Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18) Read online

  ‘Is anything worrying you, sir?’

  Cato looked up and saw Petronella watching him closely. He forced a smile and shrugged. ‘Nothing more than the usual burdens of command. Is there anything more I can do to help you prepare for tomorrow?’

  ‘You’ve already done more than enough. Without your loan, it wouldn’t be much of a celebration. Not that Macro would mind. You know what he’s like, doesn’t appreciate all the fuss. It’s just that I wanted to give him a day to remember, sir. Just like your late wife wanted you to have, I imagine.’

  Cato’s lips pressed together as he stared past Petronella at the hunting scene painted on the plaster of the wall behind her. He recalled his own wedding day clearly enough. It had been a simple affair, but it had seemed perfect at the time. Only later had he discovered that Julia had been unfaithful to him while he had been away fighting in Britannia. Now the memory of his wedding mocked him.

  Petronella leaned forward earnestly, misreading the change in his expression. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I am sure Macro and I will be able to repay you soon enough. He says he’s got plenty saved with a banker in Rome.’

  Cato chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about that. The loan is the very least I could do to help. I offered the money as a gift, but Macro insisted that it be a loan. I owe you both more than any man can ever repay. You for raising Lucius, after his mother died. And Macro for . . . well, making me what I am today. I owe him my life. He’s got me out of more difficult situations than I care to remember. So don’t worry about paying back the money in a hurry. I can survive without it.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, sir. But we’ll do right by you, and your son.’

  ‘I know you will. Just tell me that you haven’t been too caught up in preparing for tomorrow to forsake making us something good for dinner.’ Cato rubbed his hands together. ‘It’ll be Macro’s last feast as a single man after all.’

  Petronella rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t remind me! I keep getting those comments about surrendering his freedom, being manacled, giving up on other women . . .’

  ‘Trust me, there are no other women in his eyes. Not now that he has you.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ She blushed slightly and flapped her hands. ‘Anyway. Dinner. Yes, I’ll prepare something special.’

  ‘Bloody delicious!’ Macro announced as he pushed his samianware dish away and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He looked across the garden dining table at Petronella with admiration. They were eating in the coolness of twilight as swifts darted through the air feasting on insects. ‘Well now, that’s sealed the deal for me. I’m definitely marrying you.’

  ‘As if there was ever any doubt,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Seriously,’ Macro continued, ‘if you can produce a meal like that . . .’

  ‘I had some help,’ Petronella admitted. ‘One of your men, Hirtius. He used to be a cook in a senator’s household, he tells me.’

  Macro’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Oh? And since when did you swap cooking tips with the rankers?’

  ‘Tarsus isn’t that big a city. I ran into him when I was buying herbs in the market. You don’t often see a soldier buying cooking ingredients, so we got talking. He told me there was a dish you liked on campaign last year, so I got him to share the recipe.’

  ‘Last year?’ Macro frowned.

  ‘The goat dish,’ Cato prompted. ‘The night there was a fight between one of our men and the Armenian.’

  ‘I remember . . . Poor Glabius. He deserved a better death.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato nodded sadly.

  There was a brief silence as they recalled the man Cato had been forced to execute for killing one of their allies.

  Petronella cleared her throat and waved her spoon at Lucius. ‘I saw that, young man!’

  Lucius started, and then affected a wide-eyed look of innocence. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘I told you before, no feeding that mangy beast at the table. I saw you slip it your last piece of meat.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  She gestured towards the dog sitting on its haunches at the boy’s side. Cassius’s pink tongue swept round his muzzle before he used it to give Lucius a nudge.

  ‘He’s hungry,’ said Lucius.

  ‘He’s always hungry. He’s a dog. Eating’s the only thing he ever thinks about.’ Petronella gave an exasperated sigh and shook her head. ‘Surrounded by men and beasts, not that there’s much difference. What’s a poor girl to do? Anyway, it’s time for you to go to bed, my boy. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow, and you’ll need your sleep. More to the point, I need you to sleep. Say goodnight.’

  ‘But it’s early!’ Lucius protested. ‘And I’m five years old. Let me stay up. Please.’

  ‘No. But if you’re good and do as you are told, I’ll tell you a story after I’ve tucked you in.’

  Lucius swung his legs over the bench and hurried round to Macro, giving him a hug. ‘Goodnight, Uncle Macro.’

  ‘Sleep well, soldier!’ Macro beamed as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

  Lucius wriggled free and went to his father. Cato smiled fondly, even though there was already no mistaking the curve of the jaw his son had inherited from his mother. It made Cato’s heart ache with longing, laced with bitter betrayal. He leaned forward to kiss Lucius on the crown of his head. ‘Off to bed with you. Be good for Petronella, or I’ll have Macro place you on fatigues for the rest of the month.’

  Lucius laughed with delight at being treated like one of his father’s soldiers. He stamped his feet together and saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato struggled to keep a stern expression as he returned the salute. ‘Dismissed!’

