The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  He hurried down the stairs and out of the inn before striding over to the edge of the quay and looking about. A short distance away, two fishermen were landing the morning’s catch, the scales of the fish in their baskets gleaming like freshly minted denarii.

  ‘You there!’ Cato pointed to them. ‘Yes, you! Take me out to that ship. At once.’

  One of the men lowered the basket he was holding and made to protest, but Cato had already scrambled down the crude stepladder and landed heavily on the deck of the small boat. It swayed slightly and he clutched the mast for support.

  ‘Get moving. There’s a sestertius for each of you if you do as I say.’

  The man who had been holding the basket immediately told his companion to cast off the mooring, then the two of them took their places on the rowing benches and positioned their oars in the holding pins. With the first man calling the time, they eased the boat away from the quay. Once they had turned towards the anchored ship, they began to pull hard on the oars and the boat lurched into motion, surging across the light swell of the harbour. Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that people along the quay had stopped to stare at the anchored cargo ship. On the terrace, Claudia was also watching.

  As they approached, the soldier at the bows lowered his arms and Cato heard a shout above the creak of the oars and the swish of the blades. Then the man suddenly stopped and slumped out of sight.

  ‘Bring the boat alongside,’ Cato ordered.

  The fishermen did as they were told, expertly manoeuvring against the hull with a soft bump. Cato reached for the wooden boarding rails on the side of the cargo vessel and pulled himself up, climbing over the ship’s rail and dropping onto the deck. He saw the bodies at once; some hunched up, others sprawled out. A few were still moving, and a handful of the crew were on their feet, swaying as they held on to the shrouds. There were streaks of vomit, puddles of urine and brown stains around most of the bodies. His first thought was that the crew had been attacked by pirates. But there was no sign of blood.

  ‘Go!’ a voice cried out plaintively. ‘Get off the ship!’

  He turned to the bows and saw the soldier sitting with his back to the side rail, his body trembling fitfully.

  ‘Save yourself,’ the man croaked.

  Cato approached him warily, stepping round the body of another soldier lying on his back, staring at the sky, his mouth hanging open. A puff of wind blew a terrible acrid stench directly at him and he clasped a hand to his mouth and struggled to stop himself retching. Cato was two paces away from the soldier when he realised what had happened, and he felt the blood turn cold in his veins.

  ‘The sickness killed those men?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Galerus, sir . . . senior centurion of the Eighth Hispanic Cohort.’

  ‘You’ve come from Carales, then. Is Prefect Bastillus on board? And Vestinus?’

  ‘Vestinus was sick the day he came aboard and died the second day out. One of the first to go, sir. The captain wanted to put into the nearest port, but the wind veered and took us out to sea for the next three days. More got sick and died as we waited for the wind to change. By the time it did, only half the crew were still on their feet, besides the captain.’ He paused and let out a moan before convulsing and throwing up a bilious green fluid that splattered down his tunic and between his legs. When he had recovered, and wiped his lips on the back of his hand, Cato spoke again.

  ‘What are the conditions in Carales?’

  ‘Bad, sir. Hundreds dead by the time we left, and more dropping in the streets. The same in the fort. And here on the ship . . . You’d better go.’

  The idea of abandoning the survivors on board the ship revolted Cato, but there was no telling how many lives would be lost if he allowed the sick to land at Tharros. And every moment that he remained aboard, he himself was at risk. Galerus was right. He must leave, swiftly. But first he must give the crew their orders. Turning to face the men watching anxiously from the stern, he called out to them.

  ‘Which one of you is the captain?’

  A short, skinny man with bow legs raised his hand. ‘That’s me, sir. Captain Alekandros.’

  Avoiding the sick and the dead on deck, Cato approached so that his words would not be overheard. ‘Alekandros. You cannot stay in this port. You must return to Carales, and remain there until the sickness has gone.’

