. He had th
at at least, and something of her lived on in young Lucius. He forced a smile as he sat down opposite Cato.
‘Wine’s coming. The best this flea-pit can offer. Be good to wash the taste of salt out of my mouth. Never been a big fan of taking a sea voyage. Especially after that time we were shipwrecked off Creta. Remember?’
‘How could I forget?’
Macro silently cursed himself. That had been the time when Cato was in the first flush of love for Julia. He hurriedly changed the subject. ‘Some interesting news. Just got it from the inn-keeper. He says that Claudius has decided to put an end to Caratacus and his family. That’s why that lot over there are in their cups. The Emperor’s throwing a huge shindig to celebrate the event.’
Cato took a deep breath. ‘Execution? That isn’t right. He deserves better, even if he was our enemy. He fought honourably. It does Rome no credit to put him to death like a criminal. When word of that gets back to the tribes he led in Britannia, they’re not going to be happy. We’ll be lucky if it doesn’t provoke them into open revolt.’
‘Maybe,’ Macro responded. ‘But it’s just possible that they might be smart enough to learn that it doesn’t pay to defy the will of Rome. Caratacus’ death will prove that well enough. Once they hear about his fate, then they’ll be only too willing to keep their heads down and do as they are told.’
Both were silent for a moment before Cato cleared his throat. ‘I’m not surprised, though. What with recent events in Britannia. Emperor Claudius and his advisers will want to gloss over that as much as possible for a while. Defeats never go down well with the mob.’
‘That’s true.’ Macro nodded emphatically. ‘The hill tribes gave us a right good kicking. Praise be to Fortuna that we managed to get out with as many men as we did.’
The inn-keeper came over with a modest jug of wine and two glazed goblets and set them down on the table with a sharp rap. ‘Best in the house. Reserve them only for gentlemen of quality, such as yourselves, who frequent my establishment.’
Macro picked up the nearest goblet and gave it a cursory inspection. ‘Don’t get much use then.’
The inn-keeper made to reply, then thought better of it, and held out his hand. ‘Ten sestertii, sir.’
‘Ten?’ Macro shot him a look. ‘Daylight robbery.’
‘No, sir. Supply and demand. What with the big do coming up in Rome, the palace is buying up every last drop of wine it can lay its hands on.’
Cato cleared his throat. ‘Just pay the man.’
‘Now, wait a minute. He’s trying to pull a fast one.’
‘Here.’ Cato reached down into his purse for some coins and placed them in the man’s open palm. ‘Now go.’
The inn-keeper’s fingers closed quickly over the silver and he bowed his thanks and retreated to the bar before Macro could continue to protest. The centurion puffed his cheeks but passed no comment on his friend’s action. Instead he reached for the jug and plucked out the cork plug with a dull pop and sniffed at the contents.
‘Surprisingly good.’
He filled the goblets, gently pushed one towards Cato and raised his own. ‘To absent comrades.’
Cato lifted his goblet. ‘Absent comrades.’
They each took a sip and there was a brief silence as they recalled the most recent campaign through the mountains of the Decangli tribe. They had been part of the column attempting to take the Druids’ island of Mona. Instead they had fallen into a trap and been forced into a retreat through bitter snowstorms. The legate in command, and thousands of his men, had perished in the desperate struggle to reach the safety of their base. Cato and Macro’s units had formed the rearguard and only a handful of their men had survived. The new governor of the province, Didius Gallus, had ordered them to return to Rome to make a full report on the disaster while he attempted to secure the frontier. Ten years after the invasion of Britannia, many of the native tribes were still very far from being conquered. Now this latest setback threatened to undermine the Emperor who had awarded himself a triumph for his victory over the Britons within only a few months of the first troops landing on the island, a decade earlier.
What a hollow triumph it had proved, Cato mused as he took another sip. No wonder the Emperor and his advisers had chosen this moment to celebrate the defeat and capture of Caratacus. That was the way of politics: smother bad news with good and hope that the mob was too hungover to notice the sleight of hand. Or even care. Bread, wine, circuses and deception – the tried and tested recipe for keeping the people of Rome distracted enough to remain docile. No doubt they would enjoy the opening spectacle of their enemies being put to death. But it was an unfitting and unworthy end for Caratacus and his family and the prospect made Cato’s heart heavy.
