Flavia’s eyes flickered up and a warm smile flushed across her face as Vespasian rose to his feet. Vitellius quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw the legate approaching with the newly decorated optio at his shoulder. With a sigh of reluctance he eased himself round and stood up.
‘I wondered when you would get round to bringing that poor boy over here,’ Flavia laughed as she held out both her hands towards Cato. The optio did a quick double take and gulped.
‘Lady Flavia?’
‘The same. And how’s my little Cato? Not so little these days, it seems. Let me have a good look at you!’
‘It seems the optio and my wife were friends back in their palace days,’ Vespasian explained to Vitellius. ‘So it’s something of a reunion.’
‘Such a small world, sir,’ the tribune replied smoothly. ‘We seem to live in a time of great coincidences.’
‘Yes. I need a quiet word with you. I’m sure my wife would be only too pleased to join the optio and catch up on several years of gossip. My dear?’
‘Of course.’ Flavia nodded gracefully and led Cato towards the head of the table.
‘Lady Flavia, I had no idea you were here.’
‘Why should you?’ She smiled. ‘Officers’ wives are seldom seen out of their quarters. And only a lunatic would expose themselves to the ravages of a German winter by choice.’
‘Did you know I was here?’
‘Of course. There can’t be that many Catos joining the Legion from the palace. And as soon as my husband mentioned the – now what was it he said? – the “bookish beanpole”, I knew it had to be you. I’ve been simply dying for a chance to see you again but Vespasian said I had to let you settle in first – the last thing you needed was some interfering woman mollycoddling you in front of the other men.’
‘Yes.’ Cato winced at the image. ‘My lady, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see a familiar face in this place.’
‘Come, let’s sit.’ Flavia settled on to her husband’s couch and patted the space beside her. Cato looked around but no-one seemed to be paying undue attention. He had been in the army long enough to feel uncomfortable about social intercourse between widely different ranks.
‘Now, Cato, you must tell me how it’s going. I can’t imagine how you, of all people, have ended up here. It must be quite a change in lifestyle?’
Cato, uncomfortably aware of Macro sitting just to his side, phrased his response carefully.
‘Yes, my lady, quite a change. But it seems to be a good enough life, and should be the making of me.’
Flavia raised her eyebrows. ‘You really have changed, haven’t you?’
‘May I introduce my centurion to you?’ Cato rose slightly to indicate Macro.
‘Ma’am.’ Macro nodded politely as he wiped the grease from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, commanding the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort,’ he continued automatically.
‘Pleased to meet you, centurion. I trust you are looking after my friend?’
‘Hmm. No more or less than any other of my men,’ Macro replied resentfully. ‘In any case, the lad can look after himself.’
‘So I’ve heard. Now then, Cato, you must fill me in on what’s been going on in the palace since I left.’
As Cato talked, Macro hovered on the brink of the conversation until boredom set in. With a shrug he turned back to his food and made the most of the unaccustomed luxury of the feast before him. For her part Flavia listened intently and interrupted Cato with frequent questions about the endless rise and fall of sundry palace officials. At length she had pumped Cato dry of information and leaned back on one arm.
‘So, the same seething hotbed of scandal and intrigue that it ever was. That much has not changed.’
‘Indeed, it’s almost impossible to avoid the gossip.’
‘I have to admit I really miss Rome.’
‘You could have stayed there, my lady. It’s not unknown for legates to leave their wives at home while on active service.’
‘True, but I’ve found Rome a little uncomfortable since that nasty business with Scribonianus in Dalmatia last year. Too many people spending their time denouncing others as conspirators. It’s put quite a dampener on the social scene – you have no idea how much of a challenge it is planning a dinner party while the imperial agents are busy whittling down your guest list.’
Cato nodded. ‘By the time I left the palace I’d heard that Claudius had already signed over a hundred death warrants. I’m sure there can’t be many conspirators left by now.’
