As he snacked on some tough cold chicken washed down with a nameless local wine – when would these Gauls ever learn the art? – Lavinia was brought before him. His mouth full, he indicated that she should stand by the table where he gazed at her while his jaws worked hard to break the chicken down. She was quite a beauty, he decided, now that he had the chance to look her over properly. Completely wasted as a serving maid; a tidy sum could be fetched for her in Rome as a courtesan.
After a quick sip of wine to clear his palate he was ready to begin. He extracted the ribbon from his tunic and laid it down on the table. He was gratified to see that it was instantly recognised.
‘Yours?’
‘Yes, master. I thought I’d lost it.’
‘And well you might, it had nearly slid down behind a cushion on my couch.’
Lavinia reached for it but Vespasian still held it in his grip and her hand dropped back.
‘What I’d like to know,’ Vespasian smiled, ‘is why it was there in the first place?’
‘Master?’
‘What were you doing in my tent last night?’
‘Last night?’ Lavinia asked, all wide-eyed innocence.
‘That’s right. The ribbon wasn’t there when I left for bed. So tell me, Lavinia, and tell me straight, what were you doing there?’
‘Nothing master! I swear it.’ Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her. ‘I just went in there to lie down for a moment. I was tired. I wanted somewhere comfortable to rest. The ribbon must have come off then.’
Vespasian stared long and hard at her before he continued. ‘You just wanted to rest on my couch? That’s all?’
Lavinia nodded.
‘And you didn’t take anything from the tent?’
‘No, master.’
‘And you didn’t see anything or anybody while you were there?’
‘No, master.’
‘I see. Here.’ He pushed the ribbon towards her and leaned back in his chair, while he considered her claims. She might be telling the truth or she might tell an altogether different tale if a little physical persuasion was applied. But almost as quickly as the thought of torture entered his head, Vespasian dismissed it. He did not doubt its efficacy in loosening tongues, he had just seen too many victims offer up the version of events they knew their tormentors required of them. Hardly an effective way of finding out what had really happened. A new tack was required.
‘You’ve only recently joined the household, according to my wife.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who did you belong to before then?’
‘Tribune Plinius, master.’
‘Plinius!’ Vespasian’s eyebrows shot up. That changed things. What was a former slave of Plinius doing in his household? An agent? A spy trying to gain access to his safe-box? Yet, looking at her, it was hard to imagine that she could manage the guile required for the job. Another facade? It was impossible to tell at this stage.
‘Why did Plinius sell you?’
‘He grew tired of me.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I find that hard to believe.’
‘It’s true, master,’ Lavinia protested.
‘There must be more to it than that. Speak up, girl, and mind it’s the truth.’
‘There is more, master,’ Lavinia admitted and bowed her head, as Flavia had told her to do, before she continued. ‘The tribune wanted to use me . . . in certain ways.’
I bet he did, thought Vespasian.
‘But he wanted more than that, he wanted me to have feelings for him. I couldn’t bring myself to and he grew angry with me. And when he discovered I loved someone else he flew into a rage and hit me.’
Vespasian tutted in sympathy. ‘And who might this other person be, the one you loved?’
‘Please, master,’ Lavinia looked up, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. ‘I don’t want to say.’
‘You have to tell me Lavinia.’ Vespasian leaned forward to pat her arm comfortingly. ‘I must know who this other man is. It’s vital that I know. I can command you to tell me.’
‘Vitellius!’ she blurted out, and broke down in tears, clutching her hands to her face.
Vitellius. So she loved Vitellius. Enough to do his bidding? A further thought struck Vespasian.
‘Have you been seeing Vitellius since you joined our household?’
‘Master?’
‘You heard me. Are you still seeing him?’
She nodded.
‘Did you see him last night? In my tent?’
Lavinia looked up at him with a shocked expression and shook her head.
‘But you were planning to. Weren’t you?’
‘He never turned up, master. I waited, but he never came to me, as he had promised. I waited in the dark and he never came. So I went to bed. I never noticed the ribbon was missing until this morning.’
