The Eagle and the Wolves

Quintillus nodded. 'For you own safety, and as an example to others.'

'I assume the good Centurion Macro has told you that I've already tried that approach, and it's failed.'

'Perhaps you didn't remove enough of your enemies?'

'Perhaps I "removed" more than enough. Perhaps I should never have removed any of them. That's what Cadminius thinks, though he dare not say it.'

At the end of the table the captain of the king's bodyguard lowered his gaze. Quintillus ignored the man and leaned closer to King Verica.

'That would have looked like weakness, my lord. It would have encouraged others to speak out against you. In the end tolerance always leads to weakness. Weakness leads to defeat.'

'It's all so easy to you, isn't it, Roman?' Verica shook his head. 'All so black and white. One solution fits all situations. Rule with an iron fist.'

'It works for us, my lord.'

'Us? How old are you, Tribune?'

'Twenty-four, sire. Next month.'

'Twenty-four…' The Atrebatan looked him in the eyes for a moment, and shook his head. 'Calleva is not Rome, Quintillus. My situation is more finely balanced. I kill too many of my enemies and I provoke a rebellion from those who resent oppression. I kill too few and I provoke a rebellion from those who abuse my tolerance. You see my problem? Now, I ask you, how many should I kill to achieve the desired effect, without provoking a rebellion?'

Quintillus could not answer, and was angry for letting himself fall into such an obvious rhetorical trap. He had been trained by the most expensive tutors his father could afford, and felt ashamed. Damn King Verica. Damn this wizened old man. He had made a mess of things and now Rome must sort it out. Always Rome.

'My lord,' the tribune responded quietly. 'I appreciate that ruling a kingdom is not a precise science. But you have a problem. Your people are divided, and some are hostile to Rome. That makes it our problem too. You must find a solution, for the good of your people.'

'Or else?'

'Or else Rome will have to solve the problem.'

There was a silence, and the tribune was aware that Cadminius had straightened up in his chair and had bunched one hand into a fist. At the other end of the table Verica leaned back and pressed his hands together, resting his lips on the fingertips as he watched Quintillus through narrowed eyes.

'Are you threatening me?'

'No. Of course not. But let me describe the options for your people as I see it, if I may?'

'Go ahead, young man.'

'The Atrebatans must remain allies of Rome. We need to be sure that our supplies can pass safely through your lands. As long as you can guarantee that then you will find us a grateful and valuable friend. And, as long as whoever eventually succeeds you pursues the same policy, Rome shall be content to let the Atrebatans run their own affairs – as long as we do not perceive any developments that might endanger our interests.'

'And if you do?'

'Then we would have to help you administer your kingdom.'

'You mean annex us? Turn us into a province.'

'Of course I hope that it would never come to that.'

There was a tense pause before Verica continued speaking. 'I see. And if our "policy" changes?'

'Then we will be forced to crush any forces operating against Rome. All weapons will be confiscated. Your lands and those of your nobles who oppose us will be forfeit, and any prisoners we take will be sold into slavery. That is the fate of those who break faith with Rome.'

Verica stared at the tribune for a moment, then his eyes flicked over to the captain of his bodyguard. Cadminius was having difficulty containing his rage at the naked threat posed by the Roman envoy.

'You don't leave me and my people much choice for our future.'

'No, my lord. None.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty

Two days after the tribune's arrival King Verica announced that he was going to hold a hunt. One of the forests several miles from Calleva was a royal hunting ground and farmers living nearby were forbidden to hunt any animals within its leafy boundary.

The afternoon before the hunt was to take place the air was breathless. A brilliant sun blazed down on the quiet streets of Calleva as the townspeople sought out shade. Inside the royal enclosure servants and slaves scurried about making preparations. The romantic, spontaneous image of noble man pitting his wits against the cunning forces of nature was far removed from the logistical realities of the exercise. Hunting spears had to be carefully selected to make sure their shafts were still true after months in storage. Then they had to be cleaned and their edges honed to a lethal sharpness before being put into thick leather cases for transporting. Horses had to be checked for fitness and the weaker mounts returned to the stables for general duties. Riding tackle was greased and polished and carefully fitted to the animals that would be ridden by the royal hunting party. Sweating slaves struggled under the burden of bedding and furs as these were packed away into the wagons parked along one side of the enclosure. Anxious stewards directed kitchen servants as they heaved sacks of bread, haunches of meat and jars of beer and wine from the dark storerooms at the back of the king's hall and carried them across to the wagons. The captain of the king's bodyguard sat at a trestle table busy recruiting able-bodied beaters from the long line straggling towards the gate. With food in such short supply the people of Calleva were desperate to win a share of the meat that was to be divided up after the hunt.

'Anyone'd think this lot were about to launch an invasion,' muttered Macro as he and Cato made their way through the bustling mass. 'Thought we were just going for a nice simple hunt.'

Cato smiled. 'For the other half there's no such thing as a simple hunt.'

He spoke from experience, having been brought up behind the scenes at the imperial palace in Rome. Every time the Emperor had decided, often on a whim, that he wished to 'pop over to Ostia', or 'nip up into the hills' to escape the dead heat of a Roman summer, it was Cato's father who had been tasked with organising the myriad necessities and luxuries that accompanied such a trip.

Caligula had been the worst, Cato recalled. The mad Emperor's whims had exhaustively tested the boundaries of the possible and nearly driven Cato's placid father to despair. Like the time Caligula had decided he rather fancied a stroll across the bay at Misenum. There was no hope of reasoning with him. After all, the man was a god and when a god wished a thing done, it was done. And so thousands of engineers constructed a pontoon bridge between Baiae and Puteoli on the backs of commandeered shipping and fishing boats. While Caligula and his entourage paraded back and forth across the bridge thousands of starving fishermen and ruined merchants looked on, and were encouraged to cheer the Emperor, at the point of a Praetorian sword. Cato had seen all this, and now the practical implications of Verica's decision to go hunting did not surprise him.

Macro was still gazing around with a disapproving frown. 'I thought it'd just be a matter of picking up some spears and running down a few of the feral buggers in the forest. Not all this. Where's the bloody tribune got to?'

They had been summoned from the depot late in the afternoon and had dismissed the two cohorts from training before heading through the hot stinking streets to find Tribune Quintillus. Both centurions were uncomfortable in their thick tunics and Cato shivered as he felt sweat trickle down from his armpits under the prickly wool.

'Can you see him?' asked Macro, craning his neck round. Being several inches shorter than Cato, his field of vision was limited by the lofty Celts surrounding them. What Macro lacked in height he made up for in the solid muscle of his broad frame. Right now, Cato sensed, he was irritable enough to want to throw some of that bulk around.