‘How many speak Latin?’
Avergus thought a moment before replying. ‘Most of the lads from the village have a ready grasp, sir. Those from the outlying farms, none.’
‘I see. What about you? You speak it fluently enough.’
‘My dad’s a fur trader, sir. Supplies the local Rhine garrisons. I spent more time in Roman forts than I did at home when I was growing up.’
‘Then I’m making you the language instructor for the new men. Decurion Miro will supply you with the essential commands and terms. They’ll need to grasp those at once. The rest you can teach them when they’re ready.’
Avergus’s thick brow knitted.
‘Problem?’
‘No, sir. . Yes, sir. I ain’t much of a teacher.’
‘Just as well then,’ said Macro. ‘Because this is the army, not a fucking school. The prefect has given you an order and you hop to it. Clear?’
‘Yes, Centurion.’
Cato nodded. ‘Good.’
He moved on without stopping to beast any more of the new men, since there was little point in shouting at a man who did not understand a word being said to him. When he reached Decurion Miro, he halted.
‘The new draught look like they have the makings of good men.’
‘Yes, sir. They’ll do well enough, once they’ve been drilled thoroughly. In time, they will be worthy of the Blood Crows.’
Cato smiled. ‘Make sure they understand that’s a name to be proud of. Carry on, Decurion Miro.’
They exchanged a salute and Miro took a pace back and turned to the men. ‘Officers! On me!’
Cato nodded with satisfaction. Miro knew his business and could be trusted to get on with the training. He turned to Macro.
‘Walk with me.’
They paced away from the two formations as the officers bellowed the orders for the men to begin their training rota: formation drilling, weapons practice and strength and stamina exercises. Cato strode up the ramp to the review stand and glanced over the men and horses of the escort detachment before turning his attention to Macro.
‘The word from headquarters is the general has given the order to stop questioning the native camp followers and release them.’
‘About time too. Did the interrogators find anything out that we don’t already know?’
‘Nothing. Whoever helped Caratacus to escape is one of ours.’
Macro cracked his knuckles. ‘You’re pretty certain this is the work of Pallas’s agent, aren’t you?’
Cato nodded. ‘It seems to make sense. Given what Septimus told us.’
‘And you trust him?’
‘Not without reservation. He is his father’s son, after all. But the escape of Caratacus proves what he said about Pallas’s intention to scupper the province and destroy support for Claudius back in Rome.’
Macro nodded. ‘But there’s worse things that could happen. To us.’
‘Exactly.’ Cato sighed. ‘Seems we’d better watch our backs, thanks to our dealings with Narcissus. We’ve been lucky so far. .’
‘So far.’
The following evening General Ostorius summoned his officers to a briefing at headquarters, the first such meeting for several days. The praetorium was a huge timber-framed structure that dominated the other large buildings clustered at the heart of the fortress: the granaries, tribunes’ quarters, armoury, hospital and the stables for the mounts of the officers and the Twentieth Legion’s scouts. It was just before dusk and a honeyed light slanted across the fortress, throwing long shadows up the street ahead of Macro and Cato as they approached the arched entrance.
They were surrounded by the subdued noises of the camp as the men ceased their duties and turned their attention towards preparing their evening meal. Those who had been issued with a pass would be looking forward to the delights of the vicus sprawling across the rolling countryside a short distance beyond the walls of Viroconium. After the hardships of the campaign, the army was content to slip into the peaceful routine of garrison life and a sense of well-being permeated the fortress.
Macro breathed in the tang of woodsmoke from the cooking fires and smiled with satisfaction. ‘Life doesn’t get much better than this.’
Cato’s brow furrowed for a moment. ‘Really? I could easily hope for better. I could do without the opprobrium of the general over the escape of Caratacus — which was hardly my fault. We have a wily enemy on the loose and I would prefer not to have to worry about an assassin sent from Rome to do us in. Right now, I really would prefer to be far from here, safely in the arms of my wife.’
Macro chuckled. ‘I bet.’
They walked on in silence for a moment before Macro spoke again. ‘I was only talking about this moment, Cato. Right now. Put everything else aside and tell me this isn’t good.’
A short distance ahead of them one of the general’s slaves was walking two of his master’s hunting dogs. One of them abruptly stopped, directly in Cato’s path, and hunched its back to defecate. Cato could not help smiling as he nodded towards the dog. ‘That about sums up the situation from my point of view.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Macro growled, then drew a breath and shouted at the slave, ‘Oi! You clear that up, you hear?’
The slave turned anxiously and bowed his head. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’
They turned into the gateway and strode across the courtyard, passing through the open doors into the cool shaded interior of the main hall. Most of the officers had already arrived and taken their places on the benches arranged before the dais at the far end. Cato saw a few spaces near the front and made towards them, until he saw Prefect Horatius sitting along the bench. He paused, but before he could change direction, Horatius glanced round, and beckoned.
‘Here, Cato. There’s enough space. You too, Centurion Macro.’
There was no choice and Cato and Macro did as they were bid. Horatius shifted towards them. ‘How are the new Batavians working out?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Good riders, but a little slow to adapt to our tactics. They’ll come round soon enough if Decurion Miro has anything to do with it.’
‘Bloody Batavians,’ Horatius said with feeling. ‘I had to make do with some as well. No love lost between them and the Hispanians. I’ve had three fights in the last two days, left one of my new men with a cracked skull. Surgeon reckons he’ll be lucky not to come out of it witless. Not that you can tell with most Batavians, eh? How about you, Macro?’
‘The replacements are a bit green, sir. But I’m knocking ’em into shape quick enough.’
‘Just as well. With Caratacus still at large we may be on the march again before the summer is over.’ Horatius lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘That’s assuming the general is up for it.’
Cato said nothing but cocked an eyebrow.
‘Word is that he’s fallen ill. Been in his bed for days. That’s why there’s been no briefings.’
‘Ill?’ Macro shot a look towards the dais as if expecting the general to appear any moment. ‘How ill?’
Horatius frowned. ‘What am I? A bloody surgeon? Just repeating what I’ve heard. But you know what he’s like. Tough as old boots. It’d have to be serious to keep Ostorius in bed. By the way, Cato, for what it’s worth, I don’t hold you to blame for Caratacus’s escape. Could have happened on anyone’s watch.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Still, if it had been up to me, I’d have doubled the number of guards you had. No point in taking a risk, eh?’
Cato forced himself to control his irritation at the remark and replied in a flat voice, ‘I suppose not.’
He looked round in order to break eye contact with Horatius, and saw that the last of the officers was arriving and joining the others who were obliged to stand now that the benches had been filled. A moment later the camp prefect stepped up in front of the dais and barked the announcement, ‘Commanding officer present!’
There was an instant din of scraping boots as the seated men rose and stood stiffly, then there was quiet and the sound of faltering footsteps echoed down the hall. Out of the corner of his eye Cato saw the general making his way along the side, accompanied by a tall young native in a finely woven cloak. Ostorius signalled to the tribesman to stand to the side of the dais and then climbed the three steps on to the platform. The general looked even more gaunt than usual and his skin had taken on an ashen pallor. He seemed to have shrunk inside his elaborately embroidered tunic and polished leather cuirass, like a decrepit tortoise in its shell, thought Cato.