Brothers in Blood (37 page)

The legionary looked up hopefully.

Cato shook his head. ‘No. It stays here. The queen will need it to buy off any remaining troublemakers.’

Macro looked horrified. ‘But, sir—’

‘It stays here, Macro. And we don’t touch it. Those are my orders.’ He turned to the legionary. ‘You’re to remain here and guard it until further notice. And don’t even think about helping yourself to so much as one coin. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro was still looking longingly at the silver. He reached down and picked up a handful and held them up. ‘A hundred or so wouldn’t be missed.’

‘Macro . . .’

‘A pity,’ the centurion replied. ‘A fistful of freshly minted denarians would be a nice little souvenir of our visit to Isurium.’

Cato frowned and muttered, ‘Freshly minted?’

He reached down and picked up a coin. Sure enough, it was as Macro said. Barely a scratch on it, and he recognised the imprint well enough from the year before when he and Macro had been in Rome and the coins had just come into circulation, depicting the Emperor visiting his troops. A sudden thought struck him and he lifted the coin to his nose and sniffed.

‘Good enough to eat, eh?’ Macro grinned, clearly hoping that avarice had worked its merry way with his superior.

‘Not eat . . .’ Cato replied with a cold, calculating expression. He closed his hand round the coin and shut the lid of the chest. ‘There’s one final matter to be resolved before we return to Viroconium.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

‘A
fine result, Prefect Cato.’ Otho beamed as he sat at his table in the headquarters tent with Cato. Outside, dusk was slowly swallowing the daylight. As the day had been sweltering so the evening was warm and close, and the insects were swarming to feed on the blood of the men who had been sweating in heavy armour throughout the day.

Following the defeat of the rebels and the release of Queen Cartimandua, Cato had ordered the auxiliary troops to remain in the fort at the disposal of the queen. The legionaries had cleared the fort, bastion and slopes of the hill of the dead and wounded. The former had been brought back to the camp and laid in long lines outside the main gate, while funeral pyres were built for the following day. The wounded were brought back in carts and wagons to be treated by the surgeons assigned to the column. Once the wound to his hand had been cleaned and dressed, Cato had a brief conversation with Macro before sending him on an errand, then made his way to headquarters.

‘We have Caratacus in the bag, and we’ve stamped down on the anti-Roman sentiment amongst the Brigantes. The Druid’s body was found amongst the dead and Queen Cartimandua owes us a considerable debt, and she knows it. As I said, a fine result all round.’

Cato suppressed a grim smile at the tribune’s use of ‘we’. Otho had spent the day safe in the camp and had merely acted as a spectator of the grim struggle to take the fort. He had not felt the heat, the exhaustion and the naked fear of battle. He had not fought the enemy, nor incurred any injury, and yet he was already taking credit for the result. It was not hard to guess how the final report of the mission to Isurium submitted by Otho to Legate Quintatus would bear only a passing resemblance to the actuality.

‘We have concluded the task we were sent here to carry out,’ Cato agreed. ‘Although our success has come at a cost.’ He paused to recall the details of the butcher’s bill that Macro had brought him shortly before they had left Isurium to return to the camp. ‘Besides the death of Prefect Horatius and Centurion Statillus, the Seventh Cohort lost sixty-eight men killed, and another ninety-two were injured. Including two centurions and an optio. The First Century of Macro’s cohort lost twenty-one dead, and fourteen wounded. The other units got off lightly. The Eighth Cohort, six dead and eighteen wounded, and the auxiliaries ten dead and fifteen wounded. Only one of the Blood Crows was wounded. Knocked from his saddle while chasing down one of the fugitives from the fort.’

Otho nodded soberly. ‘A sad loss of life, I’m sure. But sometimes one cannot cook an omelette without first breaking a few eggs, nay?’

‘Eggs? I am not sure that I find that comparison easy to accept, sir.’

‘A figure of speech, Prefect. Of course, our dead will be honoured and Rome will be saddened by the news, and grateful that they were prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for the good of the empire.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was a pause before Otho cleared his throat and continued. ‘Now that the military operation is over, there is no reason why command of the column cannot revert to me.’

‘That is true, sir,’ Cato conceded. ‘In accordance with the orders of Legate Quintatus, I hereby return command of the column to you.’

Otho breathed a quick sigh of relief. ‘I thank you, Cato. Be sure that I will give you full credit for the role you played in our victory today.’

Cato bowed his head slightly.

‘Then it only remains to prepare the column to break camp and march back to Viroconium,’ Otho said cheerfully. ‘I confess, I won’t be sorry to return to the civilised comforts afforded by the army’s base, such as they are.’ He gestured to Cato’s soiled uniform and the dressing tied round his hand. ‘You could use a good wash, Prefect, and a change of clothes. I dare say you’re exhausted as well. I suggest you look to yourself for the next few hours now that I have lifted the burden of responsibility from your shoulders.’

