Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (17 page)

‘Who indeed?’ grumbled Macro.

Chapter Fifteen

The kitchen slaves eventually arrived with the food, straining under the weight of the glistening spitted pigs. Cadminius’ shoulders slumped with relief now that his master had stopped tapping his foot and eagerly eyed the steaming hunk of meat and crackling being carved for him. Verica had quit his throne and lay on a couch, Roman style, overlooking the hall, and his most privileged guests were arranged round the remaining three sides. The head table was on a raised platform so that the king and his party would have the best view of the entertainments. Macro and Cato had been given the place of honour to Verica’s right, and the remaining places were taken up by Atrebatan nobles, and a plump Greek merchant with heavily oiled and scented hair. Close to Cato sat Artax, with Cadminius at his side. Their eyes briefly met, and Cato saw the same sullen arrogance in them that Artax had displayed at their first encounter in the depot. Tincommius, relieved from his duties at the entrance, had joined them and sat with the two centurions.

Cato gently nudged him as they waited for Verica to start eating. ‘Any idea what the entertainment will be after the banquet?’

‘None. The old boy’s been playing it close to his chest. I think Cadminius is in on it. That’s why he’s been so nervous all afternoon - wants to make sure the big surprise is a real treat for the audience.’

‘Doubt I’ll last until then if I have to wait for my food a moment longer . . .’

There was a palpable tension in the great hall as the king’s guests waited silently for their host to take his first mouthful. Only then could they eat from the heaped plates in front of them. With theatrical grace the aged king lifted a sliver of pork to his lips and nibbled a corner. Behind him a bodyguard raised the royal standard, paused and let it slip back down so that it rapped sharply on the flagstone. At once the guests burst into renewed conversation and began to cram their mouths with food and beer. Cato lifted his drinking horn and peered into the brew: a dark honey colour with a light froth around the edges. Cato felt sick at the sweet malty smell that filled his nostrils. How could these people drink this stuff?

‘Whatever you do,’ said Macro, close to his ear, ‘don’t pinch your nose when you swallow. Take it like a man.’

Cato nodded and braced himself for the first sip. The bitterness came as a surprise, a pleasant surprise, he decided. Maybe there was a future for British beer after all. He lowered the cup and started chewing on a crudely cut hunk of steaming pork.

‘Good!’ He nodded to Macro.

‘Good? ‘S bloody wonderful!’

For a while, the guests at the top table ate in silence, grateful for the food after the lengthy delay. Verica, older and more gracious than his nobles, held his meat in a delicate manner and nibbled steadily at the pork with his remaining teeth. His appetite quickly deserted him and, wiping his greasy fingers in the long fur of one of his hunting dogs, he raised his drinking horn and looked over towards the two Romans.

‘A toast to our Roman friends, their Emperor Claudius and the swift defeat of those foolish enough to resist the advance of Rome.’

Verica repeated the toast in Celtic and his words were taken up by the others seated around the table - although not all of them looked quite as enthusiastic as their king, Cato decided, as he glanced sidelong at Artax. Following the king’s cue Cato raised the horn to his lips.

‘You must drink it in one go,’ whispered Tincommius.

Cato nodded, and as everyone began to down their ale he forced himself to begin, fighting off the impulse to gag at the heavily flavoured brew, and clamping his teeth shut to strain the clutter of sediment and other solids at the bottom of the horn. He wiped the flotsam clear of his lips with the back of his hand and set the nearly empty vessel back down on the table.

Verica nodded approvingly and signalled to one of his servants to refill the drinking horns before looking meaningfully at Macro, who was busy tearing off a piece of crackling with his teeth.

‘Sir,’ muttered Tincommius.

‘What? What is it?’

‘You’re supposed to return the gesture.’

‘What? Gesture?’

‘Make a toast.’

