'We defeated one column. How many more are out there? How many more can Caratacus send out? The raids are getting more frequent. The legions, for all their might in battle, are only as strong as their lines of supply. Destroy those and General Plautius and his army will slowly be starved of food and weapons. They'll be forced to retreat to the coast, harassed every step of the way. They'll be bled to death, by and by.'

Mendacus laughed. 'If it's so obvious the Romans will be defeated then why fight for them?'

'They're our allies,' Tincommius explained simply. 'As Artax said, our king swore a treaty with them and we must honour that. Unless, or until, the king changes his mind…'

Everyone looked surreptiously at the king but Verica was gazing over their heads, at the dim framework of timbers in the rafters. He appeared not to have heard the last remark and there was a troubled lull, filled with quiet shuffling and one or two coughs as the nobles waited for him to respond. In the end Verica simply changed the subject.

'There is something else we have to consider. Whatever decision I make about our alliance with Rome, we must consider how the other nobles will respond, and our people.'

'Your people will do your will, sire,' said Mendacus. 'They are sworn to.'

An amused expression flickered across Verica's lined face. 'Your desire to do my will is rather short-lived, wouldn't you say?'

Mendacus coloured with embarrassment and barely checked anger. 'I speak now as one of your most loyal servants. You have my word on it, sire.'

'Oh, that's reassuring,' muttered Artax.

'Quite.' Verica nodded. 'With all deference to your word, Mendacus, I know that many of our finest warriors take a dim view of our alliance with Rome, as do many of our subjects on the streets of Calleva. I'm old. I'm not stupid. I know what people are saying. I know that there are some nobles who are already plotting to overthrow me. It would be strange if there weren't, and I fear it's only a matter of time before they take the chance to put their plans into action. Who knows how many of our warriors would follow their lead? But if I join with Caratacus, would my own position be any more secure? I doubt it…'

Mendacus made to speak but Verica raised his hand to stop him. 'Don't. Don't say another word about the loyalty of my subjects.'

Mendacus opened his mouth, then good sense got the better of sycophancy and he closed it with as much dignity as he could, and heaved his shoulders in a quick shrug of resignation as the king continued.

'I think the course I must take has become clearer to me tonight, my lords. It would seem that maintaining our alliance with Rome best serves the needs of our people. For the present, then, we play as full a part as we can in aiding the Emperor, and his legions.'

'And what of those people who oppose the alliance, sire?' asked Tincommius.

'The time has come to show them the cost of defying my decisions.'

'Why do harm to them, sire? Surely they're a small minority. Small enough for us to ignore.'

'No opposition to a king is ever small enough to ignore!' Verica snapped. 'I've learned that to my cost once already. No, I've made the decision, and we must brook no opposition. I offered my opponents peace on good terms last time. If I allowed opposition to thrive, to the smallest degree, I would look weak this time, not merciful. I need to show General Plautius that the Atrebatans are utterly loyal to Rome. I need to show my people what will become of them if they ever defy me.'

'How will you do that, sire?' asked Tincommius. 'How can you?'

'A little demonstration is called for tonight, at the end of the feast. I have an idea. Once it's done then I can assure you it will be a very brave man indeed who even thinks about defying me and my authority.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

'What do you think?'

'I'm not quite finished yet,' muttered Cato, his gaze flickering up from the draft report Macro had dictated. The clerk had obviously had a hard time of it, judging from the number of crossed-out phrases and other corrections. Cato wished that Macro had not had quite so much to drink before beginning work on the report that would be sent to Vespasian and copied to the general. Now that the sun was setting, and they were sitting in the thin gleam of oil lamps at the wooden table in Macro's office, the effects of the wine were receding a little. Enough, at least, for them to check through the reports. Macro had been brief to the point of terseness in his description of the ambush, but the salient facts were there clearly enough, and the two senior officers who would read the document should be pleased with the result, Cato decided. Only the final part concerned him.

'I'm not sure about this bit.'

'Which bit?'

'Here, where you describe the situation in Calleva.'

'What's wrong with it?'

'Well,' Cato paused a moment to consider. 'I think the situation's a bit more complicated than you make it sound.'

'Complicated?' Macro frowned. 'What's complicated about it? We've got the population onside and Verica's bathing in the glory won by his troops under our command. Things couldn't be better. Our allies are happy, we've given the enemy a good kicking and it hasn't cost us one Roman life.'

Cato shook his head. 'I don't think that we can count on the happiness of a great many of the Atrebatans, judging from what I saw today.'

'A few sour grapes, and that shrieking old crone you told me about? Hardly amounts to a serious threat of insurrection, does it?'

'No,' Cato admitted, 'but we don't want Plautius getting the wrong impression.'

'And we don't want to worry the general about a few malcontents when he's got his mind fixed on pushing the legions forward against Caratacus. Cato, old lad, the way to get on in this man's army is always to err on the side of optimism.'

'I'd prefer to err on the side of realism,' Cato replied bluntly.

'That's up to you.' Macro shrugged. 'But don't count on any further promotions. Now, if there's nothing else you think I should change, let's get tarted up and join the celebrations.'

The royal enclosure was brightly illuminated by torches blazing around its perimeter. Every noble, every warrior held in any regard, and the most respectable of the foreign traders and merchants, had been summoned to Verica's feast. As Cato glanced round at the loose throng of people making their way across the compound to the great hall he felt more than a little shabby. He and Macro were wearing their best tunics and, neat as they were, the dull material could not compare with the exotic weaves of the local Celts, or the fine cloth adorning the merchants and their wives. The only concession to luxury permitted by the centurions' military wardrobe were the torcs Macro wore on his wrist and around his neck. The latter was a fine example. So it should be, having once been the possession of Togodubnus, brother of Caratacus. Macro had killed him almost a year earlier, in single combat, and the torc was already drawing admiring glances from Verica's other guests. For his part, Cato possessed only a single set of medallions and he tried to console himself with the thought that the character of a man was worth more than anything he might buy to display his worth.

'Going to be quite a night,' said Macro. 'Seems like half the population of Calleva must be here.'

'Just the well-heeled half, I think.'

'And us.' Macro winked at him. 'Don't worry, lad, I've never yet met a centurion who hasn't done well out of a campaign. That's the main reason Rome goes to war – to keep the legions grabbing enough booty to stay happy.'

'And distracted from any political ambitions.'