The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Page 13

  ‘Your information is out of date, Decianus. She is no longer Nero’s mistress. In fact she has been sent into exile to live out her days on the finest of her properties. Near Biora, I believe.’

  ‘I know the villa. I handled the documents transferring it from the imperial holdings into her name. It’s a pity . . .’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The brigands attacked her estate shortly before we left Carales. Torched the place. There’s nothing left but ruins.’

  ‘They burned my estate down?’ Claudia’s hazel eyes stared at him intently as she sat in the shade of an awning that had been rigged over the stern of the ship. Tibula was falling astern as Persephone surged across the sea on a westerly course, driven on by a strong breeze that filled her sail in a taut bulge.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Cato confirmed.

  ‘Is there nothing left of it?’

  ‘Not according to the governor’s adviser.’

  ‘Then where am I supposed to go? What’s to become of me?’

  ‘Do you have any other property on the island?’

  She considered this for a moment and shook her head. ‘Nothing suitable. A modest villa near Tharros, that’s all.’

  ‘Then you can live there until the brigands are put in their place. Once they’ve been dealt with, your estate can be rebuilt and you can live out your exile in comfort.’

  She regarded him with disdain. ‘Are you saying I should live in something little better than a common barn until those Sardinian dogs are brought to heel? Me?’

  Cato felt a familiar irritation at the woman’s arrogance. His patience was wearing thin thanks to the mounting frustrations of his assignment.

  ‘I doubt it will come down to living in a barn.’ He was in no mood to indulge her. ‘Be satisfied you have any place at all to call your home.’

  He turned and marched away along the deck, more anxious than ever to see the voyage come to an end so that he could be rid of the infernal woman. He even felt a small measure of pity for Nero. No wonder the emperor had been persuaded to turn his mistress into an exile.

  Chapter Twelve

  The fort of the Sixth Gallic Cohort had been built on rising ground originally a quarter of a mile from the port at Tharros, but like so many long-established settlements, buildings had spilled outside the town walls and spread almost as far as the fort. There was a thin strip of bare ground before the ditch and rampart, and the closest civilian houses were within arrowshot of the walls and turrets. Only two sentries were visible as Cato and his party approached on foot. The gates were wide open and unmanned.

  ‘What the fuck are they playing at?’ Centurion Plancinus demanded. ‘An enemy could walk right by those dozy bastards and they wouldn’t blink.’

  ‘They need a kick up the arse,’ Metellus growled.

  Apollonius nodded. ‘Just as well you fellows are here to deliver it. It should make for some entertainment. A quality that appears to be rather lacking in the province, from what I’ve seen so far.’

  It was true, Cato thought. Even Tharros, the largest of the towns, boasted only the most modest of arenas, and no theatre. There was a market and a number of small taverns surrounding it, but the place had none of the bustle and edge of the streets of Rome. Even the handful of temples and bathhouses seemed neglected and underused. The large houses in the town and the villas that could be seen in the countryside nearby revealed that some enjoyed the island’s wealth, but it was likely that many of the fine homes were the property of absentee owners in Rome whose concern for the island extended no further than the profits derived from it.

  In contrast to the quiet town, the port itself was busy. Most of the ships plied their trade between the island and the coast of Hispania, while others worked the routes from the coast of Africa and Gaul. Large warehouses lined the quay. Until recently, many of them had been filled with Sardinian grain and oil ready to be exported, but due to the famine and brigandage, there was little stock left, and what remained was under guard to prevent the locals from stealing it.

  Persephone had moored at noon, and Cato had immediately led his party ashore to take charge of the garrison. Now they marched across the causeway and under the arch of the gatehouse unchallenged. Tufts of grass were growing along the foot of the gates’ timbers, proof that they had not been closed for many months. Inside the fort, the barracks and stables appeared to be well maintained, but there was little sign of activity. They could hear snatches of conversation from within and caught sight of men through open doors as they strode past, but none emerged to challenge them. The nearer of the two sentries on the wall paused to watch them for a moment and then continued his beat.

