‘What does Poppaea Sabina want?’
Thraxis did not look at him but answered after the most fleeting hesitation. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’
‘You didn’t read it then?’
‘I barely know more than a few words, sir.’
‘But enough to know her purpose, eh?’
‘Actually, sir, I got the details from her slave girl.’
‘And not just the details,’ Cato added shrewdly, before he relented. His servant’s private life was his own. He raised his arms as Thraxis helped him out of his mail vest. ‘What does the tribune’s wife want?’
‘Her husband has invited you to dine after the first change of watch, sir. Together with Prefect Horatius, and the three senior centurions commanding the legionary cohorts.’
Cato ground his teeth in frustration. He had intended to complete his preparations for the march and get a good night’s rest in a proper bed. Now he would have to satisfy the social whims of some broad-stripe tribune and his wife. He felt embarrassed by the memory of her unwanted attention the night after the battle and had no desire to spend the evening in her company. Besides, if he was any judge of such events, it would drag on and be late in the night before he could finally sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of turning the invitation down, but knew that would put him in Otho’s black books. If he was going to have to serve under the tribune for the next month or so it would be better not to offend him at the outset.
The last of the heavy links slid up over his head and Thraxis took the vest away to carefully lay it over the frame with the rest of the prefect’s armour. Cato rolled his neck, relishing the feeling of being released from the burden.
‘Once you’ve finished here, you can take my acceptance to the tribune’s quarters.’
‘You mean his house, sir?’
‘House?’
‘Yes, sir. The tribune’s wife was not satisfied with the accommodation in the fort so she persuaded her husband to rent the villa of a wool merchant on the edge of the vicus. It’s not far. No more than a mile away, sir.’
Cato pursed his lips. It seemed that Tribune Otho was in the habit of indulging his wife’s every whim. But then no doubt he could afford to. Cato could well imagine the tribune’s wealthy background. Like most aristocratic families there would be a fine home in Rome, a villa in the Tuscan hills to retire to during the hot summer months, and another down by the sea in the wide curve of the bay stretching from Puteoli to Pompeii. Otho would have known the best tutors and enjoyed the best seats at the theatre, the games and the great circus. After his brief stint in the army he would go on to enter the Senate and if he kept his nose clean he could look forward to a lucrative posting as governor of a province, or commander of a legion, in due course. Cato felt a stab of envy at the easy path life granted to some, while others toiled hard for their meagre rewards.
Cato bitterly tried to thrust his envy aside. Very well, he would go to the tribune’s damn dinner. But he would be formal and curt and be such a dour guest that they would be delighted to be relieved of his presence and never seek to repeat the experience. He smiled with satisfaction at the thought as he thrust a strigil and small pot of oil into a haversack and left his quarters to join Macro at the bathhouse complex that served the officers and men of the garrison at Viroconium.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ Macro asked as they made their way through the vicus. Beneath a crescent moon the evening air was thick with the cries of traders and small parties of boisterous off-duty soldiers in search of a drink, dice games and whorehouses. Many of the small towns that grew up close to army fortresses were ramshackle affairs of filthy winding streets, but the settlement at Viroconium had been laid out in a far more ordered fashion from the outset on the orders of General Ostorius. The streets were straight, wide and drained, and many of the temporary structures had been replaced by timber-framed buildings built on stone foundations. There was even a small basilica at the heart of the settlement where a council met to order the affairs of the inhabitants. Cato had been musing over the speed with which Rome stamped its mark on newly conquered territories and so missed his friend’s question.
‘Sorry? What was that?’
‘This bloody invitation from the tribune? What does he really want with us?’
‘A chance to get better acquainted, I expect. It’s his first independent command. Otho wants to make a decent job of it.’
Macro had been to the barber’s stall at the baths and was clean-shaven. His dark curly hair had been neatly cropped and his tunic was freshly laundered. Every so often Macro reached up to the neckline of his tunic and scratched his skin, as if its freshly cleaned state was the source of an itch. He still smelled of the aromatic oils the barber had massaged into his jowls after the shave.
‘So we have to get all tarted up to make a good impression?’
Cato had undergone similar treatment but was more comfortable with his appearance. He shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
Macro cast a longing look into the dark entrance of a brothel as they passed. A small queue of soldiers leaned against the wall sharing a wineskin. A thickset woman with red-tinged cheeks and long lank hair emerged from the doorway, lifted the hem of her short tunic and curled a finger suggestively at the nearest soldier. He instantly hurried inside with her. Macro sniffed at the scent on his skin.
‘I’ll put it to good use on the way back. Last chance before we head up into barbarian territory.’
‘I think you will find they are called the Brigantes.’
‘Don’t care what they’re called, as long as they behave and hand that bastard Caratacus back to us.’
Cato turned to him and shook his head. ‘And there was I thinking that this was essentially a diplomatic mission.’
‘Waste of time. Better to just put the stick about and let ’em know who is in charge. That’s my kind of diplomacy.’
‘Clearly.’
