The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  He put thoughts of the distant future out of his mind and clicked his tongue at Petronella. ‘Let’s have no more of you calling me master. I am no more your master than your husband will ever be.’

  Macro grinned and slid his hand down to slap her rump gently. ‘I’ve broken in far more challenging recruits than her in my day. By the gods, Cato, you were one of the biggest drips I’d ever clapped eyes on that night you pitched up at the Second Legion’s fortress.’

  ‘And look at him now,’ Petronella cut in. ‘A tribune of the Praetorian Guard. While you’ve never got beyond centurion.’

  ‘Each to his own, my love. I like being a centurion. It’s what I am best at.’

  ‘What you were best at,’ she said deliberately. ‘Those days are over. And you’d better not have any notions of treating me like some bloody recruit or I’ll give you what for.’ She bunched her fist and held her knuckles under Macro’s nose for a moment before relaxing.

  Lucius nudged Cato. ‘I like it when Petronella gets angry, Father,’ he whispered. ‘She’s scary.’

  Macro roared with laughter. ‘Aye, lad! You don’t know the half of it. The love of my life is as tough as old boots.’ He shot her an anxious look. ‘But far lovelier.’

  Petronella rolled her eyes and gave him a shove. ‘Oh, give over.’

  Macro’s expression became earnest. He raised a hand to turn her face towards him and kissed her gently on the lips. She pressed back and reached round his broad back to draw him into her. Their lips remained locked together for a moment longer before they parted, and Macro shook his head in wonder. ‘By all that’s sacred, you are the woman for me. My girl. My Petronella.’

  ‘My love . . .’ she replied as they stared fondly at each other.

  Cato coughed. ‘Want me to see if I can get a decent rate for a room for the pair of you?’

  The food arrived shortly afterwards, carried on a large tray by a thickset serving girl dripping with perspiration from working over the fire in the kitchen. She set the tray down and unloaded cuts of pork and two roast chickens heaped on a wooden platter, a wicker basket containing several small round loaves, two stoppered samianware jugs of oil and garum and another of wine. The portion sizes were more generous than Cato was expecting, and in his present good mood he felt generous enough to tip her a sestertius. She glanced at the coin in her palm wide-eyed, then looked nervously over her shoulder, but the innkeeper was at another table where two more customers had sat down. She tucked the coin into the pocket in the front of her stained stola and hurried back to the kitchen.

  ‘Ah, this is the life!’ said Macro as he tore off a chicken leg, closed his teeth over the seared skin and began to chew. ‘A fine sunny day. The best of company. Good food, passable wine and the prospect of a comfortable bed at the end of it. Be good to get a hot bath and a change of clothing.’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be something at the house,’ Cato responded as he tossed a scrap of meat to the dog, who snapped it up and then nudged his hand for more. He smiled. ‘Sorry, Cassius, that’s the lot.’

  They had left their baggage in Ostia, where one of Cato’s men had been charged with bringing it to Rome. They were bound for the large property Cato owned on the Viminal Hill, one of the city’s wealthier neighbourhoods. His promotion to commander of an auxiliary cohort some years earlier had brought with it elevation to the ranks of the equites, the social class one step beneath that of senator. He was also a man of some substance, largely thanks to being granted the property and fortune of his former father-in-law, who had plotted against the emperor. The traitors would have succeeded in assassinating Nero had it not been for Cato’s intervention. All of Senator Sempronius’s estate had been handed to him as a reward.

  Such were the changing fortunes of Rome’s nobility under the Caesars, Cato reflected. He was conscious that what the emperor could give, he could just as easily take away. Now that he had a son to raise, he was determined to keep his nose clean and his good fortune intact. Not that it was going to be easy, given the poor start to the conflict with Parthia over the previous two years. An attempt to replace the ruler of Armenia with a Roman sympathiser had led to disaster, and the revolt of a minor frontier kingdom had threatened to spread before it had been crushed. Cato had played a part in both campaigns and now feared he would pay the price once he had submitted his report to the imperial palace.

