The Burning Stone

by Jack Whyte

  Cato set down his mug. “What would you offer me?”

  “Work…to suit your capabilities. This ale is very good, considering the place is a pigsty.”

  A twitch of the mouth that might have been the start of a smile from Cato. “Which capabilities are you talking about?”

  “All of them. Three months out of service, you say?” Endor drank again from his mug, then rested the butt of it against the arm folded across his chest. “They’ll all still be sharp.”

  “You already have men working for you,” Cato said. “Dragging their knuckles all around you. You want me to be one of those?”

  Endor did smile then, a cold, humourless acknowledgment. “In your case, I was thinking more about your working with me. There’s no limit to the pool of people willing to work for me. I throw coins at them and they do anything I want them to. But from time to time I need to be able to rely on people—associates—who can think…Think for themselves, and on my behalf.”

  “And why do you assume I could be one of those?”

  “You commanded a cohort. You’re a pilus prior, and I’ve never known one of those to be stupid or incompetent.”

  Cato inclined his head slightly, watching the man across from him through narrowed eyes, trying to read his mind through his expression, but Endor was at least as good at this as he was, and simply sat staring back at him, betraying nothing.

  Finally Cato nodded. “So be it, then. Tell me who you are and what you do, and what kind of work you have at your disposal that needs the kind of man you describe.” He paused, then added, “And tell me, too, while you’re at it, what makes you think I might be interested in working for anyone, so soon after getting out of harness.”

  “Hmm.” The grunt might have been one of amusement. “Last first,” Endor said. “Same answer as last time. Because of who and what you were. You’ve been out three months. Probably have enough money to remove you from any need to work. But after three months of doing nothing useful, having nothing you really need to do and no objectives to achieve, I believe you might have had your fill of being bored, and so might find a challenge appealing.”

  Cato was feeling better with every moment that passed. Fate had provided its own solution, and all he had to do now was agree to go along with Endor’s proposal and then wait for a suitable time to kill the man. He began to nod in agreement, then realized he had no need. The Basilisk, convinced that his own belief was all-powerful and that Cato’s agreement could therefore be taken for granted, had already moved on without waiting for a response.

  “My name is Janus Drusus Carbo. I’m a procurator.” He pronounced the word in the formal, Latin manner, and Cato jumped on it, hard.

  “A procurator?” His tone was skeptical. “Are you telling me you’re an imperial official?”

  Not even Endor had the gall to attempt that kind of effrontery. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “A private procurator. For” —he hesitated—“powerful interests.”

  “You mean you procure things for private citizens who pay you well.”

  It was not a question, and Endor merely nodded. “Something of that nature.”

  Cato sniffed and kept his tone casual, mildly and naturally curious, sensing it might be dangerous to show no reaction at all to such information. “Am I likely to know any of these people?”

  “I doubt it, but you might,” came the answer. “How long have you been in the north, in Eboracum?”

  Cato shrugged. “Most of my life, since I was sixteen. Twenty-five years.” That was a lie. He had been granted five years’ remission, which meant he was thirty-five not forty-one, but the Basilisk had no way of knowing that.

  “And have you travelled much in that time, to the south?”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “Then it’s unlikely you’d know of these people or even their names. Most of them, my best clients, live in the south, by Glevum and Aquae Sulis, in the villa country there.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Cato said, knowing the area was home to the wealthiest Romans in Britannia. “Never been there, though.” He took a drink of his ale. “So what do you procure for these people, then? And what would you expect me to do for them?”

  “For them, nothing. You would work for me. For me and with me, for a monthly stipend augmented with whatever additional money you might need for costs incurred in doing your work.”

  “I see. And what kinds of things would I be required to do, working for and with you?”

  “Whatever I need you to do in order to meet the needs of my clients.”

  “And that would be what?” Cato shrugged, seeing the other man’s face harden at his persistence, and held up his hands placatingly. “Look, Master Carbo, I don’t want to offend you, but I really need to know what this involves. You and I have never met before, and yet here you are offering to employ me, with no knowledge of who I am and absolutely no way of knowing whether or not I have lied to you. That makes me wonder what I might be agreeing to, if I accept. I am not saying no, but until I understand your offer, I’m not rushing to accept it. I’m not opposed to being a mercenary, if that’s what you need, but you’ve said nothing about soldiering, and for all I know you might be hiring me to do things I have no wish to do. You might want me to be a thief, or to kill or torture people, or to supervise other people doing that kind of thing. If that’s even close to being true, I’m not interested. I’ve lived this long without debasing myself, and I’m quite happy to continue the same way.”

  Endor picked up his mug and drank slowly, gazing into the middle distance with a thoughtful scowl on his face. He then replaced the vessel on the tabletop and looked Cato straight in the eye.

  “I won’t ask you to do anything like that,” he said, and though Cato knew him to be a consummate liar, he found himself believing the man. “What I said to you at first is absolutely true,” Endor continued. “I need a trustworthy associate. Someone I can rely on completely to do what I tell him to do and who will know when and how to do anything unforeseen that needs to be done when I am not around. I had such a man, for years, but he died last year and I have found no one yet who could replace him.”

