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

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Speaking of fitness, are you sure you will be recovered enough by tomorrow?’

  ‘One way or another. We need to strike at the enemy before the pestilence has a chance to spread to our forces. We’ll need the mounted column back, so Centurion Ignatius will have to take one of the infantry centuries to replace it at the roadblocks around Carales.’

  ‘Shall I send for him?’

  ‘No. I need to rest. Pass the order on to him. He’ll take command of the Sixth Century and head for Carales tomorrow. Tell him to pick up any militia he comes across along the way.’

  Apollonius sucked his cheek. ‘You’re cutting things a bit fine, if I may say so. Stripping towns of their militia to fill out our ranks is going to leave them defenceless.’

  ‘I’ll have to take the risk. We need as many men as we can get to take the fight to the enemy. If we simply try to defend every town, fort and outpost, we’ll only end up defending none of them once the enemy decides to pick them off one at a time.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree,’ Cato responded drily as he stood up and made for the door. ‘Now leave me be and pass the orders on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Once he had reached his sleeping quarters, he loosened the belt and let it slip to the floor before collapsing onto the bed. He was still wearing his boots and decided to rest a moment before removing them. Lying back, he closed his eyes. He could hear the orders barked by an officer as he drilled some troops not far from the headquarters building. This late in the afternoon, it was likely that the men in question were on a punishment detail for some infractions committed during the day. After the sounds of waves crashing against the rocks that had accompanied his fever over the last few days, the fort was strangely quiet by comparison. Cato’s thoughts turned to what Apollonius had said about him being fit and ready to resume command. He feared that a good night’s sleep would not be enough respite to prepare him for the hardships and dangers that lay ahead. For a few heartbeats his mind was troubled by his doubts and fears, and then he slipped into a deep sleep, still wearing his boots.

  Long before the sun had risen over the peaks of the hills to the east of Tharros, the Sixth Gallic Cohort had marched out of the gate and down the track to the road that led from the town into the heart of the island. A short distance further on, another road branched south, and Ignatius and his small column of infantry peeled off from the tail of the cohort and marched to relieve Centurion Massimilianus and his mounted squadron maintaining the quarantine of Carales.

  Cato was riding at the head of the cohort, ahead of the colour party with its standards and the gilded image of Emperor Nero. It was not a great likeness, he mused, but then nearly all the men who served under the symbol would never see the emperor in the flesh, so they would never know. He smiled at the significance soldiers placed in such symbols, ready to shed their last drop of blood in their defence. There was no apparent logic to it, and at the same time Cato knew he would willingly do the same in a heartbeat. It was like the chariot races back in Rome. There were people who supported one of the teams and wore their colour as if their lives depended on it. Those who wore other colours were the enemy. People argued, fought and even died because of the colour of a strip of cloth, and yet to question the rationality of such blind loyalty was sufficient to provoke uncomprehending disdain at best.

  As the sun rose and its rays flooded across the landscape around Tharros, Cato looked out across the rolling hills and verdant woods and picked out the distant villa that belonged to Claudia. The whitewashed walls gleamed like ivory in the direct sunshine, and he could not help his thoughts turning to the beguiling woman for whom his initial unfavourable impression had transmuted to growing affection and a desire to spend more time with her. Much more time. That must wait, he reminded himself. First he must destroy his enemy.

