The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘It seems that my reward is to be sent to Sardinia to take command of the garrison there and bring the tribesmen of the interior to heel. From what I’ve already learned about the island, the terrain is going to make it a tough job. Made tougher still by the famine that has hit the locals. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they are now dealing with some pestilence that has broken out in the south of the island.’ He paused and smiled ruefully. ‘As you can see, it’s a considerable challenge, and a thankless one. If order breaks down in Sardinia, the grain and oil the island supplies to Rome will dry up and there will be hunger in the capital. From what I have been told, our soldiers there are thinly stretched and of dubious quality. I am going to need the help of good men if I am to have any chance of success. I have been given permission to take five men from the Second Cohort with me. Since the imperial adviser in question failed to specify the rank of those men, I have come here to put it to you first. I need a cadre of good soldiers to kick the garrison into shape, and there are none better than the centurions and optios of the Second Praetorian Cohort. Apollonius has already agreed to accompany me. I need five more. Centurion Macro is excluded due to his imminent discharge.’

  Macro shifted uneasily but said nothing.

  ‘I’m asking for volunteers. I know you’ve all been looking forward to the pleasures offered by the capital, and I’ll understand if any, maybe even all of you decide not to come with me. I’ll bear no grudge against any man who chooses to remain in Rome. The gods know you have nothing to prove to anyone. You’ve won your laurels on the eastern frontier, but I fear that Nero may be in no mood to hand out awards and bonus payments. That’s the way it goes, brothers . . .’

  Cato had intended to say more, playing on the need for sacrifice in the name of Rome, the bond of loyalty that existed between them, and the opportunity to do real soldiering rather than acting as mere props for whatever spectacle Nero decided to put on to impress his subjects. Now that he was facing the officers of the cohort, however, he felt that it would be demeaning to deploy any such rhetoric in an attempt to persuade them to march with him.

  ‘That’s all I have to say,’ he concluded. ‘I don’t want your answer now. Think it over carefully and let Centurion . . . Tribune Macro know your decision by the end of the day. I’ll await your response at my home on the Viminal. I bid you good day, gentlemen.’

  Before he could move towards the door, Macro barked an order.

  ‘Commanding officer present!’

  At once the centurions and optios rose and stood to attention facing Cato, shoulders back, chests out and eyes front. He felt his throat constrict as he struggled to contain his pride in their bond and his gratitude for the respect accorded to him by his former subordinates.

  ‘You honour me, brothers. I hope to see you all again some day. For those who join me in Sardinia, I offer my thanks. For those who remain in Rome I wish you the best of fortune for the rest of your career. Farewell.’

  He saluted and marched between them towards the door. Stepping into the corridor, he closed it behind him and heard Macro order, ‘At ease!’

  He turned away and made his way out of the barrack block. As he continued to the main gate and passed through it, he was acutely conscious that he might never again set foot within the walls of the Praetorian camp.

  When Macro returned to the house that evening, Cato and Apollonius were waiting for him on the couches in the garden. Macro undid the clasp of his military cloak as he approached and tossed it onto the spare couch before sitting down heavily and mopping his brow. Cato had seen the hint of an amused expression on his friend’s face and said nothing, refusing to take the bait. Letting out a theatrical sigh, Macro swung his boots up and leaned back against the large bolster at the end of the couch.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me, then?’

  ‘All right, you win. Did anyone volunteer?’

  ‘It would be more to the point to ask if anyone didn’t,’ Macro chuckled. ‘After you left, the feeling in the room was that you had been given a poor deal. Some harsh words were said about Burrus and the emperor.’

  ‘How very indiscreet,’ said Apollonius. ‘Such words have a way of biting back when they become more widely known.’

  Macro turned on him with a sour expression. ‘There were only soldiers in the room at the time, not dirty informers or spies.’

  ‘There may come a time when one of the former becomes one of the latter . . . Speaking from experience.’

  ‘We’ve known traitors before, it’s true. But the Praetorian lads are good men,’ Macro protested. ‘Anyway, they all volunteered. Centurions and optios alike.’