  The captain’s jaw dropped, then he gestured to the men still living on the deck. ‘How in Hades do you expect us to manage the ship short-handed, and care for those who are still alive? In any case, who are you to tell me what to do, eh?’

  Cato could see the strain and fear in the man’s expression and adopted as gentle a tone as he could. ‘I am Prefect Cato, commander of the island’s garrison. I am giving you an order. I cannot permit you to land here and risk spreading the sickness. Surely you understand that?’

  Alekandros let out a bitter groan and scratched his head before his shoulders slumped. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Have you or the other survivors shown any signs of the sickness?’

  The captain shook his head. ‘Stephanos had a fever before we left Carales, that’s all.’

  ‘Then you may have been spared the sickness. Is there anything you need before you leave? Water? Food?’

  ‘We’ve more than enough.’

  ‘Very well. I have one last thing to ask of you. When you reach Carales, report to the senior officer of the Eighth Cohort. Tell him he is to use what men he still has to close the town gates. No one is to enter or leave until the pestilence has disappeared or until there are fresh orders from me. Is that clear?’

  The captain nodded.

  ‘The gods be with you, Alekandros.’

  Cato turned and made his way to the bow, pausing as he came to Galerus.

  ‘Good luck, brother. I wish I could do more to help.’

  ‘Go, sir . . . I’ll be all right.’ The centurion smiled weakly before his face contorted in agony and he retched and coughed violently. Cato felt some of the sputum spray onto his hand and forearm, and backed off a step. Galerus gritted his teeth and waved him away as a fresh bout of retching began.

  There was nothing to be done for the man, and Cato hurried forward and climbed over the rail before dropping awkwardly into the fishing boat. He kept his distance from the men at the oars, sitting on the tiny weathered board at the prow.

  ‘Cast off and get us back to the quay.’

  The fishermen did as they were told. The nearest looked over his shoulder as he rowed. ‘What happened on that ship, sir?’

  Cato did not reply; he was looking at the droplets on his forearm. He reached hurriedly over the side and washed his hand and arm in seawater before he sat up again.

  ‘Ease oars!’

  The fishermen waited for an explanation. Cato was thinking hard. There was too much at stake for him to risk returning to the quay where he had boarded the fishing boat. He pointed to a flight of steps close to the end of the mole, where there was a small tower at the top of which a beacon burned at night to guide any ships still at sea to the harbour.

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just do it.’

  The fisherman shrugged his muscled shoulders. ‘It’s your money, sir. Come on, my lad,’ he called to his companion. ‘Let’s do as the gent says.’

  As the small craft turned towards the end of the mole, Cato felt fear stirring in the pit of his stomach. If the sickness struck Tharros, many thousands would die. It was his duty to do all he could to prevent that, even at the cost of his own life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cato tossed the fishermen their coins and waited a moment to judge the movement of the boat before leaping across the narrow gap onto the small stone platform at the foot of the stairs. He climbed to the top and approached the tower. The keeper was outside, tending a griddle above the glow of charcoal. The smell of sardines wafted toward
s Cato as he stopped a short distance behind the man.

  ‘You there!’

  The keeper turned, his iron tongs raised in one hand.

  ‘I need the tower. And I need you to run an errand for me.’

  ‘What?’ The man tilted his head to one side and frowned.

  ‘I need you to do something for me,’ Cato repeated in a louder voice.

  ‘I’m busy. I’m cooking.’ The keeper waved the tongs. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I don’t have the time for this.’ Cato drew his sword and took a step closer. ‘You’ll do as I say or I’ll cut you down to size.’

  The two men faced each other for a beat before the keeper lowered his tongs and placed them by the grille.

  ‘That’s better.’ Cato relaxed his posture and pointed to the terrace where Claudia was still watching events. ‘See that woman. I want you to go to her and tell her I need to speak to her urgently. Go!’

  The tower keeper shot a concerned look at his meal. ‘Look after my fish.’

