‘Quite.’ Otho nodded sourly. ‘And if the payment isn’t made after I have given my word then I am dishonoured.’
‘If that’s the price to pay for taking our most dangerous enemy out of the game then it’s worth paying, sir.’
‘Easy for you to say. I’m the one in command.’
‘Goes with the rank, sir.’ Macro pursed his lips. ‘Sometimes you eat the wolf. Sometimes the wolf eats you.’
Otho frowned. ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’
‘Just a saying, sir. It’s your decision.’
‘Thank you for pointing that out, Centurion Macro. You’re very helpful.’ Otho clenched his eyes shut for a moment, sucked in a deep breath and sighed bitterly before his eyes snapped open. ‘Right. We take Caratacus at the first opportunity and get out of here. Meanwhile, no one is to breathe a word about Ostorius.’
‘You’ll have to notify Horatius to do the same in the camp, sir,’ Cato pointed out.
‘Yes. . Of course. At once.’ Otho flipped open the waxed tablet and hesitated. He glanced up. ‘Stylus, anyone?’
Macro looked at him blankly and Cato instinctively began to reach for his sidebag before realising he had left it back in camp.
‘Terrific,’ Otho muttered, then drew his dagger and as carefully as he could with the clumsy instrument, he inscribed a brief response to Horatius. Snapping the wooden tablet shut he sheathed his dagger and beckoned to the messenger. The soldier had been watching and ran across to the tribune.
‘Take this back to camp. It is to be handed directly to Prefect Horatius. Tell him to act upon my orders precisely. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then go.’
The messenger turned hurriedly.
‘Wait,’ Otho growled. ‘Don’t rush. That will only draw the natives’ attention to you. Show ’em that Romans keep cool heads, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier walked steadily towards the horses, swung himself up into the saddle and urged it into a gentle trot as he made for the gatehouse and disappeared out of sight down the track towards the settlement.
‘That’s that, then,’ Otho concluded. ‘The die is cast. Nothing to do now but wait for the feast to begin.’
Cato smiled encouragingly, relieved that the tribune had made the best possible decision under the circumstances. It hardly equated to crossing the Rubicon but if that thought allowed the young aristocrat to flatter himself that he was making a difficult but right decision then Cato was content to let it pass.
‘Speaking of dice. .’ Macro nodded towards the two bodyguards. ‘Might as well pass the time usefully. Sir?’
Otho raised an eyebrow. ‘What? Oh, yes. As you wish, Centurion.’
Macro saluted and glanced at Cato. ‘How about you?’
Cato was tempted to turn the offer down. There was too much to think about. Then he realised that there was nothing he could do about the situation. He had done all that he could to influence the matter. Now it was up to the gods to look kindly on their plans, or throw a completely new twist of fate in their path. He nodded at Macro.
‘Why not? Our luck has to change for the better some day.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The open ground in front of the royal hall began to fill with those invited to the feast as the sun dipped towards the horizon. The day had been hot and those who had stood in the sunshine for much of it were feeling the prickle of skin that had been burned in the glare of the sun. The beasts that had been slaughtered earlier in the afternoon were roasting over the raked coals of the fire pits, a safe distance from the thatched roofs of the nearest buildings. The air was thick with the delicious smell of roasting meat and Macro lifted his nose and breathed in with a beatific smile.
‘Mmmm. I’m bloody starving. Make a change from marching rations.’
Cato shifted beside him on one of the long benches that had been placed outside the entrance of the hall for the queen’s guests to rest while they waited to be summoned inside.
‘I suppose so,’ he replied absently. He was preoccupied by observing the comings and goings of the Brigantian nobles. The dice game had finished late in the afternoon, once Macro had won all the ready coin from the tribune’s bodyguards, and most of Cato’s. Small wonder that his friend was in such a fine humour, Cato brooded.
Tribune Otho and his wife had returned from their exploration of the settlement below the fort shortly afterwards. Both were flushed and sweating from the exertion of struggling back up the hill, and a small party of children followed them, carrying baskets of fruit, bundles of furs and small rolls of the thick patterned cloth favoured by the natives. Otho directed them to leave their burdens in the charge of his bodyguard and paid them off with some bronze coins from his purse. The queen’s guards then herded them back out of the fort as the tribune and his wife made their way across the fort to Cato and Macro.
In the warm glow and long shadows of dusk, Poppaea sat beside her husband, opposite the other Roman officers, attempting to cool herself with a straw fan while struggling to drive off the cloud of gnats that swirled round her head like tiny flakes of gold.
‘When is this wretched feast going to start?’
Her husband was idly eating an apple he had taken from a small basket sitting on the bench between them. ‘If you’re hungry, try one. Quite delicious.’
Otho took another bite and offered the basket to her. Poppaea stared back coldly.
‘You look like a suckling pig if you want to. I’ll keep up the civilised standards on your behalf.’
Cato glanced at her and bit his tongue. Like the rest of them, Poppaea looked hot and dishevelled and her stola clung to her flesh where she had been perspiring. He doubted whether she would have cut a very fine figure amongst her society friends in Rome at the precise moment.
‘Hello, at least someone looks happy.’ Macro broke into his thoughts and pointed. Cato followed the direction indicated and saw Septimus approaching. The imperial agent had tied a strip of cloth round his head to keep the sweat from his eyes.
‘Centurion! Prefect!’ Septimus called out cheerfully then adopted a more respectful manner as he caught sight of the tribune and his wife. ‘I bid you good afternoon, sir, and to your fine lady.’
‘You look like a pig in clover,’ Macro remarked. ‘Had a good day’s trading? You seemed busy enough earlier on. I saw that Venutius and some his mates buying up most of your stock.’
Cato smiled. He had also watched the queen’s consort making his purchases before taking the small hoard of wine jars off to one of the larger huts.
‘You know how it is with these Celts.’ Septimus smiled knowingly and patted the heavy purse hanging at his side. ‘They do love their wine. I sold the lot. Auctioned the last three jars, and they bid like it was their last day on earth.’
Cato looked past him towards the noblemen standing in small groups nearby. Many were talking loudly and most were clearly under the influence. He turned to smile at Septimus. ‘Just as long as it has the desired effect.’
The imperial agent gave him a faint nod before he replied. ‘As long as they’re in their cups, and I’m deep into their purses, then all’s well. I can see this is going to prove a fine market for the first trader who can bring his business regularly to Isurium.’ He paused. ‘Of course, that all depends on there being peace in this part of the world.’