  He turned his gaze away and directed it towards the line of hills stretching out on either side before him. On the far side of those hills lay the dense forests and mountain lairs of the tribesmen who were descended from the island’s first inhabitants. Such people cleaved to their traditions and love of their land with the same fervour with which the soldiers of Rome venerated the standards beneath which they marched, fought and died. It would be a battle of convictions as much as a military struggle. In Cato’s experience, such fanaticism could be the deciding factor in a conflict. So who would prove to have the most heart for the coming struggle? Those fighting for the lands that had been theirs for generations immemorial, or those paid to fight in the name of Emperor Nero? He was not encouraged by his answer to the question.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The fort at Augustis was situated on a small plateau with steep sides that overlooked a vast rolling landscape of forest bounded by distant hills. The tree canopy was pierced by tall conical stone towers at regular intervals. Some of the structures were larger, with two or even three towers. It gave the illusion of some great city swallowed up by nature so that only its highest monuments lay visible. At the foot of the sheer cliff that dropped down from the eastern wall of the fort lay a river. Boulders and small rocks that had fallen from the cliff littered the bed so that the shallow current surged round them with unceasing bursts of spray and the soft roar reached up to those on sentry duty at the fort. At the time the fort had been constructed, nearly a hundred years earlier, the builders had ensured that it had a ready supply of water by carving out four large cisterns fed by the rains of autumn and winter. They lay beneath the barrack blocks at the highest point of the fort and were accessed by an inspection passage at the foot of a short flight of stairs.

  To the west of the plateau lay the town of Augustis, sitting beside the junction of the road that ran from Carales to Tibula and a lesser route that crossed the island from Tharros to the minor port of Sulcis. Thanks to its position astride two trade routes, the town, though of modest size, was prosperous, boasting three bathhouses, a theatre where gladiator fights were held on occasion, and a wall high enough to deter brigands but no match for siege weapons.

  As Cato and his column approached, a deputation of the town’s councillors came to greet him. He ordered Plancinus to take the column on to the fort while he turned aside with Apollonius to confer with the small party. As introductions were made, he saw a mixture of relief and anger in the councillors’ faces and braced himself to deal with their complaints. It had taken three days to march from Tharros, and he was bone weary.

  The leader of the town council was a short, corpulent individual named Pinotus. He proudly wore his chain of office as if it was a military decoration for extreme valour, and raised it slightly between finger and thumb as he addressed Cato.

  ‘It’s about time Scurra sent some men to protect us from those bloody brigands. These last few months they’ve been ranging over our farming estates and mines at will. Now that you’re here, there’ll be soldiers on hand to defend our property. And it’s about time. We pay our taxes and we deserve better than Scurra has done for us so far.’

  His companions murmured their support for his robust complaint.

  ‘The governor is not in command of this operation,’ Cato explained.

  ‘Ah!’ Pinotus exclaimed happily. ‘He’s been replaced, then?’

  ‘Scurra is still in office. I have been sent from Rome to take charge of the garrison and deal with the brigands. I intend to use my men to hunt down the enemy, not to spread them out to act as nightwatchmen for your property.’

  ‘Ouch . . .’ Apollonius muttered.

  ‘You’ll never succeed in hunting them down,’ Pinotus protested. ‘They know the forests and hills of this region better than the lines on their hands. They’ll slip through your fingers just as they have with every Roman that ever tried to run them to ground.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Tell me,’ Cato nodded towards the town, ‘is there a militia at Augustis?’

  ‘Yes, enough to defend the town but not to protect the surrounding farms and vill
as, or to patrol the roads. That’s why we’re glad to see you and your soldiers.’

  ‘How many men do you have in the militia?’

  ‘Fifty or so. Barely enough to man the gates, let alone defend the walls.’

  ‘I want them moved up to the fort immediately. They’ll need their marching packs. See to it.’

  Pinotus’s jaw sagged before he laughed nervously. ‘You are joking, of course.’

  ‘Do I look as if I am?’

  ‘But . . . but we need the militia to defend the town! What are we supposed to do without them?’

  ‘Buy yourself a sword and learn how to use it would be my advice. Perhaps it will do you good to defend your property rather than paying others to do it for you. In any case, I need your men. All fifty of them. If they are not there by nightfall, I’ll send Apollonius and his men to make up the shortfall, starting with you and your friends here.’

  ‘This is an outrage!’ Pinotus blustered, his fat cheeks shaking with rage. ‘I shall protest to the governor!’

  ‘Join the queue,’ Apollonius said in an amused tone.