  A chorus of laughter drew his attention to the innkeeper and his other customers just as the former turned to shout an order to the serving girl. Then he crossed over to Cato and his companions and affected a cheery smile.

  ‘Tell me the food’s as good as I told you it was, eh?’

  ‘It is satisfactory,’ Petronella responded, and made a show of inspecting one of the loaves. ‘The bread could have been fresher.’

  ‘It was baked first thing today.’

  ‘It may have been baked first thing. But not today.’

  The innkeeper gritted his teeth before he continued. ‘But the rest is good? More than satisfactory, I take it? What do you say, sonny?’ He ruffled Lucius’s curls. The youngster, jaws working hard on a bit of gristle, shook off his hand and raised his eyes.

  Cato swallowed and intervened. ‘It’ll do nicely.’

  Despite Petronella’s justifiable protestations, he was keen not to annoy the innkeeper unduly. Such men were useful purveyors of gossip and information that they garnered from passing trade, and there was much he was keen to know about the situation in Rome before they entered the city. He hurriedly swallowed the chunk of oil-soaked bread in his mouth and cleared his throat.

  ‘We’ve been on the eastern frontier for a few years.’

  ‘Ah!’ The innkeeper nodded. ‘Fighting those Parthian bastards, eh? How’s the war going?’

  ‘War?’ Cato exchanged a look with Macro. ‘It hasn’t really begun.’

  ‘No? Last time I was in Rome, the bulletins posted in the forum spoke of a series of frontier clashes. Said we’d given them a good kicking.’

  ‘Well, you can’t believe everything you read in the bulletins,’ said Macro. ‘The date given is true enough. As for the rest . . .’ He shrugged.

  The innkeeper frowned. ‘Are you saying the bulletins are false?’

  ‘Fake bulletins? Not necessarily. But I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Cato resumed, ‘we’ve been out of touch with life in the capital. Anything new we should be aware of?’

  ‘Over the last few years? How much time have you got?’

  ‘Enough to eat this meal and then we’re back on the road. So keep it short.’

  The innkeeper scratched his cheek as he collected his thoughts. ‘The big news is that Pallas looks like he’s on his way out.’

  ‘Pallas?’ Macro raised an eyebrow. Pallas was one of the imperial freedman Nero had inherited from Claudius and was the emperor’s chief adviser. It was a post for which the requisite skills included spying, back-stabbing, greed and ambition, all of which he had honed to the sharpest degree. Only it seemed that he had been caught out, or had met his match in one of his rivals. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s been charged with conspiracy to overthrow the emperor. The trial’s due to start in a month or so. Should be a good show; he’s being defended by Senator Seneca. I’d be sure to go and watch the sport if I wasn’t so busy here.’

  Macro shifted his gaze to his friend. ‘Bloody hell, that’s a turn-up for the scrolls. I thought Pallas had his snout squarely in the trough. What with how tightly he’d stitched things up with Agrippina,’ he concluded in a cautious tone.

  Cato nodded as he reflected on the power shift in the capital. Pallas had allied himself with Agrippina and her son Nero in the last years of the previous emperor. His relationship with the new emperor’s mother was not merely political. Cato and Macro had uncovered the secret some years earlier and wisely kept their mouths shut. Not that tongues weren’t wagging around the dinner tables of the aristocrats, nor amon
gst the gossips who gathered round the public fountains in the slums. But rumours were one thing; knowing the truth was a far more dangerous situation. Now it seemed that Pallas’s prospects were on the wane. Possibly fatally. And not just him, perhaps.

  ‘Is anyone else on trial with him?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He might have been acting alone. More likely the emperor has got his eyes on his fortune. You don’t get to be that rich without making enemies. People you’ve done down on the way up. Or people who simply resent your success and wealth. You know how it goes amongst the quality in Rome. Always ready to stick the knife in . . . so they say.’ He glanced at Cato with a flicker of anxiety. ‘What did you say your business was in Rome again?’

  ‘We’ve been recalled. That is to say, my cohort of the Praetorian Guard.’

