Brothers in Blood (23 page)

Late in the afternoon, just after Otho had given the order to halt and make camp, a larger party of horsemen appeared on the crest of a hill little more than a mile from the column. Cato was standing with Macro as the legionaries broke up the ground with their picks ready to commence constructing their allotted section of the defences. The alarm had been raised amongst the men of Centurion Acer’s cohort and now the rest turned to look, craning their necks to stare towards the hill. Cato calculated that there must be at least fifty in the party. This time it was immediately apparent that these were no hunters. The angled light from the sun gleamed on polished helmets and shield bosses. Cato turned towards the centre of the camp where the tribune was standing with Vellocatus and some of the other officers. Otho gazed towards the horsemen but made no effort to order the cornicen to call the men to arms. Instead he turned briefly to one of his orderlies and pointed in Cato’s direction. The man nodded and began to run over.

Macro had seen the brief exchange. ‘What’s he want with us?’

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Cato replied and then glanced round to see that Macro’s men had all stopped to scrutinise the distant natives.

‘Macro . . .’ Cato nodded towards the work detail.

The flesh around his friend’s eyes puckered into an angry glare and he drew a breath. ‘What is this? A fucking public holiday?’ he roared at his men, brandishing his vine cane. ‘Lift those picks and put your bloody backs into it!’

At once the legionaries returned to their work and the air filled with the sound of iron points thudding into the earth, accompanied by the grunts of the men wielding them. Macro paced down the line to make sure none of them was slacking, just as the orderly drew up in front of Cato, short of breath after his quick dash.

‘Tribune Otho sends his respects, sir, and requires that you lead one of your squadrons out to confront those horsemen.’

‘Confront? Does he wish me to chase them off?’

‘No, sir. Just discourage them from coming any closer.’

Cato stared hard at the orderly for an instant, wondering just what discouraging the native warriors might entail if they did decide to approach. ‘Very well. Tell the tribune I’ll not be the first to strike a blow if I can avoid it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly saluted and turned to trot back to his commander.

Cato sought out Decurion Miro who had just unfastened the girth of his saddle and was lowering his heavy leather burden to the ground.

‘Miro! On me!’

A short while later Cato led the first squadron of the Blood Crows out towards the horsemen watching over the camp. He kept the pace to a steady walk in order not to alarm the natives. The dull clink of the picks was drowned out by the easy rumble of horses’ hoofs. The sun was sinking towards the horizon and bathing the countryside in a warm golden hue. The shadows of the Roman riders stretched out across the grass to their side as a faint haze of dust rose gently in their wake. Decurion Miro was clenching his free hand over and over again as he rode beside Cato.

‘We should have brought the whole cohort with us, sir.’

‘The tribune just wants us to keep an eye on them,’ Cato responded calmly.

‘We could have done that from the camp.’

‘But that might have encouraged them to venture a little closer. It’s better we keep them at a distance for now. We have our orders, Decurion,’ he concluded firmly, disapproving of the way his subordinate allowed his anxiety to interfere with his duty.

They advanced in silence until they reached the foot of the hill where the native horsemen waited, unmoving. Cato raised his arm and ordered his men to halt and form line, and the Blood Crows fanned out on either side and turned to face the slope. The Thracians were tense and held their spears and shields at the ready. Cato could understand their nervousness. The unit had been campaigning for two years against the hill tribes and every native they had seen in that time had been an enemy. Why should the men at the top of the hill be any different? Nevertheless, Cato was determined that his men should not inadvertently cause any hostilities.

As the shadows lengthened and the grass and heather were tinged with the flare of the fading sun, the work of constructing the marching camp continued. Every so often Cato would turn and look back and see that the rampart had risen a little higher, while below, the men toiling in the ditch seemed to sink lower into the ground. Eventually only their heads showed above ground, and later all that was visible was the flicker of picks and clods of earth thrown up to add to the rampart. Beyond, other men had started to erect the tents, long, neat lines of brown leather held taut by pegged ropes. The duty cohort formed a cordon round the camp and watched for the approach of any enemy. Once the defences were complete, they were called in and the first watch manned the rampart while their comrades removed their armour and began to prepare the evening meal.

‘How much longer are we going to be kept out here?’ Miro fretted to himself but just loud enough to provoke a response from his superior.

‘Until we hear the recall, that’s how long.’

Miro made ready to reply, thought better of it and clamped his jaw shut.

‘Sir!’ A trooper raised his spear and gestured up the slope.

Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that one of the horsemen had left the rest of the group and had started down the slope at a nonchalant pace, his horse flicking its tail lazily from side to side. At once the Blood Crows began to stir, tightening their grips on reins and spears.

