Brothers in Blood (38 page)

‘Pfftt!’ Septimus rounded on Cato and jabbed a finger at him. ‘Where’s the evidence? You couldn’t lay any at the door of Poppaea and it’s the same for me. You can’t prove a thing.’

Cato smiled thinly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Septimus. You’ve covered your tracks fairly well. Except for one thing. We knew that Venutius needed treasure to buy support for his rebellion. Without it, he was helpless. And then, suddenly, he had access to a fortune. We found a chest of recently minted coins up in the fort. Coins just like this.’ He fished the silver denarius he had kept earlier and held it up for the others to see. ‘Roman. You gave it to him. From the small hoard of silver you brought with you from Rome to buy the services of anyone who could help your true master’s cause. You gave Caratacus a small fortune in silver in the hope that it would allow him to buy off Venutius and his followers and sabotage our efforts to bring peace to Britannia.’

‘More lies,’ Septimus scoffed. ‘He obviously got the silver somewhere else. From Poppaea most like, given that we know she’s a traitor.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought at first,’ Cato admitted. ‘But then I asked myself how she could have delivered the silver into the hands of Venutius. I couldn’t see how it was possible.’ He handed the coin to Tribune Otho. ‘There, sir. Examine it closely.’

Otho frowned, wrenching his thoughts away from his wife’s treachery. He lifted the coin and scrutinised it in the dim light of the oil lamp. He shrugged. ‘It’s a denarius, like any other.’

‘Not quite like any other,’ Cato responded. ‘Smell it.’

Otho hesitated and then sniffed cautiously. ‘It smells of . . . slightly . . . of vinegar?’

‘Not vinegar, cheap wine. Septimus has been storing the coins in his wine jars. The same jars I saw him handing over to Venutius’s men yesterday.’

The tribune sniffed again and then lowered the coin as he stared at Septimus. ‘Is this true?’

‘Of course not! It could smell that way for any reason. He’s lying.’

Macro delivered a sudden, hard, blow to Septimus’s stomach, winding the man. ‘Don’t you ever dare accuse the prefect of lying, your treacherous cunt.’

Septimus slumped on to the ground, on all fours, gasping for breath. The others regarded him silently for a moment before Cato spoke. ‘I should have seen it all much earlier. From the moment Caratacus escaped. Someone had to put the two guards at ease so that he, or she, could get close enough to kill them quickly. A moment’s work for anyone trained to use a knife. That would be you, or Poppaea. Most likely she claimed to want to have another look at the prisoner, with you at her side, offering them a sample of your wines. As soon as you were close you went in with the knife. Between the two of you it was over in an instant. After you had got Caratacus out of the pen you planned to get him out of the camp in your cart. Of course, you had to make it look like he had beaten you senseless and run off with your cart and mules. Hence the blow to your head, and before that the deliberate planting of your purse in my tent, just so that you would have a good reason to be passing by when Caratacus escaped, and could make up the story about being knocked out and your cart taken.’

‘But I
was
knocked out.’

‘It had to look convincing. But the blow was light enough. That’s what the surgeon said at the infirmary.’ Cato weighed him up and shook his head sadly. ‘There’s no longer any doubt in my mind, Septimus. You were working for Pallas from before the time you left Rome. You murdered two of Macro’s men, you helped Caratacus to escape and you provided the silver that destabilised the Brigantian nation. The question is, what do we do with you now?’

‘So what are we going to do with him?’ asked Macro.

Cato cleared his throat and answered in a flat voice. ‘He’s going to disappear. Just like his victims back in Rome. I’ll tell Narcissus that he was killed during the fight with Venutius. There’s nothing to be gained from telling the truth about his son.’

‘Why not tell him?’ asked Macro. ‘He deserves to know what kind of creature he’s fathered.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Narcissus has no future. He’s doomed. I see no reason to add to what he is bound to suffer at the hands of his enemies.’

‘Really?’ Macro sniffed. ‘Then you’re a better man than I am.’

‘No. I don’t think so, my friend. Besides, Narcissus’s influence may be on the wane but he’s still powerful enough to come after us to avenge his son.’

‘So what now?’ Lebauscus interrupted. He gave Septimus a kick that sent him sprawling. ‘What do we do with this piece of shit?’

Cato answered without hesitation. ‘He dies. He dies now. Macro, get him up on his feet.’

Septimus’s eyes widened in terror and he tried to crawl towards the entrance to the tent. But Macro was on him in an instant and wrestled him to his feet before pinning his arms behind his back.

‘Lebauscus . . .’ Cato nodded. ‘Kill him.’

‘My pleasure,’ the centurion growled. He drew his sword and approached the squirming spy. Leaning forward he snarled, ‘This is for the lads who died today.’

‘Wait!’ Septimus gasped desperately. ‘You can’t—’

Lebauscus held his sword low and angled the point up sharply. Then he thrust the blade through the cloth of Septimus’s tunic, through his stomach and up under his ribcage. Septimus threw his head back against Macro’s shoulder and his mouth gaped in a pained gasp. Lebauscus gritted his teeth as he withdrew the blade and thrust again, working it around inside the man’s vitals for good measure. Otho looked on in horror at the execution.

‘No . . .’ Septimus gasped softly, as if his protest could save him. ‘No.’

Lebauscus wrenched his sword back and stepped away from his victim. The front of Septimus’s tunic was already drenched with blood and as Macro released his grip, he fell to the ground and rolled on to his side, struggling to breathe. His lungs had filled with blood and it spurted from his lips as he convulsed for a while and then, at last, lay still. Lebauscus leaned down to use the dead man’s tunic to wipe the blood off his blade.

