Invictus

by Simon Scarrow

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cato felt his chest tighten, as if there was an iron band around his ribs, as he stared expressionlessly at the man who had been his wife’s lover. For an instant he allowed himself a sliver of doubt. There could be two men of the same name. But the new arrival’s unsettled behaviour betrayed him. His gaze could only bear to meet Cato’s for an instant before shifting away and his fingers twitched until he could stand it no longer and clasped his hands behind his back and made himself stand erect, shoulders back.

  Macro could not help looking bemused by the man’s reaction upon entering the tent. He tried to catch Cato’s eye. But the latter’s stare was unwavering.

  ‘Tribune Cristus . . .’ Cato began as calmly as he could. His heart was beating fast, and the rage that had come and gone in waves since he had discovered Julia’s infidelity rushed back like a violent storm. The urge to draw his sword and cut the tribune to pieces tormented him. Yet the long years of army service had taught him to master his outward appearance and to tame his inner turmoil. Even so, he had to clear his throat and begin again.

  ‘Tribune Cristus, you look perturbed. What is the matter with you?’

  Cristus chewed his bottom lip and tried to master his surprise and fear. ‘I, I, er, wasn’t expecting to find the cohort placed under a new commander, sir. That’s all.’

  ‘Not quite all.’ Cato slowly paced across the tent towards the tribune and stopped a sword’s length away, looking him over closely. Cristus’ agitation increased as Cato let him suffer in silence for a moment, and then resumed. ‘I was informed that you were not in camp when I arrived to take command. Why was that?’

  ‘I was in Tarraco, sir.’

  ‘Doing what, exactly?’

  ‘Buying illustrating materials, sir. From the forum.’

  ‘Illustrating materials?’ Macro leaned forward and rested his hairy forearms on the table. ‘What the fuck for?’

  Cristus glanced at the centurion, but made no comment about being interrogated by an officer of inferior rank. ‘I was interested in designing things before I became a tribune. I’ve always had something of a flair for that, but I could never get enough commissions to make a decent living out of it. My father was a friend of a friend of one of the Emperor’s advisers who pulled a few strings to land me the post of staff tribune. It gave me independent means to live. But I still pursued my original interest. Or did until the cohort was sent to Tarraco.’

  Macro stared at him and then shook his head slowly. ‘Just what we need as we march to battle . . .’

  Cristus stiffened his back. ‘I’ve done my training, along with the rest of the cohort.’

  ‘Maybe, but when we go into battle against Iskerbeles and his mob, I’d feel more comfortable knowing that the man at my side wasn’t thinking about painting a portrait of the enemy, rather than sticking a sword in his guts.’

  ‘I’m not an artist. I told you, I like to design things.’

  ‘Things?’

  Cristus squirmed a little. ‘Carriages actually. It’s a passion of mine. I sketch them, and design my own.’

  ‘Carriages . . . Give me strength.’ Macro puffed intolerantly. ‘Sir, I think we’d be better off leaving this one here in Tarraco when we march. He’s going to be bugger-all use to us.’

  The curt dismissal finally drew a response from the tribune. ‘Just a moment, Centurion. I am a tribune and you will accord me the respect my superior rank deserves.’

  ‘I will respect those superiors who earn my respect, sir. The rest I will simply obey.’ Macro turned back to Cato. ‘Sir, what do you intend to do with this one?’

  Cato had only been half-listening to the exchange. He was more concerned with trying to understand how Julia’s affections could have been transferred to the unprepossessing individual standing before him. Then he noticed that the tribune’s jaw hung open slightly when he was not speaking, and the effect was to make him look simple-minded. How could Julia have loved this man? How could she have been prepared to give Cato up for this fool? She had occasionally said that she did not feel Cato’s intellectual equal and that he did not need her. Cato had always said that was not true, even if he thought it. Perhaps Julia had come to decide that she wanted a man who needed her more than she needed him . . .

