Brothers in Blood (21 page)

‘Not sure, but I have a nasty feeling I can guess. You’d better get back to the men. Assemble our officers, the quartermaster, farrier, armourer and the horse master of the Blood Crows.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and turned to leave with the others.

The hall quickly emptied, leaving the three men picked out by Quintatus. Horatius was a short distance away from Cato and cocked an enquiring eyebrow, but Cato could only shake his head. Tribune Otho simply sat looking surprised. At length the doors thudded behind the last of the officers to leave the hall and the two soldiers of the headquarters guard resumed their positions on either side, spears and shields grounded. Quintatus dismissed the augur and had a quiet conversation with the clerk before the latter saluted and also left the hall, returning a moment later with the messenger sent by Cartimandua. The young warrior strode to the front of the hall and stood a short distance from the dais, arms folded in front of him. Cato scrutinised him. He was fair-haired, tall and well-built. His jaw was square and he had the muscular good looks that would have made him very popular with the kind of women who worship gladiators in Rome, Cato mused.

Turning back to his subordinates, Quintatus announced, ‘This is Vellocatus, the personal representative of Queen Cartimandua. He speaks our tongue.’ It was as much a gentle warning as an introduction. The Brigantian nodded a brief greeting to the other officers before Quintatus continued.

‘Prefect Cato, you asked about making an attempt to negotiate with the Brigantes and so avoid war. In which case you will be pleased to know that I have chosen you to accompany the envoy to speak to Queen Cartimandua and her people on my behalf. The envoy in question will be Tribune Otho.’ He turned to the young aristocrat. ‘It is a vital task. Do you consider yourself the right man to carry it out?’

Otho could not help beaming as he replied effusively, ‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Then you will take command of the column leaving here at dawn tomorrow. Vellocatus will accompany you to act as a guide and translator. You will take two of your cohorts from the Ninth as well as the auxiliary cohort of Prefect Horatius and the baggage train escort of Prefect Cato. These are the only forces I am prepared to risk. If we send any more men it will look like an invasion. Any less, and they won’t be able to fight their way out in case of trouble. Although you will speak for me, and are the ranking officer, I require that Prefect Horatius be in command of the column for military purposes. If it comes to a fight I want an experienced officer in charge. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Otho nodded, then a slight frown formed on his smooth forehead. ‘Might I ask why you honour me with this mission?’

‘Honour has nothing to do with it. I need a good man on the spot. Someone with breeding who can speak with the authority of the Senate behind him and, through them, the Emperor. You are best placed for such a role.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Quintatus smiled warmly. ‘Play this well, Tribune Otho, and you will win a name for yourself as the man who brought peace to Britannia.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Quintatus addressed the two prefects. ‘Horatius, you will support the tribune as best you can. Your duty will be to guard him and, if need be, Queen Cartimandua. If the negotiations fail, you may have to conduct a fighting retreat. Are you the man for the job?’

‘Sir!’ Horatius nodded.

The legate faced Cato. ‘I imagine you’re wondering why the baggage train escort will be joining the column.’

‘The question had crossed my mind, sir.’

‘You are no fool, Prefect. You have also proved yourself an adept at adjusting to circumstances and acting with initiative. Just the kind of officer I need to support Tribune Otho and Prefect Horatius. Serve them well.’

‘I know my duty, sir.’

‘I’m sure you do. Look on this as a chance to redeem yourself.’

Cato’s eyes narrowed. ‘Redeem myself. For what, sir?’

‘The general took the view that you shoulder much of the blame for the escape of Caratacus. I am sure you feel it’s unfair. That’s as maybe, but what matters is how the news is received back in Rome. If we can come out of this with Caratacus in the bag and having broken the will of the natives to resist, we will all be rewarded and any unfortunate details will be quietly forgotten. In that lies your chance for redemption, Prefect Cato. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Painfully, sir.’

‘Good. Then you all know what parts you have to play. I’ll have the clerks draft your orders and you’ll have them before the day is out. You’ll leave at dawn.’

