Brothers in Blood (15 page)

Cato mentally flinched from the accusations thrown at him. He knew the real reason behind the invasion well enough: Claudius had needed a military triumph for political reasons, and the conquest of Britannia had promised to be a ready solution. Cato sucked in a breath.

‘I do not make policy. I am a soldier. I carry out orders. I suggest that you put your questions to the Emperor when you get the opportunity. Now, if you change your mind about dry clothes, let the guards know.’

Cato turned away and ducked out of the door. He was about to order the guard to close it when he saw two figures approaching him through the haze of rain. One was in the armour of a Roman officer. The other was a woman, attempting to pick her way across the muddy ground to spare her robe from the filth as much as possible.

‘Prefect Cato!’

He recognised the voice of Otho and cursed under his breath. There were matters he needed to attend to, just as there should be for the tribune. Yet Otho seemed to have the time to take his wife for a stroll around the camp. He cleared his throat and called back, ‘Tribune. What can I do for you?’

The younger officer and his wife hurried over and Cato saw at once the excited expression on the man’s face. His wife, Poppaea, was somewhat less cheerful as she peered out of the hood covering her head. The rain had startd to soak through the cloth and wet tendrils of hair clung to her forehead. Otho reached out and grasped Cato’s hand.

‘First, let me congratulate the hero of the day. The man who won the battle and captured Caratacus.’

‘Hmmm,’ Cato grumbled in his throat, acutely irritated by the excessive praise. Excessive and dangerous. The last thing he wanted was to be seen to compete with General Ostorius for taking credit for the victory. Ostorius had powerful connections in Rome, while Cato had his father-in-law, a backwoods senator, and Narcissus, an imperial adviser who was struggling to retain his influence over the Emperor. It would be inadvisable to make unnecessary enemies.

Otho ignored his discomfort and continued, ‘You deserve a triumph of your own, my dear Prefect! What an outstanding piece of work. Pompey the Great couldn’t have done better himself. What do you think, my love?’

He turned, beaming, to his wife. Poppaea forced a smile and glanced down at the muddied hem of her robe.

‘Oh yes . . . Outstanding.’

‘I, uh, was just doing my duty,’ Cato muttered, wincing inwardly at the triteness of his words.

‘You were doing hero’s work, Cato,’ Otho gushed, slapping his hand against his thigh. Then he peered past Cato and lowered his voice. ‘Is the beast caged within?’

‘If you are referring to King Caratacus, then yes.’

‘Oh marvellous! We must see him.’

Cato frowned. ‘See him? Why?’

Otho looked surprised. ‘Why? Because he’s the barbarian who has defied an empire. He’s the barbarian it has taken the best part of ten years to bring to heel. When my wife returns to Rome she will be able to say she saw him on the very day he was humbled by our legions. She will be quite the envy of high society. Isn’t that right, Poppaea?’

‘Yes,’ she responded curtly and fixed Cato with a hard stare. ‘So let’s hurry things along a bit so that I can return to my husband’s quarters and change into dry clothes before I catch my death.’

Cato shook his head. ‘My prisoner is resting. I suggest you come back in the morning, when the storm has passed and you can inspect him at your leisure.’

Otho’s brow creased. ‘I say, that’s a bit off, Prefect. We’ve had to wade all the way across the camp to get here and now you’re telling us we can’t see the damned fellow?’

Too weary to get into an argument, and keen to see these aristocrats leave, Cato gritted his teeth. ‘Very well. Quickly then. Open the door.’

The legionary slipped the locking bar out and swung the door back for the two visitors. The tribune stepped warily into the stockade and edged along the wall to make room for his wife. Cato watched from the threshold, pained to see Caratacus displayed like some exotic beast. Poppaea glanced round the close confines before fixing her attention on the man chained to the post.

‘He doesn’t look much like a king,’ she said with disdain. ‘More like a roadside beggar.’

Her young husband simply stared at the prisoner with an awed expression while his wife continued.

‘I can’t believe this . . . animal has been the cause of so much trouble,’ Poppaea leaned a little closer as her nose wrinkled. ‘I mean, really.’

Caratacus was staring straight ahead, apparently unmoved by her remarks. Then he lurched forward against his chains and let out a roar, his face contorting into a feral expression of savagery. Poppaea let out a high-pitched scream and stumbled back against the posts of the stockade. Her husband flinched then reached for his sword as his wife dived back through the door. Otho hurried out after her. Caratacus continued to rage, his chains clanking as he attempted to shake his fists.

‘Bloody fellow is wild!’ Otho exclaimed as he released his sword and put an arm round his wife to comfort her. ‘Quite wild. Well, erm, I thank you, Prefect. And once again, well done. Now, my dear, it’s time we got you into some warm, dry clothes. Come.’