  Cato quickly reflected on what Macro had just said and shook his head.

  ‘He comes with us. We’ll need every man who can carry a weapon. Creative types included. Since you are so adept with stylus and slate, Tribune Cristus, you will take charge of the headquarters staff. They answer to you, and you answer to me with responsibility for stores, strength returns and anything else that falls within that remit. Is that clear?’

  Cristus gave Cato a calculating look, as if to see if there was any clear sign that his new commander was aware of the affair with his wife. Cato returned the scrutiny flatly and it was the tribune who looked away first.

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s clear.’

  ‘Good.’ Cato indicated the entrance to the tent. ‘You can wait outside for Optio Metellus to return from Tarraco. I have sent him to requisition transport carts and supplies. When he returns you are to draft an inventory. On the march route, it will be your job to ensure that the supplies are replenished at every opportunity. I don’t want us running low when we enter territory controlled by the enemy and foraging becomes difficult. You do your job and I will do my best to overlook the fact that you are no more a soldier than my dead wife ever was.’

  Cristus started slightly at the mention of Julia, but saluted and withdrew from the tent. Cato stared at the tent flaps swinging a moment before they were still. He took a deep, calming breath, and let it go in a long, drawn-out sigh.

  ‘You really don’t like that one,’ Macro observed. ‘Beyond the fact that he’s a useless deadweight. That was pretty clear. The reason?’

  Cato shot him a cold look. ‘The man is a fop. He has no place in the army. But I’ll give him a chance to prove his mettle. And if he has to die, then let him do it like a man at least.’

  His words were delivered more harshly than intended, laden with all the hurt and hate that Cato felt for Cristus and his unfaithful wife as they were, and Macro’s brows rose slightly in surprise.

  ‘Fair enough. Whatever your reasons for taking him with us, that’s up to you. I won’t ask.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Cato yawned and stretched his arms out and clenched his fists to relieve the tension. When he had recomposed himself, he continued. ‘The tribune aside, what do you make of our comrades?’

  Macro thought briefly. ‘A mixed lot. Secundus, Placinus and Musa seem solid and reliable. Porcino shows some willing, but he’s woefully lacking in experience and confidence. He’ll need watching. As for Petillius . . . The man’s in love with himself, that’s clear. And he’ll indulge that love when he has no woman nearby to indulge it for him. I’ve seen the type before.’ Macro hesitated. ‘I could be wrong. We’ll know soon enough. And that leaves that shit, Pulcher. Frankly, I’d rather we took him for the kind of stroll where he doesn’t come back. But now that the others have seen that there’s unfinished business between us it wouldn’t take a Socrates to work out that his disappearance would be down to foul play. Justice more like, but I doubt that Vitellius would see it that way. And if Vitellius really is out to do us in one way or another it would make no sense to gift him an excuse.’

  Cato could not help a wry laugh. ‘By the Gods, Macro, you have it in one! I couldn’t have put it any better. I wish that we had a better selection of officers to rely on, but they’ll have a chance to prove themselves worthy of the rank before this is all over, or die in the attempt.’ Cato sat down again. ‘I’m tired. Best that we get some rest before we set off. Have a word with the clerks and get them to bring us some bedrolls and blankets. Food and wine too.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro eased himself ont
o his feet and left Cato alone in the tent.

  Cato folded his arms and leaned forward to rest his head. For a brief moment he closed his eyes and at once felt an overwhelming temptation to let go and slip into a deep sleep. Before that was possible an image of Cristus embracing Julia ripped through his thoughts. Why had she betrayed him? And why choose Cristus? What did he give Julia that Cato had not been able to? All he had ever wanted was to care for Julia, make certain that she wanted for nothing and grow old with her. And he had been sure that she felt the same. Only now it was all revealed to be a lie. And he was torn between hatred of her, and love for her, and grief at her death.

