‘That’s how it looks from the outside,’ Macro admitted. ‘But you had to be there, sir. You had to see the way he ran the cohort. He just wasn’t up to the job. First that balls-up at the Tamesis, for which Cato and others were punished. That wasn’t justice, sir. Then there’s the way he treated the locals. You’d think he was trying to stir ’em up deliberately. Force them to react. I’d say the man was mad.’
Vespasian shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. ‘That’s not relevant, Macro, and you know it. Sometimes an officer has to be a harsh disciplinarian. Perhaps Maximius did what he thought was necessary.’
Cato was staring hard at the legate. ‘Unless, of course, he was ordered to give the locals a hard time …’ His eyes narrowed. ‘That’s why the legion was camped at the end of the track on the other side of the marsh. That’s why you marched so quickly to relieve us. You were expecting Caratacus to come out and fight, sir.’
‘Silence!’ Vespasian snapped, then continued in a cold, threatening tone, ‘What the legate of this legion thinks is not the concern of his centurions. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Cato said stiffly.
‘Good. Then all that matters is what I decide to do with you two.’ Vespasian leaned back in his chair and regarded them without expression for a moment. Cato felt the sweat break out on the palms of his hands as he balled them into tight fists behind his back.
‘Once again, you have performed a valuable service for your comrades, and the Emperor,’ Vespasian began. ‘I think it’s fair to say that your action in blocking the enemy’s route from the marsh sealed the fate of Caratacus. And your capture of their commander alone is enough to win the highest of military decorations. Not to mention a promotion.’
Macro beamed at Cato, but Cato sensed this was merely the preamble to something a lot less laudatory.
Vespasian paused briefly before he continued. ‘However, I have to say that you, Cato, are still under sentence of death, and you, Macro, are guilty of insubordination and mutiny, which also means a death sentence. If the testimony of one of the other surviving officers of the Third Cohort is to be believed, the pair of you might have a hand in the killing of Centurion Maximius.’
‘Cordus!’ Macro spat. ‘It’s that bastard, Cordus. If he—’
‘Wait!’ Vespasian snapped. He raised a hand as Macro opened his mouth to continue his protest. An unaccustomed moment of discretion forestalled any further protest from passing Macro’s lips.
‘As you know, there’s no proof to back up his evidence. That aside, I cannot ignore the fact that rumours about the death of Maximius are rife throughout the legion. So you two present me with something of a quandary. I can’t hold you to account for the murder of another officer, not without solid evidence of your involvement. Of course, I’m sure I could get the general’s authority for a summary punishment …’
He paused to let the threat sink in.
‘The problem is that you two have become heroes to the men of this legion. If you’re executed after all that you have achieved, the morale of this unit would be severely damaged for some time to come. The commander of this legion cannot afford to have that additional burden placed on his shoulders. Equally, I cannot allow you to continue to serve in this legion with the other men aware of your possible complicity in the murder of another officer. That would be an appalling threat to the discipline needed to run the legion. I can’t have my senior centurions going around watching their backs all the time in case some disgruntled legionary, or gods forbid, another officer, takes it into their head to settle an old score. You cannot be allowed to set such a precedent. You see my difficulty?’
Macro responded first. ‘What are you suggesting, sir? Are you going to discharge us?’
There was a look of horror on the face of the older centurion as the full implication of such a possibility struck home. No more life in the legions. No more chance of booty, no fat gratuity and a comfortable and honourable retirement in some provincial colony. All Macro had known was soldiering. Without the army, and without any income what could he do? Beg? Become a bodyguard for some spoiled brat of a senator’s son? The fleeting images that poured through his mind promised only misery. The destruction of his being by a slow, remorseless process of degradation.
Cato was in a more reflective frame of mind. He was young. He had seen rather more of life and death than he had ever imagined, and bore the scars to prove it. Perhaps he had had enough of this life and might find something better. Something more peaceful, more rewarding, something less likely to see him in an early grave.