They reached the edge of the settlement and could just pick out the walled villa a short distance down the road against the dark greys of the surrounding landscape. The wool merchant must have made a small fortune from his trade with the army, Cato thought, as he took in the proportions of the building. As they approached he could make out the gatehouse leading into a courtyard while the main building rose up beyond with what looked like a tiled roof, though it must be wooden shingles, Cato realised. It would be a while yet before tiles reached Viroconium.
A section of legionaries from the Ninth were guarding the entrance and stood to as the two officers emerged from the darkness. The optio looked them over and saluted.
‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro,’ Cato announced. ‘Here to see the tribune.’
‘You’re expected, sir. The other guests have already arrived. If you’ll follow me?’
The optio turned and led the way through the arch. By the dim light of the moon Cato saw that the courtyard followed the familiar style of covered sides given over to stables and stores. Ahead lay the main building. The door was open and the interior was illuminated by lamps whose glow bled out across the cobbles of the courtyard. They followed the optio into the house and saw that it gave out on to an enclosed garden. Lamps hung from brackets fixed to the wooden frame of the house. A shallow colonnade ran around the garden, providing shelter for the walkway in front of the living rooms, kitchen, latrine and bedrooms. The garden itself was no more than ten paces across and the space was mostly taken up by the dining couches arranged around a low table. The wool merchant’s house was modest by Roman standards but palatial compared to the simple round huts of the island’s tribes. It also enjoyed a more peaceful setting than the cramped, noisy quarters available in the satellite forts clustered about the main fortress. Cato could see why Tribune Otho and his wife might prefer it.
‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro!’ the optio
announced.
Looking past him, Cato could see Horatius and the other officers on the side couches while the tribune and his wife occupied those at the head of the table. Otho looked up and smiled as he beckoned his guests over.
‘Ah! I was wondering if something had happened to you two!’
Mindful of his earlier decision to play the taciturn professional, Cato did not return the smile and simply bowed his head slightly before he responded. ‘The centurion and I had to finish our preparations for the march, sir.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ Otho indicated the bench to his left where two spaces were left. Horatius lay opposite, the more privileged position, according to his superior rank. When they had taken their places, Otho indicated the two centurions lying beside Horatius. ‘In case you haven’t met, that’s Gaius Statillus and Marcus Polemus Acer, senior centurions of the Seventh and Eighth Cohorts of the Ninth Legion.’
Cato cast his eye over the centurions and instinctively assessed them. Statillus was perhaps fifty, and coming to the end of his enlistment. His hair was thin and watery blue eyes stared back from his weathered features. Acer was younger. Recently promoted, Cato guessed. His gaze flickered constantly round the table as if he was not convinced he belonged with such exotic company. He was the bigger of the two, built like a champion secutor with light hair and broad features that betrayed his Celtic origins.
Otho settled back on his couch and reached for a silver goblet. ‘That should complete the introductions.’
His wife reached over and touched his arm. ‘Not quite, my dear. I don’t believe I know the delightful creature next to Prefect Cato.’
Macro gritted his teeth at her comment.
‘No?’ Otho smiled and raised her hand to kiss it. ‘That, my dear, is Centurion Macro, senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.’
‘So many numbers to remember!’ she protested. ‘How do you all cope? I’m sure I would not know where to begin were I a soldier. All these ranks, names, numbers and detachments.’
Horatius and the other centurions smiled politely but Cato kept his expression neutral as Poppaea shifted her position to address him directly.
‘Ah yes, I have it now. Centurion Macro’s men, and those rough-looking horsemen you command, are in charge of the army’s luggage. Is that not so, Prefect?’
‘Baggage, my lady,’ Cato corrected her flatly. ‘I command the baggage train escort.’
She tilted her head to one side and smiled briefly, revealing neat white teeth that looked sharp. Like her tongue, Cato mused as she continued. ‘It does not sound like a particularly onerous or significant duty, and yet you were the toast of the army for your actions on the day of the battle.’
‘And rightly so!’ Centurion Acer interrupted, raising his cup to Cato. ‘A bloody fine piece of work, sir. Pulled our arses out of the fire that day and no mistake.’
‘Such a kind endorsement of your comrade,’ Poppaea said sweetly. ‘May I continue? You are quite right, the prefect seems to have covered himself in glory that day. Though the moment passed exceedingly quickly with the escape of Caratacus. You see, yet another detail of the military world that a simple civilian finds bewildering. One moment you are a hero, the next, some sort of miscreant. What is one to make of that?’
Cato was silent a moment, brimming with bitter self-justification, and then he forced the feelings aside and concentrated his efforts on maintaining his indifferent appearance. ‘It’s the way of the army, my lady. All a soldier can do is serve to the best of his ability and take the bad along with the good.’
She gave him a level look. ‘So stoical, and so typical of the professional soldiers I have encountered while in Britannia. And yet you are too young a prefect to come from such a background. I assume you have breeding.’
‘If by that you infer a wealthy background, then no.’