  Once Petronella had ushered the boy away from the table and the two officers were alone in the garden, Macro grinned. ‘He’s a fine boy. And he’ll be a fine man one day, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s been good to be able to spend this last year with him. Once Corbulo leads us into Parthia, I won’t see Lucius again for a while. Same goes for you and Petronella.’ Cato reached for the wine jug and topped up their cups. ‘She can’t be happy about that.’

  ‘She’s not,’ Macro responded. ‘If she’d had her way, I’d have taken my discharge by now. So I’ve told her this is my last campaign.’ He raised his cup and took a sip. ‘Once it’s over, I’m leaving the army.’

  ‘I wondered if that was what would happen,’ said Cato. ‘The lads and I will miss you, of course.’

  ‘Bollocks they will. They’ll be pleased as fuck to have me off their backs.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a stickler for a good turnout on parade, and you don’t miss a detail, it’s true. But they respect you. I know they do. And why wouldn’t they? Can’t be many centurions in the army who have a record like yours. Gives the lads confidence to follow a man into battle who they know will be the first into the fight and the last out.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘There are plenty of good centurions around. You’ll find someone to replace me easily enough, lad.’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ve served long enough to know that the likes of you are a very rare breed indeed, brother. Truly, it’ll be a sad day when you take your discharge.’

  They sat quietly for a moment as the last of the light began to fade and the sky above the roof tiles took on a maroon hue. One star already gleamed overhead. The sounds of voices and the rumble of a cart in the street outside carried on the air.

  ‘Have you given any thought to what you and Petronella will do when you leave the army?’

  Macro nodded. ‘We’ve talked about it. There’s no way I’m settling down as a farmer on whatever patch of swamp some clerk at the palace allocates me. I’ll take money instead. Then we’ll make for Britannia.’

  ‘I thought you hated the place.’

  ‘I hate campaigning there. Freezing in winter, and wet in what passes for summer. And the natives are an
ugly bunch who I wouldn’t trust any further than I could spit. As for those crazy Druid bastards . . . fanatics, the lot of them. You’d think they’d have appreciated the benefits of being part of the Empire by now.’

  Cato clicked his tongue. ‘You’re not selling me on the notion of Britannia as a choice place to retire and enjoy the rest of your life with your bride.’

  ‘Oh, it’s peaceful enough where we’ve managed to subdue the buggers and make them realise that we’re there to stay. As long as we have loyal tribes like the Atrebates, the Trinovantes and the Iceni at our backs, we’re safe enough. And there’s still good money to be made in Londinium if we get in quick. My mother’s doing well out of that inn we bought together, so we’ll join her in the business and make a go of it. As long as I get the chance to sample the wares and spend time swapping stories with passing soldiers, I’ll be happy enough.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  Macro considered his prospects for a moment and then drained his cup. ‘Yes, I do. I love the army. It’s been my life. But a man can’t stay a soldier for ever. Not if he’s going to do the job properly. I can feel my limbs stiffening, lad. I’m not as fast or as strong as I once was, and it will only get worse from now on. Better I quit before I let myself or the men down. I’d rather be remembered the way I am now, not as some wizened old crock who can’t even keep up with the bloody stragglers. So one last campaign and then I’m done, and me and the wife will make a new life for ourselves in Londinium. Assuming she and my mother can see eye to eye.’

  Cato had met Macro’s mother some years before. A formidable woman indeed. He smiled wryly. Now that he thought about it, there were many qualities she and Petronella shared. That might work well for Macro’s dreams of domestic bliss, or it might equally be the cause of bitter conflict. It would be fascinating to hear how the two women in his life got on. Or didn’t.

  ‘Well, Centurion, I truly hope you find the peace and happiness you and Petronella deserve. Of course, she’s going to have to break the news to Lucius.’

  ‘Not for a year or two yet, I expect. By which time he’ll be old enough to cope.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Cato replied doubtfully. Petronella had served as the boy’s nurse from his earliest months. She was more like a mother to him, in truth. It would be a hard parting for his son.

  ‘Besides,’ Macro continued, ‘you’ll find another woman for yourself soon enough. You’re a good prospect.’

  He picked up the wine jug and gave it a slight swirl. It was almost empty. He shared what was left between them and raised his cup.

  ‘A toast to our final campaign together. May Mars crush our enemies and may Fortuna fill our coffers with loot.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  They drained their cups, but Cato felt little cheer at the prospect of the end of the coming campaign. Lucius might be losing someone he had come to regard as a mother, but Cato was losing someone who had been as a brother and father to him. And when the moment came, it would be impossible not to grieve. He tried to shake off the morose thought. He had no right to begrudge Macro the happiness that Petronella had brought to his life. It was an unworthy sentiment, and he resolved to share his friend’s joy in full measure when the pair were married the next day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  From first light the household was consumed by frenzied activity. Petronella was awake and dressed as a pink hue stretched across the eastern horizon. A quick dig in the ribs was enough to stir Macro into wakefulness, though not without some surly grumbling and rubbing of eyes.

  ‘Up you get, lover,’ she greeted him cheerfully. ‘There’s some barley gruel in the kitchen to set you up for the day. First thing, go down to the forum and get your hair cut, and then pick up the tunic and toga from the fuller opposite the bathhouse. Make sure he’s done a good job and pay him four sestertians, and not an as more. You can order the bread on the way back to the house. Tell the baker I want it here no later than noon. Oh, and don’t forget the sow.’

