Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  At length, Cato finished reading and replaced the letters in the box and closed the lid, pressing the catch firmly into place.

  ‘Why have you done this to me? Why, Julia? I’ve done nothing wrong . . . Nothing to deserve this.’

  At length he climbed onto the bed and curled up in a ball as he drowned in a dark tide of misery. He lay still, eyes shut but unsleeping, and time crept past like a cat careful not to wake its master. Then, he heard a sharp rapping from the front door. A pause and then it came again. And again. At last he heard the footsteps of Amatapus as he unhurriedly made his way to answer the brusque impatience of the visitor at the door. Cato heard the rattle of the bolt and the scrape of the latch and the muffled swell of the noise from the street, before a sharp exchange of voices. They grew louder as Amatapus and the caller entered the atrium.

  ‘I can assure you that the master is not here, sir,’ said Amatapus. ‘Now leave, before I send for the vigiles.’

  ‘Go ahead. Send for ’em,’ a voice countered. ‘I’d be happy to put this matter in front of the authorities. Let’s see what the city magistrates have to say about it, eh?’

  ‘Sir, I respectfully ask that you go,’ Amatapus responded patiently. ‘Leave me a message to convey to the master and I am sure he will respond as soon as he can.’

  ‘Bollocks. I’m staying put until the prefect returns.’

  ‘You can’t, sir.’

  ‘No? What are you going to do about it then?’

  Cato sighed and eased himself off the bed and onto his feet. Opening the door to the sleeping chamber, he emerged into the atrium and saw a stocky man with a shaved head facing Amatapus as the latter implored him to leave. The visitor was wearing an ochre tunic and a thick gold chain hung around his thick neck. His arms were like hams as he folded them across his barrel chest, and short sturdy legs showed beneath the hem of his tunic. Army boots completed his threatening appearance. Cato frowned as he approached them.

  ‘Who in Hades are you, and what do you mean by coming into my home uninvited?’

  The visitor turned abruptly and scrutinised Cato swiftly. ‘You’re Quintus Licinius Cato?’

  ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, yes.’

  The man shrugged. ‘We’re not in the army here, are we? So we’ll dispense with that bullshit for a start.’

  Cato stopped a sword’s length away and eyed the man coldly. ‘Very well. But you’re ex-army. I can tell that easily enough. Not old enough to have served out your enlistment, and clearly not discharged as unfit. I’d say you were an optio, or maybe even a centurion.’

  The man’s lips pursed for an instant, then he nodded. ‘Tenth Legion. I made centurion.’

  ‘Not for long I’ll warrant. I’d wager that you were given a dishonourable discharge.’

  The pride faded from the man’s face and he glared at Cato.

  ‘So, I’ll have your name, soldier,’ Cato demanded. ‘Right now.’

  ‘All right. The name’s Marcus Tortius Taurus.’

  ‘And what can I do for you, Taurus?’

  ‘You can pay what’s owed to me, is what you can do.’

  Cato frowned. ‘Owed to you? I don’t even know you. What’s this about?’

  Taurus reached into his side-bag and brought out a bound set of waxed slates. He flipped it open and read out loud. ‘Outstanding debt on the account of Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, eighty-five thousand, nine hundred and five denarii, not including interest due on the open month.’

  Cato’s eyes widened. ‘You are mistaken. I haven’t borrowed any money from you. I don’t even know you.’

  ‘The money was borrowed by your late wife, sir. She took out the loans in your name, against the value of your estate.’

  ‘Julia? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I have the complete record of accounts at my office in the Forum. All signed by her and sealed with her ring. I have summaries in these tablets, if you want to see them. But I can assure you, it is all verifiable, and – more importantly – legally binding.’

  Cato held out his hand. ‘Let me see.’