‘I inferred nothing as crass as wealth. I spoke of breeding.’
‘I have none of that either. I rose through the ranks.’
‘Then you must have proved yourself a consummate soldier to have risen so swiftly, nay?’
Cato shrugged diffidently but did not reply.
Poppaea shifted her gaze back to Macro. ‘And what of you, Centurion? What is your background?’
Macro sniffed and cuffed his nose. ‘Joined up as a lad. Took eight years to reach the rank of optio, then two more years before I got the promotion to the centurionate. That’s when I met the prefect. He served as my optio back then.’
Her neatly plucked eyebrows lifted a little in surprise. ‘Prefect Cato was your subordinate? And how do you feel about that now?’
‘How do I feel?’ Macro shifted and puffed his cheeks. ‘Prefect Cato is my commanding officer, Lady Poppaea. I obey his orders. That’s how I feel about it.’
She stared at him for a moment and let out a brief laugh before reaching for her goblet and taking a delicate sip. ‘I can see we are in for an evening of the most animating conversation.’
Otho shot her a concerned look and then raised his goblet. ‘A toast, gentlemen. To the successful pursuit and apprehension of the fugitive, Caratacus. And the peace and prosperity that will ensue.’
The other officers dutifully raised their cups and did their best to repeat the lengthy toast, mumbling through the final phrase. Poppaea looked on with wry amusement as her husband gestured to the slave standing silently to one side. ‘You may bring the first course now.’
‘Yes, master.’ The slave bowed and disappeared through a door beneath the colonnade.
Macro looked around the garden and nodded. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, sir.’
‘Nice? I suppose so. In a clean, basic sort of way. Of course, it’s a seller’s market out here on the frontier of the empire. The rent I pay for this hovel would cover a modest palace back in Rome. But it’s a small price to pay for the comfort and privacy that it affords.’
‘Hovel?’ Macro muttered under his breath.
Poppaea wafted a hand around the garden. ‘It’ll be a shame for us to swap this for the hardship of sleeping in a tent for the next month or some, but duty calls.’
Cato coughed. ‘Do you intend your wife to accompany us to Brigantia, sir?’
‘Of course. My dear Poppaea and I cannot bear to be parted from one another. Besides, it’s a diplomatic mission. The presence of my wife will demonstrate our peaceful intent. I’m sure that Queen Cartimandua would appreciate some female company during the course of our negotiations.’
Macro was not so sure. He recalled his brief dalliance with a young Iceni woman during his first tour in Britannia. Boudica had been a spirited individual who enjoyed a drink and other earthy pursuits. He did not think there were many interests she would share with this brittle-looking aristocrat. Perhaps Cartimandua was different, but he doubted it.
‘Is that wise, sir?’ asked Cato. ‘It may be a diplomatic mission but there is a good chance it might turn into a military action. In which case Lady Poppaea would be in grave danger.’
‘Oh, I very much doubt it will come to that,’ Otho responded confidently. ‘It will be Queen Cartimandua who is in grave danger if she fails to comply with our demands. If she is rash enough to side with Caratacus she will be swept away with the other malcontents when Legate Quintatus brings the rest of the army up. Frankly, I think she will know the game is up the moment my column arrives. But I trust we can keep things on a civil basis, and in that I am sure my wife can assist with smoothing things over between Rome and those benighted barbarians. Isn’t that so, my love?’
‘I shall play my part. That is my duty.’
‘There!’ Otho smiled at Cato. ‘You see?’
Cato shrugged.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the first course, a large shallow dish carried by the slave. He set it down on the table and a
rich aroma wafted over the guests.
‘Strips of mutton, quick fried with a garum and vinegar glaze,’ Poppaea explained. ‘To a recipe passed on to our cook from that of Agrippina.’
The slave served neatly presented portions on small silver platters, handing the first to the hosts before the other officers. As soon as Otho began eating, the others joined in with gusto, using their knife points to pick up the strips of meat and popping them into their mouths. Macro quickly finished and gestured to the slave for another helping, while Cato proceeded at a more sedate pace, refusing to show that he found the flavour quite delicious.
‘Damn fine dish!’ Horatius enthused, reaching out for more. The other centurions nodded heartily. Cato noted that Statillus was making hard work of it and then, as his lips parted, he understood the reason why. The man had no teeth. Cato realised the veteran must be older than he had first thought.
‘It’s simple enough,’ said Poppaea. ‘Sadly our cook was only able to bring one chest of spices and other ingredients with him. And there’s precious little variety of meat and fruit available in this wretched island. So we make do. It is a little more sophisticated than the fare of the common legionary, I imagine.’
‘It’s bloody delicious,’ Macro commented, mouth still half full.
Poppaea flashed him a smile before turning to Cato. ‘And what do you think, Prefect Cato?’
He chewed and swallowed and licked his lips before replying, ‘Salty.’
‘Salty?’ She frowned, but before she could respond, Otho clapped his hands to attract the attention of the slave and indicated that the first course should be removed.
Brothers in Blood Page 24
