Brothers in Blood (16 page)

‘Cato and Macro!’ the others echoed and downed their wine.

Ostorius stepped down unsteadily from the stool. ‘I’ll make sure you are given full credit for the role you played in the fight for the flank.’ The general smiled. ‘Who knows? You might even be invited to Rome when my victory is celebrated.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Cato responded, while Macro merely nodded. Then the general turned away and disappeared into the crowd, and the officers returned to their loud conversation and laughter.

‘Well, that was uncommonly decent of him,’ Macro sniffed. ‘You’d think we played a small part in some skirmish from the way he put it. Invited to
his
triumph . . . Fucking quality grab all the glory for themselves.’

‘Well, what did you expect? A ride down the Sacred Way on a chariot all by yourself? Come on, Macro. That’s just the way it is. Always will be. Doesn’t change what we know really happened.’ He forced a smile and held up his cup. ‘To Centurion Macro, the hardest fighting officer in the Fourteenth, or any other legion.’

Macro’s face cracked in a drunken smile and he raised his cup in turn. ‘And to Prefect Cato, the hardest bullshitting thinker in the whole fucking army.’

Cato hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ll drink to that.’

They butted the brass beakers together and drained them before heading back to the counter for a refill.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
he celebrations continued into the night, with officers arriving late, or leaving, as their duties dictated. Cato did not try to keep up with his friend, but drank just enough to allow himself to enter into the cheerful mood of his companions. Macro took his fill and assumed his customary role of a roaring drunk, singing his heart out along with the other centurions as they ran through their repertoire of marching songs. A number of officers had drunk themselves insensible and had stumbled over to the benches and tables to the side of the tent and slumped over their folded arms. A junior tribune leaned forward, hands on knees, vomiting just inside the entrance of the tent.

Later in the evening Cato spied a small group of women in the far corner, sitting on benches around a table. Officers’ wives. Most were draped in simple cloaks, except for Poppaea, who had changed the clothes she had worn when she came to inspect Cato’s prisoner. Her hair had dried, been combed and pinned up in an elegant bun. As he stared at her, she turned and caught his eye directly. Cato felt embarrassed and nearly succumbed to the urge to look away, but there was a challenge in her expression and he would not give Poppaea the satisfaction. At length she smiled thinly and raised her cup and bowed her head in salute. Cato nodded in reply and then turned away and worked his way towards the counter.

The wine merchant was sweating profusely and Cato waited patiently as he cleared away his empty jars and rushed out through the side flap to fetch some more stock from his cart. As Cato leaned on the counter, drumming his fingers, he suddenly smelt a sweet scent and turned to see Poppaea standing beside him. At once he pushed himself up and nodded a greeting.

‘Poppaea Sabina.’

‘Prefect Cato.’ She smiled again. A very attractive smile, Cato thought. It reminded him of Julia, and he promptly wished it had not.

‘It seems the good general is a little underwhelmed by the contribution you made to what he is claiming as
his
success.’

Cato struggled to focus his thoughts. Drink and tiredness were a distracting combination but he was determined not to say anything indiscreet to the wife of Tribune Otho. ‘He gave me, and Centurion Macro, the credit we deserved.’

‘Oh, come on. He hardly did that.’ She poked him playfully in the chest. ‘My husband told me exactly what happened on that miserable hill. You saved the day.’

‘We played our part.’

‘You did rather more than that. Why so modest? Surely it must irk you to see your actions pushed to the margins. You must know that by the time Ostorius reports to the Emperor, your part in the outcome will have been relegated to a minor detail.’

Cato stared at her. She was quite beautiful, and there was a playful intelligence in her expression that added to her allure. Yet her very directness discomforted him, and he did not trust her. Nor did he trust himself to speak as carefully as the situation required. Any comment that he made that could be remotely construed as disloyal to Ostorius would be bound to be repeated to Poppaea’s husband and Otho did not seem the tight-lipped kind. Repetition engendered exaggeration and if word of his boasting reached the ears of Ostrorius then Cato would be viewed with disdain. All the good will he had won on the battlefield would vanish and Ostorius would be looking for any excuse to punish Cato with an appointment even less appetising than commanding the baggage train escort.

