They pitched their tent, watching the soldiers to see how it was done. The Romans usually had eight men to a tent, which was very crowded, but there was plenty of room for three people. Sleeping under the leather tent was a novel experience for all of them. In other circumstances, they might have enjoyed it, but a second day had passd since Castatin and Barabal had been taken and they were still trapped in the midst of thousands of Roman soldiers. They found it hard to relax and none of them got much sleep.
Brude had expected the army would march on the following day but the legion stayed in camp, and for another day after that. The soldiers were kept busy but there was nothing for Brude, Mairead and Fothair to do except sit around and wait, fretting over the delay. Brude was worried for Mairead. There were virtually no other women in the camp and he saw that she was attracting attention. His own status was not clear to most of the soldiers so he made a point of chatting to the guards who watched the baggage train. He let it be known that he had once marched with the legions in Germania. When the soldiers heard this, they relaxed their hostility enough to pass on the latest rumours. “They say that Caesar is coming to join us. He’s bringing the Sixth with him,” one of them told him.
“Caesar? The emperor himself?”
“Nah, his son. We’ve got three Caesars now; the emperor and his two sons.”
“You can’t have enough Caesars,” chuckled one old veteran. “Emperors know they have to keep the legions happy.”
“Any idea why he’s coming?” Brude asked, as innocently as he could.
“I heard he’s won a great victory over in the west. Sent the Caledonii running for their lives. Now he’s coming over here to do the same to the rest of the barbarians.”
A second soldier spat and said, “I heard he was leaving because of those blasted biting insects that come out every evening. Eat you alive, they will. When he heard they don’t bother you so much over here, he decided to change his plans.”
Brude politely joined in the laughter. “Do you know when he’s expected to get here?”
The soldier shrugged. “Who knows? Why? You keen to meet him?”
“I’m keen to head south and get away from the war. I’m a trader, but I’ve got nothing to trade.”
“You’re all right,” said another solider with a leer. “You’ve got your woman to keep you warm at nights.”
Brude saw that the other soldiers were interested at the mention of Mairead. To stop any of them getng any ideas, he said with a laugh, “Don’t get too excited, lads. She’s got the pox.” They laughed and the moment passed. Later, when he told Mairead and Fothair about the emperor’s son coming, he decided it would be best not to tell her what he had said to the soldiers.
Caracalla, the emperor’s elder son, rode into camp the next afternoon, bringing the Sixth Legion with him. They quickly set up camp nearby while Caracalla called together all the senior officers for an evening meal. To Brude’s surprise, Porcius came to summon him to join the gathering. Mairead was worried by the fact that he had no decent clothes to wear to meet the emperor’s son, but Brude had heard enough about Caracalla over the years to feel apprehensive about why he had been summoned. He recalled that Caracalla had had his own father-in-law executed without trial, and had been responsible for Pollio’s death in the arena. Emperors were dangerous men to be around and Brude wanted to keep as far away as possible from the man who would be the next emperor.
But it was not possible. Nobody refused an imperial invitation so Brude, dressed in his shabby travelling clothes, followed Porcius to the legate’s huge tent, which was already surrounded by soldiers of the Praetorian Guard, the imperial family’s personal bodyguard. The Praetorians eyed everyone, even other Roman soldiers, with suspicion. They had a privileged position, close to the emperor. They earned more pay than the legionaries but hardly ever had to fight. It was a position they guarded jealously.
Porcius led Brude inside the huge tent where tables had been set around the edges in a square shape. Most of the diners sat in simple chairs but there was one, at the centre of the table facing the entrance, which was high-backed, ornate and covered with a purple cloth. There sat the emperor’s son, with Priscus on his right side.
Caracalla had been a teenage boy when Brude had last seen him in the imperial box at the arena. That had been the day Josephus had died, the day Brude had gained his freedom. Now the emperor’s son was a young man of twenty-four, dressed in a shining breastplate and greaves, with a purple cloak fastened at his throat. Behind him stood a Praetorian holding his helmet with its white horsehair plume. Caracalla’s beard was neatly trimmed, even in the middle of a war campaign. Brude could sense his authority immediately and knew he had to be careful. This young man had a reputation for cruelty and ruthlessness.
