‘Your word of honour, eh?’ Ostorius sniffed. ‘There’s precious little of that commodity being traded in Rome these days.’ He leaned back on his stool and rubbed the small of his back. ‘I have little choice but to take your word for it. But I warn you, if I get one hint that either of you are here for any reason other than soldiering, I’ll throw you to the natives and let them deal with you. The Druids have some very interesting ways of disposing of their prisoners.’
‘We know that, sir. We’ve seen it with our own eyes,’ Cato responded, resisting the urge to shudder as he recalled his encounter with the Druids of the Dark Moon, back in the early days of his life in the legions when he served as a lowly optio in Macro’s century. Brief visions of the sacrificial victims and the wild appearance of the Druids flitted before his mind’s eye and Cato hurriedly thrust all thought of them aside.
‘And what about you, Prefect?’ The governor stared at Cato. ‘How much action have you seen? That scar on your face tells part of the story, but you seem a little young to have reached the rank you hold. Is your father a senator? Or some wealthy freedman, anxious for his family to have a leg up the path of honour? How old are you?’
‘I am in my twenty-sixth year, sir.’
‘Twenty-six? Younger than I thought. And who in your family has influenced your rapid promotion to prefect?’
Cato had long since accepted that he would be a victim of his humble birth throughout his life. No matter how good a soldier he was, no matter that his father-in-law was a senator, he would never be allowed to shake off the stigma of being the descendant of a freedman who had once been a slave at the imperial palace.
‘I have no family, sir. Other than my wife, Julia Sempronia, whom I married when I achieved my present rank. Her father is Senator Sempronius. But I have never approached him to seek preferment.’
‘Sempronius?’ The governor’s eyebrows lifted briefly. ‘I know him. He served as my tribune in the Eighth Legion. A good man. Hard-working and, more to the point, trustworthy. Well, if he’s prepared to let you wed and bed that precious daughter of his then you must have some quality. But do you have the experience to go with the rank of prefect, I wonder?’
‘I have had the honour of serving at the side of Centurion Macro ever since I joined the army, sir. My friend is inclined to be modest about his experience. Suffice to say that we have fought German tribesmen, Britons, pirates, Judaeans, Parthians and Numidians in our time. We know our trade.’
Ostorius nodded thoughtfully before he responded. ‘If that is true then you have a truly enviable record, Prefect Cato. I welcome such men. They are needed more than ever if we are to settle our affairs here in Britannia and turn this bloody wilderness into something that bears a passing resemblance to civilisation.’ He waved a hand. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’
Cato and Macro relaxed their postures as the governor collected his thoughts and then addressed them again. ‘It’s important that you are aware of the situation here. I don’t know what they told you back in Rome, but any notion that we are merely engaged in a mopping-up operation before the conquest of Britannia is complete is — how shall I put it? — a little wide of the mark. It’s been seven years since Emperor Claudius had his Triumph to celebrate the conquest. Seven long years. . In all that time we have pushed forward the frontier one painful step at a time. Even those tribes we have conquered, or made treaties with, can’t be trusted any further than you can comfortably spit a rat. Just two years back, when I was about to launch an offensive against the Silures and Ordovices, I gave the order for the Iceni to be disarmed to make sure our backs would be safe from treachery. A reasonable request to make of someone who calls themselves an ally, you might think. But those bastards rose up in rebellion the moment I led my army into the mountains. I had no choice but to abandon the campaign and turn back to deal with them. The fools had holed up in one of their ridiculous earthworks. They soon gave in after we broke into their defences. It was all over soon enough, but I was forced to spend the rest of the campaigning season constructing forts and roads across their territory to keep watch on them.’
Cato pursed his lips as he recalled the proud but touchy Iceni warrior who had acted as a guide when he and Macro had undertaken a mission deep into enemy territory for the commander of the army that had invaded Britannia. Cato could well imagine how Prasutagus might have been outraged by the order to hand over his weapons. The native tribes of the island were ruled by a warrior caste who would consider being disarmed the gravest insult to their prickly sense of pride. No wonder there had been an uprising.