  ‘Your cohort?’ The innkeeper smiled weakly as he realised he had been treading on dangerous ground in offering his opinion of the emperor’s motives.

  ‘I’m the tribune in command. Macro here is my senior centurion. We took the first ship bound for Ostia. The rest of the men are on transports a few days behind us, so you may be in luck when they pass this way.’

  ‘I didn’t mean any criticism of my betters, sir. It’s just the talk on the street. I meant no offence.’

  ‘Easy there. Your views on Nero are safe enough with us. But what of Agrippina? Do you know if she had anything to do with charging Pallas with conspiracy? When we left for the eastern frontier, the two of them were the emperor’s closest advisers.’

  ‘Not any more, sir. Like I said, Pallas is on trial, and she’s fallen from favour. The emperor has kicked her out of the imperial palace and stripped her of her official bodyguards.’

  ‘That was Nero’s doing?’ Macro queried. ‘Last time I saw the two of them together, she had him wrapped round her little finger. Looks like the boy has grown some balls finally and is running the show. Good for him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cato mused. From his experience of the new emperor, he doubted Nero had taken such an initiative by himself. More likely his hand was being guided by another faction within the palace. ‘So who’s advising the emperor these days?’

  Even though he was somewhat reassured that his words would not be used against him, the innkeeper lowered his voice. ‘Some say the real power is now in the hands of Burrus, the commander of the Praetorian Guard. Him and Seneca.’

  Cato digested this bit of gossip and then arched an eyebrow. ‘And what do others say?’

  ‘They say Nero is a slave to his mistress, Claudia Acte.’

  ‘Claudia Acte? Never heard of her.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, sir. Not if you’ve been away for a few years. She’s only been seen in his company over the last few months. At the theatre, the races and so on. I saw her myself last time I was in Rome. Nice-looking, but the word is she’s a freedwoman, and the well-to-do don’t like that.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Cato knew how touchy the more traditionally inclined senators were about social distinctions. They regarded the accident of birth that granted them huge privileges as some kind of gods-given right to treat all other people as innately inferior. The affected air of superiority of the worst of them grated on his nerves. Even if they thought their shit smelled better than that of the great unwashed, it didn’t. Moreover, the same shit tended to occupy a greater proportion of their heads than whatever residual matter passed for brains. The idea of an emperor showing off his low-born woman to the world and rubbing their noses in it would send the more sensitive of the senators into a conspiratorial frenzy. Nero was playing for high stakes, even if he was unaware of it.

  ‘I’ll leave you to finish your meal then, sir.’ The innkeeper nodded to Cato and his companions and made his way to his stool at the end of the counter.

  Macro took a quick swig of wine from his cup, then burped and smiled. ‘Sounds like things have finally changed for the better in Rome. With luck, that snake Pallas is heading for the Underworld and won’t be causing us any more trouble. That’s worth drinking to.’ He refilled his cup and topped up Cato’s. But his friend left it on the table as he stared down thoughtfully.

  ‘What is it, Cato? Found some way to see a downside to the situation? Just for once, why not celebrate some good news?’

  Cato sighed and picked up his cup. ‘Fair enough. But tell me, brother, from our previous experience, how often does bad news follow on from good?’

  ‘Ah, piss off with the pessimism and enjoy the wine, why don’t you?’

  Petronella nudged him with her elbow. ‘Language! You want young Lucius speaking like that?’

  Macro glanced at the boy and winked. Lucius grinned.

  ‘Let’s hope I’m wrong, then,’ said Cato. He raised his cup. ‘To Rome, to home, and to a peaceful life. We’ve earned it.’

