Praetorian c-11

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato knelt down by his friend’s side. Macro was slumped against a pillar, eyes flickering as blood coursed from cuts to his brow, nose and lip.

  ‘Hey, Calidus?’ Cato said loudly. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Wheerrrgghh.’ Macro licked his split lip and winced, then spat out a gobbet of blood. ‘What the fuck happened? What hit me?’ His eyes opened wide and he recognised Cato. ‘Lad! We’re under attack! To arms!’

  ‘He’s lost it.’ Fuscius chuckled as he knelt beside Cato. ‘Knocked senseless.’

  Cato nodded. He was afraid that in his dazed state Macro might say something that would give them away. ‘Fuscius, get me a jug of water. Now.’

  ‘Right.’ The guardsman rose up and made his way over to the innkeeper to make his request. While the innkeeper sighed and went to do as he was bid, Cato leant close to Macro’s ear and whispered, ‘You’ve been in a fight and were knocked down. But you’re all right. Just remember the mission. Don’t say a word until you can think straight. Got that? Macro! Did you get that?’

  ‘Yes … Fight. Keep much shut.’

  ‘Good man.’ Cato sighed and patted him on the shoulder. He stood up as Fuscius returned with a pitcher of water and handed it over. Cato stepped back and took aim before slinging the contents of the pitcher in Macro’s face. The torrent of water caused Macro to jolt up and splutter. His eyes opened wildly and he looked as if he might attack the first thing he saw. Then he recognised Cato and opened his mouth to speak, frowned as he remembered his friend’s warning and clamped his jaw shut instead. He breathed deeply for a moment before he spoke thickly. ‘The other bloke?’

  ‘Is out for the count. Thanks to Fuscius here. Otherwise you’d be on the way to the Underworld by now. Fuscius, help me get him up on his feet. Before the urban troops arrive.’

  But it was too late. The sound of boots drumming on the paved street echoed round the square. The Praetorians were helping their injured up when the first of the troops entered the inn. An optio with a long staff strode in and looked around. ‘What’s this then? What’s going on here? I was told it was a brawl.’

  ‘No,’ Cato protested. ‘We were just having a drink when the Viminal gang charged in and started beating the place up.’

  ‘A likely story!’ The optio snorted. ‘Bloody Praetorians think you can pull the wool over my eyes.’

  ‘It’s true, man!’ Cato shouted at him. ‘They’ve only got a short start on you. They’ll be making for the bottom of the Viminal. If you go now and stop wasting bloody time, you can still catch ‘em.’

  ‘You catch ‘em!’ the innkeeper cried out to the optio. ‘Someone’s got to pay for all this!’

  ‘And it won’t be us,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Not if the Emperor has anything to say about it. He’ll not take sides against his Praetorians. Better to go after the gang.’

  The optio bit his lip and then turned and left the inn.

  ‘Come on, boys!’ Cato heard him call out and then the sound of their boots hurrying off filled the air.

  Cato eased Macro up on to his feet and slung his friend’s arm across his shoulder. Fuscius took the other side.

  ‘Praetorians!’ Cato called out. ‘We are leaving!’

  They stumbled outside and then in a loose column headed out of the square and up the street in the direction of the Praetorian camp.

  ‘Thanks for helping him out,’ Cato said to Fuscius through gritted teeth. ‘You probably saved Calidus’ life.’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ The young guardsman’s voice filled with pride. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

  ‘He will. Trust me, he’s had worse in his time.’

  ‘Good.’

  They went on in silence for a moment before Fuscius spoke softly. ‘By the way, who’s Macro?’

  Cato felt his heart miss a beat. ‘Macro? Must have had a bit too much to drink. Macro was a mate of ours back in Britannia. Slip of the tongue. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Fuscius responded vaguely. ‘Slip of the tongue then.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Right then, since you two have got such a nice shiner each, you’re bound to draw attention to yourselves. If any of the imperial family speak to you, be ready to respond with the appropriate form of address.’ Tigellinus sighed impatiently as the century, dressed in their duty togas, crossed the Forum towards the palace gates two days later. ‘One more time. The Emperor?’ He was marching beside Macro and Cato and had been running through some of the basic protocols since they left the camp.

