The track continued through the settlement, winding between small clusters of huts and pens holding goats and swine. It was a hot summer day and the smell of animals, sweat and sewage was being cooked to a ripe odour that hung heavily in the still air. The track passed out of the settlement and began to zigzag up the hill towards the fort, four hundred feet above. A small cluster of wide-eyed children followed them a short distance before being called back by their parents, or losing interest now that a steep climb was involved.
As they approached the outer defences of the fort, Cato and Macro cast a professional eye over the earthworks.
‘Smaller than that place Legate Vespasian knocked over down south. You remember? That bloody huge fort held by the Durotriges.’
‘I remember,’ Cato replied. Macro had been wounded at the time and had not taken part in the attack, only seeing it once it had fallen. For Cato it had been very different. He had infiltrated the fort to rescue hostages while the rest of the Second Legion had mounted the main assault. ‘This one would be a tougher nut to crack.’
‘You think?’
‘Much steeper slopes, and any attacker would be exposed to missile fire all the way to the gate complex. It’s a good thing the Brigantes are allies. I’d hate to have to try and take this place. It’s a well-chosen position — a natural fortress.’
They continued up the slope until they reached the first turn alongside the fort’s outer defences. An outlying bastion rose above them and a handful of sentries gazed down at them as they passed by. Fifty paces further on, the track doubled back into a narrow ravine between the earthworks, and ahead lay the gate, a sturdy pair of timber doors on the far side of a drawbridge. Above the gates was a fortified walkway that gave out on to two palisaded mounds each side of the gate. More sentries looked down on them. Now that they had climbed up from the valley floor a welcome breeze was blowing lightly and the yellow banner of the Brigantes billowed above the gate of Isurium. As the cloth rippled, they could clearly see the outline of the black boar at the centre of the banner, seemingly alive with the movement of the material.
A small party of warriors holding spears and shields were visible through the opening and Otho turned in his saddle to beckon to Vellocatus.
‘I’ll need you in a moment.’
The other man nodded and spurred his horse forward, edging past Poppaea and taking up position beside the tribune. The drawbridge clattered under their hoofs as the riders crossed the ditch and passed through the gate. A line of men barred their way and Otho halted just in front of them and boldly announced, ‘We’re here as guests of Queen Cartimandua. Step aside.’
Vellocatus interpreted and the natives’ leader, a large warrior with grey-streaked hair tied back with a leather headband, stared at the Roman before he replied.
‘This is Trabus, captain of the queen’s bodyguard,’ Vellocatus translated. ‘He has been sent to escort us to the hall.’
‘Then thank him.’ Otho bowed his head. ‘And ask him to lead on.’
The escort formed up on either side of the riders while Trabus strode ahead. In contrast to the settlement below, the inside of the fort was a much more ordered affair. The huts were arranged round the inside of the rampart, leaving a large open area in front of the royal hall. Twenty or so men were training to one side, engaged in mock duels under the eye of a wiry older warrior whose bare torso was covered in blue tattoos. Six more men, wearing ochre tunics and armed with spears, stood guard at the entrance to the hall and they formed up in front of the open doorway as they saw the party approaching across the training ground.
Casting his gaze around, Cato took in more details, keenly observing anything that might serve him well at a later time. To one side of the hall stood two lines of stables where a large party of men were standing with some horses, exchanging greetings in loud cheery voices. Just beyond them stood Septimus’s cart and Cato caught a glimpse of him going through his patter with one of the noblemen.
‘Must be those riders we saw earlier,’ Macro commented.
‘Yes.’ Cato looked them over and then glanced to the other side of the hall where several smaller huts were arranged around a number of fire pits with spit trestles at each end. Women and children were busy butchering lambs and pigs and preparing the fire pits with bundles of kindling. Trabus led them to the hall and then turned and gestured at them to dismount. Two of his men stepped forward to hold the horses as they eased themselves on to the ground where they landed with a clink of armour accoutrements. Macro stretched his head back and looked up at the front of the hall. The lintel above the two doors was a massive length of oak, inlaid with carvings of horses and the swirling designs beloved of the Celts.
‘Nice work.’
Cato looked up. ‘Makes a change from the skulls some of the other tribes collect.’
‘Give ’em time.’
Otho had taken the arm of his wife and turned to his men. ‘Let’s keep this nice and calm. We’re here as guests.’
Macro made a quick adjustment to his helmet so that it sat squarely on his head. ‘Just as long as they remember that, sir.’
The tribune took a deep breath then flashed a smile at his wife before turning towards the entrance to the hall and stepping forward with as much purposeful dignity as he could muster. The remaining men followed him, Macro, Cato and Vellocatus together and the two bodyguards bringing up the rear.
After the bright sunlight it took a moment to adjust to the dim light inside the hall, then Cato could see that it was lit by gaps along the ridge where shafts of sunlight penetrated the gloomy interior, catching dust motes and insects in their honeyed glow. The floor was paved with smooth slabs of slate and their boots sounded loudly as they entered. Scores of tribespeople, men and women, lined each side of the hall, standing in silence. A broad avenue stretched towards the far end which was dominated by a large wooden throne raised up on a stone platform. It had been positioned beneath a large opening in the thatched roof and the angled light caught the top half of the throne, bathing it in a golden hue. Seated there, still and silent, was a tall, slender woman with a mass of strawberry-blond hair which seemed to glow about her fine features. Cartimandua looked to be in her forties, as far as Cato could judge from his initial impression.
No one spoke, or even murmured, as the Romans and their translator paced down the length of the hall and approached the queen of the Brigantes, the most powerful tribe in Britannia. To her right Cato could see a powerfully built warrior with plaited hair hanging over his tunic, beneath which his muscular shoulders bulged. He stood with folded arms and eyed the newcomers defiantly. Venutius, Cato guessed.
Tribune Otho slowed the pace as they approached and stopped a short distance from the step leading up to the throne. Now that Cartimandua was no more than ten feet from him, Cato could see that she was quite beautiful, even though she had left her youth behind many years before. Her eyes were brown, dark and penetrating and her cheekbones were high and made her jaw look slim and deep. She scrutinised each Roman in turn, starting and ending with Poppaea.
The tribune bowed his head. ‘I am Marcus Salvius Otho, senior tribune of the Ninth Legion. This is my wife, Poppaea Sabina.’
Poppaea bowed her head stiffly.
‘And these officers are Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro of the Fourteenth Legion.’
Cato and Macro saluted.
‘We have come here on the orders of General Ostorius, who sends warm messages of friendship to Queen Cartimandua and her people, to apprehend an enemy of Rome. And therefore an enemy of us both.’
Cartimandua smiled faintly before she turned to Vellocatus and spoke for the first time in a commanding tone, more deep and resonating than was typical for a woman. Vellocatus quickly stepped forward and dropped to one knee in front of her as he intoned a formal greeting. Cartimandua’s eyes fell on him and Cato saw the corners of her mouth lift momentarily in pleasure. She reached forward and cupped his cheek in a slender hand and then patted him lightly.