The general paused a moment and then drew himself up in front of his officers, running the tip of his tongue across his lips to moisten them. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
‘Gentlemen, I am the bearer of ill news. This afternoon I received a messenger from Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes.’ He gestured towards the native standing beside the stage. ‘Our ally tells us that Caratacus has made his appearance at her tribal capital at Isurium. He is under the protection of her consort, Venutius, who has demanded that Caratacus be given a chance to plead his case before the assembled tribes of the Brigantian confederation.’
Ostorius paused as his officers stirred uneasily.
‘Jupiter’s cock,’ Macro muttered. ‘That’s thrown the cat amongst the pigeons.’
Once he had his men’s attention again the general continued. ‘I need hardly warn you that if Caratacus gets his way he could stir the whole of the north against us. We know he is a powerful orator and if he can sway enough of the hotheads amongst the Brigantian leadership then Cartimandua’s authority will crumble, Venutius will become the new leader of his people and Caratacus will have a powerful army at his back to renew the struggle against us. It’s bad timing. Our men are still recovering from the campaign in the mountains. We suffered heavy casualties and even though we have some replacements, they are unseasoned. The Brigantians outnumber us at least two to one. If I turn to counter the new threat then I must leave the west thinly defended. All that we have just won could be lost if the Silurians and the Ordovicians decide to take advantage of the situation. We’ll face a war on two fronts. I will be forced to deal with the Brigantian threat first, then we may have to win back any ground we lose to the mountain tribes afterwards.’
‘Assuming we beat the Brigantians,’ Cato whispered.
Macro was only half listening to his friend. He was staring at the general, whose last words had sounded slurred. ‘I don’t believe it. The old man’s drunk. .’
Cato turned to look and saw that Ostorius was swaying slightly, his words crumbling into incoherence in his throat as one side of his mouth seemed to droop. The general staggered back, stumbled and collapsed on to the dais with a thud. At once the camp prefect rushed up the steps and hurried to the side of his superior. Several of the officers were already on their feet, including Cato. He knew at once that this had nothing to do with drink and turned to point to one of the centurions nearest the entrance to the hall.
‘Get the surgeon! Go!’ he called across the alarmed hubbub.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘I thought we were supposed to be having a quiet word with Septimus,’ said Macro as he took the chair opposite Cato’s desk. Darkness had fallen outside the modest headquarters of the escort detachment’s fort and the prefect’s office was lit by two stands of oil lamps. Already a small cloud of insects swirled about the glow of the flames. ‘Where is he?’
Cat shrugged. ‘The first hour’s only just sounded. Give the man a chance, Macro.’
Macro grumbled under his breath as he leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. ‘What’s the news on Ostorius?’
A day had passed since the general collapsed at the briefing. No official announcement had been made but rumours had rippled through the army, according to which the general had suffered everything from an over-indulgence of drinking to a sudden death brought on by poison administered by an agent of Caratacus. Cato had discovered the truth for himself by the simple expedient of visiting the general’s headquarters and asking for information.
‘He’s alive. According to the camp prefect the surgeon says he’s had some kind of a fit. He’s lost control of the left side of his body and is rambling.’
‘Is he going to recover?’
‘The surgeon doesn’t know. He’s made Ostorius comfortable with some concoction from the east, and he’s sacrificed a cockerel to Asclepius. Whatever good that will do.’
Macro frowned, never quite happy when his friend cast any doubt on the workings of the gods. It was a dangerous game to play, Macro thought. Even though he had never seen a god for himself, he considered it safer to pay the gods their dues, just in case. He cleared his throat softly.
‘Do you think the old boy is going to get over it?’
‘Like you say, Macro, he’s old. That’s the one ailment you can guarantee never recovering from.’ Cato folded his hands together and stared at the door. ‘This campaign has worn him out. He’s been waging war against Caratacus and his allies from the moment he became governor five years ago. This was supposed to be his last post before retiring from public service. I think the prospect of Caratacus re-opening the war on a new front broke him. Even if he recovers, I doubt he will be in a fit state to command the army for another campaign season.’
‘What then? Who will take over?’
‘The senior legate is Quintatus. He’ll be in command until the general recovers.’
‘Quintatus. You told me you thought he’s the one behind our posting to Bruccium, and that you think he did that to try and get rid of us.’
Cato nodded. Even though Quintatus had said he would not harm them Cato did not trust him.
‘Shit. Now he’s going to have a free hand to try that on again.’
‘Quite. We’ll have to try and keep out of his way. Give him no excuse to find fault with us. Speaking of which, how are the new men coming on?’
‘I might have been a bit hasty in my judgement of them. They’re learning fast. Good bunch of lads for the most part. But there’s always a few who can’t tell the business end of a javelin from the butt. I’ll see what I can do about getting ’em transferred to the quartermaster’s staff, where the rest of the lads will be safe from them.’
‘That might be a mixed blessing. Who knows what harm they might cause with access to the army’s rations and kit. What about the Batavians?’
Macro scratched his bristly jaw. ‘Miro says they’re good men. It’ll be a while before they’re good soldiers, though. And there’s still tension between them and the Thracians, which threatens to kick off at any moment. I’ve told Miro to knock a few heads together and sort it out. Perhaps we should be threatening the Batavians that we’ll send them to work in the quartermaster’s stores. You know what they’re like. They’d rather walk through fire then learn how to read, write and add up.’
They heard footsteps approaching in the corridor outside and there was a rap on the door before it opened and Thraxis ducked his head into the office. ‘That wine merchant’s here again, sir. Says you wanted to see him about ordering some more stock.’
‘That’s right. Show him in.’
Thraxis hesitated at the door. ‘Sir, I can deal with him, if you wish.’
Cato fixed him with a steady look. In the normal course of events an officer of his rank would indeed entrust the purchase of his personal stores to his orderly. But Cato needed a cover story for his meetings with Septimus. If the Thracian took that as a sign of his superior’s distrust then that was too bad. ‘Do not question me again, Thraxis. Send the merchant in and then prepare a meal for me and the centurion.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The door closed behind the servant and Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Sooner or later someone’s going to be wondering about Septimus’s visits. And he’s not helping matters, what with being a witness to the escape, and still new to the camp. It looks suspicious.’
‘Can’t be helped. Either he comes here to sell me wine or I have to trek into the vicus and buy it from him in person, and that would look even more odd.’