Praetorian (12 page)

‘Sword cut,’ Cato explained flatly. ‘Last year in … Britannia. Took it when we were ambushed by some Durotrigan tribesmen.’

Fuscius stared at him for a moment longer in frank admiration, then realised that he must look foolish and flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’ll wager you have quite a few tales you could tell about Britannia.’

‘How much will you wager?’ Macro asked drily. ‘If you want decent stories then you come to me, young ‘un.’

‘Oh?’ Fuscius did not know how to proceed without offending either man so he just mumbled something as he squeezed past and made for one of the beds either side of the window. ‘Anyway, it’s good to have someone else in the room. Tigellinus isn’t much of a talker. Well, he does talk, but mostly to complain about things.’

‘So we’ve noticed,’ said Cato as he pulled his red tunic off and
slipped on his newly issued Praetorian tunic. ‘Come on, Calidus, better hurry.’

‘When you’ve done for the day, some of the lads and I are going out for a drink tonight,’ Fuscius said. ‘Fancy joining us?’

‘Sounds good,’ Cato replied as he smoothed the tunic down and fastened his thick military belt round his middle. ‘Calidus?’

‘Why not? Could use a decent drink after that filthy muck we drank when we arrived.’

‘Good, then let’s find the tribune.’

Tribune Burrus was an aged veteran. From the number of scars he bore on his face and arms, he had served a good many years in the legions before being appointed to the Praetorian Guard. Aside from a fringe of white hair, he was bald. One eye had been lost and a leather patch covered the socket, tied in place with a thin strap. He was tall and thickset and Cato realised that he must have been a formidable figure in his time. Now, though, he was serving his last few years in the Guard before he took his gratuity and left the army. He might use his elevation to the equestrian class to take up an administrative job in Rome, or one of the other cities and towns in Italia, but Cato guessed that the man would prefer the company of old soldiers to bureaucrats. The tribune would end his days in some military colony, respected by men who knew his quality, even as he grew stooped and frail.

‘Well, don’t just dawdle by the bloody door!’ Burrus snapped.

When Cato and Macro were standing to attention in front of him, the tribune scrutinised them for a moment before he continued, ‘Proper soldiers at last! About damn time. I’ve seen too many of these soft city boys joining the ranks of late. Especially after the casualties we took in Britannia. But you’ll remember that battle outside Camulodunum. It was your legion that saved us from that trap. My, but those bloody Celts were devious bastards. Fought hard, too, and brought out the best in the Praetorians, even though we were roughly handled. So,’ he concluded, ‘it’s good to have two veterans join the cohort. Though I see that one of you is still a bit on the young side, eh? Which one are you?’

‘Capito, sir.’

‘Age?’

‘Twenty-five, sir.’

‘You’ll have served seven years then.’

‘Nearer eight, sir. I joined about the time I turned seventeen.’

Burrus frowned. ‘That’s against regs. Eighteen is the minimum age.’

‘I was sent to the army by my father as soon as he thought I was ready for it.’ Cato spoke tonelessly as he gave his cover story.

‘He must be a proud man indeed. You’ve done well for yourself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Burrus turned his attention to Macro. ‘What’s your story? From the look of you, you’re an old sweat. How many years have you served, Calidus?’

‘Twenty-three years, sir.’

‘Good gods, and still only a legionary? You should have been killed off or promoted to centurion by now, optio at the very least. What’s your excuse?’

Macro swallowed his bitterness and answered directly. ‘I’m a ranker first and last, sir. Didn’t see any reason to go and get myself promoted. I like plain soldiering. I fight hard and have put down a good many of Rome’s enemies in my time.’