‘Easy there!’ Cato called out. ‘No one is to do anything without my express order! Hold your ground and wait for my order. I’ll have the skin off the back of the first man who acts out of turn!’

The line steadied and waited in tense silence as the rider slowly descended from the crest of the hill. As he approached, Cato could see that he sat tall in the saddle of his finely groomed chestnut stallion whose coat gleamed in the fiery light. He wore a patterned tunic and blue leggings bound with leather straps. An oval shield hung from his saddle and he held a long lance in his right hand. His arms were thickly muscled and his dark hair hung in plaits on his broad shoulders. There was no trace of fear in his expression as he walked his horse towards Cato’s squadron and halted a mere ten paces from its commander. He stared at Cato a moment and then wheeled his horse to the right and rode towards the flank, glaring at the Blood Crows. At the end of the line he turned round and walked back until he stopped in front of Cato again and jabbed the tip of his spear at the Roman officer. Miro instinctively made to draw his sword.

‘Don’t!’ Cato growled. ‘Do nothing until I say so.’

Miro hesitated a moment and then forced himself to release his grip and eased his hand up on to his saddle horn.

The rider began to speak in a deep voice, tinged with pride and anger as he addressed Cato in his native tongue, pointing his spear at the Romans to emphasise his words. It took a moment before Cato realised that he was indicating the camp as much as the line of horsemen he was confronting.

‘What’s he on about, sir?’ Miro asked in an undertone.

‘I imagine he’s demanding to know what we’re doing here. And it’s a fair enough question. We may be allies but we might look like an invading column.’

‘What we need is that translator the tribune’s brought along. Shall I fetch him, sir?’

‘No. Stand firm, and keep your mouth shut.’

The rider continued his tirade and his eyes glittered from time to time as they caught the glare of the setting sun so that he seemed the very embodiment of outrage, on the cusp of spurring his horse forward to try and impale Cato on the tip of his spear. Then Cato became aware of the thrumming of hoofs and risked a look over his shoulder to see a horseman racing towards them from the fort. He swiftly recognised him as Vellocatus and smiled thinly as he addressed the decurion.

‘Seems like the tribune has second-guessed you.’

The shouting stopped as the rider craned his neck to look past Cato. A moment later Vellocatus reined in and eased himself into a space beside Cato. The other man’s expression creased into a contemptuous sneer and he spat into the grass in front of the new arrival.

Cato scratched his earlobe casually. ‘Friend of yours?’

‘A cousin. Belmatus. Younger brother of Venutius.’

‘Ah, now I understand something of his pleasure in seeing you here.’ Cato nodded in the direction of the fiery native. ‘Better find out exactly what he wants.’

Vellocatus cleared his throat and addressed his relative. Cato had learned some of the tongue of the tribes further to the south but he could not follow the more guttural dialect of the two northerners. There was a sharp exchange before the translator turned back to Cato.

‘Besides some colourful insults directed at me, Belmatus demands to know why the Romans have ventured beyond the frontier of the lands they lay claim to.’

‘I see.’ Cato tilted his head slightly as a worrying thought struck him. ‘Do I take it that your queen has not yet informed her people that she has requested our assistance?’

Vellocatus shifted uncomfortably in his saddle before he replied. ‘I do not know, sir. I merely carried the message.’

‘I don’t believe you. Try again.’

The young nobleman lowered his gaze as he replied, ‘She said it would be better not to give too much warning of your approach.’

‘It seems that events have rather overtaken her intention.’ Cato nodded to the waiting native. ‘Word of our advance is going to reach Isurium a while before we arrive.’

Vellocatus shrugged. Before Cato could continue, they were interrupted by Belmatus who spoke quickly and harshly.

‘He demands an answer.’

‘Then we’d better tell him the truth.’

The translator shot Cato an anxious look. ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’

‘What choice have we got? If we don’t tell the truth then it looks like we’re invading Brigantian territory. Tell him we’re here at the request of his queen. She has asked to speak to a representative of the Roman governor.’ Cato lowered his voice. ‘Don’t mention anything about who we have come to arrest. They’ll guess our true purpose quickly enough, but let’s not give it to them on a plate. Tell him what I said.’

There was another exchange, more lengthy this time and more heated, before Belmatus gritted his teeth and thrust his arm out, pointing south, back the way the column had marched.

‘Let me guess,’ Cato said drily. ‘He demands that we turn back and return to the province.’