  Cato shook his head in wonder. ‘You’re joking . . .’

  ‘Never about a matter such as this. Face it, lad, the men would follow you almost anywhere. Your battles are their battles, both here in Rome and out there against barbarians and rebels alike.’

  It was a humbling prospect to have inspired such loyalty, but then an inner voice rose up inside Cato warning him not to trust the sentiment. Only a fool followed blindly, no matter how accomplished the leader. The officers were reacting irrationally and they’d change their minds soon enough.

  ‘Of course,’ Macro continued, ‘I reminded them that only five of them could go. Ignatius is the best man to replace me as senior centurion of the cohort. The men will need someone they know and respect, so I told him he’s remaining. Same goes for Nicolis. He’s not yet recovered full use of the arm that was injured at Thapsis. He’ll be better off handling ceremonial duties until he recovers. He wasn’t happy about it, but he won’t be much good chasing tribesmen across hills and through forests with only one arm. Out of the rest, I picked those I thought would be the best men for the job.’ He reached into his tunic and took out a waxed tablet, leaning over to hand it to Cato. ‘Here’s the list.’

  Cato took the tablet and opened it. We, the undersigned, give notice of our intention to volunteer for service under Quintus Licinius Cato in the province of Sardinia. We do this freely and in accordance with the permission granted by Senator Lucus Annaeus Seneca. Centurions: Plancinus, Porcino, Metellus. Optios: Pelius, Cornelius .

  He knew them all – good soldiers and the best companions he could have hoped for to take with him to Sardinia. He felt his throat tighten with raw emotion as he closed the waxed tablet and set it down. ‘I don’t know what to say, brother.’

  ‘Then let me help you out. Say, how would you like a nice jug of wine, Macro?’

  They shared a laugh and Apollonius joined in before he nodded and rose to stride off towards the kitchen.

  Cato thought a moment and clicked his tongue. ‘Burrus is not going to be happy about being deprived of some of the best of the cohort’s officers.’

  ‘That’s Seneca’s problem. He agreed you could take five of the men. If he didn’t specify rank, then that’s his fault.’

  ‘Maybe, but I think it might be best not to tell either of them until the last moment.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Macro suddenly laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘By the gods, I hope I’m there to see their faces when they find out!’

  Chapter Eight

  A new commander of the Second Cohort was appointed five days later; the son of a moneylender who happened to hold the debts of Prefect Burrus. The young officer in question had only just completed his year as a junior tribune before seeking to move on to a junior magistrate’s position or landing a plum posting in the Praetorian Guard.

  ‘Ah well,’ Cato sighed as Macro related the news. ‘Fortune favours those with large fortunes. Thus it ever was and ever will be. When does he take command?’

  ‘He already has,’ Macro replied as he sat on the edge of the fountain, unfastened his boot laces and eased his feet out, wriggling his toes in the water. ‘Burrus swore him in this morning. My temporary rank has come to an end and I relinquished my commission on the spot. I’m not going to take orders from some chinless youth who barely knows his arse from his elbow. I quit
there and then, picked up my discharge plaque and outstanding pay from headquarters and left it all behind without once turning back.’

  There was regret in his tone and Cato cleared his throat as he sat down on the opposite side of the fountain. ‘I’m sorry it had to end this way, brother.’

  ‘It always had to end one way or another. Doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Macro was still as he stared at his friend. ‘I mean it. I’ve had my time and it’s over and I’m starting a new life with my woman. I’m looking forward, not over my shoulder.’

  ‘That sounds like a healthy plan. I trust you’ll stick with it.’

  Macro looked round. ‘Where’s Petronella?’

  ‘She’s taken the dog and gone to the Forum to buy some new clothes to wear in Britannia. I told her she needs to prepare for the cold and damp.’

  ‘And how,’ Macro added with feeling. ‘And Lucius?’

  ‘He’s with his tutor. First day of lessons.’

  ‘How’s he finding it?’

