TimeRiders 05 - Gates of Rome (26 page)

Cato frowned. ‘But your plan to
correct
history … that would mean the end of all this, would it not?’ He gestured at Crassus’s courtyard. ‘And the end of all our lives?’

Maddy shook her head. ‘The end of this version of your life. There’s another world very much like this one. Another version with you and Macro and Crassus –’

‘It’s a
better
version,’ added Liam. ‘Under Claudius your Roman Empire gets richer, gets bigger. Not like it is now.’

Cato pondered that. As things stood, disaster hung like an approaching storm cloud. The empire was all but bankrupt. The city was on the very edge of starvation as the last of its stores dwindled. The regular arrival of food supplies from other provinces and trading partners was beginning to dry up as it became clear that Roman debts were going to remain unpaid. Even if they did manage to get rid of Caligula, an even greater danger loomed: the threat of civil war. There were three or four generals he could think of in charge of unpaid and disgruntled legions who’d advance on Rome to crown themselves emperor once news reached them that the madman was finally gone.

And if that wasn’t enough, there were rival empires watching proceedings from the periphery of the Roman world like vultures. The Parthians to the east, for example. A civil war would surely be the final straw. Once Rome’s many legions had broken themselves fighting each other, barbarian hordes from
all over would descend on them to pick the Roman carcass clean.

If these strangers from another time were to be believed, that correcting history would return the fate of Rome to a more stable footing, how it had been when he’d been a young boy, then that was worth surrendering this life for, wasn’t it?

‘Another version of Rome would be worth dying for,’ he admitted.

‘Oh, but you don’t die,’ said Liam. ‘Not really. There’ll be another you … another Macro, another Crassus.’

‘Living the lives you should have lived,’ added Maddy.

‘And how do you intend to correct this history?’

‘We believe … we’re
hoping
really, that there may be technology –
devices
– left behind somewhere in Caligula’s palace by the Visitors that we might be able to use to get back to our time. From there we can correct this more easily.’

The others looked like they were getting ready to come over and join them in the cool shade. ‘It might be better if we keep this notion of travelling time like a road to ourselves,’ said Cato.

Maddy nodded as they stepped into the shade beneath the portico.

‘Does this brute of yours ever get tired?’ grunted Macro as he slumped on to a bench and reached for a cup of watered wine.

Crassus took a seat beside Cato. ‘It is time, I think, that we discuss matters in detail.’ He reached for the jug, poured himself a cup of wine and lifted it. ‘Something our new friends should know. This Roman officer to my left … Tribune Quintus Licinius Cato.’ He was addressing Maddy and Liam in particular. ‘This man is the one who has put our gathering of conspirators together. He is the one who has risked
everything
by whispering in dark corners to find the few of us willing to commit to treason.’ He patted Cato on the
shoulder affectionately. ‘I would give my arm to have a small fraction of this man’s courage.’

‘Hear, hear!’ barked Macro, filling his cup again and raising it. ‘To Cato.’

Cato picked up his cup. ‘To success.’ He turned to Liam and Maddy. ‘And to the return of better times, eh?’

‘Aye, I’ll drink to that,’ said Liam.

An eternity of darkness. In here. This space. This world of his measured in mere feet. If he flexed his legs, his toes, his arms, his hands, he could brush the edge of his minute universe. He could feel the surface of it, worn smooth now, having been touched so many times.

But he didn’t touch the edges of his universe any more. Not intentionally. He preferred to imagine the walls weren’t there. He preferred to live within the endless corridors of his mind now. Dwelling on memories that were beginning to fade like old photographs pulled out into the daylight too often. He could wander through a few special childhood memories, could almost be there. Feel the sand beneath his bare feet, the warmth of the sun on his face. Smell his mother, hear his father and brother.

Only when he heard the doors creak open, and the ghosts of real daylight stole through the slits between the oak planks of his universe, was he pulled away from his memory-world. Once every day – the grim return to reality as someone, presumably one of the slaves, brought a bowl of water and that bitter-tasting barley gruel. Pulled open the feeding slot to his small cubed universe and pushed it through for him.

