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

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘What is your opinion of the other cohorts on the island?’

  ‘I’ve not had that much to do with them, to be honest, sir. I’ve only had cause to visit their forts a few times over the last two years. They’re in the same state as the men here. Of the two, I’d say that the lads of the Eighth Hispanic are in better shape. Their prefect was promoted from the legions, so he does his best to keep them on their toes. He’s also got men serving in the outposts, so his cohort will be under strength as well. As for the Fourth Illyrian at Olbia . . . They’ve been here the longest, and I doubt there’s much Illyrian blood left in any of them. You know how it is with long-term garrison troops. They get involved with the local women, and their kids join up in turn, and so it goes, one generation after another until the unit’s original name is meaningless. Chances are some of them are closely related to the men they’re going to be fighting. That’s not going to be helped by their commander. Prefect Tadius is the son of a senator who had the ear of the last emperor and who owns several large estates on the island. Tadius prefers an easy life to hard soldiering. Bit of a playboy, and he and Prefect Vestinus ain’t exactly friends.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘One of the reasons Vestinus spends so much time in Carales is to keep an eye on his wife. The rumour is that she and Tadius had a bit too much wine one night and misbehaved.’

  ‘If that’s true, then why not just bring her here to Tharros?’

  ‘Because Carales is about the only town in Sardinia where there’s enough going on to keep the nobility entertained. Even if someone might be knocking a slice off his missus, Vestinus likes his creature comforts enough to make the most of his time there.’

  Cato puffed his cheeks out in irritation. ‘So, we’ve got three third-rate cohorts, two of which are commanded by fifth-raters playing at being soldiers . . . I may have to knock their heads together when I summon them here to brief them on the campaign. Better deal with that as soon as possible. I’ll get messages sent to all three commanders as soon as we’re done here. Does anyone else have anything to say?’

  He glanced round and Apollonius nodded.

  ‘Just one more thing, sir. The small matter of this plague that’s hit the south of the island. If that spreads, we’re going to have all manner of additional problems.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Cato conceded. ‘But if it affects our men, chances are the enemy will suffer from it too. In any case, that’s a matter for the governor to deal with. If Scurra has any sense, he’ll quarantine any towns or villages where the sickness is getting out of hand. If he acts quickly enough, and firmly, there’s a good chance it can be contained.’

  Apollonius sneered derisively. ‘He’s a politician. The kind of politician who looks out for himself and tries not to cause any more trouble than he can afford. Have you ever known that kind of man to act quickly and decisively? Mark my words, sir. I fear the plague is going to be as much of a danger as the enemy.’

  Cato considered his words and sighed. ‘Let’s hope you’re wrong.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following day was cloudless and the sky was a depthless cerulean from which the sun blazed, painfully brilliant as it bleached the landscape either side of the road leading inland from Tharros. Cato, Apollonius and Massimilianus rode at the head of ten men mounted on the best of the cohort’s horses. The men themselves had been hand-picked by their senior centurion and were fit and strong; the kind of soldiers who exemplified the uncompromising duty that Cato had chosen for them. Their armour and sword belts had been cleaned and buffed to a good shine and their horses had been groomed well enough to satisfy Cato’s critical eye.

  Behind them, outside the fort, the rest of the cohort was being drilled and exercised by Plancinus and the other Praetorians, who yelled orders and insults as they doubled the men around the dusty open space. The soldiers were carrying the wicker training shields and swords that were made to be heavier than the real kit in order to build muscle and increase endurance.

  No one had been excluded from the morning training sessions in case some of the older soldiers were tough enough to keep up with their younger comrades. Equally, there were newer recruits who were puny, overweight or infirm who needed to be tested to see if they were capable of playing their part in the coming campaign. While the process might reduce the number of men available for the pursuit columns, Cato refused to allow the cohort to be held back by stragglers. Those not hardened to undertaking long marches and fighting at the end of them were better left behind to man the outposts and forts that would encircle the enemy’s territory.

