On the wharf, chain gangs were busy carrying goods from the holds of ships into the long low warehouses. Beyond them other buildings spread out, many still under construction as the new town took shape. A hundred paces back from the riverbank they could make out the second storey of a large complex rising above the other buildings. That would be the basilica, Cato realised, site of the market, courts, shops, offices and administrative headquarters of towns that Rome founded.
‘That’s Londinium all right,’ the captain answered as he joined his passengers. ‘Growing faster than an abscess on the backside of a mule. And just as vile.’
‘Oh?’ Macro’s mother frowned.
‘Why yes, Miss Portia. The place is a rat-hole. Narrow streets, filled with mud, cheap drinking joints and knocking shops. It’ll be a while yet before it settles down and becomes the kind of town you’re used to.’
She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’
The captain frowned at her and Macro let out a laugh.
‘She’s come here to go into business.’
The captain scrutinised the old woman. ‘What kind of business?’
‘I intend to open an inn,’ she replied. ‘There’s always a need for drink, and other comforts, at the end of a sea voyage, and I dare say that Londinium sees plenty of merchants, sailors and soldiers passing through its gates. All good customers for the kind of services I will offer.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty of business, all right,’ the captain nodded. ‘But it’s a hard life. Even harder in a new province like this. The kind of merchants who make their fortunes here are tough men. They won’t take kindly to a Roman woman trying to compete with them.’
‘I dealt with tough men at the inn I owned in Ravenna. I doubt the locals here will cause me any difficulty. Particularly when they find out my son happens to be a senior centurion of the Fourteenth Legion.’ She took Macro’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Anyone messes about with my mum and they mess with me. And that hasn’t worked out well for anyone who has tried it in the past.’
The captain took in the muscular physique of the stocky Roman officer and the scars on his face and arms and could believe it.
‘Even so, why would you come here, ma’am? You’d be more comfortable setting up back in Gesoriacum. Plenty of trade there.’
Portia pursed her lips. ‘This is where the real money can be made, by those who get stuck in quickly. Besides, this boy is all I have in the world now. I want to be as close to him as I can. Who knows, when he gets his discharge, he could join me in the business.’
Macro’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. All the wine and women that a man could want, under one roof!’
Portia swatted his arm. ‘On second thoughts. . You soldiers are all the same. Anyway, I will make my fortune here in Londinium, and this is where I will stay until the end of my days. It’s up to you what you do with your life, Macro. But I’ll be remaining here. This is my last home.’
With a steady rhythm the cargo ship approached the wharf. As they neared the town, those on board caught their first whiff of the place, an acrid, peaty, sewage smell that mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and caught in their throats.
‘There might be something to be said for sea air after all,’ Cato muttered as he wrinkled his nose.
There was no mooring space along the wharf and the captain gave the order to steer for the end of the line of vessels anchored further upriver. He turned apologetically to his passengers.
‘It’ll be a while before our turn comes. You’re welcome to stay on board, or I’ll have some of my boys row you ashore in the skiff.’
Cato eased himself up from the side rail and adopted the military manner he had learned from Macro, standing tall and being decisive. ‘We’ll go ashore. The centurion and I need to report to the nearest military authority as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The captain knuckled his forehead, instantly aware that the informalities of the voyage had passed. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’
He was as good as his word and by the time the anchor splashed down into the current and the crew shipped the oars, the kitbags of the two officers and the chests and bags belonging to Portia had been carried up from the hold. The skiff, a small blunt-bowed craft with a wide beam, was lowered over the side and two oarsmen nimbly leaped down and offered their hands up to assist the passengers. There was only space for the three of them; their belongings would have to be ferried ashore separately. Cato was the last and as he stepped down into the flimsy craft he frantically waved his arms to retain his balance, before sitting heavily on a thwart. Macro shot him a weary look and tutted and then the oarsmen pulled on their blades and the skiff headed towards the wharf. Now that they were closer to Londinium they could see that the surface of the river was streaked with sewage running from the drain outlets along the wharf. In the still water trapped by the wharf lay lengths of broken timber amid the other flotsam, and rats scurried from piece to piece, scavenging for anything edible. A set of wooden steps rose from the river at one end of the wharf and the oarsmen made for them. When they were alongside, the nearest man snatched his oar in and reached to grasp the slimy hawser that acted as a fender. He held on while his friend slipped a looped line over the mooring post.
‘There you are, sirs, ma’am.’ He smiled and then handed them ashore. With Cato leading the way, they climbed the steps to the top of the wharf and looked along the crowded thoroughfare between the ships and the warehouses. A cacophony of voices filled the cool spring afternoon and in amongst them were the brays of mules and the crack of whips and the shouts of the overseers of the chain gangs. Though the scene looked chaotic, Cato knew that in every detail it was proof of the transformation that had come to the island that had defied the power of Rome for almost a hundred years. For better or worse, change had come to Britannia and once the last pockets of resistance had been crushed, the new province would take shape and become part of the empire.
Macro joined him and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Welcome back to Britannia. . arse end of civilisation.’
CHAPTER THREE
Once the boat returned with their belongings, Macro approached a small group of men gathered outside the nearest warehouse.
‘I need some porters,’ he announced, addressing them in his loud, clear, parade-ground voice. At once they hurried forward and he chose several of the burliest-looking men, one of whom had a strip of leather about his head to clear his brow of thick, wiry blond hair. A brand was visible on his forehead, beneath the leather. Macro recognised the mark at once. The brand of Mithras, a religion from the east that was steadily spreading through the ranks of the Roman army. ‘You, a soldier once, if I’m not mistaken?’
The man bowed his head. ‘I was, sir. Before I took a Silurian spear through the leg. Left me with a limp, I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the lads. Army had no choice but to discharge me, sir.’
Macro looked him over. The man wore a threadbare military cloak over his tunic and his boots were held together by strips of cloth. ‘Let me guess. You pissed away your discharge bonus and this is what you’ve been reduced to.’
The ex-soldier nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, sir.’
‘What is your name and unit?’
‘Legionary Marcus Metellius Decimus, Second Legion, Augusta, sir!’ The man straightened to attention and winced before stretching a hand down to steady his thigh.
‘The Second, eh?’ Macro stroked his jaw. ‘That’s my old mob. Or, I should say, our old mob.’ He jerked his thumb towards Cato. ‘We served under Legate Vespasian.’
Decimus tilted his head regretfully. ‘Before my time, sir.’
‘Pity. Very well, Decimus, you take charge of these men. Our baggage is over there on the wharf by my friend there, and the woman.’
Decimus glanced across the thoroughfare and sniffed. ‘She’s a bit old for him. Unless she’s got money. .
