Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I told you he had the makings of a diplomat.’

  ‘Oh, he’s more than a diplomat,’ Apollonius continued. ‘He’s a reluctant intellectual, the best kind. My old man may have pulled the wool over the eyes of most of his followers, but the tribune saw right through him.’ He turned back to Cato. ‘For what it’s worth, my father was a plagiarist. It’s why I refused to take after him and deployed my talents elsewhere.’ He gave a brief, knowing smile before he addressed the general once more. ‘He’ll do nicely. Just the kind of informed wit that Vologases appreciates. More importantly, he knows when to rein it in. Where did you find such an officer? I was under the impression that nearly all those Roman aristocrats who put on soldier’s garb quietly throttled whatever intellectual passions they had previously entertained.’

  ‘They generally do,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘But our friend Tribune Cato is different. Do not be fooled by the quality of his attire and the cultivation of his mind. He is no aristocrat. He rose through the ranks and married into wealth and position.’

  ‘That does not surprise me in the slightest. I have yet to meet a traditional Roman aristocrat who does not feel the urge to reach for a sword whenever someone mentions culture.’ Apollonius opened his hands apologetically. ‘Present company excepted, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Corbulo responded coolly. His cordial manner disappeared and his expression took on the hard veneer of an army commander once more. ‘You have your orders, gentlemen. May the gods look favourably on your mission. Tribune, pick ten good men to serve as your escort. They’ll need to be accomplished riders, mind.’

  ‘Ten men?’ Cato sucked in a breath. Barely more than a section of Praetorians to lead into the heart of the Parthian empire. It was an ominous prospect indeed. ‘I can find ten good men easily enough, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then have them ready to leave Tarsus the day after tomorrow, at dawn. It’s short notice, I know. It’s nearly October now. If all goes well, you should be back before the end of the year. However, it would be wise to ensure your will is up to date and that you say your farewells. There’s nothing more to add. You are dismissed.’

  Cato rose smartly from the stool and exchanged a salute with the general before turning to Apollonius. ‘I dare say you already know where I am billeted.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you outside my house, two days from now.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  He strode towards the door and left the room. Outside, he let out a long hiss of anger and frustration as he contemplated his mission. The prospect of riding to the heart of Parthia and negotiating a peace between the two empires was daunting. But orders were orders and he would have to carry them out. One particular aspect concerned him more than most: he had no idea if the Greek agent’s goals were the same as his own. If they were not, then only the gods knew what lay in store for him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘What do you mean, I’m not coming with you?’ Macro demanded as they sat at the table in the kitchen. ‘Fuck that. If you’re marching into danger, my place is at your side.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Cato replied firmly as he petted Cassius’s head. The dog was leaning against his thigh, head resting happily on its master’s lap. ‘There should be no danger. It’s an embassy, that’s all. Diplomatic work. All talk and no action. It’s not proper soldiering and you’d be bored witless if you came.’

  Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Who do you think you’re fooling, my lad? You’ll be crossing the frontier into enemy territory. Then it’ll be who knows how many hundreds of miles to ride before you reach the Parthian capital. You’ll be fair game for any bands of brigands or local warlords who decide to take a nice set of Roman heads for their collection. You’ll need a small army just to get through the journey alive. Even with me and the rest of the cohort behind you, I wouldn’t give good odds for us making it.’

  He paused to take a spoonful of the porridge Petronella had made after she’d turfed him off the couch in the garden. No endearments had been exchanged. Macro’s surly growl had given way to a grin as he’d reached out to catch her hand, but Petronella, unburdened by a hangover, had stepped nimbly aside and slapped him hard on the cheek.

  ‘None of that, and there’ll be nothing to eat until you’ve washed, shaved and changed out of those filthy rags.’

  ‘What?’ Macro had looked down and seen the splashes of dried vomit on the front of his tunic. ‘Jupiter’s balls! Some bastard has puked on me!’