‘A good fighter’s one thing, but do you think you can cope with the demands of being a Praetorian? You will be constantly before the eyes of the senators and the people. There’s more to being a good soldier than killing enemies. If you fuck up and embarrass the Praetorian Guard then you’ll embarrass the Emperor and, worse, far worse, you will shame me. If that should happen I will jump on you like a mountain of shit, is that clear, Calidus?’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was a pause while the tribune let his warning sink in, then he cleared his throat and continued in a more moderate tone. ‘I’ll tell you what I tell every recruit at the moment. You’ve joined us at a difficult time. The Emperor is getting on and won’t last forever, even if some fool of a senator gets him voted a divinity. It’s a shame because as emperors go he’s been one of the better ones. However, he’s flesh and blood, and he will die. Our job is to make sure that is down to natural causes. Now, I know the old joke about natural
causes in the imperial family include a host of unusual ailments such as poisoning, a knife in the back or a sword in the guts, being smothered by a pillow, and so on. That will not happen during my time in command of the palace cohort. So you will keep your eyes open when you’re on duty. I don’t trust those German pricks in the personal bodyguard any further than I could spit ‘em. Our job is to stop anyone getting close enough to Claudius for those Germans to have to earn their money. As far as I am concerned, my men are the first and final line of defence. If either of you have to throw yourselves in front of an assassin’s knife to save the Emperor then you’ll do it without hesitation. If not, then there’s no place for you in my cohort. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato and Macro replied at once.

‘Good. As I said, it’s a difficult situation. There are various factions in the palace who are already making their plans for the succession. Some are backing Britannicus, others the upstart Nero. Besides that, there’s the bloody freedmen who advise the Emperor, Pallas, Narcissus and Callistus, shifty little grafters every one of ‘em. They’ll be looking to make an alliance with their chosen candidate for the purple. That’s fine by me, just as long as they don’t do anything to try and accelerate the process. Watch for threats from within as well dangers from without. Any questions?’ He looked at each of them. ‘No? Then I’ll have Tigellinus go through the basic protocols with you tomorrow. You better be fast learners, as I’ll have you on duty the day after that. It’s a case of swim or sink, lads. Dismissed!’

‘B
loody bunch of toy soldiers is what the Praetorians are,’ said Macro as they walked down the lane leading to the inn that Fuscius had named earlier. Night had fallen and both men had taken their cloaks to ward off the chill of a winter night. On either side of the thoroughfare the dark masses of the cheaply built tenement blocks reared up, pierced by the loom of occasional lamps and tallow candles glimmering within. The foetid stink of sweat, sewage and rotting vegetables filled the air. Macro exhaled sharply. ‘They do nothing but prepare for parades.’

‘I thought you liked that aspect of the job,’ Cato replied. ‘You used to tell me that drilling was the reason why the Roman army was successful.’

‘Yes, well, it can be overdone,’ Macro admitted grudgingly. ‘The point is that the drilling is for battle, not for endless parades and ceremonies. They’re supposed to be soldiers, not useless bloody ornaments.’

‘I wonder. They have a certain elan about them and I dare say that when they have to fight the men will not dishonour the reputation of the Guard.’

Macro looked sidelong at Cato, and stumbled over the body of a dog. ‘Oh, shit! Fucking guts are all over my foot …’ He paused to scrape his boot on the side of a wall. ‘What I was going to say was that there’s as much chance of seeing the Praetorians in action as there is of seeing the vestal virgins at an orgy. It happens but not often.’

‘We’re not here for a fight. I don’t want to be in the Praetorian Guard any longer than I have to. We’re here for one purpose only.’

‘I know, to find and kill the traitors.’

‘Actually, I was thinking to get all that’s due to us from that snake Narcissus.’

Macro laughed and clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘How right you are, lad!’

Cato smiled. Much as he resented having to earn his promotion to prefect over again, it felt good to be restored to the same rank as Macro. There had been moments of tension between them when Macro had to defer to Cato’s higher rank, and Cato had regretted the loss of the easy give and take of their relationship in earlier years. That would change once the present task was over, Cato reflected with a degree of sadness. If Narcissus held to his word then he would be confirmed as a prefect and would have an auxiliary cohort of his own to command. In all probability Macro would be appointed to a legion and they would part company. Assuming that their mission was successful, Cato reminded himself.