‘I am a simple soldier, my lady,’ he responded stiffly. ‘I do my duty. What the general says and does are no concern of mine.’

She laughed. A light, pleasant sound. ‘Oh dear. I seem to have upset you, Prefect. Allow me to get you another cup of wine.’

The wine merchant had returned, struggling with a large jar of wine under each arm. He set them down quickly as Poppaea waved him over.

‘Yes, my lady?’

‘I’ll have a small jar of the Oscan wine you keep back for your best customers.’

‘Oscan?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t play the fool with me. I know all about it. My husband is Tribune Otho. Put it on his account.’

As soon as the name was mentioned the wine merchant bowed his head and turned his attention to the stack of jars behind the counter.

‘That’s not necessary,’ Cato objected.

‘Rubbish.’ Poppaea smiled sweetly. ‘You deserve to be rewarded, nay? Wine will have to do for now.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But there are other rewards that a man of your evident ability deserves.’

Cato froze. ‘I, er, I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Prefect. You know exactly what I am saying.’

‘But your husband—’

‘Has drunk himself insensible and is asleep in our tent. He’s not quite the man I thought he was. Charming in public, but quiet and moody in private. He doesn’t always fulfil all that a wife might require of a husband . . .’

Cato’s jaw sagged for a moment, but he could not think of a safe reply. He was saved by the return of the wine merchant carrying a finely glazed jar. He took out the cork and carefully poured a measure into a cup he took from beneath the counter. Poppaea moved between Cato and the merchant to take the cup. Just then a strong gust of wind howled over the camp and the tent flaps slapped open and flapped wildly like the broken wings of a large bird. Cato looked round at the sound for a moment and turned back to see Poppaea close up, holding the cup out for him to take.

‘Your reward. And there’s more to come, if you wish it.’ She leaned forward slightly to reveal the shadowy cleavage between her breasts.

The wind strengthened, roaring across the camp and abruptly the rear of the tent, where the women were seated, whipped up as the guy ropes on that side wrenched the wooden pegs out of the earth. The wind and rain blasted inside, sweeping away the thick atmosphere inside the tent. There were shouts of alarm from the women and anger from the men as they fled from the unwelcome intrusion of the elements. More guy ropes gave way and the far end of the tent began to collapse.

Cato’s thoughts instantly turned to his men huddled in their shelters. His place was with them if the storm threatened the safety of the camp. He turned to Poppaea.

‘Excuse me, I must go.’

Before she could protest he pressed the cup back into her hands and looked round for Macro. His friend was pushing through the throng towards him.

‘Bloody fun and games, this.’ Macro smiled ruefully. ‘We’d better get back to the men.’

Cato nodded, noting that his friend seemed sober enough to make the walk to the tent lines, despite the amount he had drunk earlier. Several of the other officers were of a like mind and jostled for the cloaks at the entrance. Outside, Cato led the way, clutching the hood of his cloak tightly over his head. They had only gone a short distance before Macro stopped.

‘A moment, lad.’

He moved to the side of the muddy thoroughfare and leaned forward. A torrent of vomit gushed from his gaping mouth as he made a deep heaving grunt. Most hit the ground but the wind whipped a small quantity back against his tunic and Macro swore before he lurched again, this time turning downwind as he let fly with another jet of vomit. He paused briefly then straightened up.

‘You done?’ Cato asked, hands on hips.

Macro nodded with a meek expression. ‘Better out than in. And a word to the wise, always go downwind.’ He gestured to the mess on his tunic.

Cato frowned with disgust. ‘Let’s go.’