  For Cristus he felt only rage, twisting like a blade deep in his guts. As yet he had no idea why he had not gone along with Macro’s suggestion to leave Cristus behind. The man was useless. Soft and foolish-looking. He had no place in an army marching to war. Well, he would suffer, along with Cato and the rest of the men, as they marched across the heated plains of the province. And if it came to a fight, then he would shed his blood with theirs. Why should he live if Cato, Macro and the other men were to die? He deserved to die above all men, for the crime of loving Julia, and being loved by her. That was the truth of it, Cato realised. He had determined to keep Cristus close in order to punish the man.

  This was the agony of jealousy, he realised. Zeno would not be proud of him, he mused. It seemed that he was neither much of an epicurean nor a stoic after all. He was as human as the rest of them, for all his learning and professed adherence to philosophical tradition. He was weak, and he despised himself for it.

  His head was aching and once again Cato closed his eyes and this time tried not to think about anything. And so he was fast asleep, and snoring, when Macro entered the tent with the bedrolls and blankets bundled in his arms. He stopped to smile fondly at the prefect, then set his burdens down on the ground to one side of the tent. Spreading out the bedrolls, he put one of the blankets down for himself and gently arranged the other across Cato before he patted his friend lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Sleep, lad. You’ll need it in the days to come. And we’ll all need you to be at your best . . . So sleep.’

  Optio Metellus had done a good job, Cato decided as he inspected the carts in the thin light of the pre-dawn. The sun was still below the just discernible curve of the horizon out to sea and a thin band of pink separated the dark grey of the sea and the sky. The mules were well-fed, tough-looking beasts and the carts were sturdily constructed and carefully packed with large jars, sacks of grain and cured legs of pork. There was enough to feed the men for ten days, Cato calculated. As long as the carts were replenished they should be able to hold out at the mine until Vitellius and the main column arrived. Assuming it was possible to defend the mine, Cato reflected. That could only be determined when they reached Argentium.

  He nodded with satisfaction and strode to the front of the small convoy where Metellus and the men assigned as drovers waited. A short distance to one side stood Centurion Pulcher, with Tribune Cristus, both watching him warily.

  ‘Well done, Optio. I trust you did not have to cause too much trouble in getting this together.’

  Metellus grinned. ‘Oh, not much trouble at all, sir. Not after I knocked a few heads together to encourage the rest. Then they were as meek as lambs and only too willing to do their patriotic duty, bless ’em.’

  ‘Ha!’ Cato returned the grin before his expression became serious and he lowered his voice. ‘Centurion Pulcher is in command of the baggage train, but if he gives you or your men cause to complain, then speak to me or Centurion Macro. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And, er, what about the tribune?’

  ‘Him?’ Cato turned to look at the man sourly. ‘See that he keeps out of the way and tends to his record keeping.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato returned the optio’s salute and made his way down the column of Praetorians standing at ease along the full length of the camp’s main thoroughfare. Each man carried only a rolled cloak in addition to his oval shield and spear. Canteens, worn over the shoulder, completed their marching rig. On either side their tents lay empty and their meagre piles of personal effects and spare kit lay outside each tent, ready to be collected and placed in the storerooms of the Tarraco garrison. There had been some grumbling about that, Macro had informed him. The Praetorians had little faith in the honesty of the auxiliary troops of the garrison. And probably with good cause, Cato conceded. Some of their property was bound to be filched between the camp and the city.

  The tents, and the camp, were left, as they were to be occupied by one of the cohorts sailing to reach the province. Normally, the tents would be struck and loaded onto carts, and the camp demolished before the cohort set off. But there was no time to spare for that. And not much point, given that it would spare the next cohort several hours of back-breaking labour. That too would be something the men grumbled about, Cato smiled to himself. No soldier liked the idea of sweating over hard work when others would reap the benefits.

