Simon Scarrow - Britannia

That part of the letter was easy to write, and a joy to do so. What came next required much more thought, since his missives to Julia were bound to be scrutinised by an agent of Pallas, or Narcissus, or both, before they were passed into the hands of his wife. He dipped his stylus again and continued, writing that he hoped Julia was well and being careful not to permit too many visitors to their house in case they had an adverse effect on her health. That he trusted her father, the good senator, would look after her affairs while she concentrated on the well-being and raising of Lucius. He paused and read his words back to himself, trying to imagine Julia doing the same and understanding the covert warning he was attempting to convey. Not knowing who would be likely to intercept his letter, it was imperative that he did not name any names, or give any sense of who commanded his loyalties, and yet Julia had to be made aware that she was being watched. She was certainly shrewd enough to guess, and knew about his previous dealings with Narcissus. What she could not know was that Pallas’s man had made overtures to her husband, backed up with threats to his family. How to convey that without saying it vexed Cato’s weary mind, and at length he set down his stylus and sat back in his chair.

‘Fuck . . .’

A moment later, Thraxis entered and set down a steaming cup. ‘Had to get that off Centurion Crispus’s slave. I owe him a favour now. If you’d given me some coin earlier, I could have got some from one of the traders in the vicus. But-’

‘Thank you. That will be all. Go and get some sleep.’

‘Sleep? Still got the cloak to do first.’

‘Isn’t it done yet?’

Thraxis glared at him. ‘It will be done as soon as it can be done, sir.’

‘Then don’t let me stop you.’

Thraxis muttered something in Thracian as he left the tent, and Cato turned his attention back to the letter, scratching his jaw irritably.

He struggled on by the pale flame of the lamp until the oil began to run out and the flame slowly shrank. He concluded with a brief reaffirmation of his love and then signed his name and read over the letter. It was barely adequate for the purposes he intended – to state that he pined for her and to warn her to stay away from the cross-currents of politics in the capital. Nevertheless, he folded the vellum carefully and then reached for the sealing wax. He dripped it over the fold and pressed his equestrian ring into the swiftly hardening wax, leaving the impression of a mounted soldier hurling a bolt of lightning. Julia had helped him choose the symbol when he had finally been confirmed in his present rank by the emperor and entered the equestrian tier of Roman society. He caressed the seal lightly and left the letter on his desk for Thraxis to take to headquarters in the morning with instructions for the staff remaining at Viroconium to ensure that it was sent to Rome at the first opportunity. He knew that it might take as much as four months at this time of year, and offered a quick prayer to Minerva that Julia would be wise enough to steer clear of political intrigue in the interim.

Sinking down on to his wooden-framed camp bed, Cato shivered in the cold night air. He gratefully pulled up the blanket and sheepskin cover that Thraxis had left out for him, and lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling of the goatskin tent as a light shower began to patter above. His last thought before he fell asleep was of the expression on his servant’s face when he saw the inevitable mud that would result from the rain falling during the night.

He was awake an instant before Thraxis entered the tent, as if by some innate sense of the appropriate time to return to consciousness. It was still dark outside, and the rain was falling in earnest now, making the air chilly and damp as he yawned.

‘Your cloak,’ Thraxis said as he laid the folded woollen garment on the table. ‘Clean, though it might as well have been dragged through the mud instead, given the weather. Do you require food, sir?’

‘No time. You can bring me something once we set off.’ Cato stood up in his tunic and held out his arms so that Thraxis could fasten on his shoulder padding before helping him to struggle into his scale-armour shirt. The servant carefully fastened the ties that ran down the shield-arm side of the shirt, and then Cato stood still as his sword belt was placed over his head and arranged on his shoulder. Lastly there were his boots and his cape, which he fastened at his shoulder with a brooch.

‘How do I look?’

‘Like Julius Caesar himself, sir,’ Thraxis answered in a weary monotone.

‘Just as long as I don’t end up like the man.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Pack up the kit and have my cart join the main baggage train. I’ll see you in camp at the end of the day.’

Thraxis bowed his head. ‘Yes, Prefect.’

Cato eased the tent flap aside and looked out over the lines of the Blood Crows and the Fourth Cohort of legionaries. The men were already up, barely visible in the first glimmer of the coming day. Rain drizzled steadily from an overcast sky in a soft hiss as the soldiers took down their tents and carried them to the waiting carts. Cato glanced back over his shoulder.

‘And I’ll want warm, dry clothes and a fire.’

‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

‘Is a sunny countenance too much to ask for?’

Thraxis stared back bleakly.

‘Fair enough.’ Cato emerged from the tent and made his way over to his horse. One of the Thracians was holding his horse’s reins and handed them to Cato before helping him into the saddle. From his elevated position Cato looked out towards the vast sprawl of the fortress of Mediolanum and the surrounding marching camps of the units concentrated there for the campaign. Thousands of men toiled to break camp in the gloom and then form up in their marching columns, hounded into place by the bellows of their centurions and optios. The vanguard was waiting just outside the main gate, and Crispus snapped an order to stand to attention as Cato rode up to join his men. The prefect cast an eye along the ranks of legionaries before he turned to address the centurion loudly enough for all to hear.

‘The men are looking hungry for glory, Crispus.’

‘Yes, sir! Hounds straining at the leash. That’s the men of the Fourth Cohort all right.’

‘Then may the gods show mercy to the enemy, because your men surely won’t!’

Crispus grinned and drew his sword, punching it into the air as he bellowed the legion’s title: ‘ Gemina! Gemina! ’

His men instantly joined in, giving full throat to their cry, and the other soldiers of the army briefly paused and turned towards the din before continuing to break camp.

Cato smiled at the legionaries, happy to indulge their keen spirits. He gave them a salute and rode on to the head of the column where the Blood Crows sat in their saddles. The two centuries of foot auxiliaries had been assigned to protect the vanguard’s baggage train. An officer in a red military cloak was with them, together with a swarthy-looking servant on a horse laden with saddlebags.

‘You must be Tribune Livonius,’ Cato called out as he trotted up. ‘Come to chart the army’s passage through the hills and mountains.’

The officer nodded. ‘Prefect Cato?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Livonius smiled. ‘I’ve heard plenty about your exploits and those of the Blood Crows since I joined the legate’s staff. It’s an honour to serve with you.’

‘An honour?’ Cato shook his head, immediately suspicious of easy praise. ‘My men and I only do our duty and carry out our orders. No more or less than any other soldiers of Rome.’

Livonius pursed his lips with an amused expression. ‘If you say so, sir.’