Simon Scarrow - When the Eagle hunts

At their approach the stockade gates quickly swung shut and a head emerged from the shadows above the sharpened stakes to shout a challenge. Prasutagus bellowed a reply, and when they were close enough for his identity to be confirmed, the gates were opened again and the small party urged their beasts inside. Prasutagus dismounted and strode over to a short, thickset man who did not seem to be much older than Cato. They grasped each other by the forearms in formal but friendly greeting. It emerged that the farmer Prasutagus had once known was three years dead and buried in a small orchard behind the stockade. His eldest son had died the previous summer, fighting the Romans in the battle for the Medway crossing. The younger son, Velloeatus, now ran the farm, and remembered Prasutagus well enough. He glanced at Prasutagus's companions and said something quietly. Prasutagus laughed, and replied with a quick jerk of his head at Boudica and the others. Vellocatus stared at them for a moment before nodding.

Beckoning them all to follow him, he led the way across the muddy interior of the stockade towards a line of crudely constructed pens. Two other men, much older, were busy forking winter feed into cattle byres and paused for a moment to watch the newconlers as they led their mounts into a small stable. Inside, the riders wearily removed the saddles from their mounts, taking care to leave the blankets strapped over the legion's brand. Once the tack, provisions and equipment had been careftl, ly stowed to one side of the pen, their host provided them,with some grain and soon the horses were champing contentedly, their steamy breath curling about them in the cold air.

It was fully dark before they picked their way across to the large round hut with its thick, insulating thatch. The farmer ushered them inside and drew a heavy leather cover across the entrance. After the s.harp freshness of the air outside, the smoky stench of the interior made Cato cough.

But at least it was warm The floor of the hut sloped towards the hearth where wood cracked and hissed amid flickering orange flames rising from the wavering glow of the fire's base. Above the flames a blackened cauldron hung from an iron tripod. Bending.towards the steam rising from the cauldron was a heavily pregnant woman. She supported her back with a spare hand as she stirred the contents with a long wooden ladle. At their approach she looked up and smiled a greeting to her husband before her eyes flashed towards their guests and her expression became wary.

Vellocatus indicated the comfortably wide stools arranged to one side of the hearth and invited his guests to sit. Prasutagus thanked him and the four travellers gratefully eased their stiff and aching limbs down. While Prasutagus talked to the farmer, the others gazed contentedly into the flames and absorbed the warmth. The rich aroma of stewing meat rising from the cauldron made Macro feel desperately hungry and he licked his lips. The woman noticed and raised the ladle. She nodded towards him and said something.

'What's she saying?' he asked Boudica.

'How should I know? She's Atrebatan. I'm Iceni.'

'But you're both Celts, surely?'

'Just because we're from the same island doesn't mean we all speak the same language, you know.'

'Really?' Macro adopted a look of innocent surprise.

'Really. Does everyone in the empire speak Latin?'

'No, of course not.'

'So how do you Romans make yourselves understood.

'We talk more loudly.' Macro shrugged. 'People usually get the gist of what you're saying. If that fails, we lay into them.'

'I don't doubt it, but for the Lud's sake don't try that approach here.' Boudica shook her head. 'So much for the sagacity of the master race… As it happens, I know this dialect well enough. She's offering you some food.'

'Food! Well, why didn't you say so?' Macro nodded vigorously at the farmer's wife. She laughed and reached into a large wicker basket by the hearth and lifted out some bowls which she set down on the hard earth floor. She ladled the steaming broth into the bowls and handed them round, guests first, as custom dictated. The wicker basket yielded up some small wooden spoons and moments later a hush fell over the hut as they all set to their meal.

The broth was scalding hot, and Cato had to blow over each spoonful before putting the spoon into his mouth.

Looking more closely at the' bowl he realised that it was Samian ware, the cheap crockery manufactured in Gaul and exported across most of the,western empire. And beyond, it seemed.

'Boudica, could you ask,her where these bowls came from?'

The two women struggled to converse for a moment before the question was fully understood and an answer given.

'She traded for them with a Greek merchant.'

'Greek?' Cato nudged Macro.

'Eh?'

'Sir, the woman says she got these bowls off a Greek merchant.'

'I heard, so?'

'Was the merchant's name Diomedes?'

The woman nodded and smiled, then spoke quickly to Boudica in the singsong tones of the Celtic tongue.

'She likes Diomedes. Says he's a charmer. Always has a small gift for the women and a quick enough wit to pacify their menfolk afterwards.'

'Beware Greeks bearing gifts,' mumbled Macro. 'That lot'll jump anything that moves, male or female.'

Boudica smiled. 'From my own experience I'd say you Romans are only marginally more discriminating. Must be something they put in all that wine you southern races are so fond of drinking.'

'You complaining?' asked Macro, watching Boudica closely.

'Let's just say it was an education.'

'And you've learned all you need about the men of Rome, I suppose.'

'Something like that.'

Macro's eyes glinted angrily at Boudica, before he returned to his broth and continued eating in silence. An awkward tension filled the air. Cato stirred his broth and brought the conversation back to the less touchy subject of Diomedes.

'When was the last time she saw him?'

'Only two days ago.'

Cato stopped stirring.

'Came through on foot,' Boudica continued. 'Just stayed for a meal and passed straight on, heading west into Durotrigan territory. Doubt he'll find much trade there.'

'He's not after trade,' Cato said quietly. 'Not any more.

Did you hear, sir?'

'Of course I heard. This bloody mission is dangerous enough as it is, without that Greek stirring things up, Just hope they find him and kill him quickly, before he causes us any trouble.'

They continued eating in silence, and Cato made no further attempt to keep the conversation going. He pondered the implications of the news about Diomedes. It appeared that killing the Druid prisoners was not enough for the Greek. His thirst for revenge was leading him towards the Dark Moon Druids' heartland. On his own he stood little chance, and he might alert the Durotriges to be on the lookout for strangers. That could only magnify the risk the four of them already faced. Gloomily Cato ate another spoonful of broth, chewing hard at a lump of gristle.

The hospitality of Vellocatus and his wife extended to a silver platter of honeyed cakes:when they had eaten their fill of broth. Cato lifted a cake.ag, d noticed a geometric pattern on the platter beneath it. He dipped his head to look more closely.

'More of the Greek's tradmg,,I imagine,' said Boudica as she helped herself to a cake. 'Must be making a fine living out of it.'

'I bet he is,' said Macro and took a bite of cake. His eyes instantly lit up and he nodded approvingly at their hostess.

'Good!'

She beamed happily and offered him another.

'Don't mind if I do,' said Macro, spilling crumbs down his tunic; 'Come on, Cato! Fill up, lad!'

But Cato was lost in thought, staring fixedly at the silver platter, until it was taken away and returned to the wicker basket. He was certain he had seen it before, and was greatly disturbed to see it again. Here, where it had no reason to be.