Britannia, page 5
‘I’m sure you would.’
Quintatus froze for an instant and then continued in a quiet, menacing tone. ‘Prefect, before you adopt that sanctimonious posture, let me remind you of the realities. It is almost certain that Narcissus will be one of the first to be proscribed when Nero comes to power. I know Pallas well, and he will ensure that Narcissus’s followers are eliminated along with their master.’
‘I am not his follower.’
‘You may believe that, but it makes no difference to the way Pallas regards you. To him, you and Macro are merely details. He will not pause to consider the rights and wrongs of it. Your names will go down on his list, and in due course a warrant will be sent to Britannia authorising your arrest and execution. And that will be the end of it. Although not quite. You have a wife, I believe. If you are condemned as a traitor, then your estate will be confiscated. Your wife will be left with nothing. Think on that.’
He waited a moment to let his words sink in before continuing more reasonably. ‘However, if you were my men, then I would vouch for you. I would ensure that Pallas knows that you no longer serve Narcissus and that you can be relied on to be loyal to me, and by extension Pallas and Nero. Of course, it would strengthen your cause immeasurably if you went one step further . . .’
Cato understood the implication. ‘And feigned loyalty to Narcissus while helping you and Pallas destroy him?’
‘Why not? Like you said, the man is a reptile. He has put your life at risk. You owe him nothing.’
‘And I owe nothing to Pallas or you either, sir.’
The legate laughed. ‘You say that now. In a year, two years, things will be very different, and then you will be grateful for my protection. Not just for you and Macro, but for your family too.’
Cato felt his guts twist with anxiety. ‘Are you threatening my family?’
‘On the contrary, I am offering to protect them. Sadly, those we love and make sacrifices for tend to become our Achilles’ heel. If you want to control a man, then you must first control his fears. I take no pleasure in saying that. As I said, I am just pointing out the truth of the situation. Only you can choose what to do about it.’
‘There is no choice,’ Cato said quietly, fighting to control his temper. ‘Is there?’
Quintatus shook his head gently. ‘I am afraid not. If it comes as any comfort to you, my own family are under the scrutiny of Pallas. He came to me once, as I do to you, and made the same offer, and the same threat, and I have been condemned to do his bidding ever since. That was ten years ago. While Pallas was still slithering his way up the greasy pole.’
‘But you chose not to carry out his orders to ensure we were eliminated.’
‘You think so? I sent you to what I thought would be certain death at Bruccium. Yet you won through, against the odds. For that I admire you. It would be unfortunate to have you eliminated unnecessarily . . . Come now, Cato. You understand the situation. Surely you can see there is no alternative. No painless one, at least.’
‘I can see that,’ Cato admitted.
‘I understand your despondency. But you will get over it. The lack of any real choice will see to that. All that remains is to adapt and survive. After all, isn’t that what life teaches us?’
He waited for a reply, but Cato was too angry and bitter to trust himself with any remark. He wanted to refute the argument being put to him. He wanted desperately to stand on principle and defy the will of powerful men who decided the fates of others. He earnestly longed for a world in which honour, honesty and achievement counted for more than guile, avarice and ambition. Yet here was the proof that his longing was mere wishful thinking. Despite all he had accomplished, every battle he had fought in and won, every promotion he had earned, he lived on the whim of men like Narcissus and Pallas. They were not even proper Romans. Merely freedmen who had learned how to play their former master like a cheap flute. Worse still was Cato’s awareness of his vulnerability to their machinations thanks to his marriage to Julia. And their child too, in due course, would become an unwitting hostage in the deadly game of political intrigue that those inside the imperial palace played as instinctively as other men drew breath.
He sighed.
‘It is clear that you see reason,’ Quintatus observed sympathetically. ‘That is good. No man should choose to die for lack of reason. I will leave you now. You will need time to consider all that I have said, and accept it. We’ll talk again when you are ready. I thank you for the wine.’
He stood up, and Cato followed suit. The informality of a moment earlier vanished and the legate was once again his commanding officer, brusque and demanding.
‘Your replacements will reach the fort the day after next. When they arrive, you will march your column out immediately and make for Mediolanum. There you will join the Fourteenth Legion, a vexillation from the Twentieth and the other auxiliary cohorts assigned to the campaign. As I will be in overall command Valens will assume control of the Fourteenth while Camp Prefect Silanus takes charge of the Twentieth. It is my intention to commence the operation in five days’ time. We will enter the mountains, burn to the ground every enemy settlement we find, locate and destroy their forces and eliminate every living thing we encounter. Thereafter we shall do the same on Mona. By the time the new governor takes over the province, there will be order. There will be no one left to challenge Rome’s supremacy. More to the point, there will be no conquest for Ostorius’s replacement to claim credit for. That will belong to me, and those who follow me. Is that understood, Prefect Cato?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we have nothing more to say. I shall see you at Mediolanum.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Hmm, they don’t look up to much,’ Macro grumbled as he surveyed the small column of men entering the fort. ‘As miserable a bunch of miscreants as I have ever seen. Bloody Eighth Illyrian aren’t even fit to scrub out the latrines. The gods know what use they’ll be if the enemy have a go at us while you’re gone.’
