I speak your language well enough. In the time before this war my tribe was a friend to your people.’
Ulpius Marcellus leant back in his chair, resting his chin on his hand.
‘Yes, I know. I was governor of this country for four years, and I came to know your tribal king Brennus tolerably well. You’ll probably be aware that we’re still in communication with him, of a sort, and that we’ve offered him peace if he can deliver us this upstart Calgus in return. I would have thought that a decent enough bargain, but now I find your people implicated in a fresh atrocity against our forces. I know you took part in the attack on White Strength, so don’t think to attempt to mislead me on the subject.’
He stared unblinkingly at the prisoner, whose shoulders slumped at the accusation.
‘We fought at White Strength. Calgus… he…’
‘Lied to you? Made you believe that you could succeed your uncle under his guidance, that you would be a strong man if you helped him to victory?’
Martos nodded, his eyes on the ground.
‘So your men led the attack on the fort, am I right?’
Another nod.
‘And how many of your warriors died breaking into the fort and putting the garrison to the sword? Five hundred?’
The reply was almost a whisper.
‘More. Probably twice that many…’
Legatus Macrinus spoke up.
‘With your permission, Governor? You’re telling us that you sacrificed nearly half your strength to buy this Calgus a victory, and that in return he had you and your men dumped right in the path of our cavalry response? You want us to believe that he’d be willing to throw away so much of his strength to achieve a meaningless tactical victory and then pull the fangs from what was left of an unreliable ally’s dissent? He’d have to be mad to be so profligate with his strength, unless…’
Martos lifted his gaze to meet the Roman’s, his confidence returning.
‘Yes. Unless he has more strength than you’re aware of. Spare my life and I will tell you everything I know. Kill me, and I will take secrets to my grave that might cost you this war.’
The governor scoffed, waving away the suggestion.
‘Spare your life? When I can interrogate any number of your men and discover everything I need to know without having to consort with a man that put an entire cohort of good men to the sword and then desecrated their corpses? Why don’t you just ask me to name you emperor?’
Martos kept his gaze fixed on the governor.
‘I was close to Calgus for long enough to know more about his schemes than he was willing to reveal to me. I overheard snatches of conversation I was never meant to witness, and I saw things that were meant to stay between Calgus and the men close to him. And I’ll make you one firm vow. If you free me, and enough of my people to stand around me in battle, I will hunt down Calgus for you and bring you his head. I will swear an oath to any god you care to name to take vengeance for the lies and disaster that he has brought down on my people.’
Ulpius Marcellus thought for a moment, his eyes narrowed.
‘Have this man taken away, Legatus. I think any debate on the subject should be private.’
The stony-faced centurion marched the bound prisoner from the tent, leaving the Romans looking at each other. Equitius broke the silence, shaking his head gently with wonder.
‘I met Calgus, just before they attacked my cohort at Lost Eagle, and I knew then that he was a cunning bastard, but this is simply beyond my understanding. Leading an entire tribe’s remaining strength into our path to cement his power over the others, that’s more than just a bold step. Who’s to say there isn’t more in his plan that we have yet to discover the hard way? Another Lost Eagle might cost us this war, possibly even this province, we all know that.’
The governor raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you suggesting that we do as this murdering barbarian requests, Legatus? Give the man his freedom and let him vanish into the depths of the wild country, escaping the justice that should already have his head on a stake outside this tent?’
Prefect Scaurus spoke into the silence that followed, his voice quiet and yet clear, demanding to be heard despite the absence of drama in his tone.
‘Considering what the Votadini have been through, it’s at least worthy of consideration, Governor.’ He continued, not waiting for permission. ‘Let’s say they lost a thousand men at White Strength. We killed another five hundred or so breaking into the hill fort, and there’s probably the same number of wounded that won’t fight again for a few months, even if they weren’t badly enough hurt to rate the legion’s gladius solution. What does that leave, two hundred warriors? Two hundred and fifty? Calgus has already betrayed Martos once, so if he were to come back from the dead with that small a force I’d say the odds are excellent that the ‘Lord of the Northern Tribes’, having already told his men some story or other about how the Votadini have betrayed them all, will have his men put them to the iron without a second thought.’
He stood silently for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.
‘There’s another point worth considering as well, Governor. Before the war, the land between the two walls was divided roughly into two parts, not equal, but very distinct nonetheless. To the west, living under the control of thousands of our troops, were the Selgovae, Novantae and Damnonii, forever testing our strength with ambushes and skirmishes. A posting up the north road was no cause for celebration for any soldier I ever discussed the matter with. To the east, on the other hand, were the Votadini. Compare and contrast, gentlemen. There were no forts on their territory, no requirement to control the tribe’s gatherings, and no need to tie down thousands of our men in static positions that would make them a target for every disaffected young blood with a point to prove. I think the main question should be how we want this land of theirs to be governed after the war. Do we want to put four or five thousand more troops on to Votadini land, with all of the problems we always had with the western tribes, or would we prefer to take things back to the way they were…?’
The governor nodded, glancing at his legates for their opinion.
‘Your point, Prefect, is well made. I can take quick and satisfying revenge on this man and the survivors of his warband, such as they are… or I can play the politician and spare him, with his support and friendship the price I exact in return. Opinions?’
Scaurus glanced around him, taking the measure of his seniors’ reaction. Apart from Furius’s grim face, most of the men in the room looked thoughtful. The 20th Legion’s legatus spoke up, his lips pursed.
‘I dislike the idea of allowing this man his freedom, when he should by rights cough out his last breaths on a cross, but…’ He shrugged, shooting an appraising glance at Scaurus. ‘… the prefect does makes a persuasive case. I would recommend a subtly different approach, however. Reprieve the man by all means, but don’t allow him to run free. In fact, I say we keep him close. His men will make excellent guides as we push northwards into the hills, and when the time comes you can slip their collars and send them after Calgus when he least expects it. In fact, once he’s unburdened himself of these hints and whispers he says he can recount to us, I commend you to put his men under the stewardship of young Scaurus here. He can worry about liberating his kingdom once Calgus’s head is on the pole in place of his own.’
Scaurus hadn’t seen his first spear so much as irritated during their brief association, so the experience of triggering incandescent anger in the man engendered something between exhilaration and genuine fear.
‘I don’t give a fuck what the governor said!’ Frontinius put his pointed index finger squarely in his superior’s face, his hold on a temper of glacial slowness but volcanic ferocity completely lost. ‘You can tell him that there is no fucking way that an assorted collection of barbarian murderers are going to find a place in my cohort!’
Scaurus raised an eyebrow, apparently hugely amused by the other man’s rage.
‘That’s odd, First Spear, I could have sworn it was mine?’
Frontinius ignored the wry question, too far gone in his uncontrollable anger.
‘Those bastards should all have been beheaded the second it was proved they took part in the White Strength massacre. That they’re still breathing is bad enough, but for the senior soldier in the whole of Britannia to ask us to take them on…’ He spread his hands wide, frustration written across his face. What does he think we are? What does he think I am? I served with their first spear, he was a soldier with this cohort for a couple of years until the Frisians needed some replacements…’
Scaurus shook his head decisively, one word rapping out across his subordinate’s diatribe.