  Taurus hesitated and then stepped closer, holding the tablets up for Cato to see, but not letting them out of his hands. Cato read down the long columns of figures and dates with a sinking feeling. Just what had Julia been up to in his absence? What kind of life had she been living? He knew some of the answer already, but surely, she could not have spent such a fortune on high living? It was unthinkable. Then his gaze was arrested by a particularly large figure towards the end of the listing. Thirty thousand denarii.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Taurus glanced at the tablets. ‘That was for a small villa she wanted. Just outside Ostia. I know the place. Small, but right on the sea.’

  ‘She bought another house?’ Cato felt bewildered. ‘She never said anything about that.’

  ‘I should think not, sir,’ Taurus shrugged. ‘Given that I heard she made a gift of it to someone else.’

  ‘A gift?’ Cato felt his anger stirring anew. ‘A gift to whom?’

  ‘That would be Tribune Cristus, sir. No secret that. He was bragging about it round the Forum soon as the papers were signed. But that don’t change nothing, as far as you are concerned. Your wife borrowed money from me, against the value of this place. She never got the chance to repay the debt, may she rest in peace, and the interest has been building up in your absence. All quite legal. So, I’ve come to collect.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘But I don’t have it. I don’t have a fraction of it. Nearly all my pay was signed over to my wife in my absence.’

  ‘I can’t help that, sir. That was between you and your wife. She signed for the loan in your name and thus the debt is yours. So, I’d like to know how you intend to repay me, and right now would do nicely, if you please.’

  The demand hit Cato like a blow. ‘How the fuck can I repay that amount? I can’t just make money. This is preposterous.’ He paused and sniffed. ‘This has to be a mistake, or a trick. There’s no way Julia could have run up such a debt.’

  ‘That’s the effect of compound interest, Prefect. And the profligate tastes of your former wife, no doubt.’

  Cato felt an urge to hit him in the face there and then, but for the fact that it would serve no useful purpose. All the same, he wanted him gone.

  ‘I have your name,’ he said calmly. ‘I will look into this matter as soon as it is convenient and, if what you say is true, then I will come to see you to negotiate a solution.’

  ‘Negotiate?’ Taurus laughed. ‘The only thing you’ll be negotiating, my friend, is whether you settle up in cash, or give me this house instead.’

  ‘Get out,’ Cato ordered. ‘Get out now. While you still can, you money-grabbing piece of shit.’

  His expression must have been intent indeed, as Cato saw the first glint of fear in the man’s eyes and Taurus backed off a step. ‘Very well then, Prefect. If that’s how it is. I’ll leave the matter with you. If I do not see you at my offices, or hear from you, within the next three days, then I will place the matter before the court. War hero or no, the magistrate of the debtors’ court takes a very dim view of those who default on their debts.’

  ‘OUT!’ Cato thrust his hand towards the front door.

  ‘As you wish, Prefect. Just don’t forget: three days. That’s all you have.’

  Taurus turned and strode away down the corridor leading to the front door, with Amatapus struggling to keep up with him. The money lender pulled the door open and stepped out into the street and was gone, leaving the door ajar for Amatapus to deal with. Cato slumped back against the wall beside the open window of the bedchamber and tilted his head back.

  ‘Oh, Julia . . . What have you done to me? What have you done to poor Lucius?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two days later
, on the morning of the triumph, Cato rose just before dawn. He ate a quick breakfast of cold pork and bread, washed down with watered wine, before taking up his cloak and waking Amatapus to lock the door after him. As they passed through the atrium the sounds of Macro’s snoring rumbled in the still air. Cato had considered taking Macro with him on his errand but had decided that he would prefer to have the time it took to walk across the city to the Mamertine prison to himself in order to think about his circumstances.

  The first hint of the coming dawn provided just enough light to see his way down the street outside the house. Despite the law forbidding the carrying of swords within the walls of Rome, Cato had strapped on his scabbard and the weight of the sword beneath his cloak was comforting. Especially given the violent nature of some districts of the capital, where small street gangs lurked in dark alleys waiting to pounce on lone passers-by or those revellers too drunk to defend themselves. There were many people already abroad: traders hurriedly driving small carts of goods to their shops before the daytime restriction on wheeled traffic came into force, urine porters laden down by the yokes from which dangled foul-smelling pots – their sloshing contents on the way to the fullers where the laundry of the more affluent inhabitants of Rome was cleaned and pressed. And those with families eager to get a good vantage point from which to enjoy the imperial procession, parents laden down with food and drink driving their yawning children along the streets.

