Simon Scarrow - The Blood Crows

She eased her grip and shifted half a step away from him, with an expression of pained relief, and nodded. ‘Don’t make me wait too long, my dearest Cato.’

‘Not one day longer than necessary. I swear it.’

‘Good.’ She smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the mouth and then stepped back and gave his hands a last squeeze before straightening her back. ‘Then you must go.’

Cato took one long last look at her and then bowed his head and turned away from the senator’s house and marched along the street that led in the direction of the city gate where he would take one of the boats down the Tiber to join Macro at the port of Ostia. He looked back when he reached the end of the street and saw her there, standing at the door, and forced himself to turn and stride out of sight.

The pain of their parting had not dimmed over the long journey across the sea to Massillia and then overland to Gesoriacum where they had boarded the cargo ship for the final leg to Britannia. It felt strange to return to the island after several years. Earlier that day the cargo ship had passed the stretch of riverbank where Cato and his comrades in the Second Legion had fought their way ashore through a horde of native warriors urged on by screaming Druids hurling curses and spells at the invaders. It was a chilling reminder of what lay ahead and Cato feared that it would be some years yet before he considered it safe to send for his wife.

‘Is that it ahead? Londinium?’

Cato turned to see a slender, hard-faced old woman picking her way across the deck from the direction of the hatch leading down to the cramped passenger quarters. She wore a shawl over her head and a few strands of grey hair flickered in the breeze. Cato smiled in greeting and Macro grinned a welcome as she joined him at the side rail.

‘You’re looking much better, Mum.’

‘Of course I do,’ she said sharply, ‘now this wretched boat has stopped lurching all over the place. I thought that storm would sink us for sure. And, frankly, it would have been a mercy if it had. I have never felt so ill in my life.’

‘It was hardly a storm,’ Macro said disdainfully.

‘No?’ She nodded at Cato. ‘What do you think? You were throwing up as much as me.’

Cato grimaced. The tossing and pitching of the ship the previous night had left him in a state of utter misery, curled up in a ball as he vomited into a wooden tub beside his cot. He disliked sea voyages in the Mediterranean at the best of times. The wild sea off the coast of Gaul was pure torture.

Macro sniffed dismissively. ‘Barely blowing a gale. And good, fresh air at that. Put some salt back into my lungs.’

‘While taking out absolutely everything from your guts,’ his mother replied. ‘I’d rather die than go through that again. Anyway, best not to remember. As I was saying, is that Londinium over there?’

The others turned to follow the direction she indicated and gazed at the distant buildings lining the northern bank of the Tamesis. A wharf had been constructed with great timber piles driven into the river bed, supporting the cross-beams packed with stones and earth and finally paved. Several cargo ships were already moored alongside and as many others were anchored a short distance upriver, waiting for their turn to unload their freight. On the wharf, chain gangs were busy carrying goods from the holds of ships into the long low warehouses. Beyond them other buildings spread out, many still under construction as the new town took shape. A hundred paces back from the riverbank they could make out the second storey of a large complex rising above the other buildings. That would be the basilica, Cato realised, site of the market, courts, shops, offices and administrative headquarters of towns that Rome founded.

‘That’s Londinium all right,’ the captain answered as he joined his passengers. ‘Growing faster than an abscess on the backside of a mule. And just as vile.’

‘Oh?’ Macro’s mother frowned.

‘Why yes, Miss Portia. The place is a rat-hole. Narrow streets, filled with mud, cheap drinking joints and knocking shops. It’ll be a while yet before it settles down and becomes the kind of town you’re used to.’

She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’

The captain frowned at her and Macro let out a laugh.

‘She’s come here to go into business.’

The captain scrutinised the old woman. ‘What kind of business?’

‘I intend to open an inn,’ she replied. ‘There’s always a need for drink, and other comforts, at the end of a sea voyage, and I dare say that Londinium sees plenty of merchants, sailors and soldiers passing through its gates. All good customers for the kind of services I will offer.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of business, all right,’ the captain nodded. ‘But it’s a hard life. Even harder in a new province like this. The kind of merchants who make their fortunes here are tough men. They won’t take kindly to a Roman woman trying to compete with them.’

‘I dealt with tough men at the inn I owned in Ravenna. I doubt the locals here will cause me any difficulty. Particularly when they find out my son happens to be a senior centurion of the Fourteenth Legion.’ She took Macro’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Anyone messes about with my mum and they mess with me. And that hasn’t worked out well for anyone who has tried it in the past.’

The captain took in the muscular physique of the stocky Roman officer and the scars on his face and arms and could believe it.

‘Even so, why would you come here, ma’am? You’d be more comfortable setting up back in Gesoriacum. Plenty of trade there.’

Portia pursed her lips. ‘This is where the real money can be made, by those who get stuck in quickly. Besides, this boy is all I have in the world now. I want to be as close to him as I can. Who knows, when he gets his discharge, he could join me in the business.’

Macro’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. All the wine and women that a man could want, under one roof!’

Portia swatted his arm. ‘On second thoughts. . You soldiers are all the same. Anyway, I will make my fortune here in Londinium, and this is where I will stay until the end of my days. It’s up to you what you do with your life, Macro. But I’ll be remaining here. This is my last home.’

With a steady rhythm the cargo ship approached the wharf. As they neared the town, those on board caught their first whiff of the place, an acrid, peaty, sewage smell that mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and caught in their throats.

‘There might be something to be said for sea air after all,’ Cato muttered as he wrinkled his nose.

There was no mooring space along the wharf and the captain gave the order to steer for the end of the line of vessels anchored further upriver. He turned apologetically to his passengers.

‘It’ll be a while before our turn comes. You’re welcome to stay on board, or I’ll have some of my boys row you ashore in the skiff.’

Cato eased himself up from the side rail and adopted the military manner he had learned from Macro, standing tall and being decisive. ‘We’ll go ashore. The centurion and I need to report to the nearest military authority as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The captain knuckled his forehead, instantly aware that the informalities of the voyage had passed. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

He was as good as his word and by the time the anchor splashed down into the current and the crew shipped the oars, the kitbags of the two officers and the chests and bags belonging to Portia had been carried up from the hold. The skiff, a small blunt-bowed craft with a wide beam, was lowered over the side and two oarsmen nimbly leaped down and offered their hands up to assist the passengers. There was only space for the three of them; their belongings would have to be ferried ashore separately. Cato was the last and as he stepped down into the flimsy craft he frantically waved his arms to retain his balance, before sitting heavily on a thwart. Macro shot him a weary look and tutted and then the oarsmen pulled on their blades and the skiff headed towards the wharf. Now that they were closer to Londinium they could see that the surface of the river was streaked with sewage running from the drain outlets along the wharf. In the still water trapped by the wharf lay lengths of broken timber amid the other flotsam, and rats scurried from piece to piece, scavenging for anything edible. A set of wooden steps rose from the river at one end of the wharf and the oarsmen made for them. When they were alongside, the nearest man snatched his oar in and reached to grasp the slimy hawser that acted as a fender. He held on while his friend slipped a looped line over the mooring post.