‘Discharge?’ Vespasian raised his eyebrows. ‘No. You’re far too valuable to Rome to throw away in such a manner. Far too valuable. If I’ve learned one thing as a legate, it’s this. While good officers might be in short supply, outstanding officers are a genuinely rare commodity. Rome can’t afford to waste them. But, I’m afraid, your life in the Second Legion is over. You’ll hope to be transferred to another legion.’
‘Which one, sir?’ asked Cato.
‘None of the units in General Plautius’ army, that’s for sure. Rumours about your past will follow you wherever you go in this province. So, you’ll have to be reassigned. You’re leaving Britain. I’m taking you back to Rome with me. I’ll see what I can arrange for you with the imperial general staff. Narcissus owes me a favour or two.’
Cato could not hide his surprise. ‘You’re leaving Britain, sir? Why?’
‘My tour of duty’s over,’ Vespasian replied simply. ‘I was notified shortly after your escape. In a few days I’ll no longer be legate of the Second. My replacement is due to arrive any day now.’
‘Why, sir? Surely after all you’ve achieved …?’
‘It seems I’ve lost the confidence of the general.’ Vespasian gave a weary smile. ‘Besides, there are plenty of senators who are queuing up for the chance to win a little glory. I don’t have much influence at the court of Claudius. They do. Do I really have to spell it out to you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘Now, I’ve other work to attend to. Plenty of things to get sorted out before my replacement arrives. You have a few days to settle your affairs in the Second Legion. Pay your debts. Get your savings refunded, and make your farewells. You’re dismissed.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Ten days later, Cato and Macro were sitting on a rough wooden bench opposite the merchant ship that would carry them, and the legate, across the sea to the port of Gesoriacum on the Gaulish coast. The Ajax was tied alongside the wharf at Rutupiae. Dressed in simple tunics, they sat in the shade and watched the captain shouting at the stevedores that were unloading his cargo of wine from the hold. The slaves had been doing their best to crack one of the amphorae and get a free drink. The captain, however, had carried such cargoes many times before and was threatening to have the skin off the back of the first man who damaged ajar. His voice was hoarse from competing with the shrill cries of the gulls that swirled over the harbour, scavenging.
It had been well over a year since they had last visited the invasion port. Cato had been the optio in Macro’s century at the time; a self-conscious and anxious creature who doubted he would live long enough to see the winter. Rutupiae had been a vast supply depot, constantly replenished with food, equipment and men throughout the first season of campaigning. Hundreds of ships had filled the narrow channel leading out to the open sea, waiting their turn to berth at the wharf. There were thousands of slaves labouring to unload the supplies that would keep the voracious Roman war machine grinding forwards.
Since then an advance base had been constructed well up the Tamesis, where Emperor Claudius had joined his army before it swung north and east to defeat Caratacus before the walls of his capital at Camulodunum. Rutupiae was only of minor significance to the military effort now. There was already a large civilian population and a settlement, sprawled back from the wharf. Warehouses had replaced the depot’s stockade and they backed on
to a makeshift forum where merchants and bankers mixed amongst the stalls of traders, who had arrived from Gaul to take advantage of the new market for the empire’s goods.
‘It’s hard to believe all this has happened so quickly,’ said Cato.
‘Ain’t progress wonderful?’ Macro grinned. ‘Give it a few more years and it’ll look as if Rome has always been here. Might have been a nice place to retire.’
‘Seriously?’
Macro thought about it for a moment. ‘No. The climate’s shit and the drink’s piss. Give me a tidy little farm in Campania any day. Got an uncle with a small vineyard near Herculanium. Now that’s the kind of retirement for me. Quiet spot by the sea where the biggest danger to life and limb is a bad oyster.’
Cato forced himself to smile. Macro had less than ten years to serve. Cato faced another twenty-three more years with the Eagles, assuming they both survived that long. Not many did on active service. If the enemy didn’t get you, the rigours of campaigning almost certainly would. Both men gazed out across the settlement to the rolling farmland beyond, conscious of the fact that they might never see these shores again. Then Cato broke the silence.
