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  Cato saw the indecision in Claudius’ expression and before the Emperor could respond, Pallas intervened once again.

  ‘Your advice is noted, Senator. But I repeat: there is a real danger that we are too thinly spread across Hispania to risk concentrating our forces to suppress the uprising.’

  ‘Then we need to find reinforcements from elsewhere,’ Seneca persisted.

  ‘And where, precisely, do we find these men?’ Pallas demanded. ‘The campaign in Britannia has drained our reserves from Gaul and the Rhenus frontier. We can’t just make soldiers.’

  ‘Then draw them from further afield.’

  ‘The nearest available legions are stationed along the Danuvius. It would take several months to transfer them to Hispania.’ Pallas folded his arms. ‘The governor will have to make do with the men that he has. Is that not so, sire?’ Pallas deferred to the Emperor.

  But Seneca was not done yet. ‘There are other forces readily available, sire. There are nearly ten thousand men in the Praetorian Guard cohorts who have little to keep themselves occupied at present. And I am given to understand that two auxiliary cohorts landed at Ostia a few days ago, en route to join the army in Britannia. There are more than enough men readily available to send to the aid of the hard-pressed Governor of Hispania Terraconensis. All it would take is a word from you, sire . . .’

  ‘I think that the good senator, thanks to the paucity of his military experience, fails to grasp the wider strategic situation,’ Pallas countered. ‘The auxiliary cohorts are desperately needed in Britannia. We cannot afford to send them to Hispania Terraconensis.’

  Cato could not help a smile, despite his heavy heart. Seneca was one of the many of his rank who had chosen not to serve in the army early on in their senatorial careers. The imperial freedman had struck a neat point, judging from the amused expressions of many in the audience chamber. There would be some who would feel a measure of vindication for their contempt for the dandified politician.

  Seneca affected to ignore the slight as he continued. ‘The redirection of the cohorts would not amount to more than a brief diversion from their transfer to Britannia. And it is not as if Rome could not afford to spare the services of several Praetorian cohorts. Besides, it would be a fine opportunity to prove themselves in action again and demonstrate that they serve more than a ceremonial purpose. Sire, I can see no good reason not to send the forces I speak of to Hispania to put an end to this fellow Iskerbeles and his followers. A swift victory and some ruthless punitive measures will serve as a good lesson to any others who might contemplate defying the will of Rome. And not just the will of Rome, sire. They present a challenge to your authority. It is you they are defying . . . It is your name they mock by their deeds. I can only imagine how that might wound your pride and inspire you to decisive action.’

  It was taking a risk to address the Emperor so personally, Cato realised, and he turned his attention to Claudius and saw at once that the words had struck home. The old man stiffened his back, straightened up and assumed as imperious a posture as his age and spindly physique permitted. At his side, Pallas shot a withering glance at Seneca, but before he could argue back the Emperor coughed loudly and cleared his throat.

  ‘These upstarts in H–Hi–Hispania will be dealt with. How dare they de–defy me? Seneca is right. We have the men for the job. It’s about t–time the Praetorians earned the gifts I have lavished on them. We’ll send eight cohorts to Hispania. And the two c–c–cohorts at Ostia. See that their orders are drafted at once, P–Pallas.’

  The freedman glanced towards the empress imploringly but she gave the slightest shake of the head and Pallas bit back on his protest and bowed his head. ‘As your imperial majesty commands.’

  Seneca made no effort to stifle his satisfied expression, while beside him the tribune sighed with relief.

  ‘That leaves the question of who should c–command this force,’ Claudius continued, reaching a hand up to his chin to stroke it contemplatively as he gazed round the faces of those assembled before him. At once, Pallas’ expression was calculating and he interposed himself between Claudius and Seneca.

  ‘Might I suggest Senator Vitellius, sire? He has experience of smaller independent commands such as this.’

  Macro let out a soft hiss, then muttered, ‘That lard arse is the last one I’d trust to give the command to.’