Vellocatus nodded. ‘He says that he has heard nothing about Cartimandua’s request. In any case, he takes his orders from his brother. If your column continues then the Brigantes will take it as a declaration of war.’

Cato stiffened. That changed the situation rather unpleasantly. This had gone beyond the scope of his authority. He must report back to Tribune Otho and allow him to consider matters before deciding how to proceed.

‘Hrrrmm.’ Cato cleared his throat. ‘Tell Belmatus that I will convey his message to my commander, and tell him that we mean no harm to his people. Remind him that we come here at the request of Queen Cartimandua, our ally. I advise him to confirm that with her before he carries out any action that his people might have cause to regret.’

Vellocatus spoke and there was a sharp retort from the other native that seemed to strike the translator like a blow. He turned to Cato and winced. ‘My cousin says that if your column takes another step in the direction of Isurium then he, and the warriors of his tribe, will cut you down and take your heads as trophies.’

The warrior had been watching Cato closely as his words were conveyed and now he smiled coldly and drew his finger slowly across his throat. Then he turned his horse round and spurred it back towards his men waiting on the crest of the hill. The sun was setting on the horizon and even though the evening was warm and close, Cato felt a cold shiver trace its way down his spine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘H
ow could your queen possibly think it a good idea to conceal from your people the fact that she had asked for our assistance?’ Tribune Otho demanded.

Vellocatus took a moment to unpick the convoluted question before he replied. ‘As I explained to Legate Quintatus, her position is delicate. Our people are divided over our relations with Rome. Most want peace, but there are many who hate or fear you. They feel that they must join those that continue to fight against the invader. Or else Brigantia will be swallowed up like all the tribes to the south of our lands. My queen decided that it would be best not to let her court know that she had asked for your help. At least not until you were on the march.’

Otho rubbed his weary eyes as he digested the explanation. Around the table the other senior officers of his column sat in silence. Cato tucked a finger under the hem of his tunic and pulled the cloth away from his clammy skin. It was stifling in the tribune’s tent thanks to the fact that Otho had ordered the tent flaps to be closed to keep the insects out. Even so, a small swirling cloud of gnats and mosquitoes clustered around the flames of the oil lamps and with a muttered curse Macro raised a hand to swat away those that came too close to his face.

The tribune, however, was ignoring the nuisance. His attention was fixed on the young Brigantian nobleman. ‘Will your cousin really attack us if we attempt to continue our march tomorrow?’

‘If?’ Horatius interrupted. ‘Sir, we have orders to—’

‘I know my damn orders, thank you!’ Otho snapped. ‘And I am in command here. I make the decisions. I’ll thank you to remember that, Prefect Horatius.’

The sudden outburst was the first time Cato had seen the young tribune’s temper and he and the other officers sat still and waited for the moment to pass. Otho sucked in a calming breath and gestured to his translator. ‘So, will your cousin fight us?’

Vellocatus closed his eyes for a moment and frowned before he looked up and replied. ‘I don’t know. Belmatus is a hothead. Always has been. But he takes his lead from Venutius. He’s the one you should be concerned about. If he has given his brother the order to fight, then fight he will.’

‘But that would be foolish,’ Prefect Horatius interrupted. ‘He has no more than fifty men. If he attempts to stop us we’ll wipe him out.’

‘And that’s bound to be well received at the court of Queen Cartimandua,’ said Cato with heavy irony, so that Horatius could not miss the point. ‘Before her Roman allies have even reached Isurium they’ll have the blood of her people on their swords. I can imagine how that will play out. Venutius will lay the responsibility for their deaths at our door and say that this is proof of Rome’s intention to wage war on the Brigantes, and that his people have no choice but to join Caratacus’s struggle against us.’ He turned to the tribune. ‘Sir, we have to make sure that there is no bloodshed tomorrow, at least as far as we can help it.’

Otho rubbed his brow slowly. ‘Are you suggesting that if we are opposed then we should turn back?’

‘Not at all, sir. If we turn back Venutius will claim the credit for it and it will weaken the queen’s position.’

‘Either way, the situation at Isurium gets worse for us. We are damned if we do push on, and damned if we don’t.’

Cato repressed his irritation. He disliked this kind of categoric thinking. It forced all real possibilities of outcome into two channels and limited the scope for action as a result.

‘No, sir. I’m just pointing out that the decision isn’t between going on and turning back. Either of those will damage any support that we have amongst the Brigantes. Therefore neither is the best course of action.’

‘Then what is?’ Otho demanded in frustration.

‘We must continue our advance tomorrow,’ Cato said patiently. ‘Besides, as Horatius has pointed out, those are our orders – unless the legate has included a contingency against proceeding if we are opposed.’

