As many lost out as benefited from the imposition of Roman rule, Cato reflected, and at times he was tempted to question the morality of serving in an army dedicated to the defence of such an empire. But, on balance, Rome represented order, prosperity and peace. He had seen the alternative at first hand and his mind turned to the savagery of the druids and their fanatical followers, and the endless tribal conflicts and vendettas of the Celtic people of Britannia. That was no way to live. No way to create the conditions under which philosophy, literature, sculpture and fine art might thrive, and those things were important to Cato, if not to the vast majority of the soldiers he served alongside. For them soldiering was an end in itself. A way of life they did not question and could not see beyond.
Every so often his thoughts also turned to Julia and Cristus. He still grieved for her, but the sentiment was coldly tempered by the pain of her betrayal. A pain that was pricked on every occasion he set eyes on Tribune Cristus, or even thought about him. So what then was the purpose of deciding to bring him along? The prospect of Cristus being killed by the enemy and thereby relieving Cato of the responsibility for taking revenge at first hand? Perhaps it was arrogance. Perhaps he needed to reassure himself that he was the better man and that Julia had made a mistake. But she would never be able to admit that to him now.
‘Pride . . .’ he muttered and shook his head bitterly. ‘Fucking pride.’
Each day, the column marched for twenty-five miles before Cato let the men halt for the night. The heat of the summer beat down on them, forcing them to squint in the bright light and sweat so much that the beads of perspiration cut tracks through the dust that settled on them during the day. The officers imposed a strict water ration regime and the Praetorians were allowed no more than a mouthful of water from their canteens every other mile. As far as possible Cato stopped at dusk in sight of a town or village where food and water might be obtained. Each century fell out of line and the Praetorians set down their weapons and slumped into the sparse grass on each side of the road. The carts rumbled on into the middle of the cohort before the drovers reined the mules in and the evening’s rations were distributed to the exhausted soldiers. Cristus then took the mounted contingent and continued along the road to the nearest settlement where supplies could be bought and set beside the road to be picked up by the carts the following morning. If it was not too far, then he took the carts with him instead. The area affected by the uprising was still far off and Cato judged it safe enough to post a picket line instead of having the men construct a marching camp. As night fell over the rolling hills the air filled with the hiss of cicadas, rising to a shrill crescendo before stopping abruptly, only to begin again.
For Cato and Macro, who had become used to the cooler, wetter climate of Britannia, the heat was galling to start with, but the evenings were pleasant and cool and lighting a fire was barely necessary.
On the fifth night, Macro joined his friend as Cato sat, legs folded, with his back to a rock in the glow of the embers of a small fire. The centurion laid his vine cane down and undid the ties under his chin before removing his helmet and padded skullcap.
‘Ah, that’s better!’ Macro rolled his head and then eased himself down opposite Cato. ‘The first watch is posted and the rest of the lads are bedded down for the night.’
Cato nodded, and glanced at the dark shapes curled up on the ground amid the scattered trees growing either side of the road. A few men were still sitting, talking, but the usual camp banter was absent, thanks to the gruelling pace of the march. ‘How many stragglers today?’
Macro took out a tablet from his sidebag and leaned towards the embers so that he could make out the marks scratched into the wax. His lips moved as he added up the numbers. ‘Eight dropped out. Literally dropped out, I mean. The heat did for them. They had to be picked up and loaded onto the carts. It was twelve yesterday, and only five the day before. Given that we’re forcing the pace, that’s not too bad. But the numbers will drop as they settle into their stride.’
That was true, Cato knew. Men who were unused to marching tended to find the first days hardest, before they got used to the hardship. ‘It seems that our Praetorian friends are in need of some proper soldiering.’
‘Then they’ve come to the right men to make it happen.’ Macro closed his tablet and put it away before taking out a chunk of dried beef from his sidebag, tearing off a small strip with his teeth and chewing hard. Cato waited for him to swallow before he spoke again.
‘What do you make of them?’