The storm was raging across the mountains, the howling wind lashing the rain against the tents and every living thing inside the camp. There was a cry from behind and Cato looked back to see the end of the mess tent fly up in the air, tearing out the guy ropes and swirling violently, before collapsing. The general’s guards had abandoned their weapons to hammer down the pegs holding the other tents in place. On all sides the storm was wreaking havoc and the men hurried from the shelter of their section tents to hold them down. Even with the chaos unfolding around him, Cato was gratified by the sight of the dim shapes of the sentries remaining at their posts on the ramparts.

‘Jupiter’s fucking balls!’ Macro shook his head. ‘Have you ever seen the like? Someone’s got right up the noses of the gods and no mistake.’

‘It’s as well that it happens now rather than last night,’ Cato responded, trying to look on the bright side. ‘Can you imagine what that hill is going to be like after this lot?’

They struggled on, leaning into the gale, the hems of their cloaks whipping at their legs. At length they reached the partial shelter of the rampart and turned towards the corner of the camp where the baggage train was parked.

‘What did the tribune’s wife want with you?’ asked Macro.

‘Ah, you saw that.’

‘Indeed. Looked rather cosy. Is she the kind of army wife who puts it about then?’

‘I wouldn’t know. She wanted to give me a pat on the back and buy me a drink. That’s all.’

Macro chuckled. ‘Sure. Pat on the back. Right.’

Cato sighed wearily. ‘Macro, I’m a married man. And I love my wife.’

‘So?’

‘So, I’d rather we left it there, Centurion. That’s an order.’

‘Yes, sir.’

When they reached the tent lines of the escort, or what was left of them, Cato’s heart sank. At least half the tents were down and the dark figures of men were struggling to save the rest. The Blood Crows had abandoned their tents to go and calm the horses and their shrill whinnies cut through the wild night.

‘I’ll see to the men,’ said Cato. ‘You check on the prisoners.’

‘Prisoners? Fuck ’em. A little bit of rain won’t hurt them.’

‘Maybe, but I want them in good shape when they’re handed over to the Emperor, whenever that is. Make sure they’re safe and their chains are secure.’

‘All right.’ Macro dipped his head in salute and hurried off towards the larger of the stockades. Cato turned to his own tent first and was relieved to see that it was still standing. Thraxis was hammering down extra pegs as his commander approached.

‘Any damage inside?’ Cato asked.

His servant lowered his hammer and looked up. ‘No, sir. I got most of your clothes into the chest earlier. Same with the paperwork and slates.’

‘Good man!’ Cato gestured to the tent. ‘I’ll leave you to secure this. I need to check on the others.’

Thraxis nodded quickly and turned back to his work as Cato strode towards the nearest line of tents belonging to the legionaries of Macro’s cohort. He saw the giant outline of Centurion Crispus bellowing orders to his men and strode through the wind towards him.

‘Centurion, report!’

Crispus wiped the streaks of rain from his face. ‘Not good, sir. Lost most of the tents and we’ll be lucky if we save any that are still left. I’ve told the lads to collapse them and sit on the bastards until the storm has passed.’

Cato yawned, weariness settling heavily on his tired limbs. ‘Best thing, I suppose. As soon as the wind dies down get the tents back up and the men inside. They’ll have to double up as best they can until daylight. We’ll sort things out then.’

‘It’s going to get cosy in them tents, sir.’

‘Then it’ll help keep ’em warm.’

‘Cato! Cato!’

The both turned towards the desperate shout and Cato could just make out Macro’s stocky figure waving frantically in front of the smaller stockade. He ran to meet them.

‘What is it?’ Cato demanded.

‘He’s gone!’ Macro shouted, eyes wide in alarm. ‘Caratacus. The bastard’s gone.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘
G
one?’ Cato froze. His guts clenched with dread.

He didn’t wait for any further clarification but sprinted across the mud and puddles towards the stockade. The door was open and it was too dark to see inside, but as he drew closer he saw two bundles lying on the ground just inside. The two sentries, he realised at once. He charged past them and into the stockade. The gloomy interior was empty, except for the post and the chains lying in the mud.

