Praetorian c-11

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Centurion Tigellinus. Sir, I thought we had lost you.’

  ‘Tigellinus?’ Macro began, then snapped to attention beside Cato.

  The other man was breathing heavily, and there was a pause as he stared back. Then his lips parted in a faint grin.

  ‘Back from the dead, that’s what I am. Bloody river swept me on for miles before I grounded on some stinking mudbank. By the time I got out and made my way back to the lake, the rest of you had gone and it was dark. So I marched back here.’ He took a step forward and stared at Cato. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Emperor, did he survive?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was no expression in the centurion’s mud-streaked face and he remained silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was unnaturally calm and measured. ‘Was it you that saved the Emperor’s life?’

  ‘No, sir. It was Tribune Burrus.’ Cato lowered his voice and spoke deliberately. ‘Although you might easily have reached the Emperor first, had you not stumbled.’

  ‘Yes, I would have reached him,’ Tigellinus replied flatly. ‘Was the Emperor injured?’

  ‘No, sir. Just badly shaken by the incident. The survivors of the escort took him to the palace before returning to the Praetorian camp.’

  ‘I see.’ Tigellinus was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he cleared his throat. ‘How many casualties among our lads?’

  ‘Over a third of the century, sir. Though some of them are marked down as missing, including you.’

  ‘Then Fuscius is in command?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sleeping it off, sir. Do you want us to wake him and send him to you?’

  Tigellinus thought a moment and shook his head. ‘No need. Just tell him that I’ve returned and he’s back to normal duties when the morning trumpet sounds.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The centurion regarded Cato and Macro in silence until Macro coughed lightly.

  ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Is there anything else that you two want to tell me?’

  ‘Sir?’ Macro responded innocently.

  ‘I wonder, did you have any specific orders to carry out today?’

  ‘Orders, sir?’ Cato intervened. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me, Capito. You, Calidus and I are sufficiently well acquainted with Centurion Sinius and his friends to know what we are all about. So you don’t have to pretend otherwise. I’ll ask you again. Did Sinius give you any orders today?’ Tigellinus leant forward slightly, his intent gaze flicking between Cato and Macro. ‘Well?’

  Cato felt his heartbeat quicken and feared that his inner turmoil might be read in his face. He strove to keep a steady and neutral expression as he stared back at the centurion with unwavering eyes. It was tempting to deny everything and play dumb. But it was clear that Tigellinus knew about their connection to the Liberators, probably from his dealings with Centurion Sinius, or perhaps another conspirator higher up the chain of command. Equally clearly he suspected that their orders were being withheld from him.

  With a sudden flare of insight Cato realised that Tigellinus was as fearful as he was. If his masters had given separate orders to either Cato or Macro, or both, then it was clear that they did not trust him enough to share that information. Worse, they might actually distrust Tigellinus enough to order a separate attempt on the Emperor’s life in case Tigellinus failed. Cato had to make his response quickly, before the centurion turned his attention to Macro. He made his decision. If the Liberators were on the verge of attempting to overthrow the Emperor then it was important to disrupt their plans.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied in a wary tone. ‘Sinius told me of your orders, and said that I was to carry the assassination through if you failed for any reason.’

  Tigellinus drew a long, deep breath and exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘I see. And you did not think to tell me this?’

  ‘Centurion Sinius told me to watch you and act if I needed to. He did not say that I should make you aware of my orders. I assumed that you either knew already, or that you weren’t supposed to know of my part in the attempt.’

  Tigellinus stared at Cato for a moment and then switched his gaze to Macro. ‘And you? What did you know of this, Calidus?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Macro answered truthfully.

  Tigellinus turned back to Cato. ‘Why is that, I wonder?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘A secret shared is a risk doubled, sir. Perhaps that’s why Sinius told only me to keep a watch on you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Tigellinus mused. ‘At least I know where I stand in the eyes of our good friends, the Liberators.’