  At the head of the column rose the six standards of the colour party. Each carried only one battle honour, for the victory they had shared with the legions in Britannia, and Cato wondered if they would live to see another decoration for the part they played in defeating the rebels around Asturica. The small mounted contingent, under the command of Optio Metellus, waited to one side, the men holding the bridles while their mounts lifted their soft muzzles and twitched their ears expectantly. One of the riders held a spare horse for the prefect. Macro and the other five centurions were talking quietly between the standards and the open gate of the camp. Cimber stood alone to one side, looking utterly miserable. As they saw the prefect approaching they stood stiffly and saluted.

  ‘All ready then, sir?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Yes. Gentlemen, you may join your units.’

  The five centurions strode off, vine canes in hand, while Cato swung up into his saddle. Macro nodded to the optio in charge of the men selected for their riding skills.

  ‘Scouting contingent!’ barked Metellus. ‘Mount!’

  There was a deal of whinnying and jostling of horseflesh before the Praetorians were comfortably in the saddles, reins in hand. As the sounds died away Cato turned to look back down the length of the column. Five hundred men. All that could be spared to secure the mine at Argentium, save the bullion convoy, and prevent the uprising spilling over into a bloody widespread rebellion. Beyond the far rampart of the marching camp, far out to sea, the rising sun flared into sight, with a gleam like distant fire. Cato raised his arm.

  ‘Second Praetorian Cohort . . . Advance!’

  He swept his arm down towards the gate and tapped in his heels. His horse walked on, with Macro beside him, and behind tramped the guardsmen, out of the camp and up the road that led through the rose-tipped hills into the heart of the province.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The small column of Praetorians kept up a steady pace as they followed the road through the hills and up onto the rolling plateau four days’ march from Tarraco. They passed sprawling farming estates boasting olive trees, cereal crops and vineyards and marched through forests of oak and pine and at first the men thrilled to the sight of plentiful wild boar and deer amid the trees. But there was no time to stop and hunt as the centurions and optios kept them moving, the rumble of boots and wagon wheels filling their ears and stirring dust into the air so that it swirled about the main body of the column and the carts at the rear. At first the cohort marched in good spirits, the men talking, joking and occasionally joining in a song, especially if it was ribald. Macro was happy to indulge their cheeriness as he strode at the head of the leading century. As senior centurion of the cohort he was expected to set the example for the men to follow, and sang along lustily, if not altogether tunefully.

  A short distance ahead of the infantry Cato rode in front of the mounted contingent,
swaying easily from side to side in his saddle as he gazed at the surrounding landscape and let his thoughts wander from time to time. He was mostly preoccupied by the prospect of what was awaiting them in the mountainous mining region around Asturica. It was imperative that they reached the mine as soon as possible, but the corollary of that was that they would need to hold out for longer before Vitellius and the main column arrived. Cato imagined himself in Iskerbeles’ place. The moment the enemy was alerted to the presence of the Praetorian cohort they would be sure to close with the Romans and attempt to destroy them. It would be too good an opportunity to miss. The annihilation of an elite unit of the Roman army would win Iskerbeles considerable acclaim. Men would flock to join his standard and fight against the empire, whose rule many in the region regarded as harsh and ruthless.

  Cato could hardly blame them. Rome imposed one burden after another on the shoulders of the people they conquered. Even if they escaped the appropriation of their land to add to the extensive portfolio of the imperial estate, they might well have a veterans’ colony founded close by. The discharged legionaries were in the habit of showing scant regard for the land, property or women of their native neighbours. Worse still, they knew full well that the Emperor would overlook all but the gravest of their transgressions. So, in effect, they were licensed to outrage the locals with impunity. Nor were these the only troubles besetting those living under the Roman yoke. They also had to deal with rapacious tax-collectors, and the money-lenders who often followed in their wake, ready to loan them the gold and silver they needed to pay their taxes at crippling rates of interest. For those that could not repay the loans the outcome was even greater poverty, then ruin and slavery. This was often the price paid by those who lived outside the thriving towns and cities of the empire.