  With the messages sent to the other cohort commanders and the trierarch in charge of the island’s small squadron of biremes and their marine detachments, Cato felt content that his arrangements for the campaign were in hand. Gods willing, he would soon have enough men, horses and fortifications to close in on the brigands and cut them off from the supplies they needed. Hungry and caught in a trap, they would be forced to fight it out or surrender. Then, for the first time in two centuries, the province would be free of the brigands, and no outlying settlement, farm or villa would be at risk from raids. No longer would the people await the coming of nightfall in fear, nor tread the roads of the island glancing anxiously from side to side in anticipation of ambushes. If – when, Cato corrected himself – he succeeded, he would apply for a permanent posting as commander of a cohort in some quiet province and take his son with him. Lucius could grow into manhood while Cato retired to live out his life in comfort and contentment. Just as Macro would be doing when he and Petronella reached Britannia.

  He felt a moment’s sadness that Macro was no longer serving with him. The veteran would have dearly loved to kick the Sixth Gallic Cohort into shape and lead them into the fight. There were some men who seemed born to become soldiers, as wolves were born to hunt, and any other kind of life was unnatural to them. Macro was such a man, in Cato’s estimation, and he could not help wondering if his long-time comrade and close friend would adapt to civilian life. He hoped so, for Petronella’s sake mainly, but also out of consideration for Macro’s age. The tough centurion he had first met in Germania had aged, as all must, and the injuries he had carried through his army years would increasingly take their toll on his joints and his ability to keep up with the younger men.

  ‘It’s a fine morning.’ Apollonius cut cheerily into his thoughts. ‘Just the thing to set a man up for a few days of equine larceny.’

  ‘The term you are reaching for is requisitioning.’

  ‘That may be the term you prefer, but I dare say our victims will pick a more choice word for what we are about.’

  ‘Let them. If they can’t see that they have to make sacrifices for the common good, making their lives somewhat easier in the long run, then I have no sympathy for them.’

  ‘Such sacrifices are for the ordinary people. That’s how it is with warfare. The poor go hungry. It’s usually their farms that are looted and burned down, their women and daughters who are raped; and like as not they’re all sold into slavery if their side loses. For the wealthy and the powerful it’s a different matter. They like to talk up a good war but hardly ever pay the price for it, and often find some way for the gift of victory to shower them with new ways of enriching themselves as the poor struggle to rebuild their shattered lives . . .’

  Cato saw that a dark expression had formed on his companion’s face. Apollonius stirred self-consciously and laughed. ‘Do pardon me for souring the mood of our happy rural excursion.’

  ‘You seemed to speak from the heart,’ said Cato. ‘A rare moment of insight into your origins, perhaps.’

  ‘I was just thinking aloud, that’s all. I wouldn’t read anything more into my words.’

  ‘No?’ Cato regarded him with amusement.

  ‘No,’ Apollonius concluded tersely, and turned to Massimilianus. ‘Tell me, Centurion, which fortunate landowner is going to be the first to receive us?’

  Massimilianus raised the
vine cane that was resting across his thighs and pointed out a distant building atop a hill. The whitewashed walls of the extensive villa overlooked terraced slopes where olive trees grew in ordered lines. Behind the villa sprawled meadows contained within dry-stone walls, and the tiny shapes of goats and horses dotted the verdant pasture. ‘That’s where we’ll start. The place is owned by some aristocrat in Rome and managed by a steward. There’s a fine stable there with plenty of good mounts. They breed them for racing. Best we start with them before word gets round what we’re about and they have a chance to take the horses somewhere and hide them.’

  The road began to curve in easy loops as it climbed the slope towards the house, and an hour later, the party of horsemen reached the waist-high wall that ran around the estate. They turned into a long lane shaded by ancient poplars that towered above them like the wreathed columns of a temple. On either side the olive trees spread out as far as Cato could see before folding around the hill upon which the villa and the stud farm were built. Half a mile later, they came to a gate set into a high wall that enclosed the villa and its outbuildings. A figure squatted in the shade, a round shield and heavy spear propped up beside him. As he noticed the riders, he stirred and rose casually, picking up his spear and stepping forward to bar the gate.

