‘Prefect Cato, my lady. Commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’
‘And guardian of the army’s column of whores!’ a voice called out from the crowd.
There was a quick chorus of laughter from some of the officers before Otho spoke. ‘And this is my wife, Poppaea Sabrina.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Prefect. As it is to meet any of my new husband’s comrades.’
Cato fumbled for an appropriate reply and gushed, ‘The pleasure is mine, my lady.’
‘Spoken like a happily married man,’ she replied with a mischievous smile. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’
Cato bowed his head and backed away and she turned her attention back to the other officers. He glanced round and saw Macro over at the wine counter buying a small flask from the trader who had won the contract to supply the mess. Macro was reaching for his purse as Cato joined him.
‘Put that away. This one is on me.’ Cato turned to the merchant. ‘What is your best wine?’
‘Sir?’ The merchant was a dark-skinned easterner, wrapped in thick tunic and cap, despite the heat inside the tent.
‘Your best wine. What have you got?’
‘There’s the Arretian, but it’s five denarians a flask.’
Cato rummaged in his purse and slapped down the silver coins. ‘Fine. We’ll have that.’
‘A moment please.’ The merchant ducked under the counter and stood again, holding a slipware amphora. He carefully extracted the stopper and filled a jug before replacing the amphora in its place of safety.
‘What are we celebrating?’ Macro asked with a puzzled expression.
Cato did not reply but filled them each a cup before handing one to Macro. ‘There.’
Macro shook his head. ‘What’s this about, lad?’
‘It seems that I am going to be a father. . Cheers!’
Macro’s eyebrows rose in surprise before a delighted expression creased his face.
Cato raised his cup and drank deeply, swigging down the fine wine as if it was water. As the last dreg dripped into his mouth he set it down on the counter with a sharp rap. ‘Ahhhh!’
Macro grinned widely, revealing his uneven stained teeth. He downed his drink in half the time it had taken his friend and then threw his arms round Cato in a quick, crushing embrace.
‘Why, that’s bloody marvellous, lad! Bloody marvellous news!’ He released Cato and stood back, still grinning. ‘When?’
‘I–I don’t know. Julia just says that she is with child.’
‘That’s wonderful. . I suppose that makes me a kind of uncle figure.’
‘No chance!’ Cato joked. ‘Julia won’t want our child swearing like a veteran before it can even walk.’
Macro growled and punched his friend lightly on the chest.
‘Gentlemen!’ a voice called from the entrance to the mess tent. All eyes turned towards the clerk holding a basket of waxed tablets. ‘Unit commanders! Your orders!’
The cheerful mood died instantly as the senior officers clustered round the clerk and waited their turn to receive their tablet.
Cato’s smile faded.
‘Never mind, lad. We’ll celebrate properly tomorrow night.’
‘Yes.’ Cato nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’
He took a deep breath and left Macro to pour another cup of wine as he crossed the tent and joined the others waiting to discover their role in the coming battle. A battle he would experience as a mere spectator.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Cato and Macro reached the headquarters tent of the baggage train escort, Thraxis ducked out of the tent flaps, the nearest campfire illuminating the concerned expression in his face.
‘Prefect, thank the gods you are here.’
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a man inside. He refuses to leave.’
Macro frowned. ‘What man?’
‘A wine merchant, sir.’
‘Wine merchant?’ Cato exchanged a puzzled look with his friend. ‘What is a wine merchant doing in my tent at this hour?’
Thraxis chewed his lip. ‘He says I cheated him, Prefect. I swear it’s not true.’
‘Cheated him? How?’
‘He says I paid him in counterfeit coin, and that he’s come to demand that you have me condemned.’
Cato paused. Using counterfeit coins was a capital offence. The Emperor did not take kindly to criminals debasing the money on which his face had been struck. The coins he had given Thraxis were genuine. Freshly minted denarians. There was no question of them being forged. Now he must deal with the accusation laid at the door of his servant before he could get some sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of throwing the merchant out but knew that would only mean that the man would take his complaint to the general’s headquarters instead.
‘Oh, very well,’ he grumbled. ‘Macro, I’ll need you in on this.’
‘Me? Why?’
Cato looked at him knowingly. ‘Because you still have some of the same batch of coins that I do. You can vouch that they are genuine.’
Thraxis smiled gratefully and stepped aside to open the tent flaps for the two officers. Inside Cato’s headquarters tent there was only one person sitting on a stool. The two clerks in charge of the cohort’s records had gone off duty and the waxed slates and sheets of papyrus had been left in neat piles for them to resume the next day. There was only one lamp burning and the wine merchant’s face was barely visible in the gloom.
Cato regarded their visitor irritably. ‘My servant tells me that you wish to complain about the silver I gave him to pay you.’
The man rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Noble Prefect, I apologise profusely that I must intrude upon your evening, but I come here on a matter of utmost importance.’
‘Money.’ Macro sniffed. ‘That’s all that your kind value.’
The merchant raised his hands and shrugged. ‘Sir, it is the means by which we live. Who would not value it? But as I said, I must speak with the prefect. It would be best to send that Thracian dog away first.’
‘Why?’ asked Cato. ‘If you mean to accuse him, then do it to his face and let him answer your accusations.’
Thraxis stood silently at the threshold of the tent, his face strained. Cato was not sure if the man was grateful to be given the chance to defend himself or would rather let his commander do it for him. The prospect of the situation degenerating into a slanging match between the merchant and his servant was more than Cato could bear at this hour. He sighed and jerked his thumb towards the tent flaps.
‘Go and find some firewood. I want you to light the brazier in my sleeping quarters.’
‘Yes, Prefect.’ Thraxis bowed his head, and shooting a hateful glare at the wine merchant he ducked out of the tent and disappeared.
Cato slumped down on one of the clerks’ benches and scratched his head. Macro stood, arms folded, watching the visitor.
‘So,’ Cato began. ‘What’s the story?’
The wine merchant slowly stepped forward, closer to the oil lamp, and by its light Cato and Macro could make out his features. He wore a plain brown tunic and breeches beneath his green cloak and thick-soled boots. His hair was dark and his face thin and bony. Cato recognised him with a look of surprise.
‘Septimus. .’
‘What?’ Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘Septimus? By the gods, you’re right. What in Jupiter’s name are you doing here?’
The imperial agent smiled faintly and dropped the singsong tone he had used when posing as the wine merchant. ‘And it’s delightful to see you again, Centurion Macro. Aren’t you going to ask me how my trip was?’
Macro’s mouth was slack with surprise as he stared at the man. It was Cato who recovered first and fixed his eyes firmly on Septimus. ‘Like Macro says, what are you doing here? Why the disguise?’
‘I can avoid drawing any unwanted attention to myself as Hipparchus the wine merchant,’ Septimus explained. ‘I bought the business off the real Hipparchus back in Londinium, as well as some useless oaf that the Greek was using to help him. Anyway, come, my friends.’ Septimus affected a hurt expression. ‘Is this any way to greet an old comrade in arms? Have you so quickly forgotten that we fought side by side against the Emperor’s enemies on the streets of Rome?’