‘No!’ Cato bunched his hand into a fist and punched the wooden frame at his side. He crouched down and picked up the chains for closer examination. They were covered in mud but his probing fingers found no breaks in the links and the pins on the shackles had been cleanly knocked out. Rising quickly he turned and joined Macro and Crispus as they examined the bodies.

‘Dead?’

‘Both of them,’ Macro answered. ‘Throats slashed. Whoever did this got up close to them . . . Some bastard’s going to pay for this.’

Cato tried to calm his racing mind. ‘We’ll deal with that later. Right now we must find Caratacus. Get the men. I want them to start searching at once. Send a runner to each of the gates. No one is to leave the camp. Go!’

The startled centurion ran off to the tent lines and Cato turned to Macro. ‘What about the other prisoners?’

‘I checked. They’re all there.’ Macro glanced round into the shadows. ‘Caratacus could still be close if he thinks he can set them free as well.’

Cato shook his head. ‘It’s too late for him now. The alarm has been raised. If that was ever his plan he’s not going to try it now. He’ll want to get out of the camp and as far away as possible before daylight. I just hope we’re not too late. You take charge here. Double the guard on the others. Find the cornicen and have him sound stand to.’

‘What are you going to do, sir?’

‘Report to headquarters. We have to rouse the camp at once.’

‘Shouldn’t we try and find Caratacus first? Before we tell the general?’

‘It’s too late for that. Move!’

They parted and Cato turned and began to run back towards the heart of the camp. He was in sight of the headquarters tents when he heard the thin notes of the horn sounding from behind him. He saw soldiers in the darkness pause from their efforts to salvage their tents and look round.

‘What’s going on?’ a voice called out. ‘Thought we’d seen to the enemy. What’s that joker playing at?’

Cato stopped and cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Stand to! You heard the signal! Move your bloody arses!’

The spell was broken and men began to scramble for their kit. Optios and centurions relayed the order, straining to be heard above the storm. Cato plunged on, half running, half slithering over the mud as he made for headquarters. Miraculously, only the mess tent had gone, the rest still struggled against the wind and he slithered to a halt outside the entrance to the general’s private quarters, gasping for breath.

‘Let . . . me in.’ He waved the guards aside.

‘Just a moment, sir.’ One made to block his path.

‘There’s no . . . time for this.’ Cato thrust the man aside and pushed through the flaps. The glow from the oil lamps and the braziers seemed brilliant after the darkness outside and Cato looked round frantically as the only servant still awake started in alarm from cleaning his master’s boots.

‘Is the general here?’ Cato demanded.

One of the guards entered the tent and hurried round Cato, hand moving to his sword. ‘Sir! You’ll have to wait outside!’

‘Where is the general?’ Cato repeated.

The curtain at the far end parted and Ostorius appeared in his tunic, barefoot. ‘What in Jupiter’s name is going on? Prefect Cato. What are you doing here?’ He paused and cocked his head. ‘Who gave the order to stand to?’

Cato thrust his way past the guard and stood stiffly in front of his commander, heart pounding inside his heaving chest.

‘Caratacus has escaped, sir.’

Ostorius stared at him, stunned into momentary silence. ‘Escaped? How is that possible? You had the man in chains.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then how could it happen?’

Cato swiftly collected his thoughts. ‘He must have been helped, sir. The two men guarding him were killed and the pins of his chains were knocked out.’

‘Helped? Who by?’

‘I cannot say, sir. Not yet. But as soon as I discovered he was gone I sounded the alarm. My men are searching for him, and I’ve given orders that no one is to leave the camp. If he’s still here, then we’ll find the enemy commander, sir.’

Ostorius took the information in and his expression became severe. ‘He had better be found, Prefect Cato. By the gods, he had better be found and put back in chains. If he has made good his escape then I swear those responsible will pay for this.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded helplessly.

The general turned to the guard. ‘Send for my staff officers at once!’

The guard saluted and hurried from the tent. Ostorius’s servant was still sitting on his stool, a boot in his hands. The general’s glare turned on him. ‘What are you waiting for? Get on with it!’