  ‘Ha!’ sniffed Petronella, turning away and striding back towards the house, Macro staring at her gently swaying backside with a lascivious grin.

  He smiled now at the memory before his thoughts returned to his conversation with Cato.

  ‘How many men do you think you’ll need for the job, sir?’

  Cato sighed. ‘I’d be happier if I did have a small army at my back. As it is, there’ll be twelve of us, including the general’s agent.’

  ‘Twelve?’ Macro’s eyes widened and his spoon sagged back into the bowl. ‘Twelve? Are you fucking mad?’

  ‘Not my decision. Those were Corbulo’s orders.’

  ‘Then he’s the bloody madman. Sending a handful of Romans into Parthia like that. Sending you to your deaths more like.’ Macro released the spoon and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. There were pronounced streaks of grey there, Cato noticed as his friend cleared his throat and continued. ‘Don’t do it, sir. It’s a fool’s errand. The Parthians will take his terms as an insult, and by way of reply they’ll cut you and the others into little pieces and send them back to him. Tell him you refuse to go.’

  ‘I can’t. I didn’t volunteer for this. It was an order.’

  ‘An order?’ Macro sniffed derisively. ‘It’s a suicide order. That’s what it is.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. As an embassy, we should be accorded protection at least as far as Ctesiphon. After that, our fate will be in the hands of Vologases.’

  ‘And what about this other character? Corbulo’s man.’

  ‘Apollonius?’

  ‘What do you make of him? Can he be trusted?’

  Cato thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know yet. He is clearly Corbulo’s creature and accounts to the general before he is answerable to me, even though he is supposed to be my aide. I’ll have to watch him closely.’

  ‘All the more reason to make sure I come along,’ Macro insisted. ‘You need me to watch your back.’

  Cato was touched by his friend’s genuine concern, and in truth, nothing would please him more than to have the tough centurion join the embassy. But he was already putting his own life at risk, and those of his escort. Macro’s presence would make little difference. And if things went badly, then at least he would have the comfort of knowing Macro had been spared. Particularly now that he had found Petronella. To take him away after barely two days of marriage might just occasion a titanic outburst of rage from his wife. That clinched the argument for Cato.

  ‘Listen, Macro. I need you to remain here. The cohort must have a good man to take command while I am gone. You’re the senior centurion, so that’s your duty. The general also needs you and the rest of the officers to train the recruits joining the ranks of the other units. So take care of the lads. Take care of your wife, and look after Lucius for me. I won’t be gone for long, but I’ll take comfort from knowing you’re running things here in Tarsus. Besides,’ he forced a grin, ‘rank has its privileges. Corbulo ordered me to go, and now I’m ordering you to stay, and that’s the end of the matter.’

  Macro made to protest, but knew better than to challenge an order given by a superior. Instead he sucked air through his teeth. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing. Keep your eyes open, lad, and watch out for that Apollonius. I don’t like the sound of him.’

  ‘I will. I’ve every intention of coming back in one piece.’ Cato cou
ghed and craned his neck towards the pot on the stove. ‘Any of that porridge left?’

  ‘You’d better get some in before Lucius wakes up. That boy’s got an appetite on him. Eats like a bloody wolf. He’s going to be a strapping lad when he grows up. A fine soldier, just like his father.’

  ‘I’ll let him decide what he wants to do when the time comes.’

  ‘Ah, come on!’ Macro slapped a hand on his thigh. ‘Ain’t nothing better than a life in the army. You’ve done well enough out of it.’

  Cato was not so sure. Yes, he had won promotion, and come by riches thanks to his service, but he carried numerous scars on his body, and would never be able to forget the dark despair that had almost consumed him during their last campaign, in Armenia. The memories of that bleak time haunted him. If he could spare his son that, he would. At the same time, he was determined that Lucius would be the master of his own fate, whether he chose a military career or not.

  They were interrupted by Petronella as she entered the kitchen leading Lucius by the hand. The boy was yawning and looked drowsy. Cassius stirred and trotted over to give him a lick.