He sensed someone approaching the table and looked up to see one of the drinkers from the far end of the bar. A man in his early forties, Cato guessed. He wore an old military tunic and a leather thong held back a thick mass of grey-streaked hair. His left hand held a Samian-ware cup and his right was missing, the stump at the end of his forearm covered with a leather cap from which an iron hook extended in place of his fingers.
Cato swallowed the wine in his mouth. ‘Yes?’
‘Pardon me, sir. But old Scabarus says that you two have just returned from Britannia. That right?’
‘Yes. What of it?’
‘I was wondering if I could trouble you for some news of what’s happening there. I was with the Ninth Legion, back in the first year of the invasion. I lost my hand in the battle outside Camulodunum.’
Cato nodded. ‘I remember the battle. Close-run thing. Caratacus nearly had us beaten that day.’
‘Yes he did, sir.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus Salinus, sir.’ The man automatically stiffened as he addressed a superior. ‘Optio, Sixth Century, First Cohort, Ninth Legion . . . Or at least I was.’
‘At ease, Optio.’ Cato smiled. ‘The centurion and I would be honoured to share a cup of wine with an old comrade of the Ninth. Sit down.’
Macro shuffled over to make room and Salinus hesitated a moment before accepting the offer. His companions hung back a small distance as Macro poured their friend some wine. Salinus nodded his thanks and a fleeting look of caution crossed his face as he glanced round the inn. He lowered his voice as he spoke. ‘The rumour is that we’ve suffered a bad defeat. Is it true?’
Cato was silent for a moment, wondering if he should be discreet. But it hardly seemed likely that there would be a palace informer in such a nondescript drinking house unless things had changed since he was last in Ostia. Besides, he and Macro were already likely to face the ire of the Emperor when they came to make their report about the situation in Britannia. He doubted if answering the veteran’s question would make things worse.
‘It is true. We lost the equivalent of a legion, five thousand men, and half as many auxiliaries, along with the legate of the Fourteenth. The enemy have pushed us right back out of the mountains and may already be launching strikes deep into the province.’
Salinus could not hide his shock, and nor could his companions. The old soldier shook his head. ‘How is that possible?’
‘It should never have happened,’ said Macro. ‘It was late in the season, we had little information about the enemy or the ground we were advancing over. It began to snow and then the enemy cut our supply lines. Fucking disaster from start to finish.’
‘So why did the campaign even go ahead, sir?’
‘Same old reason as always. Some broad-striper decides to put posterity above what’s possible and leads the rest of us deep into the shit. In this case, Legate Quintatus. When the previous governor died, Quintatus thought he would grab all the glory before a new governor could be appointed.’
‘Them bastards always do for us,’ growled Salinus. ‘Someone should pay for th
at with their head.’
‘They did. Quintatus went down fighting. Came good in the end, like a proper soldier. Shame he took so many of our mates with him. Worst defeat we’ve suffered since setting foot in Britannia.’
‘Hang about,’ one of the other men from the inn cut in. ‘How come this happened, now that we’ve got our hands on Caratacus? Thought he was supposed to be their commander? They’ve been telling us that with him in chains it was as good as over.’
Macro smiled. ‘Come on, friend. Do you believe everything that appears in the gazetteer?’
‘It could have been worse, if Caratacus was still on the scene,’ said Cato. ‘Far worse. We have that to be thankful for. He kept us on the hop for nigh on ten years before we ran him to ground. There’s one enemy of Rome I’ve plenty of good reason to respect.’
Salinus’ eyes brightened. ‘You came up against him then, sir? In battle?’
Macro laughed heartily as he reached for the jug and topped up his goblet. ‘We’re the lads who finally captured him, brother. The prefect and I. Took him in battle, together with his family.’
The veteran’s eyes widened and then he grinned. ‘Bloody heroes then, the pair of you. D’you hear that, lads? We’re in the company of the men who only went and took down Rome’s greatest enemy! Here’s to you, Centurion, and you, sir.’ The man slapped his head with his iron hook and winced. ‘And I don’t even know your names. Sir?’
‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, and Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.’
The veteran raised his cup. ‘Lads, let’s hear it for Centurion Macro and Prefect Cato!’
There was a deafening raucous cheer from his comrades as their cups went up, sloshing liquid, before they shouted their newfound heroes’ names and drained their wine. Macro toasted them back while Cato forced a smile, mindful of the fact that while they had indeed captured the enemy commander, Caratacus had escaped from his custody and had to be hunted down again. A matter he would rather not admit to. He nodded his gratitude to Salinus and the others. Then the veteran turned his attention to Cato and leaned forward.
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