  He hurried off down the mole. Cato watched him go and then sheathed his sword. He looked out over the harbour towards the cargo ship. He could see the three crewmen hauling at the anchor cable. A wash of glittering water showed as the iron flukes surged out of the sea and rose up the bow until the iron ring jammed against the hole and the cable was secured. The ship was drifting to windward in the direction of the mole, and Cato felt a fleeting surge of anxiety that it would run aground before the crew could get it under way. But then the spar rose from the deck, the sail flapping beneath it as it ascended the mast and filled, and the captain hurried to the stern to take charge of the tiller, easing the ship round until it was heading for the open sea. Cato could make out the figure of Galerus leaning against the side rail, and he raised his arm and waved. The auxiliary officer waved back and then slid onto the deck and sat hunched over his knees.

  A sharp smell caught Cato’s attention, and he saw that one of the sardines was burning. Snatching up the tongs, he moved the charred fish to the edge of the grille and turned the others over. Even though he had eaten not long before, the aroma was enticing, and he put three of the fish onto a wooden platter and sat down beside the door of the tower. Peeling the flesh off the fine bones, he ate with little relish as he watched the keeper reach the inn and call up to Claudia. There was a brief exchange before she emerged and hurried after him along the mole. The two Germans followed her, still holding the straw bags packed with her shopping.

  Cato finished the fish and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then raised his arms.

  ‘Stop! Don’t come any closer!’

  ‘What’s happened to my bloody sardines?’ the keeper demanded, striding forward.

  ‘Stay back!’ Cato ordered. ‘Unless you want to die.’

  The warning in his tone was enough to halt the man, and Cato continued to address the small group loudly enough that they would all hear him. ‘That ship came from Carales. The town is in the grip of the sickness. Most of the men on the ship were dead or dying. That’s why I sent them away. You must not come any closer to me. I went aboard; I was close to those who were sick. It may have spread to me already and I can’t risk letting what is happening in Carales happen here.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Claudia. ‘Shall I send for the cohort’s surgeon?’

  ‘No. I am going to stay here alone for the next ten days. If the sickness is already upon me, we’ll know by then. If nothing has happened, we can assume it’s safe for me to return to the fort. I’ll take shelter in the tower. I want you to post one of your German friends at the other end of the mole. He’s to let no one past, unless they are one of my men. Then I want you to get to the fort as soon as you can. Find Plancinus and Apollonius and tell them what’s happened. I need to see them as soon as possible. Plancinus will have to take command whilst I am quarantined . . . Have you got all that?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘It’s too early to say. I’ll make sure someone lets you know if anything happens. Now please go . . . Wait. Can you find somewhere for this man while I use his tower?’

  ‘He can stay at the villa.’

  The keeper looked from one to the other. ‘What’s that? Leave my home? No! I’m not going anywhere. I want you out. Leave me alone to finish what’s left of my bloody sardines!’

  Claudia took his arm and drew him away as he continued to protest. One of the German guards grabbed a fold of his tunic at the back of his neck and steered him firmly down the mole to the harbour front, where a small crowd had gathered to watch the unusual turn of events. Already, Cato imagined, rumours were spreading through the throng, quicker than any sickness but almost as dangerous in the longer term. It would not help his plans for the coming campaign for panic to grip the streets of Tharros. Of course, it would be worse if the sickness really did take hold of the port. Shops and businesses would close, people would retreat into their homes, and soon food would become scarce; and all the time the death toll would mount and the stench of putrefaction would add to the woes of the town’s inhabitants. It was better that they knew the truth about the cargo ship from Carales, he decided. And that he had chosen to isolate himself rather than risk the lives of others. People needed to believe that those who led them shared the risks and put themselves in the same jeopardy as everyone else.