  Plancinus glanced from side to side. ‘I could take this fort single-handed,’ he muttered.

  Cato was too furious to respond, his lips pressed tightly together as the party continued in the direction of the cohort’s headquarters at the heart of the fort. Ahead of them two men in unbelted tunics emerged from between the long barrack blocks and stopped and stared at the approaching officers.

  ‘You there!’ Plancinus bellowed, thrusting his vine cane in their direction. ‘Stand to attention!’

  The auxiliaries shuffled their boots together and stood erect, shoulders back, chests out. They continued to stare at Cato and the others.

  ‘Eyes front, damn you!’ Plancinus bellowed. He trotted up to them and jerked his chin forward so that no more than a hand’s breadth separated their faces. ‘What the bloody hell do you call this state of undress? Where are your belts? Your swords?’

  As the taller of the two started to stammer some excuse, the centurion snatched a breath and shouted, ‘What’s that I smell? Wine? Wine! You stink of it. Are you drunk, soldier?’

  ‘N-no, sir. Leastways, we’ve had a drink and—’

  ‘Shut your mouth! I don’t want to have to breathe the air of whatever brothel you’ve crawled out of! Do you understand? Nod, you bastards. I swear if one of you opens his hole again, I will ram my vine cane so far down your throat you’ll be shitting splinters for a month!’

  Both men nodded quickly.

  ‘Good. Now get back to your section room and get kitted up. Next time I see you, I want you to be at the gates, and they are to be closed securely. If there is any filth on your tunic, if your helmets are not gleaming, if there is rust on your swords, then by all the gods, I’ll feed your bollocks to the first dog that trots past the gate. Got it?’

  They nodded again.

  ‘Good. Now fuck off.’

  As the two men ran back the way they had come, Plancinus turned and rejoined Cato and the others, a wicked grin on his face. ‘Start as we mean to go on, eh, sir?’

  ‘Indeed. From the look of things, we’re going to have some way to go before this cohort is ready for what’s coming.’

  They continued, passing a large wagon outside an empty workshop, beyond which was the headquarters building. A single auxiliary stood at the entrance, leaning on the shaft of his javelin as he half dozed in the bright sunshine. As he turned towards the crunch of boots on gravel, he blinked and then stood stiffly.

  Cato spared him a brief nod as he strode through the arch into the courtyard, where grass and weeds were growing in the gaps between the flagstones. Apollonius noticed his angry expression and smiled. ‘Quite the horticulturalists, aren’t they?’

  ‘I will have them on their hands and knees picking out every last blade of grass and strand of weed before the day is out,’ Cato responded sourly. ‘It’s a long time since I saw such a shambles.’

  ‘Looks like there might be some entertainment to be had here after all.’

  ‘For you maybe. Not for me, nor my officers, and certainly not for this shower of layabouts who pretend to be soldiers.’

  There were a handful of men sleeping in the shade of the colonnade running around the courtyard, and Cato turned to Plancinus and gave him a nod before entering the headquarters building. After the bright sunlight outside, the interior was gloomy, and
he paused beyond the threshold as his eyes adjusted. Behind him, Plancinus began to bawl at the sleeping men, alerting those within to turn towards the officers standing at the entrance. Cato could make out two clerks rising from their stools. A third slumbered on, head resting on folded arms as he snored. A quick prod from one of his companions caused him to stir with a grumble. Then he saw the crested helmets and hurriedly stood up.

  ‘Where’s the commander of the cohort?’ Cato demanded.

  The men glanced at each other before one of them cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Centurion Massimilianus is in his quarters, sir.’

  ‘I don’t want Massimilianus; I want to speak to Prefect Vestinus.’

  ‘The prefect’s not here, sir.’

  ‘Well, go and find him and bring him to me.’