‘What do you think will happen to us?’
Macro pursed his lips. ‘Another legion, I expect. Just pray that we get a nice quiet garrison unit. Preferably in Syria.’ Macro’s eyes glazed over as he daydreamed about his favourite fantasy posting. ‘Yes, Syria would do nicely …’
Cato knew that this happy reflection would go on for a good while yet, and beckoned to a passing wine-seller, buying a cup for each of them. The wine-seller, a swarthy fellow with a Greek accent, grunted as he saw the mess tins emerge from their kitbags.
‘Soldiers, eh?’
Cato nodded.
‘New arrivals?’ the wine-seller asked hopefully. ‘I could show you the best places to drink. The best places with the best girls.’
‘No. We’re leaving.’ Cato nodded. ‘On that ship.’
‘Pity. Don’t see that many legionaries these days. That’s bad for trade.’ The wine-seller glanced over them as he poured out the measures from his jar. ‘Not medical discharges then?’
‘We’re being transferred.’
‘That’s a first. Traffic in healthy soldiers has been one way. You’re lucky to be getting off this island in one piece.’
‘Tell me about it.’
The wine-seller wished them a safe journey, after one final effort to interest them in a very reasonably priced whorehouse just round the corner.
As soon as the wine had been unloaded the merchant captain began supervising the loading of the return cargo – mostly bales of fur, and two large cages containing several huge hairy hunting dogs that stared lethargically through the bars as they were swayed across and down into the hold. It was mid September, and the air had a chilly edge to it, though the captain’s face was beaded with sweat from his efforts. He caught sight of the two Romans and beckoned to them impatiently.
‘Heads up,’ said Cato. ‘We’re wanted.’
They heaved their kitbags on to their shoulders and crossed the wharf, carefully negotiating the narrow gangplank and jumping down on to the deck.
‘Take all the time you want,’ the captain said irritably. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got to catch the tide or anything.’
‘I think he’s in a hurry.’ Macro winked at Cato as he slowly set his kitbag down and stretched his back. ‘Anyway, you’re not going anywhere until the other passenger arrives.’
The captain crossed his thick arms. ‘No?’
‘Not if you know what’s good for you.’
‘No one threatens me on the deck of my own ship, least of all a pair of squaddies. If he’s not here by the next watch bell, we’re leaving.’
‘No we’re not,’ Macro said firmly. ‘I doubt the legate would be very amused.’
‘Legate?’ The captain’s eyebrows rose.
‘Titus Flavius Vespasian. Late of the Second Legion Augusta. Oh, and we’re not squaddies, mate. We’re centurions.’
‘Centurions?’ The captain eyed Cato curiously. ‘Both of you?’
‘Oh, yes. So don’t give us any trouble, friend.’
The captain did not reply. He just glared at them, and turned away quickly, shouting a string of orders to his crew.
‘What a prick,’ Macro muttered.
‘Wonder what’s keeping the legate.’ Cato stared along the wharf. ‘He’s only supposed to be paying his respects to the garrison commander.’
Macro shrugged. ‘You know what his class are like. Very clubbable. Probably swapping their addresses back in Rome right now.’
Cato suddenly craned his neck. ‘There he is!’
‘So much for that theory,’ Macro grumbled. ‘At least we can set sail before that bloody captain has a stroke.’
The legate, like his centurions, was travelling light. All his baggage would follow on later and eventually catch up with him in Rome. His travelling chest had already been carried aboard and he wore a silk tunic with a gold weave in the hems – a simple design, but one that clearly indicated his social status – and people cleared the way ahead of him as he strolled along the wharf, looking for the Ajax. Cato waved his arm and caught the legate’s attention, and a moment later his iron-studded boots thudded down on the deck. Cato and Macro automatically stood to attention.