‘Narcissus has been a busy man, it would appear.’
‘And a very important one since Claudius put him in charge of the imperial general staff.’
‘Has Narcissus changed much since I left?’
‘Not that you’d notice,’ Cato replied. ‘But most people are careful what they say around him these days – now that he has the Emperor’s ear.’
‘Does he still look the same?’ asked Flavia, absently gazing at her fingers as they stretched the hem of her palla.
Cato reflected a moment before replying. ‘A little greyer around the temples but not so different from when you knew him.’
‘I see . . . I see. And I trust our little secret is still safe?’ she asked softly.
He had been expecting the question for some time and nodded as he looked her firmly in the eye and replied. ‘Quite safe, my lady. I gave you my word. It still stands and will until I die.’
‘Thank you.’
An embarrassing silence settled between them as they both thought back to the night of a terrible storm raging over Rome, when a little boy, scared out of his wits by the thunder and lightning, had huddled in the corner of a small ante-room where a man and a woman were coupling in the glare of light flashing through the windows. Later, when the man had gone, Flavia discovered Cato trembling in the corner of the room. For a brief moment she had simply stared at him, afraid of the consequences of what he must have seen. Seizing his shoulders, she had sworn him to secrecy. Then, seeing the elemental terror in his expression, some instinct awoke inside her and she’d shielded his small body from the storm as best she could. Afterwards, despite the social gulf between them, she had felt a sense of responsibility for Cato and seen that he was well cared for by the other palace slaves. Then she had left the imperial household and met Vespasian.
Flavia decided to move the conversation on to safer ground. ‘Now, Cato, what do you miss most about Rome?’
‘The libraries,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘The nearest I get to a good read here is some weather-beaten army manual. When I left Rome I was reading Livy’s histories. It’ll be a while before I get a chance to continue them.’
‘Histories!’ Flavia exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you reading histories for? I thought you young men liked poetry – Lucretius, Catullus, Ovid – that sort of thing.’
‘Ovid is a little hard to come by, my lady,’ Cato reminded her. ‘In any case, I’m afraid my tastes are a bit conservative. I’ve only really bothered with Virgil.’
‘Virgil’s such a boring old stick,’ Flavia complained. ‘Not an ounce of feeling, or empathy. It’s just turgid elegance.’
‘I really must disagree. I find him quite sublime at times – able to put concepts into words in a timeless way. When all today’s cheap romantic poets are mere shadows in the memory of men, Virgil will still be a vibrant influence flowing down through the centuries.’
‘Most poetically phrased, Cato, but do you speak of time or legionaries?’
‘Hardly the latter.’ Cato laughed with the legate’s wife. ‘Literary aesthetics are not foremost in the minds of such men.’
‘Pass the mice,’ Macro interrupted.
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded guiltily. ‘There you are, sir.’
‘Do you read much?’ Flavia asked Macro. ‘I ask only to reassure myself that Cato here is a bit wide of the mark. I can’t believe that my husband’s officers would ignore the muses.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Do you read poetry, centurion?’
‘Not often, ma’am, I’m too busy most of the time.’
‘But you do read poetry,’ Flavia insisted.
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘So who’s your favourite?’
‘Who’s my favourite? Well, let me think. Probably that chap young Cato just mentioned.’
‘Really?’ Flavia frowned. ‘And which of Virgil’s works do you rate most highly?’
‘Difficult question, ma’am. I think all of his stuff is good.’
‘Coward!’ laughed Flavia. ‘Frankly, I doubt whether you have read anything of his, or any poet, for that matter. In fact, I doubt whether you read at all.’
She laughed again, but Macro looked down at his food in silence and Cato, sensed his centurion’s acute discomfort.
‘Shhh!’ Flavia raised a finger to her lips. ‘I think the legate is about to speak.’
