Macro was silent for a moment before he spoke again. ‘Vitellius was standing with Pallas at the triumph. They looked very chummy to me. You think it’s him, Pallas?’
‘Could be. But then, what is Pallas scheming at?’ Cato rubbed his forehead. ‘Something is wrong about all this. Very wrong. But there’s nothing we can do about it here. We should warn Narcissus. Send him a message before we march tomorrow.’
‘What would you warn him about? All you have are suspicions.’ Macro chuckled drily. ‘Just for a change. Seriously, lad, what can you tell him? That we suspect Vitellius has some underhand reason for picking officers he’s not in the habit of inviting round to dinner? What if he really has picked us all because we happen to be the best men available for the job? Even if you are right, then what does it have to do with Pallas?’ Macro shook his head dismissively. ‘All a bloody storm in a thimble if you ask me.’
Cato thought hard for a moment. Macro could be right. Maybe there was less to it all than met the eye. But then again, Vitellius was as cunning as any snake, and whatever reason he gave for an action in public, there was surely another, deeper and more devious reason gliding beneath the surface of the cool charm of his persona. If he did want to do them harm, then it would have been easy enough to hire some gang members from the Subura to knife them in the streets. True, that might attract unwanted attention, and a deal of suspicion. And what if all the officers chosen for the mission had been disposed of in the same way? That would surely set the capital on edge. Everyone who feared their political enemies would be suspicious and watchful and it would make any deeper plot far more difficult to conceal.
The flap rustled as Metellus entered and offered a salute. ‘The officers you requested will be here directly, sir.’
Cato nodded and was about to dismiss the man but then turned his gaze back. ‘You’re the senior clerk at headquarters?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then you’ll know if the cohort is ready to march. Has all the men’s kit been landed?’
‘Yes, sir. And I’ve set up a stores tent. Just waiting for some spare leather and armour segments when the rest of the ships arrive.’
‘No time for that. We’ll have to make do with whatever the men are carrying with them. What I need now is mules and carts. Take fifty men into Tarraco. Requisition a dozen decent-sized carts and enough mules to draw them, plus some animals for the reserve. Then I want them filled with grain, cured meat, cheese and wine and water. You can authorise it in the name of the governor and tell the suppliers to go to him for payment. I want the carts loaded and ready to leave at first light. I also want twenty mounts for scouting. Good mounts, mind you. Don’t accept any broken-down nags, or any bribes offered to take them. Pick the best. Got all that?’
Metellus mentally ticked off the list and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
The clerk hesitated. ‘Are you sure about this, sir? It’s going to push the noses of the locals out of joint.’
‘That’ll be the least of their worries if we don’t get what we need. Go now.’ A thought struck Cato. ‘Wait. While you are in the city, I want you to go to the governor’s palace and find a man called Cimber, from Asturica. He’s been assigned to act as our guide. Make sure he accompanies you back to the camp and accept no excuses.’
Metellus grinned. ‘I understand, sir.’
Cato saw the malevolent glint in the optio’s eyes at the prospect of impressing Cimber and spared the man a little sympathy for his plight. ‘Don’t be too heavy-handed with Cimber. I’d rather he helped us as willingly as possible. Dismissed. ’
Metellus saluted and left the tent.
Macro looked at Cato with an amused expression. ‘He’s right, you know. I appreciate the need to act fast, but it’s going to cause a stink. Even if the governor lets it past you can be bloody sure that someone will send a petition to the Emperor in Rome to complain about it.’
‘We can’t worry about that now. Besides, given the odds, we may not be around to face the music even if they do complain. So it’s not my problem.’
‘Spoken like a true leader!’ Macro laughed.
An officer appeared on the threshold of the tent and bowed his head. ‘Centurion Publius Placinus, Fifth Century, sir. You sent for me?’
‘Come in, Placinus. Where are the other officers?’
‘Just coming, sir.’