‘While I dealt with the Iceni,’ Ostorius continued, ‘Caratacus took full advantage of the respite to win over the mountain tribes and become their warlord. By the time I could turn my attention back to him he had gathered an army large enough to defy me. Which is why I had to send a request to Rome for reinforcements. Now that I have them it is time to deal with Caratacus and his followers once and for all.’
Macro nodded approvingly, relishing the prospect of the coming campaign, and the chance to win some booty and possibly further promotion. Though he was reluctant to speak of his ambition, Macro, like many soldiers, dreamed of becoming the senior centurion of a legion, a rank that conferred many privileges and much honour on its holders. With it came social elevation to the equestrian class; only the senators were more exalted, apart from the Emperor, Macro conceded. If there was much fighting in the months ahead then the ranks of the centurionate were bound to be thinned out, as they always were, since they led from the front and suffered a disproportionate casualty rate as a result. If Macro survived, he might achieve command of the First Cohort of the legion one day, and after that the post of camp prefect, and take direct command of the legion if the legate was absent, or badly wounded or killed. The very thought of assuming such a responsibility filled him with hope.
The governor sighed and stroked the grey stubble on his chin. He seemed to shrink in on himself even further as he pondered the situation in silence for a while before speaking again.
‘I am getting too old for this. Once my period of office is over I shall retire.’ The corners of his lips lifted slightly. ‘I’ll return to my estate in Campania, tend to my vineyards and grow old with my wife. I have served Rome long enough, and well enough to earn that at least. . Still, there is work to be done!’ He forced himself to sit up and return his attention to the two officers standing before him. ‘Even though I am preparing for the new offensive, there is still some small hope for peace.’
‘Peace, sir?’ Cato puffed his cheeks. ‘With Caratacus? I doubt he will agree to any terms that Rome offers him.’
‘Oh? And how would you know, young man?’
‘Because I know the man, sir. I have met him and talked with him.’
There was a tense silence as the governor stared wide-eyed at Cato. Then he leaned forward. ‘How can this be true? Caratacus is consumed with hatred for Rome, and all those who serve in her legions. He rarely takes prisoners, and those that are captured are never again seen by their countrymen. So how is it that you were accorded such a dubious honour?’
The governor’s tone was scathing, but Cato ignored the slight when he replied. ‘I was captured by Caratacus, along with a handful of my comrades, in the second year of the invasion, sir. Once we reached the enemy’s camp, I was questioned by him.’
‘Why?’
‘He wanted to know more about Rome. About what motivated her soldiers. He also wanted to impress on me that the native tribes were proud and their warriors would never bow their heads to those who invade their lands. He vowed that they would rather die than accept the shame of submission to the Emperor.’
‘I see. And how is it that you lived to tell me this?’
‘I escaped, sir.’
‘You escaped from the enemy camp?’
Cato nodded.
‘Then the gods must favour you, Prefect Cato, for I have never heard of another Roman who can claim to have done the same.’
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Macro chuckled. ‘You don’t know the half of it, sir. Fortuna has a full-time job keeping the prefect out of trouble.’
Cato cocked an eyebrow at his friend. ‘You don’t do so badly yourself.’
The governor cleared his throat irritably. ‘I was talking about peace, gentlemen. It’s several years since you last encountered Caratacus. Years of continual warfare. Both sides have been worn down by the struggle and I suspect that our enemy’s appetite for conflict is as exhausted as mine. And there are those in Rome whose impatience with the situation in Britannia is growing by the day. Most notably, Pallas, one of the Emperor’s closest advisers. I don’t suppose you know the fellow.’
‘I know of him, sir,’ Cato replied cautiously, before the governor continued.