Sure enough Vespasian downed the last of his wine and stood up. He tipped a wink to the majordomo who ordered the servants to quickly distribute the decanters of Falernian to all tables. Then he rapped his staff down on to the mosaic floor. The room slowly fell silent as all eyes turned to the head table. Vespasian waited for complete quiet before he began to speak.
‘Gentlemen, and ladies, it cannot have escaped your attention that the Legion has been preparing for relocation in recent weeks. I can tonight confirm that imperial staff has issued us with our marching orders. The Legion is to proceed with all due haste to the west coast of Gaul . . . ’
If Vespasian was expecting some excited response he was to be disappointed. Many officers in the room looked away in embarrassment, shuffling uncomfortably. One or two polite souls did try and look surprised, as if this was indeed news to them, but they were seen through in an instant, and Vespasian continued with an evident sourness to his tone.
‘On arrival we are to join up with elements of four other legions to train for the invasion of Britain. A fleet is being assembled even now and before the year is out a new province will have been added to the empire in the name of and glorification of Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus. The Legion begins moving in two months’ time, our fortress to be garrisoned by a mixed auxiliary cohort from Macedonia in our absence. Right, you know the routine. From tomorrow you get straight to it. All that remains tonight is a toast. So, fill your cups and raise them to the Emperor!’
As the orderly and Cato helped lift Macro off the litter into his bed the centurion grabbed hold of Cato’s tunic and dragged him close.
‘You stay. I want a word in private.’ Macro’s face was grim.
Left alone with his superior, his mind sharpened by the cold night air, Cato wondered what on earth he could have done to bring on this sudden change in mood. For a moment Centurion Macro stared up at Cato intently before he could nerve himself to say what was on his mind.
‘Cato, can I trust you?’
‘Sir?’
‘Can I trust you with a secret? Something I dare not tell anyone else?’
Cato gulped nervously, and instinctively took a step away from the centurion’s bed. ‘Well, that depends, sir. I mean, naturally I’m flattered, but you know how it is, some men do and some don’t. It just happens that I don’t, sir. No offence or anything.’
‘What the fuck are you going on about?’ Macro frowned as he raised himself up on an elbow. ‘If you think, for one moment, that I’m some kind of arse bandit then I’ll take your fucking head off. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato relaxed. ‘So how can I help?’
‘You can help . . . You can help by teaching me to read.’
‘Read?’
‘Yes, read, damn it! You know, all those bloody words and stuff. I want to learn how it all works. All right, that’s a bit too strong. I don’t want to read any more than the next man. Fact is, I have to read and write, if I’m going to stay a centurion. And that bitch of woman nearly had me by the short and curlies tonight. But some day it’ll come out and, when it does, I’ll get busted back to the ranks. Unless I learn my words.’
‘I see. And you want me to teach you?’
‘Yes. And you promise not to tell a soul. Will you do it?’
Cato thought it over a moment and inevitably his nature led him to the answer. ‘Of course I’ll teach you, sir.’
Chapter Seventeen
The winter wore on towards spring and the snow melted; for several weeks frequent heavy showers of rain turned all unmetalled roadways into muddy quagmires. The only traffic in and out of the fortress was the constant stream of imperial staff messengers rushing to the far-flung Second Legion with the latest instructions for the impending relocation. Having delivered the despatches they returned burdened with requests for permission to buy draught animals, fodder and slaves to cover the spring campaign.
Anticipating the assent of the staff corps in Rome, the Legion had hired a cadre of muleteers to buy up the necessary livestock from the towns and villages in a wide sweep south of the Rhine. The men were hand-picked and could be trusted to select only the fittest animals for the long journey ahead. They could also be trusted to haggle for the lowest possible price and, as long as the cost remained reasonable, those in authority generally overlooked the unofficial ‘commission’ that found its way into the purses of the muleteers. So it was that the mules, and other draught animals, arrived to swell the ranks grazing in the pastures hastily constructed outside the fortress.
