The boy shook his head quickly. ‘Not yet.’
‘I’m sure you will be one day. You should have seen me when I was your age. Nothing but skin and bones, and I turned out all right.’
Macro looked at him with feigned shock, but Cato ignored his friend and continued, ‘Work your body hard and you could be a hero one day, and make your father proud.’
‘Or,’ Macro spoke under his breath, ‘you could end up as the dogsbody of a scheming imperial freedman …’
The barge captain’s smile faded a little. ‘I’m proud of him already.’
‘Of course you are,’ Cato replied quickly. ‘Come on, Macro, let’s be off.’
Swinging his kitbag up on to the fork at the end of the marching yoke, Cato carefully picked his way along the gangplank extending over the next boat and then up on to the wharf, feeling greatly relieved to have solid ground beneath his boots, even if it was covered with filth. Macro joined him and both men looked around for a moment to get their bearings.
‘Where did you say we were to meet that contact of Narcissus?’ asked Macro.
‘An inn called the Vineyard of Dionysus, on the north side of the Boarium. From what Narcissus said, it should be over that way.’ Cato indicated the civic buildings rising up beyond the end of the warehouse complex and they set off along the wharf. After the relative quiet of the streets of Ostia, the empire’s capital was a seething turmoil of noise and sights and the sweaty stench of people mingled with acrid woodsmoke. Gangs of slaves, some chained together, struggled under the burden of bales of exotic materials, jars of wine and oil and smaller sealed pots packed in straw-filled cases that contained perfumes and scents from the east. Others carried ivory tusks, or lengths of rare hardwoods. Around them skirted the captains of the barges, merchants and petty traders and the air was filled with voices, in a smattering of tongues: Latin, Greek, Celtic dialects, Hebrew and others that Cato had never heard before. The dusk was thickening in the dark winter air. Amid the gloom, fires flickered in braziers and cast pools of lurid red light across the paved wharf strewn with mud and rubbish. A few dogs and feral cats darted through the crowds, sniffing for food. Beggars squatted in archways and in front of locked doors, rattling wooden or brass bowls as they cried out for spare coins.
Cato edged through the press and Macro followed closely, careful to keep a firm grip on his yoke. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that his kitbag was safe from petty thieves. He had heard stories of sharp knives being used to cut open the goatskin containers, so that a swift hand might pluck something out without the victim knowing until it was too late.
‘Shit, it’s like being stuck in the middle of a battle.’
‘Without the danger,’ Cato replied tersely then added, ‘or the blood, the bodies, the screams and the great big icy hand of terror clamped round the back of your neck. But otherwise, yes.’
‘Funny.’
The crowd thinned out a little as they neared the arched entrance to the Boarium market. Like the warehouses, it was built on a grand scale with a columned entrance, above which loomed a pediment topped with statues of statesmen from the republican era, their original paint now obscured by a patina of grime and bird shit. The tang of blood and meat from the butchers’ stalls filled the air. On the other side of the entrance a wide vista opened out, large enough to camp a legion in, Cato estimated. The temporary stalls were already being dismantled and packed, with the traders’ goods, on to small handcarts to be taken to the secure stores at the side of the Boarium. Elsewhere the permanent stalls were being closed up for the night. Around the edge of the Boarium was a two-storey colonnade. The ground level was used for shops and inns, while above were the offices of those officials who collected duties and the rents of the traders. Many of the city’s bankers rented premises on the second level as well, aloof from the bustle below as they counted their profits.
The Vineyard of Dionysus was easy enough to find. A large painted placard had been fixed over the entrance to the premises. A crudely painted man with a big grin was holding a brimming drinking horn against a backdrop of heavily laden grape vines, amid which, in a fascinating variety of positions, amorous couples were going at it hammer and tongs. Macro paused outside with a quizzical expression.
‘That one there, that’s just not possible.’
‘It is after you’ve had your fill of our wines!’ announced a cheery voice. A thickset man with heavily oiled hair detached himself from the pillars either side of the entrance and beckoned them inside. ‘The wares of the Vineyard of Dionysus are famous across Rome. Welcome, friends! Please step inside. There’s a table for all, a warm fire, good food, fine wines and the best of company,’ he winked, ‘for a modest price, sirs.’