  ‘We call him “sir” outside of the palace, and “your imperial majesty” inside,’ Cato replied.

  Tigellinus nodded, and then added quietly, ‘And some can call him whatever they like behind his back.’

  Cato turned to look at him with a surprised expression. Tigellinus smiled thinly.

  ‘You won’t be so shocked when you’ve been here for more than a month, Capito. You’ll see for yourself the truth of the situation. Claudius has always been ruled by his freedmen and his wives. Messallina had him eating out of her hand, until she made a play for the throne and got the chop. Her replacement’s a sharp one.’ Tigellinus’s smile warmed for a moment. ‘Agrippina knows exactly how to tweak his strings. His or any other man’s. Now then, what about the Empress?’

  ‘“Imperial majesty” in the palace and in public,’ Cato replied. ‘Since she does not have to worry about public opinion.’

  Tigellinus turned to him sharply. ‘That’s enough, Capito. You’re a bloody ranker. You don’t get to comment on such matters. Just the correct form of address from now on. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, Optio.’

  The column stopped at the gate to relieve the section on duty and then continued up the broad staircase to the main entrance hall of the imperial palace. Cato had been raised within these walls many years ago and felt a peculiar tingle in his scalp at the thought of all that he had seen as a child on the fringes of the imperial court. For a moment he wondered how many of the slaves he had been raised with were still serving in the palace. He had been a fresh-faced youth when he left, but now he was older, his hair was a military crop and he bore the scars of his years in the army. He would not be recognised even if he did encounter someone from his past.

  At the head of the column of four centuries marched Tribune Burrus and at each station of the first watch he barked the orders to relieve those who had been on duty during the night. There were three watches in all, the first running from first light to noon, the second from noon to dusk, and the third – the least popular – guarding the palace through the night. The night watch operated with only two centuries since they simply had to guard the entrances and patrol the public precincts of the palace. The private suites were protected by the German bodyguards.

  At length, it was the turn of Tigellinus’s section as the column passed through the palace and into the gardens of the imperial family, built on a terrace, surrounded on three sides by a colonnade. The fourth side had a marble balustrade and overlooked the Forum. Tigellinus and his men took up their positions around the garden, with Cato and Macro being assigned to the entrance of a small hedged area around a fountain. Marble benches, with red cushions, were arranged near the fountain. Due to the height of the garden there was little residual water pressure from the aqueduct that supplied the palace and only a small jet of water emerged from the fountain to tinkle pleasantly into the surrounding pond.

  ‘Nice.’ Macro nodded as he looked round the neatly kept garden. ‘A very restful spot indeed. With the kind of view you could get killed for.’

  ‘It’s been known to happen,’ Cato replied as he adjusted his toga. It was a cumbersome thing and he kept getting the interior folds snagged on the handles of the sword he wore underneath.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Macro stared at him. ‘You look like you’ve picked up a particularly nasty itch off some tart.’

  ‘It’s this stupid toga.’

  ‘Lad, you are pretty hopeless sometimes.’ Mac
ro shook his head. ‘Here, let me sort you out before the whole bloody thing gets tangled.’ He stepped over to Cato and pulled a length of the cloth up, over the shoulder and then folded it across his friend’s left arm. ‘There. See how that goes?’

  ‘Thanks … Still feels ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, if anyone can make it look ridiculous, you can.’ Macro continued looking round the garden again. Tigellinus and the others had taken up their stations and wandered along their beats, as if they were civilians come to take in the pleasant surroundings. ‘So this is what we do? Just swan around up here for the next five hours? How is that going to get us any nearer to exposing this conspiracy that Narcissus is so keen to uncover?’

