Praetorian c-11

by Simon Scarrow

  A terrible stench of human waste filled the air as the dark stream of shit, piss and refuse merged into the flow of the Tiber. The hummock of a human body had caught around the bows of a moored barge and a pair of rats were busy chewing through soaked cloth to get at the rotting flesh beneath. Already a boatman was rowing out to the body to retrieve it to add to the small pile of corpses that had been fished out of the river close to the exit of the sewer – the usual harvest of careless drunks, murder victims and accidents. It was a sight Cato had been familiar enough with as a boy when he had come down to the wharf with his father. He recalled that when enough corpses had been gathered to fill a wagon, they would be carried off to a mass grave outside the city walls.

  He turned away from the grisly sight just in time to see Cestius exchange a few words with a stout bald man in a bright yellow cloak and green tunic. Two muscular men with heavy clubs stood silently behind the bald man as he talked with Cestius. The bald man smiled and patted Cestius on the arm before they parted company. Cato discreetly scrutinised the man as he approached and noted the gold chain round his neck and the jewels in the rings on his fingers. Clearly a man of some wealth, and not afraid of displaying his fortune in public, as long as he was accompanied by a pair of bodyguards who looked as if they would pulverise anyone who even considered grabbing their master’s purse.

  Cato steered aside so that they passed each other by a safe margin and continued following the gang leader. Cestius continued for a short distance before he looked round quickly. Then, seemingly satisfied that no one was watching him, he made for the guarded entrance of one of the warehouse compounds. He nodded a greeting to the man at the gates, who heaved one open to admit his visitor and then drew it shut once Cestius had disappeared from sight. Cato felt a surge of panic at the prospect of losing his quarry. He stopped on the wharf opposite the gates and squatted down and retied the lace of his boot as he looked over the gateway. A sign was painted on the wall next to the heavy timbers of the gates announcing that the warehouses were rented out by Gaius Frontinus. It invited interested parties to apply at his offices in the Boarium.

  Cato drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and strode up to the gates. The guard stirred and moved to block his way. He was a thickset man with a scarred face and Cato guessed that he must be one of the many former gladiators who turned up in such roles after they had won their freedom, or been discarded by their trainers.

  ‘What do you want?’ the guard demanded without any preamble.

  ‘I’m supposed to meet my master here, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘I saw him enter just a moment ago.’

  ‘Really? So what’s his name then?’

  Cato opened his mouth and caught himself just in time. If Cestius was in disguise then there was a strong possibility that he was using a false name as well. If Cato tried to use his real name the guard would refuse him entry. Worse still, he might mention it to Cestius on the way out and thereby alert him to the fact that he had been followed.

  The pause was long enough for the guard to reach a decision. ‘Thought so. You’re a chancer. Now turn away and piss off. Before I make you.’ He patted the studded club swinging from his belt.

  Cato knew that there was no sense in provoking any disturbance. He backed off a few paces and then turned and walked back towards the Boarium. Then it occurred to him that there was still something useful that he could discover and he broke into a run. He pushed his legs hard, looking for the man in the yellow cloak and his two bodyguards. There was no sign of his easily distinguishable cloak on the length of the wharf, and Cato ran on into the Boarium. Even though the market was not filled with its usual dense press of bodies, there were enough people to obscure Cato’s view. He pulled himself up on to the pediment of a statue of Neptune and hung on to the shaft of the trident as his gaze swept over the market. Then he saw the yellow tunic, on the far side, close to the hall of the grain traders.

  ‘Oi! You! Get off!’

  Cato looked round and saw a soldier from one of the urban cohorts striding towards him. Cato clambered down and made to leave the spot but the soldier blocked his path.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Looking for a friend.’

  ‘Trying to cause trouble more like.’ The soldier growled and slapped the side of Cato’s head, making it ring. Cato blinked as he staggered to one side.

  ‘Acer!’ a voice cut through the air. ‘That’s enough!’

