04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Fourteen
'What do you think?'
'I'm not quite finished yet,' muttered Cato, his 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 torcs 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 torc 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 large brazier 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.
'Our boy Verica doesn't seem to be taking any risks.' Macro had to raise his voice above the noisy chatter and loud drunken laughter of the native guests.
'Can't blame him,' Cato answered. 'He's old and nervous and wants to die peacefully in his bed, I imagine.'
Macro, who was looking around for something to drink, was not listening. 'Oh shit!'
'What's the matter?'
'There's only that crap beer again. Bloody barbarians.'
Cato was suddenly aware of a looming presence at his shoulder and turned quickly. A huge warrior with flowing blond hair and a broad face regarded the two Romans curiously. He had narrow eyes that glinted in slits of reflected firelight.
'Can I help you?'
'You Romans?' The accent was thick, but comprehensible. 'Romans who lead the king's men?'
'That's us,' Macro beamed. 'Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.'
The Briton frowned. 'Lucelius…'
'Never mind, old son. Let's keep it simple – Macro and Cato will do for now.'
'Ah! Those are the names I need. Come.' Without waiting for any reply to the abrupt summons the Briton turned and strode off towards the throne at the end of the hall where his king was seated, drinking goblet in hand, surveying the scene as he chewed on a leg of roast lamb. At the sight of Cato and Macro he tossed it to one side and sat up smiling. A brace of huge hunting dogs pounced on the half-eaten leg and wrestled for its possession.
'There you are!' Verica called out to the approaching soldiers. 'My guests of honour.'
'My lord.' Cato bowed his head. 'You praise us too much.'
'Nonsense. I was afraid you would be too busy with your paperwork to join us. I know, from all my years in exile, that you Romans are sticklers for making reports,' Verica smiled. 'But now Cadminius has found you. You are most welcome. There are two seats for you at the high table when the food is served. If it's ever served.' He turned towards Cadminius and made some sharp remarks that clearly stung the captain of the bodyguard. At his master's bidding he trotted off towards a small
door at the rear of the hall. Through the small opening Macro could glimpse bodies stripped to the waist, glistening as they laboured over suckling pigs slowly roasting over cooking fires. The prospect of some juicy roast pork after several days of field rations made Macro's mouth water.
'Tell me, Centurion Macro, what are your plans for my cohorts now?' asked Verica.
'Plans?' Macro frowned. 'I suppose we keep training them. They're, er, they're still a bit rough around the edges.'
'Rough?' Verica looked a little unhappy.
'Nothing that a bit of hard drilling won't improve,' Macro rushed on. 'Ain't that right, Cato?'
'Yes, sir. A man can never have enough drilling.'
Macro shot him a warning look; this was no time for irony. 'Lads can't ever have enough drilling. Keeps them honed and ready to fight the enemy at any moment. You'll see the benefit of it soon enough, my lord.'
'Centurion, I want soldiers – not martinets. I want soldiers for the sole reason of killing my enemies… wherever they may be found.' With the lightest wave of his slender hands Verica indicated the figures crowding his great hall.
Cato felt a chill tingle the length of his spine at the king's words. He glanced quickly at the nearest faces amongst the guests, wondering how many amongst them harboured treachery towards their leader. Verica had noticed the change in the young officer's expression and laughed softly.
'Relax, Centurion! I doubt I'm in much danger, for tonight at least, thanks to your victory over the Durotrigans and their allies. We must enjoy the interlude for as long as it lasts. I merely wished to discover what plans you two have for taking the campaign to the Durotrigans.'
'Campaign?' Macro was startled. 'There's no campaign, my lord. The ambush was a one-off – a lucky chance we seized and made the most of. That's all there is to it. The cohorts, your cohorts, were only raised to protect Calleva and the supply convoys, my lord.'
'And yet they've proved their worth in the field. Why not make the most of the opportunity? Why not lead them against the enemy directly? Why not?'
'My lord, it's not as simple as that.'
'Simple?' Verica's smile abruptly disappeared.
Cato swallowed nervously and interceded to save Macro any further discomfort.
'What Centurion Macro means to say is that the cohorts need to be trained to prepare for a more demanding role. This victory is only the first of many, and when the Wolves and the Boars next march to war you can be assured they will crush your foes and extend the limits of your glory.'
Macro looked at him open-mouthed, but Verica was smiling again, and seemed to be satisfied at the prospect the young centurion held up to him.
'Very well then, gentlemen! Later, perhaps, I'll propose a toast to the continuing success of the partnership between my people and Rome. But here's Cadminius coming back. The food must be ready – it had better be. Would you two be kind enough to take a place at the table there? I'll join you in a moment.'
The two centurions bowed their heads and made their way over to the head table.
'What the fuck was that all about?' Macro hissed. 'What are you thinking of? Those two cohorts are for garrison duty, and convoy protection. And that's bloody well it. They'll not win him an empire, let alone a proper battle.'
'Of course not,' replied Cato. 'What kind of a fool do you take me for?'
'But you said-'
'I said what he wanted to hear, that's all. He'll change his mind soon enough, the moment his people start grumbling again. That's when he'll want his cohorts as close to him as possible.'
Macro glanced at his young companion. 'I hope you're right. I hope you haven't planted any stupid ideas in his head.'
Cato smiled. 'Who in their right mind would listen to the advice of someone barely old enough to be considered a man?'
