‘You don’t remember us finding you? Macro and me?’
Septimus closed his eyes for an instant and then shook his head.
‘All right then. .’ Cato sighed and reflected briefly on what he had been told. ‘It was just unlucky for you that you came to my tent when you did.’
Septimus looked at him closely. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything. Like I said, it was unlucky for you.’
Macro gave a thin smile. ‘And bloody lucky for Caratacus and his friend.’
‘That is in the nature of coincidences of this kind,’ Septimus responded evenly. ‘The gods will play their little games. Does the general know that someone else was involved?’
‘Yes.’
Septimus hissed with disappointment. ‘Then our man is going to know he’s being hunted and he’ll go to ground.’
‘Maybe not. Ostorius is convinced that Caratacus was aided by one of the natives amongst the camp followers. He thinks that Caratacus planted a spy, and he’s going to tear the native canton apart until he finds the man.’
‘Ouch. But then again, it’s where I’d look if I was the general.’
‘If Ostorius is set on blaming a native spy then it’s possible the culprit is going to think he’s got away with it and not feel the need to lie low. That’s to our advantage.’
‘It is,’ Septimus agreed. ‘Very useful.’
Macro snorted. ‘You’re all heart, you two.’
Cato looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The general’s going to tear the merchants’ camp apart and hand any likely suspects over to the army’s torturers for questioning, and all you can say is that you think it’s useful.’
‘Well, it is,’ Septimus insisted. ‘Why should I care what happens to a bunch of hairy-arsed tinkers? There are more important things to worry about, Centurion. We’re talking about the fate of the province. And maybe the Emperor as well. I couldn’t give a shit about a handful of Britons who fall foul of General Ostorius.’
Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Like I said, you’re all heart. It’s moments like this that remind me why I’m a soldier and not some scheming snake in the pay of an imperial freedman.’
‘Really?’ Septimus fixed him with a cold stare. ‘Frankly, the reason why you are not an imperial agent might have more to do with you lacking the necessary acumen.’
Macro gritted his teeth. ‘Acumen? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? You calling me thick or something?’
Cato edged between them. ‘That’s enough! Jupiter’s balls, we’ve got enough to worry about without you two kicking off. Keep your bloody feelings to yourselves, understand? I don’t care if you hate each other’s guts, we’ve got to find this traitor and put an end to Pallas’s schemes. Macro?’
The centurion made a faint growling noise in his throat, then nodded. ‘All right. But I’m telling you. Once this is over, I’m through with you and your kind.’ He jabbed his finger at Septimus. ‘You come near me and I’ll break your neck.’
The imperial agent smiled coldly. ‘Assuming you see me coming.’
Cato was utterly exhausted and his patience finally snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake! Enough!’
Around them heads turned towards the outburst and Cato abruptly stood up. He looked down at the imperial agent and spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ll report back to the general what you said, but not that they spoke in Latin. If he wants to question you himself, stick to that story.’
Septimus nodded.
‘We’ll talk more, when you’re out of the infirmary. Come on, Macro.’ Cato waved his friend towards the entrance of the long tent. ‘Let’s go.’
Once they were outside, back in the warm comfort of the sunshine, Cato rounded on his friend. ‘I know what you think of Narcissus and his kind but how do you think it helps us to bring it up all the time?’
Macro clenched his fists. ‘They’ve fucked us about for years, Cato. One stinking job after another. Narcissus said he was done with us. When he left Rome he said he was sending us to Britannia and back to the army and our spying days were over. That’s what he said. Fucking liar.’
‘You think I don’t feel the same?’ Cato shot back bitterly. ‘You think I enjoy playing the spy? We’re in this, Macro, whether we like it or not. We can’t avoid it. We can’t decide to opt out. Septimus was right about there being a spy. And that means he was telling the truth about someone coming after us. Someone wants us dead. You really want to ignore that danger?’
Macro struggled to regain control of his temper and at length he shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then help me, Macro. Help me get through this so we find the traitor and make him disappear. So we can get back to being soldiers. Help me so that one day I can return to Julia. Well?’ He held out his hand.
They clasped arms and Macro let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I’m just thoroughly pissed off with Septimus and his kind.’
‘Me too.’ Cato flashed a tired smile.
Macro withdrew his arm. ‘So what now?’
Cato puffed his cheeks and looked out over the camp. ‘Caratacus is on the run. We’re not likely to catch him. The general’s about to turn the only friendly natives for miles around against him. There’s a traitor in the camp who is prepared to go to any length to unseat the Emperor, and kill us the moment he gets the chance. What am I going to do now? I’ll tell you. I’m going back to my tent and I am going to sleep the sleep of the dead. And when I wake up, I’m not going to rest until I find the bastard that set Caratacus free and murdered two of our men.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time the army returned to its base at Viroconium the men’s spirits had fully recovered and there was a jaunty swagger to their step as they marched through the gates of the fortress behind their standards. General Ostorius and his staff rode at the head of the column, in gleaming breastplates and armour, in clean scarlet tunics. The garrison of the fortress had been forewarned of the general’s return and lined the walls to cheer their victorious comrades. The men on the march returned the cheer with interest and looked forward to the comforts of their barracks, regular meals and a long anticipated visit to the bathhouse in the sprawling vicus a short distance from the wall and ditch of the great fortress.
The legionary units who had been involved in the battle had pride of place at the front of the column. Behind them came the auxiliary units who had been responsible for mopping up the remnants of the enemy army. The faint cheers from far ahead reached their ears and they smiled grudgingly at the celebrations of their legionary comrades, and shared their longing for the comforts of Viroconium.
Behind the auxiliaries came the long column of prisoners, chained and bound together, a shuffling tide of despairing misery, mostly men, but women and children too, the latter condemned to a life of slavery before they had any chance to savour the freedom that was the birthright of the offspring of the warriors of their tribe. A cohort of Batavian cavalry rode either side of the prisoners, watching over them and ensuring that they kept up the pace and did not cause the column to spread out too far. A thrust of a spear butt or prick of its point was sufficient to spur on any who began to lag.
Behind the prisoners came the baggage train, some miles back from the head of the column, and beyond earshot of the triumphant entry of the general and his legions. The army’s wagons and carts came first, the latter carrying the dismantled artillery, a mix of ballistas and the larger catapults. The heavy wagons carried the grain and spare kit needed to feed and supply the army while on the march. Then came the wagons allocated to the legions’ surgeons, filled with the men still recovering from the wounds they had suffered on the battlefield.
Those who had died from their wounds had been added to the huge funeral pyres that had burned outside the camp, while a handful who died later were buried outside the marching camps. Their graves were marked with simple stones hurriedly engraved with their names and units, and a brief request to the gods to look after their spirits. Even though they were wounded, the men in the wagons were in good humour, thanks to a generous issue of wine on the order of General Ostorius. Many were soon drunk and the warm country air resounded to tuneless marching songs, toasts and laughter.