  ‘I don’t know. We just keep our eyes and ears open.’

  The sun rose higher into the sky, accompanied by a gentle breeze that ruffled the topmost boughs of the trees in the garden and carried off the smoke from the fires burning in the city. Despite the pleasant day and the peaceful scene, Cato’s mind was troubled. While there were unmistakable signs that the Emperor’s authority was slipping, there was little direct evidence of a conspiracy. Prefect Geta’s tough training regime was no more than what was expected of any good commanding officer. And they had seen no sign of sudden wealth among the ranks since they had arrived at the Praetorian camp. Today was the first day they were to put into practice what they had learned about their duties from Tigellinus. Cato paused to think a moment about the optio. Tigellinus, he had discovered from the other guardsmen in Lurco’s century, had been with the Praetorians for just over a year, after having been recalled from exile, along with a number of other people who had fallen foul of Messallina. Most were friends or servants of Agrippina who had been persecuted by her predecessor. Quite what Tigellinus had done to be sent into exile no one could say.

  Cato’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices and he turned towards the colonnade to see a stooped silver-haired man in a cloak, leading two boys towards the hedged enclosure around the pond. One of the boys looked to be a teenager, long limbed and with a fine head of curly dark hair. The other was younger by a few years and was solidly built, with fair hair. He looked down as he trailed the others, and held his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought.

  The old man glanced back and called out in a thin reedy voice, ‘Keep up, Britannicus! Don’t dawdle.’

  ‘Ha!’ the older boy called out with a ready smile. ‘Come on, little brother!’

  Britannicus scowled but increased his pace nevertheless.

  ‘Heads up,’ said Cato. ‘We’ve got company.’

  They quickly stood to attention, just inside the enclosed area either side of the entrance, and stared straight ahead. The light patter of footsteps on the paved path gave way to the soft crunch of gravel as the man and two boys passed through the opening in the neatly clipped hedge. They ignored the two guards as they crossed to the pond. The old man eased himself down on to a bench and indicated that the boys should sit on the edge of the pond.

  ‘There. Now let me collect my thoughts.’ He wagged a gnarled finger. ‘Ah, yes! We were going to talk about your responsibilities.’

  ‘Boring,’ said the older boy. ‘Why can’t we discuss something more important?’

  ‘Because your adopted father wishes you to think on your obligations, Nero. That’s why.’

  ‘But I want to talk about poetry.’ His voice was plaintive and slightly husky. Cato risked a look at the tutor and his two students now that their attention was on each other. The boy, Nero, was effeminate-looking with a weak jaw and a slight pout. His eyes were dark and expressive and he regarded his tutor with an intense gaze. A short distance from him Britannicus sat resting his head in his hands as he stared down at the gravel, apparently uninterested. The tutor looked vaguely familiar and then in a flash Cato remembered him. Eurayleus. He had been one of the palace tutors when Cato was a child. Eurayleus had been tasked with the education of the children of the imperial family. As such he had little to do with the handful of other tutors who taught the sons of the palace officials and the children of the hostages that Rome kept in comfort while their elders were required to maintain treaties or apply pressure in Rome’s interest. As Cato recalled his childhood he could well remember the aloof manner in which the tutor had regarded the rest of the palace staff. Their paths had only crossed once, when a young Cato had been running up and down the corridor outside the tutor’s door and had received a beating.

  ‘We will talk about poetry another time,’ Eurayleus said firmly. ‘Today’s subject for discussion has been decided by the Emperor and neither you nor I can challenge his decision.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Nero.

  ‘You can ask that question when you become Emperor,’ the tutor replied tersely.

  ‘If he becomes Emperor,’ said Britannicus. ‘Ahenobarbus is only the adopted son. I am the natural son. I should be first in line of succession.’

  Nero turned to his stepbrother with a frown. ‘My name is Nero.’

