The news in Rome is that Ostorius is seeking an end to the campaign in Britannia to coincide with the end of his generalship. Father says that the Emperor has let it be known that such a victory is worthy of an Ovation. Inevitably the senators will vote accordingly. If so, then you are sure to be amongst those officers honoured alongside Ostorius in Rome. I pray so. It is no more than you deserve for your service to the Emperor.
Meanwhile, the Emperor grows old and the city is rife with rumour over who will succeed him. Though Britannicus is his natural child, it seems that the Emperor’s new wife is doing all in her power to push the interests of her son, Nero. I cannot say I care for him. He lavishes praise and affection on his adoptive father way beyond the bounds of sincerity. And behind the scenes, Father says, the real struggle is between Claudius’s closest advisers, Pallas and your old acquaintance, Narcissus. When there is a new Emperor one of them is not likely to survive the event.
But I grow weary of politics. Especially as I have been writing this while steeling myself to give you news of more import to the two of us. Father and I have found a house on the Quirinal that will suit us. No palace to be sure, but large and airy, with a small garden courtyard. A fine home for my dearest husband to return to, who, by the time he does, will be more than a husband. My darling Cato, I am with child. I am certain of it. Our child. The seed of you grows within me and it makes me feel closer to you, though you be on the far side of the empire. I must finish this message now, the merchant is ready to depart. I send this, with all my heart, your loving wife, Julia.
Cato felt a surge of ardour and affection swell in his heart. A child. Their child. It would be born in the autumn. Cato felt a sense of loss. He would not be there with Julia when the child came. In fact it was likely that he would not see the child for some years. The moment passed and the prospect of being a father lifted his spirits beyond all measure and banished all thought of weariness and the coming battle. He re-read the letter, this time savouring every phrase, every word, hearing Julia speak them in his mind. At length he refolded the letter and replaced it in its cover before carefully tucking it into his belt. He must tell Macro. He had to share his joy and they must celebrate.
The tent set up for the army’s officers was a short distance from headquarters and as Cato strode towards it he could hear the sounds of laughter and the hubbub of lively conversation. He was surprised, given the dour mood in the general’s tent shortly before. Perhaps the officers were drowning their anxieties in wine and the sweet beer brewed by the natives that had become popular with the soldiers serving in Britannia.
Ducking through the tent flaps, Cato was enveloped in the warm fug inside. The smell of drink mingled with the men’s sweat and the acrid odour of woodsmoke. The sound of men’s voices was deafening, but Cato’s attention was instantly drawn to the individual who dominated the scene. In the middle of the tent stood the wife of Tribune Otho. She was surrounded by younger officers and a handful of older veterans, somewhat sheepishly enjoying the rare charm of a woman’s company. She had just finished some remark and the men around her roared with laughter. At her side, his arm lightly about her waist, stood Otho, beaming with pleasure.
‘And who is this dashing character?’
Cato’s gaze flicked back to Poppaea and he saw that she was smiling at him. He hesitated, anxious to find Macro and share his news, but at the same time mindful of social niceties. He approached the woman, and the officers parted before him until he took her hand and bowed his head. Her skin was soft and white and just before she released her formal grip on his hand she gave it a quick squeeze.
‘Prefect Cato, my lady. Commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’
‘And guardian of the army’s column of whores!’ a voice called out from the crowd.
There was a quick chorus of laughter from some of the officers before Otho spoke. ‘And this is my wife, Poppaea Sabrina.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Prefect. As it is to meet any of my new husband’s comrades.’
Cato fumbled for an appropriate reply and gushed, ‘The pleasure is mine, my lady.’
‘Spoken like a happily married man,’ she replied with a mischievous smile. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’
Cato bowed his head and backed away and she turned her attention back to the other officers. He glanced round and saw Macro over at the wine counter buying a small flask from the trader who had won the contract to supply the mess. Macro was reaching for his purse as Cato joined him.
‘Put that away. This one is on me.’ Cato turned to the merchant. ‘What is your best wine?’
‘Sir?’ The merchant was a dark-skinned easterner, wrapped in thick tunic and cap, despite the heat inside the tent.
‘Your best wine. What have you got?’
‘There’s the Arretian, but it’s five denarians a flask.’
Cato rummaged in his purse and slapped down the silver coins. ‘Fine. We’ll have that.’
‘A moment please.’ The merchant ducked under the counter and stood again, holding a slipware amphora. He carefully extracted the stopper and filled a jug before replacing the amphora in its place of safety.
‘What are we celebrating?’ Macro asked with a puzzled expression.
Cato did not reply but filled them each a cup before handing one to Macro. ‘There.’
Macro shook his head. ‘What’s this about, lad?’
‘It seems that I am going to be a father . . . Cheers!’
Macro’s eyebrows rose in surprise before a delighted expression creased his face.
Cato raised his cup and drank deeply, swigging down the fine wine as if it was water. As the last dreg dripped into his mouth he set it down on the counter with a sharp rap. ‘Ahhhh!’
Macro grinned widely, revealing his uneven stained teeth. He downed his drink in half the time it had taken his friend and then threw his arms round Cato in a quick, crushing embrace.