The legate fixed each of them with a quick stare. ‘Good luck, gentlemen. You’ll need it.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘W
hat’s this?’ Cato asked as he unbuckled his helmet and mopped the sweat from his brow. He indicated the folded papyrus lying on his desk. His name was neatly written on the outside.

Thraxis paused from unhooking Cato’s mail shoulder cape to glance at the desk. ‘It’s from the wife of Tribune Otho, sir. Her slave brought it this afternoon, while you were exercising the cohort.’

Cato grunted. He had been out with his men since the morning’s briefing ended. The baggage train escort had barely had the chance to settle back into the routine of garrison life before being thrown into the preparations for the march up into Brigantian territory. There were some grumblers – there always were. Cato recalled his first experiences as optio to Macro when he had been constantly frustrated by the need to be ready at a moment’s notice for any duty, or frequently none at all while waiting for new orders. Now that he commanded a unit, that world had gone. The myriad duties of a prefect meant that boredom had become a rare luxury.

The morning had been spent requisitioning transport for the horses’ feed, carts for the ballistas of Macro’s cohort, rations for the march and, most pressing of all, leather to repair or replace the tents damaged in the storm. The stock of leather at Viroconium was scarce and he had been obliged to bribe the quartermaster to let him have a barely sufficient quantity for his men. The afternoon had been taken up with observing the men drilling on the parade ground. There was still much work to be done with the Batavian recruits who had mastered the basic formations and squadron manoeuvres but still tended to respond slowly and clumsily when required to perform the more refined deployments into wedges and wheeling about the axis of each flank. Still, they were fine riders and spirited. If it came to a fight, Cato was sure that they would acquit themselves as well as the rest of the Blood Crows.

Macro had drilled his new legionaries hard in the few days since they had joined the cohort and they could be trusted to march and deploy as required. Their skill at arms was still rudimentary. In battle the more experienced men in their sections would have to set the example in holding formation and giving no ground. It was late in the afternoon before Cato dismissed the two cohorts and sent the men to their barracks to prepare their marching yokes and saddle packs. He was hot, tired and thirsty and had been looking forward to a session in the bathhouse to ease his muscles before leaving Viroconium on the morrow.

‘What does Poppaea Sabina want?’

Thraxis did not look at him but answered after the most fleeting hesitation. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’

‘You didn’t read it then?’

‘I barely know more than a few words, sir.’

‘But enough to know her purpose, eh?’

‘Actually, sir, I got the details from her slave girl.’

‘And not just the details,’ Cato added shrewdly, before he relented. His servant’s private life was his own. He raised his arms as Thraxis helped him out of his mail vest. ‘What does the tribune’s wife want?’

‘Her husband has invited you to dine after the first change of watch, sir. Together with Prefect Horatius, and the three senior centurions commanding the legionary cohorts.’

Cato ground his teeth in frustration. He had intended to complete his preparations for the march and get a good night’s rest in a proper bed. Now he would have to satisfy the social whims of some broad-stripe tribune and his wife. He felt embarrassed by the memory of her unwanted attention the night after the battle and had no desire to spend the evening in her company. Besides, if he was any judge of such events, it would drag on and be late in the night before he could finally sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of turning the invitation down, but knew that would put him in Otho’s black books. If he was going to have to serve under the tribune for the next month or so it would be better not to offend him at the outset.

The last of the heavy links slid up over his head and Thraxis took the vest away to carefully lay it over the frame with the rest of the prefect’s armour. Cato rolled his neck, relishing the feeling of being released from the burden.

‘Once you’ve finished here, you can take my acceptance to the tribune’s quarters.’

‘You mean his house, sir?’

‘House?’

‘Yes, sir. The tribune’s wife was not satisfied with the accommodation in the fort so she persuaded her husband to rent the villa of a wool merchant on the edge of the vicus. It’s not far. No more than a mile away, sir.’

