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

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘What about you?’ asked Apollonius.

  ‘I’ll make myself comfortable here. I suspect I’ll become adept at carving by the time the ten days are up.’

  The agent cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Never mind.’ Cato forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine. I’d like some food brought in the morning and at the end of the day, when you can brief me. All right?’

  Apollonius nodded and turned away, followed by Plancinus. Claudia lingered a moment and stared anxiously at him. ‘You take good care of yourself, Cato. If you start to feel ill, tell me when I come with the food. I’ll have the cohort’s surgeon on the spot at once.’

  He shook his head. ‘If it happens, I’ll deal with it myself. No one else. Understand? Not you. Not anyone.’

  She chewed her lip, then sighed. ‘As you wish.’

  He nodded a curt farewell and went back into the tower, closing the door behind him.

  For four days the quarantine regime ran smoothly. Claudia approached at daylight, carrying a basket of food. She brought a spare tunic on the first day, and then on the second morning a volume of poetry from her collection at the villa. She stayed for a while to talk each time, sitting cross-legged a safe distance away.

  Cato opened the book and glanced at her with a wry smile. ‘Catullus?’

  ‘Why not? Can you think of better reading matter to warm a man’s cockles while he is quarantined?’

  ‘Any particular verses you would recommend?’

  ‘Just those where the pages are more worn than elsewhere.’

  They shared a laugh before Cato regarded her with a more serious expression. ‘When this is over – the campaign, I mean – I’d like to get to know you better. You are an interesting person, Claudia Acte.’

  ‘Interesting? Now that’s a carefully chosen word.’ She tapped a finger on her chin. ‘What am I to make of it? Are you interested in my mind, my personality, my not inconsiderable fortune, my looks?’

  ‘I would settle for any one of those qualities, and the rest I would treasure as a cornucopia of unexpected bonuses.’

  She snorted with mirth and her smile lit up her face so that Cato could understand how she had once won over an emperor.

  ‘My dear Prefect Cato, you have the gilded tongue of the oiliest of politicians. I am sure you will go even further in your career, given the chance.’ She climbed to her feet. ‘Now I must resist your blandishments and return to the villa. There is still plenty of work to do in the garden.’

  ‘Will you not stay a little longer?’

  ‘No. I find that men are most pliant when the things that give them pleasure are rationed.’

  ‘You are playing with me.’

  ‘Of course I am.’ She smiled and walked away, slowly enough to ensure she had his attention all the way to the end of the mole.

  When Apollonius approached later that afternoon, as the setting sun burnished the west coast of the island and made the tiles on the roofs of the town’s buildings glow like the hearts of rubies, Cato was waiting for him. They exchanged the briefest of pleasantries before the agent reported on matters at the fort.

  ‘The patrols have been sent to cut off Carales and the immediate area.’

  ‘I hope they’re in time to stop the sickness spreading.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough. There was a messenger from Tibula. The prefect of the Fourth Illyrian is on his way. He apologises for the hold-up, but claims he was delayed by the governor. He should arrive tomorrow. I’ll bring him straight to you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Is there anything else you need here? Anything to help pass the time?’

  Cato thought a moment, then shook his head wearily. ‘I think I have all I need.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  As Apollonius walked away, Cato reached up and rubbed his forehead. His head ached. He put it down to sitting out for too long in the sunshine. Now that the sun was setting, he felt the first chills of the evening air and trembled for a moment before stepping into the tower to climb the ladder and prepare to light the beacon.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cato woke in the middle of the night, shivering and nauseous. Outside the wind moaned round the tower and waves crashed against the boulders of the mole with a steady rhythm. He sat up with a groan and pulled the tower keeper’s blanket about his shoulders, then swung his feet round and tried to stand up. His limbs felt like jelly and trembled as he struggled to rise. After what seemed like a monumental effort, he stood, swaying, and had to reach out to the stone wall to steady himself.