‘I see. Did Vitellius ever ask you to tell him anything about me? Did he ask you anything about my household?’
‘We talked,’ Lavinia replied carefully. ‘But I can’t remember much of what we said about my lady Flavia and you, master.’
‘And he never asked you to steal, or borrow, anything from my tent?’
‘No, master. Never.’
Vespasian stared into her eyes for a long time, trying to determine if she spoke the truth. Lavinia just stared frankly back at him, until she could no longer meet his gaze and stared down at her feet instead. Certainly her story had the ring of truth. But if she still loved Vitellius it was conceivable that she might be persuaded to steal for him, or arrange access to the general’s tent so that the senior tribune could steal the secret scroll after she had given up on him and gone to bed.
‘You may go now, Lavinia.’ Vespasian waved his hand. ‘But I want you to remember this: If Vitellius ever asks you for any information about me again, or arranges another meeting, I want to know about it. And I warn you, the consequences of not telling me the truth from now on will be very painful. Very painful indeed. Do we understand one another?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘Good. Now leave me.’
‘So how did it go?’ Flavia asked Lavinia that evening as they waited for the tents to be erected.
‘I think he believed me, mistress. But why did I have to say that Vitellius was in the tent that night?’
‘Would you rather have told him the truth and got Cato involved?’
‘No, mistress. Of course not.’
‘Well then, if we’re to keep Cato out of the frame we need to put someone else into it. Vitellius fits the bill nicely. Very nicely indeed.’
Lavinia glanced at her mistress in surprise. Clearly there was more to this than simply saving Cato’s skin. The pleased expression on Flavia’s face as she idly watched the legionaries struggling with the guy ropes went beyond relief for saving the young optio and Lavinia could not help wondering if she, and Cato, might well be small pieces in a deeper game. Flavia suddenly switched her gaze to the slave girl.
‘You must remember to stick to the story we agreed, Lavinia. Stick to that and we’re all safe, understand? But don’t ask me for any further explanations. The less you know, the more honest you will appear. Trust me.’
‘Yes, mistress.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Sixth century marched through lush Gaul countryside bursting with the fresh buds of spring. The legionaries joked and chatted happily – with occasional raucous bursts of lewd singing to while away the day. And this mode persisted despite the pace that Macro had set, for he was eager to reach his destination as soon as possible and offload the imperial secretary before the latter tempted Macro to some act of violence. Narcissus had lost no opportunity to make barbed comments about the army in general, and its soldiers and Macro in particular. The centurion would dearly have loved to smack the smug bastard in the mouth just once, to emphasise the fact that you simply did not behave in such a fashion: ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do, but when you’re in the army keep your mouth shu
t and show some fucking respect.’
He smiled at the thought but knew it could never be voiced aloud, let alone face to face with a close friend and confidante of the Emperor. And so he had to sullenly endure the sarcasm and criticism in apparent good spirit – the fate of all those exposed to insecure arrivistes. Cato fared somewhat better at the hands of their tormentor since their common background provided a basis for conversation, even though Narcissus made it perfectly clear that, whatever the past, a huge social gulf now existed between them. Fortunately, the only opportunity for conversation occurred at rests in the march and at the end of the day when the century camped for the night. In between, Macro and Cato led the column from the front, though a smoother-tongued, more ambitious officer would have marched by the imperial secretary’s litter to engage him in conversation and use every opportunity for flattery. After the first day, Macro insisted that he inspect his troop’s equipment at each break in the march. The men regarded this zealous display of duty with curiosity, silently shaking their heads as the centurion tugged at equipment straps and checked that their weapons were being properly maintained.
On the evening of the third day of their escort duty Macro calculated that they would reach the coast the following evening, thanks to the extended length of the marching day that had been possible for the small formation. If they started just before dawn and really pushed the pace they should make the main body of the army by nightfall.
‘Very good, centurion.’ Narcissus nodded approvingly. ‘And an arrival in the darkness will attract less attention. That would be better in the present circumstances.’