‘What now?’ asked Macro. ‘Get rid of him?’

Cato shook his head. ‘No. Leave him here. I think the tribune here needs to be reminded of the dangers of plotting against the Emperor. This time it’s Septimus. The next time it could well be his wife, and anyone close to her . . . Let’s go.’

Cato was turning to leave when they all heard the sound of a challenge from close by and then a figure appeared at the entrance to the tent.

‘Tribune Otho?’

‘Yes.’ Otho tired to recover his composure. ‘That’s me.’

‘Message from Legate Quintatus, sir.’ The man entered the tent and now Cato could see that he was covered in dust and grime from several days on the road from Viroconium. He stopped as he saw the body and glanced at the officers. When no one reacted he reached inside his sidebag and brought out a leather tube bearing the legate’s seal. He handed it to the tribune and stood back from the table.

Otho held the tube in his hand and looked over the new arrival as he tried to recover his composure. ‘You could do with some refreshment. Have one of my clerks see to your needs.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier saluted and, with one last glance at the body, he strode out of the tent.

Otho continued to hold the message in his hands as he regarded the corpse. The others stood silently until at length Cato coughed. ‘Aren’t you going to read it, sir?’

‘What? Oh . . . ’ Otho shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. There’s something I have to do first. Before I can take command of the column. You’re in charge, Cato. Until I’m ready to resume command . . . You read it.’ He rose abruptly from his chair and moved round the desk, thrusting the leather tube at Cato. ‘Read it, and act on it as you see fit. If you need anything, I will be with my wife.’

Cato nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I understand. I’ll take care of it.’

Otho nodded. ‘Thank you. You’re a good man. I can see that.’

He stepped carefully over the body and hurried away, brushing through the tent flaps, leaving them swaying in his wake. Cato turned to Lebauscus. ‘I think we’ve made our point. Have the body removed. Take it out of the camp and have it buried. Leave no trace, though. As if the earth swallowed him. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Lebauscus saluted. ‘I’ll see to it.’

He left and Cato took the tribune’s chair and broke the seal on the tube. He took out the roll of papyrus inside and flattened it out on the table to read the contents. At length he looked up and met Macro’s expectant gaze.

‘Well?’

‘The legate wants us back at Viroconium as fast as we can march. There’s trouble amongst the Ordovices. The Druids have stirred them up again. They are raiding along the entire frontier. Quintatus needs every man to hold them back.’

Macro shrugged. ‘No rest for us then.’

‘Seems not. We’ll break camp tomorrow, after the men have rested. They’ve earned it.’

‘And so have we, my lad. So have we.’ Macro smiled. ‘As it happens, I know of a small cache of wine that needs drinking up. One previous owner. Want to join me?’

Cato stood up. ‘Yes . . . Yes I do. I need a drink.’

‘That’s the spirit. Come on then.’ Macro steered him gently towards the tent flaps. Outside, the last band of light stretched along the horizon and the first stars pricked out of the velvet night sky. Some birds called out in the darkness, clearly audible above the quiet hubbub of the familiar noises of the camp. They strode away from the headquarters tent and Macro chuckled.

‘And who knows, if we’re lucky, we might just come across a few coins that he’s missed along the way. It’s not just clouds that have a silver lining.’

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE ROMAN ARMY

The Fourteenth Legion, like all legions, comprised five and a half thousand men. The basic unit was the
century
of eighty men commanded by a
centurion
. The century was divided into eight-man sections which shared a room together in barracks and a tent when on campaign. Six centuries made up a cohort, and ten cohorts made up a legion, with the first cohort being double size. Each legion was accompanied by a cavalry contingent of 120 men, divided into four squadrons, who served as scouts and messengers. In descending order, the main ranks were as follows:

The
Legate
was a man from an aristocratic background. Typically in his mid-thirties, the legate commanded the legion for up to five years and hoped to make something of a name for himself in order to enhance his subsequent political career.

The
Camp Prefect
would be a grizzled veteran who would previously have been the chief centurion of the legion and was at the summit of a professional soldier’s career. He was armed with vast experience and integrity, and to him would fall the command of the legion should the legate be absent or
hors de combat
.

Six
tribunes
served as staff officers. These would be men in their early twenties serving in the army for the first time to gain administrative experience before taking up junior posts in civil administration. The senior tribune was different. He was destined for high political office and eventual command of a legion.

Sixty centurions provided the disciplinary and training backbone of the legion. They were handpicked for their command qualities and a willingness to fight to the death. Accordingly, their casualty rate far exceeded other ranks’. The most senior centurion commanded the first century of the first cohort and was a highly decorated and respected individual.

The four
decurions
of the legion commanded the cavalry squadrons, although there is some debate whether there was a centurion in overall command of the legion’s mounted contingent.

Each centurion was assisted by an optio who would act as an orderly, with minor command duties. Optios would be waiting for a vacancy in the centurionate.

Below the optios were the legionaries, men who had signed on for twenty-five years. In theory, a man had to be a Roman citizen to qualify for enlistment, but recruits were increasingly drawn from local populations and given Roman citizenship upon joining the legions. Legionaries were well paid and could expect handsome bonuses from the emperor from time to time (when he felt their loyalty needed bolstering!).

Lower in status than the legionaries were the men of the auxiliary cohorts. These were recruited from the provinces and provided the Roman Empire with its cavalry, light infantry, and other specialist skills. Roman citizenship was awarded upon completion of twenty-five years of service. Cavalry units, such as the Second Thracian Cohort, were either approximately five hundred or a thousand men in size, the latter being reserved for highly experienced and capable commanders. There were also mixed cohorts with a proportion of one third mounted to two thirds infantry that were used to police the surrounding territory.