‘From what my friends in Rome say, Pallas is the rising star. He’s close to the Emperor’s new wife and her son, Nero, who may well be the next Emperor when Claudius dies. It seems that Pallas is all for pulling the army out of Britannia and abandoning the province. To be sure, it has been an expensive exercise and there’s precious little return on Rome’s investment of gold and men. Nor is there much prospect of deriving anything of lasting value from Britannia once we’ve exhausted our supply of prisoners of war for the slave market. The silver, tin and lead we were led to believe the island was awash with have proved to be far less in reality. As far as I understand it, there’s only two reasons why we still have boots on the ground. Firstly, some of the wealthiest men in Rome have lent rather large sums to the leaders of the tribes who have allied themselves to us. As it happens, Narcissus is amongst them, which is probably why he is so keen to have our armies remain here, at least until his loan has been repaid. The other reason is to do with simple pride. If Rome was seen to retreat from Britannia, it would be a humiliation for the Emperor, and our enemies in other frontier provinces would be bound to take heart from our failure here. Of course, with a change of regime, the next Emperor could justify a withdrawal in terms of correcting the mistakes of his predecessor. So, gentlemen, as you can see, Rome’s grip on Britannia is far from certain.’
The governor lowered his gaze and reflected a moment before he continued. ‘Many of our comrades have shed blood here, and many have fallen. If we are ordered to abandon Britannia then that sacrifice will have been for nothing. As I see it, I have two courses of action open to me, if the sacrifice of our comrades is to have had a purpose. I must utterly destroy the remaining tribes who oppose us here, or make a lasting peace with them. Either way, it must be done as swiftly as possible, so that there is peace in the province before a new Emperor ascends the throne. Only then will there be no excuse to pull out of Britannia. That is why I have invited the kings and chiefs of every tribe as far north as the Brigantes to a meeting to discuss terms to end the conflict. I have given my word that safe passage through our frontier will be granted to the tribes that have not already allied themselves to us.’
Macro hesitated before he asked the obvious question. ‘Do you intend to keep your word, sir?’
‘Of course.’
‘Even if Caratacus himself turns up? If we bag him, and the others who are causing us trouble, we could put an end to the native resistance as quick as boiled asparagus.’
Ostorius sighed and shook his head. ‘Or, we could outrage all the tribes and provide them with a cause to unite them against us — as swiftly as the culinary cliché you suggest. Perhaps it would be best if you kept such thoughts to yourself, Centurion. Leave the thinking to wiser heads, eh?’
Macro pressed his lips together and clenched his fists behind his back as he nodded curtly in response to the put-down. There was an uncomfortable silence before Cato turned the conversation in a different direction.
‘When and where is this meeting to take place, sir?’
‘In ten days’ time, at one of their sacred groves, some sixty miles west of Londinium. I will take a small bodyguard with me.’ He suddenly looked at Cato and smiled. ‘There’s no immediate rush for you two to join your units. In any case, it’s only a small diversion from the road to Glevum.’
‘Us?’ Cato could not hide his surprise. ‘But we’re soldiers, sir. Not diplomats. Besides, we hoped to join our new commands as soon as possible. If the coming campaign is going to be tough then I want to get to know the men I am leading as well as possible before we go into action.’
‘That won’t be necessary, if we can make peace with our enemies. And since you have met Caratacus before, you may prove to be useful during the negotiations. You’re both coming with me.’
‘Very well, sir. As you command. There’s just one thing. What makes you think the enemy will be prepared to make peace with us?’
Ostorius replied in a cold tone, ‘Because if they don’t, then I shall make it perfectly clear that before the year is out, every last village in every tribe that still opposes us will be razed to the ground, and those natives that are spared will all be sold into slavery. .’ The governor yawned. ‘And now I must take some rest. That will be all, gentlemen. I suggest you enjoy the few delights that Londinium has to offer while you can. I’m sure they’ll have some suggestions in the officers’ mess. Dismissed.’
