Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (15 page)

After the latch on the door clanked down there was a moment of silence before Verica began. He knew the value of silence as a means of focusing attention. He cleared his throat and began.

‘Before we get to the substance of this meeting I want you to swear an oath that whatever is said here this afternoon goes no further than these walls. Swear it now!’

His guests slid their hands down to their dagger hilts and made the vow in a collective low mumble. One or two looked slightly offended by the instruction.

‘Very well, let’s begin. By now you all know about the Atrebatan prisoners taken by our men at the ambush. Most of you were there to welcome the cohorts home. You may have witnessed the unfortunate scene when that woman discovered her son’s head amongst the war trophies.’

Cadminius grinned at the memory, and a cruel sense of mirth at the woman’s grim discovery caused some of the others to chuckle. Verica’s face remained expressionless, except the eyes, which involuntarily widened with mild shock and a little anger at the laughter. When the laughter had died away he leaned forward slightly.

‘Gentlemen, there’s nothing in the situation that should amuse you. When our own people are killing each other there’s no room for rejoicing.’

‘But, sire,’ protested an old warrior, ‘the man betrayed us. All those men betrayed us. They deserved their fate, and that woman should never have shamed herself grieving for a son who turned on his own people, turned against his own king.’

There was a mumble of approval for these words, but Verica quickly raised his hand to quiet them.

‘I agree, Mendacus. But what of the people out there? The people of Calleva, and our lands beyond the walls of the town? How many of them agree with us? Surely not all. How could that be when so many of them are now fighting with Caratacus? Fighting against us, as well as our Roman allies. Answer me that!’

‘Such men are fools, sire,’ Mendacus replied. ‘Hot heads. The kind of impressionable young men who are easily talked into anything . . .’

‘Fools?’ Verica shook his head sadly. ‘Not fools. Not that, at least. It’s no easy thing to turn your back on your people. I should know.’

The king raised his eyes and scanned the faces around the table. His shame was mirrored in their expressions. He had fled for his life when Caratacus had marched on Calleva several years earlier. Fled in the night like a coward, and run to the Romans to throw himself on their mercy. They had seen that the old man might yet have a part to play in the Empire’s designs and had given him shelter and looked after him well. But such hospitality is not without its price. When the time came, the favour was called in and the Emperor’s chief secretary, Narcissus, made it quite clear to him that the price demanded by Rome for returning him to his throne was eternal obedience. Nothing short of that would do. And Verica had readily agreed, as he and Narcissus had both known he would. So when the legions landed in Britain, Verica marched with them. His kingdom had been returned to him at the point of a Roman sword and the many who had clung to their Catuvellaunian overlords ran into exile, or resisted and died.

Most of the men sitting round the table had been quick to see the futility of resisting the advance of the iron might of the legions. They had turned out to welcome Verica when four cohorts of legionaries escorted the former king through the gates of Calleva, up its winding streets, and into the royal enclosure. Only a year before they had been denouncing Verica as the weak and cowardly puppet of Rome. Now they had swallowed their pride and principles and were puppets themselves. And they knew it.

Verica leaned back in his chair and continued, ‘Those men we call traitors are acting out of personal conviction. They have an ideal - something, I might add, that is in short supply around this table tonight . . .’Verica dared any of them to look him in the eye and deny it. Artax alone met the challenging glint in his king’s eyes. Verica nodded his approval and continued. ‘Such men believe in a bond that unites the Celts across tribal boundaries. They believe in a greater loyalty than mere blind obedience to their king.’

Cadminius shook his head. ‘What greater loyalty could there be than that?’

‘Loyalty to one’s race, to one’s culture, to the bloodline from which we spring. Isn’t that a loyalty worth fighting for? Worth dying for?’ Verica concluded quietly. ‘Well . . .?’

There was a power to the old king’s rhetoric that touched the souls of some of the men round the table. A few were even bold enough to nod their agreement. But Tincommius was staring at his uncle with a calculating expression.