They turned and hurried away towards the heart of the camp, pursued by a few more deep-throated cries and curses from Caratacus. Then he stopped, caught Cato’s eye, and burst into laughter.

‘Seems I’m not the only one who needs to change out of soiled clothing.’

Cato smiled, as did the legionaries on either side of the entrance, until their superior glanced severely at them and they faced forward and adopted the stern expression of sentries on duty. Caratacus’s laughter subsided but there was still a slight smile on his face as he looked up at Cato.

‘I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a change of clothing, Prefect Cato.’

‘I’ll have my servant bring it to you.’

Their eyes met for a brief moment longer before Cato spoke again. ‘It’s a pity we had to be enemies. I should have counted it an honour to fight at your side.’

A flicker of surprise crossed the Celt’s face. ‘You may think that, Prefect Cato. But we could never have been anything but enemies. I know that now. And if you believe that were our positions reversed I would be offering you the comfort of dry clothes, then you are mistaken. I would have taken your head and mounted it on top of my standard.’

The warmth of a moment earlier had gone and Caratacus’s eyes were filled with bitterness once again. Cato turned to the guards and nodded. The door was closed and secured.

‘Once Thraxis has given him a fresh tunic and cloak, no one else is to disturb him. If anyone comes then tell them that they have to ask for permission from the general first. Understood?’

The two men nodded and Cato squelched over the mud to his tent. He was bone weary and looking forward to removing his armour and having Thraxis warm him some wine. He flipped the leather flaps open and ducked inside, then froze as he caught sight of the figure seated at his desk, warming his hands at the brazier.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘G
ood evening, Prefect Cato.’ Septimus smiled without getting up. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the drumming of the rain on the leather above.

‘What are you doing here?’ Cato demanded. ‘Where is Thraxis?’

‘About now I should say he’s in his cups. I sent for him saying that he could choose a wine jar as a gift from me to you in honour of your heroic feat today. I left him in the tender care of one of the camp whores who has been instructed to see that he is diverted, one way or another, long enough for me to have a little conversation with you.’

‘I’ve had more than enough talk of bloody heroics,’ Cato said sourly as he stretched up to his full height and undid the clasp of his cloak. He tossed the sodden folds on to a chest and unhooked the mail cape covering his shoulders.

‘Take the credit.’ Septimus smiled. ‘No harm in building your reputation.’

‘I did it to save the army. The capture of Caratacus was just luck.’

‘Never knock luck, Prefect. In my experience it is the most important quality in a successful soldier. The gods favour some of us with good fortune. Skill and brains come a distant second.’

Cato arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s your view. I’d like to think that I make most of my own luck, whatever the will and whims of the gods.’

‘How impious of you.’

Cato took a deep breath, gripped the hem of his mail vest and began to wriggle out of it. At length the heavy mass of rings passed over his head and he laid it on the chest beside his cape before turning back to the imperial agent. ‘So, why are you here? And I’ll thank you to get out of my chair.’

Septimus shrugged and eased himself to his feet and moved round to take one of the folding stools. Cato took his place and glanced into the jug on his desk. He was rewarded with the glimmer of dark wine at the bottom and he poured himself a small cup before turning to his uninvited guest. ‘Well?’

‘Thank you, but I’ve already had a drink.’ Septimus smiled. ‘As for my presence, I do truly wish to congratulate you on your fine work today.’

Cato raised his cup slightly in a mock toast, and then took a sip.

‘Now that’s out of the way,’ Septimus continued, ‘it’s time to reassess the situation, in the light of today’s developments.’

‘Now who is underselling the victory? Doesn’t that change everything? We have beaten Caratacus and destroyed his army. The campaign is over. Surely no tribe would dare to take up arms against us now, not even the Brigantes.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence. With Caratacus out of the picture we still have to deal with Pallas and his schemes. His agent is still at large, and until Pallas gets the news of our victory, the orders he issued to the agent stand. Even then he may still decide that factional interests override completing the conquest of Britannia. As for me, I still have my orders too. I must find and eliminate Pallas’s agent before he can do any mischief.’ Septimus paused and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘And let’s not forget, you’re in danger as well. You and Macro both.’

‘I haven’t forgotten.’

‘Glad to hear it. You’re the kind of officer that the empire can ill afford to lose. As you proved so singularly today.’

Cato set his cup down. ‘Have you said your piece?’

‘For now. I just wanted to make sure that you realised that my mission is not complete.’

‘I understand,’ Cato responded tersely. ‘Now, if that’s all, I’d be obliged if you left me alone. I have work to do.’

Septimus was still for an instant, then stood up. ‘Very well, Prefect. I shall keep my distance for a bit. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. You know where to find me.’ He bowed his head and slipped out of the tent.