Inside, most of the space between the walls and the barracks was filled with the Legion’s transport vehicles. Each century was allocated a wagon for engineering tools, administrative baggage – namely, the centurion’s tent and all the personal items he desired to make the campaign comfortable – and the pointed entrenchment stakes. Then there was the medical convoy for the carriage of sick and non-walking wounded, the artillery company with their carriage-mounted catapults and ballistae, large grain wagons for the portable food reserve of barley, the vast headquarters baggage train and, finally, the staff officers’ convoy of personal effects. Even as things stood the Legion was travelling light. No time could be spared for foraging and so a number of grain dumps had already been established along the route.
Within the fortress the imminence of events was palpable, even to those soldiers who lived a day at a time, and desperate legionaries were trying to offload their non-portable goods to the merchants who gathered like vultures to take advantage of such occasions. Word of the Legion’s relocation had spread far and wide and, over the following weeks, the settlement around the fortress swelled to accommodate the Empire’s peripatetic merchants, in search of the bargains that every such buyer’s market attracted. Disconsolate legionaries trudged from dealer to dealer with all manner of goods, sentimental, ornamental or simply superfluous, and haggled bitterly for the few coins that escaped the tight purses of the merchants, who made small fortunes every time a major military formation was relocated.
One crisp, clear spring afternoon Cato came wandering through the hastily erected market, on the lookout for some basic reading matter for Macro.
‘Nothing fancy, mind,’ Macro had warned him. ‘None of your poncy literature. Just something simple you can teach me with.’
‘But we’ll need to go through some literature eventually, sir.’
‘Eventually, but for now let’s keep it simple, understand?’
‘Sir.’
‘Now, there’s a months’ pay there, so make sure you get me value for money.’
‘Of course I will, sir.’
‘And you keep this quiet. If anyone asks, just tell them I want something to read in the wagon. Catching up on my military histories, whatever. But just you remember – not one mention of reading lessons.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And so it was that Cato pushed his way through a buzzing throng of soldiers and merchants on a cold and windy afternoon. Clutching his military cloak tightly about him Cato made his way
down the lines of merchant wagons piled high with a bewildering array of goods; fine Samian ware, lyres and other musical instruments, a variety of chairs, chests, tables and portable libraries.
In one wagon sat a slender slave girl in a thin well-worn tunic, shivering miserably, a For Sale sign leaning against her legs. She must have been sixteen or seventeen, with jet black hair tied back. Perched on the driver’s board, she rested her pointed chin on her knees, hugging them tightly and trembling from the cold. She glanced up and Cato was stopped dead in his tracks by a pair of startling green eyes. For a moment he simply stared, then, aware that he was making a fool of himself, he tore his eyes away and scurried off down the line of wagons.
He soon found what he was searching for. The tail of one wagon was piled high with scrolls and, as Cato rummaged through them, a shrewd old Phoenician dragged himself away from his small brazier to greet his customer. In view of the soldier’s age and inexperience, the trader tried to interest Cato in a nicely illustrated set of pornographic manuals which, while not anatomically accurate, were at least conceptually diverting. Eventually Cato managed to persuade the Phoenician that his interests were strictly limited to historical studies and they parted company with Cato carrying an armful of books, as the trader added yet more coins to his swelling purse.
Books were not uppermost in Cato’s mind as he made his way back down the line of wagons. He found himself drawn back to the girl sitting on the driver’s board, driven by the simple desire to set his eyes on her once more. That was all. What else could possibly come of it? And yet he felt his heart quicken as he approached the place he had seen her earlier.
The wagon was still there, piled high with goods, but there was no sign of the girl. Cato pretended to browse through the wares of the next trader, making sidelong glances at the nearby tents set behind the wagons. Casually reversing direction, he sifted through some chipped Samian ware with his spare hand.
‘Looking for anything in particular, noble sir?’
Cato looked up quickly. A swarthy merchant in an unseasonally bright cloak stood at his side.
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