‘Oh!’ Macro spat the crackling out and raised his drinking horn. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and suddenly Macro couldn’t think of anything suitable to say. He glanced beseechingly towards Cato but his friend seemed to watching Artax closely and did not notice his appeal for help. Macro quickly licked his lips, coughed and then began with a stammer, ‘R-right then. To King Verica . . . his noble cohorts and . . . his interesting tribe.’

As Tincommius translated, the native guests frowned at the strange and awkward choice of words. Macro flushed with embarrassment, little used to such social ceremonies. He tried to continue in a more appropriate vein.

‘Long may the Atrebatans remain faithful allies of Rome. May they profit from the speedy defeat of the barbarian tribes of this island.’

Macro raised his cup and beamed at the other guests. With the exception of Verica, they looked uncomfortable. Artax pointedly sipped from his horn before setting it down and glaring at the meat on his Samian ware platter.

As the other guests looked away Cato whispered, ‘That might have been phrased better.’

‘Well then, you do it next time.’

The Greek merchant delicately placed his drinking horn to one side and started a quiet conversation with his neighbour, neatly drawing the man’s attention away from the tense silence on the head table. Verica was eating some dainty pastries and waved a finger to attract Macro’s attention.

‘Interesting toast, Centurion.’

‘My lord, I did not mean to offend. To be honest, I’ve never been called on to do this kind of thing before - at least not in front of a king. I just meant to celebrate our alliance, and look forward to the future . . . that’s all.’

‘Of course,’ Verica replied smoothly. ‘No offence was taken. At least not by me, although I can’t speak for some of the hotter heads in my family.’ He nodded towards Artax with a laugh. ‘And young Tincommius there - his father was no friend of Rome while I was in exile. Took a while for Tincommius to see that his father was wrong. Now look at him.’

Cato saw a flush of embarrassment in the young prince’s face, before Tincommius replied, in Latin, ‘I was younger then, sire, and more easily led. Since I’ve learned more of Roman ways, and fought alongside them, I’ve come to respect them and value what they have to offer the Atrebatans.’

‘And what do they have to offer the Atrebatans?’ the Greek merchant interrupted. ‘I’d be interested in your opinion. To hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.’

‘I should have thought a Greek would know.’

The merchant smiled at Tincommius. ‘Forgive me, but we’ve lived under Roman rule too long to remember what it was like before. And since I’m investing quite a fortune in developing trading links with the new province I merely wish to understand the native view of the situation. If you wouldn’t mind, young man?’

Tincommius looked round the table uncomfortably, meeting Macro’s curious gaze only briefly.

‘Tincommius, tell us,’ Verica urged him gently.

‘Sire, like you I’ve lived a while in Gaul and have seen what you saw: the great towns with all their marvels. And you’ve told me of the endless network of trade routes that bind the empire together, of the wealth that flows along them to the very fringes of their world. Above all, you told me there is order. An order that tolerates no conflict, that forces its subjects to live in peace with each other, or face terrible consequences. That’s why Rome must prevail.’

Macro watched Tincommius closely. The man seemed sincere enough. But you could never really tell with these Britons, Macro reflected as he downed another horn of ale.

‘As long as I can remember the Atrebatans have been fighting other tribes,’ Tincommius continued. ‘Always the Durotrigans, and lately the Catuvellaunians, who so cruelly threw you out, sire.’

Verica frowned at the tactless mention of his eviction from the throne by Caratacus and his tribe.

‘I never knew any different. War was our way, the way of all the Celtic tribes of this island. It’s why we live in these poor huts, why we can never have our own empire. We have no common purpose, so we must bind ourselves to one who has . . . the Emperor.’

‘Although Caratacus hasn’t been doing too badly on that score!’ Macro chipped in, with a faint slur to his voice. Cato did a quick calculation and realised with alarm that Macro was already into his fourth horn of beer - on top of all the wine he had been drinking that afternoon. Macro nodded at Tincommius. ‘I mean, look how many tribes he’s managed to line up against us so far. If we don’t kill the bastard quickly, who knows what trouble he’s going to cause our general?’

