Cato shook his head. ‘He’s right. It demonstrates that the tribune trusts Cartimandua. If he’s wrong, and there’s trouble, then I doubt Poppaea Sabina is going to be much safer back here in the camp. The column won’t be able to hold out for long once the Brigantes mobilise their warriors.’
Macro looked up and pointed. ‘There’s one who’s getting out while he can.’
Cato followed the direction Macro indicated and saw the wine merchant’s wagon a short distance from the gate facing Isurium. A small cart, harnessed to two mules, stood beside the wagon and Septimus was loading a heavy wine jar on to the back of the cart. He heaved it into position and stopped to mop his brow before he caught sight of the two officers approaching him. An anxious expression flitted across his face before he slipped back into his role as a wine trader.
‘What’s this?’ Macro demanded. ‘Leaving us already?’
‘Hardly, my dear Centurion!’ Septimus called back, affecting his tradesman’s patter. ‘I would never abandon such good customers. No, I seek to trade with the natives. Wine for furs or, better still, silver and gold.’
Cato glanced into the cart and saw several large jars and twenty or so small vessels, each marked with the name of the wine inside. ‘You’re selling them the cheap wine, then?’
‘Of course. Gives me a chance to shift the stuff no Roman in his right mind would touch.’ Septimus’s eyes glanced round quickly to make sure that no one would overhear them. ‘I saw that native enter the camp earlier. What’s happening?’
Macro jerked his thumb in the direction of headquarters. ‘Their queen’s sent for the tribune. He’s going up there at noon. Together with Cato and me, a few men, and his wife.’
‘His wife?’ Septimus’s eyes widened in surprise.
Macro held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask. Apparently, it’s a good idea.’
‘So what are you really up to?’ asked Cato.
‘You know how it is with wine and the Celts. If anything is going to loosen their tongues, it’s this stuff.’ Septimus patted one of his jars. ‘I’ll try it out on those around the queen. With luck someone might let some useful information slip. The trail’s gone cold on my traitor.’
‘If you hear anything, make sure you share it with us,’ said Cato.
‘Same goes for you two.’
Macro affected a horrified expression. ‘What, don’t you trust us?’
‘Just reminding you that we’re on the same side, Centurion.’
‘Are we? Which side would that be? You’re working for Narcissus. The traitor is working for Pallas. On top of that we have Caratacus, and Venutius. And then there’s Vellocatus and his queen.’ Macro scratched his head theatrically. ‘There are so many sides in this I’m losing track.’
The imperial agent stared back coldly. ‘There are only two sides. Those who serve the true interests of Rome, and those who oppose them. That’s the plain and simple reality, Macro.’
Macro leaned forward and whispered menacingly, ‘Where your dad is concerned there’s no such thing as plain and simple reality, my friend.’
Septimus glared back and then smiled. ‘Watch your back, Macro. You too, Prefect.’ Then he turned away and made for the rear of the wagon to fetch another jar. Macro clenched his fists and his jaw set into the familiar line that meant he was bracing himself for a fight. Cato recognised the symptoms well enough and steered Macro away from the back of the cart.
‘Come on. There’s no time for this. We’ve got to make sure our kit is spick and span for the royalty.’
Macro shifted reluctantly and cracked his jaw. ‘All right. I’ll leave it, for now. But next time that bastard makes a crack about watching our backs, I’ll have him.’
‘Of course you will,’ Cato said soothingly and his friend shot him such an angry look that Cato could not help laughing at his expression. ‘That’s the spirit. Now save it for the enemy, eh?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As the sun blazed down from its zenith, the gates of the camp opened and Tribune Otho led his small party out of the camp. At his side rode his wife, her stola hitched up around her pale legs as she sat astride her saddle. In Rome she would have insisted on a litter, Cato thought wryly. But here on the frontier such niceties were unheard of and Poppaea sat erectly and tried to affect as much grace and dignity as she could. Behind them rode Cato, Macro, Vellocatus and two of the tribune’s bodyguards. All three officers had polished breastplates and helmets with fresh red-stained crests that stood up stiffly in the warm summer air. Each man wore a clean cloak flicked back from the shoulders to avoid the stifling embrace of the scarlet wool. The Brigantian nobleman had chosen a plain green tunic and check-patterned breeches.
Cato and Macro wore their medal harnesses and the silver discs gleamed in the sunlight. A large gold torc encircled Macro’s neck, a trophy he had taken from the brother of Caratacus whom he had killed in single combat shortly after he and Cato first landed on the island many years before. It was a valuable item and Macro usually kept it wrapped in a cloth at the bottom of his kitbag, away from the prying eyes of camp servants and any light-fingered soldiers. Their decorations were in stark contrast to the unadorned chest of their commanding officer, but Otho affected a proud air that he no doubt hoped would impress the natives as much as the gold and silver awards for valour that adorned his subordinates.
The small party was watched by Horatius and the other officers from the gatehouse that had been constructed that morning, but neither Otho nor the others deigned to turn back for one last glance towards the safety of the camp. Instead they fixed their gaze on the settlement before them, nestling beneath the steep grassy slopes of the hill upon which the fortified capital of the Brigantes stood. They were not the only party making for the court of the queen, Cato noticed. Another small band was climbing the track from the settlement ahead of them and two more groups approached from the direction of the hills to the north. He pointed them out to Macro.
‘A gathering of the nobles?’ the centurion wondered.
Cato nodded. ‘Caratacus’s fate is going to be witnessed by quite an audience, I imagine. Cartimandua wants to make certain that they all get the message that her authority is not to be questioned. And we’re here so that her nobles know that she has powerful friends. Isn’t that the case, Vellocatus?’
The Brigantian shrugged. ‘It does no harm to impress the fact upon those fools who follow Venutius.’
By the time they reached the settlement a small crowd had gathered to watch them pass. They stood in silence, dressed in the worn tunics and leggings of peasants. The warrior caste would be accommodated up in the hill fort, Cato knew. The people who lived in the huts and hovels at the foot of the hill cared little for the distant wars affecting other tribes. Their lives were far more concerned with the daily struggle to feed their families. Some regarded the Romans and their native translator with curiosity, some with suspicion and some with fear but none made any attempt to address them. Macro met the gaze of a teenage girl leaning against the gateposts of the settlement and nodded a subtle greeting to her. She smiled back shyly, until her father cuffed her on the head and shoved her away into the crowd.
Poppaea glanced from side to side and muttered, ‘If this is what passes for their capital city then we are surely amongst savages, far beyond the very fringes of the civilised world.’
The tribune shot her a warning look. ‘My dear, I would be obliged if you kept such thoughts to yourself. Some of the, uh, savages speak our tongue.’
Cato overheard the exchange and felt a stab of embarrassment as he glanced sidelong at Vellocatus. The younger man pressed his lips tightly together and clenched his fist round the reins but made no attempt to respond, Cato noted approvingly. The kind of man who knew how to bite back on his pride and keep his mouth shut was likely to be an asset in the coming days.