Cato and Macro exchanged a look; precisely what the present circumstances were was still a mystery. Narcissus had said nothing to enlighten them over the last three days and Macro was a good enough soldier not to question his orders. He was also human enough not to want to give the imperial secretary the satisfaction of turning down a direct request for information. A more subtle tactic was required, thought Macro.
‘More wine, sir?’ He held out the jug, with a forced smile.
This time it was Cato and Narcissus who exchanged a look, surprised at the transparency of the centurion’s approach. Narcissus laughed.
‘Yes please, centurion. But I’m afraid it’ll take more wine than we have with us to loosen my tongue. You’ll just have to wait.’
Macro’s blush was visible even by the glow of the fire. The night air was still chilly and the fire and hot meal at the end of each day was greatly appreciated before the men turned in. The food that Piso had managed to wangle for the century had come from the staff officers’ stores, as Vespasian was anxious to create a good impression on the distinguished guest. A rich stew of venison and spring vegetables was being mopped from the silver plates that Narcissus’ bodyguard produced from one of the chests. Macro had eaten a double portion and smacked his lips before wiping them on the back of his hairy hand. He caught the disapproving gaze of the other two and shrugged as he knocked back the last of his wine before refilling the cup.
‘It’s good to see a man enjoy his food,’ Narcissus remarked with a sly smile. ‘Even if it is only such rude morsels as are provided for the common soldiery. I must say, I almost feel like one of you as we share the hardships of the march, iron rations and outdoor living in the wilds of untamed Gaul.’
‘Untamed Gaul?’ Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘What’s so untamed about it?’
‘Did you notice any theatres as we passed through Durocortorum? Have we passed any great landscaped estates? The only things I’ve seen are a handful of struggling farms and a few shabby inns. That’s what I mean by untamed, centurion.’
‘Nothing untamed about inns,’ Macro replied gruffly.
‘Not as such, no. But look at that foul beverage they sell as wine. I wouldn’t even use it as a salad dressing.’
‘You’re drinking it now,’ Macro pointed out.
‘Only under the strictest sufferance. And you did rather force it on me. Maybe I’ll reveal all to avoid inflicting any more on my poor stomach.’
‘So make it easy on yourself, sir,’ Cato said with a grin. ‘And tell us why you’re going to Gesoriacum. It can’t be to oversee the invasion – all the plans for that must have been made months ago. Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?’
Narcissus looked at him, carefully weighing his thoughts. ‘Yes. I can’t say too much. I won’t. But everything is at stake. I have to reach Gesoriacum – alive. I have certain information for General Plautius. If anything happens to me, I doubt that there will be an invasion, and if there’s no invasion then there might be no Emperor in short order.’ Narcissus saw the incredulity that his words produced, and he leaned closer to the others, half his face thrown into flickering shadow. ‘The Empire is in great danger, greater than it has ever been. Even now there are still some fools in the Senate who think they’re capable of running the Empire. They never cease trying to undermine the Emperor – that’s why I have to get to Gesoriacum. There are some who say Claudius is a cruel simpleton. He smiled sadly. ‘I’m sorry if it surprises you to hear me say that. And it might even be true. But he’s the only Emperor we have and the Julio-Claudian dynasty may well end with him.’
‘I’ve heard some people argue that it might be as well if it did,’ Cato said.
‘And then what?’ Narcissus asked bitterly. ‘A return to the Republic? How would that benefit us? Back to the old factions fighting it out in the Senate with words, and then letting it spill out on to the streets with violence, until the whole of the civilised world is torn apart by civil war. To read the pious nonsense republican historians write you’d think that the days of Sulla, Julius Caesar, Mark Antony and their breed marked some kind of golden age. Well, let me tell you, those “heroes” marched into history over the bodies of three generations of Roman citizens. We need the Emperors, we need the stability of one authority dominating the state. We Romans are no longer capable of anything else.’
‘We Romans?’
