Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  It was a small affair, Cato conceded, but all the better for consisting only of those whom Macro and Petronella had chosen to invite, rather than all the gate-crashing familial freeloaders who were inclined to invite themselves, as tended to happen back in Rome. In any case, he reflected, there were few enough family members who could have been invited. Macro’s mother was living in Britannia. His father had died many years before, and Macro was their only child. His sole uncle had been murdered by the leader of a criminal gang when Macro was a youth. As for Petronella, she had only a sister, who lived on her husband’s farm not far from Rome. Cato’s own parents were long since dead, and with the loss of his wife, there was only Lucius. As he considered this, it occurred to him that Macro and Petronella were the only real family he had. Perhaps that was why they all felt as close to each other as they did. It would be a hard parting when the campaign was over and Macro applied for his discharge and left for Britannia with his wife.

  He felt a sharp pang of regret, and grief, at the prospect and tried to push the thought from his mind as he forced himself to focus his attention back on the words of the priest, who had finished invoking the gods and now turned to retrieve a small spelt loaf from the altar.

  ‘With the sharing of this bread, blessed in the temple of our divine emperor, Macro and Petronella signify before their guests and witnesses that they swear to share all that they possess, and swear to each other that they will keep with each other.’

  The priest solemnly passed the bread to Macro, who broke the loaf in two and gave half to Petronella. Then they each tore off a small hunk, placed them in their mouths and began to chew. Once the priest had seen that they had both swallowed, he raised his hands and addressed everyone in the garden.

  ‘With the sharing of bread, it only remains for me to present the sacrifice to Jupiter, Best and Greatest, to affirm the gratitude that Macro and Petronella express to the gods in the hope that they will continue to bless this marriage.’

  He turned to his two assistants, who had been standing off to one side with the pig. Taking a firm hold of the leash, one of them stepped towards the portable altar that had been set up beyond the fountain. A large copper bowl sat below it, ready to catch the blood, and to one side the glowing embers of a fire that had been lit hours before wavered. Soon the flames would consume the flesh of the sacrifice and the smoke would carry the offering up to the heavens.

  But the pig had different ideas, refusing to move and continuing to sit on its haunches. The assistant braced himself, gritted his teeth and tugged hard. The pig squealed and suddenly set off at an angle, trotting the other side of the priest, who had to leap nimbly to avoid being tipped over. Before the beast could reach the married couple, the assistant threw all his weight into the struggle and the pig skittered to a stop. At once the other assistant rushed forward and bent low to grasp its hind trotters. He clearly knew his stuff, and with a powerful wrench, he whipped the animal’s legs out, flipped the pig over onto its back and pinned it down as it squealed in panic.

  The two men kept a tight hold on the wriggling victim as they carried it over to the wooden top of the portable altar and laid it on its side. The priest was similarly adroit, obviously used to dealing with sacrificial animals that had resolved not to meekly play along with their allotted role. He drew the thin curved knife from the scabbard on his belt and with a deft stroke cut through the beast’s throat. A welter of blood splashed across the top of the altar and spilled into the bowl below as the animal spasmed wildly. For an instant Cato feared the assistants might lose their grip, and he had a vision of the pig racing amongst the guests, spraying blood all over them. But the two men held on as their victim’s strength faded and life deserted the body.

  ‘Poor pig,’ Lucius muttered sadly.

  ‘Yes,’ Cato agreed, and tried hurriedly to think of some words of comfort for his little son. ‘Poor pig. But lucky gods, eh? I bet they love the smell of roasting pork.’

  Lucius looked up at him, his chin quivering. ‘She would have been a good pet, Father. I’d have looked after her. Did she have to die?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We want Macro and Petronella to be happy, don’t we? We want the gods to look after them.’

  ‘Yes . . . But—’

  ‘Then there had to be an offering made to the gods. That’s how it works. Do you see?’

  Lucius sighed unhappily but made no further protest.