  “What was his name?” Cato knew exactly who the other meant. Melchior Ritka had been Endor’s most faithful follower for as long as Cato’s people had been keeping records on the Basilisk, and his death from a lingering illness had been cause for celebration. Now he was curious to know how truthful Endor might be.

  A tiny frown appeared between the other man’s brows. “His name was Ritka, but why would you ask me that?”

  Cato shrugged, flapped a hand. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “It simply came into my head and I asked. How did he die?”

  Endor grunted, and for a moment his attention went elsewhere, losing its sharpness as he looked absently into space. “Some kind of sickness took him,” he said eventually. “The medics said he was eaten from inside. They had a name for what it was but I can’t remember it. He simply grew sick and died, that’s all I know. One day he was as he had always been, and then he started to lose weight and he was dead within months, shrunken to skin and bones.”

  Cato said nothing, simply twisting his mouth into a grimace of rueful understanding, but he was surprised by the evident sincerity of Endor’s regret over the loss of his man. Endor and Ritka had been together for many years, but they had been very much master and man, legate and legionary.

  “I never saw anything like it,” Endor said, shaking his head with that empty, unfocused look still in his eyes. “And like you, with years in the legions, I’ve seen a lot of men die. But this was—different—starting so slowly and then moving so quickly once it began.”

  Cato nodded. “I know,” he said. “My old man died like that. It’s frightening to watch, seeing a person you know well simply fading away from day to day. We talk a lot about death in battle, but that’s another thing altogether. That’s a quick death even if it’s sometimes messy and painful. But even a septic belly wound will take
you out in days. To die in bed of sickness, though, and in agony, over months and years, that is truly terrifying…You say your man died a year ago?”

  Endor nodded.

  “Were you there? When he died?”

  The other man cleared his throat. “No. But I’d seen him three days before. Barely knew him.”

  “Did he know you?”

  “Don’t know. He wasn’t conscious at the time.”

  “And you had no one who could take over what he did?”

  “I haven’t found anyone yet, no.”

  Cato had been long enough with the legions to have grown aware of all the proclivities, sexual and otherwise, of the gamut of men he dealt with every day, and had long since become adept at picking up indications of homosexual behaviour and activities. He felt none of those here.

  “Why do you think I could replace him?”

  “You strike me as being…capable.” Endor sniffed, and used the back of his hand to wipe a drop of moisture, probably ale, from the tip of his nose. “Can you read and write?”

  “Of course.”

  “And count? Keep records?”

  “Yes, but I loathe that kind of thing. It’s why the gods made scribes. One of the first things I learned after being promoted into having a tent of my own was how to use functionaries like that—records keepers and accountants.”

  The other man nodded. “Good. That’s the kind of thing I need more than anything else—someone to keep things in order. Once you have that set up, I’ll expect you to travel, too. Do you own a horse?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll need one. In fact you’ll need two.”

  “I don’t like horses. I’d rather walk.”

  Endor quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Can you ride, or is that why you don’t like horses?”

  “I can ride, but I think horses are a pain in the arse, in all ways. They’re expensive, inconvenient, and stupid. They need constant care in too many ways to count and they cause more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “None of which matters in the slightest and there are grooms to take care of them, just as there are scribes to take care of numbers. I’ll need you to travel fast and far at times, and that means riding. So buy yourself a pair of good mounts. I’ll give you the money.”

  Now it was Cato who raised his eyebrows. “So we’ve begun already? I haven’t agreed yet.”

  “No, we haven’t begun. But we might have made a beginning.”

  “And you expect total obedience.”

  Again came that expression that might almost have been a smile. “No more than you would owe to any employer. I do expect total, complete loyalty, though, and I won’t accept anything less.” He paused, then said, “When I leave here I’ll be returning to my home base in Camulodunum. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it. Colonia Victricensis.”

  “That’s the place. It’s where I live most of the time, and it’s where you’ll live from now on if you accept the position. I’ll pay you double what you made as a pilus prior, and I’ll reimburse you for anything you have to spend in looking after my affairs. Is that acceptable?”

  “Aye, it is. So…what now, then?” he asked his new employer. “What do you want me to do first?”

  In response Endor sat up straighter and loosened the drawstring of the soft, roomy-looking leather pouch that hung from his waist. He reached right inside it and brought out three much smaller bags, made of either chamois or kidskin. He hefted all three and replaced one in his pouch, then passed the other two across the table. As he did so, the door from the street swung open and a newcomer stepped into the room, where he was greeted loudly by Endor’s other men. The leader twisted in his seat to see what was happening, then turned back to Cato.

  “That’s my man,” he said. “The one I’ve been waiting for. As soon as I’m done with him, I’m leaving for wherever he indicates I should be looking next. I don’t know where that will be, or when I’ll get back to Camulodunum, but when I do, I’ll expect to find you there waiting for me. I have a house there, close outside the main city gate on the southern approach, so you’ll have no trouble finding me. Just ask for the Carbo house, and when you find it, speak to the major-domo. His name is Albus. Tell him who you are and that I said he is to show you to Ritka’s quarters. Once you’re there, wait for me. I shouldn’t be far behind you.” Cato nodded, wishing there was some way to ask the man where he might be going next or what he was looking for, then picked up the two surprisingly heavy little leather bags and weighed them in his palm. “And what is this for?”

