Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  Portius edged back and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, sir. If I could give you everything you wanted I would. But I have to d-decide which commander’s requests are justified.’

  ‘And I’ve just told you why mine are. From now on you are going to see to it that my Thracians and Centurion Macro’s legionaries are given what are they are due and what they need. If you don’t then I am going to hunt you down at headquarters, or wherever you drink with your friends, and I’m going to give you a bollocking in front of them that neither you nor they are going to forget anytime soon. Is that clear?’

  Portius nodded nervously. ‘Quite c-clear, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then see to it that our rations are issued on time, and in the right amount, first thing tomorrow. Same goes for the leather and other kit I’ve asked for.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato stared at the tribune for a moment longer, to make the most of the young officer’s discomfort. Then he continued in a menacing tone, ‘Don’t let me have any cause to repeat this ever again . . .’

  ‘No, sir. Never again. I swear, by the gods.’

  ‘The gods will be the least of your worries. If you fail me, and I fail the army, then some enemy warrior is going to carve you up. And if he doesn’t then I will.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m promising you.’ Cato narrowed his eyes and spoke softly. ‘Now, get out my sight before I forget the legal niceties and just wring your wretched neck myself.’

  Portius backed away a few steps before he dared to turn and hurry from the tent as Cato glared after him. Once the tribune had gone, Cato relaxed and allowed himself a small smile. It had felt good to unnerve the younger officer. And it had been good for the other man as well. Hopefully from now on he would do his job properly. At the same time, the fact that he had bullied another person and felt pleasure from it troubled Cato. He had seen enough bullying in the army in his time to know that while it worked to get a job done in the short term, it undermined the recipients in the longer term. That aside, he had had a glimpse of himself being the cause of and enjoying the discomfort of another person. It was not an edifying experience and he felt the burden of shame settle on his shoulders as he made to leave the tent.

  ‘Bravo, Prefect Cato.’

  He turned quickly and saw that he was not the last officer remaining in the tent as he had thought. A figure detached itself from the shadows at the side and moved into the glow of the oil lamps. It was the legate of the Fourteenth, Quintatus, the man who Cato had suspected of having a hand in sending him to take command of the fort at Bruccium, a task that had nearly cost him and Macro their lives.

  Quintatus smiled. ‘Nice piece of beasting there. The pathetic little whelp deserved it. Too many of the junior tribunes fetch up in the army thinking it’s some kind of a game. A chance to get away from their families and still carry on behaving like the other drunken rakes in Rome. Discipline is what they need and discipline is what the army gives them.’

  Cato took a deep breath. ‘I was simply reminding him of his duties, sir.’

  ‘Of course you were, and you did a good job of it.’

  The legate regarded him for a moment, his cold eyes twinkling as he sized Cato up. ‘You think that being given the command of the baggage train escort is some kind of a punishment, don’t you?’

  ‘Someone has to do it,’ Cato replied flatly.

  ‘True. But why you? That’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘What I think is my own business, sir.’

  ‘Maybe. But perhaps you are right to think there’s a reason behind it, Cato. You’re marked as one of Narcissus’s men, no matter what you do. Narcissus is not the only man to have a private organisation of agents working for him. Pallas is the same. Another bloody imperial freedman with grand ambitions. And just as crafty and dangerous as his rival, Narcissus. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that Pallas will have agents on the staff of General Ostorius. And they won’t shirk from doing you down.’

  ‘So I’ve seen,’ Cato replied, watching Quintatus closely. ‘Are you one of Pallas’s men?’

  ‘Me?’ Quintatus laughed. ‘Fortunately not. I’m too high-born for that. Those Greek freedmen prefer not to work with public figures if they can avoid it. Better to use the kind of people who can’t achieve the highest offices in the empire and therefore do not constitute a threat to the likes of Pallas and Narcissus. So rest easy on that account.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you are aware of Pallas’s plans with respect to me.’

  ‘I was told to make your life difficult.’

  ‘I think it was more than that. I think you were told to make it difficult for me to survive my last command.’

  Quintatus shrugged. ‘It might have come to that. Fortunately it didn’t. You came through your experiences at Bruccium and learned that you were too good an officer to be thrown away on the whim of some freedman in Rome. You have nothing to fear from me, Cato.’

  Cato gave a wry smile. ‘You say that now . . .’

  The other man frowned. ‘Please yourself. I merely wished to put your mind at ease on my account. The danger comes from another direction.’

  Cato felt a tiny trickle of icy fear work its way down the nape of his neck. ‘Who? The general?’

  ‘Ostorius? Hardly. He’s a straight as they come. You think that’s the reason for your being posted to the baggage escort?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ Cato admitted.

  ‘You were chosen for other reasons,’ Quintatus said wearily. ‘In fact it was my suggestion. Both units of the Bruccium garrison had suffered grievously. There aren’t enough of your men left to take their place in the battle line. I have no doubt about their fighting quality, and sought to put your men where they could do the most good. That’s the reason. I’m not trying to undermine you.’

