‘We had arranged to meet in the wagons behind the legate’s tents. We were getting on rather well when all this shouting and commotion broke out. We would have ignored it and carried on with things but Lavinia heard her mistress calling for her.’
‘Should have gone for a quickie,’ Macro suggested.
‘Not even enough time for that, sir,’ Cato said regretfully. ‘She had to rush off, without even arranging our next meeting. And now I’m sent off on escort duty and she’s stuck back there.’
‘Never mind, lad, I’m sure she’ll keep it warm for you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So you were there when that thief was discovered? Did you see anything?’
‘Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Just got out of there and went straight back to my bed.’
‘Looks like you missed all the fun.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied, quietly enough that Macro mistook it for the boy’s continued pining for his first love. A degree of sensitivity was called for to distract young Cato from his woes. Macro grasped at the first idea that crept into his head.
‘Let’s see how my words are coming on. You say a word and I’ll spell it. All right?’
‘Whatever you want, sir.’
As Macro stumbled through such tests of his new-found skill as ‘rampart’, ‘sentry’ and ‘javelin’, Cato was consumed by anxiety. If that sentry recovered from his head injury it would only be a matter of time before the investigation closed in around him. And then what? Torture, a confession extracted, and certain humiliating death. But if Lavinia was safe then she would be sure to back up his version of events. Unless – a rather nasty thought struck him – unless she feared that she might implicate herself. And what of Flavia? After all, she had arranged the meeting. She might deny Lavinia’s statement for precisely the same reasons. While the century was detached from the legion he would not know how the situation developed.
‘Cato?’ The centurion had quickly grown tired of spelling tests.
‘Sir?’
‘This man we’re going to meet.’
‘Narcissus?’
‘Keep it down,’ Macro hissed. ‘That lot back there aren’t supposed to know.’
‘Sorry, sir. What about him?’
‘Did you ever run into him at the palace?’
‘Yes, sir. He was a close friend of my father, or at least he was until he struck it rich.’
‘What’s he like?’ Macro asked, then noticed the curious expression on his optio’s face. ‘I just need to know before we meet so we don’t start off on the wrong foot, that’s all. If we’re to guard him for the next few days then I don’t want to risk pissing him off, given that he’s one of the Emperor’s inner circle. Not that I’m afraid of him or anything, after all the man’s only a bloody freedman. Just want to make sure he’s happy while in our care. Won’t harm our futures any if he gets to like us. So then, tell me about him.’
‘Well sir—’ Cato paused for thought. This wasn’t going to be easy. What he knew of Narcissus was far from flattering, and he had been wise enough to keep what he knew to himself. The cold shoulder Narcissus had turned to Cato’s father in the latter years of their friendship had left Cato in no doubt that he could expect few favours from the leading figure of Claudius’s inner council. After Narcissus, only Messalina – the Emperor’s carelessly ambitious wife – wielded more power under the Emperor.
‘Well?’
‘He’s a good man – I mean a brilliant man – sir. Might seem a bit cold and distant at first, but that’s probably because he has a lot on his shoulders. They used to say in the palace that he had more brains and worked harder than any other man in the Empire. We all respected him,’ concluded Cato tactfully.
‘Well, that’s all very nice, but what I want to know is what he’s like as a man. What should I do to get on with him?’
‘Get on with him?’ Cato raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes. I mean, is he a man’s man? That kind of thing. Does he like a good joke? There’s plenty I could tell him.’
‘No, sir. Please don’t try to be funny,’ Cato begged, visions swimming before his eyes of a cosmopolitan sophisticate being regaled with the boorish humour of the ranks. ‘Just be yourself, sir. Be professional and keep out of his way as much as possible. And be careful what you say.’
Chapter Twenty-five
Just after dawn, Flavia was sitting at her portable writing desk going through some papers. From the next tent she could hear Titus squealing with laughter as his nurse struggled to feed him his morning meal. Flavia intended to catch up on some correspondence she had been meaning to write since the Legion had set out from the Rhine. She had already despatched a letter to a distant relative commanding a cavalry unit that was joining the invasion force, hoping to meet up with him when the Second Legion arrived in Gesoriacum. Then there were people in Rome she needed to inform of her return. And there were instructions to be issued to the majordomo of the house on the Quirinal, as well as to the steward of Vespasian’s villa in Campania. Both establishments needed plenty of warning to ensure that they would be ready to receive Flavia and her retinue.
But the writing of those letters must wait until the present task was meticulously completed. She dipped the tip of her stylus in the inkwell and continued writing with serious deliberation, pausing occasionally to copy some detail or other from the map on a scroll lying open before her. A salute was shouted outside her tent and Flavia quickly pushed her paperwork into a roughly ordered pile as Vespasian entered. Flavia smiled and laid her stylus down as she rose to give him a kiss.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to begin packing in a moment,’ apologised Vespasian. ‘Even the legate’s wife is not permitted to delay the Legion.’
‘Surely, after last night’s rumpus, you’ll allow us time to recover?’
‘Recover from what? Lost sleep is a fact of life in the army.’
‘I’m not in the army,’ she protested.
‘No, but you’re married to it.’