The remaining centurions filed into the tent in their off-white tunics and Cato told them to take a seat at the table, along with Macro. Cato glanced over them, and his gaze rested on the last of them to enter the tent. A heavily built veteran with a boxer’s features: flattened nose, heavy brow and thick lips and ears. The man’s face was familiar, yet Cato could not quite place him in any context that would have made him recognisable. Then he realised that there was someone missing.
‘Where’s the tribune?’
‘He’s gone into Tarraco, sir,’ said Placinus. ‘I sent a man to fetch him.’
‘I see.’ Cato frowned in frustration. ‘Does he have permission to be out of camp?’
‘Permission? Sir, he’s technically the ranking officer in the cohort.’
‘Technically. But let me guess, he’s a junior tribune attached to the unit to serve out his military service in Rome. Spends more time drinking with his friends than attending to the few duties he has. No doubt he knows more about the latest fashions than he does about soldiering.’ Cato paused and noted the amused expressions of the centurions. Clearly they shared the same view of most professional soldiers towards the young gentlemen who completed their military service before devoting their lives to political advancement. ‘We all know the type. Technically, they hold a high rank, but the reality is they are raw recruits who we are obliged to treat civilly and keep from interfering in the work that we do. Of course, I hope that the young man in question is the exception to the rule. I will give him the same chance to prove himself that I give all men under my command. But they will abide by the rules, without exception. No man leaves camp without permission from now on.’ Cato added in a more steely tone, ‘By the authority of Legate Vitellius, this cohort is now under my command.’
He tapped his chest. ‘I am Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato. I commanded an auxiliary cohort in Britannia, and before that I served in Egypt, Palmyra, Syria, Judaea and Germania, along with my grim-looking comrade here, Centurion Macro.’
Macro nodded his head in acknowledgement.
‘Some of you will know that the centurion and I were recently decorated for the capture of King Caratacus. You should also know that was not a one-off piece of good fortune. We’ve seen plenty of action. Don’t be fooled by the scar on my face: the other man came off worse. Centurion Macro and I do our duty, we fight hard and we lead from the front. I want you to know that, because we are ordered to take the fight to the rebels at first light tomorrow.’
The centurions stirred at the news. Some had a gleam of excitement in their eyes, but two could not hide their anxiety, Cato noted.
‘The cohort will force march to Argentium to secure the imperial mine there. It is located in the heart of the territory controlled by the rebels we have been sent to defeat. So you will appreciate the risks involved. Defending the mine is vital to the fortunes of the campaign and the wider empire. Which is why the legate cannot afford to wait for the remaining units to reach Tarraco. Once the other cohorts have landed, Vitellius will advance towards Asturica and we will join the main column when it reaches the mine. Gentlemen, I make no secret of the danger we may face, but it is up to us to do the job.’ He let his words sink in before resuming. ‘We will need to march as swiftly as possible. Therefore, the men will carry their picks, canteens, mess tins, armour and weapons only. All spare clothing, kit and personal effects will remain behind to go into the stores of the Tarraco garrison. I’d also suggest that the men lodge their wills here at the same time. We’ll
also be leaving our siege kit and artillery here. The only vehicles we’ll be taking are carts, for the carriage of provisions and any injured . . . Any questions?’
Placinus raised a hand. ‘How long before the other cohorts reach Tarraco?’
‘They’re expected any day. The legate will advance as soon as he has collected siege trains and provisions for the column. They will take somewhat longer to reach Asturica than we do. Maybe seven to ten days behind us.’
There were no more comments and Cato took his seat at the head of the table. ‘Then it only remains for you to introduce yourselves, gentlemen. Centurion Placinus I already know. If you have legionary service before joining the Praetorians then say so.’ He indicated the man to his left, tall, thin, creased features and grey-haired. ‘You first.’
‘Centurion Arrius Vorenus Secundus, Second Century, sir. Been a guardsman for ten years, centurion for the last four years. Transferred from the Sixth Ferrata Legion when I was an optio.’
‘The “Ironclads”,’ Macro commented. ‘Good men.’