Cato ran his hand over his head and closed his aching eyes. Septimus’s words echoed in his head and Cato despaired at the prospect of losing Britannia as a consequence of the political conflict playing out in the imperial palace back in Rome. So many lives, so much treasure and ten years had been invested in attempting to establish the new province. The thought of it all being thrown away burdened his heart like a lead weight.

At length he opened his eyes again, straightened his back and cracked his shoulders as he rolled his neck. Then, reaching for some bound waxed tablets stacked by his table so that he could write his report, something caught his eye. A small leather purse was lying on the ground next to the tablets. Cato reached down and picked it up. It felt heavy with coin and he noticed that one of the cord loops that fastened the purse to a belt had frayed and broken.

‘Septimus,’ he muttered to himself. He considered going after the agent but at that moment a sharper gust of wind blew overhead, battering the roof of the tent. ‘Well, if he wants it back he can come and get it.’

Cato put the purse into his document chest to keep it safe and then picked up a stylus and began his report. Even though he had not yet been asked for it, Cato wanted to be sure to set down his decisions and their consequences while they were still fresh in his mind. If he was ever called to account for leaving the camp without orders from Ostorius, he would need to explain the necessity of his action. Perhaps it would be better to write two accounts, he reflected. One for Ostorius’s immediate consumption which would downplay the chaos and near catastrophe of the general’s frontal attack. The second account would tell the truth, or at least the truth from Cato’s perspective, and hopefully other officers would vouch for it if the need ever arose.

He felt vexed by the need to think in terms of protecting himself from ambitious rivals. But there was no avoiding it. Promotion to senior rank came with a price and for a moment Cato felt a longing for earlier times when being a soldier had been a matter of day-to-day routine. Now he had to perpetually consider the future and guard against the consequences of the past, and he felt that he was becoming as much a politician as he was a soldier.

Cursing under his breath, he set to work and had drafted both accounts when he heard the leather tent flaps rasp lightly and looked up to see Macro enter, dripping.

‘Got the final strength returns for the baggage train escort, sir.’

‘Sit yourself down.’ Cato gestured to the stool Septimus had used and indicated the jug. ‘There’s a drop left. If you want it.’

Macro grinned. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

He took the cup Cato poured for him and sat with a sigh. ‘I expect you’ll want the butcher’s bill first.’

Cato nodded.

Macro took out a slate from his sidebag and held it at an angle to the light of the flames in the brazier. ‘The First Century took the brunt of the fighting. Sixteen dead, twenty-three wounded. Of which six will die, according to the surgeon. Two more may have mortal wounds. Five will have to be discharged when they recover. Three have light injuries and are expected make a full recovery. The rest are walking wounded. Crispus’s century lost seven dead and nine wounded, only one of those seriously. The rest are flesh wounds. Which gives current strength returns of twenty-one and forty-two men, respectively.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Not even enough to fill out a single century. So much for the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.’

Cato sucked in a deep breath. Heavy losses indeed. ‘What about my Blood Crows?’

Macro consulted his slate again. ‘Not so bad. Twelve dead. Fourteen wounded. Sixty-four still in the saddle.’

‘We’ve lost so many . . .’

Macro took a sip of wine. ‘What did you expect? The attack on the enemy’s flank was a desperate gamble. Look at it this way, if you hadn’t given the order, it’s likely there’d be none of us left alive now.’

‘Perhaps, but we’re too few to protect the baggage train.’

‘From what? The enemy have been driven from the field. All we have to worry about now is keeping the peace amongst the camp followers. Doesn’t take more than a few men to knock heads together when there’s trouble. We’ll be all right until we get replacements.’

‘How long will that be, I wonder.’

‘As soon as possible after the general marches the army back to its base at Cornoviorum, I should think. Of course they’re likely to be pretty raw, but I’ll soon get ’em into shape. Same goes for the Second Thracian Cavalry, though they’ll be Thracian in name only. I expect they’ll fill the ranks with Batavians or the like. Good horsemen, but not so wild-looking. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll have to take whatever they offer us, the same as the other units. The general’s going to have a job of work explaining the losses he suffered today.’ Macro paused and looked at his friend with a concerned expression. ‘You look fit to drop, lad. We’ve done all we can for now. Best rest and let the storm pass and then we can pick things up in the morning.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Nice thought . . . How are the prisoners?’

‘They’re fine. My lads can be relied on.’

The tent flaps rustled again and a headquarters orderly entered and saluted Cato.

‘Yes?’

‘General Ostorius sends his compliments, sir, and requests that you and Centurion Macro join him in the mess tent.’

‘Oh? Did he say why?’

‘No, sir. That’s all.’

‘Very well. Dismissed.’

