Once it was barely fifty paces across in some places. Now the gap to the far side was twice what it had been and the two officers stared down on a scene of appalling destruction. Thousands of twisted bodies lay amid rocks and boulders strewn along the course of the river. A few, a very few, still lived and some were able to make their way uncertainly over the piled limbs and torsos of their dead comrades downriver towards the exit from the gorge.
‘I almost wish I hadn’t done it,’ Cato muttered.
Macro sniffed dismissively. ‘Well, I’m glad you did and I imagine I speak for the rest of the lads as well. Them or us, Cato. As it always is. And I prefer it to be them, come what may.’
‘Even this?’ Cato gestured towards the view below them.
Macro nodded. ‘Of course.’
Cato was not so certain. A victory on the battlefield was one thing. The annihilation of an enemy on this scale was quite another. ‘Macro, you take charge of any prisoners. See that they aren’t treated badly. Make sure they are fed before they are locked in.’
‘Yes, sir. As you wish.’
Cato turned away, took off his helmet and walked slowly towards the cliffs, unable to shake his morose mood. Then, as he looked up at the muddy slopes that remained, he stopped mid-stride. Although the landscape was completely altered it was still possible to estimate where some of the tunnels had once been. He set off again, striding fast this time as he made for the mounds of earth and rock where the line of the cliff base had once stretched. He picked his way over slippery heaps of soil and between boulders washed down from the cliff. Here and there he came across pit props and roof beams in line with the tunnels that had been exposed by the flood.
And then he stumbled on what he was looking for. The corner of a sturdy chest was poking up out of the mud, and was itself streaked with dirt. A short distance away was the top of another. Cato bent over it, quickly scraping off loose soil until he saw a handle. He set his helmet down and pulled on the handle, then again with all his strength, but it refused to budge. He swore softly, then took out his sword and began to dig around the chest until he had exposed most it. He pulled again and this time it came free with a glutinous sucking sound and he fell back on his buttocks with a slight splash.
His heart was beating faster with the excitement of his discovery and he laughed self-consciously at his minor misfortune before rising to his feet and examining the chest. It was locked but one corner had been splintered by the impact of a rock. Cato drew his sword, worked the tip into the cracked lid and worried loose a section of wood. As it came free he tore it away and levered up another length, and continued until there was a large enough gap through which to insert his hand. Sheathing the weapon, he felt inside and his fingers closed over uneven lumps of what felt like stones. He withdrew his hand and opened it to reveal just that, stones. Not silver.
A shadow moved on the glistening mud beside him, but before Cato could react he was struck hard about the head.White light flashed and he felt the air driven from his lungs as he hit the ground. Cato groaned and blinked and rolled onto his back and saw a figure between him and the bright blue sky. He closed his eye again and turned his face to one side to avoid the glare.
‘Who?’
A hand reached down to pluck his sword from the scabbard and then his assailant squatted down just out of arm’s reach. Pulcher.
‘Who else did you think it would be?’ The centurion smiled coldly.
‘Why?’
‘Because now you know something you really shouldn’t.’
‘About the silver Nepo had hidden from the rebels?’
‘Except that he didn’t. Just stones. He took the silver out before he had the men put the chests in the mine and collapse the tunnel.’
‘Where is it?’
‘The silver?’ Pulcher scratched his jaw casually. ‘By now, it should have reached Tarraco and be on its way to Rome.’
Cato frowned uncomprehendingly and Pulcher chuckled. ‘But you’ve seen it already, Prefect. Remember the slave trader we met on the road. Those wagons he had? That’s where the bullion was hidden. I got that from Nepo, before I killed him. Before he could spill his guts to you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Cato. ‘What was Nepo up to?’
‘He was working for Pallas, but why worry about that, sir? In a moment you’ll be dead. I’ll hide your body and by the time it turns up things will have moved on and no one will care that you are missing.’
‘Kill me? Why?’
‘Legate’s orders, sir.’
‘Vitellius? But you saved my life earlier.’
‘I had no orders to kill you then. You were a comrade, and I would do the same for any man I was fighting with. But orders are orders. Soon as Collenus tipped me the word, you were a dead man. Goodbye, sir.’
Pulcher hefted Cato’s sword and rose to his feet.
‘No!’ Cato called out weakly, his head still throbbing from the blow. ‘Wait!’
‘Sorry. This has been a long time coming. You were a snotty optio when we first met all those years ago. I’d have killed you back then, if I’d been given the chance. I guess all good things come to he who waits after all.’
Cato rolled onto his back and raised his arms to try and protect himself. Pulcher loomed above him, drew back his sword arm and made to strike the point deep into Cato’s throat. Instead, he lurched suddenly, gasped and his sword arm flopped to his side. A long, low moan escaped his lips as he sank down on his knees to reveal Macro standing behind him. Macro placed his left hand firmly on Pulcher’s shoulder and then wrenched his blade free from the man’s neck where it had been driven down diagonally towards his heart. Blood surged from the wound.
‘If you are going to kill a man, my lad, then kill him. Don’t talk.’