  ‘Sir, I don’t know if I should have told you this. Sinius didn’t expressly say that I shouldn’t. But perhaps it would be best if he did not know we had spoken.’

  Tigellinus’s face slid into a crafty expression. ‘I shan’t say anything, for now, Capito. But in future, if Sinius tells you anything, then you tell me. Is that clear?’

  ‘I’m not certain that would be wise, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t. But if I were to tell Sinius that you spilled the beans so easily then I doubt he would consider you a reliable, or inexpendable, member of the conspiracy. You understand? In future, when he speaks to you, you speak to me. If you don’t then I shall make your life difficult, not to mention dangerous. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Quite. Now, out of my way. I have to get this bloody mud off me and my kit.’

  Cato and Macro stepped aside and a foul odour wafted into the air between them as Tigellinus strode by. They watched him reach the end of the colonnade, enter his quarters and shut the door with a crash.

  Macro turned to Cato with a cold stare. ‘What was that all about? You never said anything about Sinius’s orders.’

  ‘That’s because he never said anything to me.’

  ‘What?’ Macro frowned then jerked his thumb in the direction of the centurion’s quarters. ‘Then why tell him different?’

  Cato looked both ways along the colonnade to ensure that no one would overhear their muted conversation. ‘What else could I do? If I said no then Tigellinus might realise that I had been out to save the Emperor rather than kill him. I had to make it look as if we were on the same side.’ Cato paused to let his friend think through his explanation, before continuing. ‘In any case, it helps our cause if Tigellinus is now suspicious of Centurion Sinius and the other Liberators. Divide and rule. It also helps that he thinks he has some kind of power over us. Such men are more likely to be indiscreet when they take so much for granted.’

  ‘And it makes me look like a bit of a dickhead,’ Macro responded sourly. ‘Like I’m not trusted.’

  ‘Not at all. The Liberators are playing a dangerous game. They have to operate in complete secrecy. It would make sense to keep the smallest number of people in the know, and even then only to tell them as little information as is required for them to play their part. Do you see?’

  ‘Of course I bloody well do,’ Macro fumed. ‘I just don’t like being put on the spot like that.’

  ‘That’s part of our job, for now. We have to think on our toes, Macro.’ Cato searched his friend’s face for some sign of understanding. ‘Things are coming to a head. Once we see this through then we can get back to soldiering.’

  ‘Assuming Narcissus keeps his word.’

  ‘True enough,’ Cato conceded.

  ‘And assuming that we survive this little game of secret agents.’

  ‘As long as we watch each other’s back and be careful what we say, then the odds are that we will.’

  ‘Care to place any money on that?’

  ‘As much as you like.’ Cato smiled, spat on the palm of his hand and held it out. ‘Where should the money go if you win?’

  ‘Bah!’ Macro growled and slapped Cat
o’s hand aside. ‘Piss off. I’ve had enough of your games for tonight. I’m turning in.’

  Macro made for the stairs and began to climb. After a pause, Cato followed. Back in the section room Fuscius had turned on to his back and was snoring lightly. The other men removed their boots and lowered themselves onto their cots without another word. As usual Macro was asleep within moments and added his deeper, more guttural snores to those of Fuscius. Cato folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, trying hard to ignore the din. He tried to focus his mind on the twists and turns of the conspiracy that he and Macro had been struggling to unravel for the last two months, with limited success.