  As the assistants heaved the dead pig onto the fire with as much decorum as the task permitted, the priest threw his head back and extended his arms towards the skies in a dramatic gesture.

  ‘The sacrifice is made. The gods are content. We celebrate the marriage of Macro and Petronella!’

  A ragged chorus of cheers rose from the small band of officers, and Cato joined in heartily as Macro helped his wife to her feet and then threw his arms around her and kissed her hard. She was taken by surprise and resisted for an instant, before grabbing the back of his head in both hands and pressing him closer still.

  ‘Easy there, Petronella!’ Centurion Porcino laughed. ‘You don’t want to break him on the first night!’

  Cato felt his hand being tugged and looked down at his son.

  ‘Father, are they going to wrestle again?’

  ‘It looks that way. Let’s just hope they manage to wait till later on. Much later on.’

  Macro took his wife’s arms and eased her back, and they broke off from the kiss, grinning like youngsters. Then Petronella blushed self-consciously and broke free, turning to face the guests.

  ‘It’s time to feast. Please take your seats while food and drink is brought to you.’ She glanced past them to where Yusef’s steward was waiting beside the entrance to the house, and signalled to him.

  A moment later, the notes of a pipe accompanied by a harp reached the ears of those in the garden, and two musicians wandered down the path and took up their assigned place behind the couches. The officers arranged themselves at the table on Macro’s side, while the other guests sat opposite. When all were in place, the first of the servants emerged from the kitchen carrying trays laden with dishes of dates and figs. More followed with jars of wine, platters of roast meat, pastries, cheeses and bread. Macro sniffed the aromas with delight.

  ‘A proper banquet and no mistake, my love.’

  Petronella beamed with pleasure and quickly slipped a large helping of glazed lamb chops into a bowl for Lucius.

  ‘Eat up, young man, and you’ll grow up to be a fine strong soldier like Macro!’

  While the music played softly in the background, the guests ate and drank their fill and the soldiers exchanged ribald comments with Macro and Cato. Petronella affected to look shocked at the more salacious banter, partly out of deference to her own guests, who weren’t quite sure how to react to what passed for table talk amongst Roman soldiers. She tried to make subtle gestures to her husband to be aware of the sensitivities of young Lucius, but the conversation floated over the boy’s head as he finished eating and then fetched his toy soldiers to play with on the floor.

  Halfway through the afternoon, the steward came hurrying out of the house and approached those lying on the couches. Bending forward, he spoke softly to Macro. ‘Centurion, there is a visitor in the hall. He claims to be General Corbulo, and he wishes to speak to you.’

  ‘Me?’ Macro raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Surely you mean the tribune.’

  ‘No, sir. It is you he asked for.’

  Macro took a deep breath. ‘What in Hades can Corbulo want with me?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ Cato responded.

  Macro swung his legs off the couch and kissed Petronella on the forehead. Then he stood up, brushed the crumbs from the front of his best tunic and followed the steward towards the house. When he had disappeared from view, Petronella shuffled closer to Cato.

  ‘What’s Corbulo doing here?’
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br />   ‘Well, you invited him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t respond. I assumed he wasn’t coming. By the gods, I hope Macro’s not in any trouble, this day of all days . . .’

  After the bright sunlight in the garden, the atrium of the silversmith’s house was gloomy, and it wasn’t until General Corbulo emerged from the shadows by the front door that Macro saw that he was alone. He was wearing a plain cotton tunic and military boots, and he carried a small chest under his left arm, not much larger than a mess tin. Macro snapped to attention in front of him.

  ‘You sent for me, sir?’

  A look of embarrassment crossed the general’s face. ‘Actually, it was you who sent for me, Centurion Macro. You and your wife-to-be. I was only notified of your invitation at noon by one of my clerks, who is even now starting a month on latrine duty. I most humbly apologise and I hope I have not arrived too late to share your celebration.’