Pulcher collapsed into the mud beside Cato, his eyes wide and staring, his mouth slowly opening and closing like that of a fish expiring out of water. Macro helped his friend up into a sitting position and sucked in a breath.
‘Nasty bump you’ll have there. To add to the scar and the dressing over the eye. You look like a wreck, Cato. You really do.’
Cato smiled back weakly. ‘You should see the other man . . .’
At first light the next morning, a cavalry column approached the remains of the wall and rode through the gates into the ruined mine workings. Cato had been alerted by the sentries and was there to meet the legate and his staff officers. The last of the rebels had deserted the camp during the night and abandoned the shelters, and anything else of value that they could not carry away with them.
Vitellius looked around, failing to disguise his shock at the scale of the devastation, before he addressed Cato. The prefect stood before him, still soiled by the fall of earth when the countermine had collapsed. Streaked with sweat and blood, a filthy dressing and patch over his wounded eye and a fresh dressing over the cut in his scalp received from Pulcher.
‘Ye Gods, Prefect Cato! I did not recognise you. I hardly expected to see you still alive.’
‘Really, sir?’
Vitellius’ expression was rigid for an instant. ‘Yes, what with seeing the destruction of the settlement and the breaches in the wall when we crossed the ridge at dawn. And what in Hades happened to the mine? There’s nothing of it left.’
‘Sometimes you have to destroy a thing in order to save it, sir.’
‘Is that supposed to be amusing?’
‘No, sir. It seems rather apt to me.’ For Cato the prospect of this mine being closed for ever, and no longer being a place of unremitting suffering, was for the best. To be sure, there were other mines, as bad or possibly worse than this place had been. But now there was one less of them.
‘How many of your men did you lose, Prefect?’
‘At least a third of the cohort, sir. As well as Cimber, centurions
Secundus, Musa and Pulcher.’
‘Pulcher? How?’
Cato went to answer but Macro got in first. ‘Killed in action, sir.’
‘I see.’ Vitellius nodded and there was a brief silence, as if he was waiting for more detail. Then he glanced round the mine workings again. ‘Well, you have carried out your orders successfully, it would appear. The bullion?’
‘It’s not here, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘It appears that it was removed before my cohort arrived.’
‘Removed?’
‘Yes.’
‘By Nepo?’
‘That’s how it would appear, sir.’
‘Do you know what happened to it?’
Cato looked at him steadily. ‘I believe that your guess is as good as mine.’
Vitellius’ lips twitched knowingly, then he changed the subject. ‘What about the rebels? Where are they?’
Cato pointed towards the ravine. ‘Most of them are over there, sir. Dead.’
‘Dead? How many?’
‘Several thousand, at least.’
The staff officers murmured amongst themselves incredulously. Vitellius shook his head and laughed. ‘You jest. Surely?’
‘See for yourself. Those that are not dead have fled back to their villages.’
‘You chose not to pursue them?’
‘Not with so few men left, sir. Besides, we were too exhausted to conduct a pursuit. The uprising has been crushed. It is over. Better to concentrate on rebuilding the region and let the people put the past behind them. What is left of the rebels have scattered in the hills. It would be pointless for you to try and pursue them, sir.’
‘That is for me to decide.’
‘There is one more thing. We have taken the leader of the uprising prisoner.’
‘Iskerbeles? Excellent!’ Vitellius beamed. ‘I will take great pride in presenting him to the Roman people when we return to the capital to celebrate our victory.’
‘Our victory?’ Macro muttered under his breath.
Vitellius shot him a dark look. ‘Did you say something, Centurion Macro?’
‘I said, “Ah, victory!” sir.’ Macro cocked his head and gave a languid pump of his fist. ‘Nothing the Roman public like more than a victory. I’d be surprised if the Emperor didn’t award you a triumph, sir.’
Vitellius looked at him and smiled. ‘And so would I, Centurion Macro. So would I. It has all worked out rather better than anyone could have hoped . . . ’
EPILOGUE
The Port of Ostia AD 54, early autumn
The troop convoy and warships from Tarraco sailed past the mole into the calm waters of the harbour shortly after midday on the back of the cool wind blowing from the west. It was late in the season for a direct voyage from Hispania and the captains and crews were relieved that they had been fortunate to avoid any storms, or squalls, during the ten days they had been at sea. The wind had been dead foul a day after leaving Tarraco and they had made almost no progress for the first three days before the wind had changed. Nor had they sighted any other sails since leaving the province. Food and water had started to run short and the crews and Praetorians aboard the small fleet were eagerly looking forward to making landfall and going ashore in order to get drunk and get laid in the fleshpots of Ostia.
Macro was leaning on the bow rail of the bireme carrying the surviving officers and some of the men of the Second Praetorian Cohort. He had had quite enough of the salty sea air and was trying to pick out the more familiar, and comforting, scents of land. In this case, the acrid tang of woodsmoke and the musty odour of cities from afar that seemed to be a mix of sweat and boiled vegetables.