The servant began to scrub furiously, head down and hunched over his work. At that moment Cato would have willingly swapped places with the man. As it was, he stood still while Ostorius turned back, glowering.

‘You’d better get on with your search for Caratacus, Prefect. Get out!’

Cato saluted and turned to hurry from the tent, grateful to quit the general’s presence.

Once the general had briefed his officers, two cohorts were detailed to assist the escort detachment in the hunt for the escaped prisoner. The rest of the men were stood down and returned to whatever shelter they could find to see out the rest of the night. Cato returned to his headquarters to wait impatiently for reports to come in.

At last the storm began to abate and then pass on to the east, the wind easing as the storm drew the clouds in its wake. At last the rain stopped and the serene stars looked down from velvet heavens. As he stood at the entrance of his tent and stared up at the night sky, its very calmness seemed to mock Cato. His moment of triumph had lasted less than a day. The escape would no doubt transform him from the toast of the legion to scapegoat for this misfortune. Far from being the officer renowned for his capture of an enemy general, he would be doomed to be remembered for failing to prevent his flight. The real culprit was the man who had murdered the guards and set the enemy commander free. Cato swore that if he ever discovered the identity of that individual, he would be made to suffer. His only hope at this stage was that the culprit who had helped Caratacus was hiding him somewhere in the camp. The possibility that the enemy commander had found a way out was too painful for Cato to contemplate.

As the reports came in from the search parties, Cato felt his heart grow heavier at the lack of any sign of Caratacus.

As the first hint of dawn bled across the horizon, Macro brought him disturbing news.

‘I’ve been questioning the guards on the gates. They’ve done as you ordered and let no one out. But then I had a thought. I asked them who had passed through the gates in the hours before the alarm was raised.’

‘And?’

‘You’re not going to like this, there was nothing that stood out – the usual comings and goings of patrols. Except for a wine merchant’s cart.’

Cato pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘A cart. Did the sentries search it?’

‘They gave it a quick look and it was empty. The driver’s face was hidden by a cloak. Since it was raining, the duty optio didn’t think it was unusual. The driver said he was returning to Viroconium to buy more stock since there was no more danger from the enemy. The optio passed him through.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Just before they closed the gate for the night. That was when we were in the mess tent. I’ve got the optio outside if you want a word with him.’

‘Get him in here.’

Macro ducked his head through the flaps. ‘Inside, you.’

He stood aside to let the optio enter. He was a seasoned-looking soldier but his uneasiness and dull expression did not create a good impression. To Cato he looked like the kind of soldier who was good enough to make optio but lacked those qualities that were essential for promotion to centurion. He stood to attention.

‘Optio Domatus reporting, sir.’

‘Centurion Macro informs me that you passed a cart out of the camp before you closed the gate last night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A wine merchant, making for Viroconium.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘And you didn’t think it unusual for a wine merchant to be leaving the camp at that hour?’

The optio shifted uneasily. ‘He sounded convincing enough to me, sir. Anyway, we’re supposed to be keeping watch on threats coming from outside the camp, sir. He was leaving. Didn’t see any harm in letting him pass.’

‘Optio, the sentries on watch duty are looking out for the enemy. Your job is to carefully monitor who comes in or goes out.’

‘As I said, sir. I didn’t see no reason to be suspicious of the man. He gave me no cause to suspect he was an enemy. Let alone Caratacus himself, sir. Besides, he spoke Latin.’

Cato sighed. ‘Did it not occur to you that at least one of the enemy might know our tongue?’

The optio opened his mouth to protest but had the sense to say nothing and clamped his lips together.

‘Do you think it’s him?’ Macro intervened.

‘It’s possible. I’ll send a patrol after him once we’re done here. Just in case.’ Cato turned his attention back to the optio. ‘Domatus, is there anything else you can tell us about this wine merchant? Any description of the man?’