  Macro shifted uneasily. ‘Ah, the thing is, sir, the ceremony is over. But you are welcome to join us for the remainder of the feast, if you are willing.’

  It was an awkward situation, and Macro hoped that the general would politely decline the offer rather than upset the warm ambience that had embraced the wedding party, as late-arriving guests of high rank were wont to do.

  ‘Centurion, if the offer still stands, I would be deeply honoured to join you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro said automatically, then paused briefly before turning and gesturing towards the garden. ‘Please follow me.’

  With a heart weighed down by misgiving, he led the aristocrat out into the sunshine that filled the garden along with the music and the happy sound of light conversation and laughter. The latter died away as the guests became aware of Corbulo’s presence. Cato and the other officers immediately made to rise from their places, while the civilian guests stirred uneasily, not quite certain what they should do.

  ‘Please, gentlemen, do resume your seats.’ Corbulo waved them back. ‘Today I am just another guest at the wedding of our comrade.’

  The benches scraped on the flagstones as the officers sat back down, though none spoke as they regarded their general warily. Corbulo advanced towards the couches, where Petronella hurriedly scrambled up and bowed her head.

  ‘There’s no need for that, my dear. Please, just treat me as you would anyone else who is honoured to be here to celebrate your wedding.’ A smile creased Corbulo’s craggy features. ‘But first, I have a gift for you and your husband.’

  He held out the small chest and Macro received it with a nod. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Unsure what to do with it, he gestured towards the couches. ‘If you please, sir, take my place.’

  ‘I will do no such thing. I will join these gentlemen.’ Corbulo nodded to the table where the centurions were sitting. As was the convention, the senior of their number sat closest to the head table, while the others were arranged in descending order of status, with the optios at the end. Now they all shuffled along to make room for the general. Once he was seated, he glanced up sharply at Macro and Petronella. ‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Of course, sir.’

  Macro slipped the catch and lifted the lid. Inside was a large leather bag, bulging with coins. Petronella leaned over to look and gave a light gasp. Working the tie loose, she saw that the coins were silver.

  ‘Two thousand denarians.’ Corbulo smiled. ‘Enough to give you a decent start to married life, I should think.’

  Macro puffed his cheeks. The sum was nearly half a year’s pay for a centurion. ‘That’s very generous of you, sir. I . . . I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Your simple thanks is enough. Besides, Rome owes you far more than mere silver can ever repay. You have shed blood for the Empire on many occasions. When lesser men would have turned and run to save their lives, you stood firm and fought on. I am well aware of your record, Centurion Macro. Accept this as a token of respect from one who knows your quality and values it highly.’ He looked round at the other officers, who still had plenty of food in front of them. ‘Now, if it’s not too much trouble, what can a hungry man get to eat in this house? I’ll have my fill, since there won’t be much chance of finding such a feast when the campaign begins in earnest.’

  Petronella bustled towards the kitchen, while Cato filled a cup from the wine jug on the top table and set it down in front of the general.

  ‘I imagine the official toasts have been done,’ said Corbulo as Petronella returned and stood beside Macro, taking his arm. ‘So this is my personal toast to you.’

  He raised his cup. ‘To Centurion Macro and his lovely wife. May the gods watch over you both; may Mars guard you, Macro, through the coming conflict with Parthia and see you returned home safely to Petronella’s arms. May you return weighed down with such spoils of war that you will live a wealthy man in your retirement.’

  Macro laughed and picked up his own cup. ‘I’ll drink to that right enough, sir!’

  Once the general had made his toast, the atmosphere eased, and soon the party was feasting happily, with Corbulo joining in the frequently ribald exchanges between the officers. Cato, who was not a hard drinker in any case, made sure that he drank from Lucius’s heavily watered-down jug. He was of the view that senior officers were never quite as off-duty as they sometimes gave the impression of being. Words and faces would be remembered. Anything taken as a slight on Corbulo’s character could well be used against the officer concerned at some point in the future. In Cato’s experience, the bonhomie of senior officers – even those he respected – was to be welcomed, but dealt with warily. Generals were always watchful, always considering the merits or otherwise of those who served under them. The divide between them and their men was necessary and all but unbridgeable. They stood apart from others, and only the words of the most trusted of subordinates carried any weight with them. So it was with Corbulo, and Cato was guarded in what he said as the afternoon wore on.