  Cato kept his wits about him, watching for any signs of danger, warily observing any men he saw lingering at the entrances to narrow alleys. He kept to the middle of the streets as he headed down to the Forum and kept a hand close to the handle of his sword. At the same time, his mind was still deeply troubled by the debt that Julia had bequeathed him. He had not told Macro the details yet. He could be told in good time, when Cato himself had recovered enough from the shock to cope with a degree of equanimity. But he had spoken with his father-in-law. Senator Sempronius had been embarrassed at first, not quite sure how much Cato had discovered about what his wife had been up to in his absence. While he sympathised with Cato’s plight he claimed not to have sufficient funds available to help him with the debt, but did offer to take Lucius into his home and bring him up there once Cato was given a new command.

  All the same, the prospect of losing the house Cato had only just come home to weighed heavily on his heart. Thanks to Julia he would have only the meagre savings he had brought back with him from Britannia. With any luck he might expect some kind of gift from the Emperor after the triumph was over, but after that he would have to build his fortune again if he was to have a comfortable retirement when he left the army, and if he was to leave his son a decent inheritance. Lucius would have the benefit of Cato’s elevation to equestrian rank and with the help of Julia’s father he might be fortunate enough to enter the Senate one day. The prospect filled Cato with pride. His own father had been a freedman and the rise from that humble rank to the floor of the Senate of Rome in three generations was a notable achievement.

  He entered the Forum where gangs of slaves were clearing the streets of the ordure and accumulated rubbish, while others were busy garlanding the statues and temple columns with flowers and bright strips of cloth. Cato made his way around the base of the Capitoline Hill, where the imperial palace dominated the heart of the city, and approached the entrance to the Mamertine prison where the most important enemies of Rome were held at the pleasure of the Emperor. Most of them were destined for execution, as were Caratacus and his family. Several Praetorians stood guard at the studded gateway as Cato approached. The duty optio stepped into his path and held up a hand.

  ‘Your name, and business?’

  ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato. I’ve come to see the prisoner Caratacus.’

  At the mention of Cato’s rank the optio stood to attention and saluted. ‘Sorry, sir. But I have no orders concerning any visit.’

  ‘I came on my own initiative, Optio. I wish to speak with Caratacus. Briefly.’

  The optio shook his head. ‘Not without the proper authority.’

  Cato had anticipated this response. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Word’s been going round the barracks about you and Centurion Macro. Bloody fine work, if I may say so. It’s an honour to meet you in the flesh, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Cato smiled. ‘So, you will know that I am in the Emperor’s good books. And that means he would not be best pleased if I had occasion to mention that you and your lads here turned me away when I merely wanted a last chance to stare Caratacus in the eye and bid him farewell before he is given the chop. One soldier to another.’ Cato leaned forward and prodded the optio in the chest. ‘Do you want your name to be mentioned when I tell the Emperor I was denied that last opportunity to speak with the prisoner? From what I hear, Claudius is always on the lookout for some fresh meat to throw into the arena to keep the mob happy.’

  The optio winced. ‘There’s no need for that, sir. Of course I’ll let you in. After all, I’m not going to deny a request from a hero of Rome, am I?’

  ‘That’s better.’

  The optio stood aside and waved Cato through the gate. ‘Paulinus, escort the prefect to the prisoners.’

