CHAPTER FIVE

Early the next morning Macro and Cato passed through the Viminal Gate on the city wall and into the suburb where the Praetorian camp had been constructed during the reign of Tiberius. A light rain was falling and formed puddles in the expanse of the parade ground that stretched from the city wall to the camp. They strode across the open space to the main gate and presented themselves to the optio on watch in the guardhouse. He was a short, well-built man with neatly trimmed hair that had receded some way. Macro and Cato had lowered their yokes and stood to attention as the rain dripped from the hems of their cloaks.

‘What do we have here then?’ the optio asked good-naturedly.

Cato reached into his side bag, drew out the document appointing them to the Praetorian Guard and handed it to the optio. ‘Transfer from the Second Legion, sir. Legionaries Titus Ovidius Capito and Vibius Gallus Calidus. We’ve been appointed to the Guard.’

‘Oh really? Capito and Calidus? Sounds like a bloody mime double act.’ The optio took the flattened scroll and unravelled it. He quickly scanned the document and looked up. ‘It says here, “For meritorious conduct in the field”. Did you two take on the barbarian army by yourselves then?’

Cato felt a fleeting desire to tear a strip off the optio, but suppressed the impulse. They were back in the ranks and needed to behave accordingly.

‘No. Optio.’

‘No? Then I’d like to know what you two heroes did that warrants a transfer to the Praetorian Guard. But that’ll have to wait.’ He looked round them and pointed to one of the men standing by the gate. ‘Over here!’

The Praetorian came trotting up and stood to attention. Cato glanced at him. He was young, barely out of his teens. Like the Praetorians who had briefly appeared during the early stages of the campaign in Britannia, he wore an off-white tunic and cape. Beneath the cape glinted a vest of scale armour of the same issue that some legionaries still favoured. The rest of his kit - sword, dagger, boots, groin guard and helmet - were standard issue. Only the shield was different, oval rather than the rectangular design used in the legions. A large scorpion decorated the front. The symbol had been chosen by a previous prefect, Sejanus, to flatter his master, Emperor Tiberius, who was born under that star sign.

The optio folded the scroll and handed it back to Cato. ‘Escort these two beggars to headquarters. Centurion Sinius is in charge of recruiting, training and transfers. Take them to him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Off you go, lads. Oh, and welcome to the Praetorian Guard. You’ll find it somewhat different to life in the legions.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Cato nodded.

They shouldered their yokes once again and followed the Praetorian out of the guardhouse and into the shelter of the arched gateway. He waited until they had their yokes comfortably positioned and then set off down the wide avenue leading into the heart of the Praetorian camp. On either side were two-storey barracks which ran back from each side of the route for a hundred paces. The plaster covering the walls was clean and looked to have been painted recently. In the same way the paved road had no litter and was obviously swept regularly.

‘Your run a tidy camp,’ said Macro.

‘Oh, that’s down to Geta,’ the young Praetorian replied. ‘He’s a stickler for high standards. Keeps us on our toes all right. Surprise barrack inspections, calls to arms in the middle of the night and regular kit checks are the order of the day here, mate. Don’t know what things are like in the legions, but you’d best play it his way when you’re here in Rome, or else.’

Cato looked at the youth. ‘I take it you weren’t transferred from a legion.’

‘Me? No. Many of the lads are recruited from central Italia. What with all the perks of the job it ain’t easy getting in, but a letter of commendation from a local magistrate usually swings it. Unfortunately I was a few years too late to qualify for the donative the Emperor handed out when he took power. Five years’ pay, that’s what he gave each man! Bloody fortune. Still, Claudius ain’t going to last forever and whoever comes next will have to cough up again, if they know what’s good for them.’

Macro coughed. ‘Your loyalty to the Emperor is most touching.’

The Praetorian glanced at him with a quizzical expression and then smiled when he realised that Macro was mocking him. ‘I’m loyal enough. Without an emperor to protect, where would the Praetorian Guard be? Disbanded and sent to join the legions, that’s where. On half of the pay, stuck in some forsaken frontier outpost surrounded by barbarians waiting to cut your throat at the first opportunity. Not much of a life.’ He paused and looked at the other men closely. ‘No offence meant.’

‘None taken,’ Cato replied lightly. ‘Tell me, are all the Praetorians as cynical as you? No offence either, but you strike me as, well, a bit mercenary.’

‘Mercenary?’ The Praetorian considered the suggestion. ‘I suppose some might see it that way. It’s certainly a cushy number for the most part. Generous pay, comfortable accommodation, good seats at the games and not much chance of active service. And you’ve arrived at a fortunate time, as it happens. It’s the Accession games in ten days’ time.’

‘Accession games?’

‘On the anniversary of the day that Claudius became Emperor. He puts on a parade here in the camp, some gladiator fights and a few other events and caps if off with a feast. He doesn’t forget who put him in power and he makes sure he keeps relations with the Praetorian Guard sweet. So you can get used to the imperial treats. That said, it ain’t all a holiday. Geta drills us hard and if we’re called on, we can put up a decent fight.’

‘We’ve seen the Praetorians in battle,’ said Macro. ‘That was back in Britannia. They did well enough.’

The Praetorian’s expression brightened. ‘You were there? At Camulodunum?’

Macro nodded.

‘I’ve heard from those who accompanied the Emperor that it was a hard battle.’

‘It was. But it shouldn’t have been. The enemy laid a neat trap for us. If Claudius hadn’t been so keen to charge in and have his great victory then we wouldn’t have been caught on the hop. As it was, the Second Legion saved the day, and the skins of the Praetorians and the Emperor.’

‘You were with the Second Legion, I take it.’

