Now Senomaglus of the Votadini was on his feet, calling out in a bold voice and gesturing towards the Roman party. Marcellinus got up, and the two men embraced beside the fire. Passing around the circle, the envoy threw his arms around each of the chiefs in turn, slapping them on the back. A boy appeared with three wooden mugs on a platter.
‘Guest offering,’ Marcellinus said as he sat down.
Castus took the cup that was offered to him. A dark scummy liquid filled it to the brim. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Just beer. The Picts brew it themselves. Drink it down and try not to inhale.’
Strabo took a sip, and choked. ‘Gah! It tastes like -’
‘Yes I know,’ Marcellinus said, smiling. ‘They say the virgin girls of the tribe piss in the vats to aid the fermentation process.’ Then he drained his cup in one long swallow, and threw it into the fire.
Castus raised the cup to his lips, trying to keep himself from gagging. Tipping back his head, he sucked the sour liquid down, and then hurled the empty cup towards the fire. Beside him, he heard Strabo coughing. The third cup thudded down into the embers, and the assembly gave wild yells of congratulation.
The brew was strong, and Castus took a deep breath to stop his head spinning, only to inhale even more smoky air. He shut his mouth and breathed through his nose, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword and hooking his other thumb into his belt. This will soon be over, he told himself. The promise of fresh air and open space was painfully intoxicating.
Strabo had brought the bundle of diplomatic gifts, and now Marcellinus was unwrapping it. The chiefs gathered closer, craning to gaze at the gold and silver glittering in the firelight. There was a fine Roman spatha, the scabbard inlaid with gemstones, and a collection of silver cups and plates. Finest of all was a set of enamelled portraits of the four emperors on ivory panels framed in jewelled gold. Castus saw a couple of the chiefs passing the portrait set between them, twisting their lips and muttering as they rubbed at the gilding. Then it and all the rest of the presents disappeared into the murky depths of the hall.
‘Four balls of Janus,’ Castus said under his breath, ‘not another song!’
But the man who now stood beside the fire, speaking slow gravelly words, was not a bard. He was older than the rest, heavily built, with a grey drooping moustache and a bare muscled chest heavily marked with scar-pictures and only slightly sagging with age. An impressive, commanding-looking man, Castus thought. He knelt down behind Marcellinus.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Ulcagnus,’ the envoy whispered back. ‘The former king’s armour-bearer and war leader, now acting as regent. Sensible man. With any luck he’ll be voted in as high chief, and our job here will be done.’
‘Who are the others?’ As his eyes adjusted to the smoky light, Castus could better make out the forms and faces of the chiefs gathered around the fire listening to Ulcagnus’s speech.
‘The narrow-faced man with the dyed hair is Talorcagus, the king’s cousin. He’s one we have to be careful of. Impulsive, ambitious and no friend of Rome. The handsome young man next to him is his nephew, Drustagnus.’
Castus glanced at the two chiefs. He had noticed them before. Talorcagus had a look of fierce savagery about him even compared to the rest. His head was shaved almost to the top of his skull, with the remaining hair dyed reddish orange and teased up into a stiff crest like the bristles of a wild boar. The younger man beside him, Drustagnus, had a blunt face, black hair curled into ringlets and a hungry glare in his eyes. Castus knew the look. He would be tough contender in any fight, the sort with a lust for killing.
‘Then that wiry young man opposite me is the old king’s own nephew, Vendognus. He’s weak and corrupt, but he was close to Vepogenus and stands a good chance of being voted in. I might be able to influence him, but he’s a bad second choice.’
‘And her?’ Castus nodded towards a woman standing near the back of the room. She stood tall and proud, the only female in the gathering, and the men around her had drawn back slightly as if in respect. As Castus looked at her, the woman turned slightly and met his eye just for a moment. A strong face, bold, almost masculine.
But before Marcellinus could answer he stiffened abruptly, turning in his seat as another man entered the hall. The new shy;comer was dressed in native clothes, but wore no scars on his body, and was clean shaven.
‘It’s him,’ the envoy said. ‘The renegade. I did not think he’d show himself so soon.’
Castus felt Strabo’s hand on his shoulder, drawing him back, and he stood and resumed his stance. The chiefs shuffled aside to give the man space at the fire. As he sat down, he looked up at Castus with a cold smile. Castus stared back at him, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Time passed, unguessable. One by one the chiefs got up to speak, their harsh gargling voices blending together in Castus’s mind. He closed his ears to it, concentrating on taking in the details of the scene around him. Again and again his eyes strayed to the strong-featured woman at the back of the room. She was near his own age, he guessed. Somebody’s wife – had Marcellinus not told him that? But whose? Her red-brown hair, the colour of a fox pelt, hung down her back in a thick plait. She wore a green sleeveless dress of heavy weave and a chequered cape secured at her breast with a massive silver brooch. A chain of thick silver links hung around her neck, and heavy silver clasps shaped like snakes circled her powerful arms. Staring at her, Castus willed the woman to look his way again, but her attention was held by the conference around the fire.
Talorcagus was on his feet, speaking in a low angry tone, stabbing his fingers. His orange brush of hair and long goat shy;like beard gave him the look of a fierce satyr, carved on a village gatepost. He sat down and Marcellinus spoke, his voice measured and slow, but Castus could hear the anger in the envoy’s words.
Then, suddenly, the conference was at an end. The chiefs got up, flinging their cloaks around their shoulders, and stalked one by one out of the hall. Marcellinus followed them out, then Strabo, and Castus was just about to leave when he felt a touch on his arm. The renegade stood at his side, still wearing that cold, corrupt smile.
‘Greetings, centurion,’ the renegade said. ‘My name is Julius Decentius. I believe you may be a countryman of mine.’ He spoke with the trace of a Pannonian accent, and Castus felt a brief flare of nostalgia. But he stayed silent, drawing himself up to his full height.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet a Roman soldier so far from home,’ the man went on, his hand still on Castus’s arm. ‘We should talk soon, you and I, when we have the chance.’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Castus said, trying to keep his voice level, his expression neutral. The man let his hand drop and took a step back.
‘I was once a senior officer in the Roman army,’ he said quietly. ‘You should show more respect to me. We might have a lot in common, you know.’
‘We have nothing in common,’ Castus said. He gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘I want nothing to do with you. And if you try and speak to my men or even approach them, you’ll get a good Roman javelin through the gut.’
The renegade’s expression shifted, his lips tightening. ‘That would be very unwise,’ he said, but Castus could see that he was shaken. Before the man could say another word, Castus ducked his head and strode out of the hall into the welcome chill of the night air.
Plunging his head down into the basin of cold water, Castus breathed out through his nostrils and then straightened. He shook his head and wiped the water from his eyes, then he scrubbed a palm over his wet scalp. It was morning, and the low hillock and the sheepfold were surrounded by a drift of mist that covered the Pictish encampment on the far slope. He had slept badly, dreaming of dog-headed yelping men capering around a fire, and a woman with fox-coloured hair who was trying to push him into a vat of foul scummy liquid.