Praetorian (27 page)

‘That’s right. But you also know him by sight. He was the man who led the attack on the Emperor that day we escorted him back from the camp.’

Narcissus thought a moment. ‘The big man? The one you saved young Nero from?’

‘That’s him.’

‘So that’s Cestius,’ Narcissus said deliberately. ‘What has he got to do with this warehouse then?’

Cato explained how he had seen the man and followed him across Rome, and that he was known to at least one regular member of the grain merchant’s guild. ‘It’s more than likely Cestius is behind the attempt to control the grain supply.’

Narcissus stroked his chin. ‘But he’d need a fortune to do that. The street gangs do well enough, but it would take them several years at least to amass a fortune big enough to buy up the grain stocks. There’s only one likely source for that kind of sum.’

Cato nodded. ‘The stolen bullion.’

Septimus cleared his throat. ‘Which means that Cestius is working with the Liberators.’

Narcissus glanced at him with a cold expression. ‘Evidently. Cestius is another enemy we’ll have to take care of in due course. In the meantime, you two will be dealing with Centurion Lurco. What is your plan?’

‘Nothing elaborate,’ said Macro. ‘We follow him, wait until he’s alone and then have a quiet word with him, if we get the chance. If that doesn’t work, then we knock him on the head. Either way, we’ll bring him back here and turn him over to Septimus. Then it’s up to you to keep him out of circulation until our job’s done.’

The imperial secretary stared at Macro for a moment before he replied in a cutting tone, ‘Brilliantly conceived, I must say. It is a comfort to know that the army still employs strategists of the first water.’

‘It’ll work,’ Macro replied sourly. ‘That’s all that matters.’

‘See that it does.’ Narcissus sighed. ‘I fear that we are running out of time, gentlemen. There must be a reason why our enemies want Lurco to disappear. It has to be more than some kind of initiation test. They’re getting ready to make their move, I know it. And the Liberators are not the only danger facing us. The Emperor’s gladiator spectacle will distract the mob for a moment. Unless we feed them before it’s too late then the people will turn on us like ravenous wolves and tear Rome to pieces.’

D
usk thickened over the capital and shrouded it in a thin mist as Centurion Lurco quit the Praetorian camp and entered the city. He was dressed in a thick blue cloak and only the soft leather boots that rose halfway up his calves indicated that he was a man of status. The bulge on his hip revealed that he was armed; lone footpads and small gangs of robbers presented a considerable danger in the darker alleys and byways of Rome.

Macro and Cato tailed him at a distance. After returning to the Praetorian camp following their meeting with Narcissus they had kept watch on the centurion’s quarters, waiting for him to emerge. He came out once in the afternoon, in his military tunic, and made a brief visit to headquarters. Then, as the light faded, he stepped out in his cloak, ready to find his evening’s entertainment. Cato and Macro fell into step fifty or so paces behind the officer. Like Lurco they were armed, and Macro carried a leather sap filled with sand and small pebbles.

Centurion Lurco made his way down the hill at a carefree pace, not once bothering to look behind him as he negotiated the dark streets. There were still plenty of people abroad, enough for Cato and Macro not to draw attention to themselves, and not so many that it was difficult to keep Lurco in view. He stayed away from the main thoroughfares as far as he could, to avoid the inconvenience of encountering any of the patrols and checkpoints of the urban cohorts.

As they tailed him into the Subura, Macro muttered to Cato, ‘Can’t imagine Lurco wanting to spend any time in this dump. That, or he’s got cheap tastes, and friends who share them.’

‘I’m sure there are plenty of young rakes who get their thrills from slumming it,’ Cato replied. ‘Unless he’s heading somewhere else.’

A little further on, the centurion abruptly turned into a street to his right.

‘Shit,’ Macro hissed. ‘He’s on to us.’

They trotted forward to the junction before cautiously peering round the grimy corner of a tenement block. Lurco was a short distance ahead, striding on without any evident sign of concern. They let him open up a safe lead before resuming their pursuit.

‘Why don’t we take him now?’ asked Macro. ‘We’re not far from the safe house.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Let’s see where he goes first. He might lead us to some interesting acquaintances.’

