Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (23 page)

At last there came a heavy rumble from behind the gates as the locking bar was removed. Moments later one of them slowly swung inwards. The Briton they had seen earlier beckoned them inside, and then the gate was swung back into place.

‘This way.’ The Briton waved a finger and turned towards the great hall. Quintillus bit back on his anger at the blunt lack of manners exhibited by the man and nodded at his bodyguards to follow him.

The enclosure was almost as quiet as the town beyond the gate. A handful of guards walked slowly along the palisade, keenly watching over the spread of thatched roofs. Other men sat, or slept, in patches of shade, and Quintillus was aware of several pairs of eyes watching him closely as he marched past. At the entrance to the great hall stood four warriors, squatting in the shadows. They rose to their feet as the small party approached. At the doorway the Briton turned towards Quintillus.

‘Your men will wait here.’

‘They’re my bodyguards.’

‘They wait here,’ the Briton said firmly. ‘You come with me.’

After the slightest hesitation, to indicate that he was making a concession to his hosts, Quintillus followed the man inside. The contrast with the bright sunlight outside was striking and Quintillus wondered at the echoing darkness as he followed the dim form of the Briton across the roughly paved floor. A small opening in the apex of the roof allowed a shaft of light to fall between the beams, and tiny motes of dust glided through the soft golden hue. Quintillus noted that the air was pleasantly cool, but smelled of beer and cooking. At the far end of the hall was a small doorway with a leather curtain hanging across the inside. A guard stood to one side of the entrance, his sword drawn with the point resting on the ground between his feet. The tribune’s companion nodded to the guard, who stepped aside, and then rapped on the wooden doorframe. A voice answered and then the Briton pushed the leather curtain to one side, stepped through the door and beckoned the tribune to follow him into the chamber.

The king’s private quarters were crudely appointed by Roman standards and Quintillus had immediately to suppress an undiplomatic betrayal of his distaste and condescension. The daubed walls were hung with animal skins and lined with chests to store the king’s possessions. Close by the entrance was a large table with several chairs arranged around it. At the far end of the chamber was a large bed covered with yet more skins. Verica stood beside the bed, pulling a long tunic over the sagging wrinkled flesh of his skinny body. A light shrill of laughter drew the tribune’s attention more closely to the bed, and he saw the face of a young woman, not much more than a girl, above the covers. Verica said something to her and clicked his finger towards the door. At once the girl threw back the covers, jumped to her feet, grabbed a tatty cloak from the end of the bed and ran towards the new arrivals. Quintillus stepped aside to let her pass and cast an approving look over her lithe body.

‘Would you like her?’ asked Verica, walking stiffly towards him. ‘After we’ve talked, I mean. She’s good.’

‘Most kind of you, but I fear I shall be too busy to enjoy her. Besides I prefer them slightly older - they have more experience. ‘

‘Experience?’ Verica frowned. ‘I grow more sick of experience every day. At my age one craves the life one had before experience soiled it . . . Sorry,’ Verica smiled and raised a hand. ‘I’ve become a bit too preoccupied by questions of age lately. Please sit down, Tribune, here at the table. I’ve sent for some wine. I know how my Roman friends prefer wine to our beer.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’

As the two men seated themselves at the table a slave boy arrived with a pair of Samian cups and a jug. He poured a dark red stream into each cup. As soon as the task was complete the boy scurried from the room. Verica nodded his head towards a chair at the far end of the table and the Briton who had escorted the tribune joined his king and the Roman.

‘Cadminius is captain of the royal bodyguard,’ explained Verica. ‘I keep him close to me. Whatever you have to say to me can be trusted to him also.’

‘I see.’

‘Now then, Tribune Quintillus, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

Quintillus deplored the man’s bluntness. But one had to make allowances for the Celt’s lack of social grace and diplomatic finesse. After all, the man had been raised amid barbaric squalor and had only spent a few brief years as a guest of Rome. Even so, Quintillus forced himself to smile.

‘I appreciate your directness, my lord.’

‘I have little time for formalities, Tribune. I have too little time for anything these days.’

Except indulging his appetite for young flesh, Quintillus reflected, then made himself smile again. ‘My general sends his warmest greetings to King Verica, most close of Rome’s friends.’

Verica laughed. ‘It’s an odd world where a tribe as insignificant as the Atrebatans can assume any degree of importance in the eyes of a power as great as Rome.’

‘Nevertheless, you and your people are important to the Emperor, and my general, as you must know.’

‘Surely. Any man who stands with another at his back is inclined to wonder if that man is a friend or enemy. That is the measure of our importance, is it not?’

Quintillus laughed. ‘You describe both our situations in an admirably succinct way. And that brings us to the purpose of my visit.’

‘Aulus Plautius wants to know how far he can depend on me.’

‘Oh, no, my lord!’ Quintillus protested. ‘The general has no doubts at all about your loyalty to Rome. None at all.’

‘How very reassuring.’

Verica raised his cup and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing backwards and forwards in his scrawny throat as the base of the cup rose higher and higher. Then, with red drops dribbling down the white hair of his beard, Verica drained the cup and set it down with a sharp tap on the table.

‘Good stuff! Try it, Tribune.’

Quintillus raised his cup to his lips, found the scent to his liking and took a sip. The sweet liquid was resonant with flavour and had a pleasing warming sensation as it passed down his throat. This was no cheap wine. He could not place it exactly, but could guess at its cost.

‘Very nice. A legacy of your days as Rome’s guest?’

‘Of course. And do you think for a moment I’d be mad enough to turn on Rome and give this up?’

They both laughed, then Verica shook his head.

‘Seriously, Tribune, there’s much to gain from our alliance with Rome. Even if that were not so, I’d rather take my chances with Rome than throw my hand in with that bastard Caratacus. I’d be dead in a matter of days, and some anti-Roman fanatic would be sitting here in my place.’

