‘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.