‘Thank you, sir. I will do that. But first there is one final matter that must be dealt with.’ Cato felt a tremor of anxiety as he broached the subject. ‘One that touches on the rebellion at Isurium, as well as the escape of Caratacus from our custody at Viroconium.’

‘You must not let the fact that you were responsible for his escape weigh on your conscience,’ said Otho graciously. ‘After all, your deeds before then, and certainly since, have more than made up for it.’

‘I was not responsible for the escape, sir. That was the responsibility of another person.’

‘Who then?’

Cato did not want to identify the culprit before he could justify his accusation. ‘Sir, you will recall that the men guarding Caratacus were killed before they could react to their assailant.’

‘Yes, so?’

‘So it is my belief that they either knew their attacker, or that they had no reason to fear they were in danger.’

‘I suppose so. What of it?’

‘Then there is the question of who told Venutius that General Ostorius had died. That helped to provoke the deposing of Queen Cartimandua. Only a handful of us knew about the general’s death last night and we had agreed to keep it from the Brigantes until they had handed Caratacus over to us.’

Otho nodded thoughtfully. ‘You, me and Centurion Macro, besides my wife. I take it you do not suspect me? And if not me, and obviously not you, that leaves Centurion Macro.’ He paused. ‘I understood you are close friends. You’ve served together for many years. Surely you do not suspect Macro?’

‘No, sir. I trust Centurion Macro with my life. I would never suspect him of betrayal.’

‘Then it must have been someone else. The soldier who brought us the message. I’ll have him questioned.’

‘It wasn’t him. He left the fort soon afterwards. It had to be someone else.’

All trace of his earlier good mood drained from the tribune’s face as he grasped Cato’s point.

‘What are you saying, Prefect? Are you accusing me? How dare—’

‘Not you, sir.’

‘What?’ Otho looked confused. ‘Then . . . My wife? Poppaea? Are you quite mad?’

‘No, sir. Just disappointed in myself for not realising it sooner.’

The tribune’s expression darkened. ‘If this is some kind of a joke, I am not amused.’

‘Where is your wife at the moment?’

‘Resting in my personal tent, not that it’s any concern of yours.’

‘Sir, a moment.’ Cato stood up and walked stiffly to the tent flaps and looked outside. Macro was waiting a short distance away with Septimus and Centurion Lebauscus, just as Cato had arranged with Macro a while earlier. Both were admiring the new mail vest he’d taken as a trophy from the bastion. Cato beckoned to them and the three men joined him in the tent.

Otho looked up suspiciously. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘That’s what I was wondering,’ said Septimus as he glanced at Cato and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is it, perhaps, that you good gentlemen wish to order a stock of wine to celebrate your glorious victory?’

Cato let out an impatient sigh. ‘It’s time to put an end to your act.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, honoured Prefect.’

‘What in blazes is going on here?’ Otho demanded. ‘Why have you brought the wine trader in here?’

‘He is no wine trader, sir. His name is not Hipparchus, it’s Septimus, and he’s an imperial agent, sent by Narcissus to uncover a plot against the Emperor. Specifically, he was tasked with identifying a traitor, namely, your wife, sent to Britannia to undermine our efforts to bring peace to the province. Not only that, but she was to ensure that myself and Centurion Macro were disposed of. Isn’t that right, Septimus?’

For a moment the imperial agent was silent, his expression a blank mask. Then he nodded. Otho stared at him in surprise.

‘An imperial agent, sent here to spy on my wife? Is that it? It’s a bloody outrage. Poppaea is innocent. It’s absurd to suggest otherwise.’

‘Is it, though?’ asked Cato. ‘Perhaps that’s how it appears. Who would suspect a high-born woman, the wife of a senior tribune? Certainly not the two men who were killed in order to release Caratacus. Certainly not me, not even after the battle when I now believe she tried to pass poisoned wine to me in the mess tent. Most important of all, not you, her husband, who was more than happy to permit her to accompany him on a crucial mission to the capital of the Brigantes, where she revealed the death of Ostorius to our enemies. Which reminds me, did you ask her to come, or did Poppaea insist? For that matter, whose idea was it really for her to accompany you to Britannia?’

The tribune’s jaw sagged as he listened to Cato’s words, then he shook his head. ‘It’s not true. It can’t be. Not Poppaea. Where is your evidence!’

‘She has been adept at covering her tracks. Except for the matter of passing on the news about Ostorius. There she took a risk, but she needed to in order to provide Venutius with a weapon to undermine the queen. Who else could have done it, sir? You? Me? Centurion Macro?’

‘Why not you, or your friend?’