Macro reached up to scratch his matted scalp as he collected his thoughts. ‘The training and discipline’s good. So is their morale. They firmly believe they are the best soldiers in the whole army. They’ve good reason to believe that, of course, since most of them have been cherry-picked from the legions as a reward for courage in action and good service. Even those who enlisted directly into the Guard were picked because they were big enough and tough enough to stand alongside the rest. So they should be good.’
‘But . . .’
Macro smiled. ‘But, I’d pick the boys from the Second Augustan Legion over them any day. Without regular action, and getting one over tough conditions, like we had on the frontier, even the best soldiers lose their edge.’
‘True.’
‘Anyway, they’ll have their chance to prove themselves before too long.’ Macro tore off another strip of salted beef and worked his jaws furiously to soften the leathery meat before swallowing. ‘Can’t say that our friend Cimber is looking forward to facing the rebels. Every time I clap eyes on him he looks like he’s just licked piss off a stinging nettle.’
‘Can you blame him? His home town has been sacked by the rebels and just when he thought he was safely out of danger, he’s been forced to march to battle.’
‘If I was in his place, I’d want to go back and reclaim my home, and give the rebels a bloody good kicking.’
‘Well, yes, quite.’ Cato smiled, then continued. ‘What about the officers? I’ve been keeping an eye on them, but what do you make of them?’
‘The veterans are good, as you’d expect. Especially Secundus. As tough an old sweat as you could find. Most of the others are also hard men, and know their trade, and how to get the best out of their men. Hardly any of the stragglers come from their centuries. Most of those belong to Porcino.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘That one’s struggling badly. Lacks fitness and can barely keep up with his men. I’d be surprised if we didn’t find him on the carts with the rest of the laggards tomorrow.’
‘I feared as much.’ Cato considered the situation a moment. ‘If he doesn’t shape up quickly then I’ll have to move him to the baggage carts and have Pulcher take on the Fifth Century.’
Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘Think that’s wise? He can’t do us much harm in charge of the carts, but if he wants to get up to any mischief there’s a lot he can do in command of eighty Praetorians.’
‘He’s in the same boat as us. If we all hold together we might come out of this alive. Even Pulcher must realise that. But for now he stays where he is. We’ll keep our eyes on Porcino. If there’s no improvement he gets demoted to the carts.’
‘Fair enough.’
Cato reached for his canteen and took a swig. The water was warm and offered little refreshment. He patted the stopper in. ‘What about Petillius?’
‘Ah, now he’s a bit of a puzzle, that one. He ponces around like an afternoon theatre idol. Keeps his beard neatly trimmed, hair carefully arranged and if I didn’t know better I’d swear the bastard was using a dab of kohl around his eyes to make them stand out more.’
‘Really?’ Cato was shocked. ‘No, that can’t be right. No soldier would follow a man like that.’
‘No proper soldier perhaps, but a Praetorian maybe. After all, they’ve seen enough strange shit around the imperial palace to last a normal soldier a lifetime
. Guess they get used to it. In any case, he seems popular enough with his lads. They like him.’
‘Jupiter did not create centurions to be liked, Macro. He created them to be surly, aggressive disciplinarians ready to put the stick about. Respect them, yes. But like them? When it comes to a desperate fix, being liked might be a dangerous thing.’
Macro’s brow creased. ‘What kind of a fix?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Who can tell what games the Gods want to play with us? I’m just saying, as a matter of principle, it isn’t necessarily healthy for a centurion to be liked by his men.’ Cato picked up a pebble and tossed it into the heart of the embers where it landed with a tiny explosion of sparks.
‘Anyway,’ Macro continued. ‘Petillius is as tough as his men. Insists on carrying his own kit too. I just hope he knows how to use a sword when the time comes and doesn’t get too concerned with protecting his fine features. There’s no telling what a nasty scar on that face of his will do to his chances with the ladies of Rome.’