Centurion Secundus inclined his head in appreciation of the comment as the next man cleared his throat. He was far younger, smooth-faced and overweight.
‘Centurion Gaius Metricus Porcino, Sixth Century, sir. Commissioned into the Praetorians two years ago.’
‘No previous experience?’ asked Cato.
‘None, sir.’ Porcino’s gaze wavered and then he looked down at his folded hands.
‘Then count yourself lucky to have this chance to prove your mettle, Centurion. Do your duty and remember your training and I am confident you will do well.’
‘Yes, sir. I will.’
Cato moved directly on to the next officer, a slender man in his early thirties with finely sculpted features, thick dark hair and dark eyes. He had a neatly trimmed beard and sensitive lips that were raised slightly, as if he was finding the occasion faintly amusing. A smile flickered before he introduced himself. ‘Centurion Junius Petillius, Fourth Century. I’m afraid I was also directly commissioned, some eight years ago. No prior military experience. Just some useful connections.’
Macro’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘You’ll address the prefect as “sir”. Do it now.’
Petillius’ amused expression did not falter for a moment as he bowed his head. ‘Yes, of course. Sir it is.’
Cato quickly weighed the officer up. A socialite, then. His family was from a junior branch of the aristocracy, not wealthy enough to enter him into the Senate, but with sufficient ancestral reputation to trade on to gain him a commission in the Praetorian Guard. No doubt he cut a fine figure in his polished ceremonial armour, and used his fine looks and easy charm to good effect at the parties and in the bedchambers of Rome. Cato felt an instant dislike for the man and shifted his gaze to the other side of the table where the last two officers were seated. The first could have been Macro’s younger brother. The same stocky stature, tightly curled hair and broad face.
‘Centurion Marcus Horatius Musa, Third Century, sir. Been with the Guard six months. Before that, Centurion of the First Cohort, Twenty-First Rapax Legion.’
‘Why were you transferred?’
‘Not my choice, sir. The legate mentioned me in despatches, after action with some of the mountain tribes. Next thing I know, I’m appointed to the Praetorian Guard. Not complaining though.’
‘I should think not!’ Macro grinned. ‘Double the pay, and all the comforts and cheap cunny of Rome.’
Musa had the grace to nod. ‘I’d sooner die from the clap than have some stinking barbarian cleave my chops with an axe any day.’
Cato turned to the last man, the one he was now quite certain he had encountered before, some years earlier.
‘Centurion Gnaeus Lucullus Pulcher, First Century, sir. Been a guardsman from the start. Though I’ve seen action on the frontier with Germania, and in Britannia. Made centurion nine years ago, after the Guard returned from Britannia.’
‘You were in the battle outside Camulodunum then,’ Macro queried.
‘Yes, sir. A tough fight, that. Thought those Celt bastards were never going to give up.’
Macro nodded, with feeling, and turned to give a nod of approval to Cato. But the prefect was staring coldly at Pulcher. Cato now recalled where he knew the man from, and a flood of bitter memories filled his mind as he mentally stripped away the traces of the years from the man’s face and recalled Pulcher, the fellow recruit who had made his life such a misery when Cato had first joined the Second Augustan Legion. Pulcher had bullied him, sneered at his educated ways and would have crushed his spirit had it not been for Macro’s intervention. But that was not the only source of the cold anger rising in Cato’s heart. For Pulcher had been sent to the legion to spy on some officers suspected of conspiring against the newly installed Emperor Claudius. Later, on the evening of the invasion of Britannia, Pulcher had interrogated, tortured and executed the ringleaders of an abortive mutiny, which was no doubt the cause of his promotion once he had completed his assignment and returned to the ranks of the Praetorian Guard.
Cato swallowed and took a deep calming breath. ‘I believe we have met before, Centurion.’
Pulcher’s brow tightened. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘I can assure you we have. I didn’t have this scar then. Back in the Second Legion, when I was a fresh-faced recruit.’