Cato approached from the stern to join him. The injury to his eye was healing well according to the surgeon from one of the other cohorts who had tended to his wound after the mine had been relieved. There was a pronounced scar under the eye and a slight blur at the bottom edge of his field of vision. Otherwise the surgeon had pronounced that he had made a good recovery and that he had been most fortunate not to have entirely lost sight in the eye. It was strange how fortunate army surgeons seemed to think those they treated were, Cato mused. He would prefer to have a more conventional experience of good fortune.
‘Here we are again in Ostia. Looking forward to getting a decent drink,’ said Macro, rubbing his hands together. ‘And settling down in front of a nice warm fire with a hearty meal in front of me and a nice plump woman on my lap.’
‘I seem to remember you were anxious not to risk getting the clap last time we were here.’
‘After all the risks I’ve taken over the last few months? I think I’m owed a lucky break or two.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, the simple pleasures are always the best,’ Cato replied.
‘Nothing simple about what I have in mind once the meal is tucked away.’ Macro winked. ‘What will you be doing?’
‘Me?’ Cato shrugged. ‘Heading back to Rome. I’d like to see Lucius. And then have a long think about what comes next.’
‘Next?’ Macro frowned. ‘Why, it’ll be another posting for the two of us. Another campaign. That or some cushy garrison somewhere hot and exotic. That’s what’s next, brother. If there’s any justice. We’ve done our bit and could use a bit of peace and quiet.’
‘I could use a rest indeed. But I think I’d like to watch Lucius grow up for a bit. Put some roots down perhaps. If Sempronius can find me an administrative post, or lend me money to get a small business going.’
Macro shook his head. ‘What do you know about running a business? You can run a cohort well enough, but a business? That, my friend, requires a degree of ruthless cunning that is a rare commodity in this world. In Rome especially. It’s a den of thieves and crooks who would stab you in the back as soon as shake your hand from the front. They’d eat you alive.’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘No maybe about it. You’re much safer being a soldier. Certainly better off being one, on your pay.’
‘That is something, at least.’
They were interrupted by the cries of the trierarch as he ordered his crew to take in the sail and prepare to unship the oars. Sailors scurried up the rigging and spread out along the spar as the sheets were freed and the tough linen sail flapped in the breeze. As the sail was furled the oars sprouted from the sides of the hull and a drum set the pace as the blades swept forward, dropped down into the sea, then thrust the ship forward.
The main quay of the new harbour was a short distance across the open water and the warship steered towards a space between two biremes that had already berthed. Close to, the order was given to ship oars and the steering paddle was put over so that the vessel gently turned beam-on to the quay as it lost way and came to rest. Mooring ropes snaked over to waiting hands on the other biremes and the ship was hauled in and made fast.
Shortly afterwards Macro led the way ashore. As soon as he stepped onto the quay he felt the peculiar continuation of the feeling of being at sea and paced unsteadily across to the open door of Neptune’s Bounty. Cato’s sea legs were no better and both men were relieved to sit down at a bench and wave one of the serving girls over.
‘Jug of wine, my love,’ Macro said cheerily. ‘Two cups, and serve it with a smile, if there’s no extra charge for that.’
She shot him a wary look and went off to fetch their drink. Macro looked round the inn and noticed that the mood of the other customers was more subdued than he would have expected of so well positioned a drinking hole.
‘Dear Gods, what’s happened to this place? Everyone looks like they’ve gone and lost a denarius and found an as.’
Cato nodded. ‘Peculiar ambience, to be sure.’
The girl returned with a jug and two samian beakers and set them down. Macro nodded his thanks and smiled pleasantly at her. ‘Cheer up, it may never happen.’
She frowned. ‘You trying to be funny, mister?’
‘Funny? No. Happy, yes. So why all the gloom here? What’s wrong with everyone?’
‘Where you been the last month?’
‘At sea as it happens. Just got off the ship.’
‘Oh . . .’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Then you won’t have heard the news.’
‘What news?’ Cato demanded.
She filled their cups. ‘We’ve got ourselves a new emperor. Claudius is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Cato froze. ‘How?’
‘Old age . . . Food poisoning. Who knows? Anyway, that son of his is emperor now.’
‘Britannicus?’
‘No, the one he adopted. Ahenobarbus. Or Nero. Whatever he calls himself these days. He’s the one. Says he will look after his younger step-brother, but I doubt it. Poor lad’s days are numbered. He’ll go the way of all them others. Been quite a clear-out at the palace, so I’ve heard. More than a few of ’em met a sticky end. Including that freedman of the old Emperor, Narcissus. He was in the grave even before his master. There’s more joining them all the time. Which is why . . .’ She gestured to the other customers. ‘No one wants to draw the attention of the Vigiles here in Ostia. Same in Rome, where the Urban cohorts and the Praetorians are picking off troublemakers.’
Cato stroked a hand through his hair as he took in the change of regime. ‘Was there much opposition to Nero taking the purple, then?’
The girl shook her head. ‘Hardly. Most of those who might have supported Britannicus were out of Rome when his father died. And when the Guard declared for Nero it was over and done with. Mind you, given the size of the donative Nero handed over to the Praetorians there was never any doubt whom they would choose to serve. A cool ten million denarii.’
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