  At length, when all had eaten their fill, and most were happily drunk, the general drained his cup and announced, ‘It’s been a fine feast, and a privilege to share your celebration, but now I’m afraid I must return to headquarters.’

  ‘Already?’ Petronella did not hide her disappointment. ‘But I’ve hired a juggler for the evening. He performs tricks, too.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be very entertaining, my lady, but sadly, my duties demand my attention. So it remains to thank you and your husband for your kindness in inviting me.’

  ‘It is for us to thank you, General,’ said Macro, his speech slurred. ‘You honour us. And your gift was most . . . most generous.’

  ‘No more than you deserve, Centurion.’ Corbulo stood up, and the other officers struggled to their feet too, save Centurion Nicolis, who had passed out and was slumped over the table snoring. Porcino gave him a nudge.

  ‘Stand up, you fool,’ he hissed.

  Corbulo laughed. ‘Oh, leave him be. I apologise for going so soon. Tribune Cato, if you would be kind enough to see me out.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  The general nodded his farewells and strode away from the party, back through the house to the atrium, with Cato on his heels. He paused by the front door and regarded Cato for a moment before he spoke. ‘I’m afraid there’s another reason for my presence here today.’

  Cato smiled faintly. ‘I wondered.’

  ‘Not that I needed another reason, you understand. Centurion Macro is one of the best, with a long career behind him. That alone warrants recognition and reward.’

  ‘Macro is indeed one of the best, sir. Which is why I will miss him when the time comes for him to apply for a discharge.’

  Corbulo’s eyebrow rose slightly. ‘He’s thinking of leaving the army? Not just now, I trust. Not when I have most need of men of his calibre if we’re to have any hope of defeating the Part
hians.’

  ‘He says he wants to see the campaign out, sir.’

  ‘Good. What does his new wife say about that?’

  ‘She’s not as pleased as she might be. But she accepts Macro for what he is. She knows she is marrying into the army.’

  Corbulo nodded wistfully. ‘For some of us, the army is all we know. It is our entire life. I hope the centurion manages to make the transition to civilian life – if he survives the campaign. Given what I have seen of the quality of most of the units under my command, I fear that I wouldn’t give good odds on our defeating the Parthians as things stand.’

  Cato was surprised by the general’s downbeat tone. But there was no escaping the truth about the poor state of the army, even now, nearly a year after Corbulo had taken up his command and started to prepare his forces. Supplies of equipment had been slow to arrive in Tarsus, and less than half of the replacements needed to bring the legions and auxiliary units up to full strength had been recruited. Even then, those who had enlisted needed to complete their training before they could be led into battle. Cato could see where his superior’s line of thinking might be heading, and he cleared his throat.

  ‘I imagine you’re concerned about the army being ready to campaign when spring comes, sir.’

  Corbulo stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. ‘How could I not be concerned? Only a rash fool would take the risk as things stand. I need time to find more men and get them ready to fight. Time is the issue, Tribune Cato. I need more of it.’ He paused briefly. ‘And you’re the man who has to buy it for me.’

  ‘Me?’ Cato frowned. ‘How exactly?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Be at headquarters no later than the first hour tomorrow. I’ll explain then. Meanwhile, enjoy what’s left of the party.’

  Before Cato could question him further, the general turned, opened the door and stepped down into the street. The door closed behind him.

  Cato raised his head and stared up at the heavens through the small opening above the atrium. As the sound of cheery voices and laughter came from the garden, he wondered what Corbulo had in mind for him.