‘Why, that’s bloody marvellous, lad! Bloody marvellous news!’ He released Cato and stood back, still grinning. ‘When?’
‘I-I don’t know. Julia just says that she is with child.’
‘That’s wonderful . . . I suppose that makes me a kind of uncle figure.’
‘No chance!’ Cato joked. ‘Julia won’t want our child swearing like a veteran before it can even walk.’
Macro growled and punched his friend lightly on the chest.
‘Gentlemen!’ a voice called from the entrance to the mess tent. All eyes turned towards the clerk holding a basket of waxed tablets. ‘Unit commanders! Your orders!’
The cheerful mood died instantly as the senior officers clustered round the clerk and waited their turn to receive their tablet.
Cato’s smile faded.
‘Never mind, lad. We’ll celebrate properly tomorrow night.’
‘Yes.’ Cato nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’
He took a deep breath and left Macro to pour another cup of wine as he crossed the tent and joined the others waiting to discover their role in the coming battle. A battle he would experience as a mere spectator.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Cato and Macro reached the headquarters tent of the baggage train escort, Thraxis ducked out of the tent flaps, the nearest campfire illuminating the concerned expression in his face.
‘Prefect, thank the gods you are here.’
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a man inside. He refuses to leave.’
Macro frowned. ‘What man?’
‘A wine merchant, sir.’
‘Wine merchant?’ Cato exchanged a puzzled look with his friend. ‘What is a wine merchant doing in my tent at this hour?’
Thraxis chewed his lip. ‘He says I cheated him, Prefect. I swear it’s not true.’
‘Cheated him? How?’
‘He says I paid him
in counterfeit coin, and that he’s come to demand that you have me condemned.’
Cato paused. Using counterfeit coins was a capital offence. The Emperor did not take kindly to criminals debasing the money on which his face had been struck. The coins he had given Thraxis were genuine. Freshly minted denarians. There was no question of them being forged. Now he must deal with the accusation laid at the door of his servant before he could get some sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of throwing the merchant out but knew that would only mean that the man would take his complaint to the general’s headquarters instead.
‘Oh, very well,’ he grumbled. ‘Macro, I’ll need you in on this.’
‘Me? Why?’
Cato looked at him knowingly. ‘Because you still have some of the same batch of coins that I do. You can vouch that they are genuine.’
Thraxis smiled gratefully and stepped aside to open the tent flaps for the two officers. Inside Cato’s headquarters tent there was only one person sitting on a stool. The two clerks in charge of the cohort’s records had gone off duty and the waxed slates and sheets of papyrus had been left in neat piles for them to resume the next day. There was only one lamp burning and the wine merchant’s face was barely visible in the gloom.
Cato regarded their visitor irritably. ‘My servant tells me that you wish to complain about the silver I gave him to pay you.’
The man rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Noble Prefect, I apologise profusely that I must intrude upon your evening, but I come here on a matter of utmost importance.’
‘Money.’ Macro sniffed. ‘That’s all that your kind value.’
The merchant raised his hands and shrugged. ‘Sir, it is the means by which we live. Who would not value it? But as I said, I must speak with the prefect. It would be best to send that Thracian dog away first.’
‘Why?’ asked Cato. ‘If you mean to accuse him, then do it to his face and let him answer your accusations.’
Thraxis stood silently at the threshold of the tent, his face strained. Cato was not sure if the man was grateful to be given the chance to defend himself or would rather let his commander do it for him. The prospect of the situation degenerating into a slanging match between the merchant and his servant was more than Cato could bear at this hour. He sighed and jerked his thumb towards the tent flaps.
‘Go and find some firewood. I want you to light the brazier in my sleeping quarters.’
‘Yes, Prefect.’ Thraxis bowed his head, and shooting a hateful glare at the wine merchant he ducked out of the tent and disappeared.
Cato slumped down on one of the clerks’ benches and scratched his head. Macro stood, arms folded, watching the visitor.
‘So,’ Cato began. ‘What’s the story?’
The wine merchant slowly stepped forward, closer to the oil lamp, and by its light Cato and Macro could make out his features. He wore a plain brown tunic and breeches beneath his green cloak and thick-soled boots. His hair was dark and his face thin and bony. Cato recognised him with a look of surprise.
‘Septimus . . .’
‘What?’ Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘Septimus? By the gods, you’re right. What in Jupiter’s name are you doing here?’
The imperial agent smiled faintly and dropped the singsong tone he had used when posing as the wine merchant. ‘And it’s delightful to see you again, Centurion Macro. Aren’t you going to ask me how my trip was?’
Macro’s mouth was slack with surprise as he stared at the man. It was Cato who recovered first and fixed his eyes firmly on Septimus. ‘Like Macro says, what are you doing here? Why the disguise?’
‘I can avoid drawing any unwanted attention to myself as Hipparchus the wine merchant,’ Septimus explained. ‘I bought the business off the real Hipparchus back in Londinium, as well as some useless oaf that the Greek was using to help him. Anyway, come, my friends.’ Septimus affected a hurt expression. ‘Is this any way to greet an old comrade in arms? Have you so quickly forgotten that we fought side by side against the Emperor’s enemies on the streets of Rome?’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Macro growled. ‘Any son of Narcissus is no comrade of mine.’