‘We were. And proud of it. The Second Legion Augusta is the best legion in the army. You should have seen us, boy. Battle after battle we tore them Celts apart. Not that they were soft, mind. The Celts are big men, brave, and they’d sooner fight than do anything else in life. It wasn’t an easy campaign. I know some in Rome say that it was. But they weren’t there. I was, and I know what I saw, and I speak the truth. Ain’t that right, Ca—’

Cato coughed loudly and glared furiously at Macro. The latter flushed and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Just ask Capito there, when he’s got over his coughing fit.’

The Praetorian looked at Cato and then turned his attention back to Macro. ‘Look here, Calidus, a word of advice. I’d watch what you say about your legion in front of some of the other lads here. They tend to think that because we’re the Emperor’s own, it makes us the best soldiers in the army.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I’ve only ever known the Guard. I think it would be rash of me to offer an opinion about things I have no experience of.’

Macro smiled. ‘Wise boy.’

They had reached the heart of the Praetorian camp and Cato and Macro saw for the first time the colonnaded front and pillared entrance to the headquarters. Macro let out a low whistle.

‘Bloody hell, looks more like a temple than a military building.’

They passed through the gateway, looking up to marvel at the carvings on the ceiling that arched overhead. Inside the entrance was a large open space, a hundred feet on either side, Cato estimated, which was lined by another colonnade. Directly opposite the gates was another entrance, this time to the headquarters offices which formed the far side of the square. A handful of clerks, wrapped in cloaks, scurried about their duties and a section of guardsmen stood watch outside the offices. The Praetorian explained his order to the optio in charge of the section and then lowered his shield and unbuckled his sword and dagger belts and left them with the other weapons surrendered by visitors on a table inside the entrance.

The optio nodded to Cato and Macro. ‘Leave your yokes and kitbags here. Any weapons on you?’

Cato pointed to the kitbags. ‘In there.’

‘In there, sir,’ the optio snapped.

Cato stiffened. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know what discipline is like in the legions, but the Praetorians are sticklers for it,’ the optio continued, as Macro hurriedly stood to attention beside Cato. The optio curled his upper lip as he looked over their worn cloaks and tunics. ‘Same goes for your kit. Prefect Geta likes his men well turned out. You two look like tramps. Don’t show your faces here again unless you are neat and clean. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato chorused.

‘Right, lad, get these two in front of Centurion Sinius.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I dare say that the centurion will be equally unimpressed by you. Go.’

They followed the young Praetorian into the entrance hall and then right into a long chamber with offices on one side and long tables where clerks sat between piles of waxed slates and baskets of scrolls. Long slits high up on the walls provided barely enough illumination for the men to work and Cato saw some squinting at the smaller details of the records in front of them. He was still smarting from the frosty reception that he and Macro had received since arriving at the camp. Cato had grown too used to the automatic deference of the lower ranks in recent years and it was an uncomfortable jolt back to the first days of his army service to be treated as a common soldier once again. No longer was he Prefect Cato, he was merely Guardsman Capito, and he must live and breathe the part he was forced to play. The same was true for Macro. Glancing to his side as they strode past the first office doors, Cato saw that Macro looked unperturbed by the small dressing-down they had just received. That was a surprise, Cato thought. He would expect Macro, of all people, to rankle at such treatment.

‘Here we are,’ the Praetorian announced. He indicated the nearest door. Unlike most of the other offices in the chamber, the door to this one was closed. ‘Centurion Sinius’s office.’

He paused briefly to give the new arrivals a chance to compose themselves and then knocked.

‘A moment!’ a muffled voice called from inside. There was a short delay. ‘Come in!’

The young soldier lifted the latch and swung the door inwards. He stepped into the doorway, stood to attention and bowed his head. ‘Beg to report that the optio of the watch on the main gate ordered me to escort two recruits to headquarters, sir.’

Cato, being taller than most men, was able to see over the Praetorian’s shoulder into the office. The centurion closed a waxed tablet and tidied it away into a small document chest on the side of his desk. Sinius looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, too young to have won promotion from the ranks; Cato guessed he must have been directly appointed to the centurionate. A member of a wealthy equestrian family who had relinquished his social privileges to join the Praetorian Guard. Unusually for a Roman the officer had fair hair, with a light wave that was carefully combed in an attempt to hide the premature onset of baldness. He was a slender man, sinewy with a hard face. However, when he looked up he smiled warmly.

‘Very well, show them in.’

The youth stood aside and Macro and Cato marched in and stood a respectful distance in front of the centurion’s desk, shoulders back and chests out. The office was generously proportioned - fully fifteen feet across. A shuttered window was behind the desk and light entered from two openings higher up the wall, just underneath the eaves outside. The wall to the left was shelved and filled with carefully arranged wax tablets, sheets of papyrus and scrolls. A gleaming breastplate and an ornately decorated helmet, with a red feather plume, hung on a frame standing against the opposite wall.

Sinius glanced at the two recruits briefly and then nodded to the Praetorian. ‘You may go. Close the door behind you.’

The youth stepped out and there was a light clatter as the latch dropped back into place. Sinius regarded the new arrivals carefully. Cato did not return his look but stared directly ahead, fixing his eyes on the small bust of the Emperor that stood on a pedestal next to the rear wall.

‘Let’s get the preliminaries over.’ Sinius leant forward and held out his hand. ‘Your appointment documentation, please.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato took out the folded papyrus and the letter of recommendation and placed them in the centurion’s hand. Sinius read through the documents steadily, and tapped the imperial seal at the bottom of the transfer notice, as if to ensure that it was genuine.

‘You two come highly commended. Your former commander speaks very well of you. He calls you both exemplary soldiers. That remains to be seen, as a somewhat higher standard applies in the Praetorian Guard compared to the legions. In any case, your paperwork is in order and the imperial palace has approved your appointment, so guardsmen you are.’ He glanced again at the document. ‘So which one is Capito?’