‘Brute!’ Flavia scowled. ‘I knew I should have married some fat old senator with a consuming interest in viniculture. Instead of roughing it out here in the barbaric wilderness with a man who thinks being a soldier matters.’
‘I never forced you to,’ Vespasian said quietly.
Flavia took his face between her hands and looked deep into his eyes. ‘Just joking, you idiot. You know why I married you. For love – as unfashionable as that may be.’
‘But you could have married better.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’ Flavia kissed him. ‘One day, you’ll be powerful beyond your wildest dreams. I guarantee it.’
‘That’s reckless talk, Flavia. Please don’t. It’s too dangerous to even think such things these days.’
Flavia looked deeply into his eyes for a moment and then smiled. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll be careful what I say. But mark me, history won’t remember you merely for commanding a legion. I’ll see to that if no-one else will. You really should be more ambitious, or do you still cling to that deep-seated Republican modesty of yours?’
‘Maybe.’ Vespasian shrugged. ‘But right now I think I’ll be lucky if I retain command of the Second until the end of the month.’
‘Why dear? What’s the matter?’
‘That incident last night—’
‘The fire?’
‘The person who caused the fire to start. The thief. He stole something quite precious – something that Narcissus had trusted me to keep secret. Once Narcissus finds out that it’s been stolen I don’t think he’ll be in much of a mood for any excuses.’
‘It’s not your fault it was stolen,’ Flavia protested. ‘Whatever “it” was. He can’t replace you just for that.’
‘He can. He will. He has to.’
‘Why? Whatever can be that important?’
Vespasian allowed himself a small smile. ‘That I can’t tell you. The orders were quite explicit on that point at least.’
‘Were they?’ asked Flavia, her face momentarily flushed with anxiety. ‘When we join the rest of the army, let me have a word with Narcissus. He was a good friend of mine back at the palace.’
‘I’d rather you said nothing to him. Let me continue the investigation here in the Legion. We’ll find the thief sooner or later.’
‘How is the sentry?’
‘Not good. The surgeon says he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s in no shape to travel and today’s journey might just finish him off.’
‘Well, why can’t we leave him at Durocortorum until he’s well enough to follow the Legion – if he lives?’
‘We could, with a few men to carry a litter once he’s up to it. I had thought of that. But he won’t be under the care of the surgeon.’
‘Good thing too – if half of what I’ve heard is true. Look here, why don’t I leave Parthenas to care for him? He’s a trained physician. I’ve seen him at work on the other slaves and he seems competent enough.’
‘All right,’ Vespasian nodded. ‘The man would have a far better chance of survival lying still in a bed rather than bouncing along the road in a hospital wagon. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d be greatly obliged if you would arrange for your personal effects to be packed immediately.’
‘Very well.’
‘Oh! One other thing.’
‘Yes?’
Vespasian reached inside his tunic and drew out a small silk ribbon. ‘I wonder if you’ve ever seen this before?’
‘Let me have a look.’ Flavia examined the ribbon a moment before replying. ‘This is Lavinia’s. Where did you find it?’
‘In my command tent, on my couch. Yet there’s no reason for her to have been in there and I don’t recall seeing it when I left the tent last night. Odd, don’t you think?’
‘What’s odd?’
‘Lavinia has no cause to be in my tent. Do you know anything about this?’
‘Why should I? It’s your tent.’
‘She’s your maid.’ Vespasian looked up, a strange expression on his face – one that alarmed his wife.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Probably nothing. But I think I might have a word with that girl. There’s something funny going on.’
Chapter Twenty-six
‘And, if I’m not mistaken, lurking under that monstrously oversized helmet is young Cato.’ Narcissus smiled and held out his hands. With an instinctive reluctance Cato responded and Narcissus held the young man’s hands in a tight grasp while he stared searchingly into Cato’s eyes. ‘It’s good to see you. But what you are doing dressed up as a solider is quite beyond me.’
‘It’s because I am a soldier – sir,’ Cato said formally. ‘As you may recall, I was given my freedom on condition I agreed to enlist.’
‘I seem to vaguely recall some such detail,’ Narcissus replied airily, as if trying to remember a snack he had once eaten. ‘So how are you finding the army? I’d wager a boy of your age would be relishing the outdoor life.’
‘Can’t complain, sir,’ Cato said, bitterly swallowing the indignity of being referred to as a boy in front of his centurion. ‘Of course, it is more physically demanding than living in the palace.’
Narcissus produced a thin smile. ‘You’re right about that, I’m afraid – haven’t exercised in years. Policy-making is more my metier these days. But no matter. I’m glad to see you again, my boy. I trust that he is giving satisfaction, centurion?’
‘Yes, sir. The lad’s got the makings of a fine optio. You must be quite proud that the palace can turn out lads as good at soldiering as young Cato.’
‘Refresh my memory, if you’d be so kind. What exactly is an optio?’
‘Why, he’s my second-in-command, sir,’ Macro replied, shocked by the civilian’s ignorance. ‘And good at the job too.’
‘It’s most gratifying that even the army can appreciate the worth of a good education.’
Macro produced the required flush of anger.
‘Just my little joke, centurion. No harm intended.’