The centurion looked confused for a moment before his jaw sagged a fraction and his eyes widened in shock. ‘Fuck me . . . The brat from the palace.’
‘I am delighted to see that you remember me. And I haven’t forgotten you, Pulcher.’
Macro leaned forward and stared hard at the other centurion before he shook his head in wonder. ‘It is. It is him. Bloody hell. So this is what happened to the bastard after he disappeared.’ Macro rounded on him. ‘You’ve got a lot to answer for, my friend. You killed some good men. Comrades of ours.’
Pulcher leaned back quickly in alarm. ‘They were mutineers. Traitors! I was doing my duty.’
‘Sure you were,’ Macro sneered. ‘Cutting the throats of men tied up like dogs. Instead of facing men in battle, like a real soldier.’
‘But I did fight! At Camulodunum, like I said.’
‘That’s what you say,’ Macro said mockingly. ‘And we should trust the word of a back-stabbing spy?’
Pulcher’s eyes darted from Macro towards Cato, pleadingly. ‘That was ten years ago, sir. Like I said, I was doing my duty, and I’ve had a spotless record ever since.’
Cato paused to wonder if a man like Pulcher could change, and then decided that he could not take the risk in finding out. The stakes were too high for that. Besides, his treatment of Pulcher might serve as a valuable lesson to the others not to cross their new commander.
‘Centurion Pulcher, you are relieved of your command of the First Century. You will take command of the baggage train. Centurion Macro?’
‘Sir?’
‘You will replace Pulcher as commander of the First Century.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No!’ Pulcher protested, before he saw the warning in Cato’s expression. ‘Wait, sir. You can’t replace me. I was appointed by the Emperor, back in Rome. You can’t override his decision.’ He gave a crafty smile. ‘You wouldn’t dare . . . sir.’
‘As you say, “back in Rome”. We’re far away from Rome, and about to march to war, Pulcher. So you can make your complaint when the campaign is over. And good luck to you. Meanwhile, my orders stand and I will hear no more of it.’
‘But—’
‘One more word, and I’ll charge you with insubordination. And then break you back to the ranks. If you treat your men like you used to treat me then I dare say they might enjoy serving with you on an equal footing.’
Cato well knew how difficult and dangerous it was to be a centurion r
educed to the ranks. The harsh discipline they meted out when protected by their rank was returned to them in kind by their former victims. Pulcher opened his mouth to speak again, and caught himself just in time. He clenched his jaw and sat in brooding silence.
‘That’s better.’ Cato looked round at the other officers. ‘You know our orders, and you know what to do. Get your men ready to march at dawn. Dismissed.’
The centurions rose sharply to their feet, saluted and then left the tent. All save Macro who waited until he and his friend were alone before he spoke.
‘Well, well. I always wondered what became of that vile piece of shit.’
‘Now you know. He got promoted. Fair reward for foul deed would seem to be the ordure of the day.’
There was a beat before Macro smiled at the quip. Then he glanced towards the tent flap before lowering his voice. ‘You didn’t tell them about the bullion convoy, I notice.’
‘Not yet. Last thing I want is rumours of silver doing the rounds of the rankers. I need these men to concentrate on the fight, not be distracted by treasure. We keep that quiet for as long as necessary.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hello.’
They both turned quickly to see that another man had entered the tent. He was wearing a plain soldier’s tunic, unbelted. He looked to be the same age as Cato, with a high forehead fringed with fair hair. He smiled uncertainly.
‘I was told to report to the new prefect.’
‘That’s me,’ Cato responded. ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato. And you are?’
The new arrival made to reply, then stared at Cato, his mouth half open as his words died in his throat.
Cato was exhausted and in no mood for any nonsense. ‘Jupiter’s balls! What’s wrong with you? Just tell me your damn name.’
‘My name? I–I . . .’ he stammered, swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he forced himself to stand to attention and gave as clear an answer as he could. ‘Tribune Aulus Valerius Cristus, assigned to the Second Cohort, reporting as requested, sir.’
Invictus Page 15