Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (38 page)

‘Here, Optio. Look at this.’ The orderly handed him the bandages. ‘Not a scratch on his leg but some strange black marks on that bandage.’

Cato went over to the side of the tent where a rough bench had been erected and slowly sat down, gazing at the curious lines and curves on one side of the cloth. He could make no sense of them. He tucked the bandage inside his tunic, deciding that it needed closer inspection by daylight.

He looked up at the body on the table. Nisus’ face was serene and restful now that the strain of dying was over. What had he been up to these last few days?

Cato became aware of a new presence in the tent. Tribune Vitellius had entered so quietly that no one had noticed. He stood in the shadows by the tent flap and gazed at the body. For a moment he did not notice Cato and the optio could see anxiety and frustration playing across the tribune’s face. Anxiety and frustration - but not grief. Then Vitellius saw him and frowned.

‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on duty.’

‘I brought Nisus in, sir.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘One of my sentries caught him trying to cross our lines. He didn’t answer the challenge, and when he made a run for it the sentry took him down with a javelin.’

‘That’s bad luck,’ Vitellius muttered, and then more loudly, ‘Very bad luck. We didn’t get a chance to interrogate him and find out what he’s been playing at since he disappeared from the camp. Did he have a chance to say anything before the end?’

‘Nothing that made any sense, sir.’

‘I see,’ the tribune said quietly. He sounded almost relieved. ‘Well, you’d best get back to your unit, straight away.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato stood up and exchanged salutes with the tribune.

Outside the sweltering heat of the tent, the air felt cool and moist; dawn was not far off. Cato marched towards the gate, keen to get away from Vitellius as quickly as possible.

Inside the tent, Vitellius made his way over to the body, now being rubbed down with scented oils by the two orderlies, ready for cremation. The tribune ran his eyes over Nisus before turning to his clothes and carefully sifting through them.

‘Looking for something, sir?’

‘No, just wondering if you’d found anything… unusual on him.’

‘No, sir, nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘I see.’ Vitellius scratched his chin and scrutinised the orderly’s expression. ‘Well, if you do find anything unusual, anything at all, bring it to me immediately.’

After the tribune had left, the other orderly turned to his mate. ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the bandage?’

‘What bandage?’

‘The one that we found on him.’

‘Well, it ain’t here now. Besides,’ the orderly paused to spit into the corner of the tent, ‘I don’t get involved in anything that involves officers. I tell him about the bandage and immediately I’m involved in something. Get it?’

‘Too right.’

Chapter Forty-Four

At dawn the watches at the forts changed and Cato led his half-century back down the slope to the camp. The strain of the night watch was over, and the men were looking forward to spending the day resting, especially as the army would soon be on the move. All the rigours of marching with fully loaded yokes and packs, constructing marching camps and eating endless meals of millet porridge would begin again.

Although the clear sky promised another perfect day, Cato could not share their light mood this morning. Nisus was dead. Warfare was wasteful enough of human life without adding to its toll by accident. What made the death of Nisus even harder to bear were the mysterious circumstances of his earlier disappearance. If he had been killed in battle then that would have been sad but not unexpected. But something was very wrong about this death, and his recent actions made Calo suspicious. He needed to know more, and right now the only clue he had was the strangely marked bandage tucked inside his tunic. He firmly believed that the solution to the mystery somehow lay with Vitellius. The tribune had worked on Nisus, changed him and made him complicit in whatever treachery Vitellius might be planning.

Cato had to speak to someone. Someone he could trust, who would take his suspicions seriously. Macro might ridicule his fears, or just as easily charge in with some formal complaint against the tribune. It had to be someone else.. Lavinia. Of course. He would find her, take her to some peaceful place away from the camp, and open his heart to her.

He stripped off his armour and weapons, scrubbed the dried splashes of blood from his face and hands, and put on a fresh tunic.

As he crossed the bridge, he noted the frantic activity of the camp on the south bank; the army was preparing to move on to the offensive. Cato had to pick his way through the massed baggage of the imperial entourage and the Praetorian Guard. Unlike the camp on the other bank, this one was filled with a sense of eager anticipation, as if the army was about to lay on a spectacular military display rather than go out and fight a determined and dangerous enemy. The wagons of the imperial court were heaped with expensive furniture that had never been designed to leave the luxurious boudoirs of Rome and had suffered a battering as a result. There were huge chests of clothes, musical instruments, ornamental dinner services, and a plethora of other luxuries all attended by expensive household slaves who travelled badly. The wagons of the Praetorian Guard cohorts were piled high with ceremonial uniforms and equipment, in readiness for the Emperor’s spectacular victory celebration at Camulodunum.

Cato threaded his way out of the wagon park and headed for the enclosure used by the Emperor’s entourage. A large gate connected it to the main camp, although only one of the large timber doors was open. The gate was manned by a dozen Praetorians in campaign whites and full armour. As Cato approached the open door, the guards on either side crossed their spears.

‘Purpose of your visit?’

‘To see a friend. Handmaid to the Lady Flavia Domitilla.’

‘Do you have a pass signed by the chief secretary?’

‘No.’

‘No entry then.’

‘Why?’

‘Orders.’

Cato glared at the guards, who stood at attention staring casually back, quite unfazed. Cato knew that there would be no talking his way through. The men of the Praetorian Guard were experts at gate-keeping and obeyed orders to the letter. Shouting abuse would be a waste of breath, Cato decided. Added to which, the guard who had addressed him had the physique of a gladiator; he was not the kind of man he wished to be confronted by if ever they met off duty.

