Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (22 page)

‘Centurion Cato is not very experienced, sir.’

‘I can see that.’

Cato blushed.

‘Yet it would be useful to have a second opinion, just for clarity.’ The tribune gestured towards Cato. ‘Well?’

Cato felt a black wave of anxiety and depression engulf him. He must answer the tribune, yet his loyalty to Macro meant that he must not be seen to undermine his friend’s version of events. He cursed his comrade’s touchiness. Cato was no more enamoured of aristocratic hauteur than Macro, but having been raised in the imperial palace at least he was used to it and had found a way to cope with such arrogance. Much as Macro might want to enjoy his independent command far from the view of senior officers, Cato knew that it would be dangerous to underplay the political difficulties facing Verica. Moreover, being somewhat more speculative than Macro he could see the wider strategic implications faced by Rome. If the Atrebatans turned against Rome then not only would the current campaign be lost, but the conquest of Britain might well have to be abandoned. The shameful consequences of such an outcome would threaten the Emperor himself. Cato drew himself back from speculation to focus on the present. Much as Cato might be aware of the wider issues Macro was in trouble here and now, and needed his support.

‘Centurion Macro is right, sir . . .’

Macro rested his hands on his knees and eased himself back into his chair, trying hard not to smile.

‘He’s right,’ Cato repeated thoughtfully. ‘But it would be wise if we considered the possibility of some kind of trouble brewing up. After all, the king is an old man. Old men have a predilection for mortality, unassisted or otherwise . . .’

The tribune chuckled. ‘And are you aware of any potential assistants in the field - besides Caratacus and the Durotrigans?’

‘The families of the men he executed would have motive enough, sir.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Just the malcontents Macro was talking about.’

‘How many of them would you say there were, Centurion?’

Cato desperately thought about his response. If he estimated too many then Macro would be seen as complacent at best and a liar at worst. If Cato underestimated their number then the tribune would report back to General Plautius that the Roman alliance with the Atrebatans was safe. If it turned out not to be safe . . .

‘How many?’

‘It’s difficult to say, sir. With Verica taking a hard line on those who oppose him, they’re hardly making themselves obvious.’

‘Is there any cause for concern?’ asked Quintillus, and then added a qualification. ‘Is there anything else you think I need to tell the general?’

‘In my judgement, it is as Centurion Macro has said, sir. We can contain the problem for now. But if the situation changes, if Verica dies, or we meet with any serious defeat and Verica is deposed, who knows? The man chosen to succeed him by the king’s council might not stay loyal to Rome.’

‘Is that likely?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘I see.’ Tribune Quintillus leaned back in his chair, gazing at the beaten earth floor between his feet. He rasped a thumb along the stubble under his chin as he considered the situation. At length, just as Macro began to shift in his seat, the tribune looked up.

‘Gentlemen, I’ll be honest with you. The situation is causing me more concern than I thought it would. The general’s not going to be a happy man when he reads my report. Right now, the four legions are disposed along a wide front, trying to hold on to Caratacus until we can fix him, and close for the kill. Behind the legions we’ve got lines of communication stretching right back to Rutupiae. Most of them pass through Atrebatan land. We’re already having a hard enough time keeping the enemy’s raiding columns at bay. If the Atrebatans go over to Caratacus, then the show’s over. General Plautius will be forced to retreat all the way back to the fortress on the Tamesis. It would take us years to recover the ground. In that time Caratacus will be sure to make good use of our setback; the tribes would flock to his side. Given enough men, even though they’re Celts, Caratacus might just defeat our legions.’ Quintillus looked at Cato and Macro. ‘You appreciate the seriousness of the position?’

‘We’re not idiots, sir,’ Macro replied. ‘Of course we know the score. Right, Cato?’

‘Yes.’

Quintillus gave a faint nod as he seemed to make a decision. ‘Then you’ll understand the general’s thinking when I tell you that he has granted me full procuratorial powers over this kingdom, and I’m to exercise them the moment I perceive any danger to the legions’ supply lines.’

