Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  As the two of them emerged from the shaded street into the market square, they were struck by the full glare of the sun and the swell of noise from the lines of traders’ stalls. Closest to them was a low stage on which the auctioneer’s servants were arranging the human stock for the first round of sales. There were two groups: the first comprised several well-built men wearing simple tunics and sandals. The second was made up of neatly dressed men and women destined for the wealthy households of Tarsus. As he and Lucius passed by, Cato glanced at the first group. Two of them were young and muscular and might well be spared the endless toil in a fullery or some chain gang on a farm if they were fortunate enough to be bought by one of the owners of the local gladiator schools. He was about to pass on when the last man in the line caught his eye.

  He was perhaps as old as fifty, with curly silver hair and lined features. He had a wiry build and stood with his shoulders back and chest out, chin jutting proudly as he regarded the people in the street with a haughty expression. He had the tell-tale tattoo of a small helmet on his right forearm. The sign of an initiate of the third grade in the cult of Mithras was common enough in the legions, and the man certainly had the bearing of a soldier.

  Cato stopped in front of him and looked him up and down. As soon as the auctioneer spotted a Roman examining his wares, he scurried over and bowed his head in greeting before speaking in accented Latin.

  ‘I see Flaminius has caught your eye, my dear sir. Clearly you are a man of excellent and discerning judgement. He is a bond slave. He may be old, but he is tough and has many years of good service still in him.’ He leaned towards the slave and patted his firm shoulder. The man did not flinch or react in any way; just as a soldier might standing to attention on the parade ground, thought Cato. The auctioneer gestured towards the slave’s legs. ‘As you can see, my dear sir, he is in fine shape and would make an excellent field hand. Or perhaps a stevedore or porter. Yes, perhaps that, since I imagine you are one of the fine Roman soldiers gracing our city with their presence . . . Or perhaps a bodyguard for your dear little boy there.’ He beamed at Lucius and reached out a hand to ruffle his hair, but the boy pulled back out of reach, anxious to avoid Petronella’s sharp tongue if her careful arrangement was disturbed.

  ‘What’s your story?’ Cato addressed the slave directly.

  Before he could respond, the auctioneer quickly interposed himself between them. ‘Flaminius was landed with the rest of the shipment from Bithynia, sir.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him myself,’ Cato interrupted tersely.

  The auctioneer paused a moment and then nodded his head. ‘If you need any further information about this man, or any of the others, I would be honoured to help you, my dear sir.’

  He backed away two steps, bowed his head again, and then crossed the stage to his stool a short distance from the auction block.

  ‘Who are you, Flaminius?’ asked Cato. ‘You have the bearing of a soldier, I think.’

  The slave returned his gaze unflinchingly, and Cato sensed that the man was weighing him up before he responded. ‘I was a soldier. Twenty-six years with the Fourth Scythica before I was discharged. Honourably.’

  ‘So how did you end up as a slave for auction?’

  ‘Because some bastard senator took a fancy to my farm. I wouldn’t sell, so he made sure business went badly for me. I got into debt and my family was ruined. I sold myself to settle the debt, so at least my wife and kids are free. As far as I know. That’s my story, sir. That’s all there is to it,’ he concluded with understandable bitterness.

  Cato shook his head. ‘That’s a sorry tale, brother.’

  ‘You’re a soldier, then?’

  ‘My father’s a Praetorian!’ Lucius chirped up. ‘And a tribune.’

  Flaminius instinctively tried to stand to attention, and the manacles clattered together and pressed into his chafed ankles, causing him to wince. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise. Thought you was a civvie.’

  Cato shook his head sorrowfully. ‘This is no way for an ex-legionary to end his days.’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘Fortuna plays her games, sir. I had some good years in the ranks. Just my bad luck coming across some stuck-up cunt who wanted to add my land to his park.’