‘As I told the centurion, sir, he had his hood over his head. Couldn’t see much in the dark, and what with the rain and wind and all.’

‘I see.’ Cato sighed wearily. He was about to dismiss the man when the optio’s expression lit up.

‘I did get his name, sir. It was branded on to the side of the cart. I could just make it out as he passed through the gate.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hipparchus, he was called, sir.’

Cato stared at him.

‘Oh, shit . . .’ Macro growled.

Cato was on his feet at once, pushing past the optio. ‘Macro, on me!’

He tried to run towards the baggage train and the battered sprawl of tents and shelters that belonged to the camp followers, but the mud made the going slow and slippery. Macro followed him as best he could. They hurried past the vehicle park where the army’s carts and wagons were packed together, and on into the section allocated to the camp followers. There was little of the ordered layout of the soldiers’ tents and the ramshackle shelters and colourful tents that were still standing sprawled around two intersecting thoroughfares. The sun had not yet stirred but there were plenty of civilians milling around. The storm had wreaked as much damage here as elsewhere in the camp; collapsed tents and overturned stalls surrounded the crossroads.

Cato stopped by the stall of a tinsmith which had survived intact. The proprietor was already setting out his stock, seemingly unperturbed and uncaring about the misfortune of his neighbours.

‘Where do I find Hipparchus, the wine merchant?’

The man looked up and shrugged. ‘Don’t know the man. But if he deals in wine, you’ll find him round the corner there, with the others.’

Cato ran on, turning into another muddy stretch lined with stalls. Close by he saw a stall with wine jars behind the counter. A fat man with greasy locks of grey hair was arguing with a customer as Cato approached him.

‘I’m looking for Hipparchus.’

The merchant instantly turned his attention to the young officer and smiled. ‘Sir, if you are looking for wine, then I guarantee you better quality at a lower price than Hipparchus.’

‘I don’t want your bloody wine. I want Hipparchus.’

The merchant shrugged and pointed to the stall on the opposite side of the way. Cato turned and saw a tall-sided wagon with an awning stretching out from one side to cover a sturdy wooden frame that formed the stall. He hurried over and clambered over the counter. His boots landed on something soft and yielding. He stumbled, recovered his balance and saw a body lying face down under the counter, hidden by the leather apron that fronted the stall. He knelt down and turned the body over. In the pale light he could see that it was not Septimus. From the soiled and tatty tunic and the clip in his ear he guessed that this must be a slave. The man groaned and raised an arm feebly. Cato grasped his shoulders and shook him.

‘Where’s Hipparchus?’

The slave’s eyes flickered open and he tried to focus on the man looming over him. He stank of wine. Cato repeated his question with another shake for emphasis, but the man was still too dazed to think. With a hiss of frustration Cato released him and turned to Macro who was standing on the other side of the counter.

‘Search the wagon.’

Macro nodded and hurried round to the rear of the wagon where he began to undo the ties securing the opening in the leather covering.

‘What’s going on then, sir?’

Cato looked up and saw the merchant he had spoken to earlier crossing over to him.

‘Did you see anything over here last night?’

‘See anything?’

‘Anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Well, I was a bit busy trying to keep my stall from blowing away, sir. Like most of us in the camp. But there was something a bit odd, like.’

‘Tell me.’

‘That Hipparchus, he ups and harnesses a mule to his cart just before the light faded. Him and that useless slave of his. Then he heads off. What with the storm and all, I’d have thought he’d stay close and look after his business. Ain’t seen him since.’

‘You sure it was him? Hipparchus?’

The merchant nodded. ‘Recognised his cloak.’

‘Cato!’ Macro called out from the back of the wagon. ‘He’s in here!’

Cato turned away from the merchant and joined Macro at the rear of the wagon. In the gloom of the interior Cato could make out the imperial agent slumped against a rolled sleeping mat. He lay still, and for a moment Cato feared that he might be dead. Cato clambered up on to the bed of the wagon and made his way forward to the side of the body. He heard the man breathing and let out a sigh of relief.