‘You’re not serious, sir?’ Cato shook his head. ‘Annexation? The Atrebatans would never stand for it.’

‘Who said we’d give them any choice in the matter?’ Quintillus said coldly. ‘While they’ve the good sense to do our bidding then they can have their king. But the moment they pose any threat to our interests I will be forced to act. The Second Legion will be recalled to Calleva to enforce my orders. These natives, and their lands, will come under direct Roman rule; the kingdom of the Atrebatans will cease to be.’

‘No,’ muttered Macro. ‘They’d die first.’

‘Nonsense! Don’t be so melodramatic, Centurion. They’ll do whatever it takes to survive, like everyone who has no real power to change events. They must already have a pretty good idea of the cost of defying Rome.’ The fire of ruthless ambition glinted in the tribune’s eyes. ‘For those who don’t know, I’ll teach them.’

‘If it comes to that,’ said Cato.

‘Yes.’ The tribune nodded. ‘If it comes to that.’

Cato’s mind was reeling from the boldness of the blow that the tribune was willing to strike. He could readily imagine how the proud and prickly Artax would react. Tincommius as well. Even the lowly Bedriacus might well resent the arbitrary imposition of direct Roman rule. Over the last few months Cato felt he had come to know something of these people. As he had picked up some of their language he had learned about their culture and had even come to respect them in many ways. These Britons had an integrity that was quite lacking in those races that had lived for many years in the shadow of the Eagles. In Gaul, Cato had seen the extent to which the land had been turned into a rough facsimile of the vast estates that covered Italy. Generations of natives had lost their ancestral territories and now worked the same fields in exchange for a pittance. Where the estates were worked by chain gangs, the descendants of the once-proud tribes who had nearly bested Caesar himself were now forced to find work in the small industries that had sprouted up around the new Roman cities stamped across Gaul.

Whatever the strategic exigencies of the current situation, Cato felt that the Atrebatans deserved better than this. Good men had shed their blood to defend the supply routes of the legions. He had seen them die. To be sure, they had also been defending themselves from their warlike neighbours, but what had truly impressed him was the mutual respect and, dare he admit it, affection that had forged a bond between the warriors of the Atrebatans and their instructors from the Second Legion. Particularly Figulus, who was familiar with their tongue and, once out of uniform, looked every inch a Celt.

The sounds of the men training across the parade ground were clearly audible through the open window of Macro’s office, and Cato was struck by the suddenness with which so much good work was now threatened by coarse power play. The terrible tension following Verica’s banquet could be assuaged eventually and the rift in the tribe would heal. But what Quintillus was proposing would unite all but a handful of men against Rome. It was madness, and he must make the tribune see that.

‘Sir, we’ve raised two good cohorts of warriors here. They fight well and they fight alongside Rome because they believe we are friends, not oppressors. In time they might be allowed to serve as auxiliary units, and where they lead, other tribesmen will follow. All of that would be lost if you reduced their kingdom to a province. Worse, you would find them ranged against us . . . I doubt the general would approve.’

Quintillus frowned for a moment, before his expression relaxed and he smiled. ‘You’re right, of course. We must not squander this opportunity you two have created. While these cohorts of yours are still around we’d better tread carefully.’

Cato relaxed and nodded. Then the tribune gracefully rose from his chair. Macro and Cato shot up from their seats and stood to attention.

‘Now, gentlemen, if you’d excuse me, I really must pay my respects to King Verica, before I cause our ally any further offence.’

After the tribune had gone Macro smiled. ‘You got him in a nice twist! Bastard’ll have to leave us be, for now at least.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Come on, Cato! Why do you always have to be so bloody suspicious? You heard the man: he thinks you’re right.’

‘That’s what he says . . .’

‘And?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Cato looked down between his feet. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘You think he’s dodgy?’

‘No. Not deceitful, maybe. Just ambitious. It’s not everyday the general hands out procuratorial powers.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning our friend Quintillus might be awfully tempted to exercise those powers, come what may. Even if that means provoking the Atrebatans into open rebellion.’