‘All right, we freedmen and the Romans,’ conceded Narcissus. ‘I admit that my fate is bound up with the Emperor’s. Without his patronage, some senator or other would rouse the mob and I’d be torn apart in a matter of days. My destruction would just be the start. Even you people out here on the frontier would suffer the consequences.’
‘Makes no difference to me who is in power,’ said Macro. ‘I’m just a soldier. There will always be an army and that’s all that matters.’
‘Maybe. But what kind of an army? If Claudius falls you’ll still get your war – but it’ll be fought against Romans. You may even be called upon to fight men you now regard as friends. Maybe even each other. Think about it. And then give thanks for the Emperor.’
Cato looked across at his centurion, whose eyes glinted in the light of the fire. The optio smiled unsteadily as he turned back to Narcissus.
‘You’re testing us, aren’t you? To see how we respond.’
‘Of course I am,’ Narcissus readily admitted. ‘A man has to know where other people stand on the fundamental issues.’
‘Just as well we kept our peace,’ Macro laughed.
‘Silence can be every bit as incriminating as the spoken word, centurion. But I doubt whether you, or the optio here, constitute much of a threat to the Emperor. So you’re both safe . . . for now.’
Macro glanced nervously at his optio for reassurance that the imperial secretary was joking with them. But the frozen stare of the young lad was enough to still any attempt at obsequious laughter.
‘Anyhow, enough of that.’ Narcissus drained his silver cup of the last remnants and set it down in front of the flask of wine. ‘One last drink for the road and then to sleep. You know, it’s quite a liberating thing to be away from all the intrigues of Rome. A man could get used to this life of yours. I propose a toast,’ he said as Macro half-filled the cup proffered to him, and then the centurion filled his to the brim.
‘To the good life!’ Narcissus raised his cup. ‘To the army
, who—’
An arrow whistled out of the darkness and the imperial secretary screamed as his cup flew off into the night to clatter down against a rock. Narcissus held his drinking hand tightly against his chest as his face contorted with agony.
‘What?’ Cato began.
‘To arms! TO ARMS!’ Macro roared, throwing down his cup. He sprang to his feet and ran to gather his shield and sword propped up against the litter. Only a handful of men had risen to their feet around the century’s camp fires when a shower of arrows descended on them. Several were aimed at Narcissus but mercifully missed him, their feathered ends sprouting up in the grass about the fire – and one thudding against a glowing red log, sending a plume of bright sparks swirling into the blackness. The imperial secretary had recovered sufficiently to be aware of the immediate need for self-preservation and he rolled away from the light of the fire towards the century’s baggage wagon where he lay flat between the protection of the wheels.
As Cato snatched up his shield and drew his sword, an arrow took a legionary in the back as he struggled to pull his chain-mail shirt over his head. The man grunted as the breath was knocked from him by the impact and he toppled forwards, hands desperately scrabbling for the shaft sunk deep beneath the shoulder blade.
Shield held close to his body, Cato ran over and saw that the injured legionary was starting to cough up frothy gouts of blood.
‘Leave him!’ Macro shouted and pointed to the other men. ‘Get them formed up around the wagon!’
In the flickering red light of the fires, Macro raced through the century kicking men to their feet and pushing them towards the wagon. Some were still dazed and had to have a shield and sword thrust into their hands before they recovered their wits and stumbled off in the direction of the wagon. Two more men had been hit by the time Cato had formed a rough perimeter around the century’s baggage wagon, under which the imperial secretary lay, wide-eyed at the action around him. The legionaries knelt down behind their shields as they had been trained to do in the face of missile fire. Except now they wore no armour, merely woollen tunics that would stop neither arrow nor spear-thrust. Most had not been able to strap helmets on and kept their heads ducked down as the arrows continued to whirr in from the darkness, striking shields with a splintering crack. From the nearly flat trajectory, Cato knew their attackers had to be close and tensed himself for a sudden rush. Looking around he saw that he had twenty or so men with him, and more were straggling up from the main line of tents, driven on by Macro.
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