  ‘Jupiter’s balls, but he’s a giant,’ said Massimilianus.

  They were close enough for Cato to recognise the man as one of Claudia Acte’s German guards. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had fair hair and a beard that fell across his mail vest. His arms were powerfully muscled, and he had the haughty air of one raised to be a warrior.

  ‘I had no idea we were to be reunited with these brutes so soon,’ said Apollonius. ‘I hope they don’t cause us any trouble when their mistress discovers the reason for our visit. Much as I appreciate that the men at our backs are the pick of the cohort, the men ahead of us are the pick of the Empire.’

  The German held up a hand and called out to them in his own tongue. The words might be strange but the intent was unmistakable, and Cato halted the other riders and walked his horse forward the last few paces towards the gate. He smiled a greeting and pointed in the direction of the villa, then at himself and his men. ‘We’ve come to see Lady Claudia. Open the gates.’

  He mimed the action and the German hesitated before nodding and striding to the gate to give it a heavy knock. A voice called out from the far side, and there was a brief exchange before the locking bar was slid back and the gates swung open. The German guard waved them through.

  Beyond the gate was a large open space in front of the villa. To the left were the stables, with straw and feed piled to one side. On the right was the slave accommodation, a long, low block with regular doors and small shuttered windows, similar to the barracks of the legionary fortresses Cato was familiar with. There were other buildings arranged around the compound: barn, granary, smithy and storage sheds. The villa was a simple design, though large enough to be imposing. The front stretched for a hundred and fifty feet across the enclosure, and a balcony ran around the first floor to afford its residents a clear view over the surrounding countryside and the ability to take advantage of cooling breezes from any direction. Some of the villa’s servants and slaves were at work in the stables, and a hammer rang from the direction of the smithy, where a thin column of smoke rose into the sky before gradually dissipating. Two of the Germans stood either side of the gate, while two more guarded the entrance to the villa. The rest were nowhere to be seen.

  Cato rode across to a tethering rail in front of the stables and gave the order to dismount. As he flipped the reins over the wooden rail, he spoke quietly to Apollonius and Plancinus. ‘While I find the lady and speak to her, you have a look over the stables and note the horses we want. Oh, and tack. Might as well get as much good kit as we can while we’re at it.’

  As he walked slowly towards the house, he rubbed his backside to ease the discomfort of being in the saddle. Ahead of him, the decurion in command of the German detachment emerged into the sunlight.

  ‘Ah, Prefect Cato, good to see you again, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m here to see Lady Claudia.’

  ‘She’s inside, sir.’ The decurion stood his ground. ‘Can I tell her the reason for your visit?’

  ‘I’ll tell her myself, thanks. It’s official business, so just take me to her, eh?’

  ‘As you command, sir. Follow me. I should warn you the lady is not quite ready to receive formal visitors. Nor is the villa.’

  Close to, Cato could see that the green paint on the shutters was faded and peeling in places. Clearly the owner of the property before Nero had gifted it to his mistress had not been concerned with its upkeep. The casual neglect was in evidence inside as well, with streaks of dust on the tiled floor and over the furniture in the entrance hall. Claudia’s baggage was heaped along the sides of the hall, and Cato saw slaves sweeping the floors and dusting off the cobwebs along the corridor that ran the length of the building. The decurion led him through a door into the enclosed garden at the rear. The flower beds were overgrown with weeds and wild shrubs and the pond in the middle had long since dried out and was full of debris and dead leaves. Several slaves were hard at work uprooting the weeds in the corner of the garden; in amongst them was a woman in a plain brown tunic and a mob cap, squatting over some exposed roots she had grasped in both hands and was straining to rip out of the ground.

