‘I suggest that you enjoy the hospitality of Isurium before the feast begins.’
‘Thank you. First I must send word to my second-in-command that we will be returning to the camp later than anticipated.’
‘Very well.’ Cartimandua inclined her head towards the entrance of the hut. ‘You may leave.’
The others rose from their stools and made for the opening. The queen spoke softly in her tongue and Vellocatus stopped and turned towards her. There was a brief exchange before he turned back to the Romans.
‘I must stay. My queen needs me.’
Macro forced his expression to remain neutral as Cato replied, ‘Of course. We’ll see you at the feast, I expect.’
‘Yes. At the feast then.’
Cato was the last out of the hut and Vellocatus drew the leather curtain across the entrance behind them. As they followed the tribune and his wife back towards the hall, Macro chuckled and was about to speak when Cato got in first. ‘Be careful what you say, Macro.’
‘I was merely going to make a point about the burdens of duty. The lucky lad!’
‘That’s what you say now,’ Cato replied then gestured discreetly towards the open ground in front of the hall. Venutius stood with a group of nobles, but he was not listening to their conversation. Instead he stood, arms folded, glaring bitterly in the direction of his wife’s hut.
Cato continued in an undertone. ‘I don’t think the queen’s amorous tryst is much of a secret and her consort doesn’t look the type to turn a blind eye.’
‘Enjoy the hospitality of this squalid dump indeed,’ Poppaea muttered as she plucked at the folds of her stola to raise it above the ground. It was a hot day and the ground was dry and Cato saw it for the spiteful gesture of disdain that it was.
‘Oh, I’m sure there must be something to see here,’ her husband replied with forced cheerfulness. ‘A native market perhaps. Somewhere you can pick up a few charming little native trinkets for your friends back in Rome, my love.’
She flashed him a dark look. ‘The only thing I’m likely to pick up here is some vile native sickness. I’m sure my friends would love to receive that as a memento of my visit to this charming, rustic haven.’
They were interrupted by the flash of a red tunic as a Roman came running towards them from where the bodyguards and the tethered horses were waiting.
‘What now?’ Macro demanded under his breath.
Tribune Otho halted and the others stopped at his side as the soldier approached, a closed waxed tablet in his hand. He saluted the tribune and offered the tablet to him. ‘With the compliments of Prefect Horatius, sir. I was ordered to find you and give you this at once, but those bastards wouldn’t let me past.’ He nodded to the men in ochre tunics.
‘Mind your fucking tongue, soldier!’ Macro snapped. ‘Some of the bastards speak Latin. Keep it civil.’
Otho raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, Centurion.’
The tribune took the tablet and moved off a short distance as he broke the seal and flipped the waxed tablet open. The others watched in silence as he read the message, trying to gauge its contents from his reaction. Otho sucked in a deep breath as he closed the tablet. Turning to the soldier he spoke curtly. ‘Wait by the horses. I’ll have a message to send back.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The man saluted and turned and strode off.
When he was out of earshot, Otho returned to the others and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Ostorius is dead.’
All three stared at him in silence. Cato’s mind raced. Foul play? Fallen in battle? An accident? ‘Dead? How?’
Poppaea sighed. ‘The poor man.’
‘Horatius doesn’t give any detail other than to say the general died in his tent.’
‘Who’s taken command?’ asked Cato.
Otho shook his head. ‘Horatius doesn’t say.’
‘Legate Quintatus,’ Macro suggested. ‘Has to be.’
Cato nodded. It made sense. Quintatus was the next in seniority in the army at Viroconium, and had already taken temporary command of the army. But there were also the legates of the three other legions in the province and one of them might take the chance to assert their right to the temporary command. There would be a brief opportunity to grab some glory from running the new province before Rome appointed a new governor. Especially if Ostorius’s replacement was able to take credit for sending Caratacus to Rome in chains. If there was any dissent among the legates then Cato feared that their enemies would take full advantage of the situation while the power struggle was resolved. Another anxious thought struck him.
‘If his death is common knowledge back at Viroconium, it’s only a matter of time before the news reaches Isurium.’
Otho stared at him. ‘So?’
‘It might strengthen Venutius’s position. If he can persuade others that the death leaves our forces leaderless for the moment he might talk enough Brigantian nobles around to his side to cause us a few problems. You heard the queen, sir. Her grip on power is slipping.’
Otho nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then we’d better see to it that she gets that money as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir. As long as there’s an acting commander in place to authorise the payment.’
‘Damn, you’re right.’ He frowned and then his eyes lit up. ‘We have our own pay chest. We could use that.’
Macro spluttered. ‘No! That’s the men’s money. That’s their pay and savings. You touch that, sir, and you’ll piss our lads right off.’
Cato knew his friend was right. The pay chest of each unit was almost as sacred as the standards the men marched under and would give their lives to protect. The sturdy iron-bound boxes contained all the men’s wealth in the world, all their dreams and ambitions for what they would do after they had served out their enlistment. If the tribune emptied the pay chests and handed the contents over to the Brigantian queen then his men would be as outraged as Macro. Cato stood to lose out as well, but he at least could see that the money would help to buy peace in the province.
‘What does that matter?’ Poppaea said to her husband. ‘They’re your men. Your soldiers. They’ll do as they’re told, and like it.’
Macro drew a deep breath and tried to control his anger as he addressed his commander’s wife. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but you don’t know what you’re talking about. This is soldier’s business. Believe me, if you take the men’s money then I can’t answer for the consequences.’
‘You can, Centurion. You must. You’re an officer. You swore an oath to obey the Emperor and those officers above you in rank. If my husband gives an order then you must obey it and see that it is obeyed by others.’
Macro glared at her, burning with the desire to tell her to shut her mouth and mind her own business. But before he could speak, Otho cleared his throat and spoke calmly. ‘You are quite right, my dearest, but I will deal with the situation. Not you.’
‘Pfft!’ Poppaea sniffed and flicked her hand. ‘Deal with it then.’
Otho flashed a condescending smile at her before turning back to the others. ‘You think it’s inadvisable to use the contents of the pay chests then?’
Macro ground his teeth. ‘Inadvisable is putting it mildly, sir.’
Otho shifted his gaze to Cato. ‘And you, Prefect? What do you think?’
‘We’re a long way from the rest of the army, sir. It’s a delicate situation. The last thing we need is to have to worry about the mood of our men. Besides, even if we did as you suggest, there might not be enough to serve Cartimandua’s needs. In that case we’d be facing big trouble on both fronts. I advise you, most strongly, not to do it, sir.’
‘Then what? If I give my word that we’ll send her coin the moment we return to Viroconium only for there to be no one in a position to authorise the payment, Queen Cartimandua is going to feel a little angry.’
‘Completely pissed off, more like,’ Macro said darkly. ‘And she’ll lose face in front of the rest of her tribe.’
‘We’ll have to deal with that when the time comes,’ said Cato. ‘The vital thing is that we take custody of Caratacus and get him far away from here as quickly as possible. Sir, we have to keep news of Ostorius’s death to ourselves. There’s no way of knowing how it might affect the situation. Meanwhile we attend the feast, go along with the queen’s honouring of Caratacus. We take charge of him at first light and break camp and march back to Viroconium as fast as we can. By the time the Brigantians find out about Ostorius it will be too late to change the situation. Of course, you’ll have to make a good case to whoever assumes command of the province about paying the queen off.’