He was sitting on a bench outside the headquarters block, his crutch propped against the wall beside him. It was late in the afternoon, and though the sky had been clear all day, the temperature was dropping and both men wore their thick military cloaks. Cato stood in the street that ran across the fort. He shaded his eyes as he made his own first assessment of the garrison’s replacements. The Illyrians were an unprepossessing bunch to be sure. They made no pretence of marching in step, and their armour was dull through lack of polish. Some of the men wore their helmets, but most had them hanging from their sides, or from their marching yokes. At the front of the column was a short, broad officer with flabby cheeks veined and tinged with red. Clearly a man who enjoyed being in his cups, thought Cato.
The prefect was in a foul mood. The replacements had been expected around midday, releasing the garrison to join the rest of the army gathering at Mediolanum, two days’ march away. The Thracians and the legionaries under his command had already carefully prepared their marching yokes, and the garrison’s small baggage train of carts stood in line behind the rampart ready for the mules to be hitched up. In fact, the animals had been placed in harness shortly before noon, ready for a swift departure. When there was no sign of the Illyrians at the appointed hour, nor the two hours that followed, Cato had reluctantly given orders for the mules to be returned to their stables, as well as the horses of his mounted contingent. The men of the garrison had been dismissed too, now that there was no prospect of setting out until the following morning.
Cato paced slowly into the middle of the street to await the auxiliary centurion as the rest of the new arrivals fell out of line and spilled into the open ground between the ramparts and the barracks blocks.
The centurion ambled forward and bowed his head in salute, then gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Fuck me,’ he wheezed. ‘That was some march, sir. Never thought we’d make it before nightfall.’
‘Stand up straight!’ Cato snapped. ‘And make your report properly, man.’
The centurion’s jaw sagged a little before he recovered his wits, grounding his vine cane and drawing back his shoulders. This had the unfortunate effect of pushing out his large stomach, so that Cato was reminded of an egg. The comparison became even more apt as the man’s cheeks seemed to fold into his neck, and the whole angled down to merge seamlessly with his rounded shoulders. Yes, Cato thought. An egg. A very fat egg.
The officer drew a deep breath and introduced himself. ‘Marcus Fortunus, Fifth Century, Eighth Illyrian Cohort, sir! On detachment. Here are my orders, sir.’ He felt inside his side bag and took out a slate. Cato flipped it open and swiftly scanned the comments etched into the wax. The orders followed the standard format, authorising Fortunus to take two centuries to the appointed installation to serve as a temporary garrison until notified of further instructions. They bore the name of the legate’s chief of staff and the impression of the legate’s ring seal. He snapped the slate shut and returned it to the officer.
‘Marcus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and commander of this fort. You’re late. We were expecting you around noon.’
‘The road wasn’t easy, sir, and the camp followers slowed us down.’
‘Camp followers?’ Cato looked past the man towards the gate. Sure enough, the last of the soldiers had entered, and now came an extended throng of women and children, together with a handful of mule-drawn carts.
‘Jupiter give me strength!’ Macro spat. ‘What the hell is all that?’
Fortunus glanced over his shoulder, not without difficulty. ‘Some of the men have families in the vicus at Viroconium. A few of the demobbed veterans are in business with some of my men. No more than a hundred or so in all. The fort has been constructed to accommodate a thousand men, so there’ll be plenty of room. Besides, it’s good for morale.’ He looked curiously at Macro, uncertain if he should defer to him. The latter was in a plain tunic and cloak and had no insignia to indicate his rank.
Macro quickly put an end to his dilemma. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I’ll be in command while the prefect is absent.’
‘In command? I was led to believe that I would be . . . sir.’
‘Well you’re not,’ said Cato. ‘Centurion Macro is recovering from a wound and is unable to lead his cohort in the coming campaign. He will be remaining here.’
‘More’s the bloody pity,’ Macro added through clenched teeth.
Fortunus shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But my orders are quite specific. I’ve been appointed to command the fort in your absence. The legate’s chief of staff said so.’ He patted his bag. ‘You saw for yourself.’
Cato gestured towards the dishevelled men of the Illyrian cohort and the last of the civilians trudging in through the gate. ‘I am not leaving a forward outpost in the hands of the man who commands that rabble. I have made my decision. If you have any problem with it, take the matter up with the legate himself.’
‘But . . . but he’s about to set off into the mountains,’ Fortunus protested. ‘It could be months before he responds.’
‘That’s not my problem,’ Cato snapped. ‘Until then, my decision holds. And you will call both me and Centurion Macro “sir” when you address us. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better.’ Cato glanced at the new arrivals crowding the gate. ‘For now, you can get your men and the camp followers into the stables at the end of the fort.’