‘Me, sir,’ said Cato.

‘And Calidus.’ The centurion smiled quickly at Macro. ‘You’re both welcome. Despite what I said about standards, the Guard can always use experienced soldiers. We are not called upon to fight very often, but when we are, the burden of expectation weighs heavily on our shoulders. In that case, the more veterans we have in the ranks, the better. The other side of the coin is that you must accept that your new duties require absolute adherence to established protocols. Your appointment specifies that you are to serve in Centurion Lurco’s century of the Fifth Cohort. Lurco is on leave at the moment, so you’ll be reporting to the cohort’s commander.’ He paused. ‘Apparently the Emperor was so taken by your brave example that he requested that you be assigned to protect him and his household. That’s why you’re in the cohort assigned to protect the palace.’

‘We are honoured, sir,’ Cato responded.

‘So you should be. Such a role is usually only conferred after some years of service in the Guard. Even then, our men have to be aware of the precise manner in which they are to perform their duties. There is a very rigid hierarchy within the imperial palace and all guardsmen are expected to know it and address members of the household strictly in accordance with their station. As the officer responsible for recruiting, training and the manning of the Guard cohorts I will do my best to prepare you, although I’ve only been holding this office for a little over a month now. I’ll have someone who knows the ropes explain the details.’ He smiled again. ‘You will have to make allowances for me, as I will have to for you, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato replied.

‘The palace cohort is commanded by Tribune Burrus.’ Sinius picked up a stylus and made a hurried note on a waxed tablet.

‘Tribune Burrus, sir?’ Macro raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s what I said,’ Sinius replied sharply, then suddenly his expression softened. ‘Ah, I understand. The tribunes of the legions are staff officers, aren’t they? It’s different in the Guard. The cohorts are each commanded by a tribune who usually holds the post for one year, before retirement. That’s not the only difference. The cohorts of the Guard are twice the size of those in the legions. In fact, there are nearly ten thousand Praetorians on the rolls. Some are on detached duties, but most are here in camp, giving the Emperor over nine thousand men to draw on if there is any emergency. Tends to make the mob think twice before they cause any trouble.’ He paused briefly. ‘Of course, we’re not the only ones charged with keeping order. There are the urban cohorts and the vigiles, who do a decent job of patrolling the main thoroughfares and breaking up drunken brawls and so on. The Praetorians are really there as a last resort. So when we go in, the people know we mean business.’

‘Does that happen often, sir?’ asked Macro.

‘No. But trouble is brewing,’ Sinius’s tone became serious. ‘Thanks to the disruption of the Egyptian grain supplies last year the stocks in the imperial granary are running very low. The dole has already been cut, and people are going hungry as the price of grain rises. We’ve already seen some small riots. It’s a funny thing,’ he mused. ‘Here we are in the greatest city in the world. We have fine bathhouses, theatres, arenas, goods and luxuries from every corner of the world, the best minds toil away in our libraries and one emperor after another has overseen the construction of vast temples and public buildings. Yet we are never more than a few meals away from unrest and the collapse of order.’

Cato and Macro made no comment and continued staring ahead.

Sinius sighed. ‘At ease. I’ve been through the formalities. Now I’m curious to know a little more about you. I have a few questions.’

The two men relaxed their posture and glanced at each other. Cato cleared his throat and answered for them. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Firstly, you’ve come from Britannia?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where the campaigning continues, despite the fact that Claudius celebrated a triumph awarded by the senate for the conquest of Britannia some years ago.’

‘We control the heart of the island, sir. We’re pushing our enemies back into the mountains bordering the new province. It’s only a question of time before the legions have finished the job.’

‘Really? I have a cousin who serves in the Ninth Legion. He writes to me from time to time, and I have to say he rather lacks your confidence in such steady progress. According to him we’re struggling to crush those who still resist us. The enemy raids our supply lines constantly and fades away the moment we show up in force.’

‘That is their new manner of fighting, sir,’ Macro intervened. ‘Forced on them after they had given up facing us in pitched battles. It is the strategy of the defeated. All they’re achieving is buying a little more time before they eventually bow to Rome.’

‘I only wish my cousin shared your phlegmatic nature, Calidus. However, he is not the only soldier who seems to think that the campaign is not going as well as the imperial palace would have us believe. Perhaps there is a different view among the rank and file. After all, common soldiers, such as yourselves, lack the wider perspective, as it were. Tell me, what are the men of the legions thinking? What is their … mood?’

Cato considered the question carefully. It had been some years since he and Macro had served in the Second Legion. Even then, the campaign had taken its toll on the men’s spirits. But that was to be expected. The issue now was how to use this opportunity to test the centurion sitting in front of him.

‘There are some who are not best pleased with their posting, sir.’ Cato spoke in a cautious tone.

‘Go on.’

‘It’s not really for me to speak for them.’

‘I understand, Capito. Look here, this is an informal conversation. You’re in the Guard now, nothing can change that. I’m just curious about the situation in Britannia. Trust me.’

Cato shot a quick look at Macro who was too uncertain about the direction the conversation was heading to respond. He just shrugged his heavy shoulders.

‘Well, sir,’ Cato continued. ‘When we left, the feeling in the ranks was that the campaign was getting nowhere. To be sure, we control the south and east of the island, but beyond that the tribes are in control. They hit our supply convoys and smaller outposts and run for it. They know the ground and move fast, so we have next to no chance of catching them.’ Cato paused. ‘If you want my opinion, the new province will never be secure. We’d be better off cutting our losses and withdrawing, sir.’ Cato was struck by a sudden inspiration and continued. ‘I even overheard some of the officers of the legion discussing it one night, sir. While I was on sentry duty. They’re as keen as the rest of us to get out, and one of ‘em said that the only reason we were there in the first place was because Claudius needed to play the all-conquering hero. And that once he had had his triumph, the army in Britannia was forgotten.’