  An instant later an optio stepped up and glared at the soldier. ‘We’re here to keep the peace, you bloody fool. Not to start another fucking riot.’ He turned to Cato. ‘You! Get on your way!’

  Cato nodded, and staggered off through the market, heading towards the halls of the merchant guilds on the other side of the Boarium. People who had witnessed the confrontation stared warily after him, as if he carried some kind of frightening mark. It was a sign of the nervous tension that still hung over the city. No one wanted to be associated with any man who fell foul of the military. Cato’s head quickly cleared and he slowed to a steady pace as he crossed the market. He could no longer see any sign of the yellow cloak outside the hall of the grain merchants and feared that he had lost his man. As he reached the portico, topped by a pediment and statue depicting Ceres holding a thick sheaf of wheat, Cato paused and looked round. There was no sign of the bald man, so he continued inside.

  After the daylight outside it took a moment to adjust to the gloomier lighting of the hall. There was a large open space in the centre filled with tables and benches. Along each wall stood two storeys of offices from which the merchants conducted their trade. At the far end was an auction podium in front of a large board on which the grain cargoes were chalked up for sale. Only it was clear today, and the merchants were in a depressed mood. Cato saw the man emerge from the colonnade at the side of the hall. He crossed to the clerk sitting on the step beside the podium and began to address him. Cato pulled down his hood and turned to one of the merchants standing close at hand. He indicated the bald man and asked for his name.

  ‘Him?’ The merchant squinted briefly. ‘Why, that’s Aulus Piscus. Why do you ask?’

  Cato thought quickly. ‘My uncle owns a bakery in the Subura. He sent me down here to see if there’s any grain to be had.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky!’ the merchant snorted. ‘There’s been nothing for days. Your man Piscus snapped up the last cargo.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato stared at the bald man. ‘I assume Piscus is one of the big dealers in the guild.’

  ‘Only in the last few months. Before then he was just a small-time trader.’

  ‘Looks wealthy enough now.’

  ‘Oh, he’s done all right for himself.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Cato pressed.

  ‘Well, either he came into a fortune, or he’s acting as a front for someone who has. Whichever, the lucky bastard’s done well out of it. Well enough to pay for those two thugs that guard his back.’

  Cato nodded, stepping away. ‘Thanks. I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Time’s a luxury I can afford right now.’ The merchant smiled thinly. ‘There’s not much the likes of me and your uncle can do until the grain supply flows again, eh?’

  Cato shook his head and then moved away. He crossed the hall and approached Piscus and the clerk, overhearing the end of their exchange.

  ‘You let me know the moment the first grain ship reaches Ostia, you hear?’

  ‘Yes, master.’ The clerk bowed his head.

  The bald man leant closer. ‘See that you do, and I won’t be ungrateful. Understand?’

  The clerk nodded wearily, as if he had heard the same offer several times already that day. He looked up as Cato approached and the bald man turned round with a quick look of anxiety.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Piscus asked curtly.

  ‘As a matter of fact, you can, sir.’ Cato smiled and politely bowed his head. ‘I’m looking for a friend. I missed him in the Boarium a moment ago and then
saw him on the wharf, when he stopped to speak to you.’

  ‘A friend? You?’ Piscus looked at Cato in his worn cloak with undisguised contempt. ‘I don’t think so. Why would a wealthy merchant like him have anything to do with you? Be on your way.’ He clicked his fingers and his bodyguards stepped forward menacingly.

  Cato bowed his head and stepped back. ‘My mistake, sir. Perhaps it wasn’t my friend.’

  He turned and left the hall, moving off along the paved area in front of the guild halls, deep in thought. What was Cestius up to? The gang leader from the Subura clearly had another identity, or there was another man in Rome who could have passed as his twin brother. Cato discounted the idea at once. The man he had followed looked, moved and sounded just like Cestius. In which case why was he passing himself off as a merchant? And what was he doing down in the warehouse district? There was one way to try to find out. Cato made for the small basilica given as the address of the man who leased the warehouses. Entering the building he saw that it was on a much less impressive scale than the grain merchants’ hall. A score of open-fronted offices lined the walls. He found the sign of Gaius Frontinus easily enough. Below it, the office was fronted by a plain stone counter. A clerk sat on a stool behind it, working through a ledger.