The orderly saluted and left. Cato chuckled drily. ‘So much for having a rest.’

The noise of the celebrations reached the ears of the two officers as they approached the centre of the camp. Around them the tent lines of the legionaries extended into the gloom. It would be dark soon but there would be no campfires that night due to the rain and the wind which beat down on the goatskin tents, causing them to shimmer and boom, like the sails of ships, Cato thought. There were few men out and about, the majority were taking shelter from the storm. Only those on duty, or heading to or from the latrine trenches, were braving the foul weather.

‘Sounds like the booze is running freely,’ said Macro, quickening his pace. ‘Better be some left for us.’

Cato did not reply. He wondered if he had ever felt so tired and craved nothing more than a decent night’s sleep. Even though he had put on a fresh cloak for the walk to headquarters, the rain had already started to seep through the waterproofing of fat that was worked into the cloth. He could not help trembling as he kept pace with his friend. Cato was in no mood to drink and celebrate and he silently cursed Ostorius for sending for them.

The headquarters tents in the heart of the camp were far more substantial than those of the legionaries and were securely fastened to the ground with doubled ropes and heavy stakes driven into the earth. But still they shimmered and shook in the wind. They glowed slightly from the illumination within and, despite his misgivings, Cato looked forward to warming himself at a brazier.

The guards standing outside were hunched in their cloaks but still stood to attention and saluted as the two officers passed by and entered the large mess tent. At once a wave of clammy warmth engulfed Cato and Macro and they looked round to see that the interior was packed with officers. The air was heavy with the smell of damp clothing, sweat, woodsmoke and wine. They slipped off their cloaks and hung them over the steaming material already covering most of the racks by the entrance to the mess tent, then made their way over to the counter where the wine merchant and his servant were struggling to keep up with the demands for refills from the officers crowding about. As they were recognised, Cato and Macro were loudly congratulated on their part in the battle and Cato tried not to wince as he was slapped heavily on the back and shoulders. He forced himself to nod gratefully and move on. Macro, by contrast, was revelling in the praise of his fellow centurions.

They reached the counter and were waved to the front of the queue by bleary-eyed comrades. As they turned away with two brass beakers filled to the brim, they were at once accosted by General Ostorius. The old man’s lined face was split by a wide smile that exposed his stained teeth.

‘Ah! Prefect Cato. The reason why we are all here celebrating.’ He placed his hand on Cato’s shoulder and his bony fingers squeezed tightly, just enough to be painful. Then he released his grip and turned to one of the junior tribunes near at hand. ‘You, boy! Fetch me something to stand on. And be quick about it!’

The young man scurried into the throng and returned a moment later with a simple wooden stool. Ostorius climbed stiffly on to it and straightened up so that he was visible above the crowd.

‘Gentlemen! Your attention!’

Those immediately surrounding their commander fell dutifully silent but there were pockets of raucous singing and laughter towards the far fringes of the tent and Ostorius scowled as he drew a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Quiet!

As the last of the officers fell silent and turned to face him, there was a stillness inside the tent, though the goatskin walls shook and flapped and the rain drummed overhead, and dripped through whatever small gaps it could find. Ostorius gestured to Cato to stand at his side before he began to speak.

‘Gentlemen, comrades, this has been a great day for us, for our men, for Emperor Claudius and for Rome! A victory!’ He raised his cup, spilling some of the contents down the front of Cato’s tunic as the other officers cheered. ‘A victory that finally sets the seal on the conquest of Britannia. The enemy is beaten, humbled, and squats in chains as our prisoner. His army is shattered and thousands of them will be sold as spoils of war. Every man here and in the legions stands to make a small fortune from the proceeds!’

There was more cheering at the prospect of the flow of silver coins to come and Macro nudged Cato and grinned. ‘That’ll piss off the lads in the auxiliary cohorts sent to block the enemy’s retreat. They won’t be taking a share of the prisoners from the battlefield. Just those running away that they can net. All the more for us.’ He laughed cheerfully at the thought of his comrades going short, in the long-standing tradition of rivalry between the legions and the men of the auxiliary cohorts.

The general raised a hand to calm the officers and the cheering died away. His expression grew more serious as he continued his address.

‘A victory, yes, but a hard-won victory. The men fought like lions today, braving every arrow, rock and slingshot that the cowardly enemy rained down on them from the safety of their fortifications. We took them on, slogging our way to the top of the hill and scattering them like chaff in the wind. Their defeat was inevitable. But it cost us dear, and would have cost us more but for the timely intervention of Prefect Cato, Centurion Macro and their small band of heroes on the enemy’s flank. It tipped the balance between a narrow victory and a shattering blow. For that we must raise our cups and toast Cato and Macro!’ He beamed down at Cato and raised his cup high before taking a deep draft of wine.