‘I see.’ Sinius pursed his lips. ‘Doesn’t sound like there’s much love lost for the Emperor among the legions in Britannia.’

Cato looked at him nervously. ‘That’s just what it looked like when Calidus and I left the Second, sir. The situation may have changed.’

‘Of course, that’s possible. Thank you for being frank with me, Capito. Rest assured, our little conversation will go no further than these walls.’

Cato nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Sinius waved a hand dismissively. ‘Think no more of it. Our business here is concluded. You’ll need to draw your kit from the stores then join your cohort. Tribune Burrus’s men are in the barracks in the south-western corner of the camp. Hand this waxed slate over to his clerk when you sign in there, and you’ll be enlisted in Centurion Lurco’s century.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It just remains for me to say welcome to the Praetorian Guard. Perform your duty and keep your noses clean and you’ll find this an excellent posting. The biggest challenge you are likely to face is fighting off all the women who fancy the uniform and the pay and status that go with it. That’s not just the women on the street. There’s more than a few wives of senators who take a fancy to Praetorians.’

Macro could not help smiling at the prospect.

The centurion paused for a moment before he continued in a lower voice. ‘A word to the wise. Avoid any temptation to get overly familiar with any member of the Imperial family, if you take my meaning. You have been warned. Off you go.’

The two men left the room and closed the door behind them. Centurion Sinius stared thoughtfully at the door for a moment and then opened the document chest and took out the waxed tablet he had been examining. He picked up a stylus and made a few notes then replaced it in the chest. He rose from his desk and left headquarters to give some instructions to one of his followers.

CHAPTER SIX

Macro held up the plain white toga and shook his head. ‘This is no good for a soldier. We’re supposed to wear this over the left shoulder and arm, right?’

On the other side of the section room Cato nodded.

‘It’s madness,’ Macro continued. ‘You can’t swing a sword properly with this on. You’d trip over it and do yourself an injury long before you could take down an opponent.’

He bundled the toga up, tossed it on to his bed and sat down with a disgusted expression before glancing over the rest of the kit they had been issued from the camp’s stores. The toga was the formal uniform for the Guard when on duty in the city. A sop to those inhabitants of Rome who still clung to the values of the old Republic when the presence of armed men on the streets was held to be a threat to their liberty. For a similar reason, Claudius had taken to wearing an unadorned toga on many ceremonial occasions, without even the narrow purple stripe of a junior magistrate. The display of humility played well with the mob and the more easily impressed members of the senate. As far as Macro was concerned, the toga was wholly impracticable for those soldiers who were supposed to be guarding the imperial palace.

‘What about the German bodyguards?’ Macro looked at Cato. ‘Do they have to wear this?’

‘No. But then they’re barbarians, from Batavia, I believe. It would offend public sensibilities for them to be seen in togas.’

‘Bollocks,’ Macro mumbled. His gaze returned to the rest of the issued items. In addition to functional armour, there was a brass cuirass, an attic helmet with a decorated crown and slim cheek-guards that served little practical use, and almost no neck guard. Then there were the off-white tunics and light-brown cloaks that would readily pick up the dirt and grime of Rome’s streets and require constant cleaning. At least the short sword, oval shield and heavy javelin looked like proper soldier’s kit. Cato had already folded his toga, tunics and cloak and placed them neatly on the shelf above his bed. With a sigh, Macro began to follow suit.

‘What was all that about the failing spirits of the lads in Britannia?’ he asked.

Cato hissed, then stood up and crossed to the door. He glanced outside. They had been assigned a comfortable room on the upper storey with another two men from the Sixth Century of the Third Cohort, the unit presently assigned to protect the imperial palace and the Emperor’s entourage whenever Claudius emerged on to the streets to visit the senate or enjoy the entertainments of the theatre, arena or racetrack. In the legions the soldiers were obliged to bunk eight to a room, or share a tent on campaign, crowded together. Here in the Guard there were four men to a room, which was airy and well lit by the shuttered window on the wall. Out in the corridor Cato could see a few figures some distance away, leaning on the rail overlooking the avenue of trees that approached the Praetorians’ bathhouse. Even that was on a grand scale compared to the usual offering of a legionary fortress. A suite of chambers was arranged to one side of a sand-covered exercise yard, all contained within a low plastered wall. The other Praetorians ignored him. A few of the doors were open along the corridor but the conversations of those within were impossible to overhear. Cato returned to his bed and sat on the edge.

‘Keep your voice down when we talk. And we have to make sure that we use our assumed names at all times.’

‘I know,’ Macro grumbled, finishing folding the last of his tunics and cloaks. He sat down opposite Cato. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. It’s just that I don’t hold with this going undercover business.’

‘Well, you’d better. We’re spies for the present, and there’s nothing we can do about it until the job is done. If we fail, Narcissus will throw us to the wolves. That’s if we survive the tender mercies of the Liberators.’

‘I know, I know,’ Macro responded wearily. ‘I’ll keep my mind on the work in hand, I swear it. But tell me, Capito,’ he could not help smiling a little at using the assumed name, ‘why did you feed Sinius that line about the situation in Britannia?’

‘I had to tell him something, to make sure he believed our cover story. But then it occurred to me, if I spoke of their discontent, it had to be of interest to the other side. Even if Sinius has nothing to do with the conspiracy, there’s a good chance he’ll talk about what we’ve said with the other officers. That puts our names about and hints that we might be amenable to an approach from those who are opposed to the Emperor.’ Cato puffed out his cheeks. ‘Anyway, that’s what I thought.’