  Lucius tugged his father’s hand. ‘What’s a stuck up—’

  ‘Someone who should know better than to cheat an old soldier out of what he’s earned,’ Cato said hurriedly. He stood for a moment, deploring the old soldier’s bad luck. And Flaminius’s fortune was more than likely about to take an even worse turn. He was too old to be bought by a lanista or to be much good as a bodyguard. There were few prospects for such a slave. He would end his days being worked steadily to death. Unless his fortune changed . . .

  Cato turned abruptly towards the auctioneer.

  ‘You! Come here!’

  The auctioneer had been munching on a seeded roll. He quickly put it on his stool and brushed the crumbs from the front of his tunic as he hurried across the stage. ‘My dear sir, how can I assist?’

  ‘This man. What price will he fetch?’

  The auctioneer pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Who can say, sir? It is an auction after all. Who can put a price on such a man in such a situation on any given day, my dear sir?’

  Cato frowned. ‘Spare me the sales pitch. How much?’

  The other man hesitated momentarily as he sized up the Roman and attempted to work out how much he could afford. ‘Four hundred denarians would be a fair price for Flaminius, sir.’

  Cato made himself snort with derision. ‘Bollocks. He isn’t worth half that. A few more years and this man will be good for nothing. He’ll be just another mouth to feed for twice as long before he’s finally done. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty for him. That’s more than he’ll fetch at auction, and you know it.’

  The auctioneer’s obsequious expression faded. ‘Two hundred and fifty and he’s yours.’

  Cato grunted and turned to hoist Lucius onto his shoulders. ‘Come on, son. This fat fool is wasting our time. Let’s go.’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty-five, sir!’

  Cato hesitated. ‘One hundred and eighty. Not a denarius more.’

  ‘Oh, come now, sir! He’s worth more than that. Two hundred at the very least.’

  ‘Done!’ Cato thrust out his hand and took that of the auctioneer firmly. ‘Two hundred it is.’

  The auctioneer gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘You can pay my cashier. Over there, behind the stage.’

  ‘No. I want him delivered to my billet. You know Yusef the silversmith?’ Cato gestured towards the street leading to the house.

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘Have the slave brought there tomorrow morning. I’ll have the money ready then.’

  The auctioneer rubbed his hands together. ‘A deposit is customary, my dear sir.’

  ‘I am the commander of General Corbulo’s Praetorian cohort. You have my word the money will be paid to you.’ Cato stared at the man, daring the auctioneer to challenge him. The other man swallowed and nodded reluctantly.

  ‘The word of a Roman gentleman is priceless, dear sir. As you wish.’

  Cato looked up at Flaminius and caught a flicker of feeling in the man’s face. It might have signified gratitude, he thought. Or resentment. It was impossible to tell. He cleared his throat and nodded at the slave. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the auctioneer steered Flaminius to the holding pens behind the stage, Cato turned away and resumed his progress along the edge of the market, making his way towards the Cup of Croesus at the crossroads on the far side. He held on firmly to Lucius’s ankles as his son clasped his little hands over the crown of Cato’s head to hold on.

  ‘Why did you buy that man, Father?’

  Cato thought for a moment. The truth of it was that he felt offende
d by the prospect of a veteran being sold into slavery. He had served long enough to know many men who had put their lives at risk for Rome, and for their comrades. It was the latter that meant most to him. Soldiers looked out for each other. That was the most sacred bond of all. Better that Flaminius was taken into Cato’s service than that he was worked to death in the fields or mines. Lucius was too young to understand all that.

  ‘I need someone to replace Petronella now that she’s marrying Macro.’

  ‘Is she leaving us?’ Lucius asked anxiously.

  ‘No,’ Cato reassured him. ‘But we’ll need someone to look after you and teach you how to get fit and fight. An old soldier is the best person for that job.’

  ‘What about Uncle Macro? He’s old.’

  Cato laughed. ‘I wouldn’t tell him that to his face if I were you.’

  ‘Would it make him cross, Father?’

  ‘You can’t imagine . . .’

