Cato took a deep breath. ‘I was simply reminding him of his duties, sir.’
‘Of course you were, and you did a good job of it.’
The legate regarded him for a moment, his cold eyes twinkling as he sized Cato up. ‘You think that being given the command of the baggage train escort is some kind of a punishment, don’t you?’
‘Someone has to do it,’ Cato replied flatly.
‘True. But why you? That’s what you’re wondering.’
‘What I think is my own business, sir.’
‘Maybe. But perhaps you are right to think there’s a reason behind it, Cato. You’re marked as one of Narcissus’s men, no matter what you do. Narcissus is not the only man to have a private organisation of agents working for him. Pallas is the same. Another bloody imperial freedman with grand ambitions. And just as crafty and dangerous as his rival, Narcissus. If there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that Pallas will have agents on the staff of General Ostorius. And they won’t shirk from doing you down.’
‘So I’ve seen,’ Cato replied, watching Quintatus closely. ‘Are you one of Pallas’s men?’
‘Me?’ Quintatus laughed. ‘Fortunately not. I’m too high-born for that. Those Greek freedmen prefer not to work with public figures if they can avoid it. Better to use the kind of people who can’t achieve the highest offices in the empire and therefore do not constitute a threat to the likes of Pallas and Narcissus. So rest easy on that account.’
‘Nevertheless, you are aware of Pallas’s plans with respect to me.’
‘I was told to make your life difficult.’
‘I think it was more than that. I think you were told to make it difficult for me to survive my last command.’
Quintatus shrugged. ‘It might have come to that. Fortunately it didn’t. You came through your experiences at Bruccium and learned that you were too good an officer to be thrown away on the whim of some freedman in Rome. You have nothing to fear from me, Cato.’
Cato gave a wry smile. ‘You say that now. .’
The other man frowned. ‘Please yourself. I merely wished to put your mind at ease on my account. The danger comes from another direction.’
Cato felt a tiny trickle of icy fear work its way down the nape of his neck. ‘Who? The general?’
‘Ostorius? Hardly. He’s a straight as they come. You think that’s the reason for your being posted to the baggage escort?’
‘It had crossed my mind,’ Cato admitted.
‘You were chosen for other reasons,’ Quintatus said wearily. ‘In fact it was my suggestion. Both units of the Bruccium garrison had suffered grievously. There aren’t enough of your men left to take their place in the battle line. I have no doubt about their fighting quality, and sought to put your men where they could do the most good. That’s the reason. I’m not trying to undermine you.’
Cato thought it through and saw that there was sense to it. He was even slightly flattered by the thought that he and his men were well regarded by the legate. But he still could not bring himself to trust Quintatus.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He said wearily.
‘Think nothing of it. I just wanted you to know that your quality is known by your superiors. I, for one, would sooner have you fighting at my side than stick a knife in your back.’
‘That’s gratifying to hear.’
The legate cocked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t push your luck. . We’d better get a good night’s sleep before the hunt.’
Without waiting for a reply Quintatus turned away and strode out of the tent. Cato closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. His heart was heavy with foreboding. The very reason that Narcissus had pulled some strings to get a posting for Macro and him in Britannia was to get them far away from the scheming of the imperial freedmen. Especially as Macro had witnessed an intimate encounter between Pallas and the Emperor’s new wife, Agrippina. Now it seemed that the reach of Pallas comfortably extended to the very wildest frontier in the empire.
A nasty thought struck Cato. It was just possible that Narcissus had sent them here for reasons other than their safety. It would be typical of the man. In which case they faced danger on two fronts: the enemy warriors to their front, and the agents of Pallas at their backs.
His heart felt heavy and a terrible tiredness seemed to settle on his shoulders. Was there no escaping the machinations of those who played their deadly game of self-advancement in the shadow of the Emperor? One thing was certain, he must be careful and watch for signs of danger. If the agents of Pallas were already in Britannia, and if they believed that he and Macro were still acting on the orders of Narcissus then they would take every opportunity to remove them from the game, as they saw it.
‘Fuck. .’ Cato muttered to himself bitterly as he trudged out of the tent and began to make his way back to the tents of the escort units. ‘Why me? Why Macro?’
He smiled at himself. He knew exactly what Macro would say to that. The same thing he habitually said when faced with such questions: ‘Because we’re here, Cato, my lad. Because we’re here.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Fine morning for it!’ Cato stretched his back and looked up into the clear heavens. Not a cloud was in sight and there was no wind. The air was still damp and cool and he breathed deeply. He had tried his best to dismiss his concerns the previous night when he returned to his tent. Instead he forced himself to think of Julia and the house he planned to build in Campania one day, once he had amassed a fortune from booty earned during his duty. There had been precious little of that so far, but if the campaign in Britannia came to a successful conclusion there would be riches to be made from selling prisoners to the slave dealers. That, and a share of any gold and silver taken. More than enough to buy a slice of the peace and quiet of Campania, where he and Julia could raise a family, and he could take his place amongst the magistrates of the nearest town. Perhaps Macro might choose to live nearby and they could drink and recall the old days. On such wistful thoughts he had easily drifted off to sleep.
‘What’s that?’ Macro growled, his head in his hands. He was sitting on the other stool warming himself by the freshly lit fire in front of Cato’s tent. ‘Fine morning? What’s fine about it?’
Cato could not help smiling at his friend’s discomfort. Macro never drank with any thought of the consequences.
‘Clear skies, clean air and the prospect of a day’s hunt. Cause enough to feel in a fine mood.’
‘So you say.’
‘Ah, here’s Thraxis.’ Cato sat down as his servant walked up with a heavy iron pot, a thick rag wrapped round the handle to protect his hand. He placed it close to the fire before removing the lid. In his other hand he carried two mess tins and a wooden ladle.
‘What do you have for us?’ asked Cato with a quick wink as he craned his neck to peer into the pot.
‘Thought you could use something hearty to fill your stomachs for the day, Prefect.’ The servant dipped the ladle in and stirred the thick grey contents of the pot.
‘It’s gruel with bacon, fat and some honey I bought in the traders’ market last night.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Ah! That’s good.’
Thraxis hefted a dollop out of the pot and flicked it into one of the mess tins with a dull splat. He handed it to Cato along with a spoon. ‘There you are, Prefect.’
Cato nodded his thanks and raised the mess tin. He took a small spoonful and blew across it before tentatively taking his first taste. It was hot and flavoursome and he eagerly helped himself to another, while his servant filled the next mess tin for Macro and offered it to the centurion.
‘Sir?’
Macro looked up, bleary-eyed and with a thick growth of stubble on his cheeks. He reluctantly took the mess tin.
‘Thraxis,’ Cato intervened. ‘Have our boots, cloaks and canteens ready for us once we’ve eaten.’
‘Yes, Prefect.’
Cato turned his attention back to his friend. It was several days since Macro had been to the barber for his last shave and he was starting to look more untamed than the wildest of Celts, Cato mused. His friend’s hair was beginning to go grey at the temples and, if Cato was not imagining it, receding a fraction from his forehead. Hardly surprising as Macro was in his fortieth year and had spent twenty-four years in the army, having lied about his age to join at sixteen. Cato paused before eating his next spoon of gruel and cleared his throat.