‘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 of an opportunity. 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.’
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; metalled 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 an
d 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.
‘Water-carriers coming up, sir.’
‘Any stragglers, Cato?’
‘Two, sir. Both been placed on a charge.’
‘Good. All right boy, take a break with the rest of us.’ He patted the grass at his side. ‘The legate’s setting a killing pace. It’s a wonder we haven’t had any more drop out. That’s only seven since we set off.’
Cato glanced down as Macro rubbed his thigh again. ‘How’s the leg today, sir?’
‘Fine. Just takes a bit of getting used to.’
A pair of slaves came down the line, pouring watered wine from animal skins into the mess tins held out by eagerly waiting legionaries. The water-carriers were part of a contingent of slaves Vespasian had brought along to carry out menial duties that might slow the Legion down on its quick march to the sea. They moved swiftly from man to man, pausing just long enough to half fill each mess tin. Once they had passed, Cato gratefully sipped the sour-tasting mixture of water and cheap wine. His legs ached terribly and the yoke from which his kit and non-fighting equipment hung was intolerably heavy. He had only managed to keep his place in the line of march through the fear of being seen as weak and unable to keep up with the veterans – the men whom he outranked by virtue of patronage, not merit.
Macro regarded the young man for a moment as he sipped another mouthful from his mess tin and swilled it around his tongue to fully appreciate the refreshing flavour. Cato sat leaning forwards, forearms resting on his knees and hands hanging limply as he stared fixedly into the mid-distance with a strained expression. Macro smiled with almost paternal affection for the boy. Despite all his earlier fears, Cato had turned out well. There was no doubting his guts and his coolness of mind under pressure. And, at last, he was beginning to sound like an officer. Words of command were coming easily now, albeit stiffly and without humour. But that would come in time. He was proving to be an excellent subordinate; conscientiously carrying out every order Macro issued and able to use his initiative when faced with unanticipated situations.
Macro had more cause to be grateful. At the end of each day, Cato freely gave up time to continue the reading lessons, as discreetly as circumstances allowed. Macro was pleased to find there was less to this literacy lark than he had feared. Those dreadful, indecipherable marks were slowly yielding up their secrets and Macro was able to follow the more simple texts in a halting way, dragging his finger from word to word along the scrolls as his lips framed sounds, and gradually extended them into words.
‘Packs on!’ The cry repeated itself down the line to the Sixth century where Macro stood to repeat the order at parade-ground volume. The century wearily picked itself up from the roadside and shouldered their yokes while the few men with enough energy to indulge in some ad-hoc foraging ran back from the surrounding countryside with knapsacks crammed with fruit and any small livestock they had managed to buy, or steal, from the local farmers. The century stood in line, while up ahead the column rippled into motion as the lead elements moved forward. They were off again, trudging down the paved road that led from Divodurum to the west of Gaul.
Cato, unseasoned as he was, suffered terribly in comparison to the grim-faced veterans. The afternoon’s march was agony, particularly since the blisters he had acquired early on the road had burst and he was only just getting over the agonising rawness of the last few days. He had found that the best way of coping was to try and think of other things, examining the gently rolling landscape they were marching through, or turning his gaze inwards to try and occupy his mind. And there lay the problem. As much as he tried to concentrate on matters military there was always Lavinia lurking on the periphery of his consciousness.
That evening, after the century had been fed and the miscreants assigned their extra duties, just as Cato was yawning with arms at full stretch, a slave entered the flickering gloom of the oil lamps lighting the centurion’s tent. He glanced about him, message tightly grasped to his chest.
Macro looked up from his desk, where the benefits of acquiring rudimentary writing skills were counter-balanced by the tedious paperwork he could now cope with. He held out a hand. ‘Here!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ replied the slave withholding the scroll protectively. ‘This is for the optio.’
‘Fair enough,’ Macro said. He watched curiously as Cato tore off the seal and unrolled the message. The contents were brief and Cato dipped his pen and quickly scribbled a reply, thrusting it back into the hands of the slave before ushering him out of the tent.