  Cato stepped in behind a narrow mule cart and followed it through the crowd until they reached the arched entrance to the Cup of Croesus. An artfully painted image of a smiling man raising a huge golden cup adorned the wall beside the arch. On the far side was a large yard filled with tables and benches. Servants hurried to and fro with jugs of wine and clusters of cheap cups, or trays laden with bowls of stew and loaves of bread.

  Most of the early customers had already had their breakfast, and there were plenty of spaces at the tables. Cato slid Lucius down from his shoulders and looked round, smiling knowingly as he caught sight of a familiar figure sitting in the corner furthest from the entrance. A neatly tied bundle of cloth rested on his table beside a large jug of wine. Cato saw that the man’s hair had been cut and styled as neatly as Lucius’s, the refined appearance completed by a freshly shaven jaw. Beside him, tethered to the leg of the table, was a pig, squatting on its haunches as it surveyed the people in the yard with what looked very much like a bored expression.

  ‘Let’s join Uncle Macro, shall we?’

  As they made their way across the yard, Macro continued to stare down into his cup, which he was gently swilling.

  ‘Is that a pet, Uncle Macro?’

  The centurion gave a start and looked up guiltily to see the boy pointing at the pig.

  ‘Pet?’ He glanced at the sow, which looked up at him and gave a grunt. ‘Er, no. Not a pet.’

  Lucius pulled his hand from his father’s grasp and leaned towards the pig, giving it a pat between the ears. The sow rubbed its snout against the underside of the boy’s arm.

  ‘He likes me!’

  ‘He’s a she,’ said Macro. ‘And I wouldn’t get too friendly with her. She won’t be around for long.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lucius responded with disappointment. ‘Can’t we keep her?’

  ‘I think that’s a question for Petronella. Anyway, what are you two doing here?’

  ‘Breakfast,’ said Cato. He glanced towards the counter at the rear of the yard and gestured to one of the serving girls to come over. ‘There’s not much hope of getting fed back at the house right now. Mind if we join you?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Cato sat on the bench opposite Macro while Lucius perched on the edge and continued to make a fuss of the pig.

  When the serving girl arrived, Cato ordered bread and lamb chops, and some watered-down wine. He gestured towards Macro’s wine jar. ‘Have another?’

  ‘Better not. If she thinks I’m drunk, there’ll be blood.’

  As the girl hurried back to the counter, Cato regarded his friend for a moment. ‘Having second thoughts?’

  Macro frowned. ‘No. None. She’s the girl of my dreams. It’s just that . . . well, it’s a big change in my life. I’m not sure what to think.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think Petronella is perfect for you. You’re a lucky man, my friend.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was a brief silence before Cato leaned forward on his elbows and folded his hands. ‘So what’s the problem? There’s obviously something troubling you.’

  Macro sighed. ‘Can you see me as a married man? Honestly? I’m a soldier. That’s all I’ve ever really known. It’s almost like I can’t remember being anything else. And now I’m about to fight my last campaign, then give it all up to go and run that inn in Londinium. It’s a fucking big change in my life, is what it is.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’m sure of it. Besides, you can’t be a soldier for ever. Best to make the most of it while you’re still fit and have most of your teeth . . . which you may not have if you skulk here rather than getting back to the house to help with the preparations.’

  ‘I’m helping with the preparations by keeping out of the way.’ Macro smiled. ‘No point in giving my girl one more person to shout at.’

  They shared a laugh before the serving girl returned holding a tray above her head, doing her best to avoid being groped by customers on the way. She set it down on the table to reveal a wooden platter piled with roasted cuts of mutton, and a basket of small loaves. There was a jar of watered wine and three cups. Cato reached for his purse and paid for the order; since it was a day of celebration, he added a denarius for her tip. Her eyes widened and she muttered her thanks before glancing round and tucking the silver coin into the small purse hanging round her neck. As she hurried away, Macro clicked his tongue.