  ‘And here’s the man himself!’ Macro grinned as he reached out and ruffled the child’s hair before looking up at his wife. ‘How’s my lady love feeling now? Am I forgiven for failing to fulfil your deepest desires last night?’

  ‘No,’ she said curtly, and then turned to Cato. ‘There’s a man at the door. He says you bought yourself a slave.’

  Cato nodded. ‘That’ll be Flaminius.’

  ‘He doesn’t look up to much. Scrawny and surly.’

  ‘But he served in the legions. He would have ended up in the mines or fields if I hadn’t bought him. No veteran who falls on hard times deserves that.’

  ‘But other people do, eh?’ Petronella challenged him. ‘It’s your money, Master Cato.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He nodded towards the pot on the stove. ‘Save me some of that.’

  Cato went to his room and pulled the strongbox out from under his bed. Taking the key from the chain around his neck, he unlocked the box and took out a large leather purse, heavy with gold and silver coins. He made his way to the front door and opened it. At once, light and noise from the street spilled into the hall. The slave dealer stood on the bottom step and bowed his head in greeting.

  ‘Tribune Cato, I bid you a good morning, sir. As arranged, I have your purchase from yesterday.’ He turned aside and indicated Flaminius standing behind him in the street, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face.

  ‘Good, inside with you then.’

  The dealer edged back between them. ‘There is the small matter of payment, sir. Two hundred denarians, and five sestertians for the delivery charge.’

  ‘Delivery charge?’

  ‘Indeed, my dear sir. It’s a service I conduct myself for minimal cost, since I am giving up my time.’

  ‘But the slave market is just round the corner from here,’ Cato protested.

  ‘True indeed, my dear sir. I find my customers appreciate the personal touch of having me bring their merchandise to the door and offer any tips concerning the ownership of the individual in question.’

  ‘Such as?’

  The dealer thought quickly. ‘Any special attributes not discussed at the time of sale. Or any issues relating to the slave’s attitude or health that might need attending to.’

  ‘I would hope you would not attempt to sell me a sick slave.’

  The dealer raised his hands. ‘Oh, dear sir, I would not dream of doing so. But sickness comes unexpectedly. Or it may have been hidden from me by the trader I bought my stock from. And as I am sure you are aware, the legal situation in such circumstances is let the buyer beware.’

  ‘If you’ve sold me a sick slave, I can assure you the situation will become let the seller beware . . . my dear friend. Now, the money.’

  The dealer opened the flap of a sturdy leather pouch that hung around his neck and Cato counted out the coins to the amount of the agreed price. As he pulled the thongs to close the purse, the dealer coughed lightly.

  ‘And the delivery charge, if you please, my dear sir.’

  ‘It seems I may not have mentioned my reception fee,’ Cato responded. ‘I find that the merchants who deliver goods to my house appreciate the personal gesture of me giving up my time in order to be in when they choose to deliver the goods. Five sestertians.’

  The slave dealer laughed; when Cato’s expression remained fixed, he huffed and made to speak, changed his mind, then waved a hand in farewell and turned and stepped down into the street before hurrying off without a backward glance.

  Cato smiled with satisfaction and beckoned Flaminius to enter the house. Once the door was closed, he examined his slave by the opening in the atrium. The former soldier was streaked with grime. He had been stripped of the tunic he had worn on the slave market stage and given a ragged garment from the slave dealer’s slop chest instead. Even the sandals he had been wearing the day before had been taken from him by the sestertian-pinching dealer.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ asked Cato.

  Flaminius nodded. ‘Haven’t had a scrap for nearly two days . . . master.’

  The resentful tone of his final word was not missed by Cato, nor was it meant to be, he realised. It would be best if the man was put in his place from the outset.