Macro looked at him a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. Nobody would be that foolish.’

‘He isn’t a nobody,’ Cato said quietly. ‘Quintillus is a patrician. His kind doesn’t serve Rome. The way he sees it, Rome is there to serve him, any way he can make her. If the Atrebatans rise up, then he can use his powers to take command of all available troops to crush the tribesmen. A glorious victory has a funny way of erasing memories of the reasons why a victory was needed in the first place.’

When Cato had finished the older centurion let out a deep laugh. ‘The gods help me if you ever decide to take to politics. You’ve got a bloody devious mind, young Cato.’

Cato blushed a little at the implied criticism, before he shrugged. ‘I’ll leave politics to those who are bred for it. I just want to survive. Right now, we’re sitting on the top of a scorpions’ nest. We’ve got two cohorts of native troops, dangerously cocksure that they can take on anything. We’ve got a town packed to the seams with a starving rabble, and an old king who’s jumping at every shadow because he fears that his own nobles are plotting against him. Outside the walls there are enemy columns raiding Atrebatan lands and butchering our supply convoys. And now . . . now we have some jumped-up tribune on the make, just itching for an excuse to annex the natives.’ He looked at Macro and shook his head. ‘What’s not to be worried about?’

‘You’ve got a point.’ Macro nodded. ‘Let’s get something to drink.’

Chapter Nineteen

Tribune Quintillus walked slowly through the soiled thoroughfares of Calleva. Behind him trudged the bodyguards he had brought with him from army headquarters: six men selected for their toughness; each as tall and broad-shouldered as the tribune. He knew what kind of impression he wanted to cast before these barbarians. As a representative of the general, and by extension the Emperor, he must be the very image of the all-conquering race, chosen by the gods themselves to subdue the backward peoples who blighted the world beyond the frontiers of the Empire.

Quintillus glanced curiously around as he made his way between the thatched huts towards the royal enclosure. Most of the townspeople were sitting around the entrances to their huts, a tableau of gaunt faces with desperation etched into their expressions. They had not quite reached the stage where starvation made them too listless and apathetic to act. Accordingly, the tribune calculated, they still constituted a danger. They might yet have the energy to respond to an appeal to rise up against Verica and Rome.

The quiet was eerie after the noise of training in the depot and Quintillus was relieved when he turned the final corner and caught sight of the wooden gates and raised palisade of the royal enclosure. To the tribune’s surprise the gates were closed. It would seem that those inside the enclosure were well aware of the simmering tensions wreathing the hot streets of Calleva. At the approach of the Romans one of the sentries on the walkway over the gates turned towards the king’s great hall and bellowed notice of the new arrivals. But the gates remained closed as Quintillus strode towards them. He was just beginning to fear that he might face the huge indignity of being denied admission when a face appeared over the palisade above the solid timber gates. Quintillus looked up, squinting into the bright sunshine as he made out the form of a large warrior.

‘Do you speak any Latin?’ the tribune asked, with a smile.

The man nodded.

‘Then please be so good as to tell your king that Tribune Quintillus desires an audience. I have been sent by Aulus Plautius.’

The Briton’s eyes widened a little at the sound of the general’s name. ‘Wait, Roman.’

Then he was gone, and the gate was shut again. Quintillus glared at the shadowed timbers and slapped his hand against his thigh in frustration. The Romans waited in the bright sunshine, between the crude huts lining the rutted street. The stench from a nearby midden, heated to a sharp pungency, filled the still air and the tribune wrinkled his nose in disgust. Flies buzzed lazy looping paths around the tribune and his bodyguards, and a short distance away a dog barked endlessly. Quintillus affected an air of detachment and slowly paced up and down in front of the gate, hands loosely clasped behind his back. The entire town was crying out for demolition, the tribune decided. He began to visualise Calleva as the seat of government for this province: neat ranks of tiled houses arranged around a modest palace and basilica that would proclaim that Roman law and Roman order had triumphed once more.