  ‘Generous of you . . . You’ve been generous all round lately. Me and Petronella haven’t really thanked you enough for the loan.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Cato replied, and realised he meant it. He had no yearning to live a life of useless luxury, and it suited his principles to use his new-found wealth to help others from time to time.

  He poured himself and Macro full cups of wine, then put a dash in Lucius’s cup before handing it to his son. ‘Make sure you sip it,’ he instructed. ‘A toast, then. To Centurion Macro, finest soldier in the Roman army; and to Petronella, the best wife a soldier could wish for. May they share a long and happy life together!’

  All three raised their cups and drank. Then they set about the meal, in that happy mood of light-hearted conspiracy men share when they know they should be doing domestic chores instead. When the food had been eaten and Lucius had used the last hunk of bread to mop up the juices on the platter, Cato sat back with a contented expression.

  ‘Time to go, I think. Before Petronella sends someone to look for us.’

  They rose from the table and Macro untied the pig before leading the small party out of the yard. Then with Lucius in the middle, clutching their hands, and Macro holding the pig’s leash, the happy trio ambled back to the silversmith’s house.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The high priest from the temple of the imperial cult turned away from the small torch he had lit on the household altar and raised his hands. ‘If the couple would kneel, I will beseech the gods for their blessing . . .’

  Macro lowered himself onto the small cushion in front of the priest while Petronella lifted the hem of her stola enough so that it would not catch uncomfortably around her knees as she knelt. When both were settled in position, the priest placed his hands on top of their heads and waited until all the guests were quite still and the only noise came from the faint sounds of the street outside and the contented snuffling of the sow, which was quite oblivious to the fact that it was enjoying its very last few moments.

  ‘Mighty Jupiter, Best and Greatest,’ the priest began in a rich tone and easy cadence, ‘we are gathered here on this day to witness the marriage of Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro and Licinia Petronella. Both have freely consented to be married, and Petronella’s patron has given his permission for her to wed. We ask that this union be happy and enduring and, in the name of Ceres – for whom we have lit this torch – fertile.’

  It was routine to invoke Ceres’s blessing thus, but Petronella had not had any children so far, and there was no rea
son to believe that might change now. It was a pity, Cato reflected sadly, as he was certain that nothing would have delighted Macro more than becoming a father. He had doted on Lucius and been a favourite of the boy from infancy. Still, Ceres might yet surprise them all and give the centurion what he wanted.

  ‘May Fortuna treat them generously, and Minerva bestow her wisdom upon them. May Venus grant them love . . .’

  The priest continued with invocations to one god after another, and soon Cato was no longer listening as his gaze wandered around the garden. Under Petronella’s keen eye, garlands had been neatly arranged around the trellises that surrounded the open space in front of the small pool, where Cassius had been chained so that he could drink the water. Despite the arrival of the guests, the dog was curled up and dozing contentedly. In the shade beneath the trellises several tables had been set out, with benches on either side. There was not enough room for more than a handful of couches, and these had been reserved for Macro, Petronella and their most honoured guests: namely Cato and Lucius.

  The centurions and optios from the Praetorian cohort were arrayed to the left, behind Macro. Petronella’s guests were fewer: Yusef and the handful of female friends she had made in the year she had been living in Tarsus. These included two women from the neighbourhood and their husbands, both of whom owned bakeries and who were rivals rather than friends. There was also the Greek wine merchant from the market, whom she had befriended and with whom she had negotiated a very generous discount for the wine supplied for the modest banquet to follow the ceremony.

  As Petronella’s patron, Cato stood with the civilians and Lucius. He felt a little disappointed that the invitation that had been sent to General Corbulo had not been acknowledged. Macro had felt duty-bound to seek his general’s blessing, and it would have been decent of the old man to respond. Of course, the invitation might never have reached Corbulo himself, having been dealt with by one of his clerks or staff officers, who had not deemed it worthy of his attention. It was a shame nonetheless, even though this was not a society wedding.