‘And such a man would be easy to find from amongst the Atrebatans?’ Quintillus probed.

Verica looked at him for a moment, all trace of amusement gone from his expression. ‘There are some who might think our tribe is on the wrong side, yes.’

‘Some? Many?’

‘Enough to cause me concern.’

‘What concerns you concerns Rome, my lord.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it does.’

‘Do you know who these men are?’

‘I know of some,’ Verica admitted. ‘I suspect many more. As for the rest, who knows?’

‘Then why not take care of them, my lord?’

‘Take care of them? What kind of a euphemism is that? Say what you mean, Tribune. We must be clear about what we say. Euphemisms are for cowards and only ever lead to later misunderstanding and recrimination. You want me to kill my people?’

Quintillus nodded. ‘For you own safety, and as an example to others.’

‘I assume the good Centurion Macro has told you that I’ve already tried that approach, and it’s failed.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t remove enough of your enemies?’

‘Perhaps I “removed” more than enough. Perhaps I should never have removed any of them. That’s what Cadminius thinks, though he dare not say it.’

At the end of the table the captain of the king’s bodyguard lowered his gaze. Quintillus ignored the man and leaned closer to King Verica.

‘That would have looked like weakness, my lord. It would have encouraged others to speak out against you. In the end tolerance always leads to weakness. Weakness leads to defeat.’

‘It’s all so easy to you, isn’t it, Roman?’ Verica shook his head. ‘All so black and white. One solution fits all situations. Rule with an iron fist.’

‘It works for us, my lord.’

‘Us? How old are you, Tribune?’

‘Twenty-four, sire. Next month.’

‘Twenty-four . . .’ The Atrebatan looked him in the eyes for a moment, and shook his head. ‘Calleva is not Rome, Quintillus. My situation is more finely balanced. I kill too many of my enemies and I provoke a rebellion from those who resent oppression. I kill too few and I provoke a rebellion from those who abuse my tolerance. You see my problem? Now, I ask you, how many should I kill to achieve the desired effect, without provoking a rebellion?’

Quintillus could not answer, and was angry for letting himself fall into such an obvious rhetorical trap. He had been trained by the most expensive tutors his father could afford, and felt ashamed. Damn King Verica. Damn this wizened old man. He had made a mess of things and now Rome must sort it out. Always Rome.

‘My lord,’ the tribune responded quietly. ‘I appreciate that ruling a kingdom is not a precise science. But you have a problem. Your people are divided, and some are hostile to Rome. That makes it our problem too. You must find a solution, for the good of your people.’

‘Or else?’

‘Or else Rome will have to solve the problem.’

There was a silence, and the tribune was aware that Cadminius had straightened up in his chair and had bunched one hand into a fist. At the other end of the table Verica leaned back and pressed his hands together, resting his lips on the fingertips as he watched Quintillus through narrowed eyes.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No. Of course not. But let me describe the options for your people as I see it, if I may?’

‘Go ahead, young man.’

‘The Atrebatans must remain allies of Rome. We need to be sure that our supplies can pass safely through your lands. As long as you can guarantee that then you will find us a grateful and valuable friend. And, as long as whoever eventually succeeds you pursues the same policy, Rome shall be content to let the Atrebatans run their own affairs - as long as we do not perceive any developments that might endanger our interests.’

‘And if you do?’

‘Then we would have to help you administer your kingdom.’

‘You mean annex us? Turn us into a province.’

‘Of course I hope that it would never come to that.’

There was a tense pause before Verica continued speaking. ‘I see. And if our “policy” changes?’

‘Then we will be forced to crush any forces operating against Rome. All weapons will be confiscated. Your lands and those of your nobles who oppose us will be forfeit, and any prisoners we take will be sold into slavery. That is the fate of those who break faith with Rome.’

Verica stared at the tribune for a moment, then his eyes flicked over to the captain of his bodyguard. Cadminius was having difficulty containing his rage at the naked threat posed by the Roman envoy.

‘You don’t leave me and my people much choice for our future.’

‘No, my lord. None.’

Chapter Twenty

Two days after the tribune’s arrival King Verica announced that he was going to hold a hunt. One of the forests several miles from Calleva was a royal hunting ground and farmers living nearby were forbidden to hunt any animals within its leafy boundary.

The afternoon before the hunt was to take place the air was breathless. A brilliant sun blazed down on the quiet streets of Calleva as the townspeople sought out shade. Inside the royal enclosure servants and slaves scurried about making preparations. The romantic, spontaneous image of noble man pitting his wits against the cunning forces of nature was far removed from the logistical realities of the exercise. Hunting spears had to be carefully selected to make sure their shafts were still true after months in storage. Then they had to be cleaned and their edges honed to a lethal sharpness before being put into thick leather cases for transporting. Horses had to be checked for fitness and the weaker mounts returned to the stables for general duties. Riding tackle was greased and polished and carefully fitted to the animals that would be ridden by the royal hunting party. Sweating slaves struggled under the burden of bedding and furs as these were packed away into the wagons parked along one side of the enclosure. Anxious stewards directed kitchen servants as they heaved sacks of bread, haunches of meat and jars of beer and wine from the dark storerooms at the back of the king’s hall and carried them across to the wagons. The captain of the king’s bodyguard sat at a trestle table busy recruiting able-bodied beaters from the long line straggling towards the gate. With food in such short supply the people of Calleva were desperate to win a share of the meat that was to be divided up after the hunt.

‘Anyone’d think this lot were about to launch an invasion,’ muttered Macro as he and Cato made their way through the bustling mass. ‘Thought we were just going for a nice simple hunt.’