  Cato coughed. ‘Excuse me.’

  The clerk lowered his stylus and looked up. ‘Yes … sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for Gaius Frontinus.’

  ‘He’s not here, sir. May I help?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m inquiring about leasing some storage space down on the wharf.’

  The clerk took in Cato’s poor appearance. ‘We don’t lease lock-ups. Just warehouses.’

  ‘That’s what I’m after.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you, sir. We let them two months ago. There’s nothing available.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato frowned. ‘Who did you let them to? Perhaps I could talk to the man and get a sublet.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say, sir. In any case the master dealt with that contract personally.’

  ‘Then can I see Gaius Frontinus? To discuss a contract when the present one expires?’

  ‘The master is not here, sir, as I’ve already told you. He left Rome on business a month ago.’

  ‘Did he say when he would be back?’

  ‘No, sir. He just left me a letter telling me to take charge in his absence.’ The clerk coughed self-importantly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I have work to do. You might try one of the other leasing offices. I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for with one of the smaller concerns. Good day.’

  Cato nodded and walked off slowly. He felt the familiar tingle of cold dread grasp the back of his scalp. There was more to the conspiracy than Narcissus had realised. The Liberators, or whoever else it was, were preparing the ground on a far wider scale than the imperial secretary had guessed. Cato could link only a few elements of the puzzle together but one thing was for certain. The enemy was well organised and their plan was already being put into effect.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The sun was shining fitfully through the scattered clouds as the Praetorians took up their positions around the stage that had been set up for the Emperor to address his summoned guests. Most of the senators and their wives had been carried out on litters to the side of the Albine Lake. The lower ranks of Roman society had made the short journey in carts, on horseback or on foot, and were to stand behind the seating areas that had been arranged for the senators. March was coming to an end and the ground was firm and free of the glutinous winter mud that had hampered the work of the engineers. They were tasked with digging the channel that would drain off most of the lake, and the surrounding marshes, into a tributary of the Tiber.

  Centurion Lurco’s men were footsore after the previous day’s march from Ostia, and the march to Ostia from Rome two days before that. Claudius had made a quick inspection of the progress on the new harbour and gave a series of short speeches around the town to reaffirm his love of his people and to promise them the rich rewards that would flow from the increase of trade passing through the port. The Emperor had also provided a banquet for the leading politicians, merchants and administrators of the port. Having appeased the people of Ostia, he and his court had moved on to the engineering works at the Albine Lake to attempt to win over the people of Rome. Claudius was due to make a public announcement and the men of his escort had been speculating on its nature all morning.

  ‘Has to be a spectacle,’ said Fuscius. ‘That or a distribution of food. Maybe both.’

  ‘As long as he doesn’t reduce our rations to supply the mob,’ Macro grumbled. The Praetorian Guard had been on half rations for three days and his stomach was beginning to growl. Despite the imperial order for other towns and cities to send their food reserves to the capital, only a handful of wagons were entering the city each day and most of the stock was bought by those wealthy enough to pay the premium prices demanded. Supplies earmarked for the public granary were diverted by corrupt officials and pilfered by those entrusted with guarding what little grain remained. Many of the poorest and weakest had already starved to death and as the supply wagons rumbled into the capital they passed the carts carrying the dead to the open graves outside the walls of Rome. The cries and wails of lamentation echoed through the narrow streets of the slums and Macro wondered how long it would take for the grief to turn once more to anger. When that happened, only the Praetorians and the urban cohorts would stand between the Emperor and the mob.