‘We need food and drink,’ Cato replied. ‘That’s all.’
‘For now,’ Macro added, still scanning the illustrations above the door. ‘We’ll see how we go, eh?’
The tout waved his customers inside before they could move on and then followed them. The interior was larger than Cato had expected, stretching back some sixty feet. A counter was set halfway down the side of one wall, flanked by alcoves, two of which had their curtains drawn. A thin, heavily made-up woman with wiry red hair sat in another alcove with a bored expression, her head propped on her hand as she stared blankly across the room. The place was filled with the first of the evening trade - men from the Boarium who had packed up their stalls or finished their business for the day. Most were having a quick drink before returning home for the night. There were a few old soaks among them, bleary eyed and with stark veins on their noses and cheeks, who were only just starting a long evening drinking themselves into oblivion.
The tout who had picked them off the street called out to the innkeeper who nodded and chalked up two strokes on the wall above the wine jars to add to the tally of those that the tout had already brought in.
‘Here’s your table.’ The tout gestured to a plain bench with four stools a short distance inside the door. Cato and Macro nodded their thanks and squeezed past the other customers and set their yokes down against the wall before sitting.
Macro glanced round and sniffed. ‘Narcissus chose well.’
‘Yes. The kind of place where men can get lost in the crowd. Nice and discreet.’
‘I was thinking it was well chosen because it was my kind of place. Cheap, cheerful and waiting for a punch-up to start any moment.’
‘There is that,’ Cato replied offhandedly. He scanned the room for any sign of their contact. Only a handful of customers seemed to be drinking on their own but none seemed to return his gaze in any meaningful way. A moment later the innkeeper threaded his way over to them.
‘What would you like, gents?’
‘What have you got?’ asked Macro.
‘It’s on the wall.’ The man pointed to a long list of regional wines that had been chalked up on a board behind the counter.
‘Mmmm!’ Macro smiled as he ran his eye down the wines. ‘How’s the Etruscan?’
‘Off.’
‘Oh, all right. The Calabrian?’
‘Off.’
‘Falernian?’
The innkeeper shook his head.
‘Well, what have you got?’
‘Today it’s the Ligurian or the Belgic. That’s it.’
‘Belgic?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought they made beer?’
‘They do.’ The innkeeper scratched his nose. ‘They should stick to beer in my opinion.’
‘I see.’ Cato shrugged. ‘The Ligurian then. One small jar and three cups.’
‘Yes, sir. Good choice.’ The innkeeper bowed his head and turned back to the counter.
‘Is he trying to be funny?’ Macro scowled. ‘Anyway, Ligurian? Never heard of it.’
‘Then tonight should be something of an education for us.’
The innkeeper returned with the wine and the cups and set them down on the table. ‘Five sestertii.’
‘Five?’ Macro shook
his head. ‘That’s robbery.’
‘That’s the price, mate.’
‘Very well,’ Cato cut in, fishing the coins out of the small sum that Narcissus had advanced them. ‘There.’
The innkeeper swept the coins off the top of the table and nodded his thanks.
Cato picked up the jar and sniffed the contents. His nose wrinkled at the sharp acidic odour. Then he poured them each a cup of the dark, almost black, wine. Macro raised his in a mock toast and took a mouthful. At once he made a face.
‘By the gods, I hope there’s better inns close to the Praetorian camp.’
Cato took a cautious sip and felt the sour, fiery flow all the way down into his guts. He set the cup down and leant against the wall behind his back. ‘Just have to hope our contact turns up soon.’
Macro nodded. They sat and waited in silence, while around them the locals drank copious amounts of the only available wine, seemingly oblivious to its rough flavour. There was a cheerful atmosphere, except at the table where the two soldiers sat, waiting with growing impatience as night fell outside. At length Macro stirred, drained his cup with a wince, and stood up. He gestured towards the woman still sitting in the alcove.
‘I’m, er, just going over there.’
