Macro had drilled his new legionaries hard in the few days since they had joined the cohort and they could be trusted to march and deploy as required. Their skill at arms was still rudimentary. In battle the more experienced men in their sections would have to set the example in holding formation and giving no ground. It was late in the afternoon before Cato dismissed the two cohorts and sent the men to their barracks to prepare their marching yokes and saddle packs. He was hot, tired and thirsty and had been looking forward to a session in the bathhouse to ease his muscles before leaving Viroconium on the morrow.
‘What does Poppaea Sabina want?’
Thraxis did not look at him but answered after the most fleeting hesitation. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’
‘You didn’t read it then?’
‘I barely know more than a few words, sir.’
‘But enough to know her purpose, eh?’
‘Actually, sir, I got the details from her slave girl.’
‘And not just the details,’ Cato added shrewdly, before he relented. His servant’s private life was his own. He raised his arms as Thraxis helped him out of his mail vest. ‘What does the tribune’s wife want?’
‘Her husband has invited you to dine after the first change of watch, sir. Together with Prefect Horatius, and the three senior centurions commanding the legionary cohorts.’
Cato ground his teeth in frustration. He had intended to complete his preparations for the march and get a good night’s rest in a proper bed. Now he would have to satisfy the social whims of some broad-stripe tribune and his wife. He felt embarrassed by the memory of her unwanted attention the night after the battle and had no desire to spend the evening in her company. Besides, if he was any judge of such events, it would drag on and be late in the night before he could finally sleep. He toyed briefly with the idea of turning the invitation down, but knew that would put him in Otho’s black books. If he was going to have to serve under the tribune for the next month or so it would be better not to offend him at the outset.
The last of the heavy links slid up over his head and Thraxis took the vest away to carefully lay it over the frame with the rest of the prefect’s armour. Cato rolled his neck, relishing the feeling of being released from the burden.
‘Once you’ve finished here, you can take my acceptance to the tribune’s quarters.’
‘You mean his house, sir?’
‘House?’
‘Yes, sir. The tribune’s wife was not satisfied with the accommodation in the fort so she persuaded her husband to rent the villa of a wool merchant on the edge of the vicus. It’s not far. No more than a mile away, sir.’
Cato pursed his lips. It seemed that Tribune Otho was in the habit of indulging his wife’s every whim. But then no doubt he could afford to. Cato could well imagine the tribune’s wealthy background. Like most aristocratic families there would be a fine home in Rome, a villa in the Tuscan hills to retire to during the hot summer months, and another down by the sea in the wide curve of the bay stretching from Puteoli to Pompeii. Otho would have known the best tutors and enjoyed the best seats at the theatre, the games and the great circus. After his brief stint in the army he would go on to enter the Senate and if he kept his nose clean he could look forward to a lucrative posting as governor of a province, or commander of a legion, in due course. Cato felt a stab of envy at the easy path life granted to some, while others toiled hard for their meagre rewards.
Cato bitterly tried to thrust his envy aside. Very well, he would go to the tribune’s damn dinner. But he would be formal and curt and be such a dour guest that they would be delighted to be relieved of his presence and never seek to repeat the experience. He smiled with satisfaction at the thought as he thrust a strigil and small pot of oil into a haversack and left his quarters to join Macro at the bathhouse complex that served the officers and men of the garrison at Viroconium.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ Macro asked as they made their way through the vicus. Beneath a crescent moon the evening air was thick with the cries of traders and small parties of boisterous off-duty soldiers in search of a drink, dice games and whorehouses. Many of the small towns that grew up close to army fortresses were ramshackle affairs of filthy winding streets, but the settlement at Viroconium had been laid out in a far more ordered fashion from the outset on the orders of General Ostorius. The streets were straight, wide and drained, and many of the temporary structures had been replaced by timber-framed buildings built on stone foundations. There was even a small basilica at the heart of the settlement where a council met to order the affairs of the inhabitants. Cato had been musing over the speed with which Rome stamped its mark on newly conquered territories and so missed his friend’s question.
‘Sorry? What was that?’
‘This bloody invitation from the tribune? What does he really want with us?’
‘A chance to get better acquainted, I expect. It’s his first independent command. Otho wants to make a decent job of it.’
Macro had been to the barber’s stall at the baths and was clean-shaven. His dark curly hair had been neatly cropped and his tunic was freshly laundered. Every so often Macro reached up to the neckline of his tunic and scratched his skin, as if its freshly cleaned state was the source of an itch. He still smelled of the aromatic oils the barber had massaged into his jowls after the shave.
‘So we have to get all tarted up to make a good impression?’
Cato had undergone similar treatment but was more comfortable with his appearance. He shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
Macro cast a longing look into the dark entrance of a brothel as they passed. A small queue of soldiers leaned against the wall sharing a wineskin. A thickset woman with red-tinged cheeks and long lank hair emerged from the doorway, lifted the hem of her short tunic and curled a finger suggestively at the nearest soldier. He instantly hurried inside with her. Macro sniffed at the scent on his skin.
‘I’ll put it to good use on the way back. Last chance before we head up into barbarian territory.’
‘I think you will find they are called the Brigantes.’
‘Don’t care what they’re called, as long as they behave and hand that bastard Caratacus back to us.’
Cato turned to him and shook his head. ‘And there was I thinking that this was essentially a diplomatic mission.’
‘Waste of time. Better to just put the stick about and let ’em know who is in charge. That’s my kind of diplomacy.’
‘Clearly.’
They reached the edge of the settlement and could just pick out the walled villa a short distance down the road against the dark greys of the surrounding landscape. The wool merchant must have made a small fortune from his trade with the army, Cato thought, as he took in the proportions of the building. As they approached he could make out the gatehouse leading into a courtyard while the main building rose up beyond with what looked like a tiled roof, though it must be wooden shingles, Cato realised. It would be a while yet before tiles reached Viroconium.
A section of legionaries from the Ninth were guarding the entrance and stood to as the two officers emerged from the darkness. The optio looked them over and saluted.
‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro,’ Cato announced. ‘Here to see the tribune.’
‘You’re expected, sir. The other guests have already arrived. If you’ll follow me?’
The optio turned and led the way through the arch. By the dim light of the moon Cato saw that the courtyard followed the familiar style of covered sides given over to stables and stores. Ahead lay the main building. The door was open and the interior was illuminated by lamps whose glow bled out across the cobbles of the courtyard. They followed the optio into the house and saw that it gave out on to an enclosed garden. Lamps hung from brackets fixed to the wooden frame of the house. A shallow colonnade ran around the garden, providing shelter for the walkway in front of the living rooms, kitchen, latrine and bedrooms. The garden itself was no more than ten paces across and the space was mostly taken up by the dining couches arranged around a low table. The wool merchant’s house was modest by Roman standards but palatial compared to the simple round huts of the island’s tribes. It also enjoyed a more peaceful setting than the cramped, noisy quarters available in the satellite forts clustered about the main fortress. Cato could see why Tribune Otho and his wife might prefer it.