  ‘Listen to me, Flaminius. It is not my fault that you were reduced to your present status. But I’ll not see a soldier who has served Rome end his days being worked to death in the mines or the fields. You deserve something better than that, and that is why I bought you. You are part of my household now, and you will be looked after and treated fairly. In return, I expect the same obedience and loyalty from you that I would expect from every man under my command. Serve me well and one day you will surely earn your freedom. But if you treat me with resentment, I will sell you back to someone like that dealer and wash my hands of you.’ He stared at Flaminius for a moment to let his words sink in. ‘Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘That’s better. Now let’s get you something to eat, and then find you something better to wear. You’ll need travel clothes and a good pair of boots. Come.’

  He returned his purse to the chest and then led the way back to the kitchen, where Macro and the others looked up from the table to scrutinise the new arrival. Cassius let out a soft growl until Macro took his collar and pulled him gently back. Lucius smiled a greeting and Flaminius nodded back before turning his attention to Macro and Petronella.

  ‘This is Flaminius,’ said Cato. ‘He will serve as my body slave from now on. This is my son, Lucius, who you will recall from the market; Centurion Macro, the senior officer in my cohort, and Petronella, his wife. The dog is mine. He’s been tamed, after a fashion. You can sit at the end of the table. Petronella, this man needs some food. Would you see to it, please?’

  She rose from the bench next to Lucius and went to the store cupboard. While she searched the shelves, Macro turned to Flaminius.

  ‘I hear you’re a veteran of the Fourth Scythica.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Served twenty-six years.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro nodded. ‘Can’t say I know much about the Fourth, except that they’ve been a garrison unit for quite a while. I guess you didn’t get to see much action.’

  ‘We had some trouble from time to time with the brigands in the hills, sir. We didn’t spend all our time drinking and whoring.’

  Petronella returned from the storeroom with bread, cheese and some cuts of meat left over from the wedding feast. Cassius sat up expectantly and then let out a soft whine as the food passed by him. The veteran’s eyes widened as the fare was set down in front of him. He began to eat at once, his jaw working furiously as he chewed on a hunk of bread. Cato made do with what was left of the porridge. He was not feeling hungry. His mind was consumed by thou
ghts of the embassy to Parthia: the preparations he would need to make for the journey and the arrangements in case he did not return.

  Once Flaminius had finished eating, Cato sent him to the slave quarters at the rear of the house, where he could wash himself at the water trough. Meanwhile Cato found some old clothes from his chest, together with a worn but serviceable pair of army boots. After he had handed them over, he found Macro waiting for him in the garden.

  ‘What’s the matter, brother?’

  ‘I take it your new slave will be joining you for your little jaunt through Parthia.’

  ‘He will. He might be of some use.’

  ‘So might I.’

  Cato sighed. ‘Macro, my mind is made up. I’d be a damn sight happier knowing that you’re around to take care of the cohort, and my son, if the embassy goes badly. There’s no one else I’d trust to bring the boy up if I am lost. Apart from me, Lucius has no family. You are close to him, and I’m sure you and Petronella will do him proud. And there’s the dog.’

  ‘You’re not taking Cassius with you?’

  ‘It’s an embassy, Macro, not a hunting party. I don’t want him causing a diplomatic incident by biting some Parthian noble, or trying to hump their leg. Cassius stays here, out of trouble.’

  ‘I’m not so sure he’ll manage that. But my lass will keep him in line.’

  Cato smiled. It was true that the beast doted on Petronella and, for some reason, obeyed her as if she was Jupiter himself. Then again, so did Macro most of the time.

  ‘Macro, don’t worry about me. I’ve been in worse places before and survived to share the tale.’

  ‘I know. But Parthia’s different. They’ve been the most bitter of our enemies since the time of Sulla. I doubt they’ll be interested in peace. And certainly not on the terms Corbulo is offering.’

  ‘Maybe, but if I can’t get them to agree to peace, then I hope I can at least buy the general time to ready the army for war. Anything’s possible, Macro.’

  ‘But not everything is probable, lad.’