  ‘Sow?’ Macro looked bewildered.

  ‘For the sacrifice. It’s on the list.’ She handed him a waxed tablet with her clumsy writing detailing the loaves and pastries required, as well as the ceremonial spelt cake. She arched an eyebrow. ‘Any questions?’

  Macro stretched his shoulders and winced as a joint cracked. ‘Fuck, I thought I was supposed to be the one giving orders.’ He coughed to clear the phlegm at the back of his throat, then stood up and saluted. ‘No, sir. Anything else, sir?’

  Petronella cocked her head to one side and wagged a finger. ‘Less of your cheek, my man. Or you’ll be remembering your wedding night for all the wrong reasons.’ She made an underhand clenching gesture.

  ‘Ouch.’ Macro winced. ‘As you command, my lady love.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ She bent over him and kissed him on the forehead. Macro made a quick fumble for her backside and she retreated and slapped his hand away. ‘No time for that. There’s work to be done. On your feet, soldier!’

  Macro swung his feet down onto the floor and yawned. ‘And what will my beloved be doing while I am attending to her list, I wonder?’

  She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, and frowned. ‘Your beloved will be feeding Master Lucius, getting him scrubbed, combed and dressed. She will then be arranging the tables and benches in the garden, baking pies, pastries and honeyed rolls, roasting a dozen chickens and several joints of lamb, and frying sausages. Then she will be cutting up all the cooked meat and arranging it in trays and dishes. After that, she’ll be setting up the flowers and wreaths around the trellises, sweeping the flagstones and scrubbing the bird shit off the rim of the fountain. And once that’s done, she might take a short breather before she bathes, has her hair dressed for the wedding and makes herself smile sweetly when the guests start to arrive. Satisfied?’ Without waiting for a response, she turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘Sweet Jupiter, Best and Greatest, I only asked . . .’

  When Cato rose a little later on, the silversmith’s house was filled with the clatter of dishes, the scrape of furniture being moved, and chatter and laughter, intercut with Petronella’s loud voice giving instructions and answering questions. There was something in her tone that indicated it might be best if Cato avoided his usual routine of ambling into the kitchen to request his breakfast and a freshly cleaned tunic.

  Instead, he put on his clothes from the previous day and warily made his way past the kitchen and into the atrium. There he found Lucius sitting on the edge of the impluvium, kicking his feet in the shallow water. He was dressed in his best tunic, a finely spun cotton garment dyed a deep blue. His hair was neatly combed and oiled, with ringlets arranged around the fringe. He raised a hand to scratch his head and then pulled it away sharply as he heard his father’s footsteps.

  ‘Under orders not to touch your hair, eh?’ Cato grinned.

  Lucius nodded indignantly. ‘Petronella said there would be blood if I messed it up. I don’t like her when she’s like this.’

  ‘It’ll pass. She has a lot to organise today. Once it’s all ready, she’ll be nice Petronella again, I promise.’

  Lucius looked doubtful. ‘She’s like a Fury, Father. You know, those ladies from the story you told me.’

  ‘I shall have to be careful what stories I tell you in future.’ Cato shot him a quick look. ‘You didn’t say that to her, did you?’

  Lucius shook his head, and Cato sighed in relief.

  ‘I’m hungry, Father.’

  ‘Hungry? Haven’t you had any breakfast?’

  The boy shook his head and his little shoulders slumped. ‘She forgot. And when I started to ask, she got cross and told me to wait here. That was ages ago. So I’m hungry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Cato glanced round. Petronella’s voice had risen to a shriek as she berate
d one of the women she had hired to help her for the day.

  He crouched down on his haunches in front of Lucius and spoke quietly. ‘I think it might be best if we went out and got our own breakfast. How does that sound?’

  Lucius looked up, his dark eyes bright with pleasure. ‘Can we go to the Cup of Croesus, Father?’

  Cato was taken aback at the suggestion. The chop house was a favourite amongst the soldiers billeted in Tarsus, thanks to its cheap food and wine, cheaper women and raucous atmosphere. ‘How do you know about that place?’

  ‘Uncle Macro and Petronella took me.’

  ‘Really?’

  The boy nodded. ‘It was fun.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Please, Father!’ Lucius rubbed his stomach. ‘I am so hungry.’

  ‘Oh, very well then. Let’s go.’

  They left the house and closed the door quietly behind them. The street was already busy with people mostly heading towards the city’s main market. A few mule-drawn carts rattled in amongst the pedestrians, and Cato took his son’s hand to make sure he could guide him safely and not lose him in the crowd. Fortunately Lucius was young enough not to be self-conscious, and Cato felt the boy’s grip tighten on his hand as they set off. He smiled, paternal affection swelling in his heart.

  On either side of the street hawkers cried out, advertising their wares and trying to lure customers into their shops. The sour tang of humanity mingled with the comforting aroma of bakeries and the sensual lure of scents and spices. Lucius stared around in fascination at the myriad colours of clothing, his gaze lingering on the more exotic people who passed by either way; mostly easterners clad in bright robes.