‘I shall play my part. That is my duty.’
‘There!’ Otho smiled at Cato. ‘You see?’
Cato shrugged.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the first course, a large shallow dish carried by the slave. He set it down on the table and a rich aroma wafted over the guests.
‘Strips of mutton, quick fried with a garum and vinegar glaze,’ Poppaea explained. ‘To a recipe passed on to our cook from that of Agrippina.’
The slave served neatly presented portions on small silver platters, handing the first to the hosts before the other officers. As soon as Otho began eating, the others joined in with gusto, using their knife points to pick up the strips of meat and popping them into their mouths. Macro quickly finished and gestured to the slave for another helping, while Cato proceeded at a more sedate pace, refusing to show that he found the flavour quite delicious.
‘Damn fine dish!’ Horatius enthused, reaching out for more. The other centurions nodded heartily. Cato noted that Statillus was making hard work of it and then, as his lips parted, he understood the reason why. The man had no teeth. Cato realised the veteran must be older than he had first thought.
‘It’s simple enough,’ said Poppaea. ‘Sadly our cook was only able to bring one chest of spices and other ingredients with him. And there’s precious little variety of meat and fruit available in this wretched island. So we make do. It is a little more sophisticated than the fare of the common legionary, I imagine.’
‘It’s bloody delicious,’ Macro commented, mouth still half full.
Poppaea flashed him a smile before turning to Cato. ‘And what do you think, Prefect Cato?’
He chewed and swallowed and licked his lips before replying, ‘Salty.’
‘Salty?’ She frowned, but before she could respond, Otho clapped his hands to attract the attention of the slave and indicated that the first course should be removed.
In the interval another slave brought more wine and filled the cups.
‘Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I would like to turn our attention to the business at hand. You already have your orders from headquarters and know the nature of our task. The question is, how best to go about it. And what contingencies we may have to prepare depending upon a variety of possible outcomes.’
Cato noticed that the tribune had adopted a more businesslike demeanour and there was now a shrewd glint to his eyes that Cato had not noticed before. Otho propped himself up on his elbows and folded his hands together as he continued to address his officers.
‘Caratacus has a head start on us. He will have had plenty of time to address the leaders of the tribe. We know that he is very persuasive and will already have talked some round to his side. We will have some ground to make up when we reach Isurium. From what I have gleaned from Vellocatus, we may be given a hostile reception. If that happens, we’ll fall back here at once. If they receive us in peace, we’ll state our demand that the Brigantes honour the alliance they have agreed with Rome. I don’t expect Cartimandua will come to a decision instantly. She will need to be confident that she can carry the majority of her people with her.’
As he listened to the tribune, Cato could not help being aware of the clarity of the young man’s thinking. It seemed somewhat at odds with the naive hail-fellow-well-met persona he had adopted on most occasions so far. There was clearly another side to his character that was far more shrewd and calculating.
‘Of course,’ Otho continued, ‘it may go the other way, in which case we’ll be facing a new leader of the tribe. At the moment, the most likely candidate is Venutius, a staunch supporter of Caratacus. If that’s the case, we’ll have a fight on our hands. It’s my intention to play safe. We’ll make camp outside Isurium, even if they offer us the hospitality of their capital. It won’t be your standard marching camp. The ditches will be deeper and wider and the rampart higher. We’ll mount ballistas on the corner towers. The natives have little knowledge of siege-craft so we will be able to hold them at bay until relieved by Legate Quintatus.’
He paused and smiled. ‘But let’s assume things go our way and Cartimandua agrees to hand the enemy over to us. In that event I want him taken out of Brigantia as quickly as possible. That will be your job, Prefect Cato.’
‘Yes, sir. I assume you mean just the Blood Crows.’
‘I mean the escort detachment, Prefect.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it would make most sense if my cohort alone brought Caratacus back to the fortress. Otherwise we’ll have to march at the same pace as Macro’s infantry. That would give Venutius and his followers plenty of opportunity to set an ambush for us. Far better that we ride hard for Viroconium and that Macro’s cohort add its strength to the men remaining in the camp.’
‘Who says we will remain in the camp?’ Otho countered. ‘Once we’ve concluded our business with Cartimandua I plan to quit Brigantian territory at once and return to join the army.’
Cato hesitated before putting his objection to his superior. He wanted to ensure that his reasons were explained clearly, and accepted. ‘Sir, even if the queen agrees to hand him over, that is no guarantee that the campaign to subdue Britannia is over. Whatever Cartimandua decides is bound to divide her people. It’s more than likely that surrendering Caratacus to us will provoke Venutius into action. There may be violence between the supporters of Caratacus and the pro-Roman faction. In which case, if your men are at hand you might be able to tip the scales in the queen’s favour. In my opinion it would be best for Rome to maintain a military presence outside Isurium until it is clear that Cartimandua has her people firmly under her control.’
‘Easy for you to say when you’ll be in the clear.’
A tense silence fell over the dinner table and Cato felt a surge of anger at the accusation. Before he could respond, Otho laughed good-naturedly and grinned at him. ‘Just joking, Prefect. Just joking. . You are right, of course. Very well, if we get our hands on Caratacus, you will return here and report to the legate that I intend to remain in Brigantia until relieved, or I deem it safe to leave, or I receive orders from Quintatus to break camp.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I think we have every eventuality covered.’ He looked round at the other officers questioningly. ‘Horatius, anything to add?’
The prefect in command of the military side of the mission thought a moment and shook his head. ‘No, sir. You can rest assured that I will do my duty.’
‘Good! Then we can enjoy the rest of the meal without talking shop, to the eternal gratitude of Poppaea, whose boredom over such matters is positively deafening.’ He turned to her with a grin as she scowled back, and then darted his head forward to kiss her on the lips. She made to resist and swat his attentions away but then kissed him back. The officers looked away from the open display of affection awkwardly and Horatius turned to talk to the two centurions next to him. Cato watched a moment longer, painfully reminded of the wife he had left in Rome, yet knowing that he would find it difficult to split himself between his duties as an officer and a husband. Although Tribune Otho seemed to carry it off with aplomb, Cato could not help having reservations about his superior’s decision to bring his wife with him on the march to Brigantia. Aside from the danger to the woman, there was the question of the distraction she would present, just when her husband would need to fully concentrate on negotiating an end to the conflict in Britannia.
A small column of slaves emerged from the kitchen. The first two carried a long tray holding a small glazed piglet, surrounded by delicately patterned pastries. Another followed with a basket of bread loaves, then came another with a tray of mushrooms, roasted onions and other vegetables. The confusion of mouth-watering smells drew the compliments of the officers. Otho and his wife drew apart and smiled at the delight of their guests. Beside Cato, Macro rubbed his hands as he eyed up the pig.