It was a challenge as much as a question and every man in the tent understood that and did not wish to share in the dismissive scorn directed at Cato. There was silence. Ostorius nodded.
‘Very well. Then the attack will be carried out by our legionaries. It’s too tough a job for auxiliary cohorts. Instead, the auxiliaries will be leaving the camp under cover of darkness and marching round the hill to cut off the enemy’s retreat.’
That caused murmurs to ripple amongst the officers seated around the tent. Night manoeuvres were difficult to carry out at the best of times. The Romans knew little of the ground they had to cover and would be vulnerable to any ambush that the enemy might have set. Equally, units might lose their way and not reach their assigned positions on time. It was a risky enterprise.
‘I understand your concerns,’ said Ostorius. ‘But I will not give Caratacus and his men any excuse to abandon their position and escape. If that happens due to the negligence of any officer then be sure that they will be answerable to me, and to the Emperor. Every man will do his duty. You will be given your orders as soon as my clerks have them ready for distribution. You are dismissed, gentlemen.’
He returned to his desk at the far end of the tent and sat heavily on his cushioned chair. His officers rose and shuffled towards the open tent flaps. Cato hung back, even now ready to try and dissuade his superior, until Macro muttered, ‘Don’t do it, sir.’
Cato rounded on him and spoke quietly. ‘Why did you stop me?’
‘Jupiter have mercy. . He was goading you. Surely you can see that? If you had answered back, you would only have been playing into his hands and made yourself look foolish in front of the others.’
Cato thought briefly and nodded. ‘You’re right. . Thank you, Macro.’
As they left the tent, one of the general’s clerks saw them and respectfully eased his way through the officers. ‘Prefect Cato, sir.’
‘What is it?’
‘A package of letters arrived with the reinforcements from the Ninth, sir. This one is for you.’
He held out a slim, folded leather case, fastened by the wax seal of the Sempronius family. Cato’s name, rank and the provincial headquarters of Camulodonum were written in a neat hand beside the seal. He recognised the writing at once as that of his wife, Julia, and he felt his heart give a lurch.
‘Thank you.’ He smiled at the clerk, who bowed and turned to find the next recipient of letters from the package.
‘From Julia?’ asked Macro.
Cato nodded.
‘Then I’ll leave you to read it. I’ll be in the officers’ mess.’
Outside the general’s tent was an open area bounded by the other tents that made up the army’s headquarters. The area was lit by the flames rising from iron braziers. It was a warm night and the only clouds in the sky were away to the west, leaving the stars to shine down unobstructed. It felt peaceful, and Cato was reminded of the last night he had spent with Julia in Rome, up on the roof terrace of her father’s house. Even though it was winter, they too had been warmed by a fire, and each other, as they lay and gazed up at the heavens. He smiled fondly at the memory, before the familiar ache for her returned.
Moving close to the glow of the nearest brazier, Cato held the letter up and touched the smooth wax around the impression of the Sempronius motif, a dolphin. Then he tugged the leather cover and broke the seal, carefully opening the cover to expose the sheets of papyrus inside. He angled them towards the flames and began to read. The letter was dated barely two months after he had left Rome and had taken another two months to reach him.
My dearest husband, Cato,
I take this chance to write to you as an acquaintance of my father who is leaving for Britannia and knows of you has asked if he might carry a message from me to you. Time is short so I fear I cannot express the emptiness in my heart that your absence causes. You are my all, Cato. So I pray daily for your safety and your swift return to me once you have completed your service in the army of Ostorius Scapula. I know that it may be years before we can be in each other’s arms again, and I know I must be strong and constant in my affections, and I will be. And I would have you know that, with all my heart.
The news in Rome is that Ostorius is seeking an end to the campaign in Britannia to coincide with the end of his generalship. Father says that the Emperor has let it be known that such a victory is worthy of an Ovation. Inevitably the senators will vote accordingly. If so, then you are sure to be amongst those officers honoured alongside Ostorius in Rome. I pray so. It is no more than you deserve for your service to the Emperor.
Meanwhile, the Emperor grows old and the city is rife with rumour over who will succeed him. Though Britannicus is his natural child, it seems that the Emperor’s new wife is doing all in her power to push the interests of her son, Nero. I cannot say I care for him. He lavishes praise and affection on his adoptive father way beyond the bounds of sincerity. And behind the scenes, Father says, the real struggle is between Claudius’s closest advisers, Pallas and your old acquaintance, Narcissus. When there is a new Emperor one of them is not likely to survive the event.
But I grow weary of politics. Especially as I have been writing this while steeling myself to give you news of more import to the two of us. Father and I have found a house on the Quirinal that will suit us. No palace to be sure, but large and airy, with a small garden courtyard. A fine home for my dearest husband to return to, who, by the time he does, will be more than a husband. My darling Cato, I am with child. I am certain of it. Our child. The seed of you grows within me and it makes me feel closer to you, though you be on the far side of the empire. I must finish this message now, the merchant is ready to depart. I send this, with all my heart, your loving wife, Julia.
Cato felt a surge of ardour and affection swell in his heart. A child. Their child. It would be born in the autumn. Cato felt a sense of loss. He would not be there with Julia when the child came. In fact it was likely that he would not see the child for some years. The moment passed and the prospect of being a father lifted his spirits beyond all measure and banished all thought of weariness and the coming battle. He re-read the letter, this time savouring every phrase, every word, hearing Julia speak them in his mind. At length he refolded the letter and replaced it in its cover before carefully tucking it into his belt. He must tell Macro. He had to share his joy and they must celebrate.
The tent set up for the army’s officers was a short distance from headquarters and as Cato strode towards it he could hear the sounds of laughter and the hubbub of lively conversation. He was surprised, given the dour mood in the general’s tent shortly before. Perhaps the officers were drowning their anxieties in wine and the sweet beer brewed by the natives that had become popular with the soldiers serving in Britannia.
Ducking through the tent flaps, Cato was enveloped in the warm fug inside. The smell of drink mingled with the men’s sweat and the acrid odour of woodsmoke. The sound of men’s voices was deafening, but Cato’s attention was instantly drawn to the individual who dominated the scene. In the middle of the tent stood the wife of Tribune Otho. She was surrounded by younger officers and a handful of older veterans, somewhat sheepishly enjoying the rare charm of a woman’s company. She had just finished some remark and the men around her roared with laughter. At her side, his arm lightly about her waist, stood Otho, beaming with pleasure.
‘And who is this dashing character?’
Cato’s gaze flicked back to Poppaea and he saw that she was smiling at him. He hesitated, anxious to find Macro and share his news, but at the same time mindful of social niceties. He approached the woman, and the officers parted before him until he took her hand and bowed his head. Her skin was soft and white and just before she released her formal grip on his hand she gave it a quick squeeze.