  While he waited for Plancinus and Apollonius to arrive, he finished off the sardines and inspected the keeper’s accommodation in the tower. The ground floor was used for the fuel for the signal beacon. Logs and kindling were neatly stacked along the walls, together with small tubs of pitch. A ladder led up to the living quarters on the next floor. The keeper was a neat man, and his spare clothes hung on pegs by the ladder leading to the top of the tower. There was a comfortable bed-roll and a stool beside a low table upon which lay an array of sharp knives, chisels and a small hammer, with the work in progress – a beautifully carved head and neck of a horse – emerging from a block of wood. Climbing the last ladder, Cato came out onto the roof of the tower. A waist-high parapet was sheltered by a shingled roof with a vent in the middle. Beneath that was the brazier, an iron-framed basket four feet across. Logs and fuel were stacked in one corner and the fire had been prepared for the night. With a sinking feeling, Cato realised that it would fall to him to ensure that the signal beacon stayed alight each night of his quarantine.

  Leaning on the parapet, he looked out to sea and saw Alekandros’s ship steering across the ocean. It was already at least two miles away and had not yet turned south. Perhaps the captain was concerned to give himself plenty of sea room now that he was short-handed. Cato offered a quick prayer to Neptune to guide the vessel safely to its destination so that his orders could reach whoever was in command of the cohort at Carales. The gods only knew what havoc the sickness was playing in the south of the island, and it was vital that the region was quarantined as effectively as possible to spare the rest of the province, and to stop the pestilence spreading to Italia and beyond.

  It was late in the afternoon before he saw Claudia returning with Plancinus and Apollonius. He had not been expecting her to come back but was pleased to see her. Climbing down the ladders, he emerged from the base of the tower and waited until they were close enough for him to be heard above the waves breaking on the far side of the mole.

  ‘Stay back,’ he ordered when they were twenty feet away. ‘No closer.’

  They stopped, and Plancinus frowned. ‘Is this necessary, sir?’

  ‘We have to play safe.’

  ‘How close did you get to the infected men on the ship?’ asked Apollonius.

  ‘Close enough. I’ll stay here until I’m certain there’s no risk to anyone else. I’ll need food and drink brought to me each day. And some spare clothes.’

  ‘I can take care of that,’ said Claudia.

  ‘There’s no need, my lady.’ Plancinus shook his head. ‘I’ll get one of the men—’

  ‘I said I’ll do it,’ s
he snapped. ‘You and your men have better things to do with your time, I’m sure.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Careful, Centurion.’ Cato grinned. ‘Her bite is worse than her bark.’

  He ignored the scowl on her face as he recalled the duties for the two men that he had prepared in his head. He began by relating the orders he had given to Alekandros to pass on to the cohort at Carales. ‘We can’t count on the ship making it back to port, though. I want a message sent to the cohort ordering them to quarantine the town. Make sure the courier is instructed to keep his distance from anyone. If he is touched by anyone who looks as if they might be sick, he must stay in Carales until the pestilence has passed. I want mounted patrols sent to cover the roads leading north from the town. No one is to be permitted to leave. Anyone who tries is to be turned back. If they resist, then arrows or javelins are to be used on them. No sense in getting close enough for sword work. You need to impress upon the men of the patrols that the sickness can easily be passed on, and if it is, they will be left to fend for themselves.’

  Plancinus sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘They’ll not want to abandon their mates like that, sir.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. It’s up to you to make it clear to them the danger of letting the sickness spread throughout the island. It’ll be their families and anyone who knows them that’ll pay the price if they fuck up.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How does this affect the plans for the campaign?’ asked Apollonius.

  Cato considered this briefly. ‘It shouldn’t make too much difference. I want you to report to me daily. We’ll talk through anything that requires attention and you can relay it back to Plancinus at the fort. You’re in command in my absence, Centurion. I want you to keep training the infantry. Work ’em hard so that we’re ready to move in on the enemy the moment my quarantine period is over. Get the supplies to the outposts in time for that. And when the prefect from the Fourth Illyrian cohort arrives, have him brought to me. Is all that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They stood silently for a beat before Cato spoke again. ‘That’s all for now. You’d better get on with it.’