  Before long Cato’s mind began to wander, lighting upon one aspect of the conspiracy after another. Then, without warning, his mind filled with the feral expression on Cestius’s face as he thrust Britannicus aside during the food riot and made to strike at Nero. Cato frowned at the memory. Something about it did not fit with the other aspects of the conspiracy. He strained his mind to make the connection but was too tired to concentrate effectively. At length he shut his eyes and a vivid memory of the moment the wave struck filled his mind. He had been certain that he would die. That they would all die, swept away and drowned by the deluge. But the gods had been merciful. He still lived, as did Macro, the Emperor and most of the men caught by the wave. The conspirators had failed to kill Claudius, just as they had failed back in the Forum. One thing was certain. They would try again, and soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The next day the two depleted centuries of Burrus’s cohort were brought up to strength by men from the other units of the Praetorian Guard. The tribune himself was awarded a grass crown by the Emperor for saving the life of another Roman citizen. The ceremony was performed in the courtyard of the palace with all the men under the tribune’s command formed up on three sides to face the Emperor as he expressed his gratitude. Standing to attention on the left flank of the Sixth Century, Cato had a good view of the imperial party surrounding Claudius as they tried with various degrees of success to look as if they were enjoying the Emperor’s laboured rhetoric.

  Immediately behind Claudius were his family. Agrippina struck a suitably maternal pose between Britannicus and Nero, her hands resting on their shoulders. While she lightly caressed her natural son, Cato noted that her fingers worked rather more firmly on the shoulder of Britannicus, edging gradually towards the exposed flesh of his neck. At one stage he winced and looked up at her sharply and was rewarded with a vicious glare. When she at last dropped her arm to the side, Britannicus took the opportunity to shuffle out of his stepmother’s reach.

  Over Agrippina’s shoulder Cato could see Pallas, head slightly tilted upwards as if savouring the Emperor’s words. At his side stood Narcissus, looking gloomy, his face and arms bearing the scratches and bruises he had received as he tumbled through the wave released by the sabotaged dam. He stared rigidly at the ranks of the Praetorian Guard and then turned to regard Pallas with a poorly disguised expression of utter loathing.

  Beyond the coterie of imperial freedmen and a handful of citizen advisers stood several favoured senators and the prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Geta. He stood with an impressive soldierly bearing, straight backed, chest out. His breastplate gleamed brightly and the purple sash tied about his waist was neat and precise. The ends of the sash hung in decorative loops from where they had been tucked behind the topmost fold of the sash. Fine leather boots fitted his calves like an extra layer of skin, and gilded tassels hung from the tops, just below the knee. Cato could not help smiling faintly. Glorious as Geta looked, Cato knew that he would be regarded with simmering derision by Macro who was inclined to see such finery as superfluous and unmanly.

  Cato’s amused expression faded as he reflected on the sinister reality that lay behind the ordered display of hierarchy and unity. Among those standing so calmly behind the Emperor were traitors plotting to murder him, while others planned the deaths of the entire imperial family. Cutting across the treason were the rivalries between Nero and Britannicus, Narcissus and Pallas and, no doubt, the professional rivalry between the Praetorian prefect and the newly decorated Tribune Burrus.

  Cato could not help feeling a depressed cynicism at the facade of order, duty and loyalty presented to the people of Rome. They shared the same flesh and blood as the commoners but their lives were bound up in a constant struggle for influence, power and riches that was nakedly self-serving when the pomp and dignity were stripped away. The leaden sense of despair that it engendered weighed down upon Cato as he thought that this was how it was, is and would be for as long as those few with power were more concerned with accruing it for themselves rather than using it to better the lot of those they ruled.

  He found himself wondering if it might not be better for Rome if the Liberators succeeded in sweeping away the Emperor, his family and all the wasteful trappings of the imperial household. He had never known what life was like under the Republic. There were no more than a handful of men and women still left in Rome who did, and their memories of that age were dim and unreliable. The passions of those who had murdered the tyrant Caesar were as distant as legends now. The Liberators’ claim to be their successors was as hollow as the loyalty professed by those who now stood behind the Emperor. Despots all, Cato thought sourly. The only difference between them was that some were struggling to gain power while others struggled to retain it. They were indifferent to the rest of humanity, unless the retention of their position forced some show of common feeling.

