'It wasn't easy writing on my lap, you know,' explained Macro. 'Bloody thing kept sliding all over the place.'
'So I see. Well, it's a good start. Have you managed to remember what each one sounds like?'
'Of course.'
'Then would you mind going through them with me, sir? Just for practice. Then we'll try a few words.'
Macro ground his teeth. 'Don't you think I can do it?'
'I'm sure you can, sir. But practice makes perfect, as you keep telling me. Shall we?'
As Macro stumbled through the alphabet, Cato kept his comments to a minimum and all the while images of Lavinia trickled into his mind's eye, to be expelled with considerable reluctance. In the end, even Macro could see that the young man's attention was not fully engaged with the task at hand. Abruptly he snapped the tablets shut so that Cato nearly fell off his stool.
'What's on your mind, boy?'
'Sir?'
'Even I know I got some of those words wrong – and you're just sitting there nodding like a chicken. What's so bloody important that you can't concentrate on this?'
'Sir, it's nothing. Just a personal matter. It won't happen again. Shall we continue?'
'Not if your problem's going to get in the way.'
The lesson had become boring and Macro was not keen to continue. Moreover, the boy's evident reluctance to explain the cause of his distraction had provoked Macro's curiosity.
'Spit it out, lad!'
'Really, sir,' protested Cato. 'It's not important.'
'I'll be the judge of that. Speak. That's an order. I'm not having my men walk around like daydreamers. You youngsters spend all your time worrying about bullying and women. So which is it? Who's been having a go at you?'
'No-one, sir.'
'Narrows things down a bit then, doesn't it?' Macro winked salaciously. 'So who's the woman then? It better not be the legate's wife. Might as well write out a suicide note right now'
'No, sir! Not her,' Cato said, with a look of horror.
'Then who?' Macro demanded.
'A slave girl.'
'You want to get her in the sack, I take it?'
Cato stared at him for a moment and then nodded.
'So what's the problem? Offer her a few goodies and you're in. I've never known a slave woman who wasn't prepared to part her legs for the right gifts. What's she like?'
'Quite beautiful,' Cato replied softly.
'No, you idiot! I meant what does she like?'
'Oh, I see.' Cato blushed. 'I don't really know that much about her.'
'Well, find out. Ask her what she wants in exchange and you're away.'
'It isn't like that, sir. I feel something more than just lust.'
'Lust? Who's talking about lust? You want to screw her, right? So that's your objective. All you need now is deployment of the appropriate tactics to manoeuvre her into an advantageous position and then secure your conquest. Then it's just a question of mopping up.'
'Sir!' Cato, who thought he had become inured to the crude humour of the army, was caught off guard and blushed. 'It's not like that.'
'What are you talking about, lad?'
Cato tried to elaborate, but found it excruciating to talk about his feelings for Lavinia. It wasn't that there were no words – his mind reeled with well-remembered lines from any number of poems – but none seemed to quite capture the essence of the horrible aching pain that twisted his stomach and tore at his heart. Poets, he decided, were poor mirrors of mankind's soul. Precious little pen-scratchers pouring out their petty banalities in order to impress their pals. His feelings for Lavinia went some way beyond mere verse. Or did they? Perhaps Macro was right and his motives were somewhat more prosaic than he thought?
'What's so different about this woman? Spit it out.'
'I think you have to see her to understand.'
'Bit of a looker, eh?'
'Yes, sir.' Cato smiled.
'So let her know you're interested and that you'll pay what it takes to have your way – within reason of course, no sense in inflating her price for the lads who come after you – give her one and be on your way'
'I was hoping for something a little more meaningful and long-lasting.'
'Don't be so bloody ridiculous.'
'Yes, sir!' Cato replied hurriedly. There was no speaking to the man on such issues, he now realised. 'Shall we continue with the letters, sir? We've quite a long way to go.'
'And some of us are hoping to go all the way,' Macro smirked.
'Yes, sir. The letters, sir?' Cato held out the waxed tablets.
'All bloody right then! I can see you don't want to talk about the woman – that's your business, right?'
'Shall we continue with the letters, sir?'
'Fair enough,' Macro said sulkily, 'bloody letters it is.'
Chapter Nineteen
By nightfall on the eve of the Legion's departure every vehicle had been checked for roadworthiness and all wheels freshly greased with tallow. Now they stood in long ranks loaded with the Legion's equipment and assorted baggage. In their pens outside the fortress the animals contentedly chewed on the last of the winter feed. Most of the headquarters staff, their work done for the next few weeks, were on a serious bender amongst the tents and grimy halls where the locals sold a heady brew that the garrison had grown accustomed to in the years they had been stationed on the Rhine frontier. The more sober-headed veterans were busy waterproofing their boots and making sure that the nail-studded soles were in good shape for the three hundred miles that lay between the Second Legion and the coast.
At headquarters a small staff still laboured over final details in large chambers that echoed with an eerie emptiness now that all records had been carefully ordered and packed in filing chests and loaded on wagons. Sundry debts owed to local traders were still being settled and travel permits written out for those officers' families immediately heading south to Italy. A detachment of the Legion's cavalry had been assigned to escort the convoy as far south as Corbumentum before turning west to rejoin the Legion.