  ‘Sir, he’s in Carales.’

  Cato sighed impatiently. ‘What is he doing there?’

  ‘That’s where he spends most of his time, sir. He only comes back to Tharros every other month.’

  ‘I see. Then go and fetch Massimilianus. Tell him his new commander wishes to speak to him. At once.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk saluted and hurried past the officers and out into the sunlight.

  Cato dismissed the rest of the clerks and then turned to Apollonius and the others. ‘Gentlemen, it seems the task before us is more challenging than I thought. We need this cohort to be ready for campaigning in the interior as swiftly as possible. While I introduce myself to Massimilianus, I want you centurions to pay a visit to each barrack block. Turn them over. Make as much noise as you can, and get the men formed up on the parade ground outside the fort. Then we’ll see what kind of material we’re working with.’ He smiled at them. ‘Off you go. Have fun, and let them be in no doubt that they’re going to have to start earning their pay from now on. Officers and men alike. Go.’

  As Plancinus and the others turned and marched out of the building, Apollonius turned to Cato. ‘What about me? What role do you intend me to play in your plans?’

  ‘Back in Rome, you told me that I had a promising career ahead of me. I’m not so sure. But if you’re right, you’re going to have to earn your place at my side, just like the men of this cohort. There will be no free rides for anyone. Including you.’

  ‘I didn’t imagine I would be given special treatment, Prefect Cato,’ Apollonius responded in a frosty tone.

  Cato felt a moment’s satisfaction that he had found a chink in the man’s armour. The smooth, unflappable persona Apollonius presented to the world masked a fierce pride and sense of integrity, it seemed. Unless, of course, he was playing another role . . .

  ‘I will have cause to deploy some of your special talents when we take the struggle to the brigands. I will be in need of a man who can move through enemy territory unnoticed and report back on their location and numbers. A man who can kill without raising the alarm. Moreover, I need you to find men you can train to develop the same skills. Can you do that?’

  Apollonius stared at him in silence and then nodded. ‘I’ve not trained other men before, but I can do it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But I will need a free hand. You must let me pick the men and train them as I see fit.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And if any of those men come to harm, I will not be held accountable. My skills are hard won. I didn’t come by them easily or painlessly. Nor will those men I choose. Some will fall along the way. Fall hard. You understand?’

  ‘I understand. It’s time we brought you into our fold and gave you an army rank. And the pay that goes with it.’

  ‘The pay I will take, but not the rank. Never the rank. I have no desire to be part of the army. I lack the necessary appetite for formal discipline and the willingness to take orders from others.’

  ‘You have taken orders from me in the past. I will need you to do the same again.’

  ‘I chose to obey your orders because they were practicable. If you had ordered me to do something foolhardy, I would have refused. No man is my master, even if they make the mistake of thinking they are.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato met his stare unflinchingly. ‘There will almost certainly be a time when I give you an order that places your life in danger. And you will obey that order.’

  ‘I have no fear of danger. Otherwise I would not have chosen the life I have. By all means order me to chart a perilous course; I will pursue it to whatever end it leads. But I will not follow a foolish order. I have come to know you well enough to understand that you are not one of those officers who play games with the lives of others. I trust your judgement, and I respect you. I do not say those things lightly, Prefect Cato.’

  Cato weighed the other man’s words carefully. It was possible that he was speaking the truth. Equally it was possible that he knew Cato well enough to attempt to appeal to his pride, but only after having won his respect, so that he might be more inclined to take praise at face value. Trying to follow the agent’s line of reasoning was starting to twist Cato’s mind and make his head hurt. Perhaps it was better to trust the man’s actions rather than his motivations. After all, in the end it was deeds not thoughts that counted. Besides, such a teleological approach to his notional subordinate was easier to cope with. By the gods, he thought, had it come to that? Had his association with Apollonius caused him to twist his words into such tortuous sentences? He refocused his mind and cleared his throat.