  Cato thought it through and saw that there was sense to it. He was even slightly flattered by the thought that he and his men were well regarded by the legate. But he still could not bring himself to trust Quintatus.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He said wearily.

  ‘Think nothing of it. I just wanted you to know that your quality is known by your superiors. I, for one, would sooner have you fighting at my side than stick a knife in your back.’

  ‘That’s gratifying to hear.’

  The legate cocked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t push your luck . . . We’d better get a good night’s sleep before the hunt.’

  Without waiting for a reply Quintatus turned away and strode out of the tent. Cato closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. His heart was heavy with foreboding. The very reason that Narcissus had pulled some strings to get a posting for Macro and him in Britannia was to get them far away from the scheming of the imperial freedmen. Especially as Macro had witnessed an intimate encounter between Pallas and the Emperor’s new wife, Agrippina. Now it seemed that the reach of Pallas comfortably extended to the very wildest frontier in the empire.

  A nasty thought struck Cato. It was just possible that Narcissus had sent them here for reasons other than their safety. It would be typical of the man. In which case they faced danger on two fronts: the enemy warriors to their front, and the agents of Pallas at their backs.

  His heart felt heavy and a terrible tiredness seemed to settle on his shoulders. Was there no escaping the machinations of those who played their deadly game of self-advancement in the shadow of the Emperor? One thing was certain, he must be careful and watch for signs of danger. If the agents of Pallas were already in Britannia, and if they believed that he and Macro were still acting on the orders of Narcissus then they would take every opportunity to remove them from the game, as they saw it.

  ‘Fuck . . .’ Cato muttered to himself bitterly as he trudged out of the tent and began to make his way back to the tents of the esc
ort units. ‘Why me? Why Macro?’

  He smiled at himself. He knew exactly what Macro would say to that. The same thing he habitually said when faced with such questions: ‘Because we’re here, Cato, my lad. Because we’re here.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Fine morning for it!’ Cato stretched his back and looked up into the clear heavens. Not a cloud was in sight and there was no wind. The air was still damp and cool and he breathed deeply. He had tried his best to dismiss his concerns the previous night when he returned to his tent. Instead he forced himself to think of Julia and the house he planned to build in Campania one day, once he had amassed a fortune from booty earned during his duty. There had been precious little of that so far, but if the campaign in Britannia came to a successful conclusion there would be riches to be made from selling prisoners to the slave dealers. That, and a share of any gold and silver taken. More than enough to buy a slice of the peace and quiet of Campania, where he and Julia could raise a family, and he could take his place amongst the magistrates of the nearest town. Perhaps Macro might choose to live nearby and they could drink and recall the old days. On such wistful thoughts he had easily drifted off to sleep.

  ‘What’s that?’ Macro growled, his head in his hands. He was sitting on the other stool warming himself by the freshly lit fire in front of Cato’s tent. ‘Fine morning? What’s fine about it?’

  Cato could not help smiling at his friend’s discomfort. Macro never drank with any thought of the consequences.

  ‘Clear skies, clean air and the prospect of a day’s hunt. Cause enough to feel in a fine mood.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Ah, here’s Thraxis.’ Cato sat down as his servant walked up with a heavy iron pot, a thick rag wrapped round the handle to protect his hand. He placed it close to the fire before removing the lid. In his other hand he carried two mess tins and a wooden ladle.

  ‘What do you have for us?’ asked Cato with a quick wink as he craned his neck to peer into the pot.

  ‘Thought you could use something hearty to fill your stomachs for the day, Prefect.’ The servant dipped the ladle in and stirred the thick grey contents of the pot.

  ‘It’s gruel with bacon, fat and some honey I bought in the traders’ market last night.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Ah! That’s good.’

  Thraxis hefted a dollop out of the pot and flicked it into one of the mess tins with a dull splat. He handed it to Cato along with a spoon. ‘There you are, Prefect.’

  Cato nodded his thanks and raised the mess tin. He took a small spoonful and blew across it before tentatively taking his first taste. It was hot and flavoursome and he eagerly helped himself to another, while his servant filled the next mess tin for Macro and offered it to the centurion.

  ‘Sir?’

  Macro looked up, bleary-eyed and with a thick growth of stubble on his cheeks. He reluctantly took the mess tin.

  ‘Thraxis,’ Cato intervened. ‘Have our boots, cloaks and canteens ready for us once we’ve eaten.’

  ‘Yes, Prefect.’

  Cato turned his attention back to his friend. It was several days since Macro had been to the barber for his last shave and he was starting to look more untamed than the wildest of Celts, Cato mused. His friend’s hair was beginning to go grey at the temples and, if Cato was not imagining it, receding a fraction from his forehead. Hardly surprising as Macro was in his fortieth year and had spent twenty-four years in the army, having lied about his age to join at sixteen. Cato paused before eating his next spoon of gruel and cleared his throat.

  ‘Any thoughts about what you’re going to do when we get to the end of the year?’