As Vespasian passed a row of desks where a team of five clerks were bent over their work, writing by the flickering light of oil lamps, he glanced down at the papers strewn before them.
'What's this?'
'Sir?' The senior clerk quickly rose to his feet.
'What's this stuff you're working on?'
'Copies of a letter we're writing for Lady Flavia, sir. They're for slave agents in Rome requesting details of any infant tutors they might have in their catalogues.'
'I see.'
'She said it was on your orders, sir.'
The resentment in the tone was unmistakable and Vespasian felt a twinge of guilt that these men were labouring into the night while their comrades were free to indulge themselves to excess.
'Well, I doubt that a night's delay will ruin her plans. You and your men can finish the letters another time. Off you go then.'
'Thank you, sir. You heard the legate, lads.'
The papers were eagerly shuffled into order, ink pots stopped up and pens wiped clean before the clerks rose to leave the room.
'Wait!' Vespasian called out and they turned towards him anxiously. He fumbled in the purse hanging from his belt and tossed a gold piece to the senior clerk. 'For you and your men – have a few drinks on me. You've done a good job these last few days.'
The clerks mumbled their thanks and hurried away, voices loud with excitement, leaving Vespasian gazing wistfully after them. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had enjoyed a night out with the lads as a newly appointed tribune. Dusty memories of wild nights and hideously painful hangovers amidst the fleshpots of Syria filtered into his mind and Vespasian felt a pang for the sweetness of youth that seemed over almost before it had begun. Now he was forever separated from these men by age and, more fundamentally, by rank.
Vespasian slowly made his way towards the gate of the headquarters building, pausing only to nod as he passed by the door to Vitellius's office w
here the tribune was still toiling over some paperwork by lamplight. Vitellius had been spending a great deal of time in headquarters of late – more than was required by his duties and more than enough to make Vespasian curious. But he could not ask him outright the reason for his new-found diligence; tribunes were supposed to be diligent and any questioning of the man might look like paranoia, or worse. If Vitellius was indeed up to something, any undue attention would alert him to the legate's suspicion. More curious still was the fact that the tribune had taken on a bodyguard. It was a right due to his rank, but one rarely claimed these days. But there he was – shadowing his master about the base – a stocky thick-set man with the manner of professional killer. It would be sensible to keep a closer eye on Tribune Vitellius from now on.
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
Since Lavinia had been taken into Vespasian's household, Cato had had no chance even to speak to her and was only able to catch fleeting glances from time to time as he loitered outside the legate's house after he had finished with his duties for the day. He contrived to visit Flavia a few times in the hope that Lavinia might be present while they reminisced about life in the palace. But she remained out of sight and Cato was loath to reveal the true purpose of his visits, to the barely concealed amusement of the legate's wife. Finally, one day, Flavia could not help laughing.
'Really, Cato! You should be more inventive.'
'What do you mean, my lady?'
'I mean these excuses you have for coming to see me,' she smiled, 'or should I say coming to try and see Lavinia.'
Cato flushed and stammered out a garbled protestation that only provoked further laughter. He frowned.
'Please don't get cross! I'm not making fun of you. Really I'm not. If you wanted to see the girl then you should have said and I'd have arranged something for the two of you. Would you like to see her now?'
Cato nodded.
'All right then. But in a moment. We need to talk first.'
'What about, my lady?'
'I take it you know very little about Lavinia?'
'I only met her the same day you bought her,' admitted Cato.
'So she said.'
'The merchant who sold her said that she used to be owned by one of the tribunes.'
'Yes,' Flavia nodded. 'Plinius. Nice man, very intelligent – a quality that is totally wasted on the army.'
'Why did he sell her? Why did he leave her nothing more than those rags?'
'The answer to that depends on who you listen to.'
'What do you mean, my lady?'
'Plinius let it be known that he had sold her because Lavinia was useless as a house-servant. He said she was lazy, dishonest and incapable of learning her duties. The last straw, so he tells the tale, is that she stole one of his silk nightshirts.' Flavia leaned forward and continued, quietly. 'But the story being touted around the officers' wives is far more interesting. They say that Lavinia was something more than a house-servant. With her looks, anything else would be a sheer waste. Anyway, word has it that Plinius bought her from a sex-slave trader and was trying to groom her to while away the long winter evenings.'
'A concubine!'
'Not quite. Our Plinius wanted someone more sophisticated than that. Someone he could converse with afterwards. So, for the last few months he's kept Lavinia hidden away in his quarters teaching her how to read and write so he could introduce her to some literature. Bit of an uphill struggle apparently.'
'Hardly any reason to throw her out like that.'
'Quite.'
'So what happened, my lady?'
'What always happens. While looking up from her studies her head was turned by another tribune, somewhat more handsome and personable than Plinius. And definitely more cunning and versed in the ways of subterfuge and seduction.'
Cato thought for a moment. 'Vitellius?'
