It was near the end of the second watch in Pietas Iulia: close to midnight. In the sky above the Roman camp, stars twinkled away, oblivious to the sparks from the campfires which occasionally tried to join them. While guards walked their patrols, calling out their passwords and reports, the rest of the army slumbered.

Radu and Demetrius could tell they were asleep because the Roman army snored. The loud night music, sort of like a bagpipe drone, made them chuckle. Since they were both cats at the moment, the chuckles came out like chirps.

Being in cat form had its advantages. For one thing, nobody in the camp would notice a couple of kitties on mouse patrol. For another, their night vision was improved. And, as Radu often pointed out, they could get in almost anywhere. 'If I can get my head through,' he said, 'the rest will follow.'

'Just don't shift back too quickly or you'll get a backache,' was Demetrius's thought on the subject. The two padded silently around the camp, listening to the mostly unedifying conversations of the soldiers still awake.

'I don't believe that guy really did all that in that taverna with all those women,' said Radu, not bothering to whisper because Romans didn't speak Cat. 'Besides, some of that is simply not physically possible.'

'Quisque suae fabulae heros est,' replied Demetrius, accomplishing the difficult feat of speaking Latin with a feline accent.

A passing soldier, coming off guard duty, overheard this and nearly died of fright. 'Dei piscis et pisciculorum!¹' he muttered, performing an apotropaic gesture – okay, making the bad-luck-go-away-sign. He hurried away to the guard tent.

'Psst!' said a voice overhead. The cats looked up: there was a large owl in a nearby tree. The owl, of course, was Alex.

'Please limit your communications to non-human languages,' he hooted. 'We don't want to alarm them unduly before we've had time to assess the situation.'

It is hard to say things like 'assess the situation' in Owl, but Gheorghenis have had centuries of practice. It came out like, 'We need to see which way the mice are running.'

The cats chirped consent. All three creatures continued their nocturnal survey of the doings in the camp. They gravitated toward a particularly ostentatious tent in the centre next to an open space where two great silver eagles gleamed atop sturdy poles. Lights were burning in the great tent.

'Let's see what these conspirators are up to,' hooted Alex and assumed his post in a tree near a gap in the tent. The cats slunk under the fabric and took up quiet observation spots in the shadows.

This is what they saw, heard, and observed.

Lucius Arruntius Camillus Scribonianus set an inscribed cup on the table with a flourish. 'Gentlemen,' he said decisively, 'this is our road to fortune.'

At 43, Scribonianus – as we will call him because we are tired of all the long names and this isn't a Russian novel – was a fine figure of a Roman. His expression was hawklike, always a satisfactory kind of visage in a Roman governor. His carriage was noble, befitting his proud lineage as the descendant of a hero of the Republic and the adopted son of a figure admired by Tiberius himself. His voice was resonant, commanding, and persuasive.

Let's put it this way: if Scribonianus said, 'Lend me your ears,' half the crowd would reach for their lobes. Even the Gheorghenis were impressed, and they preferred actors.

The noble pretender to the imperial office looked around the table at his assembled commanders and civilian supporters. The civilian supporters were emissaries from his allies in the Senate, notably Annius Vinicianus, a savvy politician who was waiting in Rome to assist in the regime change. Aulus Caecina Paetus, another senior senator, was himself sitting at the table. These men were Roman to the core. They were also weary of the way things were going.

They were tired of Caesars, and said so. Tiberius had been bad enough, but Caligula had stretched the fabric of reality so thin that even iron Roman reason had wobbled. There had been too much corruption. Too many scandals. Far too many forced suicides – polite invitations to senators to euthanise themselves and save the state the trouble of doing it for them, thus preserving the family name and property.

They had all been terrified of Caligula. Mad he may have been, but he had armies. And sycophants. Now Caligula was gone, conveniently removed by a conspiracy. That should have put an end to the insane dynasty of Julius Caesar's loony descendants. Unfortunately, the Pretorian Guard had discovered old Uncle Claudius hiding behind the curtains. The Pretorian Guard liked their jobs. They got nice perks, like pretty uniforms and free seats at the games. They made Claudius emperor.

That was last year. Claudius probably would rather have been just about anything than an emperor – he was a scholar, after all, and disabled – but he found it hard to say no to the Pretorian Guard. Anyone would: they were large, had weapons, and were immune to philosophy. So Claudius was ruling an empire.

But he wouldn't be for long, if Scribonianus had his way. Scribonianus told the assembly he wanted to 'restore the Republic'. Even if he continued as emperor, they could expect him to be more like Augustus: first among equals. The equals, of course, being the senators. They wanted a return to the status quo ante: everybody in their places and no more horse senators. There were murmurs of approval.

Scribonianus pointed to his cup.

'This,' he said impressively, indicating the vessel in front of him, 'is our itinerarium. We're taking the VII and XI by ship to Ancona. From there, we will march down the Via Flaminia to Rome. And take back what is ours.'

'What in hades is he talking about?' said Alex in owl-talk.