‘What are you suggesting then, sire?’

‘What do you think I am suggesting? If indeed I am suggesting anything at all. I merely wished to try to explain to you why some of our tribe should choose to turn their backs on us, abandon their families and go and fight for Caratacus. We must try to understand what drives them to this if we are to resist such forces acting on the minds of others.’

‘Must we also reconsider our alliance with Rome?’ Tincommius asked quietly.

There was a stunned intake of breath as the other nobles wondered at the brash candour of Tincommius’ question. King Verica stared at him, and slowly a smile formed on his lips.

‘Why?’ Verica asked his kinsman. ‘Why would I want to reconsider?’

‘I’m not saying you would want to, I’m merely suggesting that we need to consider all the choices before us. That’s all . . .’ Tincommius’ voice tailed off as he became aware that all the other men were watching him closely.

‘For the sake of argument,’ Verica spoke in an even tone, ‘what choices do we think we have? I’d appreciate it if everyone here spoke his mind. We must have a thorough airing of all the possible positions, even if we decide against them at the end of the evening. So, Tincommius, what choices are there, in your . . . humble opinion?’

The young man knew he had been set up, and tried not to sound resentful when he spoke after a short pause to arrange his thoughts.

‘Sire, it’s obvious that the fundamental choice is between Caratacus and Rome. Neutrality is impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘Caratacus might respect our neutrality, because it would cost him nothing and it could only serve to frustrate Roman operations. Rome would never countenance our neutrality, since our lands sit astride the main lines of supply for the legions. So we must choose a side, sire.’

Verica nodded. ‘And so we have. The question is, my lords, have we chosen the right side? Will Rome win this war?’

The nobles reflected a moment, then Mendacus leaned forward on his elbows and cleared his throat. ‘Sire, you know that I’ve seen the legions fight. I was there at the Mead Way last summer, when they crushed Caratacus. No one can beat them.’

Verica smiled. Mendacus had been there, all right - fighting alongside Caratacus, as had some of the others in this room. Verica had been there as well, albeit on the other side of the river, with Tincommius. But that was all in the past. After his restoration, Verica, under orders from Narcissus, had exercised clemency and welcomed the rebel nobles back into his court. He had questioned the wisdom of this, but Narcissus had been adamant. The imperial secretary intended to set a wider example of Roman magnanimity. So Verica had returned their lands to the nobles and pardoned them. He glanced round the table, then back to Mendacus.

‘Unbeatable, you say?’

‘No one is unbeatable!’ Artax snorted his contempt. ‘Not even your Romans.’

‘ “Your Romans”?’ Mendacus repeated, and raised an eyebrow. ‘After your recent service under our two Roman centurions I’d have thought you’d have a greater sense of belonging?’

‘What are you saying, old man? What are you accusing me of ? I serve King Verica and no other man. I dare you to say different.’

‘I merely wondered how successful your training had been?’ Mendacus continued smoothly. ‘How far you had been . . . Romanised.’

Artax smashed his fist down on the table, sending some the goblets flying. ‘Outside! Outside now, you old bastard! You and me! We’ll soon settle this.’

‘Peace! Gentlemen, please . . . please,’ Verica intervened wearily. The divisions between the Atrebatan nobles had been hopelessly complicated by the events of the last few years and now there was just too much political dirt that could be flung back and forth. Clarity of understanding and purpose were needed now more than ever. Verica glared at Artax until the latter subsided, and slumped back on to his bench with a sullen expression. Only then did Verica continue.

‘The whole point of this meeting is to find a way that our people can be left in peace, or as much peace as is possible. Now, I know there are differences of opinion amongst us. Put them aside. Clear your minds of past injustices and grievances. Focus on the present situation. If I can summarise . . .