Brude felt self-conscious, all too aware of his shabby clothes when Porcius marched him into the centre of the tables to introduce him to the emperor’s son. Caracalla looked at him with interest. When he spoke, it was with all the self-assurance of a young man who was used to being in command. The officers seated round the tables were respectfully silent.
“We share the same name,” Caracalla said to him. “You are a freedman?”
“Yes, Caesar. Your father freed me himself.”
“Really? What for?”
“I fought in the arena at the Secular Games.”
Caracalla looked at him in genuine surprise, studying his face as if trying to recognise him. “You were the Secutor who tangled himself in the Retiarius’ net?”
Brude was astonished that Caracalla remembered the fight. He could never forget it himself, but the emperor and his family must have seen hundreds of similar displays in the arena. Caracalla, though, obviously still remembered it. “That was me, Caesar,” Brude admitted.
“Well, I am delighted to meet you,” Caracalla said, sounding as though he meant it. “I remember watching that fight and thinking you were a dead man. You took a big risk, did you not?”
“It was either that or die,” Brude told him. “He was better than me.”
“Apparently not, or you wouldn’t be here,” Caracalla said with a laugh, which was dutifully echoed by his officers. Even the men too far away to have heard the comment joined in. Then Caracalla said, “So what brings you to this god-forsaken part of the world?”
“Trade, Caesar. I was born near here and I thought I could make myself rich by bringing Roman goods to the people here.”
“And have you managed that?”
“Regrettably not.” Brude decided some exaggeration of events would help. “I was not popular with the village chieftains. They thought I was too Roman.”
Caracalla snorted. “Savages, the whole lot of them. But now they are seeing the power of Rome. You say this Nechtan wants peace with us?”
“He certainly does, Caesar. He is very afraid of you.” Most Romans liked that sort of flattery. Brude hoped that Caracalla was no exception.
“With good reason. Well, we shall soon see what he is made of. We march tomorrow and you, Marcus Septimius Brutus, will accompany us. I wish to learn more of this land and its people. Knowledge gives us power, does it not, Priscus?”
Priscus nodded dutifully. “Indeed it does, Caesar.”
Brude felt his heart sinking. He wanted to get away. He had to start the search for Castatin. With every day that passed, the chances of finding the boy diminished. But there was no way to avoid an imperial command. He was dismissed with a casual wave and given a seat at a lower table where he ate as fine a meal as he could expect from a marching camp. He sipped at some wine, the first he had tasted since he had crossed the Wall. The trappings of Roman civilisation were available to him again but his son, whom he barely knew, had been taken and he felt as trapped as he had ever done when he was a slave.
Mairead was almost distraught when she learned they were going northwards. “What do they want us for?” she wanted to know.
“The emperor’s son seems to think I can help them,” said Brude.
“I am sorry, Mairead. I do not want this, but I don’t know how to get out of it.”
“Just tell him!” she said.
“It’s not that easy,” he tried to explain. “Nobody argues with a member of the imperial family. Not if they want to live.”
The legions pushed north, through the forested hills, cavalry scouts ranging far and wide in front and to either side of the marching columns. The one good thing that raised their spirits was that the Romans were heading away from Broch Tava. Brude wondered how Seoras and his mother were faring but there was no way to find out. He could only hope that they were still safe and well.
They made camp again within sight of Dun Nechtan, both legions together in a large camp. Brude was again summoned to Caracalla’s tent but this time there was no meal. Instead, the emperor’s son wanted to know all about Dun Nechtan, its defences and its warriors. Brude told them everything he knew, knowing that to lie would not help Nechtan or his people and could only harm his own situation if he was found to be telling less than the truth. As he spoke, aides jotted down notes while Priscus and his officers sometimes raised questions, asking him to expand or clarify on what he had said. Brude felt sick at heart, as if he was betraying his people, but if he wanted to save Castatin, to keep Mairead out of danger, there was nothing else he could do.
A sentry came into the tent and saluted. “Caesar, a delegation from the barbarians has arrived. They wish to speak to you.”