  ‘That’s her?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her alone.’

  The decurion looked uncertain, then nodded. ‘Be gentle with her, sir. She’s not had an easy time of it.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato gestured towards the rear of the villa. ‘She seems to be doing rather well for herself. There aren’t many former slaves who can boast such a fine home.’

  ‘That may be so, sir. But Rome is where she was born; it’s all she knows. She didn’t ask to be handed over to Nero, and she had to work hard to keep him sweet. I saw the things he did to her . . . Like I said, I’d be grateful if you didn’t make things any worse for her.’

  Cato had not been expecting such sensitivity from one of the emperor’s personal bodyguards. Was it possible the decurion’s feelings towards his charge arose from some sort of tenderness? Did he have feelings for the exiled woman? Then a darker thought occurred to him. Perhaps the decurion had been given orders concerning Claudia that troubled his conscience.

  ‘I mean her no harm, Decurion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be in our mess room if you need me.’

  As the decurion made his way back to the villa, Cato continued towards the small party of gardeners. Claudia’s attention was focused on the roots; she gritted her teeth and strained to tear them out as her visitor approached from the side.

  ‘Would you like some help with that?’

  She glanced round quickly, her brow creased into a frown that eased off slightly as she squinted up at him. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘You seem to have picked on some kind of growth that has the advantage over you,’ Cato said lightly. ‘Here, let me deal with it.’

  Without waiting for a response, he bent down, took the tough, twisted bundle of roots in both hands and pulled gently, then harder as they resisted his attempts to shift them. Claudia backed off a step and stood, hands on hips, watching him with an amused expression that piqued his pride. Trying not to betray his growing sense of frustration, he heaved with all his strength, the muscles of his forearms trembling with the effort. Without any warning, the roots came away with a soft crack, and he tumbled onto his back, trailing the bundle in his grip. The impact of his landing winded him slightly, and he heard her burst into laughter, followed by the others who had been working alongside her.

  Throwing the roots to one side, he stood with as much dignity as he could muster and dusted the dirt off his fingers as he regarded her with a scowl.

  ‘Sometimes you try too hard, my dear Prefect Cato!’ She was s
miling broadly, revealing good teeth, and there was a delighted twinkle to her countenance that spoke of no malice, merely delight at the unexpected humour of the incident. Some kindred impulse stirred in his heart, and he could not help smiling back.

  ‘If the bloody roots of this island are too much for me, then the gods know how I’m going to deal with the brigands.’

  She laughed again, then raised a hand apologetically. ‘Forgive me; it’s been a while since I have found anything so amusing.’

  ‘Then it’s my pleasure to have been the source of your amusement.’

  They exchanged another smile before she suddenly glanced down at her tunic and touched a hand to the grimy cap on her head. ‘Oh! What must I look like? You’ll be peering down your nose at me, just like those snooty senators did back in Rome.’

  ‘Snooty? Me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence. Anyway, you understand what I mean. I’m sure you had the same thing to deal with the moment you rose to the equestrian class.’

  Fortunately for Cato, a career in the army had largely spared him from such snobbery. Deeds tended to speak louder than family background amongst soldiers. But he could easily guess at the snide remarks that had been made behind Claudia’s back, and occasionally to her face.

  ‘Never mind.’ She touched him gently on the arm. ‘That life has been taken from me now. And good riddance too . . . It’s hot, I could do with some refreshment. Come with me.’

  She led him to the other side of the garden, where a trellis ran along the wall. An untended vine had taken over the framework, but enough had been cut back to clear a small area where a couch had been set up in front of a low table. Claudia called out to one of her slaves to bring them some water, and then sat down at one end of the couch. Cato hesitated, so she leaned over and patted the far end. ‘I don’t bite, Prefect.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘You can call me Claudia. I’d prefer it if you did. I was Claudia for far longer than I was “my lady”, and now I am plain Claudia once again. And I shall call you Cato, if I may?’