The words were spoken with no thought of offence, Cato knew, but he still could not help reaching up to touch the raised line of scar tissue that crossed his own brow and cheek. Was it that which had turned Julia away? He had not thought it disfiguring before now. Perhaps it was, and Julia had preferred the unblemished face of Cristus. He cleared his throat with a soft growl.
‘And what about the tribune?’
Macro hawked up some phlegm to clear the last shreds of beef from his teeth and spat to one side. ‘He’s no soldier. Certainly no officer. He’s far too quiet and while he can just about cope with buying a few supplies from the locals I’d never entrust him with the command of men in battle. It would have been better if he’d stayed in Rome, drawing pictures of his fancy travel carts. Beats me why Vitellius included him in this little venture.’
‘Yes, I wondered about that too.’ For Cato, the only reason for Cristus’ presence that made much sense was if Vitellius was aware of his affair with Julia, and thought that might provide the means of tormenting Cato. He would not put it past the legate. He looked up and caught Macro looking at him with a curious expression. ‘What?’
‘Is there something I should know about Cristus?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there some reason why he had to come with us? Otherwise I can see no purpose for it, given that we could have left him behind in Tarraco.’
Cato paused, then replied tonelessly, ‘Cristus is attached to the cohort. I decided that he should have the chance to go into action with the men.’
Macro looked doubtful. ‘That’s all there is to it?’
‘Yes.’
The centurion stared back for a moment and then shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
There was an uncomfortable silence before Macro spoke again. ‘Are you all right, lad? You’ve been very distant for the last few days. Lost in yourself.’
‘I’m fine. Thank you, Centurion Macro.’ Cato reached for his cloak and pulled it over his body as he stretched out on the ground. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I must sleep. You’d be wise to get as much as you can too. Good night.’
Macro stared at him, momentarily surprised at his friend’s bluffness. But he had come to know Cato’s moods well enough to know when to let him be. ‘Fair enough. Good night, sir.’
As the cohort emerged from the hills beyond the military colony of Caesar Augusta the Praetorians entered the parched plains that stretched across the lands of the Celtiberi tribe. The off-white tunics of the soldiers became stained with the dust from the red soil and their exposed skin was covered in grime. Only when they camped by a river were the men able to get themselves and their kit clean, but it was filthy again by the end of the following day. As Cato and Macro had hoped, the men became increasingly inured to the hardship of the march and the stragglers had reduced to a handful. Some of the older men, and the less fit, had made it as far as the military colony but could go no further and were left behind to rest and join the main column when it arrived. Even Centurion Porcino stuck with the column, showing his grit as he led his century while blisters formed on his feet, burst and then rubbed raw.
There were far more limited signs of habitation, with only occasional farms, whose inhabitants scratched a living in a challenging landscape that baked in summer and was cold in winter. The settlements they passed through were quiet at most hours of the day as the locals kept to the shade, or the cool of the dark spaces inside their houses. Goats clustered in the shelter of whatever trees they could find and mules, tethered to posts, endured the heat and flies stoically.
Close to noon on the fifteenth day after leaving Tarraco, Cato was riding a short distance ahead of the column as usual. The sun blazed down from a clear sky and the horizon shimmered as if a thin layer of silvery water was flowing between the sky and the earth. Behind him the cohort tramped in a steady rumble of nailed boots, iron-bound wheels and the squeal of axles as the carts negotiated the uneven surface of the road. Then, ahead, Cato saw a dark blot above the heat haze. As he watched, shielding his eyes to see better in the bright light, the blot resolved into a line of figures, accompanied by several riders on each side. Four large wagons followed behind the figures. He felt a tingle of anxiety at the possibility that these men might have news of the rebels. There was still over a hundred miles to go before the cohort reached the mining region around Asturica, but it was possible that the rebels were ranging much farther afield.