‘Stables?’ Fortunus grimaced. ‘Sir, I—’
‘My men need the barracks tonight, thanks to your tardiness. And my horses will have the better of the stables. You will occupy what space is left and be thankful I don’t order you to camp outside the fort until I lead my men out tomorrow. Now get them out of my sight.’ Cato dismissed him.
Fortunus saluted and turned away to join his men as Cato and Macro looked on with grim expressions.
‘Now that,’ Macro said quietly, ‘is the most miserable fucking example of a soldier it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’
Cato cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his friend. ‘Really? What about that skinny recruit that joined the Second Legion back in Germania a while back? “A pointless streak of piss” was the phrase, as I recall.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Oh, that he was. Completely. But he turned out well enough in the end. The army made a decent soldier of him.’
‘I thank you for your faint praise.’
‘You don’t need me to praise you. Your record since then has done the job well enough.’
Cato experienced a ripple of unease. He never felt comfortable with his achievements, as if they were more the result of blind fortune than his own efforts and therefore he was as undeserving of praise as any man who had simply benefited from good luck. He cleared his throat.
‘Now you’ll have the chance to lick Fortunus and his men into shape while I am gone. Should keep you busy.’
‘That lot?’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘Fat chance. In the case of Fortunus, literally. I’ll be lucky if the fort is still standing and habitable by the time the campaign is over.’
Some of the garrison had emerged from their barracks to inspect the new arrivals, and looked on with bemused smiles, or hurled good-natured insults at the Illyrians, who replied in kind before Fortunus ordered them to fall in, bellowing loudly – more to impress the senior officers at the fort than to encourage his men, Cato guessed. The auxiliaries shuffled into place, grounded their spears and waited for the last of their comrades to join them from amongst the camp followers.
Macro turned his head and spat into the open drain running past the headquarters block. ‘I could train monkeys to drill better than that lot. They’re a fucking disgrace.’
‘Well, now they’re all yours, my friend.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Cato chuckled. ‘Just keep ’em out of trouble. And look after my fort. And make sure you rest that leg as much as you can. I want you back on your feet and ready to stick it to the enemy as soon as possible. How is it coming on, by the way?’
Macro patted his thigh above the dressing. ‘The scar is healing nicely. But the muscle hurts like buggery and feels like it’s pulled in every direction. Still not good enough to put much weight on, and too stiff to walk without looking like a Subura whore after a double shift.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve had worse, but nothing quite as humiliating as being picked off by some native kid. Still, he had balls, I’ll say that for him.’
‘Him and all the other barbarians in these mountains.’ Cato’s mood soured as his thoughts returned to the coming campaign. It was a bad time of year to commence a large-scale military operation. The army would begin its march with the autumn well advanced, and the frequent rain in these lands would quickly make the ground hard going for the baggage train, not to mention the miserable prospect for the infantry of plodding through the glutinous mud of the native tracks, which would quickly be churned up by the hooves, wheels and nailed boots of the Roman column. The natives would have the advantage of being familiar with the ground, and would no doubt attempt to continue with the harrying tactics that had served them well in earlier campaigns.
However, if the legate’s aim to use brute force and ruthlessness to shatter the Deceanglians and the Druids produced the anticipated results, there was a good chance that the army could return to their winter quarters before the short, cold days of the season settled over Britannia. Already the chill and the damp had begun to make Cato’s hand ache where he had endured his own arrow wound earlier that year. He rubbed the knotted white scar tissue behind his knuckles and on his palm and felt the familiar tingle that shot down to his fingertips and up his arm as far as his elbow.
Macro saw him wince. ‘Hand still troubling you, sir?’
Cato dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Just thinking.’
He glanced round to make certain they would not be overheard. The sentry at the entrance to headquarters was the closest other person, and Cato lowered his voice to be safe. ‘Have you had a chance to consider what I told you?’
‘About Quintatus? Yes, I’ve thought about it. Can’t say I’m happy to throw my lot in with another schemer after all we’ve been through with Narcissus.’
‘Me neither. But I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. It’s true what he says. Narcissus’s star is waning. He won’t be able to offer us any protection soon. He won’t even be able to protect himself.’
‘Well I shan’t be grieving for him when the snake has to fall on his sword. Shit, I’d be more than happy to lend him my blade to do the job. Or stick it in him if he lacked the guts to see it through.’ Macro smiled grimly at the thought of providing the necessary service to the imperial secretary.
‘It’s not him I’m worried about,’ Cato continued. ‘It’s us. And those who depend on us.’
‘You need not worry about Julia. Her father would look after her. Sempronius is popular enough in the Senate to make Pallas think twice before making an enemy of him.’
‘I hope so. But I don’t think Pallas is the kind of man who would baulk at the thought of making enemies in the Senate. Not while he has the ear of the emperor’s wife, and the chance to put Nero on the throne. Much as I despise the idea of becoming followers of Quintatus, it would be the sensible thing to do. For now, at least. If for any reason Pallas falls from favour, then we can cut our ties to the legate.’