‘Not now, Macro. We’re waiting for someone. Another time.’
‘Well, he ain’t showed up yet, so I might as well enjoy myself.’
‘We shouldn’t risk drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘I’m not.’ Macro nodded towards the drawn curtains. ‘Just fitting in with the locals, as it were.’
As he spoke, one of the curtains covering the alcoves was gently drawn back and a tall sinewy man with short dark hair eased himself out of the alcove. He had already pulled on his tunic, and held a neck cloth in one hand. Behind him a woman was slipping on the short tunic that signified her trade. He turned and tossed a few coins on to the couch and then made his way out into the middle of the room.
‘There,’ said Macro. ‘No one’s paying him any attention.’
Cato watched as the man glanced round and then saw the two empty stools at their table. He came over. ‘May I?’
Cato shook his head. ‘No. We’re waiting for a friend.’
‘I know. That’s me.’ The man smiled and then sat down opposite the two soldiers. He raised his hand so that they could see his ring and then laid it down close by Cato’s hand so that he could see that the designs were identical. Cato looked at him carefully, noting the dark eyes, smoothly shaven cheeks and the small tattoo of a half-moon and star on his neck, before it was hidden by the strip of cloth he arranged loosely about his neck. Cato felt a stab of mistrust even as the man lowered his voice and spoke. ‘Narcissus sent me.’
‘Really? Then what’s your name, friend?’
‘Oscanus Optimus Septimus,’ he said in a low tone that Cato could just make out. ‘And I’ll have that ring back, if you don’t mind.’ He held out his hand.
Cato hesitated a moment before he took off the ring and handed it over. ‘I assume that’s not your real name.’
‘It serves. And as far as anyone is concerned from here on in, you are Guardsmen Titus Ovidius Capito and Vibius Gallus Calidus, is that clear? It would not be wise to reveal your real identities to me.’
The names were neatly written on the documents that Cato had been given; he had taken the identity of Capito, and Macro had that of Calidus, both veterans of the Second Legion.
‘That mark on your neck,’ Macro commented. ‘I take it you served on the eastern frontier.’
Septimus narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I might have.’
‘In the legions or the auxiliary cohorts?’
Septimus was silent for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Not that it matters, but I did a stint in a cavalry cohort before I was recruited by Narcissus.’ He gestured towards his neck. ‘That was the cohort’s emblem. Most of the lads have the tattoo. Bit of a pain now as I have to keep it covered up in my line of work.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Macro. He took a deep breath and exhaled impatiently. ‘Anyway, you’re late. Kept us waiting while you saw to your woman over there.’
Septimus frowned. ‘My woman? Hardly. I was using her as a cover.’
‘Whichever way you like it.’
Narcissus’s agent scowled at Macro. ‘If I had a woman, it wouldn’t be one like her. Anyway, her alcove provided a good place to keep an eye on you when you turned up. And the other customers. Just to make sure you weren’t being watched, or followed. Sorry for the wait, but I had to be sure. This business is too dangerous to take any chances. Right, the introductions are over. Let’s go.’
‘Go?’ Cato leant forward slightly. ‘Go where?’
‘To a safe house. Where we can talk without any risk of being overheard. It’s also a place where we can meet and where you can drop off any messages safely. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting to and from the Praetorian camp - the soldiers pass in and out of their barracks freely. That’s how we’ll communicate for the most part.’ Septimus looked round warily. ‘Follow me. But let’s make it look casual. Better finish our drinks first.’
He poured himself a cup and raised his voice. ‘For the road!’
Macro and Cato followed suit and forced down what remained in their cups, then reached for their packs and stood up. By now the inn was filling with customers and they had to push their way to the entrance. Outside the tout was still looking for further custom. He smiled as he saw them. ‘Leaving so soon? The night is barely beginning, sirs. Stay awhile and drink your fill.’
Macro stopped in front of him. He drew a breath and spoke loudly enough so that passers-by could clearly hear him. ‘Anyone who drinks their fill of the slop in this place is going to be staying for more than a while. It’s poison.’