Narcissus took him by the arm and led him into the lodge of the imperial staging post. The imperial secretary was well into his middle years and his eyes peered out of crow’s-feet lines formed by a lifetime’s worth of smiling. There was no stoop in the way he carried himself and the mobility of his expression clearly matched the speed of his thinking. And yet that dry, caustic wit indicated a mind practised in the art of putting others down. Macro pressed his lips together; as long as the man was under his protection he would have to endure the inevitable slights and barbs. Narcissus, he concluded, was typical of his kind. He treated social superiors as intellectual inferiors and – as his treatment of Cato had shown – he was inclined to treat his intellectual equals as social inferiors. One just could not win with that kind of man. Best try and ignore it.
‘What are your orders, centurion?’ Narcissus asked him when they were alone inside the lodge. ‘Your precise orders?’
‘To escort you as far as the main body of the army and then wait for the rest of the Legion in a holding area yet to be specified. That was it, sir. Other than to render you assistance should you require it.’
‘In other words, you’re to obey my orders.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro conceded reluctantly. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘Good.’ Narcissus nodded. ‘Glad to see that Vespasian managed to get that right at least.’
Macro stiffened at this unwarranted slur on his commander’s aptitude. Coming from a Roman citizen that would be bad enough – but to hear a freedman speak in this manner was a clear breach of the most basic social etiquette.
‘Centurion, we must get on the road immediately,’ Narcissus ordered, poking Macro’s chest to emphasise the point. ‘I have to reach Gesoriacum as soon as possible. Much depends on it. In fact, I can tell you that the entire campaign depends on it, and more. For want of a horse-shoe nail and that sort of thing. Do we understand one another?’
‘I’m not sure what you want me to understand, sir,’ Macro replied frankly. ‘Why the hurry?’
‘That information is given on a strictly need-to-know basis.’
‘But a whole century to guard one man?’
‘Suffice to say that some political miscreants would prefer me not to make it to Gesoriacum – and that’s all you need to know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right then,’ Narcissus resumed brightly. ‘Let’s be off. I’m travelling light; just my litter bearers and a personal bodyguard. A number of my porters have succumbed to some local ailment and I’ll need a few of your men to replace them. There are two chests outside the stables. See to it now, please, and I’ll join your line of men in a moment.’
The grinding of Macro’s teeth was almost audible as he emerged from the lodge and approached Cato.
‘Detail five men for the freedman. He needs some porters.’
‘Porters?’
‘You deaf? Just get on with it. The men can stow their yokes on the wagon.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Apparently we’re in a bit of a hurry to reach the coast, so we’re going to have to give our leisurely stroll through Gaul a miss. Might as well have stayed with the Legion,’ Macro grumbled.
Narcissus’s litter turned out to be a light travelling model with screens, carried by eight huge Nubians who moved with a strength and litheness born of a lifetime’s experience at the job. The litter took up position in the middle of the century, immediately followed by the two chests carried by the five bitterly resentful legionaries who had joined the slave porters. The latter were quite enjoying having someone brought down to their level. Beside the litter stood the bodyguard: a huge, muscular figure with a highly polished black cuirass and short sword. His knotted ponytail, savagely scarred face and black eye-patch announced to the world a long experience in the arena. Suddenly a hand emerged from the leather screen and clicked its fingers to attract the bodyguard’s attention.
‘
You! Polythemus! Tie these back. Might as well see some of this benighted land while we march. Right then, centurion!’ Narcissus called out. ‘When you’re ready.’
Macro sourly gave the order to advance and the century moved off, marching through the main gate of Durocortorum, along the plumb-line straight road that passed through the town to the far gate and the road to Gesoriacum. As they crested a low ridge, Cato glanced back and saw, far to the rear, the advance units of the Legion emerging from the forest road, heading towards the town they had just left. He felt a twinge of anxiety as he thought of Lavinia, then vivid memories of the previous night flooded into his mind and he turned away, filled with dread.
Chapter Twenty-seven
By midday the baggage train and rearguard of the Second Legion had passed through Durocortorum and Vespasian gave the order for a short rest period. Progress had been slow because some of the local children had taken it into their heads to sling stones at the oxen pulling the artillery carriages. One viciously aimed shot had struck a larger than average beast in the testicles, causing it to try to turn in its traces as it bellowed with rage and pain. Seeing the small crowd of urchins responsible the beast had plunged after them, toppling the ballista and its carriage into the street. While the beast was pacified and the wreckage cleared, word had to be passed up to the front of the column and back down to the rearguard, ordering a halt. Eventually the carriage and the ballista were pushed down a side street where a detachment of engineers set about making repairs and the column started moving again.
Vespasian, riding back to investigate the delay, had cursed the shortage of draught animals that had necessitated using temperamental male oxen. The beast, comforted by a muleteer, was led away to join the small herd of lame animals destined to provide the column’s fresh meat, while the young boy concerned was given a thrashing he would remember for the rest of his life. Not that that in any way comforted Vespasian as he raged inwardly at the delay. Nor was he in an improved mood when the Legion halted at midday. Seated at a table, he gave the order to see his wife’s new maid-servant.
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