  Cato nodded and nudged Narcissus. ‘Why Vitellius? What is Pallas playing at?’

  ‘Vitellius is part of the Nero faction,’ Narcissus whispered. ‘I imagine that it would be a useful thing to have Vitellius win over the loyalty of a large section of the Praetorian Guard when the time comes to see who succeeds Claudius.’

  The Emperor reflected a moment and nodded. ‘Is Vitellius in attendance this m–morning?’

  Cato scanned the chamber and then saw movement as several men stood aside and a figure emerged from those standing opposite the dais. A tall, well-built man with neatly oiled dark hair. He strode up to the side of Seneca and bowed.

  ‘Fuck me,’ said Macro. ‘He’s in better shape than I’ve ever seen him.’

  Cato nodded. It was true. They had served with Vitellius before and the aristocrat’s fondness for fine food and wine had made him as corpulent as he was corrupt. He was worse than corrupt, as Cato had discovered. The man had insatiable ambition and cared little for those he manipulated to achieve his ends. As Macro had observed, Vitellius had worked to improve his physique and had lost much weight and toned his body so that he now cut quite a commanding figure, Cato conceded.

  Claudius squinted at him. ‘Senator Vitellius, do you accept the command?’

  Vitellius smiled easily. ‘It would be an honour, sire. As would any opportunity to serve you.’

  Macro snorted softly. ‘Bloody arse-licker.’

  ‘Might I prevail upon you, sire?’ Vitellius continued. ‘If I am to carry out this mission effectively, then I ask that I may select the officers to serve under me.’

  ‘Of course. Then you may have eight cohorts of my P–P–Praetorians, and the pick of the officers to accompany you on this mission. I am certain you will do great honour to me, Rome and your family name.’

  Vitellius bowed graciously.

  ‘You will also have the t–t–two cohorts in camp outside Ostia. They will be sent on to join the army in B–Br–Br–Britannia the moment this rascal, Iskerbeles, is put down.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Claudius raised a trembling hand and lightly clicked his fingers. ‘Britannia . . . That brings us on to the next m–matter. Narcissus!’

  The imperial secretary gestured to Cato and Macro to accompany him and eased his way through those ahead of him to emerge into the open space in front of the dais. Vitellius glanced in their direction and Cato saw his eyebrows rise in surprise before he smiled coolly at them.

  ‘Centurions Cato and Macro, it has been a while. You’ve done well for yourself, Cato. I hear you are a prefect these days.’

  Cato nodded in acknowledgement. ‘And you remain what you always were, sir.’

  He turned away as he and Macro joined Narcissus in bowing to the Emperor. Claudius gestured towards the two officers. ‘These are the men?’

  ‘Yes, sire. May I present Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato and Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, just arrived from the campaign in Britannia.’

  ‘Good, good!’ Claudius’ brow creased. ‘We have met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ Narcissus replied before either of the officers could speak. ‘They have performed valuable services for you in the past. But most recently, these were the two heroes who were responsible for the capture of Caratacus, the leader of the tribes who opposed us in Britannia.’

  Cato was conscious of the extra scrutiny accorded them as all eyes in the audience chamber fixed on them where they stood to attention
in front of the Emperor. Claudius beamed at them and clapped his hands together.

  ‘A fine ef–effort! Narcissus read me the first account of his capture in the heat of battle! Is it true that the p–pair of you had to f–f–fight your way through his bodyguards before he was taken?’

  Cato paused and forced himself to think quickly. Now was not the time to go into any more detail than was necessary to accept the accolade and get this over with as soon as possible. He still desperately needed to be alone to consider all that Narcissus had told him about Julia. Besides, too much detail might mean admitting that Caratacus had escaped from them after the battle and had to be run to ground in the land of the Brigantes. He took a breath.