  “Expenses. As I said, you’ll need two good mounts, and sooner rather than later, for you won’t be walking much, working for me. You’ll need decent reins and harness as well, but I doubt you’ll find anything suitable here, so you’ll probably have to go to Lindum to buy them…Back the way you came, straight up the road out there.”

  Cato nodded. “I know where it is.”

  “There’s a good livestock market there. I bought some horses there myself about eight years ago, and it won’t have changed much since then. You’ll find everything you need there—saddle bags, bridles, blankets, tents, ropes, and some decent weaponry. That sword you have is lethal, but you’ll need something with a greater reach against war hammers and long-shafted axes.” He nodded at the two small bags. “You should have more than you need there, by long odds. Don’t stint on gear. Buy the best you can find, of everything. I’ll see you in Camulodunum.” He stood up. “And don’t worry about having nothing to do if you have to wait for me after you arrive. By the time I get back I’ll have enough work to keep you busy for at least a year.”

  He stretched his arm out across the table and Cato shook with him, forearm to forearm, mildly pleased and completely astonished that he should be able to do so without showing any sign of the seething hatred of the man that bubbled in his breast.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A snuffling grunt and a rattle of harness in the stalls behind him announced that the horses were awake, but Marcus Cato paid no attention. He was staring across at the villa on the other side of the road, watching for signs of life. He had arrived in Camulodunum the previous evening, just in time to find the Carbo estate before it grew dark. He had been looking for a house, but the place turned out to be much more than that, an isolated villa, set back from the road outside the town walls. He could see, through the still-open gates in the gathering dusk, that the main residence was a substantial villa built in the classical Roman style. The enclosure surrounding it, bounded by a high stone wall, contained three large outbuildings, and everything appeared to be built of what he presumed to be local sandstone, since equally solid buildings on nearby properties were built from the same material. He had not been able to see much more without risking exposing himself, and he had no wish to announce his presence before he was ready to, so he had remained hidden in the gathering murk until he was sure he could move away without being seen. It had been threatening to rain heavily by the time he found the building he was now in—an empty but well-stocked and serviceable stable in a field facing the main gate to the Carbo place—and he had moved in quickly, avoiding being drenched when the heavens opened soon after.

  He had wakened in darkness a short time earlier when a sudden silence warned him that the rain had stopped. He had lain awake for a time, listening to the dripping of water and the rustling of mice in the thatching of the roof above his head, before his swollen bladder drove him outside to seek relief, and when he returned he had taken up the post he now occupied, leaning against the wall by an open window, watching the gates of the Carbo place emerge from the receding darkness. He broke his fast there, still watching, with a handful of road rations from the pouch at his waist, a chopped-up mixture of hazelnuts, walnuts, roasted grains, and dried fruits, mainly apples, figs, grapes, and apricots.

  He saw the first signs of activity at daybreak, and moved back slightly, away from the window’s brightness, as the gate swung open and three men emer
ged. They were on foot, muffled in foul-weather cloaks despite the increasing stretches of blue in the sky. Cato recognized them instantly as mercenaries: former soldiers, with that unmistakable air of competence and self-confident arrogance that set them apart from ordinary men. They were neither armoured nor obviously armed, but they reeked of aggression nonetheless. They closed the gate behind them and walked away in the direction of the city gates, half a mile along the road.

  The man he was looking for was Endor’s steward, Albus, who might or might not believe he was employed by a man named Janus Drusus Carbo. It was well past mid-morning by the time he emerged, and Cato knew it was him by the large empty basket he carried in the crook of his arm and the long black robe that covered him from neck to ankles. Endor was due to return at any time now, and so Albus, like any conscientious household steward, would be going to the weekly market to lay in a fresh supply of food for his master and his friends. He watched until the steward, too, vanished in the direction of the town, then he checked to make sure his horses had water and hay, made his way slowly across the road, and let himself in through the gates of the Carbo villa, where he paused, humming tunelessly to himself and looking around him.

  The compound appeared to be deserted, as he’d hoped; the buildings even felt empty, he thought, and so he moved directly to the main house, crossing the forecourt quickly and stepping noiselessly into the central atrium and through to the open reception area beyond that. From there he made his way through the house methodically. It was a typical villa, with the formal reception rooms located centrally on the ground floor and connected by a corridor at the back, and a pair of matching wings extending forward towards the gates fronting the property. The household baths and sleeping quarters were located in the wing to his left as he looked back towards the main entrance, the family’s on the upper floor, and the servants’ quarters directly underneath. The wing on his right held the workaday buildings of the house’s staff, beginning with the stables and livestock pens, farthest from the house, and progressing from there to dairies, dry-storage buildings, workshops of varying kinds and sizes, then narrow, whitewashed cold-storage rooms, laundry rooms, ovens and roasting pit facilities, and kitchens coming last, closest to the dining rooms. He found nothing unusual anywhere.