Macro nodded. ‘Sounds good. As ever, you have a devious turn of mind, my friend. No wonder Narcissus likes you so much.’ He gave Cato a searching look. ‘Before too long I imagine you’ll be taking over his job in the palace. You’d be good at it.’

Cato stared at him and responded in a deliberate low, hard voice. ‘I might just do that.’

For a moment they stared at each other and then Macro slapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘You nearly had me there!’

Macro roared with laughter, and Cato joined in. They were still laughing when the sound of footsteps approached and a figure appeared in the doorway. Cato looked round to see a thin man with a narrow face watching them coldly. His skin was badly pockmarked and his hair was streaked with grey. Cato guessed that he was a few years older than Macro. He stood up and offered his hand to the man.

‘The name’s Titus Ovidius Capito. Late of the Second Legion, before I was transferred to the Praetorians.’

‘Capito.’ The man nodded. ‘Glad to see you’re in high spirits. You’re also in my section, as it happens.’ He jerked his thumb at his chest. ‘Name’s Lucius Pollinus Tigellinus. Optio of this century, second-in-command to Centurion Lurco. Your friend there is the other new boy?’

Macro stood up. ‘The friend can talk for himself. Vibius Gallus Calidus. Also of the Second.’

Tigellinus sniffed. ‘An undistinguished unit as far as I recall. You may have impressed your superiors in Britannia but you’re going to have to start all over again to impress me, and Tribune Burrus.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ said Cato.

‘Good, then you’d better get your service tunics on and report to the Tribune.’ Tigellinus pointed at their legion issue. ‘Best get rid of those rags. Sell ‘em in the market, you won’t need ‘em again, and I won’t allow them to clutter up my shelves. I’d move yourselves. The tribune hates slackers.’

He turned away and strode off down the corridor. An instant later a fresh face appeared at the door and entered the room. He was a young man, possibly the same age as the Praetorian who had escorted them to headquarters, but to Cato’s eyes he seemed too fresh faced to be a soldier. The thought caught him by surprise as he realised that he was only a few years older than the young Praetorian standing before him. A few years of experience that made all the difference, he reflected.

The Praetorian looked round to make sure that Tigellinus was not within earshot before he spoke. ‘Don’t worry about him. Tigellinus gives all the new arrivals a hard time. Says it does ‘em good to keep them on their toes. Should have seen how he used to treat me.’ He smiled. ‘Fuscius is the name.’

Macro smiled back. ‘I’m Calidus and the lanky one there is Capito. Transferred from the legions.’

‘I guessed as much when I saw the …’ His words trailed off as he pointed at the scar across Cato’s face. ‘How did you get that?’

‘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!’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Bloody 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.

‘Ahhh, not bad!’

‘Of course.’ Fuscius grinned. ‘They keep the good stuff for the Praetorians because we pay well, and they dare not give us second-best.’

‘I see.’ Cato pursed his lips, then raised his cup again and pretended to take another sip.

‘So what do you make of the new posting so far?’ asked one of Fuscius’s companions. ‘Is it, or is it not, the best job in the army?’

‘There’s a world of difference between the Praetorian Guard and the real army,’ said Macro. ‘Yes, it’s a good job, but it ain’t proper soldiering.’

Cato winced as he saw the expressions of the other men around the table freeze for a moment. Then one of the older guardsmen blew a loud raspberry and laughed and the others joined in.

‘Typical bloody legionaries!’ another one of the veterans called down the table. ‘Think they own the army. Then they come here with their high and mighty airs. Bollocks. Give ‘em a year in the Guard and they’ll forget they ever were legionaries.’

Macro leant forward and pointed his finger at the man. ‘Now see here. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You show any disrespect for the legions in front of me and Capito and we might take it to heart just enough to beat the living shit out of you. Ain’t that right, Capito?’

‘What?’ Cato shot a furious glance at Macro.

‘I’ve had it up to here with these preening ponces. Going on about spit and polish as if it was all that mattered.’ He took another mouthful of wine and continued, ‘Taking twice the pay of a decent soldier and sitting pretty while the same soldier goes out and risks his life for Rome …’

‘So?’ the veteran at the other end of the table responded. ‘You’ve served your time on campaign, like me, and this is the long overdue reward we’ve always promised ourselves. What’s your problem with that?’

Macro stared hard at him, then drained his cup and set it down with a sharp rap, and blew a raspberry. ‘Not a bloody thing! Now fill the cup again.’

The men round the table roared with laughter and Fuscius poured more wine into Macro’s cup. He glanced at Cato but the latter shook his head with a quick smile.

‘Tell me,’ said Cato. ‘What’s with all the training that I hear you’ve been put through? I thought the Guard was an easy posting. Seems like Prefect Geta is preparing the Praetorians for war, from what I’ve heard.’

‘Fucking Geta!’ one of the younger men spat. ‘Ever since Crispinus went off on sick leave, Geta’s been making us work like dogs. Route marches, sword practice and those bloody false alarms night and day. I’m sick of it. I think you’re right. He wants to persuade the Emperor to send us off to some damned war.’ The man looked down into the dregs of his cup. ‘Knowing my luck, the Praetorians will be sent back to Britannia to clear the mess up.’

‘Ha!’ Fuscius clapped his hands together. ‘Small world! Friend Capito here has just returned from Britannia. And Calidus.’

‘Oh?’ One of the older Praetorians struggled to focus his attention on the new arrivals. ‘What’s the word then? Are we winning?’

Cato pursed his lips. ‘Define winning.’

‘Define winning?’ The man frowned. ‘What bollocks is that? Either we’re winning or we ain’t. Which is it?’