‘Or he might just lead us to a bunch of delinquent piss-heads,’ Macro countered. ‘Or we might lose sight of him.’

‘Not if we’re careful. Besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to start a scene where we might draw a crowd. We’ll wait and see who he meets, and then deal with him the moment we can catch him on his own.’ Cato realised that he had spoken in a peremptory tone and glanced quickly at his friend to see if Macro had taken any offence. But Macro just nodded briskly, as if he had been given an order. Cato was mildly surprised by the little thrill of pleasure he felt at his friend’s unquestioning obedience to his will, as well as his confidence in stating it. Perhaps they were both finally comfortable with his promotion over his former mentor. Former? Cato mused. No, not yet. There was still much that Macro could teach him.

‘Watch it!’ Macro nudged Cato sharply, pushing him to one side, just before he trod in a foul-smelling sprawl of rotting offal outside the door of a butcher’s shop. ‘Mind where you’re stepping, lad. Bloody hell, do I have to hold your hand all the time?’

Cato chuckled.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking.’

Macro scowled. ‘Which is why you nearly went arse over tit into that lot.’

Ahead of them the centurion had increased his lead and they had to hurry to catch up with him. The failing light made it hard to see Lurco clearly and they risked moving closer to him. Lurco continued steadily down the slope of the Viminal Hill before leaving the
Subura district and climbing a street that led up on to the Quirinal Hill where some of the wealthiest inhabitants of Rome lived, their grand town houses interspersed with the more modest homes of lesser citizens and those who bought into the area simply to rub shoulders with their betters.

The last faint loom of dusk had given away to night and there were fewer people on the street now. Lurco turned into a road that ran between some of the larger residences. The plain walls, broken only by imposing doorways and narrow grilled window slits, were misleading. Behind the stout timbers of the doors fronting the thoroughfare there would be elaborate and finely decorated residences stretching a long way back from the street. The largest houses would also have ornate gardens, and perhaps even fountains.

At length Lurco stopped outside one of the more modest-looking entrances and paused to arrange his cloak before climbing the steps and rapping on the door. Cato pulled Macro into an arched doorway of a closed shop which afforded a clear view of the house, without exposing them to Lurco’s view should he glance back down the street. They watched as Lurco knocked again and a moment later the iron grille in the door snapped open. There was a brief exchange that was too muted for Cato and Macro to make out any words, and then the door opened. Lurco entered and the door was shut firmly, followed by a dull scrape as an iron bolt shot home. The street was still, apart from a distant figure much further up the road, then he, too, was lost from view in the gathering darkness.

‘What now?’ asked Macro. ‘Wait until he emerges again?’

‘That’s right. And see if we recognise any of the faces going in or coming out.’

Macro rubbed his hands together. ‘Could take hours.’

‘More than likely.’

‘Bollocks. It’s going to be a cold night.’

Cato nodded, biting back on the urge to tell Macro to stop stating the obvious. They stood in silence for a while and then Macro started to stamp his feet to try to keep them warm. Amplified by the archway, the sound of the nailed soles striking the flagstone threshold of the shop seemed deafening. Cato turned to him with a frown.

‘Enough! You’ll give us away.’

‘Who to?’ Macro gestured irritably towards the empty road.

Cato pressed his lips together for an instant and then responded as calmly as he could. ‘It would be useful to know who owns that house. Why don’t you scout round it while I watch the entrance? See if you can find someone who knows.’

Macro looked at him doubtfully. ‘What if Lurco comes out while I’m gone?’

‘He hasn’t been there very long. I suspect he’ll be a while yet. If he does emerge then I’ll follow him and try and take him by myself and meet you back at the safe house. Just don’t be too long yourself.’

‘All right.’ Macro eased himself away from the wall of the arch and stretched his back. With a brief glance both ways to make sure there was no one in sight, Macro stepped out into the road and then hurried across to the other side. He walked towards the entrance and did not pause as he passed by. A short distance beyond was a narrow alley that ran down the side of the house and he turned into it and disappeared from view.