Caracalla’s eyes sparkled. “Do they indeed? Well, bring them in then, and let us speak. You’d bes asd an interpreter in as well.”
Brude moved to stand behind Caracalla and the other Romans, trying to be inconspicuous. He had no idea who would be in the delegation, but he would prefer not to be recognised. Caracalla had not dismissed him, so he had to stay.
The flaps of the doorway were pulled back and three people were ushered in. Brude’s heart sank again. Nechtan himself led the way, behind him his son, Eairsidh and, finally, Veleda, her long grey hair tied with a golden circlet. She saw Brude almost immediately but only the flash of recognition in her eyes revealed that she knew him. Nechtan had eyes only for Caracalla as he spoke through the interpreter, Mata, offering peace to Rome. Nechtan, Brude thought, was a clever man. His son was with him which, to the Romans, would suggest that they had the ruling dynasty in their power.
Nechtan laid his sword at Caracalla’s feet but he did not grovel. He was a chieftain of the Pritani so he stood proudly while he spoke, with Mata translating his words into Latin. In what must have been the hardest speech of his life, Nechtan offered to surrender all the gold and silver in his possession, offered himself and his son as hostages and told Caracalla that the Boresti would provide warriors to act as guides to help the Romans fight the Maeatae to the north. In return, he sought Rome’s protection for his people. It was a powerful plea, an offer of almost everything the Boresti had.
Caracalla listened, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, a thin smile playing around his lips. When Nechtan had finished speaking, the young Caesar unexpectedly turned to Brude. “Brutus, has our friend Mata translated this savage’s words accurately?”
Brude, suddenly the focus of attention, and now recognised by Nechtan and Eairsidh, nodded. “Yes, Caesar. They have offered complete surrender.”
“And do you think they will keep faith with me?”
Brude hesitated. He felt uncomfortable being so near to the centre of events, unsure of himself with so many powerful men around him waiting for his opinion. Priscus had reprimanded him when he had ventured to voice an opinion yet here was Caracalla, second only to the emperor, asking him what he thought. He looked at Nechtan. He saw the pride in the old warrior and understood what it was costing him to stand before Caracalla as a suppliant. Turning to Caracalla, he said, “I have heard him described as an old woman. I do not believe he would dare do anything other than what he says.”
Caracalla nodded. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he studied the three Boresti standing in front of him. Nechtan proudly returned his gaze, as did Veleda. The old woman, apparently oblivious to the tching Caesar, suddenly spoke to Brude. “I did not think to see you here in the midst of our enemies, Brude, son of Anndra.”
“I did not think to find myself here either,” Brude replied. “Broch Tava is destroyed. I was trying to return south.”
“But you are caught, as are we. Now we offer our head to the foe, for cutting off the head is the way to kill a people as well as a beast, is it not? Cut off the head and the beast will die.”
“What is she saying?” Caracalla demanded testily.
“She recognises me, Caesar,” Brude told him, “and accuses me of aiding the enemies of the Boresti. That is all.”
Caracalla was annoyed. In Roman eyes, women should not speak in the presence of men unless invited to do so. Even then, their opinions on matters of war or statecraft were rarely worth listening to. “Who is this old woman?” he wanted to know.
“She is one of Nechtan’s advisers,” Brude said, choosing his words carefully.
“Have you told him I am a druid?” Veleda asked in a firm, clear voice.
“I have told him you are an adviser to Nechtan, but you should stay silent. Women are not expected to speak as advisers.”
“You should tell him I am a druid,” Veleda said, her voice firm, her eyes challenging him, daring him to say it. Brude struggled to maintain his blank expression, wondering why she was so insistent. Surely she knew what the Romans would do to her if they knew, or even suspected, that she was a druid?
“What is she saying now?” Caracalla asked him.
Brude glanced at Mata, knowing the man had understood. He could not lie because Mata would be able to reveal it, but he did not want to say what Veleda was urging him to tell the Romans. The old woman was manoeuvring him into a hopeless position. He looked at her again. She nodded and smiled a smile of grim satisfaction. He realised that she knew precisely what she was doing. Reluctantly, he looked Caracalla in the eyes and said, “She claims to be a druid.”