The tout tried to laugh it off and clapped Macro on the shoulder as he turned to join Cato and Septimus. In a flash, Macro spun round and slammed his fist into the tout’s stomach. As the man collapsed, gasping for breath, Macro backed off with a look of bitter satisfaction.
‘That’ll knock the wind out of the bugger. Stop him peddling his wares for a bit.’
Septimus glanced nervously at the people who had stopped to witness Macro’s action.
‘Macro,’ Cato hissed. ‘Let’s go before you attract any more attention, shall we?’
They strode unhurriedly along the edge of the Boarium and left by the wide street that passed between the Palatine Hill and the Capitoline. To their right the edifices of the imperial palace complex covered the hill; torches and braziers lit the columns and statues that looked down on the rest of Rome. On the left loomed the mass of the Temple of Jupiter, built on a rock with sheer sides in places and accessed by a wide ramp that zigzagged up to the temple precinct. They entered the Forum and crossed in front of the senate house. A party of finely dressed youths came the other way, talking loudly as they boasted of their ambitions for the night’s entertainment. They quietened down a little as they passed the two soldiers and the imperial agent then continued as before when they were a safe distance beyond. On the far side of the Forum another street led past the Temple of Peace and up into the Subura, one of the poorer quarters of the city where crime was rife and the buildings so poorly constructed that hardly a month went by without one of the ramshackle tenement blocks collapsing or burning down.
‘Narcissus isn’t putting us up in the bloody Subura, I trust,’ Macro said quietly to Cato. ‘Had enough of it the last time we had to stay in Rome.’
Septimus glanced back. ‘It’s not far now. On the edge of the Subura, as it happens. So that it’s convenient for you to get to from the Praetorian camp. Don’t worry. The apartment is in one of the better tenement blocks. At least that’s what the landlord said when I took it.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘Doesn’t concern me. I don’t have to live there.’
The street began to incline and they passed between the first of the tall brick structures wh
ere most of the city’s inhabitants lived. The tenements crowded the street and towered high above so that the dim gloom of the night sky provided almost no illumination. A few lamps burned in the entrances to the buildings but the streets were in darkness. Which was no bad thing, Cato reflected as the foul air filled his nostrils. He did not want to know what he was stepping in. Around and above them, they could hear voices. Some laughter, some quiet conversations, occasional angry shouts or the crying of infants and the splatter of slops being emptied into the streets.
‘Here we are,’ Septimus announced, climbing a few steps up from the street into a narrow entrance. An oil lamp flickered in its bracket and revealed a muscular man in a plain tunic sitting on a stool just inside the doorway. He took a good look at Septimus and nodded before he lit a taper from the lamp and handed it to the imperial agent. There was a short corridor with a narrow staircase at the end of it. As he led the way up the stairs Septimus raised a hand in front of the taper to protect the flame. On the fourth floor he stopped in front of a door and opened the latch. He led the way inside and Macro and Cato lowered their packs on to the floorboards.
‘Just a moment, I’ll light a lamp,’ said Septimus and he reached up on to a shelf. The pale flicker of the taper flared for a moment and then the flame settled into a steady glow and he removed the taper and blew it out. ‘There.’
He placed the lamp back on the shelf and turned round. By its wan glow Cato could see that the room was empty except for two bedrolls. It was barely ten feet across and another doorway led through into a similar-sized room.
‘Not much in the way of creature comforts,’ complained Macro, prodding one of the bedrolls with the toe of his boot.
‘We like it that way,’ said Septimus. ‘There’s nothing to steal. In any case, the watchman keeps an eye on the place most of the time.’ He reached inside his tunic for a small pouch and took out a small bundle of scrolls and two sets of waxed slates, and handed them over. ‘The rest of your documents and the report on Britannia. You can sleep here tonight and then make your way up to the Praetorian camp in the morning. If you need to leave me a message then put it over there beneath the shelf. The floorboard is loose and there’s a small space underneath. Make sure that you come up here and check as regularly as you can. If there’s a message, then turn the lantern towards the door. Otherwise point it away. If it’s pointing any other way then we’ll know that the apartment has been compromised.’
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