  ‘Your protest is noted,’ Cato concluded. ‘Complain to whoever you like, but I will have those men by nightfall.’

  He clicked his tongue and tugged his reins, turning his horse away to rejoin the passing column of dust-covered soldiers sweating freely under the burden of the kit fastened to their marching yokes. Apollonius lingered a moment longer to savour the discomfort of the men from the town.

  ‘Until we meet again, gentlemen. Just make sure it isn’t later this evening. I’ll not be best pleased if I have to come down to round you up to fill out the ranks.’ He dipped his head briefly in farewell and turned his mount to catch up with Cato.

  From the track leading up to the fort the structure looked formidable enough, but as they reached the gate, Cato saw that there were piles of rubbish lying in the bottom of the ditch, and the foundations of the wall were crumbling in places, causing cracks to work their way up towards the ramparts. Stunted bushes were growing close to the ditch and down the slopes and along the bottom. That was of less concern since they would hinder any attacker. However, they made the fort look neglected and Cato resolved to have the cohort’s base of operations repaired and smartened up, as much for the good it would do to discipline as to improve its defences.

  The gates had been opened as soon as the approaching column was sighted by the half-century that had been sent to ready the barracks for occupation and to prepare the supply stockpiles. The optio in command, Fabius, had drawn up his men in two ranks on either side of the gate, and gave the order for them to salute as Cato emerged from under the gatehouse. He reined in and looked over his immediate surroundings. The barrack blocks seemed to be in good repair, and the fort was large enough to accommodate a standard auxiliary cohort of five hundred or so men. The column he had led from Tharros was half as big again, thanks to the two hundred largely reluctant militiamen he had collected along the route. The extra men would mean the fort would be overcrowded until the last of the militia had been sent to man the new outposts that were to be constructed around the enemy’s lands.

  He turned back to the optio. ‘The outside of the fort seems to be in poor shape, Fabius.’

  The man’s face fell at the rebuke, then he swallowed and gave his response. ‘We’ve been making good the interior, sir. I haven’t had time to deal with the walls and ditches yet.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Cato growled. He did not approve of officers whose first instinct was to make excuses, no matter if they might be justified. As a Praetorian, Fabius should have taken the criticism on the chin. Now he had a mark against his name.

  ‘Plancinus!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Assign the men to their barracks. Have the militia distributed amongst the blocks with your men in.’

  Plancinus looked uncomfortable. ‘Is that wise, sir? It’s bound to cause some friction, given that we’re going to be doubling up on some of the accommodation.’

  It was a fair point, but Cato had weighed it against other considerations. The men of the militia units were already grumbling about their conscription into the campaign, and it would be unwise to give them the opportunity to air their grievances to each other en masse, thereby undermining their morale. Better to disperse them amongst the auxiliaries, where the inter-unit frictions would keep their minds occupied and where they might even be encouraged to pick up some soldierly habits. As it was, they were mostly poorly trained and unfit, if their shambling along at the rear of the marching column was anything to go by. There had been too many stragglers, and only by sending back Centurions Cornelius and Pelius to wield their vine canes had he managed to keep the column intact each day. The militia were only suited to garrison duty, where they would free up the auxiliary troops to strengthen the columns Cato planned to use to strike into the heart of the enemy’s territory.

  Plancinus coughed, and Cato realised that he had been distracted by his thoughts. He met the centurion’s gaze. ‘Have them bunk down with your men, like I said.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Once the men have settled in, pass the word for all officers to attend a briefing at headquarters as soon as the first hour of the night is sounded.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Cato dismounted and handed his reins to one of Fabius’s men. Signalling to Apollonius to join him on foot, he set off to walk through the fort to the far wall that ran along the top of the cliff above the river. With the sun at their backs, the rock upon which the fort was built cast a long shadow over the forest below. They regarded the vista in silence for a moment before Apollonius spoke.

  ‘I fear that finding our brigand friends amongst all those trees is going to be like finding a glass bead in a grain store.’

