Under The Eagle

'No, sir.' Cato looked down, not trusting himself to mislead Macro effectively. 'We were interrupted before we could… get down to anything.'

'Oh that's too bad.' Macro nodded sympathetically. 'So what happened?'

'We had arranged to meet in the wagons behind the legate's tents. We were getting on rather well when all this shouting and commotion broke out. We would have ignored it and carried on with things but Lavinia heard her mistress calling for her.'

'Should have gone for a quickie,' Macro suggested.

'Not even enough time for that, sir,' Cato said regretfully. 'She had to rush off, without even arranging our next meeting. And now I'm sent off on escort duty and she's stuck back there.'

'Never mind, lad, I'm sure she'll keep it warm for you.'

'Yes, sir.'

'So you were there when that thief was discovered? Did you see anything?'

'Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Just got out of there and went straight back to my bed.'

'Looks like you missed all the fun.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied, quietly enough that Macro mistook it for the boy's continued pining for his first love. A degree of sensitivity was called for to distract young Cato from his woes. Macro grasped at the first idea that crept into his head.

'Let's see how my words are coming on. You say a word and I'll spell it. All right?'

'Whatever you want, sir.'

As Macro stumbled through such tests of his newfound skill as 'rampart', 'sentry' and 'javelin', Cato was consumed by anxiety. If that sentry recovered from his head injury it would only be a matter of time before the investigation closed in around him. And then what? Torture, a confession extracted, and certain humiliating death. But if Lavinia was safe then she would be sure to back up his version of events. Unless – a rather nasty thought struck him – unless she feared that she might implicate herself. And what of Flavia? After all, she had arranged the meeting. She might deny Lavinia's statement for precisely the same reasons. While the century was detached from the Legion he would not know how the situation developed.

'Cato?' The centurion had quickly grown tired of spelling tests.

'Sir?'

'This man we're going to meet.'

'Narcissus?'

'Keep it down,' Macro hissed. 'That lot back there aren't supposed to know'

'Sorry, sir. What about him?'

'Did you ever run into him at the palace?'

'Yes, sir. He was a close friend of my father, or at least he was until he struck it rich.'

'What's he like?' Macro asked, then noticed the curious expression on his optio's face. 'I just need to know before we meet so we don't start off on the wrong foot, that's all. If we're to guard him for the next few days then I don't want to risk pissing him off, given that he's one of the Emperor's inner circle. Not that I'm afraid of him or anything, after all the man's only a bloody freedman. Just want to make sure he's happy while in our care. Won't harm our futures any if he gets to like us. So then, tell me about him.'

'Well sir-' Cato paused for thought. This wasn't going to be easy. What he knew of Narcissus was far from flattering, and he had been wise enough to keep what he knew to himself. The cold shoulder Narcissus had turned to Cato's father in the latter years of their friendship had left Cato in no doubt that he could expect few favours from the leading figure of Claudius's inner council. After Narcissus, only Messalina – the Emperor's carelessly ambitious wife – wielded more power under the Emperor.

'Well?'

'He's a good man – I mean a brilliant man – sir. Might seem a bit cold and distant at first, but that's probably because he has a lot on his shoulders. They used to say in the palace that he had more brains and worked harder than any other man in the Empire. We all respected him,' concluded Cato tactfully.

'Well, that's all very nice, but what I want to know is what he's like as a man. What should I do to get on with him?'

'Get on with him?' Cato raised his eyebrows.

'Yes. I mean, is he a man's man? That kind of thing. Does he like a good joke? There's plenty I could tell him.'

'No, sir. Please don't try to be funny,' Cato begged, visions swimming before his eyes of a cosmopolitan sophisticate being regaled with the boorish humour of the ranks. 'Just be yourself, sir. Be professional and keep out of his way as much as possible. And be careful what you say.'

Chapter Twenty-five

Just after dawn, Flavia was sitting at her portable writing desk going through some papers. From the next tent she could hear Titus squealing with laughter as his nurse struggled to feed him his morning meal. Flavia intended to catch up on some correspondence she had been meaning to write since the Legion had set out from the Rhine. She had already despatched a letter to a distant relative commanding a cavalry unit that was joining the invasion force, hoping to meet up with him when the Second Legion arrived in Gesoriacum. Then there were people in Rome she needed to inform of her return. And there were instructions to be issued to the majordomo of the house on the Quirinal, as well as to the steward of Vespasian's villa in Campania. Both establishments needed plenty of warning to ensure that they would be ready to receive Flavia and her retinue.

But the writing of those letters must wait until the present task was meticulously completed. She dipped the tip of her stylus in the inkwell and continued writing with deliberation, pausing occasionally to copy some detail or other from the map on a scroll lying open before her. A salute was shouted outside her tent and Flavia quickly pushed her paperwork into a roughly ordered pile as Vespasian entered. Flavia smiled and laid her stylus down as she rose to give him a kiss.

'I'm afraid you'll have to begin packing in a moment,' apologised Vespasian. 'Even the legate's wife is not permitted to delay the Legion.'

'Surely, after last night's rumpus, you'll allow us time to recover?'

'Recover from what? Lost sleep is a fact of life in the army.'

'I'm not in the army,' she protested.

'No, but you're married to it.'

'Brute!' Flavia scowled. 'I knew I should have married some fat old senator with a consuming interest in viniculture. Instead of roughing it out here in the barbaric wilderness with a man who thinks being a soldier matters.'

'I never forced you to,' Vespasian said quietly.

Flavia took his face between her hands and looked deep into his eyes. 'Just joking, you idiot. You know why I married you. For love – as unfashionable as that may be.'

'But you could have married better.'

'No, I couldn't.' Flavia kissed him. 'One day, you'll be powerful beyond your wildest dreams. I guarantee it.'

'That's reckless talk, Flavia. Please don't. It's too dangerous to even think such things these days.'

Flavia looked deeply into his eyes for a moment and then smiled. 'You're right, of course. I'll be careful what I say. But mark me, history won't remember you merely for commanding a legion. I'll see to that if no-one else will. You really should be more ambitious, or do you still cling to that deep-seated Republican modesty of yours?'

'Maybe.' Vespasian shrugged. 'But right now I think I'll be lucky if I retain command of the Second until the end of the month.'

'Why dear? What's the matter?'

'That incident last night-'

'The fire?'

'The person who caused the fire. The thief. He stole something quite precious – something that Narcissus had trusted me to keep secret. Once Narcissus finds out that it's been stolen I don't think he'll be in much of a mood for any excuses.'

'It's not your fault it was stolen,' Flavia protested. 'Whatever "it" was. He can't replace you just for that.'

'He can. He will. He has to.'

'Why? Whatever can be that important?'

Vespasian allowed himself a small smile. 'That I can't tell you. The orders were quite explicit on that point at least.'