Cato let out a sigh of relief. Macro was a fine soldier but clandestine duties that required patience did not number amongst his strengths. Cato squatted down in the shadows and settled his back against the door of the shop.

The alley was barely four feet wide and Macro guessed that it was little more than a service passage shared by the house Lurco had entered and its neighbour. The walls rose high on either side, leaving only a thin strip of gloom from the night sky. Although the ground was soiled underfoot Macro was acutely aware of the noise that his boots were making as he made his way down the alley and he tried to tread as softly as he could. He traced one hand along the wall, fingertips grazing over cracked plaster and patches of exposed bricks. Fifty paces or so along the alley he came to a small door and gently tried the latch but it was locked. Macro proceeded a little further and then heard some voices, a light-hearted blend of conversation and laughter. An instant later the notes of a flute added to the sound of the party. It came from a short distance ahead and
Macro saw that the wall abruptly dropped to half its height as the main part of the house gave way to the gardens.

He hurried on and the sounds from the other side of the wall covered any noise from his boots. A short distance ahead Macro could see the tall cone of a poplar tree rising above the wall and he made towards it. If he could climb the wall, then the tree would give him some cover as he looked over the top, he reasoned. From there he could spy on Lurco and see whom he spoke to. However, the wall rose a good ten feet above the street and Macro hissed bitterly. Looking round he saw nothing that he could use to stand on. With a resigned grunt he reached under his cloak and took out his sword and tested the surface of the wall with the point. The plaster crumbled away freely and the bricks underneath were soft enough for Macro to chisel out a step. He worked quickly, creating several more up to a height where he should be able to reach the top.

Sheathing his sword, Macro pulled himself up and began to climb carefully, grimacing as his fingers strained for purchase in the hurriedly cut holds. He drew his knife and worked at the handholds, proceeding steadily towards the top of the wall. At length he could just reach up and grip the edge. With his knife sheathed, Macro heaved his body up, boots scraping to help lift his weight until his torso rested across the top of the wall. Macro paused for breath, his heart pounding from the exertions of the climb. The boughs of the poplar tree shielded him from the party guests in the garden and when he was ready, Macro swung his legs up and eased himself forward for a better view of the walled garden.

Low-cut shrubs and shaped bushes surrounded a paved area around a large oval pond. Here and there pieces of sculpture stood atop small marble columns. Even though it was a chilly night the guests of the house sat outside, warmed and illuminated by the braziers arranged on the paving stones around the pond. There were at least a hundred people at the party, Macro estimated. Mostly younger men, like Lurco, expensively dressed. In among them were a number of women in short tunics, the customary attire of prostitutes. Most wore lurid make-up, faces powdered white and eyes outlined with kohl, and their hair was carefully arranged in tresses and curls. Slaves moved among the throng with jars of heated
wine that left thin tendrils of steam in their wake. Macro licked his lips at the sight and hoped there might be a chance of getting a quick jar in at the River of Wine once he and Cato had completed their night’s work.

Macro edged a little further forward so that he might have a better view, keeping low to the top of the wall where one of the boughs of the poplar stretched over the alley. He searched the crowd for Lurco and easily picked him out in his blue cloak, standing with a group of men his own age, clustered about a brazier as they drank. The centurion was grinning as he and his companions listened to one of their number who had his back to Macro. The brazier threw his outline into sharp relief as he gestured with his hands and the others roared with laughter.

Having picked out Lurco, Macro methodically scrutinised the other guests and had almost satisfied himself that there were no faces he recognised when his gaze fixed on two women standing aside from the rest, talking animatedly in the faint red hue of the nearest brazier. Macro squinted, straining his eyes to make sure of what he was seeing. There was no question of it, the woman on the left was Agrippina. What the hell was she doing here? Macro watched her for a moment before turning his attention to her companion, a tall, slender woman with dark hair, unfussily pinned back into a bun. There was something familiar about her, but Macro could not place her and he frowned with the effort of trying to remember and then gave up. He had seen enough from his vantage point and still needed to discover the identity of the owner of the house.