  Macro was right, Cato decided. It would be better to be far from Rome with its treachery and its luxurious caprices that softened men and made them into scoundrels or fools. Better to be back in the ranks of the legions where a man’s worth was defined by the rigid and honest standards of military life. Even as he thought it, Cato wondered whether his yearning for the certainties of a soldier’s life outweighed his yearning for the love of Julia, and a life spent with her, which might well entail living in Rome. He sensed that he knew the answer to that and hurriedly pushed all thought of making a choice aside as the award ceremony concluded and the newly crowned Tribune Burrus turned to his men and gave the order for the cohort to return to the camp.

  The following day the cohort marched out to the Albine Lake as the final preparations were made for the coming spectacle. The change of season was evident in the new growth bursting from trees, shrubs and vines in the countryside through which the cohort marched. The men had been issued with marching yokes to carry their mess kits, spare clothing and meagre rations. For the duration of the spectacle the cohort was to camp close to the newly erected imperial compound where Claudius and his guests would be accommodated in luxury.

  The weather had turned decisively and warm sunshine bathed the Praetorians marching along the road. As good weather will, especially after a cold, drab winter, it raised the spirits of the men and they talked and sang lustily as they marched. Their officers relaxed the usual discipline of the Praetorian Guard and indulged their mens’ good humour so that the column took on the ambience of a friendly procession rather than a manouevre conducted by the elite formation of the Roman army. Even Macro, a soldier to the very core of his being, was content as they advanced in broken step. He felt good to leave Rome behind and savour the familiar grinding chorus of nailed boots, the weight of a yoke braced against his padded shoulder and the cheery camaraderie of the rankers. The road crossed rolling countryside and afforded pleasing vistas over the farmland with its newly sown crops. One field contained a small flock of sheep with several newborn lambs whose wool gleamed like freshly laundered togas.

  ‘This is the life, eh?’ Macro grinned at Cato. ‘Proper soldering.’

  Cato adjusted his yoke once more. He had never had Macro’s experience of being a common legionary and had therefore never quite mastered the art of carrying the heavy yoke with any degree of comfort over long distances. Already he was beginning to wonder what had possessed him yesterday
when he had been so adamant in his desire to return to what his friend so fondly termed proper soldiering. He bunched his padding up under the wooden shaft as best he could before he replied to his friend. ‘Ah yes! Blisters and tired muscles. What more could a man ask for, I wonder.’

  Macro was well used to Cato’s assumed dour acceptance of the strains of marching and laughed. ‘Come on, lad. Admit it, you’re as pleased to be out and about as I am. No more skulking about in Rome for a few days at least. And it’ll be good to spend some nights under the stars with grass at our backs, a fire to warm us, and a jug of wine to share. May not be much food in our bellies, but there’s no shortage of wine thank the gods. Now that would be a tragedy. Man can live by bread alone, but who would want to, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cato grunted under the burden of his yoke. ‘I would give up a month’s pay for a decent haunch of mutton and a freshly baked loaf of bread right now.’ He glanced wistfully at the grazing sheep and lambs.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’ said Fuscius, marching beside the column where he had overheard the exchange and noted Cato’s look. ‘That lot are protected by order of the Emperor. All available livestock for ten miles around the city has been commandeered by the Emperor.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Macro.

  ‘There’s one man who ignores the gazette.’ Fuscius laughed. ‘Claudius wants to make sure that he has the biggest audience he can find for the spectacle. One way to guarantee that is to offer the mob food as well as entertainment. They’ll come all right.’

  When the cohort reached the lake, Cato was astonished by the work that had been carried out in the few days since he had last seen the site. The pens built for the combatants were already filling with men and as the cohort marched up he could see a long line of prisoners, in ankle chains, being led to the site from the south. A unit of auxiliaries stood guard over the pens. The imperial pavilion had been completed and dominated the shoreline. Although constructed from timber, it had been painted in white so that from a distance it looked like a small palace constructed from the finest marble. The main viewing stand was built over the water and supported by heavy piles driven into the bed of the lake. At the side of the pavilion was a stand where the Emperor would be able to review the fighters as they paraded past and boarded the small ships of the two fleets.