‘We’ll see to that all right.’ Macro nodded. ‘Even if we have to give them a bloody thrashing to make sure of it. Rome doesn’t care who she has to destroy in order to bring peace.’
Cato glanced at his friend and tried to reassure himself that Macro was dusting off his seldom-used sense of irony.
‘Er, yes.’ Septimus frowned. ‘I’ll have to be off. Need to fetch more stock from the camp.’
He knuckled his forehead and then bowed respectfully to Otho and his wife before heading back to fetch his empty cart.
‘Dreadfully boring man,’ Poppaea drawled. ‘Like all tradesmen. All they ever talk about is money. That’s all Rome means to them. It’s our class who dedicates itself to the expansion of the empire and spills our blood to win new lands. And it’s the likes of that wine merchant who profit from our labours. I went to buy some wine from him earlier this afternoon and he would only sell it to me at a ridiculous price, the scoundrel.’
Cato suppressed a smile at this proof of the imperial agent’s skill in playing out his cover story.
Otho swallowed and inspected his half-eaten apple as he replied. ‘Perhaps, but you are hardly labouring in the service of Rome, my dear.’
‘No? You think it is easy for me to live like a common soldier and share all their hardships?’
Macro choked and hurriedly looked down at the ground between his boots as he fought to suppress his laughter.
‘I am beginning to wish I hadn’t been so insistent on accompanying you to this squalid island. It would had been better if I had remained in Rome.’
‘That’s true. .’ Otho said pleasantly and then, realising how his response might be taken, he gushed, ‘I mean, it would be better for you to be in your natural element, my darling. You are like a rose amongst nettles here. I fear for you. My mind would be less troubled if I knew you were safely back in Rome.’
Macro leaned a little closer to Cato and muttered, ‘Not half.’
Poppaea shot her husband a suspicious look, but before she could speak the shrill note of a horn blasted through the evening air. Conversation stopped as everyone turned towards the noise. A large warrior blew several more notes before lowering his shining bronze instrument. Beside him stood Vellocatus. The latter drew a deep breath before he made his announcement. He spoke in the native tongue before he turned to the Romans and repeated his words in Latin.
‘Her majesty, Queen Cartimandua, entreats you to enter her hall and take your place at the feast.’
The noblemen, and their women, immediately began to edge towards the entrance to the hall as the doors were drawn inwards by two of the queen’s servants. Cato watched as Otho made to rise but his wife tugged at his arm and made him sit down, hissing, ‘Wait! I will not see us herded in there like swine. We will enter as Romans should, in a dignified manner that sets us apart from these barbarians.’
The tribune gave a resigned sigh while Cato could clearly hear the sound of Macro grinding his teeth. Vellocatus slipped round the edge of the crowd to join them a moment later.
‘The queen has set aside a place for you at her left. I will sit with you.’
Poppaea arched a plucked eyebrow. ‘To her left? Then who is sitting to her right?’
‘Her consort, Venutius. As is his rightful place.’
Cato could not help picking up on the strained note of bitterness in the young nobleman’s voice.
‘And who is sitting with Venutius?’ He asked.
‘His closest comrades.’
‘And that includes Caratacus, I expect.’
Vellocatus nodded.
Poppaea’s eyes narrowed. ‘Our enemy is be seated in a place of honour, second to the queen, and above us? No. It cannot be permitted.’
The Brigantian’s brow twitched. ‘It cannot be avoided, my lady. It is arranged.’
She turned to her husband. ‘That woman intends to humiliate us. We are her allies and she gives the place of honour to our enemy instead. You cannot permit it, Otho. Tell him.’
‘My love, I can’t-’
‘Tell him! Or tell that woman.’
‘Silence!’ the tribune snapped at her, his expression instantly turning into a savage glare. Poppaea recoiled and he continued in the same angry tone, ‘You keep your tongue still. I don’t want to hear another word of complaint from you. We’re in enough difficulty as it is, without your whining making it worse.’
‘Whining. .’ she pouted, her lower lip trembling.
‘Yes, whining. You wanted to come to the frontier with me. An adventure, you said. And I’ve heard nothing but complaints since we arrived. Right now I need you to shut your mouth until spoken to. And if you have cause to speak then you will be polite and courteous. Is that understood?’
She stared at him, eyes wide in surprise and shock at his uncharacteristic outburst. ‘But, Otho my love, I. .’
‘I asked if you understood. Yes or no? If it’s no, you go straight back to the camp. And then back to Rome the moment we reach Viroconium.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do.’ He stood up and loomed over her. ‘So what’s it to be?’
She looked up at him with a pained expression and tears glistened in the corner of her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s better.’ Otho softened his tone and offered her his hand. She took it hesitantly and rose to her feet. The tribune turned to Vellocatus and his two subordinates. ‘I apologise for that little scene.’
Cato said nothing but tilted his head in acknowledgement. Macro merely gave muted, meaningless mumble, while Vellocatus smiled tolerantly.
‘Now, if you would be so good as to lead us to our places.’ Otho gestured towards the entrance and Vellocatus led them into the hall.
‘About bloody time,’ Macro whispered to his friend. ‘She’s had it coming to her.’
‘Indeed,’ Cato replied softly and shot him a quick grin.
By the time the small group had entered the hall, most of the other guests had already taken their places on the benches either side of the long tables stretching the length of the hall. There was none of the polished silver platters and delicate snacks that one might have expected at a banquet in Rome, thought Cato. Instead, bread and cheeses had been set down along the middle of each table and each man and woman either had a Samian ware cup, or had brought their own drinking horn or decorated cup. There were jugs of mead and beer. Some had already downed their first helping and the air was filled with the cheery din of their laughter and noisy exchanges. Vellocatus led his guests down the centre of the hall and Cato tried to keep looking directly ahead and ignoring the curious and hostile glances on either side. Ahead of them he could see that Cartimandua’s throne had been removed to the rear of the hall and three trestle tables had been placed on the royal dais with simple chairs set up behind. The queen’s place was empty but Venutius and several other men were already seated and talking animatedly. Cato felt his blood grow cold as he picked out Caratacus. Their eyes met and the Catuvellaunian king froze. Those around him picked up on his sudden change of mood and turned to stare with undisguised hostility at the approaching Romans.
‘So much for Brigantian hospitality,’ said Macro.
‘No surprises there,’ Cato responded. ‘But let’s keep it peaceful.’
‘I will if they will.’
‘You will, come what may, my friend.’
Macro frowned at him. ‘Killjoy.’
‘And that’s the only killing that’ll be on the menu tonight,’ Cato concluded firmly, resolving to make quite sure that Macro kept the peace. He would need watching, especially as far as the drink was concerned. When Macro was the worse for wear, things tended towards outbreaks of violence, Cato knew of old. Under the circumstances, a drunken brawl might not be the best conclusion to the feast.
They climbed on to the dais and Otho took the seat nearest the queen’s table. Then came his wife, Vellocatus, Cato and Macro. Directly opposite, Venutius and his comrades stared at them with cold, unyielding expressions of hatred and contempt.