  One of the Praetorians saluted and hurried to open a low studded door for their visitor. Cato had to duck through and then saw a flight of steps leading down a short distance. A brazier glowed at the bottom of the stairs and several unlit torches were stacked beside it. Within the first few steps the air became noticeably more cold and dank and Cato was grateful for his cloak. He reached the bottom of the steps and waited by the brazier until the Praetorian had lit one of the torches and held it aloft to illuminate the narrow passage stretching before them. Cato could see that there were doors on either side, opening onto the cells where the Emperor’s prisoners were thrown while they awaited their fate. The air was thick with the stench of human waste and a muffled coughing came from a cell at the far end.

  After twenty or so paces, the guardsman stopped outside one of the doors and slid back the bolt. He pushed the door open and there was a grating squeak as it swung on its hinges. Cato lowered his head and entered. The cell was some ten feet wide and twenty in length and illuminated by a grated opening high above in the wall opposite the door. The floor was covered with straw and several iron brackets were fixed into the stone for prisoners to be hung from their manacles, should it be deemed that their incarceration be even more uncomfortable. It took a moment for Cato’s eyes to adjust to the gloom and he heard a rustling sound before he could make out a figure rising to his feet at the far end of the cell.

  ‘Want me to stay with you, sir?’

  ‘No. Wait outside. I’ll call when I need you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The guardsman pulled the door closed after him and the flames of the torch left a wavering glimmer around the rim. Cato did not move at first, squinting into the shadows as the prisoner shuffled closer.

  ‘Who’s that?’ The accented voice was dry and there was a brief fit of coughing before Caratacus spoke again, more easily this time. ‘Who are you?’

  The light from above cast a weak beam down towards the door and Cato stepped into it so that he might be seen more clearly. ‘My name is Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato.’

  There was silence, and then the prisoner edged forward until he was on the fringe of the pool of light illuminating Cato. ‘I know you. You’re the bastard who put paid to me in Brigantia.’

  ‘I have that honour.’

  ‘And no doubt you will be amply rewarded because of it. I know how much Rome needs its heroes, particularly if the news from Britannia is true.’

  ‘What news would that be?’

  ‘That you have suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of my allies.’

  Cato hesitated before he could offer a reply and the prisoner laughed drily. ‘The
n it’s true. And there’s hope yet for those still resisting your attempt to steal our lands.’

  ‘How did you come by this news?’

  ‘Did you think that you were the first visitor to my cell? The first Roman to come and gloat over the defeated king of the most powerful tribe in all Britannia?’

  Caratacus stepped into the light and now Cato could see him clearly. The transformation in the formidable warrior he had faced less than a year before was shocking. Months of confinement in the filthy conditions of the prison had left Caratacus with long matted hair, soiled skin and just the tattered remains of the finely woven garb of a king of the Celts. Lack of exercise and a poor diet had reduced his impressive physique so that he now looked like one of the half-starved beggars struggling to survive in the gutters of Rome. His hands were manacled and had worn the skin about his wrists, leaving crusty scabs and open sores. Cato could not help a surge of pity for his former foe. And there was a small stab of shame there too. Shame for his part in reducing Caratacus to this grim condition. He had been defending his people, as Cato would have done with the same resolution had their positions been reversed.

  The king smiled grimly. ‘How are the mighty fallen, eh? Woe to the vanquished.’

  ‘I am sorry to see you like this, truly.’

  The British king scrutinised his visitor briefly and nodded. ‘I believe you . . . It is a shame that we have met as enemies, Prefect Cato. I would have valued you as a friend if things had been different.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘You should. I do not respect many men in this world.’ Caratacus indicated some empty slop buckets by the door to the cell. ‘Take a seat, Prefect. These are the best furnishings I can offer, I’m afraid.’

  They exchanged rueful smiles and Cato upended two of the buckets to serve as stools and they sat down, facing each other. The length of chain between his wrists meant that Caratacus had to rest them on his knees and he stroked his sores gently to try and relieve the itching. ‘At least I won’t have to put up with this for much longer. A few more hours, then they’ll take me out of here, with my kin, and we’ll be dragged through the streets to the place of execution. I’m told that we are to be garrotted.’