‘I think this must be the place.’ Macro pointed down the street to where a small square opened out around a public fountain. A strong breeze had picked up during the early evening and had swept away most of the pall of smoke that hung over Rome and now the stars glinted coldly from the heavens, bathing the city in a faint glow, picking out the roof lines of the tenement blocks further down the Esquiline Hill. As the two soldiers entered the square, they saw to their right a large door with a sign hanging above it with the neatly painted wording: The River of Wine. The sound of shouting and laughter spilled out into the square and the door opened briefly as a man staggered outside, and threw up in the warm glow cast by the lamps and candles that burned within.

‘The mouth of the river, no doubt,’ Cato suggested.

‘Very funny. Let’s go to the source. I’m parched.’

Cato held his friend’s arm to restrain him a moment. ‘By all means drink. But don’t get drunk. We can’t afford to slip up.’

‘Trust me, I’ll stay as sober as a vestal virgin.’

‘That is not an encouraging comparison, according to some accounts.’

They crossed the square and carefully stepped round the man doubled over in the gutter as he continued heaving up from the pit of his stomach. Stepping through the entrance, Cato saw that the inn was large and extended much of the way beneath the tenement
block above, which rested on the thick support columns that divided the room. It was already filled with the evening trade and the warm air was thick with smoke from the lamps and candles and the acrid odour of cheap wine. The flagstone floor was covered with a loose layer of straw and sawdust. Cato estimated that there were over a hundred men and a few women squeezed into the space and all the tables were filled so that some customers sat slumped against the walls. There were small clusters of off-duty guardsmen as well as men from one of the urban cohorts. The rest were civilians.

‘Hey! Over here!’

They turned towards the voice and saw Fuscius beckoning to them from the corner not far from the entrance. He was sitting at a long table with some other guardsmen. Several jars of wine stood before them.

Cato and Macro made their way over to the table and Fuscius, with several cups of wine under his belt, made the introductions.

‘Lads! Here’s the two new boys I told you about. Well, maybe not boys, eh?’ He wrapped an arm round each of the new arrivals’ shoulders and breathed over Cato’s face as he turned to grin blearily at him. ‘This one’s Capito. And this here’s Callus.’

‘That’s Calidus,’ Macro corrected him evenly. He looked round at the other men and nodded a greeting. There were nine of them, three who looked like veterans and the others fresh faced and young, like Fuscius. Most seemed to have had as much to drink as Fuscius, though the veterans were better at holding their drink and still seemed to have their wits about them.

‘Have a seat,’ Fuscius continued and glanced down and saw that there wasn’t a bench at that end of the table. He turned round to the next table where three scrawny youths were sitting with a fat whore, plying her with wine.

‘Get up!’ Fuscius ordered. ‘Oi, on your feet! I need your bench.’

One of the youths looked round and muttered, ‘Piss off! Find your own fucking bench. This one’s taken.’

‘Not any more. When a Praetorian tells you to jump, you bloody jump. Now get up.’

‘You going to make us?’ The youth smiled coldly and his hand slipped down towards his belt.

Fuscius stepped aside to reveal the table where his comrades were sitting. ‘Only if you force us to.’

The Praetorians glared at the youths. They took the hint and hurried to their feet, roughly lifting the woman who groaned in protest. She was so far gone her limbs were loose and her companions struggled to drag her away through the throng. Fuscius pulled the bench over to the table and waved Cato and Macro down.

‘There you are. Head of the table. Have a drink.’ He pulled the nearest jug over, saw that it was empty and reached for the next before filling two cups to the brim and pushing them towards Cato and Macro, spilling a measure of the contents.

They picked up their cups and raised them to toast the other men. Cato made a show of drinking a deep draught and squirted most back into the cup which he lowered to his side and discreetly tipped on to the floor. Macro had taken a good swallow and now wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.