Portia raised her cup half-heartedly. ‘It would be more of a success if some of the trade actually stayed for a drink.’
Cato glanced into the dregs of his cup. ‘Or even bought a round or two.’
‘So where are these troublemakers, then?’ a voice called out from the direction of the counter and Cato turned to see a burly, grey-haired man emerge from the door leading to the storeroom. The serving girl anxiously peered round from behind his back. The innkeeper glanced round the room where his customers were drinking peacefully, then turned on the serving girl. ‘Well?’
She flinched back towards the door and he cuffed her hard about the head. ‘Stop wasting my time, you stupid bitch! Get in there and stoke up the cooking fire!’
The girl reeled from the blow and then hunched down and scurried away to do her master’s bidding.
Cato nodded towards the man. ‘The owner, and vendor, of the inn, I take it?’
‘That’s him.’ Portia beckoned to the innkeeper when she caught his eye. ‘Time, I think, to settle the deal, now that my dear son has agreed to invest in my new business.’
‘Invest?’ Macro echoed wryly. ‘It feels more like I’ve been mugged.’
Portia ignored her grumpy son and smiled as the innkeeper made his way over to their table. He moved with the self-assurance of one who was used to command and did not tolerate any subordinate who caused even the least bit of trouble. His hair was thinning but the well-toned physique that had seen him through many a battle was still there. Cato had little doubt that he could swiftly sort out any customers who got out of hand on his premises. As he came close enough for his features to be clearly recognisable, Cato gave a small start of surprise and then called out a greeting.
‘Centurion Gaius Tullius!’
The innkeeper slowed his pace and squinted at his customers, then his expression changed abruptly and he beamed happily.
‘Bugger me, if it ain’t Cato and Macro! What on earth are you two doing here? Thought the Second Legion had seen the back of you years ago.’
‘So it had.’ Macro grinned. ‘But it seems like you lads have been having a little difficulty with the locals and need to call on the services of some real soldiers to sort ’em out.’
‘Ah, get away with you!’ Tullis swatted Macro on the shoulder. ‘We managed well enough without you two troublemakers. Anyway, this is a turn-up, and I’m always glad to see old comrades. The gods know there are few enough of us about.’ He turned to Portia. ‘Oh, it’s you, ma’am. You with them?’ He winked. ‘Or are they with you?’
Portia regarded him coolly. ‘If that’s supposed to be amusing, then I fail to see why. As it happens, Centurion Macro is my son.’
Tullius turned to stare at Macro with a look of astonishment. ‘You have a mother?’
He pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘Tullia!’ he shouted. ‘Bring another jar of wine. The good stuff! Wait. . That Gaulish stuff’ll do! Anyway, what’s the story, lads? How come you’re back in this shithole? Can’t be because you like the weather.’
‘Shithole?’ Portia fixed him with a stare. ‘Is that why you’re selling up? I might have to knock a thousand or two off the price.’
Tullius dipped his head in acknowledgement of his clumsy remark. ‘I’m selling up because I want to retire to some place warm in Campania, miss. There’s nothing really wrong with Londinium. There’s good money to be made here. I’m hardly likely to try and put one over the dear old mother of one of my former comrades in arms, am I? Besides,’ his tone hardened slightly, ‘I thought we made a deal.’
‘No. I made an offer. You said you’d think about it. And now, I’m having a rethink about the offer I made, in view of your eagerness to sell. I think nine thousand is a more reasonable price.’
Tullius could not hide his surprise at the sharpness of her tone. ‘Fuck me, but you’ve got a hard and ruthless streak. She’s your mum all right, Macro. . The price is still ten.’
‘Nine.’
‘And five hundred.’
Portia chewed her lip briefly. ‘Nine thousand, five hundred.’
He frowned. ‘Well, since you’re kin of Macro, it’s a deal. But I’m robbing myself.’ He spat into the palm of his hand and held it out. Portia took it at once, before there was any chance of him changing his mind, and sealed their business. The serving girl arrived with a fresh jar of wine and set it down on the table and hurriedly withdrew. Tullius poured them each a cup, filled right to the brim, and raised his. ‘To the Second Augusta!’
‘To the Second!’ Macro and Cato chorused and drained their cups. The wine was better than Macro had expected and at once he reached for the jug to refill their cups.
‘Go easy on that,’ Portia said firmly. ‘That’s part of my stock now. You pay for the next jug, you hear?’
Tullius smiled ruefully. ‘Hard as nails. Anyway, I take it you two are here to beef up the ranks of the legions for Ostorius’s new campaign.’
‘That’s right,’ said Cato. ‘Macro’s going to the Fourteenth as a senior centurion.’
‘Pfftt! Fourteenth, bunch of pansies. Not fit to lick the boots of the Second, I reckon.’
Macro was cautious about knocking the reputation of his new unit as he was sure to develop pride in the Fourteenth as a matter of course. He pursed his lips and poured himself some more wine as he muttered, ‘We’ll see.’
Tullius turned to Cato. ‘And what about you? Going to join Macro’s lot? I’m sure he could use a good centurion like you.’
Cato felt a moment’s awkwardness. ‘No. I’ll be going to a different unit. Thracian cavalry cohort. I’ve been given the command.’
Tullis looked surprised. ‘You? Then. . you must have made prefect. Fuck me, that’s a turn-up for the books. You were just a junior centurion when we last knew each other. .’ He paused and shuffled sheepishly. ‘Bloody hell. . Well done, lad. I mean, sir.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Cato responded. ‘We’re off duty. I mean. . you’re out of the army now.’
‘Maybe so, but I still have respect for the rank. And the man that bears it. Prefect Cato. Now that’s something. Really something. By the gods, you must have seen some action and covered yourself in glory to be promoted to prefect. That or you’ve gone and shagged the Emperor’s missus. Or perhaps been shagged by Claudius. Randy old dog, from what I hear.’
Macro drained his cup and raised a finger. ‘That’s enough. Cato won his rank the hard way. I know. I watched him do it.’
‘Fair play to him then,’ Tullius conceded. ‘And now you’ve both fetched up here, the graveyard of ambition, or so they say.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there’s no glory to be won here. Not any more. The big battles are over. Caratacus and his mob have taken to the hills. Most of our lads are stuck in small forts keeping a wary eye on the natives and trying not to get themselves bumped off when they go out on patrol. Once in a while we manage to chase a few of the painted bastards to ground and stick it to ’em. But the rate things are going I dare say Rome will still be struggling to tame these Britons long after anyone has forgotten there ever was an invasion. You want my advice? Apply for a transfer as soon as you get the chance.’
Macro replied, ‘You’re wrong. Ostorius is about to give them one last chance to bend to Rome, then he’s going to hit them with everything he’s got.’ His voice was beginning to slur.
Tullius chuckled. ‘Is that right? You think it’s the first time a governor’s tried to wipe the floor with the bastards? What makes you think he’s got any more chance of finishing the job than Aulus Plautius before him?’
Macro waved a finger at Cato and slapped himself on the chest. ‘Because this time we’re going to be doing the fighting for him. That’s what!’
Cato folded his fingers together and gently shook his head.
Macro had warmed to his theme and raised his fist. ‘We’ll give Caratacus what for, you’ll see! Bloody his nose and whip him like the cur he is. It’ll all be over by Saturnalia.’
‘Care to place a bet on that?’ Tullius asked slyly.
‘Course I will.’ Macro nodded vigorously.