  Britannicus shrugged. ‘That’s what some say. But in your heart you will always be what you were first named. And to me, too, you will always be Ahenobarbus.’

  Nero glared at him for a moment before he spoke. ‘Always quick to try and cut me down to size, aren’t you? Well, you may be the natural son of the Emperor, but your mother was most unnatural. So I wouldn’t set too much store by the Emperor’s affection for you, little Britannicus.’

  ‘My mother is dead. She died because she was a fool. She let the power of the imperial palace go to her head.’ Britannicus smiled faintly. ‘How long do you think it will be before your mother does the same? Then what will become of you? At least I have common blood with my father. What do you have?’

  Cato could not help looking at the younger boy, surprised by the confidence and knowingness in the tone of his voice.

  ‘Boys! Boys!’ the tutor broke in with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s enough. You must stop this bickering. It is not worthy of the Emperor’s heirs. What would he say if he could see you now?’

  ‘S-s-stop it!’ Nero mimicked and let a little bit of spittle dribble from his lips as he stuttered, and then giggled.

  The tutor frowned at him and held up his hand to quieten the boy. ‘That is ungracious of you. Let there be no more digressions from today’s lesson, do you hear?’

  Nero nodded, struggling to stifle a smile.

  ‘Very well. The subject today is responsibility. Especially the responsibility of an emperor to his people. Now, I could lecture you on the matter, but being Greek, I prefer to deal with this by way of protracted dialogue.’

  Cato heard a long soft hiss of expelled air come from Macro at the tutor’s words.

  ‘Let’s start with you, Nero, since you are in high spirits today. What do you think are the primary responsibilities of an emperor?’

  Nero folded his hands together and thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘His first duty is to make Rome safe, obviously. Rome must be defended from its enemies, and its wider interests must be protected. Then the emperor must look after his people. He must feed them, but not just with food. He must give them his love, like a father loves his children.’

  Britannicus sniffed derisively, but Nero ignored him and continued.

  ‘He must teach them the important values: love of Rome, love of art, love of poetry.’

  ‘Why these things?’

  ‘Because without them we are nought but animals that scratch a living and then die unmissed.’

  Britannicus shook his head. The movement was caught by the tutor.

  ‘You have something to say?’

  ‘I do.’ Britannicus looked up defiantly. ‘Ahenobarbus is too influenced by that new personal teacher of his, Seneca. What is poetry to the common people? Nothing. They need food, shelter and entertainment. That’s what they want from their emperor. He can do his best to give some of them that, but not all. So what is his duty? It’s simple. His duty is to uphold order and fight chaos. H
e needs to defend Rome from those within as much as from the barbarians who live beyond our frontiers.’

  ‘That is a very cynical line of thought, young Britannicus,’ the tutor commented.

  ‘I am young. But I am learned beyond my years.’

  ‘Yes, your precocity has been noted.’

  ‘And not approved of.’ Britannicus smiled coldly.

  ‘There is a wisdom that comes with age and no other way. Until you have walked in the boots of other men, you are not wise. Only well read.’

  Britannicus regarded the man with a world-weary expression. ‘Perhaps if you had walked in my boots you would understand my cynicism. I have a family that is not a family but a colony of killers. I have a father who no longer treats me like a son. I have no mother, and I have a … brother who will surely kill me if ever he becomes Emperor.’ The boy paused. ‘Walk in those boots, Eurayleus, and see if you do not have to live on your wits.’

  The tutor stared at him with a sad expression and then drew a deep breath. ‘Let us continue. Nero thinks that the common man can have poetry in his life.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Nero said fervently.

  ‘Does he have this capacity innately? Or must it be taught to him?’ The tutor turned to Macro and Cato as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Take these two men. Soldiers. They know little but the art of destruction, which is the opposite of knowledge. They know weapons and drill, and spend their leisure time in mindless bouts of drinking, womanising and visits to the arena. Is that not so, soldier? You there!’ He pointed at Macro. ‘Answer me.’