'Who else? He had to have Lavinia as soon as he slapped eyes on her. Being rather new to the game Lavinia hadn't quite cracked playing hard to get and caved in with distasteful celerity – she must have been quite taken by Vitellius. In any event, she was taken, quite a few times if rumours are to be believed. Until one day Vitellius over-extended his tryst and in walked Plinius, fresh from a hard day's work and just itching to get stuck into some elementary grammar tuition. Well, you can imagine the scene and the consequences you already know about. He almost gave her away to that merchant.'
'Poor Lavinia.'
'Poor Lavinia?' Flavia's eyebrows arched. 'My dear boy, that's what she was raised for. You must have come across her type at the palace in all those years? They were virtually a fixture under the last two Emperors.'
'That's true enough,' admitted Cato. 'But my father did his best to keep me away from them. He told me to save myself for something better.'
'He did? And you think Lavinia's something better?'
'I don't know what she is, all I know is how I feel about her. Am I making any sense, my lady?'
'Oh yes. It's your first experience of infatuation. Sounds like you've got it bad – but don't worry, it'll soon pass. It always does.'
Cato glared at her and said with bitterness, 'Do all older people think like that?'
'Not all. But young people do. That's their charm and their curse.' Flavia smiled. 'I understand your feelings, really I do. You'll see that what I say is true in a few years' time. You won't thank me for it now, or then. But let's try another perspective. What do you think Lavinia thinks about you?'
'I don't know,' Cato admitted. 'She hasn't got to know me yet.'
Flavia smiled gently and kept quiet for a moment.
'All right, my lady – I haven't got to know her either.'
'Good boy, you're beginning to see reason. It's important that you try to keep a clear head over this situation. My husband thinks you show promise, so don't do something rash which might return to haunt you later. That's all I'm trying to say. Now then, do you want to see her again?'
'Yes.'
Flavia smiled. 'Just as I thought.'
'You're disappointed with me, my lady.'
'On the contrary. A man who has a passion that overrides logic can be trusted in his principles. Only a fool values logic above feeling; sophists can reason themselves to accept any and all principles and therefore cannot be trusted. You have a heart as well as a mind, Cato. Just be careful how you use it. I will say what I believe to be true: that Lavinia can only hurt you, given what you are and she is. I'll say no more, for now. Just leave it with me. It won't be easy to arrange a meeting; there's not exactly much privacy available in the middle of a legion. In any case, my husband has rather traditional attitudes concerning the handling of his property.'
– =OO=OOO=OO-=
When the eagle and the other standards were removed from the fortress strong-room at dawn the next day, the legate and his staff breathed a sigh of relief. Soldiers, being the superstitious lot that they were, interpreted any problem in moving the eagle at the start of a campaign as an ill omen of the worst kind. But today the eagle emerged smoothly from headquarters and marched down the Via Praetoria to take its place in the colour guard at the front of the First cohort. The significance of the moment was observed by all those within sight of the eagle: the Legion was about to go off to war for the first time in years – minor border skirmishes excepted. An expectant hush settled over the fortress as every soldier, muleteer and camp follower waited for the order. Only the animals, insensible as ever to the affairs of mankind, moved; hooves scraped on cobblestones, bits jingled on harnesses and tails flicked to and fro in the spring morning.
The legate lowered his arm and the Legion's senior centurion snapped his head back to bellow out the order.
'First century! First cohort! Second Legion! Advance!'
In fine order, the red-cloaked ranks of the First cohort stepped out along the Via Praetoria, past the vast vehicle park and through the west gate where the rising sun caught them in its light so brightly that their cloaks glowed like fire. Close on the heels of the
First cohort marched the headquarters company led by Vespasian and the tribunes mounted on smartly groomed horses.
Cohort followed cohort and then the ponderous lines of baggage trundled into their appointed place in the line of march. The last cohort, assigned for rearguard duties, followed the baggage train out of the fortress and the end of the column crawled up the slope away from the west gate. Many of the locals from the settlement watched the Legion depart with genuine sorrow. The Second Legion would be missed, particularly since they were to be replaced by a mere thousand auxiliary troops, two cohorts from Spain whose poor quality made them fit for garrison duties only. The auxiliaries, not being Roman citizens, were paid only a third as much as the legionaries. The local economy was going to be hit hard in the following years, and even as the final ranks of the Legion disappeared from view, a desultory column of civilians was already heading south to find new army bases to live off.
Chapter Twenty
'Halt!' The command was quickly relayed down the column. 'Packs down!'
The legionaries of the Sixth century shuffled to the side of the road and slumped to the freshly churned grass along the verge, far enough from the road to allow quick access for any messengers passing along the column. With a loud sigh, Macro slumped down and rubbed his leg. He had been discharged, at his own request, after the first two days on the road. Hospital wagons were as comfortable as it was possible to make them but, even so, the regular bone-rattling movement punctuated by jarring crashes from potholes was more than he could bear. Enforced lack of exercise made the march difficult but the dogged determination that came with the post of centurion carried him along. And now, some ten days later, Macro was almost back to his previous good health. The scar was still a livid red welt straddling his thigh but it had healed well enough and, apart from an aching stiffness and itch, it troubled him no more than all the other scars he carried.
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