‘Quite!’ The merchant gave an oily smile. ‘But we wouldn’t want to give any credence to the idea that the enemy has any realistic chance of defying the legions, would we, Centurion? What does the other Roman officer think, I wonder?’

Cato, who had been looking down in embarrassment while Macro spoke, raised his head to see that everyone was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed nervously, and made himself pause a moment to avoid blurting out anything that might make him look foolish. ‘I speak with little authority on the matter. I’ve been serving with the Eagles for less than two years.’

The merchant’s eyebrows rose. ‘And already a centurion?’

‘A good one!’ Macro nodded, and might have continued to say more, but Cato quickly continued.

‘In that time I’ve fought the Germans as well as the Catuvellaunians, the Trinovantans and the Durotrigans. They’re all fine warriors, as are the Atrebatans. But none of them can hold their own against the legions. When a nation takes up arms against Rome there can only ever be one result. The outcome may be delayed by the odd setback, or by an enemy who resorts to the kind of hit-and-run tactics Caratacus seems to be employing against us now. But the legions will always be on the advance, grinding down every enemy strongpoint under their heels. In the end, even Caratacus will not be able to keep the field. There will be no one left to supply him with new men, new equipment and, above all, food and shelter.’

Cato paused to allow Tincommius to translate his words to those with little or no Latin. Artax snorted with contempt and shook his head.

‘I mean no disrespect to the tribes of these lands,’ Cato continued. ‘In fact, I have come to admire them, in many ways.’ A vision of the gory trophies his men had taken after the ambush flashed through his mind. ‘There are many great warriors amongst them, and that’s their weakness. An army comprised of a multitude of such men has little value unless it is moulded into a single entity with unity of purpose, unity of action and subordinate to one will. That’s why the legions will beat Caratacus. That’s why they will destroy everyone that opposes them until Caratacus submits. By now he should know that he cannot win. He should know that he can only prolong the suffering of the tribes by continuing to resist, and it makes me grieve.’

‘Grieve?’ interrupted Verica. ‘You grieve for your enemy?’

Cato nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. I desire peace above all else. A peace in which both Rome and the Celtic people can profit. Peace will come one way or another, but always on Rome’s terms. The longer some other tribes persist in refusing what you and the Atrebatans have come to accept, the longer the suffering on all sides will continue. It’s pointless to resist. No, it’s worse than pointless. It’s immoral to cause suffering to continue when you know you can’t prevail.’

There was a short silence after Cato’s words had been translated. Then Artax spoke quietly.

‘I wonder if it’s immoral for us to be to be forced into such a position in the first place. Why has Rome come to these shores? What need has she of our poor hovels, when she has great cities, and immeasurable wealth of her own. Why does Rome seek to take what little we have?’ Artax glared at him.

‘You may have little now, but join the Empire and you will have more in the future.’ Cato replied.

Artax laughed bitterly. ‘I doubt that Rome is here for our benefit.’

Cato smiled. ‘You’re right, for now. But in the end you might live to see this land a better place, thanks to Rome.’

Tincommius frowned. ‘But I still don’t understand why Rome would want to come here if there was no profit in it.’

‘Politics!’ said Macro. ‘Bloody politics. Gives the nobs a chance to grab themselves a little glory. They get a nice write-up in the history books, while us rankers get ourselves killed. That’s the way it is.’

‘So it’s all about making Emperor Claudius look good?’

‘Of course.’ Macro looked shocked at the naïvety of the British prince. ‘Besides,’ he continued, wagging his finger, ‘what makes you think it’s any different over here? That’s what all war is about - making some bastard or other look good. Now, where’s the bloody beer gone? Slave! Come here!’

While Macro waited for his horn to be filled up Cato quickly changed the subject.

‘My lord, when do we get to see this mysterious entertainment you’ve arranged for us?’

‘Patience, Centurion! First we must eat.’ Verica nodded towards some of the noblemen’s wives talking loudly at one of the nearest feasting tables. ‘I doubt some of the more sensitive stomachs would care to continue eating when they see what I have in store for them.’