As the slot closed, the heavy doors outside creaked shut and his universe became a uniform, blank darkness once again; he would feel with his hands for his bowl of water and his bowl of
gruel. If he could have talked … that once daily ritual might be his chance to communicate with someone, even if it was just to say a thank-you.

But he couldn’t talk. He could grunt. He could whimper. He could howl. Oh yes … he could slobber and whine. But he couldn’t talk.

He called the mask
Mr Muzzy
.

His muzzle. The only other permanent occupant inside this wooden box.

Me and Mr Muzzy.

The iron brace around his jaw with a protuberance, a tube of iron, that kept his teeth prised apart, mouth open, and pressed his tongue back preventing him from forming anything that sounded remotely like words; that was Mr Muzzy.

The gruel could be spooned down into Mr Muzzy’s hollow tube; it slid down inside it and into his mouth where often he gagged on it several times before being able to swallow it. It took a long time to spoon his daily gruel into that. He imagined it probably took hours, but then in complete darkness, in almost complete sensory isolation … how does one measure time?

Mr Muzzy was his tormentor. The always-there taste of iron in his mouth. The sores where the brace rubbed his skin raw. Sores that constantly wept and crusted up, wept and crusted up.

Once – a million years ago, it seemed – Mr Muzzy broke. The brace had weakened: his constantly weeping pus had corroded the thin band of iron around his head enough that waggling it to and fro it had finally buckled and fallen away from his face. And then … oh God then. He’d screamed, hadn’t he? His ragged voice had startled him. Terrified him. The sound of words instead of gurgling sounded alien, strange.

He’d screamed for hours, terrified by the babble of insanity that was coming out of him. Then the creak of the doors. The
faint hairlines of light entering his box. And the feeding slot opening.

Later the same day there was a brand-new Mr Muzzy. A much thicker, stronger iron band cinched tight round his head. And back in complete darkness once again he’d wept and wept and wept.

Ever since that time – however long ago it was – he’d learned that the best thing he could do was to try and live as far away as possible from this place. Wander the corridors of his mind and open doors into rooms full of gradually fading memories … and frolic and play in the twilight sunshine that existed in there.

One day those memories would fade completely … every room of his mind would be as empty and featureless and as dark as this place. And when that finally happened, he guessed he was truly going to be insane.

‘An ingenious plot,’ said Crassus. He looked at Cato. ‘Devious even. Admirably devious.’

Macro nodded at that. ‘Even as a snotty-nosed young
optio
, Cato was a smart-arse.’

‘I had to be,’ replied Cato. ‘A young, soft strip of a boy in the legions? It was either be tough or be clever. And I wasn’t much of a fighter back then.’

Macro grinned. ‘Turned out all right in the end, though, didn’t you, lad?’

Cato shrugged that away. ‘The legions have a way of finding out what’s in you.’

Liam smiled at the interplay between Cato and Macro. Clearly both men were fond of each other – brothers in arms. Over the last few days Macro had frequently come by, a visitor to Crassus’s home of no particular interest to any of Caligula’s spies that might be watching. He had plenty of tales to tell them of his time in the Second Legion, serving alongside Cato. Firstly as Cato’s commanding officer and in the latter years, watching this young man mature and become a first-class officer who would eventually outrank him.

Liam saw a vague reflection of himself and Bob in these two. One of them the brains of the partnership, the other the brawn.

‘Your plot?’ said Maddy.

‘Caligula may be insane, but he isn’t stupid. He knows full well that the power of an emperor isn’t in what the people, the citizens of Rome think: it’s in the support of her legions. Treat the legions well and they’ll do their best to keep you in power.’

Cato sat forward in his seat. ‘When he first became emperor, he had a lot of money to make use of. Bought the support where he needed it. Now there’s so little money left, he’s stripped the assets from almost every wealthy family in the city and most of that money is going towards paying the Praetorian Guard and the only other two legions in Italy, the Tenth and the Eleventh. And paying them very well. All the other legions of the empire he’s made sure to station as far away from Rome as possible, guarding our failing frontiers.’

‘Far away because he’s not paying them?’ said Liam.

‘Precisely. It’s a foolish emperor that allows a disgruntled legion anywhere near home. The Praetorians, the Tenth Legion, the Eleventh Legion … those men will happily fight and die to keep Caligula as their emperor.’