Cato pursed his lips. It seemed that Tribune Otho was in the habit of indulging his wife’s every whim. But then no doubt he could afford to. Cato could well imagine the tribune’s wealthy background. Like most aristocratic families there would be a fine home in Rome, a villa in the Tuscan hills to retire to during the hot summer months, and another down by the sea in the wide curve of the bay stretching from Puteoli to Pompeii. Otho would have known the best tutors and enjoyed the best seats at the theatre, the games and the great circus. After his brief stint in the army he would go on to enter the Senate and if he kept his nose clean he could look forward to a lucrative posting as governor of a province, or commander of a legion, in due course. Cato felt a stab of envy at the easy path life granted to some, while others toiled hard for their meagre rewards.

Cato bitterly tried to thrust his envy aside. Very well, he would go to the tribune’s damn dinner. But he would be formal and curt and be such a dour guest that they would be delighted to be relieved of his presence and never seek to repeat the experience. He smiled with satisfaction at the thought as he thrust a strigil and small pot of oil into a haversack and left his quarters to join Macro at the bathhouse complex that served the officers and men of the garrison at Viroconium.

‘So, what’s this all about?’ Macro asked as they made their way through the vicus. Beneath a crescent moon the evening air was thick with the cries of traders and small parties of boisterous off-duty soldiers in search of a drink, dice games and whorehouses. Many of the small towns that grew up close to army fortresses were ramshackle affairs of filthy winding streets, but the settlement at Viroconium had been laid out in a far more ordered fashion from the outset on the orders of General Ostorius. The streets were straight, wide and drained, and many of the temporary structures had been replaced by timber-framed buildings built on stone foundations. There was even a small basilica at the heart of the settlement where a council met to order the affairs of the inhabitants. Cato had been musing over the speed with which Rome stamped its mark on newly conquered territories and so missed his friend’s question.

‘Sorry? What was that?’

‘This bloody invitation from the tribune? What does he really want with us?’

‘A chance to get better acquainted, I expect. It’s his first independent command. Otho wants to make a decent job of it.’

Macro had been to the barber’s stall at the baths and was clean-shaven. His dark curly hair had been neatly cropped and his tunic was freshly laundered. Every so often Macro reached up to the neckline of his tunic and scratched his skin, as if its freshly cleaned state was the source of an itch. He still smelled of the aromatic oils the barber had massaged into his jowls after the shave.

‘So we have to get all tarted up to make a good impression?’

Cato had undergone similar treatment but was more comfortable with his appearance. He shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm.’

Macro cast a longing look into the dark entrance of a brothel as they passed. A small queue of soldiers leaned against the wall sharing a wineskin. A thickset woman with red-tinged cheeks and long lank hair emerged from the doorway, lifted the hem of her short tunic and curled a finger suggestively at the nearest soldier. He instantly hurried inside with her. Macro sniffed at the scent on his skin.

‘I’ll put it to good use on the way back. Last chance before we head up into barbarian territory.’

‘I think you will find they are called the Brigantes.’

‘Don’t care what they’re called, as long as they behave and hand that bastard Caratacus back to us.’

Cato turned to him and shook his head. ‘And there was I thinking that this was essentially a diplomatic mission.’

‘Waste of time. Better to just put the stick about and let ’em know who is in charge. That’s my kind of diplomacy.’

‘Clearly.’

They reached the edge of the settlement and could just pick out the walled villa a short distance down the road against the dark greys of the surrounding landscape. The wool merchant must have made a small fortune from his trade with the army, Cato thought, as he took in the proportions of the building. As they approached he could make out the gatehouse leading into a courtyard while the main building rose up beyond with what looked like a tiled roof, though it must be wooden shingles, Cato realised. It would be a while yet before tiles reached Viroconium.

A section of legionaries from the Ninth were guarding the entrance and stood to as the two officers emerged from the darkness. The optio looked them over and saluted.

‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro,’ Cato announced. ‘Here to see the tribune.’

‘You’re expected, sir. The other guests have already arrived. If you’ll follow me?’