  ‘The beacon . . .’ he mumbled to himself. The fire needed feeding and he knew he must climb the tower to carry out the task he had taken responsibility for. Shuffling to the ladder, he gritted his teeth in determination and began to climb, one effortful rung at a time, until he emerged onto the platform bathed in the red glow of the flames flickering in the iron basket. The warmth was some comfort against the chills that racked his body. He made his way to the piled logs and began to toss more into the middle of the fire, each one causing bursts of sparks to rise and swirl.

  Once the blaze had built up, he moved to the corner closest to the open sea, heat soaking into his back. A crescent moon low in the sky away to the south-west cast a beam of glittering reflections across the waves rolling in from the darkness. The black mass of the coast on either side revealed no detail, just the faint sparkle of lamps at the windows of distant homes. He turned in the direction of Claudia’s villa and strained his eyes for any sign of life there, but he could discern nothing and gazed back to sea, finding some comfort in the salty tang of the air, the sound of breaking waves and the steely shimmer of the water. Despite his fever, it was a serene moment and one he felt glad to have to himself.

  Then he felt his guts clench tightly, and he leaned over the edge of the parapet and retched, retched again and then vomited repeatedly until he felt that he had been wrung out. He stooped there, mouth agape, straining to expel the last gobbet left inside his stomach. His head was pounding and the tranquillity of a moment before was consumed by wretched discomfort and self-pity. There was concern too. If this was the same sickness he had seen on the ship, he was a danger to the people of Tharros slumbering peacefully through the night. He had to make sure that he was awake when Claudia came with the food in the morning. The last thing he wanted was for her to call out to him and, when he did not reply, come into the tower to find him.

  ‘Shit . . .’ He groaned as he began to shiver again despite the warmth of the fire. He piled on enough logs to keep the blaze going until dawn, then braced himself to climb down the ladder to the keeper’s accommodation. He paused at the bottom as a fresh wave of nausea made him feel dizzy, and closed his eyes momentarily, but that only seemed to make it worse. Releasing his grip on the risers, he staggered over to the opening to the storeroom. With great effort he climbed down and opened the door onto the mole, wedging it open with a log before glancing round and making out a pile of straw mats and old reed baskets. He collapsed onto it, rolling up into a ball and pulling his military cloak over him.

  He had never felt so ill before in his life and began to wonder if this was the end for him. The thought of dying alone in the home of a stranger added to his misery. As did the prospect of never seeing Lucius again. Not being able to watch him grow to manhood and share what wisdom he had accrued along the way. The thought of losing the chance to tell his son how much he loved and treasured him weighed down on him like a mountain. His misery plunged to new depths as he lay on his side, knees drawn up, wincing at every agonising throb in his head and struggling to stay awake till first light, when Claudia was due with the next day’s rations.

  An hour or so later, the chills became a heated fever and sweat pricked out on his face. He trembled and then flicked his covers off and lay stretched out on his back. His throat felt raw from the vomiting, and constricted, and when he poured himself some water, he found it difficult to swallow. The chills and shivering re
sumed and he groaned in despair as he pulled the blanket over his weakening body and closed his eyes, praying to the gods that his life might be spared, and that the pains that racked him would go . . .

  ‘Cato . . .’

  The soft voice penetrated the nightmare of slowly drowning in a dark pit, far from the distant light.

  ‘Cato!’

  It was closer, more urgent and distinctly female, and Cato stirred and let out a meaningless mumble. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen and coarse. He tried to summon up some spit to moisten his tongue and lips so that he could speak clearly.

  ‘Who . . . who is it?’

  ‘It’s Claudia. You look terrible.’

  ‘Claudia . . .’ His mind struggled to make sense of the name for a moment. It was an effort to think clearly, as if joining one thought onto another was the most demanding of tasks. He remembered her. He remembered the vitally important need to stay awake. But he had been weak and allowed himself to sleep. What was it that he needed to stay awake for? Someone was in danger . . . Then it hit him with a stab of lucid clarity and he opened his eyes and tried to sit up. He saw her squatting beside him, behind her the open door and beyond that the decurion of the German guard with two of his men holding a bed frame with a thick mattress tied to it. The sky was overcast and in the distance a single shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds to paint a patch of forested hillside a vivid green.