Cato turned and strolled into the wagon park. Amid the confusion of soldiers, clerks and household slaves, he ran his eyes over the outside of the enclosure surrounding the imperial entourage. A number of the wagons had already been packed and dragged to one side, close to the palisade. One wagon in particular caught his attention: a heavy four-wheeled affair piled high with brightly decorated leather tents, folded and tied down. The load was so high that it stood level with the top of the palisade. Cato made his way round the wagon park so that he could approach the wagons out of sight of the guards. After quickly checking to make sure that no one was watching him, he slipped between the packed wagons and worked his way over to the one carrying the tents. He clambered up and lay flat on the top, only raising his head to peer over the palisade and into the enclosure of the Emperor’s travelling companions.

Out of sight of the army, the social elite of Rome made camp with the smallest of concessions to the hardships of campaigning. Huge tents sprawled across the enclosure, and through the openings of those tents facing him Cato could see ornately tiled flooring and expensive furniture within. Some members of the imperial court had awnings erected outside their tents and they reclined on upholstered benches, waited upon by the slaves they had brought with them from the city. The centre of the enclosure had been left open to serve as a social space, but the intensity of the previous night’s partying meant it was almost empty. Cato looked carefully at the few figures visible but none of them was Lavinia. So he lay on top of the wagon and waited, sometimes nearly dozing off in the sun’s warm glow. Every time a female figure emerged from a tent, Cato raised his head and strained his eyes to see if it was Lavinia.

Then at last, not far from where he lay, a tent flap was flicked open and a slender woman in a diaphanous green gown stepped stiffly into the shadow of the awning. She stretched out her arms and yawned, before moving into the sunlight where Cato could see the jet-black tresses of her hair. He was filled with a heady sense of lightness. For a moment he watched Lavinia, drinking in her every movement as she leaned back against the post supporting the front of the awning, and tipped her face up towards the sun.

Then she scratched her backside and turned to go back into the tent.

Cato began to rise, desperate that she should see him and not disappear after such a tantalisingly brief appearance. If she caught sight of him, he might be able to indicate that they could meet outside the enclosure. Cato raised his hand, and was about to wave when a movement at the periphery of his vision attracted his attention.

Through the gate of the enclosure strode Tribune Vitellius. The chill that Cato always experienced at the sight of the man returned to him instantly, as with sickening inevitability the tribune walked straight towards Lavinia, who had her back to him and was unaware of his approach. Vitellius stalked up to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She spun round with a start. Cato rose to his knees, ready to rush to her rescue without regard to the impossibility of reaching her in the heavily guarded enclosure. He raised his hands to call out but before he could utter a sound he was suddenly pulled by his feet with great force off the top of the wagon. He tumbled down the side and landed heavily on the ground, the breath driven out of him. A pair of boots thudded down by his face, and in an instant later Cato hauled up,gasping for air like a stranded fish.

‘And what the fuck d’you think you’re up to, my lad?’

Cato recognised the face of the Praetorian Guardsman from the enclosure gate, He tried to reply, but the lack of breath in his lungs caused him to wheeze instead.

‘Refusing to answer, eh? Well then, let’s see if my centurion can loosen your tongue and maybe a few teeth while he’s at it.’

The guard twisted his fist into Cato’s hair and half pulled, half dragged him across the wagon park towards the headquarters tent. The slaves and legionaries packing the remaining wagons paused to watch the unedifying spectacle. Some laughed and Cato felt himself colour at the shame of being seen to be treated like some naughty schoolboy.

Chapter Forty-Five

‘All ready?’ General Plautius glanced round. The last officers were forming up on one side of the route leading from the bridge into the main camp. ‘Right then, give the signal.’

Sabinus nodded to the staff tribune in charge of communications, who shouted a quick order to the assembled bucinas and cornicens to ready their brass instruments. A short pause as air was sucked in and lips pursed, then on the mental count of three an ear-splitting note blared out across the river. Despite being battle-trained, the staff horses shied uneasily at the noise and the carefully ordered ranks of senior officers were momentarily disrupted. On the far side of the bridge the brass instruments of the Praetorian Guard cohorts acknowledged the signal.

‘Here we go,’ Plautius muttered.

The white figures of the front ranks of Praetorians emerged from the other camp and with perfect parade-ground precision they marched out onto the bridge in military step. Highly polished bronze helmets glittered in the bright morning sunshine, in vivid contrast to the dark clouds creeping up from the south. The air was still and humid before the coming storm.

‘I do wish they wouldn’t march in step,’ grumbled the prefect of engineers. ‘It’s not good for my bridge. Any fool knows that troops should break step when crossing a bridge.’

‘And destroy the aesthetic effect?’ Vespasian replied. Narcissus wouldn’t stand for it. Just pray that he doesn’t require the elephants to march in step. The engineer started in alarm at the prospect, then relaxed as he reaised the legate was being ironic. ‘The last thing we need is a truncated campaign,’ quipped Vitelius and the senior officers winced.

The long white column extended along the bridge like a huge caterpillar,until at length its head reached the north bank and began marching up the slope towards the main gate.

‘Eyes…right!’ barked out the senior centurion as he led his men past the general and his staff. With neat timing the Praetorians snapped their heads round, while the right-hand markers kept looking ahead to ensure the line stayed properly dressed. General Plautius solemnly saluted as each century marched smartly by.

On the far side of the main gate the rest of the army was formed up ready to advance on the enemy. The Praetorian cohorts would lead the thmst into enemy territory. Their privileged position at the head of the line of march meant that the dust kicked up by the passage of thousands of nailed boots would not choke their throats or soil their brilliant white tunics and shields. At the far end of the bridge a small gap appeared in the column, and then a rippling hedge of scarlet and gold appeared as the anny’s standards marched out. Behind and towering above them came the first of the elephants, richly adorned and carrying the Emperor.