Macro joined him and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Welcome back to Britannia. . arse end of civilisation.’
CHAPTER THREE
Once the boat returned with their belongings, Macro approached a small group of men gathered outside the nearest warehouse.
‘I need some porters,’ he announced, addressing them in his loud, clear, parade-ground voice. At once they hurried forward and he chose several of the burliest-looking men, one of whom had a strip of leather about his head to clear his brow of thick, wiry blond hair. A brand was visible on his forehead, beneath the leather. Macro recognised the mark at once. The brand of Mithras, a religion from the east that was steadily spreading through the ranks of the Roman army. ‘You, a soldier once, if I’m not mistaken?’
The man bowed his head. ‘I was, sir. Before I took a Silurian spear through the leg. Left me with a limp, I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the lads. Army had no choice but to discharge me, sir.’
Macro looked him over. The man wore a threadbare military cloak over his tunic and his boots were held together by strips of cloth. ‘Let me guess. You pissed away your discharge bonus and this is what you’ve been reduced to.’
The ex-soldier nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’
‘What is your name and unit?’
‘Legionary Marcus Metellius Decimus, Second Legion, Augusta, sir!’ The man straightened to attention and winced before stretching a hand down to steady his thigh.
‘The Second, eh?’ Macro stroked his jaw. ‘That’s my old mob. Or, I should say, our old mob.’ He jerked his thumb towards Cato. ‘We served under Legate Vespasian.’
Decimus tilted his head regretfully. ‘Before my time, sir.’
‘Pity. Very well, Decimus, you take charge of these men. Our baggage is over there on the wharf by my friend there, and the woman.’
Decimus glanced across the thoroughfare and sniffed. ‘She’s a bit old for him. Unless she’s got money. . Then they’re never too old.’
Macro gritted his teeth. ‘The woman in question is my mother. . Now move yourself!’
Decimus quickly turned away and gestured to the other men to follow. As they hefted the chests and kitbags, Cato tried to get his bearings. ‘Which way to the local garrison?’
‘There’s no garrison, sir. No fort. Not even any fortifications, for that matter. There was a fort a few years back, but the place was growing so fast it got swallowed up. That’s where they’re building the new basilica, on the site of the old fort.’
‘I see.’ Cato sighed in frustration. ‘Then where can I find someone on the governor’s staff?’
Decimus thought about it. ‘You could try the governor’s quarters, sir. They’re to the side of the building site. Anyway, that’s where you’ll find him.’
Cato was surprised. ‘Ostorius is here in Londinium?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But the provincial capital is Camulodunum.’
‘Officially, sir, yes. After all, that’s where Caratacus came from, and that’s where Emperor Claudius has pledged to have a temple erected in his honour. But it’s too far east. Despite what they may want back in Rome, it seems that everyone here has chosen Londinium as the main town. Even the governor. And that’s why you’ll find him here.’
Cato took in the information and nodded. ‘Very well, take us to his headquarters.’
Decimus bowed his head and then, shouldering one of the kitbags, and grunting under the weight of the armour it contained, he limped off into a side street. ‘Follow me, sir.’
Londinium proved to be every bit as unpleasant as the captain of the cargo ship had warned them. The streets were narrow and crowded and, unlike Rome, there were no restrictions on wheeled vehicles in daylight hours. Cato and the others had to fight their way up the narrow thoroughfares crowded with carts, horses and people. Familiar with the streets, Decimus and his companions hurried on and Cato feared that he might lose sight of them. He gestured subtly to Macro to chivvy his mother through the throng. From the dress and features of those they passed, Cato could see that most were from elsewhere in the empire, no doubt in search of easy money in the new province. Portia was going to face stiff competition, Cato reflected, and he hoped that the rank of her son would indeed be enough to protect her interests from the con men, thieves and gangsters who were already preying on Londinium.
‘All right, Mum?’ asked Macro.
Portia stared coldly at a group of tribesmen passing in the street, wrapped in furs and with swirling tattoos down their arms. ‘Savages. .’
Cato smiled to himself and then frowned. There was still a way to go before the people of the island accepted Roman rule. Caratacus and his followers might be far to the west of Londinium, but the spirit of the tribesmen living in and around the town was clearly far from broken. If the legions ever suffered a serious setback then it was sure to encourage more than a few of the natives into open revolt against Rome. If the main weight of the governor’s army was concentrated at the frontier, there would be little to stop the rebels sweeping across those parts of the province that the officials back in Rome had already labelled as pacified on their maps.
‘Where the hell’s that Decimus and his crew?’ Macro growled, craning his neck, but unable to make much out due to his short stature.
‘Twenty paces or so ahead,’ Cato replied.
‘Don’t lose sight of the buggers. Last thing we need is to have all our kit nicked the instant we step ashore. I’ll not go back to the legions looking like some green recruit mummy’s boy if I can help it.’
Portia snorted. ‘If there’s one thing you are definitely not, my son, it is a mummy’s boy.’
They pressed on, struggling to keep up with the porters ahead of them. As they emerged into a crossroads filled with carts carrying amphorae packed tightly together, there was no sign of the porters on the far side of the junction. Cato felt his heart sink in despair and a sharp anger at Decimus for having tricked them.
‘Hey! Prefect! This way.’
He turned towards the voice and saw Decimus and his companions just over to their left. The former legionary shook his head mockingly. ‘There’s me with my limp, and the officers still can’t keep up. What’s the world coming to?’
Before Cato could cut in and tell him to mind his tongue when speaking to a superior, the other man raised his hand and pointed towards a large gateway a short distance along the other side of the street they had just turned into. Beyond the wall Cato could see scaffolding and the tall timber frame of a crane rising up against the smoky sky.
‘There you go, Prefect. That’s the basilica. Or what there is of it.’
Without waiting for his customers to respond, Decimus set off again and this time the flow of traffic was such that the new arrivals were able to keep up. When the convoy of wine carts had passed, they made their way across to the gateway and approached the two legionaries standing guard. The surface of the arch had been plastered and whitewashed, but the brickwork on the wall surrounding the building site was unfinished.
‘State your business,’ one of the guards said evenly as he ran his eyes over the two men and the older woman, hurriedly assessing their status. The two officers were dressed in neat, new tunics and military cloaks purchased in Rome before their departure. Although there were no insignia to show rank, nor any ornate rings to indicate wealth, the bearing of the two officers and the visible scars told their own story. Particularly the long white line that stretched across Cato’s face from forehead to chin. The sentry cleared his throat and moderated his tone. ‘How may I assist you, sir?’