Otho shook his head.

‘Then we go on,’ Cato said firmly. ‘But we must not provoke any violence. We must avoid it at all costs.’

Horatius leaned forward. ‘At all costs short of defending ourselves.’

‘That’s right,’ Cato conceded. ‘But if any blows are struck, then we have to ensure that theirs is the first.’

There was a brief pause before Macro spoke. ‘The lads ain’t going to like that. They’re not trained to stand there and take it from the enemy.’

‘But they aren’t the enemy,’ Cato responded. ‘Not yet, at least, and that’s how we want to keep things. If it comes to a fight then we may lose a few men to start with. Better that than be the cause of a war that costs many more lives, all because our men lack the discipline to see this through.’ He turned his attention back to the tribune. ‘Sir, you need to change the marching order tomorrow. If we are confronted, then we’re going to need the right men in the vanguard. Men we can trust to do exactly as they are told.’

Tribune Otho gave a thin smile. ‘Your men, I suppose?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But haven’t they something of an unfortunate reputation amongst the natives? I’d heard that your men are a bloodthirsty lot, Cato. Hardly the sort we can entrust with keeping the peace.’

‘That’s the point, sir. Their reputation will march ahead of them. When Belmatus and his men see the Blood Crows’ standard at the head of the column, it may cause them to think twice before they engage us.’

‘It’s not their side that concerns me. What if you can’t control your men? What if they strike first?’

‘They won’t,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I’ll pick the men myself, and make sure they understand what I require of them. I trust them, sir. So can you.’

Otho stared at Cato and weighed up the choices available to him. At length he folded his hands together and glanced round at the other officers. ‘Any comment?’

No one responded and there was a short silence before Otho sighed. ‘Then it seems I am obliged to continue the advance towards Isurium. Given the situation, we will march as if in enemy territory. Besides the nightly fortifications, we’ll double the guard on the camp. We’ll also advance in close formation. On the morrow, Prefect Cato and half of his cohort will lead the vanguard. Prefect Horatius, your men will guard the flanks of the column. Gentlemen, make sure that your officers tell their men that it is vital they not let themselves be provoked by the tribesmen. Nor, if we pass any settlements, are they to take anything from the natives. If there is any theft, any violence, then I will shit on the man responsible, and his commanding officer, from a very great height. Do I make myself clear?’

The officers nodded and muttered their assent.

Otho turned his eyes back to Cato. ‘You’ll be leading the way. If anything happens, I’ll hold you directly responsible, Prefect. If a conflict breaks out between Rome and Brigantia, I will make sure that everyone from Legate Quintatus up to the Emperor himself knows that you were the cause of it.’

Cato stared back, struggling to retain his composed expression. Inside he felt contempt for the tribune’s readiness to shift responsibility from his shoulders to that of his subordinate. The column was Otho’s command. He had his orders. He knew his duty. And yet he shirked from exposing himself to the full consequences of assuming the rank he had been entrusted with. Cato felt disappointed in the man. Much as Otho seemed typical of his class, he had been spirited enough in the battle against Caratacus and his army. Perhaps he had exceeded the measure of confidence that was innate to his nature. That was what ultimately separated the lesser officers from the best, Cato had come to learn. Confidence was the source of competence. Arrogance might also help a man, but it was a brittle quality and founded on delusion rather than good judgement and therefore dangerous. Was that Otho’s weak spot? His Achilles’ heel?

Then a dark suspicion seeped into Cato’s mind. What if he was misjudging the tribune? What if he was deliberately, albeit very cautiously, seeking to undermine his mission? It might be that he was the enemy agent sent to Britannia by Pallas to do all that he could to deny peace to the province. His eagerness to place Cato in charge of the vanguard might be motivated by the chance that Cato would be amongst the first to perish if there was a confrontation with the tribesmen. It would be a most economical solution, Cato thought with a touch of admiration. Pallas would have provoked the war with Brigantia that he wanted and the elimination of his prey at one stroke. Otho’s column would be forced to withdraw and Macro could be disposed of later.

Cato took a long deep breath before he responded to his commanding officer. ‘I will do my duty, sir. I will not provide the excuse for a new war.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Otho replied flatly. ‘Now, unless there’s any other matter that anyone wants to raise? No? Then you’re dismissed.’