  ‘It was a hard fight, sire. As hard as any battle Centurion Macro and I have ever fought. The enemy had chosen to defend a steep hill behind a river. Heavy rain meant we had to struggle against the mud as well as the native warriors and for a while the struggle hung in the balance, until the centurion and I led our men in a flank attack. We caught them unawares, and went in hard and fast and they broke. That’s when we captured Caratacus, sire. Him, and most of his family.’

  ‘And now, they are languishing in ch–cha–chains, beneath our very feet!’ Claudius let out a shrill laugh and, as Pallas followed suit, others joined in sycophantically until the Emperor stopped in order to continue addressing the two officers. ‘And in two days’ time they will be led through R–Rome for all to see, before they are put to death on the steps of the T–T–Temple of Jupiter, Best and Greatest. And you, my dear Prefect, and you, Cen–Cen–Centurion, will be rewarded by leading the guard of honour in the pr–procession.’

  Cato bowed his head in a display of deference.

  ‘You have earned our gratitude, gentlemen. As long as Rome has soldiers like you, our frontiers are safe, our enemies will f–f–fear us and the Gods will surely favour us.’ Claudius rose awkwardly and raised his hand in salute. ‘All hail Prefect Cato and Centurion M–Macro!’

  The audience repeated the Emperor’s words and cheered. The din filled the chamber and echoed off its high walls. Macro could not help grinning in delight at the acclaim. But Cato’s expression crumpled as the moment when he should have been most happy, most proud of himself, was soured by the loss of his wife, and the poison of her betrayal of his trust. The chamber, the noise and the attention of everyone was suddenly stifling and he wanted to escape. But there was no escape from the cheering and stamping of feet. Not until the Emperor raised his hands to command silence. As the sound faded Claudius made to speak, then winced and clutched a hand to his stomach. He grimaced in agony and slumped back onto his throne as Narcissus hurried up the steps of the dais and beckoned to the body slaves standing behind.

  ‘His imperial majesty is tired. Take him back to his quarters.’

  The cheers of a moment before were replaced by anxious muttering and Cato saw Agrippina sitting motionless in her chair, not even stirring to come to the aide of her ailing husband. Beside her, her son looked on, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a slight smile of satisfaction before he became aware of his surroundings and tried to look concerned. As the slaves lifted the Emperor from his throne and carried him carefully towards a small door at the back of the chamber, Narcissus and Pallas exchanged a few words before Pallas nodded and strode to the front of the dais to address the audience.

  ‘The session has concluded. Any petitions are to be lodged with my clerks. Thank you . . . Thank you.’ He nodded to the German mercenaries at the rear of the audience chamber and they opened the doors leading out onto the wide corridor beyond. The audience began to filter out, then Vitellius turned towards Narcissus and his companions.

  ‘That worked out well for all concerned. You’re war heroes and I’m about to become one.’

  Macro glowered. ‘That anyone should live to see the day.’

  Vitellius chuckled. ‘You’ve not changed then, Centurion. Caustic to the last. But, I’m forgetting myself. My dear Cato . . .’ He faced the prefect and steered him a short distance away from Macro as he affected a sorrowful expression. ‘I wish to offer my condolences on your sad loss. I know it was some months ago, but having returned home for the first time I am sure that your grief is very raw. Your wife was a fine woman. Very intelligent, charming and quite beautiful. It is a sad loss for all those who knew her.’

  There was an added emphasis to the last words and Cato felt his anger rise at once. ‘What are you saying?’

  Narcissus hurried across, took his arm and tried to steer him away from Vitellius. ‘Come, Cato. This is not the time or place.’

  Cato shook his hand off and squared up to Vitellius. ‘What are you saying about Julia?’

  ‘With you away, and given how attractive she was, it is only understandable that some men might want to take the opportunity to win her affections. I imagine it was all quite harmless . . . in most cases. After all, she was an honourable woman.’

  ‘He’s goading you,’ said Narcissus. ‘Let’s go. We can deal with this later.’