Macro and Cato stood to attention, saluted and then turned to leave. Ostorius stared down at the piles of records and reports at his feet for a moment and then rose slowly from his stool and walked stiffly to the narrow campaign cot that had been set up by the wall. Easing himself down, he lay on his side, still wearing his boots, and pulled his cloak over his body as best as he could before he fell into a troubled sleep.
‘What do you make of him?’ Macro asked when they were a short distance down the corridor outside the governor’s office.
Cato glanced round and saw that there were no clerks near enough to overhear his remarks. ‘He’s at the end of his tether. Worn out by his duties. But I’ve heard that he’s as tough a commander as any.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Being tough does not make you immune to age. I know that well enough. I ain’t as fast in a fight as I used to be. Comes to us all in the end.’
Cato shot him a look. ‘Just don’t let it come to you while you’re fighting at my side. Last thing I need is some old codger guarding my flank when we get stuck into the enemy.’
‘That’s pretty ungrateful, given how I had to nursemaid you through your first battles when you were a green recruit.’ Macro laughed and shook his head. ‘I’d never have guessed then that you’d turn out to be quite the soldier.’
Cato smiled. ‘I learned from the best.’
‘Shut up, lad. You’ll make me cry.’ Macro chuckled. Then his expression hardened. ‘Seriously though. I have my doubts about our new general. The way he looks now, a few months in the field will kill him off. Right in the middle of the campaign.’
‘Not if he can negotiate a peace with Caratacus. Or at least with enough tribes to islolate him.’
‘What chance do you think there is that Caratacus wants peace?’
Cato thought back to the small hut in which he had been questioned by Caratacus. He remembered all too vividly the determined gleam in the Briton’s eyes when he said that he would die rather than bow to Rome.
‘If I was a betting man, I’d give you odds of a hundred to one against.’
‘And I’d say those are generous odds, my friend.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘We’re in for a tough time of it, Cato. Just for a change.’
‘Nothing we can do about it.’
‘Oh yes there is!’ Macro grinned. ‘You heard the man; there’s all the delights of Londinium awaiting us.’ His expression became a little anxious. ‘Just as long as you don’t let on to my mother, eh?’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Well, boys, what do you think of this place?’ Portia asked as they took a table close to the inn’s fireplace. It was the evening of their third day in Londinium and she was accompanied by her son and Cato. Just for a change it was raining again, a steady downpour angled by a stiff breeze that lashed the stree
ts of Londinium, pattered off the few tiled buildings and ran off the thatched roofs of the rest. The inn had once been a large barn before it had been extended with outbuildings that formed a modest courtyard in front of the entrance. A gate opened out on to a wide street that stretched from the quay on the Tamesis up to the site of the basilica complex. Despite the weather the street was busy and the rattle of cartwheels and the braying of mules could be clearly heard over the hiss of the rain.
Macro drew back the hood of his military cape and ran a quick glance over his surroundings. The inn was warm and dry and the floor was paved and liberally covered with straw to absorb the filth on the boots and sandals of those coming in from the street. There was a bar counter to one side, inset with large jars to hold the stew and heated wine that was served to customers. Several long tables with benches on either side filled most of the open space. Despite all the renovations, there was still a faint tang of horse sweat in the air, but Macro did not mind. There were worse odours.
‘Nice enough,’ he conceded. ‘Compared to most in this town.’
Cato nodded. While waiting for the order to join Ostorius and his staff on the ride to the meeting with the tribal leaders they had spent the time in the inns recommended by Decimus. There was little else of note to see. Despite her earlier misgivings about the discharged legionary, Portia had found his guidance useful as she inspected a number of inns and subtly sounded out their owners to discover who might be willing to sell their business to her.
Cato gestured to a serving girl behind the bar and she hurried over to take their order. She was young, barely into her teens, and was dumpy with a poor complexion but at least she spoke reasonable Latin.
‘Jar of wine for the three of us. What’s in the stew today?’
She shrugged. ‘Same as every day. Barley and onion gruel.’
Cato forced a smile. ‘Sounds fine. Three bowls then, with bread. I take it that’s fresh?’
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