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.’
Macro sighed deeply. ‘We shouldn’t have to live like this, Cato. We’re soldiers. Not spies. Not assassins. Certainly not servants of some bloody freedman with ideas above his station in life. I am bloody sick of living under the threat of being knocked on the head, right here at the arse-end of the world, about as far away from Rome as you can get, just because I have pissed off some flunkey back in Rome.’
‘Believe me, Macro, I share your feeling. But wishes are cheap, and no help to us right now. I don’t see that we have any real choice. Not if we don’t want to spend every day guarding our backs. We’ve got enough to worry about dealing with the enemy. Much of Britannia is a province in name only. There’s plenty of work for us here.’ He paused and ran a hand over his dark curls. ‘Time enough to demonstrate that we’re more use to the empire alive than dead.’
‘Fuck that!’ Macro’s expression darkened. ‘We don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Cato. Not us. We’ve shed our blood time and again for Rome. And sweated our guts out on long marches through hostile lands. Not to mention wading through all the shit of Narcissus’s dark little schemes. We’ve earned the right to be left alone to get on with our lives. We’ve earned it a thousand times over.’
‘Macro-’
The centurion shook his head. ‘I won’t do it. I’m not going to trade Narcissus for Pallas. I’m not going to be the lackey of a scheming aristocrat like Quintatus. No! Never again. From now on, my only loyalty is going to be to my comrades, and Rome. If you want to continue playing games with the likes of Quintatus and Pallas then that’s up to you. But I’ll have no part of it, see?’
Cato recognised that his friend was determined in his desire to escape from the lethal world of politics and plotting. This was not the occasion to try and reason with him. There was not enough time, or privacy, in which to talk it through. Besides, he sympathised with the principles behind Macro’s position, dangerous though they might be. Neither of them deserved to be treated as the tool of self-regarding men whose only care was the pursuit of power. But such men paid scant regard to the idea of principle, and were unlikely to be impressed by the stand that Macro was taking. Worse, they might even regard it as an act of defiance. One thing that Cato had learned about the likes of Pallas was that they did not tolerate defiance. To be seen to do so would imply weakness. An example had to be provided to all others who might be tempted to similar acts. Macro was playing with fire. In doing so, he was placing not only himself in grave danger, but Cato as well.
As night fell over the fort, the usual routines of posting the first watch and distributing the watchword continued with little regard for the unaccustomed presence of women and children. The shrill cries of the latter as they played in the lanes between the barracks and the other buildings lent the fort the ambience of a small village rather than an outpost of empire on a hostile and dangerous frontier.
At headquarters, Cato was hosting a meal for the officers of the garrison. He had not intended to, but the delay in marching meant remaining in the fort an additional night, and since all preparations had been made, there was little for the officers to do. Thraxis had slaughtered the last of the suckling pigs owned by the prefect, and roasted it with a honey glaze. Macro rubbed his hands in glee as the glistening side of pork was brought out on a large wooden platter and set down on the long table in the main hall of the headquarters block. The meat was accompanied by bread, cheese and the best of the remaining wine. Aside from Macro, Cato had invited Crispus and the centurions from the legionary cohort, as well as the decurions of his own auxiliary cohort.
Cato was not accustomed to entertaining his subordinates, as other men of his rank were wont to do in such outposts. He did not have an inherited fortune to subsidise any more lavish entertainment than what was on offer, and secretly he was anxious that it would give his officers, Macro excepted, reason to regard him with the quiet disdain usually reserved for ‘new men’, as those climbing Rome’s social hierarchy were referred to. Even though the pay of a prefect was of an order of magnitude greater than that of lesser ranks, Cato had family obligations to consider: his home in the capital, with a wife and child to support in a style befitting the equestrian status he had won through his promotion. Before leaving Rome he had arranged for most of his pay to be made over to Julia. What was left, together with the meagre savings he had from his service to date, barely sufficed. Particularly as his pay had been coming through in dribs and drabs since he had arrived in Britannia, and no amount of cajoling had spurred the imperial officials charged with paying the empire’s soldiers to bring it up to date.
Consequently, he made do with the same limited issue of clothing as he had done while a centurion, his armour was functional rather than decorative, and while a prefect from an aristocratic background might afford a small retinue of servants and slaves, Cato was served by Thraxis alone. As he looked on the meagre fare spread along the table, he winced and wished he had not decided to entertain his subordinates after all. More than likely they were already regarding him with something like pity, and his heart smouldered with shame even as he tried to affect the calm, easy-going air of a good host.
Fortunus and the other centurion from the Illyrian cohort were the last to arrive, wary of taking their places after the prefect’s cold reception that afternoon. Cato gestured to the end of the table.
‘Gentlemen, I present Centurion Fortunus of the Eighth Illyrian Cohort.’ He turned his attention to the other officer, a man as thin as his comrade was fat. His bald head was fringed with cropped grey hair and he wore a patch over one eye. ‘And you are?’