There was an intake of breath from most of the Romans. Priscus exclaimed, “The druids were wiped out in the time of Nero!”
now?lla turned to Mata, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Is that what she says?”
Mata nodded. “Yes, Caesar. The woman says we should tell you she is a druid.”
Caracalla stared at Veleda. She returned his gaze unflinchingly. Unable to break her, the young Caesar turned to the nearest Praetorian. “Have them kept under armed guard.”
The guard saluted, signalled to other Praetorians and the three Boresti were ushered out of the tent at sword point.
When they were gone, Priscus said, “She must die, Caesar.”
“Of course she must,” Caracalla agreed. “Whether she is actually a druid or not, she claims to be one. We cannot have druids running around, stirring up trouble against us. But she will die in the morning, in full view of the rest of the savages up on their hill. Let them all see what happens to druids.”
“And the other two?” Priscus asked.
Caracalla waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, kill them too. That will leave the barbarians without a leader.”
Brude and the others were dismissed. Brude felt drained and desolate. With a few words, Caracalla had condemned Nechtan and his son and there was nothing anyone could do to save them. All because Veleda had talked herself into the grave. Why?
It was after nightfall now, the camp lit by dozens of flaming torches and braziers. Brude could find his way around a military camp easily, even in the dark, but as he made his way towards the baggage area where his own tent was pitched, Mata approached him. “A word in private?” the interpreter said.
They walked slowly through the sleeping camp, side by side. “What is it?” Brude asked.
Mata kept his voice low. “I am of the Votadini. I serve because I must. It keeps our people safe from the wrath of Rome.”
Brude nodded. “I understand. You live in the
shadow of the Wall.”
“Exactly! We all have to make compromises. Some of my fellows serve more willingly than others, of course. Rome has a lot to offer.”
“As long as you do things the Roman way,” Brude observed.
“Yes,” Mata agreed. He paused, then asked, “Why did she say to tell Caracalla she was a druid? She knew what she was doing.”
“I don’t know for sure,” said Brude, “but I think she is gambling that if the three of them are killed, the rest of the Boresti will be left unharmed. You heard what she said, ‘cut off the head and the beast will die’.” It was the only reason he could think of.
“I thought it might be something like that. She is old and does not care, the old chieftain is willing to sacrifice himself and his son will not be the next ruler anyway, is that right?”
“Nechtan has a brother, and a nephew,” said Brude, hoping he could trust the Votadini interpreter.
“A desperate gamble,” Mata observed. “I will go and speak to them before dawn. Should I tell them anything from you? They obviously know you.”
“I only met Veleda once and Nechtan twice, before tonight,” Brude told him.
Mata laughed. “Don’t worry, I will not ask them any questions about you. As I said, I understand about making compromises. I expect you have made as many as I have.”
Brude instinctively liked the little Votadini. He decided to trust him to keep his word. “If you see them, tell Veleda I understood her message.” Cut off the head and the beast will die, she had said.
As day broke, the army formed ranks outside the camp, each century arrayed neatly with armour polished and weapons at the ready. To the wings, the cavalry stood ready. Even the ballistas and onagers of the artillery were drawn up in orderly ranks, facing Dun Nechtan. A gaggle of camp followers stood to the rear, watching the proceedings with interest. Caracalla, dressed in a toga with the long folds draped over his head, officiated at the sacrifice of a young goat. After examining the entrails, he announced that the omens were propitious. The three Boresti prisoners were led out of the camp, surrounded by armed guards. They were taken to the open field where Colm and his men had camped only a few days before. Brude, watching from the ramparts of the legionary camp, Mairead and Fothair standing nervously beside him, saw Veleda survey the ranks of the Roman army. She looked at the ballistas being readied and she must have known that her plan was doomed to fail. Cut off the head and the beast will die, she had said. She had offered up the head width=e Boresti to the Romans and they had accepted the sacrifice. But Veleda, for all her skills, did not understand the Roman mind. Brude knew with a dreadful certainty that Caracalla did not just want the head. He wanted the whole carcass.
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 36