‘Because we know where our loyalties lie. We took an oath to serve the Emperor. We’re soldiers, not secret agents. That’s why.’

‘Bloody right we’re not,’ Macro added emphatically.

Tribune Otho shot him an angry glance, then turned his gaze back to Cato. ‘I repeat, where’s your evidence? Without hard evidence why should I believe you?’

Cato scratched the stubble lining his jaw. ‘I don’t doubt that Poppaea would play the innocent, and play the part well. After all, she has been very convincing as the pampered wife of an aristocrat. I should have suspected her earlier. There’s nothing I can do about it now, other than report this back to Narcissus. I dare say he will be most keen to question her when he gets the chance. And if it turns out that Poppaea confesses that she has been working for Pallas, she will be in grave danger, as will any person closely associated with her.’

The blood drained from Otho’s face. ‘You wouldn’t . . .’

Cato thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘Perhaps I wouldn’t, but he most definitely would.’ He gestured at Septimus. ‘Isn’t that right?’

The imperial agent gave a thin, humourless smile. ‘Yes, Tribune. It’s my duty to protect the Emperor and nothing stands in the way of that.’

‘Nothing,’ Cato repeated. ‘You see, Otho, your wife is playing a very dangerous game. Not only is she risking her own life, she’s risking yours as well. There are men in Rome, like Septimus here, who are adept at quietly doing away with the Emperor’s enemies. Believe me, you don’t ever want to be there on the day when they knock at your door.’

The tribune slumped down on his chair and lowered his head into his hands, muttering, ‘It can’t be true . . . Not my Poppaea.’

‘It is true,’ Cato insisted. ‘The question is, what is to be done about the situation? Clearly, she cannot be permitted to remain with the army. Poppaea must be sent back to Rome. If she was my wife I would make sure that she understood that this must all stop. Before it led to anything fatal.’ Cato paused a moment. ‘Sir, if you love your wife, then for her sake, you must make her abandon her secret life.’

Otho was silent for a moment, hunched over his desk as he stared down at the ground in numbed horror at the revelations about his wife. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Trust me, all that I say is true. If you want her to live, you must ensure that she gives up working for Pallas and abandons her scheming for ever. Do you understand?’

Otho looked up, a faint expression of hope on his face. ‘You’d let her live?’

‘Only on the condition that she does as I ask. If not, then others will make the decision about her fate.’

‘Now wait a minute!’ Septimus interrupted. ‘She’s a traitor. There will be no mercy shown to her. My father wouldn’t stand for it.’

‘Your father is not here,’ Cato said flatly.

‘No, but he’ll hear about this. Then you’ll be in deep trouble yourself, Prefect Cato.’

‘Shut up,’ Cato responded wearily. ‘Just shut your mouth.’

‘What?’ Septimus stepped forward. ‘You dare to challenge my father, or me? What do you think Narcissus will say when he finds out that you have let her go? Your life will be forfeit. Better to let me take Poppaea back to Rome for questioning.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Cato replied. ‘Besides, I doubt that you would take her to Narcissus at all. Far more likely you would turn her over to Pallas.’

Septimus gaped at Cato before he asked softly, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘That will become clear in a moment.’

Otho rose from his chair and made to leave the tent.

‘Wait!’ Cato blocked his way. ‘There’s something more.’

‘What more could there be?’ Otho replied coldly. ‘You’ve said enough.’

‘Not quite enough. Sit down.’

Otho hesitated, but then returned to his chair and slumped on to it. ‘Well?’

‘You should know that your wife was not acting alone. She had an accomplice. Someone who was sent to Britannia after her, to reveal himself and aid her in her schemes.’

‘And who would that be?’

Cato stepped aside and gestured towards Septimus. ‘Him.’

‘Me?’ The imperial agent started. ‘What bollocks is this?’

Cato stepped up to him and stared him in the eye. ‘You are working for Pallas, are you not?’

Septimus’s brow crinkled and he laughed nervously. ‘You’re joking. You know I work for Narcissus. You know it.’

‘That was true, until recently. Until you realised which way things were going in the power struggle between Pallas and Narcissus. You saw that Narcissus was losing influence over the Emperor. And once Claudius has gone and his wife, Agrippina, ensures that her son becomes Emperor then Narcissus is as good as dead, and his followers along with him. You decided that it was time to switch your allegiance to his enemy, Pallas. So when Narcissus sent you here to foil the plot, he never suspected that you would in fact be doing your best to ensure its success. Mind you, I should have guessed earlier myself.’

‘Lies!’ Septimus snorted. ‘This is insane. Narcissus is my father. You think I would betray my own father? My flesh and blood?’

Macro glowered at him. ‘Narcissus is a scheming snake. I’d place good money on the odds that his offspring has inherited the same characteristics.’