  Macro had been staring at the mess tin in his lap, wondering if he dare try to eat some of the concoction Thraxis had produced, suspicious that Cato’s servant had deliberately gone for a meal that was guaranteed to turn the stomach of even the hardest old soak in the legions. He looked up at Cato. ‘Mmmm?’

  ‘This is your demob year. You’re on the short enlistment. So?’

  Macro worked his spoon round the gruel. The legions discharged time-served men every other year, which meant that soldiers served a twenty-four or twenty-six year enlistment. He braced himself and took a spoon and chewed it slowly, forcing himself to swallow before he replied.

  ‘Had a letter from my mum in Londinium. The inn she bought is making a packet and she wants me to join her and expand the business.’

  ‘Oh?’

  This was the first Cato had heard of the letter, and he felt a twinge of anxiety as he regarded his friend, the man he had served with ever since joining the Second Legion as a pasty-faced recruit ten years ago. Life in the army without Macro was unthinkable, but he had to accept that his friend was reaching the end of his enlistment and might well choose to take his discharge bounty and retire.

  Macro considered a second spoonful and decided against it for the moment. He looked up at Cato. ‘I don’t know, lad. Sometimes I think I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for soldiering. Can’t deny the prospect of running a drinking hole for the rest of my days isn’t tempting.’

  ‘And you handle your drink so well,’ Cato smiled.

  ‘I don’t get as much practice as I’d like.’

  ‘I think regular practice would kill you, on the evidence of this morning.’

  ‘If anything is going to kill me, it’s this bloody poison your servant has mixed. Might as well cut out the middle man.’ Macro turned and flicked the contents of the mess tin into the fire where the gruel steamed, bubbled, spat and hissed for a moment. He scratched his chin in thought. ‘I don’t know, Cato. My limbs are getting a bit stiff. I ain’t as strong or as quick as I used to be, and in this trade that isn’t good. I’ve been in plenty of fights. Good times, eh? Up until this year I’ve fought well enough. But lately? I get the feeling that I’ve already been as good a soldier as I am ever going to be. From here, it’s downhill. At some point, I’m bound to run into an enemy I can’t beat. When that day comes the chances are I’ll be cut to pieces. It might be for the best if I quit before that happens.’

  Cato had been listening with a sinking heart. When Macro finished he looked at him to see how he would respond.

  Cato shook his head slowly. ‘Well, I have to say, I’m surprised. I’d never have thought you’d be the one to jack in soldiering to run an inn. There’s still plenty of fight left in you as far as I’m concerned, and of course it’d be a sad loss for the army . . .’ The string of platitudes dried up and Cato sat in awkward silence, not quite certain how to voice his real reasons for not wanting Macro to take his discharge.

  His friend was watching his downcast expression closely and suddenly he could contain his mirth no longer and let out a roar of laughter.

  ‘If you could see your face! It’s a bloody picture!’

  Cato was startled by the sudden transformation. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Just fucking about with you, lad! Paying you back for that shit you had Thraxis put together. Think I didn’t see that wink?’

  ‘You mean . . . You aren’t thinking of leaving the army?’

  ‘What? Are you mad? What else can I do? I’d be bloody useless on civvy street.’

  It was hard not to show his relief, even though he was annoyed by the petty trick. Cato wagged a finger at him.

  ‘Next time, I’ll give orders for your discharge myself. Just to make certain.’

  ‘Oh sure. Anyway, you’ll not get your chance. I’ve already handed in my request to extend my enlistment. Just waiting to hear back from the legate, and then I’m signed up for another ten years.’ He leaned forward and clapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily!’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Cato said with feeling and hurriedly turned his attention back to his breakfast, determined not to let his rel
ief show.

  The grizzled veteran smiled to himself, touched by the sentiment of his younger friend. His gaze returned to the pot by the fire. A thin trail of steam curled up from the gruel and he felt his stomach lurch in disgust at the very idea of trying to eat.

  ‘You should try some,’ Cato urged. ‘Or you’ll be hungry later on.’

  ‘Eat that? No fucking chance. I’d sooner lick a turd off a stinging nettle.’

  ‘Interesting notion.’ Cato stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ll see if Thraxis has the recipe.’

  It was mid-morning before the hunting party had gathered at the entrance to the vale General Ostorious had chosen for the site of the day’s entertainment. There were over a hundred officers, with their mounts, and twice as many soldiers and servants, together with several carts carrying the necessary equipment and provisions. A table had been set up beside a brazier and as the officers arrived they were given a cup of heated wine. Macro downed his with an appreciative smack of his lips as if the previous night had never happened. The soldiers assigned to act as beaters began to quietly file up the vale and work their way around the sides to the far end. Other men set to work erecting the wicker screens that would funnel the deer and boar into the killing zone. Once that was done they began to take out the hunting bows and arrow-filled quivers from one of the carts and lay them out on a leather groundsheet to keep them off the dew-dampened grass.