‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro!’ the optio announced.
Looking past him, Cato could see Horatius and the other officers on the side couches while the tribune and his wife occupied those at the head of the table. Otho looked up and smiled as he beckoned his guests over.
‘Ah! I was wondering if something had happened to you two!’
Mindful of his earlier decision to play the taciturn professional, Cato did not return the smile and simply bowed his head slightly before he responded. ‘The centurion and I had to finish our preparations for the march, sir.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ Otho indicated the bench to his left where two spaces were left. Horatius lay opposite, the more privileged position, according to his superior rank. When they had taken their places, Otho indicated the two centurions lying beside Horatius. ‘In case you haven’t met, that’s Gaius Statillus and Marcus Polemus Acer, senior centurions of the Seventh and Eighth Cohorts of the Ninth Legion.’
Cato cast his eye over the centurions and instinctively assessed them. Statillus was perhaps fifty, and coming to the end of his enlistment. His hair was thin and watery blue eyes stared back from his weathered features. Acer was younger. Recently promoted, Cato guessed. His gaze flickered constantly round the table as if he was not convinced he belonged with such exotic company. He was the bigger of the two, built like a champion secutor with light hair and broad features that betrayed his Celtic origins.
Otho settled back on his couch and reached for a silver goblet. ‘That should complete the introductions.’
His wife reached over and touched his arm. ‘Not quite, my dear. I don’t believe I know the delightful creature next to Prefect Cato.’
Macro gritted his teeth at her comment.
‘No?’ Otho smiled and raised her hand to kiss it. ‘That, my dear, is Centurion Macro, senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.’
‘So many numbers to remember!’ she protested. ‘How do you all cope? I’m sure I would not know where to begin were I a soldier. All these ranks, names, numbers and detachments.’
Horatius and the other centurions smiled politely but Cato kept his expression neutral as Poppaea shifted her position to address him directly.
‘Ah yes, I have it now. Centurion Macro’s men, and those rough-looking horsemen you command, are in charge of the army’s luggage. Is that not so, Prefect?’
‘Baggage, my lady,’ Cato corrected her flatly. ‘I command the baggage train escort.’
She tilted her head to one side and smiled briefly, revealing neat white teeth that looked sharp. Like her tongue, Cato mused as she continued. ‘It does not sound like a particularly onerous or significant duty, and yet you were the toast of the army for your actions on the day of the battle.’
‘And rightly so!’ Centurion Acer interrupted, raising his cup to Cato. ‘A bloody fine piece of work, sir. Pulled our arses out of the fire that day and no mistake.’
‘Such a kind endorsement of your comrade,’ Poppaea said sweetly. ‘May I continue? You are quite right, the prefect seems to have covered himself in glory that day. Though the moment passed exceedingly quickly with the escape of Caratacus. You see, yet another detail of the military world that a simple civilian finds bewildering. One moment you are a hero, the next, some sort of miscreant. What is one to make of that?’
Cato was silent a moment, brimming with bitter self-justification, and then he forced the feelings aside and concentrated his efforts on maintaining his indifferent appearance. ‘It’s the way of the army, my lady. All a soldier can do is serve to the best of his ability and take the bad along with the good.’
She gave him a level look. ‘So stoical, and so typical of the professional soldiers I have encountered while in Britannia. And yet you are too young a prefect to come from such a background. I assume you have breeding.’
‘If by that you infer a wealthy background, then no.’
‘I inferred nothing as crass as wealth. I spoke of breeding.’
‘I have none of that either. I rose through the ranks.’
‘Then you must have proved yourself a consummate soldier to have risen so swiftly, nay?’
Cato shrugged diffidently but did not reply.
Poppaea shifted her gaze back to Macro. ‘And what of you, Centurion? What is your background?’
Macro sniffed and cuffed his nose. ‘Joined up as a lad. Took eight years to reach the rank of optio, then two more years before I got the promotion to the centurionate. That’s when I met the prefect. He served as my optio back then.’
Her neatly plucked eyebrows lifted a little in surprise. ‘Prefect Cato was your subordinate? And how do you feel about that now?’
‘How do I feel?’ Macro shifted and puffed his cheeks. ‘Prefect Cato is my commanding officer, Lady Poppaea. I obey his orders. That’s how I feel about it.’
She stared at him for a moment and let out a brief laugh before reaching for her goblet and taking a delicate sip. ‘I can see we are in for an evening of the most animating conversation.’
Otho shot her a concerned look and then raised his goblet. ‘A toast, gentlemen. To the successful pursuit and apprehension of the fugitive, Caratacus. And the peace and prosperity that will ensue.’
The other officers dutifully raised their cups and did their best to repeat the lengthy toast, mumbling through the final phrase. Poppaea looked on with wry amusement as her husband gestured to the slave standing silently to one side. ‘You may bring the first course now.’
‘Yes, master.’ The slave bowed and disappeared through a door beneath the colonnade.
Macro looked around the garden and nodded. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, sir.’
‘Nice? I suppose so. In a clean, basic sort of way. Of course, it’s a seller’s market out here on the frontier of the empire. The rent I pay for this hovel would cover a modest palace back in Rome. But it’s a small price to pay for the comfort and privacy that it affords.’
‘Hovel?’ Macro muttered under his breath.
Poppaea wafted a hand around the garden. ‘It’ll be a shame for us to swap this for the hardship of sleeping in a tent for the next month or some, but duty calls.’
Cato coughed. ‘Do you intend your wife to accompany us to Brigantia, sir?’
‘Of course. My dear Poppaea and I cannot bear to be parted from one another. Besides, it’s a diplomatic mission. The presence of my wife will demonstrate our peaceful intent. I’m sure that Queen Cartimandua would appreciate some female company during the course of our negotiations.’
Macro was not so sure. He recalled his brief dalliance with a young Iceni woman during his first tour in Britannia. Boudica had been a spirited individual who enjoyed a drink and other earthy pursuits. He did not think there were many interests she would share with this brittle-looking aristocrat. Perhaps Cartimandua was different, but he doubted it.
‘Is that wise, sir?’ asked Cato. ‘It may be a diplomatic mission but there is a good chance it might turn into a military action. In which case Lady Poppaea would be in grave danger.’
‘Oh, I very much doubt it will come to that,’ Otho responded confidently. ‘It will be Queen Cartimandua who is in grave danger if she fails to comply with our demands. If she is rash enough to side with Caratacus she will be swept away with the other malcontents when Legate Quintatus brings the rest of the army up. Frankly, I think she will know the game is up the moment my column arrives. But I trust we can keep things on a civil basis, and in that I am sure my wife can assist with smoothing things over between Rome and those benighted barbarians. Isn’t that so, my love?’