  ‘Quite. But if anyone can do it, you can. You’ve plenty of experience of scouting and spying.’

  Apollonius smiled. ‘Pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but there’s something of a difference between the desert terrain of the eastern frontier and that dense woodland down there.’

  ‘Granted. However, a man of your talents will always adapt to circumstances. Are your men ready?’

  Apollonius nodded. ‘As soon as you give the order.’

  ‘Good. Then take whatever provisions you need from the stores and leave at first light. I need you to map the routes through the forests, any settlements belonging to the enemy’s tribes, as well as their camps. It’s an intelligence-gathering operation, mind you. No heroics. Get me as much information as you can and report back here in ten days.’

  ‘Spare me the lecture on heroics. I’m not Macro.’

  ‘No. You’re not. And he’ll be missed when the time comes to stick it to the enemy.’

  Apollonius looked at him searchingly. ‘I suspect he is missed rather more often than that.’

  ‘Maybe. But that can’t be helped. Our ways have parted now and I’ll have to manage by myself.’

  ‘And how is that going for you?’

  Cato rolled his head and cracked a stiff muscle in his neck. ‘You ask too many questions.’

  ‘That’s what spies are supposed to do, Prefect. Fewer questions when we are trying to be unobtrusive, of course.’

  ‘How about when you are merely being in trusive?’

  ‘Oh, if that’s our purpose, then as many as possible before our presence becomes intolerable.’

  ‘I think we may just have reached that point . . .’ Cato turned to him. ‘You have your orders. Take no risks with your men’s lives, nor your own. If you can capture a few prisoners for interrogation, so much the better. Dismissed.’

  ‘Dismissed? Just like that.’

  ‘It’s how we do things in the army. Stick around long enough and you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure I want to, but I’ll play along for now.’ Apollonius tapped a finger to his brow in an informal salute and turned to descend the wall.

  Cato leaned on the parapet and stared at the fore
st as the daylight began to fade. He felt uneasy. It took a moment to pin the sensation down, and then he realised that he was recalling his time on the northern frontier many years ago. He recalled the chill in the air as night fell over the dense forests of Germania. It was as if the tall trees marked the frontier between civilisation and the mystery and depravity of the lands inhabited by barbarous tribes whose appetite for war was matched only by the savage cruelty with which they waged it. Varus and his three legions had marched into those forests half a century ago and, abandoned by their guides, had stumbled through the shadows beneath the boughs of ancient trees until they were trapped and annihilated. The handful of survivors had spent the rest of their lives haunted by the experience. Now Cato was looking out over another forest, wondering if the fates intended to treat him the same way.

  He shivered and forced the prospect from his mind. Varus had been an incautious fool. Thanks to the relatively small number of men under his command, and the dubious quality of many of them, Cato was obliged to exercise caution. If he experienced one serious setback, he feared the campaign would fail at the first hurdle.

  Apollonius and his men slipped out of the fort the following morning as soon as there was enough light to see by. Cato had found it difficult to sleep and was dressed in time to watch them ride down the slope and disappear into the forest. He was under few illusions about the dangers the party faced. If they were caught by the enemy, they would be held as hostages if they were lucky. If not, it was likely they would be killed to serve as an example to any Roman soldiers who dared to enter the territory the brigands claimed as their own. Yet the risk must be taken; it was vital to gain intelligence on the disposition of the enemy if they were to be hunted down and forced to fight.

  Not long after the departure of the scouts, a trumpet sounded at headquarters as the first hint of the rising sun glimmered on the horizon and the daily routine began. Officers roused their men to fetch their section’s rations from the quartermaster to cook the barley gruel that would fill their stomachs until the evening meal. The smell of woodsmoke filled the air for a while, then the fires were extinguished and the men formed up outside their barrack blocks ready for inspection. Eight carts had already been loaded with supplies and equipment for the two centuries Centurion Plancinus was leading to construct the first of the outposts on high points overlooking the forested hills.