'Who indeed?' grumbled Macro.
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Fifteen
The kitchen slaves eventually arrived with the food, straining under the weight of the glistening spitted pigs. Cadminius' shoulders slumped with relief now that his master had stopped tapping his foot and eagerly eyed the steaming hunk of meat and crackling being carved for him. Verica had quit his throne and lay on a couch, Roman style, overlooking the hall, and his most privileged guests were arranged round the remaining three sides. The head table was on a raised platform so that the king and his party would have the best view of the entertainments. Macro and Cato had been given the place of honour to Verica's right, and the remaining places were taken up by Atrebatan nobles, and a plump Greek merchant with heavily oiled and scented hair. Close to Cato sat Artax, with Cadminius at his side. Their eyes briefly met, and Cato saw the same sullen arrogance in them that Artax had displayed at their first encounter in the depot. Tincommius, relieved from his duties at the entrance, had joined them and sat with the two centurions.
Cato gently nudged him as they waited for Verica to start eating. 'Any idea what the entertainment will be after the banquet?'
'None. The old boy's been playing it close to his chest. I think Cadminius is in on it. That's why he's been so nervous all afternoon – wants to make sure the big surprise is a real treat for the audience.'
'Doubt I'll last until then if I have to wait for my food a moment longer…'
There was a palpable tension in the great hall as the king's guests waited silently for their host to take his first mouthful. Only then could they eat from the heaped plates in front of them. With theatrical grace the aged king lifted a sliver of pork to his lips and nibbled a corner. Behind him a bodyguard raised the royal standard, paused and let it slip back down so that it rapped sharply on the flagstone. At once the guests burst into renewed conversation and began to cram their mouths with food and beer. Cato lifted his drinking horn and peered into the brew: a dark honey colour with a light froth around the edges. Cato felt sick at the sweet malty smell that filled his nostrils. How could these people drink this stuff?
'Whatever you do,' said Macro, close to his ear, 'don't pinch your nose when you swallow. Take it like a man.'
Cato nodded and braced himself for the first sip. The bitterness came as a surprise, a pleasant surprise, he decided. Maybe there was a future for British beer after all. He lowered the cup and started chewing on a crudely cut hunk of steaming pork.
'Good!' He nodded to Macro.
'Good? 'S bloody wonderful!'
For a while, the guests at the top table ate in silence, grateful for the food after the lengthy delay. Verica, older and more gracious than his nobles, held his meat in a delicate manner and nibbled steadily at the pork with his remaining teeth. His appetite quickly deserted him and, wiping his greasy fingers in the long fur of one of his hunting dogs, he raised his drinking horn and looked over towards the two Romans.
'A toast to our Roman friends, their Emperor Claudius and the swift defeat of those foolish enough to resist the advance of Rome.'
Verica repeated the toast in Celtic and his words were taken up by the others seated around the table – although not all of them looked quite as enthusiastic as their king, Cato decided, as he glanced sidelong at Artax. Following the king's cue Cato raised the horn to his lips.
'You must drink it in one go,' whispered Tincommius.
Cato nodded, and as everyone began to down their ale he forced himself to begin, fighting off the impulse to gag at the heavily flavoured brew, and clamping his teeth shut to strain the clutter of sediment and other solids at the bottom of the horn. He wiped the flotsam clear of his lips with the back of his hand and set the nearly empty vessel back down on the table.
Verica nodded approvingly and signalled to one of his servants to refill the drinking horns before looking meaningfully at Macro, who was busy tearing off a piece of crackling with his teeth.
'Sir,' muttered Tincommius.
'What? What is it?'
'You're supposed to return the gesture.'
'What? Gesture?'
'Make a toast.'
'
Oh!' Macro spat the crackling out and raised his drinking horn. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and suddenly Macro couldn't think of anything suitable to say. He glanced beseechingly towards Cato but his friend seemed to watching Artax closely and did not notice his appeal for help. Macro quickly licked his lips, coughed and then began with a stammer, 'R-right then. To King Verica… his noble cohorts and… his interesting tribe.'
As Tincommius translated, the native guests frowned at the strange and awkward choice of words. Macro flushed with embarrassment, little used to such social ceremonies. He tried to continue in a more appropriate vein.
'Long may the Atrebatans remain faithful allies of Rome. May they profit from the speedy defeat of the barbarian tribes of this island.'
Macro raised his cup and beamed at the other guests. With the exception of Verica, they looked uncomfortable. Artax pointedly sipped from his horn before setting it down and glaring at the meat on his Samian ware platter.
As the other guests looked away Cato whispered, 'That might have been phrased better.'
'Well then, you do it next time.'
The Greek merchant delicately placed his drinking horn to one side and started a quiet conversation with his neighbour, neatly drawing the man's attention away from the tense silence on the head table. Verica was eating some dainty pastries and waved a finger to attract Macro's attention.
'Interesting toast, Centurion.'
'My lord, I did not mean to offend. To be honest, I've never been called on to do this kind of thing before – at least not in front of a king. I just meant to celebrate our alliance, and look forward to the future… that's all.'
'Of course,' Verica replied smoothly. 'No offence was taken. At least not by me, although I can't speak for some of the hotter heads in my family.' He nodded towards Artax with a laugh. 'And young Tincommius there – his father was no friend of Rome while I was in exile. Took a while for Tincommius to see that his father was wrong. Now look at him.'
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