  ‘Shh. Lie back and rest.’ She gently pressed his shoulder to ease him onto the bedroll. Now he could smell the acrid stink of vomit, and worse, a faecal stench from soiling himself. He turned his face away in shame.

  ‘Leave me. Go, before it’s too late.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. You need help. If you stay here alone in this condition, you’ll surely die.’

  ‘If you don’t go now, you may share my fate. Get out of here.’

  ‘I’m here now, so I’m staying.’

  ‘No,’ Cato said feebly, cursing himself for failing to stay awake to warn her off.

  She rose and went to the door, calling out to the decurion. ‘The prefect’s sick.’

  The decurion flinched, then gestured urgently to her. ‘My lady, get away from him!’

  ‘It’s too late. I’m at risk now and must be quarantined as well. You’ll have to tell them at the fort. Before you go, leave the bed at the door. I’ll take it inside from there. Have one of the men bring me fresh clothes from the villa, and spare tunics for the prefect. I’ll also need blankets, a bucket, sponges and water. Have you got all that?’

  ‘Yes, my lady, but—’

  ‘I’ve told you what to do; now get on with it. The bed first.’

  She backed away from the door as the decurion barked an order to the two Germans and they hurried forward with the bed, placing it outside the door before the decurion gave the order to head back down the mole. Claudia left the storeroom and a moment later there was a grating noise and Cato turned to see her dragging the bed through the door. She manoeuvred it to the rear of the room and pushed it against the wall.

  ‘There, that’s the best I can do. We’ll have to manage with this room as neither the bed nor you are going to make it up that ladder.’

  Cato moistened his lips again. ‘What are you doing, you fool?’

  She stood, hands on hips, head to one side. ‘That’s no way to address the person who is going to be nursing you for the next few days. I’d suggest you improve your manners, Prefect.’

  Regardless of his frustration at her presence, it was too late now to dismiss her, Cato realised. She would have to wait for several days to make sure that she did not become sick. The worst prospect was that she might fall ill alongside him. In his present state he would be able to do nothing for her.

  ‘Claudia, you must have known something was wrong when I did not come out of the tower to meet you.’

  ‘Of course I knew. That’s why I came in to find you. Just as well that I did. You’ll need looking after.’

  Again Cato felt a surge of shame at the prospect. Then he was overcome with a fresh urge to vomit. At once she looked round, spotted a bucket and hurried to fetch it for him. He was too weak to sit up and lean over it, so she supported him with one arm and stroked his damp locks of hair as he rested between the bouts of retching that racked his trembling body.

  ‘I’m here now, Cato. I’ll look after you. Someone has to . . .’

  When he was finished, she helped him over to the bed and laid him out on it. His breathing was laboured as she looked down at him with a sympathetic expression. ‘First thing, I need to get you cleaned up. You look like something a street dog has dragged out of the Great Sewer in Rome.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Cato muttered.

  She sighed. ‘I’d better get some water heated then. You can sleep while you wait.’

  She picked up some kindling and logs and went outside to lay a fresh fire in the hearth beneath the grille where the tower keeper had cooked his sardines. As she went to and fro, Cato watched for a moment before exhaustion overcame him and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Days and nights passed in a haze punctuated by bouts of pain, delirium and snatches of lucidity. At times Cato was conscious but floating free of the world he had known. Memories flowed seamlessly into nightmares and then back again. At one time his dead wife Julia came to him, her face twisted into a sneer as she mocked him on the subject of her lovers and then tried to smother him with a bolster. He woke suddenly and sat up, eyes wide and glancing nervously from side to side as he gulped air and sweat dripped from his brow. Something stirred in the darkness and hands eased him down before a cool, damp cloth soothed his forehead and he slipped into unconsciousness again, unsure if the last thing he was aware of was a kiss on his forehead, or if that was merely another dream.