  ‘Hating every moment. At least that’s what he said when he stopped for a latrine break. He said his tutor is even stricter than Petronella.’

  ‘Bollocks to that,’ Macro laughed. ‘I’ve seen her stare down thirty-year veterans and reduce them to quivering piles of shit. She’d have that tutor for breakfast.’

  ‘No doubt. But he seems competent enough. Seneca recommended him to me when I reported to the palace to collect my orders.’

  ‘Seneca? You trust his recommendation?’

  ‘On matters of education and taste, yes. Beyond that, I’d trust him no further than I could shit a stone.’

  ‘Fair enough. Does the good senator know about your volunteers yet?’

  ‘I’ve told him I have the men I need, and that seemed to satisfy him. With luck, the first he’ll know about it is when Ignatius presents his recommendations for replacement officers to Burrus after we’ve left for Ostia. By then, it’ll be too late. I calculate that Burrus is smart enough to accept the list of promotions rather than make a fuss in front of the emperor and reveal that he and Seneca have made fools of themselves.’

  Macro tilted his head slightly. ‘I hope you’ve calculated accurately, lad. If you’re wrong, you’ll end up in the shit. And even if you’re right, the same shit may be waiting for when you get back from Sardinia. You’ll have made some powerful enemies.’

  ‘Maybe. But Pallas and Agrippina’s influence over Nero lasted less than three years, and Burrus and Seneca may go the same way. I sense the emperor is not a man of fixed ambition or direction. He’ll tire of his present advisers soon enough, and any enemies I may make today will soon be impotent.’

  ‘Let’s pray you’re right . . .’

  They sat a while longer as the sun disappeared behind a cloud drifting across the cerulean sky and casting a shadow over the garden.

  ‘How are your preparations going for the journey to Britannia?’

  ‘Almost sorted,’ said Macro. ‘I’ve loaded the cart with my clothes and kit. Some presents for Petronella to give my mother to butter her up. I’ve withdrawn my savings from the banker in the Forum, and the military treasury office has given me my discharge bonus certificate. I’m to be paid fifty thousand sestertii once I reach London, plus a plot of land outside the veterans’ colony at Camulodunum. Throw in the savings from my campaign spoils and what pay I haven’t pissed away over the years, and we’ll live well.’

  ‘Have you decided on a route?’

  ‘Ship to Massilia, overland to Gesoriacum, then sail to Britannia and land in Londinium. Should be there well before the autumn storms make the crossing difficult.’ Macro grimaced. ‘And then I get to introduce the love of my life to my mother. What could possibly go wrong there?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll get on like a house on fire.’

  Macro smiled bleakly. ‘I’m hoping for a less incendiary relationship, lad. I’m going to have to live with both of them and I ain’t looking forward to being a peacekeeper. That’s never been my job.’

  ‘Just don’t get between them if you value your hide.’

  There was a brief silence before Cato cleared his throat. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘We’ve got nearly all we need for the journey. I’ve talked it through with Petronella and she agrees that there’s no reason for any delay. So it’s tomorrow.’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘Why put it off? It’ll only make it harder to go.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Cato conceded as he looked down at Macro’s disturbed reflection on the surface of the pond. There was much he wanted to say, and thought he owed it to Macro to say, but he could not trust himself to control his feelings. That infuriated him. How could he let his emotions have such sway over him? It was shameful that a man of his experience and rank should allow himself to be ambushed by sentiment.

  ‘It’s all right, Cato lad. I understand . . . There’s nothing that needs to be said between us.’

  ‘What words could convey the adventures we have lived through?’

  ‘True,’ Macro reflected. ‘If some cunt wrote it all down, who would ever believe it?’