The officers rose from their stools and left the tent. Macro let out a relieved puff as they emerged into the cool night. Above them the sky was completely clear and the stars glimmered like tiny gems. A half-moon hung low in the sky, not far above the line of the hills, and by its light they could just make out a single horseman watching over the Roman camp from the nearest crest. The other officers turned and strode back towards their units. Macro and Cato lingered a moment a short distance from the tribune’s headquarters tent.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Macro. ‘Is there going to be trouble tomorrow?’

‘Who knows? All I can do is play my part in seeing that our side doesn’t cause it.’

‘Yes. Nice of the tribune to finger you for the job.’

Cato gave a dry chuckle. ‘It was my idea. I’ll take responsibility for it.’

Macro glanced at his friend. The pale glow of the moon made the prefect’s skin look cold, like marble. ‘You take care, lad. I don’t care what you said back in the tent. If one of them barbarians comes at you tomorrow then take no risks. Skewer the bastard before he gets the chance to do the same.’

Cato’s lips parted in a quick smile. ‘I’ll have to see about that.’ His expression hardened. ‘Actually, it’s not just the danger from the barbarians that concerns me.’

‘What do you mean?’

They were interrupted by the soft laughter of the tribune’s wife, carrying easily to their ears. Four of the tribune’s bodyguards stood silently by the entrance to the tent, within listening distance. Cato steered his friend away from the tent. ‘Not here. I think it’s time we had a little drink.’

Macro’s eyes twinkled in the moonlight. ‘Ah! Now, you’re talking.’

Then he grasped the true import behind Cato’s words and his shoulders sagged a little as they turned to make their way across to the small wagon parked in the corner of the camp.

A brazier lit the open area in front of the wine merchant’s wagons and a modest crowd stood, or sat, in small clusters as they sipped from simple clay beakers and talked in the quiet manner of soldiers who were weary from the day’s march but broadly content with their lot. The men parted to let the two officers through to the counter set up a short distance from the side of the wagon. Septimus’s slave was busy serving customers while his master stood to one side mixing cheap wine with water.

‘We’ll have two cups,’ Cato announced as he reached into his purse and took out a few brass coins. ‘Decent wine, mind you.’

Septimus had looked up the moment he recognised the prefect’s voice. He lowered the jug he was holding and smiled obsequiously. ‘Alas, no wine, my dear sirs. Only posca, carefully blended with fresh spring water by my own hand. Most refreshing.’

‘We want wine,’ Macro insisted.

Septimus raised his hands and shrugged his regret. ‘I cannot, on the orders of his excellency, Tribune Otho. He does not wish any man under his command to become drunk. So watered wine it is. Or no wine.’ Septimus lowered his voice, just enough so that he could still be heard by the nearest soldiers. ‘But, for my special customers, dear sirs, there is always wine. I have a few choice jars in my wagon, if you are interested?’

Cato nodded and Septimus casually waved them in the direction of the end of the wagon. Some of the nearest men shot glances at their superiors and exchanged brief grumbles about the privileges of rank before returning to their original muted conversations. Septimus led the two officers to the tailgate and reached through the leather flaps of the cover to extract a small jar. He gestured at it occasionally as he spoke.

‘It’s best if we keep this brief. What’s the matter?’

‘You saw the men watching us earlier in the day?’

Septimus nodded.

‘They’re threatening to block our way tomorrow.’

‘I heard as much from your Decurion Miro. He was here a short time ago, trying to drown his sorrows.’

‘He’s not going to get far down that road on posca,’ said Macro.

‘Just as well. Don’t think the man would like a hangover on top of his other woes.’ Septimus turned his attention back to Cato. ‘So?’

Cato hesitated a moment. ‘Otho’s looking for an excuse to turn the column round.’ He briefly recounted the briefing that he and Macro had attended at headquarters.

‘I see . . . And you think there may be more to it than a case of rattled nerves?’

‘The tribune didn’t lack for courage in his first battle,’ Macro pointed out. ‘He’d hardly turn tail because a sorry-arsed bunch of tribesmen told him not to trespass on their turf.’

‘Exactly,’ said Cato. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’

Septimus scratched his nose. ‘You think he’s our man? Pallas’s agent?’

‘He could be. He’s in a perfect position to make sure this mission fails, long before we even get close enough to Caratacus to take him into our custody.’

‘That’s true,’ Septimus conceded. ‘And the fact that he’s keen to put you in harm’s way would seem to support your interpretation. But it’s hardly conclusive proof.’

‘He has to play this carefully,’ Cato continued. ‘Whoever turns out to be the agent has to cover his tracks. Not only to protect himself, but to protect Pallas. If there’s a crisis here in Britannia, and someone can trace the origins back to the Emperor’s freedman then Pallas is going to get nailed to a cross, and all those associated with him.’