  One day he woke at noon, his mind clear and his thoughts cogent. As his eyes opened, he stared up at the beams crossing the ceiling of the storeroom. The raw cry of seagulls sounded from outside and he turned his head towards the door, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. The sky was cloudless and seemed impossibly blue. He was aware of voices outside.

  Steeling himself, he turned on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. He saw that he was dressed in a soft blue wool tunic and lying on a bed. It was a moment before he recalled the Germans bringing it to the tower. Gritting his teeth, he eased himself up into a sitting position and lowered his feet to the floor. So far, so good. He was alive, and paused a moment to offer silent thanks to Asclepius, before he recalled Claudia and was gripped by a mixture of guilt over the risk she had taken in tending to him and gratitude for saving his life. Without her, he would most likely have succumbed to hunger and thirst while incapacitated by the fever.

  Bracing his hands on the edge of the bed either side of his thighs, he pushed himself up and rose unsteadily to his feet. He was shocked at the uncontrollable trembling in his legs as he staggered across the room and leaned against the door frame. Outside he saw Claudia and Apollonius sitting apart on the edge of the mole, their backs towards him as they talked.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Any chance of a cup of wine?’

  They turned round and Apollonius smiled broadly as he got to his feet. Cato’s gaze shifted to Claudia, and he was shocked by how drawn her features were.

  ‘You shouldn’t be up,’ she said. ‘You look as weak as a kitten.’

  ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve sat down.’ He stepped out of the tower and slid down onto the keeper’s stool set against the wall. ‘That’s better.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Apollonius.

  ‘Terrible. Next silly question?’

  The agent laughed. ‘Well enough to let what passes for your sense of humour make itself known at least.’

  ‘If all you can do is insult me, then you can fuck off.’

  Apollonius turned to Claudia with a mock expression of horror. ‘I have to apologise for my superior. What he lacks in wit and good manners he makes up for with . . . some
other quality that escapes me for the moment.’

  Claudia came over to Cato and held her hand to his forehead. Her palm felt cool and soothing. ‘The fever seems to have broken finally.’

  Seeing that he was trembling, she went inside and came out with a cloak to settle around his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t need that. It’s a warm day.’

  ‘Just do it. For my peace of mind. I’ll see to that wine now. I noticed some upstairs. Could use a cup myself.’ She disappeared inside the tower and Cato heard the ladder creak as she climbed to the first storey.

  ‘How many days has it been since I fell ill?’ he asked.

  ‘Five.’

  He felt his pulse quicken anxiously. ‘What’s happened during my absence?’

  ‘Let’s see . . . Plancinus reckons the cohort is ready to march. The supplies have reached the forward outposts safely. There was an attempt to ambush the last convoy but the auxiliaries saw them off in style. I’ve chosen the men I want for my scouts. Ten in all. They’re good riders and tough individuals. Some thought they were tough enough to get the better of me.’ Apollonius gave one of his lopsided smiles. ‘They learned otherwise.’

  ‘I hope the lesson wasn’t too painful.’

  ‘Bruised pride and a few sore heads, that’s all. I’m teaching them a few of my tricks to try out on the enemy if the chance arises. It’s gratifying to see how readily they apply themselves to fighting dirty. I fear for the locals if they ever get into a brawl with my fellows.’

  ‘What about the situation in Carales?’

  Apollonius’s smile faded. ‘It’s bad, I’m afraid. One of the mounted men reported back yesterday. Hundreds have died already. They’re struggling to keep up with burning the bodies. However, the good news is that the ship got back to the port and passed on your orders. The town gates have been sealed and the mounted contingent have put up roadblocks on the routes leading away from Carales. That said, there have been some falling sick in the nearest villages and estates. They have been isolated and those around them told to stay where they are for ten days after the sick have recovered or died.’