'It's a kind of map,' Radu meowed back. 'It's a list of every waymarker between Ancona and Rome. And when you get tired, you can sit down and have a drink. You can't do that with just any old map.'

A dozen conspirators jumped at the sounds.

'Hark!' said Paetus. 'An owl! That's a bad omen at night. Signals a death.'

'And it set the cats off,' remarked Annius's emissary.

'Whisht!' whispered Alex. 'Now we've done it! You listen. I'm leaving.' And he flew away before the alarmed Romans could capture him for possible dissection by a haruspex. Demetrius and Radu crept deeper into the shadows, opened their ears, and closed their mouths.

Scribonianus was angry at the interruption. 'Nonsense!' he snapped. 'If anything, it was a sign from Minerva that she approves our enterprise. Which will bring our Rome back to the path of wisdom. Now, have we any other business before the brotherhood?'

Paetus cleared his throat. 'I, er, have a suggestion. One that might save a lot of bloodshed in the city.'

Scribonianus raised an imperial (he hoped!) eyebrow in the senator's direction. 'And that would be?'

'We warn Claudius in a letter. Suggest that he resign. For the peace of Rome.'

There was a silence. Warn him? Good idea, bad idea? But then, Claudius was in his fifties, and no warrior. Perhaps that would work?

It was decided to try. Scribonianus summoned his scribe. While the messenger was busy waking that functionary up – they hadn't thought they'd want recorded minutes of the conspiracy meeting – there was a bit of a fuss at the tent door. It turned out to be a soldier, newly relieved from guard duty, with a report for his commander. Who happened to be sitting in the meeting.

The soldier was summoned. He stood nervously in front of all these brass helmets. 'Come on, out with it,' ordered his tribune. 'Address the governor. And make sense, man!'

The soldier gulped. 'I were just finishing me rounds,' he said, 'when these 'ere two cats passed me, talkin' like.'

Scribonianus raised a patrician eyebrow. 'Cats? What kind of cats?'

'It were dark, sir. At night, all cats are grey.'

The assemblage roared. Even the tribune smirked. Scribonianus looked annoyed. 'I mean, what significance do you attribute to these cats, my good man? Whatever their hue.' He allowed himself a smirk at this, feeling he had regained some measure of control over the conversation.

The soldier was eager to explain. 'It were sinnifycant, Yer Worship, in that one on 'em were speakin' Latin.'

And better than you do, thought the cat in question, listening.

'Well?' said Scribonianus sharply. 'And what did this cat, this grey cat, say?'

'Quisque suae fabulae heros est.'

'Every man the hero of his own tale,' repeated Annius's delegate uneasily.

There was a collective gasp – and mutterings. 'Not good' and 'ill omen' could be heard. Scribonianus silenced them all with an imperious wave.

'Not at all!' he said. 'I suggest, my good man, that you misheard the animal.'

The soldier looked down. 'That could be, sir. I don't speak Latin very well.'

'Where are you from?'

'Massalia, sir.'

Scribonianus thought quickly. Fortunately for him, he'd had a good education. 'I put it to you, my good man, that what you heard was quisque suae fortunae faber est. Each man is the author of his own good fortune,' he translated kindly.

The soldier nodded eagerly, anxious to please – and to get out of this tent unscathed. 'I reckon that were it, sir: you've surely got the right of it. It were only the Latin, sir, that confused me. If cats would only speak Greek. . . '

The tent erupted in peals of relieved laughter, and the soldier was dismissed, to his great joy. By this time, the messenger had arrived with the scribe Scribonianus had requisitioned. The slave, for such he was, stumbled in, yawning, and was put to work laying out his pens, papyrus, and ink. It was decided that only the senators and their emissaries should be involved in the composition of the letter to the emperor, and so the military attendees were dismissed – much to their relief, as all of this treason talk was making them very, very nervous, indeed.

Nobody dismissed the cats, but they left, too, being less interested at the moment in how Roman senators composed a letter of no confidence to an emperor than in a consultation with a certain authoritative owl.

Up to this point, dear reader, the author has been content to stay in the background and let the Gheorghenis tell their story. But at this point, we feel we must jump in. You're probably as puzzled by Scribonianus's 'map' as Alex was. We were puzzled, too. But that cup is a genuine artefact of the period.

Itineraria were useful in their day, much as Google directions are in ours – at least, for those of us who are hard-of-hearing and hate those smug satnav voices. But did Romans not know what a map was? Well, yes. And no.

Here's an actual map of the planet from the year after our story takes place. Very up-to-date.

Mare nostrum means 'our sea'. If you think that's conceited, you're right. But look at a map of Europe today. Locate the 'English Channel'. Laugh. Nothing changes.

Want to get some idea of where Scribonianus and his 20,000 men are planning to go? Here's a map you may be able to get a better grip on.

These guys were kind of ambitious. Basically, they just wanted to be the richest, the most famous, the most successful of their time. Of course, those kinds of ambitions have repercussions – not only for them, but also for everyone else, in Mare nostrum and beyond. The Gheorghenis have decisions to make. What would you do?

DG

15.07.24 Front Page

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