  ‘No. We can deal with it now,’ Cato replied fiercely. He stepped up to Vitellius, face to face. ‘Say it. I dare you, you sleazy, arrogant bastard. Say it.’

  ‘Say what? That your wife was attractive? That she had a certain following amongst the men in Rome?’

  Cato raised his fist, but before he could strike, Narcissus grabbed his wrist.

  ‘Not in here, Cato. Not in front of witnesses. That’s what he wants. You attack him here, in the palace, and you’re as good as banished. From Rome. Maybe sent to the farthest corner of the empire. You’re no good to anyone there. And far from your son. So get control of yourself, Cato. Do it now!’

  His blood was pounding in his ears, and hate and anger tore at his heart and for a moment Cato was consumed with a thoughtless urge to destroy Vitellius. To tear at him with his bare hands. To tear him apart. There was no self-control. No control at all. And that was what brought him back from the edge of the abyss. The horror of the prospect of an appetite and a capability within him that was as dangerous and inchoate as a rabid animal. He breathed deeply, his chest heaving, as he forced his feelings under control, made himself loosen his fists and let them drop at his sides. Cato shut his eyes and bowed his head.

  ‘All right . . . I’m all right.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After they returned to the house on the Quirinal Cato explained to Macro that he was feeling tired and needed a rest. He took a deep breath and entered the sleeping chamber. It was shadowy and felt gloomy, so he opened the shuttered window that overlooked the atrium. A small bird had just alighted on the edge of the shallow pool that caught the rain falling from the roof tiles. Cato watched as it jumped in with a tiny flash of spray and began to clean itself with flicks of the head and wings. The bird’s obvious delight and obliviousness to the burdens of the world moved him unbearably and he had to turn away quickly. Before him he saw the bed. Last night he had slept there and taken some comfort from feeling closer to his wife. Now, as he looked, he felt the first ripple of anger at the scene of his betrayal. That bed had been shared by Julia and her lover. It felt sullied now.

  The dull gleam of the amulet he had seen the night before caught his eye and he felt a slight twist in his guts. He picked it up and examined it closely. The workmanship was fine and an intricate pattern of vine leaves wound their way around it. Was this a present for him after all? he wondered bitterly. Or had it been left here by Julia’s lover? Then he noticed two letters etched in amongst the leaf design, a C overlapped by a J. His heart sank into the very pit of his stomach. He threw the amulet down and it tumbled under the bed.

  Bending down, he looked underneath and saw the amulet lying beside a small box tucked away where it would not easily be seen by a casual visitor to the room. Getting down onto his belly Cato stretched out an arm and managed to get a finger grip on the catch. He pulled
the box out and sat cross-legged on the tiled floor as he eased open the catch and tilted the lid back.

  Inside was a bundle of flattened papyrus scrolls, weighted down by a portrait of a fair-haired man painted on a thin piece of wood. Cato winced. He swallowed and cleared his throat harshly. He picked the portrait up and saw the fine features of a man roughly the same age as himself. The eyes were brown and a slight knowing smile played on his lips. Unlike Cato’s face, this one was completely unscarred and smoothly featured. Handsome . . . The thought struck at him as he imagined Julia looking at the same image with affection, and lust. Rage coursed through his veins and he shoved the image to the bottom of the box, face down, and took out the scrolls.

  It was instantly clear what they were. Love letters, all written in the same hand and signed ‘Cristus’, sometimes with the shortened form, ‘Cris’. Cato read through them steadily, with a growing sense of agony and fury. They told of a passionate love affair that had grown across the seasons, of the gifts that Julia had showered on her lover, of the exquisite physical pleasure they had shared and then, most painful of all, how they might remove the inconvenient obstacle to their happiness presented by Julia’s husband. It was possible, Cristus hoped, that he might do the decent thing and die while away on campaign . . . Failing that, he must be confronted on his return from Britannia. Julia must tell her husband as soon as possible and demand a divorce.