  Cato had been listening to the exchange. ‘If there’s no bread then Claudius is going to have to depend on circuses to keep the mob happy. If he is going to stage a gladiatorial event then he’ll have to do something special. Even then, he may have satisfied their bloodlust but their bellies will still be empty.’

  Fuscius shrugged. ‘I suppose. But it might buy him a few more days in which to find some food. Just as long as he doesn’t take any more of ours. If he does, then there’ll be consequences,’ the young Praetorian added darkly.

  ‘Consequences?’ Macro spat on the ground with contempt. ‘What consequences? Claudius is the bloody Emperor. He can do what he likes.’

  ‘You think so?’ Fuscius cocked an eyebrow. ‘He’s Emperor just for as long as the Praetorian Guard says so. We made him. We can just as easily put someone else in his place, if he forces us to.’

  ‘Who’s this “we” you’re talking about? You and a few disgruntled mates?’

  Fuscius looked round and lowered his voice. ‘Not so few of us, judging from word going round the barracks. If the time comes, I’d make sure you’re on the right side, Calidus.’

  ‘Maybe, but until then, I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you. You’re talking treason, lad.’

  Cato smiled thinly. ‘You know the saying, treason is just a question of timing. Fuscius has a point. Best to see how things work out before you pick a side.’

  Macro shook his head in disgust. ‘Politics … Good soldiers should never get involved in it.’

  ‘Oh, I agree with that, sure enough,’ Cato replied. ‘Trouble is that sometimes politics can’t help getting involved with soldiers. Then what’s a man to do?’

  As he asked the question, Cato watched Fuscius for his response. The younger Praetorian was silent and his expression suddenly became fixed and unreadable as he glanced over Cato’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ Tigellinus barked. ‘Gossiping like old ladies? Fall in, the Emperor’s coming.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the tents further along the side of the lake. The German bodyguards were stirring and the slaves hurried forward with the imperial litters. The men of Lurco’s century raised their shields and javelins and began to form up around the stage. Half of the men stood either side of the approach to the rear of the stage while the others, including Cato and Macro, provided a loose screen around the sides and front. Meanwhile the last of the senatorial families had arrived to take up their seats.

  ‘Shit …’ Macro
muttered and Cato glanced sharply at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To the right, close to that red litter, see that party of hooray Horatios. Try not to be obvious.’

  Cato casually turned his head to survey the Emperor’s audience until he saw the party that Macro had indicated – twenty or so young aristocrats in expensive tunics beneath their rather more austere togas. They seemed to be gathered around one individual. He was a tall but manifestly overweight individual whose jowls shook as he talked. At first Cato could not recognise him from that angle, but then the man slapped his thigh and laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry clearly over the hubbub of the other senatorial guests, several of whom turned in his direction with expressions of disapproval. The man turned and glanced towards the stage and Cato felt a chill seize his heart.

  ‘By the gods,’ he muttered. ‘Vitellius … Bastard.’

  ‘Who is he then?’ asked Fuscius.

  Cato shot a warning glance at Macro before the latter replied. ‘He was senior tribune in the Second Legion a few years back.’

  Fuscius made a wry smile. ‘Doesn’t sound like you approve of him.’

  ‘He nearly got us killed,’ Cato said flatly, as he considered how much it was safe to say. He was cross with himself, and Macro, for their reaction to seeing Vitellius again. The former tribune had been involved in a plot to assassinate the Emperor while Claudius was in Britannia. Even though Cato and Macro had foiled the attempt, Vitellius had managed to deftly exculpate himself. ‘Vitellius is the kind of man who puts himself first, above all other considerations. A word of advice, Fuscius. Never step in his way. You’d be crushed under his heel with no more regard than if he had trod on an ant.’

  ‘I see.’ Fuscius stared towards the loud group of aristocrats for a moment. ‘Still, seems like a popular lad.’

  ‘He has charm,’ Cato admitted, recalling all too painfully how the tribune had seduced Cato’s first love, and then killed her when there was a danger that she might expose his plot to kill the Emperor. ‘Bastard,’ he repeated.