  Chapter Two

  There was always an uncomfortable aspect to returning home after the passage of some years, Cato mused as they entered the capital and made their way through its crowded streets. Even though his senses were overwhelmed by the familiar sights, sounds and scents of the city, there was something about it that seemed strange and unsettling. That feeling that things had moved on and he was a stranger to the place where he had been born and raised. It felt vaguely diminished, too. Rome had once been the entire world to him, vast and all-encompassing. It had seemed impossible to believe that its avenues, temples, theatres and palaces could be surpassed in their magnificence, or the range of entertainments on offer bettered, or the sophistication of its libraries and scholars matched by any others in the Empire or beyond. Yet since Cato had left the city, he had seen for himself the wealth of Parthia, and the Great Library in Alexandria, whose galleries sprawled in the shadow of the towering Pharos lighthouse, far taller and more impressive than any building in Rome. But then, he reasoned, all places, as with all experiences, seemed less impressive when you revisited them. Experience constantly recalibrated the perception of memory so that the recollection of his initial wonder now felt like a slightly shameful naivety.

  Even so, there was a comfort in being immersed in the familiar. A jaded sense of belonging, he decided, was better than being rootless. Despite the stench of the drains and the refuse in the street, there was the warm aroma of baking bread, woodsmoke and the heady scent of spices from the markets. Remembered streets and thoroughfares fell into place as they traced their route beside the imperial palace, across the Forum and up the slope of the Viminal Hill, passing through the crowded and crumbling apartment blocks in the slum at the foot of the hill. Taking Lucius’s hand to make sure they were not separated in the narrow, busy street, Cato looked down and saw the excited gleam in his son’s eyes as he cast his gaze at the people bustling around him.

  ‘Of course. When we left Rome, you were probably too young to remember much about it.’

  ‘I remember, Father,’ Lucius replied defiantly. ‘I’m six years old. I’m not a baby.’

  Cato laughed. ‘I never said you were. You’re growing up fast, my boy. Too fast,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘Too fast?’

  ‘You’ll know what I mean when you become a father.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a father. I want to be a soldier.’

  Cato’s expression hardened as memories, gut-wrenching as well as glorious, flitted through his thoughts. ‘There’ll be time for that another day, if it’s really what you wish for.’

  ‘I do. Uncle Macro says I’ll be a fine soldier. Just like you. I’ll even command my own cohort, too.’ He reached out his spare hand and tugged Macro’s tunic. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it, Uncle Macro?’

  ‘Right you are, my lad.’ Macro nodded as he held Cassius’s leash firmly. Excited by the rich array of scents and noises all around him, the dog was straining to explore in every direction. ‘Soldiering’s in your blood. It’ll make a man out of you.’

  Cato felt his heart sink at the prospect. Unlike his friend, he did not see warfare as an opportunity to seek glory. It was a
necessary evil at best. The last recourse when every attempt at finding peaceful resolutions of disputes between Rome and other empires and kingdoms had failed. And to restore order in the event of rebellion or other civil conflict. He knew that Macro had little sympathy for his views on the matter and so the two of them rarely addressed the question head on. Which was why Cato felt irritated by Macro’s encouragement of his son. He knew his friend well enough to understand that this was not an attempt to use Lucius as a proxy in their differing views; just innocent encouragement. That made it all the more difficult to counter without making it look as if he was overreacting. Distraction would be a better strategy.

  ‘We must find you a tutor once we get settled, Lucius.’

  The boy scowled. ‘Don’t want one. I want to play with Uncle Macro and Petronella instead.’

  Cato sighed. ‘You know perfectly well that they will be leaving Rome soon. You’ll need someone to look after you and start your education once Petronella is no longer around.’

  She shot him a dark look. ‘I’ve taught him his letters and numbers, master. And some reading.’

  ‘Of course. I apologise . . . Thank you. It’s not going to be easy to replace you.’

  Mollified, she nodded. ‘I’ll see if I can find someone you can trust. I’ll ask round the other households on the Viminal. There’s bound to be someone who can take my place.’

  ‘My love,’ Macro smiled, ‘no one can take your place. Why, you’re practically a second mother to the lad.’

  ‘I don’t want her to go,’ Lucius muttered, lowering his gaze. ‘Can’t they stay?’

  ‘We’ve talked about this, son,’ Cato replied. ‘They have their own life to lead.’

  ‘Can’t you order them to stay, Father?’

  ‘Order them?’ Macro roared with laughter. ‘I’d like to see anyone order Petronella to do something. I’d pay good money to watch them being pulverised.’