‘That is true, sir,’ Cato conceded. ‘In accordance with the orders of Legate Quintatus, I hereby return command of the column to you.’
Otho breathed a quick sigh of relief. ‘I thank you, Cato. Be sure that I will give you full credit for the role you played in our victory today.’
Cato bowed his head slightly.
‘Then it only remains to prepare the column to break camp and march back to Viroconium,’ Otho said cheerfully. ‘I confess, I won’t be sorry to return to the civilised comforts afforded by the army’s base, such as they are.’ He gestured to Cato’s soiled uniform and the dressing tied round his hand. ‘You could use a good wash, Prefect, and a change of clothes. I dare say you’re exhausted as well. I suggest you look to yourself for the next few hours now that I have lifted the burden of responsibility from your shoulders.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will do that. But first there is one final matter that must be dealt with.’ Cato felt a tremor of anxiety as he broached the subject. ‘One that touches on the rebellion at Isurium, as well as the escape of Caratacus from our custody at Viroconium.’
‘You must not let the fact that you were responsible for his escape weigh on your conscience,’ said Otho graciously. ‘After all, your deeds before then, and certainly since, have more than made up for it.’
‘I was not responsible for the escape, sir. That was the responsibility of another person.’
‘Who then?’
Cato did not want to identify the culprit before he could justify his accusation. ‘Sir, you will recall that the men guarding Caratacus were killed before they could react to their assailant.’
‘Yes, so?’
‘So it is my belief that they either knew their attacker, or that they had no reason to fear they were in danger.’
‘I suppose so. What of it?’
‘Then there is the question of who told Venutius that General Ostorius had died. That helped to provoke the deposing of Queen Cartimandua. Only a handful of us knew about the general’s death last night and we had agreed to keep it from the Brigantes until they had handed Caratacus over to us.’
Otho nodded thoughtfully. ‘You, me and Centurion Macro, besides my wife. I take it you do not suspect me? And if not me, and obviously not you, that leaves Centurion Macro.’ He paused. ‘I understood you are close friends. You’ve served together for many years. Surely you do not suspect Macro?’
‘No, sir. I trust Centurion Macro with my life. I would never suspect him of betrayal.’
‘Then it must have been someone else. The soldier who brought us the message. I’ll have him questioned.’
‘It wasn’t him. He left the fort soon afterwards. It had to be someone else.’
All trace of his earlier good mood drained from the tribune’s face as he grasped Cato’s point.
‘What are you saying, Prefect? Are you accusing me? How dare-’
‘Not you, sir.’
‘What?’ Otho looked confused. ‘Then. . My wife? Poppaea? Are you quite mad?’
‘No, sir. Just disappointed in myself for not realising it sooner.’
The tribune’s expression darkened. ‘If this is some kind of a joke, I am not amused.’
‘Where is your wife at the moment?’
‘Resting in my personal tent, not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘Sir, a moment.’ Cato stood up and walked stiffly to the tent flaps and looked outside. Macro was waiting a short distance away with Septimus and Centurion Lebauscus, just as Cato had arranged with Macro a while earlier. Both were admiring the new mail vest he’d taken as a trophy from the bastion. Cato beckoned to them and the three men joined him in the tent.
Otho looked up suspiciously. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘That’s what I was wondering,’ said Septimus as he glanced at Cato and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is it, perhaps, that you good gentlemen wish to order a stock of wine to celebrate your glorious victory?’
Cato let out an impatient sigh. ‘It’s time to put an end to your act.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, honoured Prefect.’
‘What in blazes is going on here?’ Otho demanded. ‘Why have you brought the wine trader in here?’
‘He is no wine trader, sir. His name is not Hipparchus, it’s Septimus, and he’s an imperial agent, sent by Narcissus to uncover a plot against the Emperor. Specifically, he was tasked with identifying a traitor, namely, your wife, sent to Britannia to undermine our efforts to bring peace to the province. Not only that, but she was to ensure that myself and Centurion Macro were disposed of. Isn’t that right, Septimus?’
For a moment the imperial agent was silent, his expression a blank mask. Then he nodded. Otho stared at him in surprise.
‘An imperial agent, sent here to spy on my wife? Is that it? It’s a bloody outrage. Poppaea is innocent. It’s absurd to suggest otherwise.’
‘Is it, though?’ asked Cato. ‘Perhaps that’s how it appears. Who would suspect a high-born woman, the wife of a senior tribune? Certainly not the two men who were killed in order to release Caratacus. Certainly not me, not even after the battle when I now believe she tried to pass poisoned wine to me in the mess tent. Most important of all, not you, her husband, who was more than happy to permit her to accompany him on a crucial mission to the capital of the Brigantes, where she revealed the death of Ostorius to our enemies. Which reminds me, did you ask her to come, or did Poppaea insist? For that matter, whose idea was it really for her to accompany you to Britannia?’
The tribune’s jaw sagged as he listened to Cato’s words, then he shook his head. ‘It’s not true. It can’t be. Not Poppaea. Where is your evidence!’
‘She has been adept at covering her tracks. Except for the matter of passing on the news about Ostorius. There she took a risk, but she needed to in order to provide Venutius with a weapon to undermine the queen. Who else could have done it, sir? You? Me? Centurion Macro?’
‘Why not you, or your friend?’
‘Because we know where our loyalties lie. We took an oath to serve the Emperor. We’re soldiers, not secret agents. That’s why.’
‘Bloody right we’re not,’ Macro added emphatically.
Tribune Otho shot him an angry glance, then turned his gaze back to Cato. ‘I repeat, where’s your evidence? Without hard evidence why should I believe you?’
Cato scratched the stubble lining his jaw. ‘I don’t doubt that Poppaea would play the innocent, and play the part well. After all, she has been very convincing as the pampered wife of an aristocrat. I should have suspected her earlier. There’s nothing I can do about it now, other than report this back to Narcissus. I dare say he will be most keen to question her when he gets the chance. And if it turns out that Poppaea confesses that she has been working for Pallas, she will be in grave danger, as will any person closely associated with her.’
The blood drained from Otho’s face. ‘You wouldn’t. .’
Cato thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘Perhaps I wouldn’t, but he most definitely would.’ He gestured at Septimus. ‘Isn’t that right?’
The imperial agent gave a thin, humourless smile. ‘Yes, Tribune. It’s my duty to protect the Emperor and nothing stands in the way of that.’
‘Nothing,’ Cato repeated. ‘You see, Otho, your wife is playing a very dangerous game. Not only is she risking her own life, she’s risking yours as well. There are men in Rome, like Septimus here, who are adept at quietly doing away with the Emperor’s enemies. Believe me, you don’t ever want to be there on the day when they knock at your door.’
The tribune slumped down on his chair and lowered his head into his hands, muttering, ‘It can’t be true. . Not my Poppaea.’
‘It is true,’ Cato insisted. ‘The question is, what is to be done about the situation? Clearly, she cannot be permitted to remain with the army. Poppaea must be sent back to Rome. If she was my wife I would make sure that she understood that this must all stop. Before it led to anything fatal.’ Cato paused a moment. ‘Sir, if you love your wife, then for her sake, you must make her abandon her secret life.’