‘That doesn’t sound promising,’ said Maddy.

‘The trick of this plot is deception. A sleight of hand. This plot hinges on being able to fool these two legions and the Praetorians into thinking the other is making some kind of a move against Caligula.’ A wry smile spread across Cato’s lean face. ‘We’re going to make them fight each other.’

Macro shook his head. ‘I used to lose money playing dice with this lad.’

‘We need to provoke the Tenth and Eleventh into marching on Rome. We need those men to believe the Praetorians are preparing to launch a coup against Caligula. At the same time, we need the Praetorian Guard to believe these two approaching
legions are attempting to launch their very own coup. As soon as he hears the news of their marching on Rome, Caligula will have to react. He can’t afford to appear weak or intimidated. He’ll have to order his Praetorians out to face them. With nothing but a skeleton garrison left behind, guarding the government district and the Imperial Palace … I have a better chance of cornering and killing him. Provided your
Bob
can deal with the Stone Men.’

‘Would he not have his men stay behind and defend the city?’ asked Liam. ‘That’s what I’d do.’

‘That’s not how legions fight,’ said Macro. ‘Their strength lies in having room to manoeuvre. An open plain. If Caligula’s guard are still stuck in the city when those two legions turn up, they’ll simply be bottled up inside. Those legions will simply camp outside Rome and starve the fools until they come out weakened. Then, of course, their backs’ll be against the wall.’

‘Macro’s right. Caligula will want them out and on the battleground of
his
choosing. As I say, he’s not stupid.’

‘So … how are you planning to get those two legions to suddenly believe the Praetorians are planning to turn on Caligula?’ asked Maddy.

Cato sat back and let Crassus answer that.

‘General Lepidus commands those two legions,’ the old man replied. ‘He’s a career-minded general. He very nearly joined us. Came here to my home on several occasions. He’s no friend of Caligula, but he’s certainly not an idealist. He’ll sit tight because his men are well paid, and so is he. But I have been working on him quietly, discreetly.’

‘And he’s prepared to help?’

Crassus laughed. ‘No, of course not. The man is a coward. He became nervous and excused himself from our plans.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ asked Liam. ‘What if he told Caligula about you?’

‘He won’t. He’s already implicated. I’ve been doing my best to make the fat oaf look as guilty as possible of conspiring against Caligula. Bribes and gifts in certain places, correspondence in his name. A whispered word or two in Caligula’s ear and he’ll want Lepidus’s head on a spike alongside mine.’

‘The trick is,’ said Cato, ‘to let Lepidus know that someone is about to whisper of his treachery to Caligula. Lepidus knows that with Caligula there is no right of reply. He won’t get a chance to try and prove his innocence. The only thing he’ll be able to do is act quickly; either run for his life or make a pre-emptive move on Caligula.’

‘But I thought you said his men would fight to defend the emperor?’ said Liam.

‘The men of a legion will always follow their general, up to a point that is. So, yes … he will convince them that they’re marching on Rome to
protect
their emperor, not usurp him.’

‘And how will he do that?’

Cato shrugged. ‘The regular legions are always suspicious of the Praetorian Guard. Atellus, the officer you met the other day?’

Liam and Maddy nodded.

‘He is one of Lepidus’s tribunes. He’ll feed Lepidus enough hearsay and rumour that even that idiot general can convince his men the Praetorians are up to no good. If those soldiers suspect for one moment their generous benefactor, Caligula, might be replaced with another emperor less generous,’ Cato grinned, ‘they’ll be on their feet and marching towards Rome.’

Maddy and Liam looked at each other and grinned. ‘That’s clever,’ said Liam.

‘While Atellus is pouring suspicion into Lepidus’s ear, I will be doing the same with Caligula,’ added Cato.

‘What?’ Maddy sat upright. ‘You meet with him?’

‘I’m the tribune in charge of the Palace Cohort. Of course I do. Almost every day. I believe … he is beginning to trust me. Perhaps even likes me. Sometimes we talk and I’m as close to him as I am to you right now. I could try and have a go at him, but his Stone Men are fast.’