  The pre-dawn chill made Cato shiver as he rose from his bed and pulled his cloak tightly about him. There was a sliver of moon visible through the opening in the roof above the colonnaded walkway. Further along he saw the glimmer of a lamp from the room shared by Macro and Petronella and could just make out their muted conversation. There was an unmistakable sadness to the tone of their voices, and Cato turned away and paced quietly in the direction of Lucius’s sleeping chamber. The door was slightly ajar, as the boy was convinced there was some dark creature living under his bed, something that necessitated a quick escape from the room should he wake up in the night and need to relieve himself. Cato eased the door open and stepped into the dark interior. His foot landed on one of Lucius’s wooden bricks with a sharp, stabbing agony that made him gasp and then clench his teeth together to stop himself crying out and alarming the boy.

  ‘The times I’ve told him to put those bloody things away,’ he muttered as he limped to the bed against the far wall. As he leaned over it, he heard the softest sighs of breathing and felt a surge of boundless affection for his child. He took in Lucius’s form, lying on his side, the two middle fingers of his right hand nestled in his mouth as he slept. The sounds of movement and voices elsewhere in the house interrupted the reverie and Cato gently shook his son’s shoulder.

  ‘Lucius . . . Lucius . . . wake up.’

  The boy mumbled incoherently as he stirred and then tried to turn onto his other side, but his father lifted him up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, and he sat hunched over as he rubbed his face blearily.

  ‘Why did you wake me up?’

  ‘Uncle Macro and Petronella are leaving. We need to say goodbye to them. Get dressed.’

  Lucius did as he was told while Cato picked up the sandals that had been cleaned and left outside his door. Yawning widely as he emerged, the boy joined his father and took his hand. The light in Macro’s room had been extinguished and only the loom of the stars and the crescent moon lit their way as they went downstairs. Picking their way out into the garden, they made for the yard beyond the bathhouse, where there was a small stable and some storerooms either side of the gate that opened onto the street beyond. A four-wheeled cart stood before the gate, and Croton and the stable boy were harnessing a team of four mules to it by the light of a torch flickering in an iron bracket mounted on the wall. The bed of the vehicle was packed with bags and chests, and Macro was pulling a leather cover over it as Cato and his son approached.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ Petronella cried out as she hurried over and bent to kiss Lucius on the head. ‘It feels like the middle of the night, doesn’t it, my lamb?’

  Cato raised his eyebrows slightly at the term of endearment, which was novel to Petronella. Lucius nodded heavily and yawned again, but his eyes were wide open as he took in the detail
s around him.

  ‘You are going. For ever?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Petronella answered. ‘We’ll be living far from here, but who knows? Maybe you’ll come to Britannia when you’re grown up. Or we’ll come to visit Rome.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I can’t say yet. But one day, eh?’

  Macro tied the cover down and inspected his handiwork and the harnesses of the mule team before he joined them. ‘We’re ready. The stable lad’s coming with us as far as Ostia. He’ll drive the cart back from there. Thanks for letting us use it.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  There was an awkward silence before Cato placed his hand on Lucius’s shoulder. ‘We’ll come with you to the city wall.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘We want to.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  He turned to Croton and called out, ‘Open the gate.’

  The slave and the stable boy lifted the locking bar and swung the gates inwards on squeaky iron hinges. Then the stable boy picked up his crop, took hold of the lead mule’s bridle and looked round for Macro to give the order.

  ‘Let’s be off.’

  The mules clopped forward and the wheels of the cart ground across the cobbles, the others following a short distance behind, from where Macro could keep a close eye on the rear of the vehicle. The petty thieves of the capital were sharp-sighted and swift enough to snatch spoils faster than a sparrow at a picnic. But the dark streets were still quiet, even as the first squibs of dawn eased their way into the night sky. No one spoke until they reached the junction at the end of the street and turned onto the main thoroughfare that ran down from the Viminal Hill into the centre of Rome. There were more carts and wagons on the move, their drivers keen to get through the city before dawn broke and wheeled traffic was no longer permitted.

  From their elevated vantage point they could see that the Forum and the low-lying areas closest to the Tiber were wreathed in a thick mist above which the imperial palace and the Temple of Jupiter seemed to float. Lesser structures broke through the surface of the mist like the remnants of sea wrecks, and the mood was oppressively sombre.