The optio turned and led the way through the arch. By the dim light of the moon Cato saw that the courtyard followed the familiar style of covered sides given over to stables and stores. Ahead lay the main building. The door was open and the interior was illuminated by lamps whose glow bled out across the cobbles of the courtyard. They followed the optio into the house and saw that it gave out on to an enclosed garden. Lamps hung from brackets fixed to the wooden frame of the house. A shallow colonnade ran around the garden, providing shelter for the walkway in front of the living rooms, kitchen, latrine and bedrooms. The garden itself was no more than ten paces across and the space was mostly taken up by the dining couches arranged around a low table. The wool merchant’s house was modest by Roman standards but palatial compared to the simple round huts of the island’s tribes. It also enjoyed a more peaceful setting than the cramped, noisy quarters available in the satellite forts clustered about the main fortress. Cato could see why Tribune Otho and his wife might prefer it.

‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro!’ the optio announced.

Looking past him, Cato could see Horatius and the other officers on the side couches while the tribune and his wife occupied those at the head of the table. Otho looked up and smiled as he beckoned his guests over.

‘Ah! I was wondering if something had happened to you two!’

Mindful of his earlier decision to play the taciturn professional, Cato did not return the smile and simply bowed his head slightly before he responded. ‘The centurion and I had to finish our preparations for the march, sir.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Otho indicated the bench to his left where two spaces were left. Horatius lay opposite, the more privileged position, according to his superior rank. When they had taken their places, Otho indicated the two centurions lying beside Horatius. ‘In case you haven’t met, that’s Gaius Statillus and Marcus Polemus Acer, senior centurions of the Seventh and Eighth Cohorts of the Ninth Legion.’

Cato cast his eye over the centurions and instinctively assessed them. Statillus was perhaps fifty, and coming to the end of his enlistment. His hair was thin and watery blue eyes stared back from his weathered features. Acer was younger. Recently promoted, Cato guessed. His gaze flickered constantly round the table as if he was not convinced he belonged with such exotic company. He was the bigger of the two, built like a champion secutor with light hair and broad features that betrayed his Celtic origins.

Otho settled back on his couch and reached for a silver goblet. ‘That should complete the introductions.’

His wife reached over and touched his arm. ‘Not quite, my dear. I don’t believe I know the delightful creature next to Prefect Cato.’

Macro gritted his teeth at her comment.

‘No?’ Otho smiled and raised her hand to kiss it. ‘That, my dear, is Centurion Macro, senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.’

‘So many numbers to remember!’ she protested. ‘How do you all cope? I’m sure I would not know where to begin were I a soldier. All these ranks, names, numbers and detachments.’

Horatius and the other centurions smiled politely but Cato kept his expression neutral as Poppaea shifted her position to address him directly.

‘Ah yes, I have it now. Centurion Macro’s men, and those rough-looking horsemen you command, are in charge of the army’s luggage. Is that not so, Prefect?’

‘Baggage, my lady,’ Cato corrected her flatly. ‘I command the baggage train escort.’

She tilted her head to one side and smiled briefly, revealing neat white teeth that looked sharp. Like her tongue, Cato mused as she continued. ‘It does not sound like a particularly onerous or significant duty, and yet you were the toast of the army for your actions on the day of the battle.’

‘And rightly so!’ Centurion Acer interrupted, raising his cup to Cato. ‘A bloody fine piece of work, sir. Pulled our arses out of the fire that day and no mistake.’

‘Such a kind endorsement of your comrade,’ Poppaea said sweetly. ‘May I continue? You are quite right, the prefect seems to have covered himself in glory that day. Though the moment passed exceedingly quickly with the escape of Caratacus. You see, yet another detail of the military world that a simple civilian finds bewildering. One moment you are a hero, the next, some sort of miscreant. What is one to make of that?’

Cato was silent a moment, brimming with bitter self-justification, and then he forced the feelings aside and concentrated his efforts on maintaining his indifferent appearance. ‘It’s the way of the army, my lady. All a soldier can do is serve to the best of his ability and take the bad along with the good.’

She gave him a level look. ‘So stoical, and so typical of the professional soldiers I have encountered while in Britannia. And yet you are too young a prefect to come from such a background. I assume you have breeding.’