‘At ease.’ Vespasian looked troubled. ‘I’ve just heard some news that may be of interest to you. An army dispatch rider arrived this morning.’
Macro scratched his chin. ‘What’s that then, sir?’
‘Caratacus has escaped.’
‘Escaped?’ Macro shook his head in disbelief. ‘How?’
‘It seems there was a riot over the prisoners’ food rations. Some men were sent in to quieten them down. Turns out the riot was staged, and the prisoners rushed the stockade gate the moment it was opened. Apparently they just threw themselves at the guards bare-handed. Hundreds of them were killed, but they made sure Caratacus got away. How’s that for loyalty?’ Vespasian turned to Cato. ‘You know him. What do you think he’ll do now?’
Cato shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. I only talked with him a few times.’ ‘Will he try to continue the fight?’
Cato nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I believe he’s the kind of man who will never give in. He’d rather die, if he had to.’
‘So, it’s not over, then.’ Vespasian shook his head sadly. ‘After everything that’s happened, I’d hoped …’
He didn’t finish the sentence, and just looked away with a weary expression. The legate walked slowly to the front of the vessel and leaned over the bow rail. Macro and Cato watched him for a moment before Macro spoke.
‘You have to hand it to Caratacus. Never say die.’
Cato nodded and said quietly, ‘At least he was kind enough not to escape before we got full credit for his capture.’
Macro looked at Cato wide-eyed. Then he roared with laughter and slapped his friend on the shoulder. Cato winced.
With the last of his passengers on board, the captain gave the order to cast off and two large sweeps were lowered over the sides. With the crew straining at the long oars the ship was slowly rowed out into the channel, until the Ajax was clear of the other vessels. Then the oars were shipped and the sails unfurled. A light breeze carried them out to sea where the wind strengthened, the mainsail filling up like a pot belly. The bow rose and fell as it met the ocean swell. Cato and Macro moved to the back of the ship and leaned on the stern rail, watching the coast gradually slip away until Britain was no more than a vague outline on the horizon. At that point Macro lost interest, and wandered forward to the main mast to try to interest some of the crew in a game of dice.
Cato stayed at the rail, wondering why he suddenly felt so emotional at the disappearance of the land where he had suffered so much pain, so much loss, and seen more than enough cruelty to last him a lifetime. He should feel relieved to be quitting the island, he thought. Instead, he felt a peculiar emptiness, li
ke he was leaving some essential part of himself on those shores. A moment later, the stern of the vessel reared up and Cato had one final sight of the distant land, then the Ajax swooped down the far side of the swell and Britain disappeared for good.
A little later Cato sensed a presence at his shoulder and glanced back. Macro was standing there, looking into the creamy wake behind the ship. ‘Seems no one on this bloody ship is prepared to gamble with a centurion.’
‘Can you blame them?’ Cato smiled.
‘I don’t suppose you—’
‘No.’
‘Oh, right.’ Macro did not hide his disappointment. ‘What are you moping about here for?’
Cato stared at his friend for a moment. In truth he had begun to think about the future. About what would happen now that they had left the Second Legion. The legate had promised to act as their patron when they reached Rome. He would try to use what influence he had to secure them appointments in a new legion, but that would depend on vacancies. Right now only the units in Britain were on active service, and the demand for centurions amongst the other legions posted across the Empire would be limited. The prospect of several months kicking his heels in Rome, with an increasingly frustrated Macro for company, was none too appealing. Cato just hoped that when the time came, their new legion would offer his friend a chance to get stuck into some serious soldiering, before he went completely mad.
Cato smiled. ‘Just thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘What comes next. Anything has got to be better than the last two years of campaigning.’
‘You think so?’ Macro sniffed. ‘Believe me, there are worse places. And with our luck, you can be sure we’ll be seeing them.’
Cato turned to look back over the stern, his eyes following the diminishing traces of the Ajax’s wake, until he was staring at the horizon.
‘I wonder if we’ll ever see Britain again?’
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