‘You’ll have to forgive my friend,’ Macro intervened. ‘He thinks he’s a philosopher. Truth of it is that the Celts are tougher beasts than the Emperor thought. We can beat ‘em on the battlefield easily enough, so they’ve taken to ambushing our lads then running like hares. Cowards they may be, but they’re whittling us down, man by man. If you want my opinion, Rome’s better off without those bog-hopping barbarians. The Emperor should bring the troops home.’

‘What about them Druids?’ asked one of the younger Praetorians.

‘What about ‘em?’

‘If we don’t crush ‘em in Britannia, we’ll only have to fight them again in Gaul, and then everywhere else they can get to. At least that’s what I’ve heard.’

‘Then forget what you’ve heard,’ Macro said harshly. ‘I’m telling you, the Druids are broken. Retreated into the mountains. They’re finished. That line they spun about having to invade Britannia to save the empire from the Druids is a bloody black lie. There’s only one reason the legions are in Britannia, and that’s to make the Emperor look like a proper general. Any halfway decent emperor would never have put his men’s lives at risk in order to look good in front of the mob.’

Cato had been watching the men’s reactions as his friend spoke and could see most of them nodding with approval. The discontent with the imperial policy towards Britannia was evident. The implication of Macro’s last sentence was not lost on them.

‘He won’t last forever,’ someone muttered.

‘Then what, you fool?’ the veteran snapped. ‘You think we’ll find a better emperor than Claudius waiting in the wings?’

‘Could hardly be worse. That lad, Nero, has a good heart, and he likes the Guards. He gets round the camp. He’ll look after us.’

‘I’ve seen it all before. Young Gaius Caligula was just the same, and look how he ended up.’

At that moment there was a loud chorus of shouts as a gang of tough-looking men in grimy tunics entered the inn. They had clearly had some drink and were in good spirits - until their leader, a giant of a man, saw the Praetorians and held his arms out to stop his followers. The other customers glanced over and the conversation rapidly began to die away.

‘Well look over there, lads!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been honoured by the Emperor’s toy soldiers tonight! Look at ‘em. Filling their guts with wine. Just as they stuff themselves with good bread and fine cuts of meat.’

‘Who on earth is that?’ asked Cato.

‘Cestius,’ Fuscius replied. ‘He’s the leader of the Viminal gang - a pretty tough crew. They drink in here from time to time.’

‘He looks a tough enough proposition all on his own.’

‘He is. Used to wrestle in the arena. Broke two men’s necks with his bare hands.’

Cestius folded his massive arms and glared at the Praetorians for a moment before he continued. ‘Oh yes, they do well enough, while the rest of Rome goes hungry. I’ve never seen such a bunch of pansy layabouts in my life. All spit and polish and full of bullshit. There’s not a real soldier amongst ‘em. I’ve seen harder-looking men begging in the gutters.’

Some of the customers had risen from their tables and were making for the exit as unobtrusively as possible. More followed and the Praetorians at the other tables got to their feet unsteadily and backed towards the table where Cato, Macro and the others were still sitting.

‘This looks like a nasty situation,’ Cato muttered.

‘Perhaps.’ Macro nodded. ‘But we’ll see what these Praetorian lads are made of.’

‘Frankly, I’d rather they, and we, stayed in one piece.’

Cato stared at Cestius as the gang leader began to make his way through the rapidly emptying inn towards them. Over by the counter the innkeeper was frantically retrieving as many jars and cups as possible before the storm broke. He dumped the first load behind the counter and dived out for some more while there was still a moment’s grace. Cestius and his thugs crowded towards the Praetorians, and Cato saw that some of them were brazen enough to defy the law and carry knives in their belts. Others had heavy leather saps. Cato had no weapons with him and a quick glance around revealed that only a handful of Praetorians had come out armed, mostly with small knives they used to cut meat and bread.

‘There’s a law against going armed within the walls of the city,’ Cato announced as boldly as he could. There was a brief pause as everyone looked at him in baffled amusement.

Cestius stood a short distance from the soldiers. ‘This inn is on my turf. My turf, my rules. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave, boys,’ he said with false civility. ‘Right now.’

Fuscius looked round at the other Praetorians and his hand reached for his cloak, until Macro swatted it away.

‘We’re just having a quiet drink, friend.’ Macro smiled at Cestius. ‘As you can see, there’s plenty of space for both of us, thanks to your entrance.’

The corner of Cestius’s mouth lifted in a half smile, half sneer. ‘Ah, but a quiet drink is exactly what I want, and a mob of loudmouth Praetorians is going to spoil the mood.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So you get out.’

Macro looked disappointed. ‘There’s no need to be so touchy.’ He paused and sniffed. ‘Besides, you and your lads stink like you just crawled out of some sewer. No offence, but you do. Now, for the sake of a quiet night, let’s have no trouble, eh? You and your lot can drink over there, in the far corner. You can have the first round on us, since, as you say, we can afford it. Come!’ He reached for the nearest jug and filled a cup. Then he turned towards Cestius, took a pace towards him and offered up the cup. Cestius’s gaze was instinctively drawn to the cup. That’s when Macro smashed the jug into the giant’s face. There was a splintering crack as the jug burst in a rush of red wine. Cestius staggered back a step, blood streaming from his crushed nose. Macro threw the handle down and his parade-ground bellow filled the inn.

‘GET STUCK IN!’

Snatching up a stool, Macro hurled himself towards the gang members. One, with more presence of mind than his comrades, leaped in front of his leader and stood in a crouch as Macro’s stool arced towards his head. Those Praetorians who had not yet had too much wine scrambled forward, swinging punches, while the others lurched into action clumsily. The man in front of Macro threw his arm up to try to ward off the blow but his forearm smashed into the side of his head and there was a crunch as a bone broke, and a cry of agony. Cato bunched his hands into fists and looked for an opponent.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Macro called over his shoulder. ‘An invitation? Hit someone!’