Cato reined in, dropping back to join the mounted contingent, and sent word for Cimber to be brought to him before continuing along the road. As the gap between the two bodies of men closed he began to make out more detail. The rider at the front of the party had a small shelter rigged up on his saddle, but there was no shelter for the long line of ragged men who trudged behind him in chains. The riders on either side, guarding the slaves, wore straw hats and occasionally swiped at their charges with long canes to keep them moving forward. At the rear trundled the wagons. As the commander of a military column Cato had right of way and stuck to the middle of the road. When no more than a hundred paces separated the two parties, the slave trader raised a hand and waved his men to the side. The guards halted the slaves and drove them to the side of the road.
Reassured that his earlier fears were baseless, Cato urged his horse into a trot and approached the rider sitting under his shelter.
‘Good day, citizen,’ Cato greeted him.
The slave trader raised a fly whisk in response and nodded as Cato reined in close by. He was a large man with humourless features and such heavily pockmarked skin that his face looked like a large orange, well past its prime.
‘I was wondering when I’d finally see some soldiers.’ The man spoke with the unmistakable accent of the Subura in Rome. ‘I was beginning to wonder if the governor had abandoned the whole province to those fucking rebels. You on the way to deal with ’em?’
‘My orders are not your concern. What is your name?’
‘Micus Aeschleus, of Sportimus, where I’m heading directly. To get my inventory as far from those rebel scum as possible.’
‘Inventory?’
Aeschleus gestured towards the line of slaves. ‘Those were destined for the mines, but as soon as I heard about the revolt I turned east. Once you lot have done your job, then I’ll take ’em back and flog ’em to whichever mines have survived the fracas.’ He looked past Cato towards Macro and the lead century approaching along the road. ‘Praetorians?’
Cato nodded, glanced round, and saw Cimber trotting towards him. He turned back to the trader. ‘The Emperor has sent his finest to deal with the uprising. There’s my cohort, and another seven following up, with auxiliary troops.’
There was no harm in giving that information to the slave trader, in the hope that it might demonstrate Rome’s desire to send strong forces to deal with the uprising. Merchants like Aeschl
eus were the carriers of gossip, news and panic. It would be best if he helped spread the word about the soldiers being sent to destroy Iskerbeles and his followers. Cato was pleased to see the reassurance in the man’s expression.
‘Good. Glad to hear it.’
Cimber came up, panting and running with sweat in the searing heat. Cato made the introductions and then nodded in the direction Aeschleus and his desultory procession of humanity had come from. ‘I’ve not heard any recent reports from Asturica. Any idea how far the rebellion has spread?’
The slave trader looked surprised. ‘Asturica? You’re joking. Last I heard, only two days back, was that the rebels were raiding villas and small towns as far east as Pallantia. They’re now being joined by men from the Vaccaei and Arenaci tribes.’
Cato glanced at Cimber and saw that the man was horrified. ‘How far are we from these tribes?’
‘A day’s march,’ the guide replied. ‘Two at the most. They could be watching us even now.’
Cimber craned his neck and glanced anxiously around the landscape, but there was no sign of any movement for miles on either side of the road. He looked up at Cato. ‘If the uprising has spread this far, then it’d be madness for us to continue, sir. The road goes right through the middle of Arenaci land. The rebels would know we were coming days before we got anywhere near the mine. We’d be marching right into a trap. Best we return to Tarraco,’ he concluded pleadingly.
‘Nothing doing,’ Cato replied. ‘I have my orders. We continue.’
Aeschleus swatted his shoulder lightly. ‘He’s got a point. Anyone making for Asturica along this road is going to be in clear view of any rebels keeping watch. If you had any plans to surprise Iskerbeles and his lads then you’d better think again, Prefect. As things stand, you run the risk of them setting a trap for you. And no disrespect to the Emperor’s finest, but you’re outnumbered at least ten to one, and you’ll be fighting on their turf. I don’t fancy your chances.’
Cato was hot, tired and his patience was wearing thin. ‘That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it. Given what you say, there’s no time to waste. Good fortune go with you, Micus Aeschleus.’
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