‘For now we serve Rome, and Rome appears to be winning the fight. But, as Artax has pointed out, this does not mean that Rome must win in the end. They’ve been defeated in the past, and doubtless they’ll be defeated again. If Caratacus can beat them, then what will be the consequences for us? I doubt we could expect much mercy from the Catuvellaunians. If the Romans look like being defeated, or are forced to retreat, we could abandon our alliance with them and join Caratacus. We would be perfectly positioned to deal the Romans a lethal blow from the rear. That would serve us well in the subsequent division of spoils amongst the tribes. Of course, there is the chance that we switch sides and then the Romans still win the war. In that case our nation would be finished. Rome would show us no pity, I am certain of that.’ Verica lowered his voice to emphasise his final words. ‘Everyone here would be hunted down and executed. All our families would have their land seized and they would be enslaved. Think on that . . . Now, what should we do?’

‘You gave your word to Rome,’ said Artax. ‘You swore a treaty with them. Surely that’s what matters, sire?’

Tincommius shook his head. ‘No. What matters is the result of the struggle between Rome and Caratacus. That’s all that matters.’

‘Wise words, my boy,’ Verica nodded. ‘So then, who will win?’

‘Rome,’ said Mendacus. ‘I’d stake my life on it.’

‘You already have,’ Tincommius smiled. ‘But I’d say the odds are slowly shifting.’

‘Oh, would you?’ Mendacus folded his arms, and smiled back. ‘On what basis do you offer such a view? From what vast experience of military matters? Pray tell. I’m sure we’re all ears.’

Tincommius refused to rise to the bait. ‘We don’t have to look very far for the evidence. Why would Rome be prepared to train and arm our two cohorts if they weren’t desperate for manpower? They’re overstretched. Their supply lines are more vulnerable than ever and Caratacus can send raiding columns far behind the Roman legions, almost with impunity.’

‘I thought you’d beaten one of them a few days ago?’

‘We defeated one column. How many more are out there? How many more can Caratacus send out? The raids are getting more frequent. The legions, for all their might in battle, are only as strong as their lines of supply. Destroy those and General Plautius and his army will slowly be starved of food and weapons. They’ll be forced to retreat to the coast, harassed every step of the way. They’ll be bled to death, by and by.’

Mendacus laughed. ‘If it’s so obvious the Romans will be defeated then why fight for them?’

‘They’re our allies,’ Tincommius explained simply. ‘As Artax said, our king swore a treaty with them and we must honour that. Unless, or until, the king changes his mind . . .’

Everyone looked surreptiously at the king but Verica was gazing over their heads, at the dim framework of timbers in the rafters. He appeared not to have heard the last remark and there was a troubled lull, filled with quiet shuffling and one or two coughs as the nobles waited for him to respond. In the end Verica simply changed the subject.

‘There is something else we have to consider. Whatever decision I make about our alliance with Rome, we must consider how the other nobles will respond, and our people.’

‘Your people will do your will, sire,’ said Mendacus. ‘They are sworn to.’

An amused expression flickered across Verica’s lined face. ‘Your desire to do my will is rather short-lived, wouldn’t you say?’

Mendacus coloured with embarrassment and barely checked anger. ‘I speak now as one of your most loyal servants. You have my word on it, sire.’

‘Oh, that’s reassuring,’ muttered Artax.

‘Quite.’ Verica nodded. ‘With all deference to your word, Mendacus, I know that many of our finest warriors take a dim view of our alliance with Rome, as do many of our subjects on the streets of Calleva. I’m old. I’m not stupid. I know what people are saying. I know that there are some nobles who are already plotting to overthrow me. It would be strange if there weren’t, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before they take the chance to put their plans into action. Who knows how many of our warriors would follow their lead? But if I join with Caratacus, would my own position be any more secure? I doubt it . . .’

Mendacus made to speak but Verica raised his hand to stop him. ‘Don’t. Don’t say another word about the loyalty of my subjects.’

Mendacus opened his mouth, then good sense got the better of sycophancy and he closed it with as much dignity as he could, and heaved his shoulders in a quick shrug of resignation as the king continued.