  ‘Very well. We understand each other.’

  A movement caught his eye and he glanced round to see the clerk hurrying across the courtyard, accompanied by a centurion who was fastening the buckle of his sword belt over his scale armour vest. He was a short, wiry man, Cato observed, his grey hair fast receding around a thin, angular face and his expressive eyes were dark. As they entered the building, he and the clerk stood to attention and saluted.

  ‘Centurion Massimilianus reporting, sir.’

  Cato wagged a finger. ‘At ease. My name is Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato. I have been appointed by the emperor to put down the brigands operating in this province. My authority exceeds that of the governor with respect to all military matters. That means that every soldier, marine and sailor on the island is answerable to me until my task has been achieved. Do you understand?’

  Massimilianus took this in and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato gestured towards Apollonius. ‘This is my, ah, master of scouts. He holds no official rank but he is to be treated as if he is a senior centurion.’

  If Centurion Massimilianus had any reservation about the role of Apollonius, he was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself and his expression neutral as he responded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Apollonius tilted his head to one side. ‘Master of scouts? That’s a title I can live with.’

  ‘Then let’s hope you survive long enough to do so.’ Cato turned his attention back to the centurion. ‘I understand you are the senior centurion of the Sixth Gallic Cohort.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I take it that Prefect Vestinus is not much of a fixture at the fort.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘From what I have already gathered, the prefect prefers to spend most of his time in Carales.’

  The centurion glanced quickly at the clerk standing beside him, but the latter continued to look fixedly ahead.

  ‘Well?’ Cato raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Vestinus has frequent business in Carales, sir. I am supposed to be in command in his absence.’

  ‘Frequent business?’ Apollonius chuckled. ‘Personal or pecuniary?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say . . . sir.’

  ‘But you do know,’ he probed. ‘Don’t you?’

  There was a silence while the centurion struggled to compose a reply that did not drop his superior in trouble. That, at least, was a quality Cato could admire. All the same, he needed to know what Vestinus’s game was in order to assess whether the prefect was going to be useful or a hindrance.

  ‘I will find out one way
or another, Massimilianus. You can either stall me now, for which I will not be forgiving, or you can tell it straight and save me wasting time having to find out for myself. What’ll it be?’

  The centurion made the decision with commendable speed. ‘The prefect bought an estate outside Carales a year back, sir. He has salt pans on his land and exports to Rome. His family lives there as well.’

  ‘Ah!’ Apollonius chuckled. ‘Pecuniary and personal. I was almost right.’

  Cato’s expression remained stern as he glared at Massimilianus. ‘Then you are the one responsible for the condition of this fort. No?’

  ‘I would be, sir, if the prefect did not insist on having me refer every decision on the running of the cohort to him in person.’ The bitterness in the man’s tone was unmistakable.

  ‘Every decision?’

  ‘I can barely take a shit without having to request permission in writing, sir.’

  Apollonius intertwined his fingers and thrust his hands down to crack the joints. ‘Clearly the prefect is a man who likes to wield effluence from afar. Doesn’t strike me as the best way of exercising his responsibilities.’

  ‘No,’ Cato said curtly. ‘It won’t do. Not at all. Clerk!’

  The man stepped forward. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Send a message to Vestinus. Tell him I want him to return to the fort at once. What’s the quickest means of getting the message to him?’

  ‘By sea, sir. Coasters come and go almost every day.’

  ‘Then draft the summons so I can attach my seal and then get it on the first vessel heading for Carales. Move!’

  The clerk scurried to his desk, pulled out a tablet and set to work. Cato strode out of the building into the courtyard. ‘Apollonius, Massimilianus, on me.’

  They fell into step as they crossed the enclosed space, baking in the sunshine. From beyond the walls of the building came the sounds of shouts and the drumming of boots.

  ‘I’ve ordered my officers to get the cohort to form up on the parade ground,’ Cato explained to the centurion.