Simon Scarrow - Under The Eagle

Lavinia nodded.

'And you didn't take anything from the tent?'

'No, master.'

'And you didn't see anything or anybody while you were there?'

'No, master.'

'I see. Here.' He pushed the ribbon towards her and leaned back in his chair, while he considered her claims. She might be telling the truth or she might tell an altogether different tale if a little physical persuasion was applied. But almost as quickly as the thought of torture entered his head, Vespasian dismissed it. He did not doubt its efficacy in loosening tongues, it was just that he had seen too many victims offer up the version of events they knew their tormentors required of them. Hardly an effective way of finding out what had really happened. A new tack was required.

'You've only recently joined the household, according to my wife.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Who did you belong to before then?'

'Tribune Plinius, master.'

'Plinius!' Vespasian's eyebrows shot up. That changed things. What was a former slave of Plinius doing in his household? An agent? A spy trying to gain access to his safe-box? Yet, looking at her, it was hard to imagine that she could manage the guile required for the job. Another facade? It was impossible to tell at this stage.

'Why did Plinius sell you?'

'He grew tired of me.'

'You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe.'

'It's true, master,' Lavinia protested.

'There must be more to it than that. Speak up, girl, and mind it's the truth.'

'There is more, master,' Lavinia admitted and bowed her head, as Flavia had told her to do, before she continued. 'The tribune wanted to use me… in certain ways.'

I bet he did, thought Vespasian.

'But he wanted more than that, he wanted me to have feelings for him. I couldn't bring myself to and he grew angry with me. And when he discovered I loved someone else he flew into a rage and hit me.'

Vespasian tutted in sympathy. 'And who might this other person be, the one you loved?'

'Please, master,' Lavinia looked up, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. 'I don't want to say.'

'You have to tell me, Lavinia.' Vespasian leaned forward to pat her arm comfortingly. 'I must know who this other man is. It's vital that I know. I can command you to tell me.'

'Vitellius!' she blurted out, and broke down in tears, clutching her hands to her face.

Vitellius. So she loved Vitellius. Enough to do his bidding? A further thought struck Vespasian.

'Have you been seeing Vitellius since you joined our household?'

'Master?'

'You heard me. Are you still seeing him?'

She nodded.

'Did you see him last night? In my tent?'

Lavinia looked up at him with a shocked expression and shook her head.

'But you were planning to. Weren't you?'

'He never turned up, master. I waited, but he never came to me, as he had promised. I waited in the dark and he never came. So I went to bed. I never noticed the ribbon was missing until this morning.'

'I see. Did Vitellius ever ask you to tell him anything about me? Did he ask you anything about my household?'

'We talked,' Lavinia replied carefully. 'But I can't remember much of what we said about my lady Flavia and you, master.'

'And he never asked you to steal, or borrow, anything from my tent?'

'No, master. Never.'

Vespasian stared into her eyes for a long time, trying to determine if she spoke the truth. Lavinia just stared frankly back at him, until she could no longer meet his gaze and stared down at her feet instead. Certainly her story had the ring of truth. But if she still loved Vitellius it was conceivable that she might be persuaded to steal for him, or arrange access to the general's tent so that the senior tribune could steal the secret scroll after she had given up on him and gone to bed.

'You may go now, Lavinia.' Vespasian waved his hand. 'But I want you to remember this: if Vitellius ever asks you for any information about me again, or arranges another meeting, I want to know about it. And I warn you, the consequences of not telling me the truth from now on will be very painful. Very painful indeed. Do we understand one another?'

'Yes, master.'

'Good. Now leave me.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

'So how did it go?' Flavia asked Lavinia that evening as they waited for the tents to be erected.

'I think he believed me, mistress. But why did I have to say that I was meeting Vitellius in the tent that night?'

'Would you rather have told him the truth and got Cato involved?'

'No, mistress. Of course not.'

'Well then, if we're to keep Cato out of the frame we need to put someone else into it. Vitellius fits the bill nicely. Very nicely indeed.'

Lavinia glanced at her mistress in surprise. Clearly there was more to this than simply saving Cato's skin. The pleased expression on Flavia's face as she idly watched the legionaries struggling with the guy ropes went beyond relief for saving the young optio and Lavinia could not help wondering if she, and Cato, might well be small pieces in a deeper game. Flavia suddenly switched her gaze to the slave girl.

'You must remember to stick to the story we agreed, Lavinia. Stick to that and we're all safe, understand? But don't ask me for any further explanations. The less you know, the more honest you will appear. Trust me.'

'Yes, mistress.'

The Sixth century marched through lush Gaul countryside bursting with the fresh buds of spring. The legionaries joked and chatted happily – with occasional raucous bursts of lewd singing to while away the day. And this mode persisted despite the pace that Macro had set, for he was eager to reach his destination as soon as possible and offload the imperial secretary before the latter tempted Macro to some act of violence. Narcissus had lost no opportunity to make barbed comments about the army in general, and its soldiers and Macro in particular. The centurion would dearly have loved to smack the smug bastard in the mouth just once, to emphasise the fact that you simply did not behave in such a fashion: 'When in Rome do as the Romans do, but when you're in the army keep your mouth shut and show some fucking respect.'

He smiled at the thought but knew it could never be voiced aloud, let alone face to face with a close friend and confidante of the Emperor. And so he had to sullenly endure the sarcasm and criticism in apparent good spirit – the fate of all those exposed to insecure arrivistes. Cato fared somewhat better at the hands of their tormentor since their common background provided a basis for conversation, even though Narcissus made it perfectly clear that, whatever the past, a huge social gulf now existed between them. Fortunately, the only opportunity for conversation occurred at rests in the march and at the end of the day when the century camped for the night. In between, Macro and Cato led the column from the front, though a smoother-tongued, more ambitious officer would have marched by the imperial secretary's litter to engage him in conversation and use every opportunity for flattery. After the first day, Macro insisted that he inspect his troop's equipment at each break in the march. The men regarded this zealous display of duty with curiosity, silently shaking their heads as the centurion tugged at equipment straps and checked that their weapons were being properly maintained.

On the evening of the third day of their escort duty Macro calculated that they would reach the coast the following evening, thanks to the extended length of the marching day that had been possible for the small formation. If they started just before dawn and really pushed the pace they should make the main body of the army by nightfall.

'Very good, Centurion.' Narcissus nodded approvingly. 'And an arrival in the darkness will attract less attention. That would be better in the present circumstances.'