‘That looked rather dodgy,’ said Macro.
‘It was nothing, sir.’
‘Nothing?’
Nothing to do with you, thought Cato, but he managed to smile before replying, ‘Just a personal matter, sir. That’s all.’
‘A personal matter? I see.’ Macro nodded with a maddeningly amused expression on his face. ‘Nothing to do with that slave girl, then?’
Cato blushed, grateful for the orange hue cast by the oil lamps, but kept his tongue still.
‘Have you finished your work for the night?’ Macro asked pointedly.
‘No, sir. There are still some ration requisitions to complete.’
‘Piso can finish them.’
Piso abruptly looked up from his desk in annoyance.
‘Off you go, young Cato. Right now. But don’t over-exert yourself.’ He winked. ‘Remember there’s another long day ahead.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato forced a smile and then dashed out of the tent, burning with embarrassment.
‘Boys, eh?’ Macro laughed. ‘Same the world over, since the dawn of time. Takes you back a bit, doesn’t it, Piso?’
‘If you say so, sir,’ grumbled Piso, and then he sighed at the heap of scrolls spread out in front of him and looked at his centurion reproachfully.
Chapter Twenty-one
Vespasian smiled, even as he rubbed the red marks on his wrist where Titus had sunk his teeth in. That little boy could use some firm discipline, he decided. He simply had to stop biting, throwing things at people and running off with articles he was forbidden to touch. Earlier in the evening the little terror had burst into the nightly briefing of the tribunes. Scampering under the table he had raided the confidential papers safe-box and run off with Claudius’s scroll. If it hadn’t been for Plinius barring the tent flap. Titus would have got clean away. As it was, the tribune grabbed the boy and swung him up into his arms to return him to an embarrassed Flavia, who had appeared from the legate’s personal quarters. The boy swung his hand out and caught Plinius on the chin, just as his mother wrestled the scroll from Titus’s grip. Laughter rolled around the tent as the exasperated mother momentarily lost the scroll in the folds of her gown before handing it to the injured tribune and leaving with the writhing, giggling Titus pinned to her chest.
‘May I have that scroll please?’ asked Vespasian as evenly as possible.
After a cursory – but not openly curious – examination Plinius returned it to his legate.
‘Thank you.’ Vespasian restored it quickly to the safe-box and returned to the matter at hand. ‘As you gentlemen know, there have been rumours that the army gathering at Gesoriacum is on the verge of mutiny. I had a message from General Plautius
late this afternoon, brought to me by a household slave. I’m afraid there’s some substance to the rumours.’
He looked up and met the surprised, and anxious, expressions of his officers. There was a silent pause, broken only by the sound of Titus playing somewhere nearby. The officers shifted uneasily. Many careers were riding on the success of the invasion. If the plan failed, all those associated with it would have blotted reputations. Worse still, for those with an appreciation of the wider political implications, the authority of the Emperor himself would be questioned. Claudius had survived one attempted coup already and until he won the acclaim of the mob in Rome and of the armies spread across the Empire, his hold on power would be tenuous. A successful invasion would tie down a large body of troops and distract the legions from their recent distasteful interest in politics.
‘Six days ago a cohort from the Ninth Legion refused to embark on to ships bound for a squadron reconnaissance of the British coast. When the centurions tried to force the men aboard there was a brief struggle which left two centurions dead and four wounded.’
‘Has word of this got out to the rest of the army?’ Vitellius asked.
‘Of course,’ Vespasian said with a smile. ‘What did you expect? I’ve seen at first hand how well soldiers keep secrets.’
Some of the tribunes blushed as Vitellius continued. ‘Do we know why that cohort mutinied?’
‘It seems that someone has been stirring up the superstitious fears of our troops about what they may encounter when they land in Britain. The usual stuff and nonsense about fire-breathing monsters and other demons. I know it’s rubbish but, even if we don’t believe it, those legionaries do. As things stand, the troops have refused to go on any ships, even for training purposes.’
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