‘Well, this is awkward,’ said Macro. He picked up the cup sitting in front of him and reached for the nearest jug. He sniffed the contents suspiciously before giving an approving nod. He made to pour his cup, then remembered his manners and turned to the others.
‘Want some?’
Poppaea shook her head and looked down at the weathered tabletop.
‘Perhaps later,’ Otho answered.
Vellocatus and Cato held out their cups and Macro filled them close to the brim before turning to his own and then setting the jug down. Raising his cup, he held it up and out in the direction of Caratacus. ‘To the guest of honour.’
Venutius looked furious and was on the verge of rising when the Catuvellaunian king placed his hand firmly on his companion’s arm to keep him in his seat. With an amused smile, Caratacus filled his drinking horn, a finely decorated affair with a bull’s head on the base, and returned Macro’s toast, calling across the gap, ‘To my redoubtable Roman enemies.’
‘Redoubtable,’ Macro repeated with pleasure. ‘That’s us all right.’
He lifted his cup and took a sip. The brew was sweet and tasted lighter than the Gaulish beers Macro had drunk before. Beside him, Cato also drank, while Vellocatus refused to touch his cup.
‘Quite a nice drop,’ Macro said, and then took a healthy swig. ‘Better than that Kourmi crap back in Gaul.’
‘Very pleasant,’ Cato agreed and glanced at his friend. ‘But go easy on it, eh?’
Macro leaned forward to peer round his friend at Vellocatus. ‘What’s up with you, lad? Why aren’t you drinking?’
‘I will not share a toast with the man who plots against my queen,’ Vellocatus answered.
‘What, him?’ Macro gestured across towards Caratacus. ‘His plotting days are over, my friend. This time tomorrow he’ll be in our hands and on his way to Viroconium. He’s not going to trouble us, or you, ever again. Trust me. Meanwhile, let the man enjoy his last night of liberty, eh?’
The consort’s shield-bearer remained silent, and folded his arms to emphasise his protest.
‘Suit yourself.’ Macro topped up his cup and cracked his shoulders as he looked round. The smell of the roasting meat pervaded the stuffy interior of the hall, lit by the gleam of the evening sun pouring through the entrance. ‘Where’s the queen, then?’
As if in answer to his question, a figure stepped out of the gloom at the side of the hall and gracefully ascended the dais. At once there was a deafening scraping of chairs and benches and the conversation died away. Cartimandua eased herself down into her seat and sat, straight backed, as she surveyed her guests. Then she raised a hand and ushered them down into their seats. Again there was a scraping and the conversation began to resume, rising slowly in volume.
There was no preamble to the eating. No entertainment. Servants laden with platters of cut meat entered through side doors and served them to those at the furthest end of the hall first, so that the queen would have her meat hot when she was served last and ate first. Macro’s stomach began to rumble at the sight of the glistening piles of roast meats and he licked his lips.
Then Venutius abruptly stood up and raised his arms wide to draw attention to himself as he called out above the din of the other voices filling the hall.
‘What is he playing at?’ asked Cato. He glanced to his right and saw the look of alarm on Cartimandua’s face as she beheld her consort’s intervention. ‘What’s he saying, Vellocatus?’
There was a brief pause before he translated. ‘He demands to be heard. He says he has an announcement to make, he must inform us that our gods have revealed an omen to him. They have sent a sign that they have cursed Rome.’
‘Curse?’ Otho’s brow knitted. ‘What rubbish is this?’
But Cato could already guess. The queen stabbed her finger at her consort and spoke imperiously. Venutius turned to her with a sneer and shook his head. Before she could repeat her command, he turned to face the Roman tribune directly and called out to him in a loud voice that carried to the furthest corners of the hall. As he spoke, Cato nudged Vellocatus sharply.
‘What is he saying?’
‘He says that Governor Ostorius is dead.’
Cato and Otho exchanged an anxious glance, but it was enough for Venutius to seize upon and he bounded across to their table and bellowed at them.
‘He demands to know if that is true.’
‘Fuck,’ Macro growled. ‘He knows.’
‘How can that be?’ Otho shook his head. ‘How could he have found out so soon?’
Venutius rested his hands on the edge of the table and Poppaea flinched as he repeated his question in a voice laced with menace.
When he received no reply, Venutius moved away from the Romans, turned his back on the glowering features of Cartimandua, and addressed those in the hall.
‘He says your silence proves that what he said is true. It is a sign from the gods. A sign that they have turned against Rome. A sign that the Brigantes should rise up and wage war on Rome. Our gods will strike down the legions just as surely as they struck down their general.’
Most of the queen’s guests looked on aghast, but Cato could see some nodding, a defiant gleam in their eyes as they listened to Venutius.
‘He says that the gods are angry with our queen’s alliance with Rome. They are angry with her decision to hand Caratacus over to the enemy.’
‘We have to shut him up,’ said Macro, hand slipping down to the pommel of his sword. ‘Quickly.’
‘No,’ Cato ordered. ‘We draw a weapon in here and we’re dead.’
‘But we can’t do nothing. We can’t let the bastard stir them up.’
Cato nodded, thinking quickly. Glancing at Otho, he saw that the tribune’s face was frozen in horror. Snatching a deep breath, Cato stood up and filled his lungs and bellowed at the top of his voice to drown out Venutius.
‘Enough! Enough! Hear me! Brigantians, hear me!’ He turned to Vellocatus. ‘Tell them what I say. Exactly what I say.’
The nobleman nodded.
Venutius did not try to compete with Cato but stepped aside and folded his arms and smiled coldly.
‘It is true that General Ostorius is dead. But it is not a sign from the gods. He was old and ill. Even as I speak another officer is taking his place. The legions will serve him just as effectively as they ever served Ostorius. They will crush any tribe that opposes them. Venutius speaks falsely when he says that your gods have cursed us.’
As soon as the words were translated, Venutius interposed himself between Cato and the rest of the hall. There was a fresh note of triumph in his voice as he addressed his people again. Cato looked round and gestured to Vellocatus to resume his translation.
‘He says that he can prove the gods are against Rome. .’
Venutius paused and thrust his hand towards the entrance to the hall where the dying sun painted the wooden frame in a fiery glow. A tall, robed figure stepped on to the threshold and spread his arms wide, black against the bloody red hue of the sky.
‘A Druid,’ said Cato. ‘Shit. .’
At once the new arrival began to speak in a rich, deep timbre, uttering his words in a spell-like rhythm.
‘He says he is Druid of the order of the Dark Moon.’
‘Oh no,’ Cato whispered to himself as he felt an icy trickle of dread flow down his spine. He had encountered the order before, and had nearly paid for it with his life, as had Macro. At the same time he knew that the performance had been carefully planned, even down to his own attempt to deny the omens that Venutius had claimed. While the natives might not wholly believe the queen’s consort, they would readily accept the word of a Druid. Cato looked across to the other table and saw Caratacus smiling at him as Vellocatus continued to translate.
‘The Druid says Venutius speaks the truth. He has seen the omens. The death of the Roman general is a sign that the gods are calling on the Brigantes to rise up and follow the example of Caratacus. They call for war against Rome. They have shown him a vision of a golden eagle drowning in a sea of Roman blood.’