Both sides were matched in terms of numbers and the brawl began to spill out across the floor of the inn.

‘Noooo!’ cried the innkeeper as he snatched a jug from a table just as it went crashing over under the impact of two men wrestling as they tried to grab each other’s throats. More tables and benches went over, together with the remaining pottery cups and wine jugs, and dark jets of wine exploded across the floor. Cato stepped forward, fists raised. In front of him one of the Praetorians stumbled to one side, exposing a stocky man with a shock of dark hair. His mouth was open, revealing only a handful of crooked teeth. Cato lunged forward and threw his right fist at the man’s face. The blow connected on the chin, snapping the jaw shut, and the man fell to his knees. At once Cato pressed his advantage, striking each side of the head before the man slumped on to his side, dazed.

A quick glance revealed that Macro was still attacking Cestius, slamming fist after fist against the man’s head and body in a flurry of powerful blows. Incredibly the gang leader was weathering the assault and had raised his fists to block Macro’s punches. Cestius shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision and then went for Macro with a deep growl that Cato heard above all the other groans, grunts, cries and crashes that filled the inn. Cestius lashed out with his left, a boxer’s punch that caught Macro on the shoulder and knocked him back a step. The right swung out and round in a sweeping blow that Macro had plenty of time to duck and get an upper cut of his own in. Cestius’s head juddered but he stepped forward and punched Macro again, this time catching him full in the ribs with the first and striking him below the left eye with the second, snapping his head back. Macro reeled away, against the table he had been sitting at shortly before. The cups and jugs shot off the top of the table and crashed to the floor. Macro was dazed, blinking wildly, as the giant loomed over him. Cestius grinned cruelly and punched him again in the stomach and then on the mouth, splitting his lip.

Cato realised that unless he moved quickly Macro was going to be severely beaten. He thrust aside one of the Praetorians as he desperately tried to make his way to his friend’s side. Cato never saw the blow, but his head jerked to one side and he instantly had double vision. Instinctively he lowered his head and raised his fists protectively and the next punch glanced off his elbow. Ahead he saw Fuscius had downed an opponent and was beating the man with the leg from a shattered stool.

‘Fuscius!’ Cato shouted. The young guardsman looked up and Cato shouted, ‘Save Macro!’

Fuscius frowned and Cato felt a cold tremor of fear in his guts as he realised what he had said. He drew a sharp breath and cried out again. ‘Look out for Calidus!’ He raised his arm and pointed to make sure his instruction was clear. Fuscius turned and saw the gang leader throw another punch; he tightened his fist round the stool leg and came up behind Cestius, raising the leg high over his head.

‘Watch it, chief!’ someone cried and Cestius began to turn. But it was too late and the stool leg cracked down on the top of his head. His jaw dropped in a groan and Fuscius hit him two more times. Blood streamed down, plastering his hair to his scalp. Fuscius changed tactics and now rammed the end of the leg into the giant’s stomach, doubling him over.

‘That’s it!’ Cato called out, crouching as he backed towards Macro. He exchanged a few blows and kicks with two of the gang and then he was beside Macro. Meanwhile Fuscius kneed his opponent in the face and then struck him about the head a few more times until the gang leader tumbled on to his back, arms flailing as he took two men down with him in a sprawling heap of limbs.

‘Look out!’ a voice cried. ‘Someone’s called for the urban cohort! Let’s get out of here!’

The first of the gang members peeled away from the brawl and headed for the entrance. Others, bowed and staggering, struggled after them.

‘The chief! He’s down. Here, you, help me!’

Two of the gang hurried to their dazed leader and grasped him under the arms. Fuscius went to hit the downed giant again, then paused, as if unsure of the ethics of hitting a defenceless man. By the time the desire to take advantage of the situation had won out, the gang leader had been dragged halfway to the door and his boots were scrabbling for purchase as he tried to stand. By now both sides had mutually decided to break up the fight and were warily drawing apart, leaving tables and benches knocked over amid the shards of broken pottery and puddles and splatters of wine. The innkeeper covered his face with his hands and shuddered.

Cato knelt down by his friend’s side. Macro was slumped against a pillar, eyes flickering as blood coursed from cuts to his brow, nose and lip.

‘Hey, Calidus?’ Cato said loudly. ‘You hear me?’

‘Wheerrrgghh.’ Macro licked his split lip and winced, then spat out a gobbet of blood. ‘What the fuck happened? What hit me?’ His eyes opened wide and he recognised Cato. ‘Lad! We’re under attack! To arms!’

‘He’s lost it.’ Fuscius chuckled as he knelt beside Cato. ‘Knocked senseless.’

Cato nodded. He was afraid that in his dazed state Macro might say something that would give them away. ‘Fuscius, get me a jug of water. Now.’

‘Right.’ The guardsman rose up and made his way over to the innkeeper to make his request. While the innkeeper sighed and went to do as he was bid, Cato leant close to Macro’s ear and whispered, ‘You’ve been in a fight and were knocked down. But you’re all right. Just remember the mission. Don’t say a word until you can think straight. Got that? Macro! Did you get that?’

‘Yes … Fight. Keep much shut.’

‘Good man.’ Cato sighed and patted him on the shoulder. He stood up as Fuscius returned with a pitcher of water and handed it over. Cato stepped back and took aim before slinging the contents of the pitcher in Macro’s face. The torrent of water caused Macro to jolt up and splutter. His eyes opened wildly and he looked as if he might attack the first thing he saw. Then he recognised Cato and opened his mouth to speak, frowned as he remembered his friend’s warning and clamped his jaw shut instead. He breathed deeply for a moment before he spoke thickly. ‘The other bloke?’