‘You’re breaking my heart, Centurion.’
‘Enough of this!’ Cato snapped. ‘Just explain what you are doing here. I don’t suppose for a moment that you’ve come to investigate minor outbreaks of counterfeiting on the outer reaches of the empire.’
Septimus’s mask of hurt pride disappeared. ‘Very well, let’s dispense with the pleasantries.’
‘Let’s!’ Macro said brusquely.
‘I’ve been sent here by my father.’
Macro held his head in his hands. ‘Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me that oily bastard doesn’t want to get us involved in some wretched scheme of his.’
‘Why did he send you?’ Cato demanded. ‘What does he want this time?’
Septimus looked offended. ‘Narcissus has sent me to warn you of a threat to both your lives. You are in grave danger.’
‘Really?’ Macro raised his hands. ‘Did you hear that, Cato? We’re in danger. Here, in the heart of enemy territory, on the eve of a battle. In danger. Who’d have believed it?’ He turned back towards Septimus. ‘It is the imperial intelligence service you both work for, isn’t it? Seems to me like you lot need to find yourselves a new title.’
‘Ha . . . ha . . .’ Septimus responded flatly. ‘Much as I enjoy the sophisticated repartee of you soldiers, the hour is late and time is short. It would be best to discuss the matter at hand.’
Cato nodded, and crossed the tent to close the leather flaps and then did the same for the entrance to his personal tent. There was another entrance that Thraxis could use when he returned with the wood to build a fire in the brazier.
‘Speak, then.’
Septimus settled on to a spare bench and collected his thoughts. ‘Four months ago we took one of Pallas’s agents off the street. We’d been following him for several days and noting that he had been to see a number of interesting characters in the city. Narcissus thought it was time to bring him in so we could have a quiet word.’
Cato did not have to imagine too hard the full meaning behind the euphemism and felt a chill in his spine as Septimus continued.
‘In the course of our conversation with this man, Musa was his name—’
‘Was?’ Macro arched an eyebrow.
Septimus shot him a look. ‘He is no longer relevant. Anyway, Musa revealed that Pallas had despatched an agent to Britannia to find and kill you two. As soon as Narcissus heard that he sent me here to warn you.’
‘We’re touched,’ said Macro. ‘How considerate of him.’
Cato stroked his chin and then shook his head. ‘Four months ago, you said. Then it has taken you quite a time to reach us to pass on the warning.’
‘It was a long journey. There were storms holding the ships back at Gesoriacum. It took me a while to track you down once I landed in Britannia.’ Septimus shrugged. ‘What can I say?’
Cato smiled slightly. ‘The truth would be nice.’
‘The truth is rarely nice. Trust me, I know.’
‘Trust?’ Cato shook his head. ‘That’s worth more than gold in this world, Septimus. It has to be earned. And Macro and I have done more than enough to earn it. So speak plainly. Why did it take so long for you to tell us about this threat?’
Septimus stared back, then took a deep breath before he spoke. ‘Narcissus believes that Pallas’s agents are here, and that they’re plotting to undermine the establishment of a province in Britannia. I was to try and uncover the full extent of Pallas’s plans. As well as passing on my father’s warning to you.’
‘That’s more like it.’ Macro patted Septimus on the back. ‘See? Speaking the truth doesn’t hurt.’
‘Try telling that to Musa,’ said Cato. ‘Not that
there’s any chance of that now. Right?’
Septimus pursed his lips and gave a shrug.
‘So what have you discovered?’ Cato demanded.
‘Precious little, actually. I don’t know who the other side’s agents are, nor how many of them are here. I do know that one of them arrived in Britannia recently. The one who has been sent to deal with you and Macro. I haven’t yet discovered his identity. Meanwhile, be on your guard. The moment I discover who he is I will let you know, and you can deal with him.’
‘Deal with him . . .’ Cato repeated slowly. ‘I see. This is the real purpose of your contacting us. Not to warn us, but to enlist our help. Narcissus wants this agent taken out of your little game and we’re supposed to help you. Is that it?’
Septimus smiled. ‘It wouldn’t hurt for you to assist my father, even if only to save your own necks.’
Macro let out a deep sigh of frustration and anger. ‘Let’s throw this little snake out of here, Cato. We’re done with Narcissus. We’re back in the army now. All this bollocks about agents and threats is nothing to us. That’s over.’
Cato shared the sentiment but as he scrutinised their visitor he grasped the essential reality of their situation and responded to his friend through gritted teeth. ‘I would that it were so, Macro. With all my heart. But there’s no escaping the consequences of what plays out back in Rome. It’ll never be over for us. Not until Pallas or Narcissus falls from grace. And when that happens you can be sure that anyone even remotely connected with the loser is going to pay a heavy price. Isn’t that right, Septimus?’
‘I fear so, Prefect. That is why it is important to be on the winning side in the conflict between Pallas and my father.’
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