‘Macro!’ Portia snapped. ‘Don’t!’
Before her son could respond there was a cold draught as the door opened and a headquarters clerk came into the inn. He looked round until he spied the table at which Cato and the others were sitting, just as Macro glared over his shoulder and bellowed, ‘Put the bloody wood in the hole!’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The clerk pushed the door to and the latch clicked home then he made his way over to the table and stood to attention. ‘Begging your pardon, Prefect, but the governor sends his compliments and says that you are both to be ready to join him tomorrow morning when he rides to Durocornovium.’
‘Very well.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll be there. You may go.’
The clerk bowed his head and departed. Cato stood up. ‘Come, Macro. We must find Decimus and have our packs made ready. Then an early night is in order.’
‘Stuff that. I’m enjoying a drink with Tullius here. I’ll be along when I’m done.’
For an instant Cato considered ordering his friend to join him. But he knew that would only put Macro in a sour mood. Better to let him drink his fill and roll back into their quarters happy and drunk. Besides, the inevitable hangover the next morning would give Cato some peace and quiet on the road to Durocornovium.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Portia came to see them off shortly after dawn the following day. Cato had provided Decimus with enough silver to buy three mules, two to carry their baggage, and one for the servant to ride. The governor had authorised the provision of two horses for Cato and Macro. There was no tearful parting scene at the gates of the town because they had not been constructed yet and Londinium merely petered out amid a shanty town of shelters either side of the road leading west. Fearing for his mother’s safety amongst the barbaric-looking denizens of this fringe community, Macro stopped his horse, waited until the last men in the small column had passed by, and briefly kissed her on the forehead. He wished his own head was not pounding so. Nor did he like the raw nausea in his guts that threatened to humiliate him in front of his companions should he have to throw up.
‘It’s best that we part here,’ said Macro. ‘I’m not sure how far I trust this lot.’
He nodded to some of the inhabitants who had risen early and watched the Romans leading their horses down the rutted roadway.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She lifted her cloak aside to reveal a cosh hanging from her tunic belt. ‘A souvenir from my Ariminum days.’
‘Try not to kill too many of the natives,’ Macro joked, attempting to lighten the mood at their parting. ‘Leave some for me. That’s my job.’
She smiled weakly then cupped her son’s cheek in her hand and stared intently at him. ‘Take care of yourself, and that boy, Cato. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you. I know what you’re like. Just don’t take unnecessary risks. Understand?’
Macro nodded.
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Maybe one day you’ll have a son of your own. Then you’ll understand. Now go. Before you make me cry.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ Macro drawled. ‘Tough as old boots, you are.’
‘Just go!’
Without another word, or any lingering hesitation, Portia dropped her hand and turned to walk back down the road towards the heart of Londinium. Macro watched her briefly, but she did not look back.
‘Tough as old boots. .’ he repeated under his breath. Then, tugging on the reins of his mount, he strode forward to catch up with the rest of the governor’s escort while the natives, their curiosity sated, turned away and went back to their rude huts. Once they had passed beyond the last of the huts and emerged into open countryside, the governor gave the order for his men to mount.
Cato had been taught to ride as a recruit and had had some practice in the following years, but he still did not feel wholly comfortable in the saddle and the horse he had been given had a tendency to nervous jerks and twitches at the slightest flicker of movement in the periphery of its vision. Ostorius rode a length ahead of his men and glanced over his shoulder once in a while at Cato, and the latter understood his intent well enough. The governor was testing his new cavalry commander to see how he handled a difficult mount. Accordingly, Cato concentrated on keeping the beast in check and trying to anticipate its reactions to its surroundings to make sure that it did not bolt, or rear, or cause any embarrassment to him.
The road was a rough affair, often no more than a muddy track, and where the ground was particularly soft the army’s engineers had constructed corduroys of logs packed with earth to provide a stable surface for marching columns, riders and wheeled traffic. Although there was no rain, the sky was overcast and pockets of mist filled the hollows of the landscape. With no sun to burn them off they were set to remain there through most of the day and Cato could well understand why that was the prevailing impression of the island in Roman minds. The country-scented air was cool and a relief after the cloying stench of Londinium. It was late in April and the bare limbs of trees and shrubs were budding and hardy flowers provided a splatter of bright colours across the landscape. Soon, the town had fallen behind them and only a faint brown hue on the undulating horizon marked its presence.
Cato soon came to master the idiosyncrasies of his horse and could give some attention to his comrades. There had been a brief round of introductions at the governor’s headquarters before setting out but Cato had forgotten most of their names. He was familiar with the types, though. Aside from Ostorius, there were ten picked legionaries who acted as his personal bodyguard. Tough veterans with good records who could be trusted to give their lives to protect the governor. Then there were the tribunes. Six junior officers who would go on to a succession of appointments in civil administration and who might one day be rewarded with promotion to the Senate. From there, the select few would be awarded the post of governor of one of Rome’s provinces. Ostorius Scapula was such a man. He had devoted his life to the twin ideals of Rome and to adding lustre to his family name. No doubt he had hoped to tame Britannia as a fitting end to his long career, Cato reflected. Too bad the native tribes had different ideas about being tamed.
The last member of the party was a native translator, though with his neatly cut brown hair, red tunic and cape he could easily be taken for a Roman. It was only the gleam of the ornately patterned torc round his neck that indicated his true heritage. Marcommius, the latinised version of his native name, was in his thirties, slender and well-groomed. It was clear that he had abandoned the ways of his people.
Cato rode behind the tribunes while Macro had slipped back to join the bodyguards and engage them in conversation. Their cheerful chatter mingled with the rumbling clop of hoofs as the small column followed the track across the green downs of the lands of the Atrebates. There was heavy cultivation and small farms, and a handful of villas with their more regular pattern of fields lay scattered amongst the remaining woodlands of ancient oaks and smaller trees. Now and then they passed some of the natives working their land; Ostorius smiled a greeting, and his officers followed his example, Cato noted approvingly. He could never understand the haughty, high- handed attitude of many Romans to the peoples they had conquered. The swiftest way to Romanise a population was to encourage good relations. The quickest way to antagonise them was to beat them down and treat them as inferiors, a policy that only caused bitter resentment where it did not result in outright revolt.
Five miles or so down the road Ostorius gently tugged on his reins and fell into step alongside Cato. The road had dipped down into a shallow vale filled with mist which closed in around the riders and made vague shapes of the trees and bushes on either side. They exchanged a nod before the governor began speaking.
‘I briefed my tribunes and the bodyguard before we left, but just wanted to ensure that you, and Centurion Macro, were put in the picture. As you can appreciate this is very much a make or break occasion. Our last chance to secure peace with Caratacus and his followers. Of course, there’s no guarantee that he will put in an appearance. But there will be some there who share his views and will doubtless report back to him. The vast majority are already firm allies. Some, admittedly, are more grudging. Even so there will be more voices raised for peace than war and, if nothing else, this meeting will serve to emphasise the isolation of those who still resist. That said, I am taking nothing for granted. You, and your subordinate, will at all times treat the native delegates with courtesy and respect. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