‘Is out for the count. Thanks to Fuscius here. Otherwise you’d be on the way to the Underworld by now. Fuscius, help me get him up on his feet. Before the urban troops arrive.’

But it was too late. The sound of boots drumming on the paved street echoed round the square. The Praetorians were helping their injured up when the first of the troops entered the inn. An optio with a long staff strode in and looked around. ‘What’s this then? What’s going on here? I was told it was a brawl.’

‘No,’ Cato protested. ‘We were just having a drink when the Viminal gang charged in and started beating the place up.’

‘A likely story!’ The optio snorted. ‘Bloody Praetorians think you can pull the wool over my eyes.’

‘It’s true, man!’ Cato shouted at him. ‘They’ve only got a short start on you. They’ll be making for the bottom of the Viminal. If you go now and stop wasting bloody time, you can still catch ‘em.’

‘You catch ‘em!’ the innkeeper cried out to the optio. ‘Someone’s got to pay for all this!’

‘And it won’t be us,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Not if the Emperor has anything to say about it. He’ll not take sides against his Praetorians. Better to go after the gang.’

The optio bit his lip and then turned and left the inn.

‘Come on, boys!’ Cato heard him call out and then the sound of their boots hurrying off filled the air.

Cato eased Macro up on to his feet and slung his friend’s arm across his shoulder. Fuscius took the other side.

‘Praetorians!’ Cato called out. ‘We are leaving!’

They stumbled outside and then in a loose column headed out of the square and up the street in the direction of the Praetorian camp.

‘Thanks for helping him out,’ Cato said to Fuscius through gritted teeth. ‘You probably saved Calidus’ life.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ The young guardsman’s voice filled with pride. ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’

‘He will. Trust me, he’s had worse in his time.’

‘Good.’

They went on in silence for a moment before Fuscius spoke softly. ‘By the way, who’s Macro?’

Cato felt his heart miss a beat. ‘Macro? Must have had a bit too much to drink. Macro was a mate of ours back in Britannia. Slip of the tongue. That’s all.’

‘Oh, right,’ Fuscius responded vaguely. ‘Slip of the tongue then.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Right then, since you two have got such a nice shiner each, you’re bound to draw attention to yourselves. If any of the imperial family speak to you, be ready to respond with the appropriate form of address.’ Tigellinus sighed impatiently as the century, dressed in their duty togas, crossed the Forum towards the palace gates two days later. ‘One more time. The Emperor?’ He was marching beside Macro and Cato and had been running through some of the basic protocols since they left the camp.

‘We call him “sir” outside of the palace, and “your imperial majesty” inside,’ Cato replied.

Tigellinus nodded, and then added quietly, ‘And some can call him whatever they like behind his back.’

Cato turned to look at him with a surprised expression. Tigellinus smiled thinly.

‘You won’t be so shocked when you’ve been here for more than a month, Capito. You’ll see for yourself the truth of the situation. Claudius has always been ruled by his freedmen and his wives. Messallina had him eating out of her hand, until she made a play for the throne and got the chop. Her replacement’s a sharp one.’ Tigellinus’s smile warmed for a moment. ‘Agrippina knows exactly how to tweak his strings. His or any other man’s. Now then, what about the Empress?’

‘“Imperial majesty” in the palace and in public,’ Cato replied. ‘Since she does not have to worry about public opinion.’

Tigellinus turned to him sharply. ‘That’s enough, Capito. You’re a bloody ranker. You don’t get to comment on such matters. Just the correct form of address from now on. Clear?’

‘Yes, Optio.’

The column stopped at the gate to relieve the section on duty and then continued up the broad staircase to the main entrance hall of the imperial palace. Cato had been raised within these walls many years ago and felt a peculiar tingle in his scalp at the thought of all that he had seen as a child on the fringes of the imperial court. For a moment he wondered how many of the slaves he had been raised with were still serving in the palace. He had been a fresh-faced youth when he left, but now he was older, his hair was a military crop and he bore the scars of his years in the army. He would not be recognised even if he did encounter someone from his past.

At the head of the column of four centuries marched Tribune Burrus and at each station of the first watch he barked the orders to relieve those who had been on duty during the night. There were three watches in all, the first running from first light to noon, the second from noon to dusk, and the third - the least popular - guarding the palace through the night. The night watch operated with only two centuries since they simply had to guard the entrances and patrol the public precincts of the palace. The private suites were protected by the German bodyguards.

At length, it was the turn of Tigellinus’s section as the column passed through the palace and into the gardens of the imperial family, built on a terrace, surrounded on three sides by a colonnade. The fourth side had a marble balustrade and overlooked the Forum. Tigellinus and his men took up their positions around the garden, with Cato and Macro being assigned to the entrance of a small hedged area around a fountain. Marble benches, with red cushions, were arranged near the fountain. Due to the height of the garden there was little residual water pressure from the aqueduct that supplied the palace and only a small jet of water emerged from the fountain to tinkle pleasantly into the surrounding pond.

‘Nice.’ Macro nodded as he looked round the neatly kept garden. ‘A very restful spot indeed. With the kind of view you could get killed for.’

‘It’s been known to happen,’ Cato replied as he adjusted his toga. It was a cumbersome thing and he kept getting the interior folds snagged on the handles of the sword he wore underneath.

‘What are you doing?’ Macro stared at him. ‘You look like you’ve picked up a particularly nasty itch off some tart.’

‘It’s this stupid toga.’

‘Lad, you are pretty hopeless sometimes.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Here, let me sort you out before the whole bloody thing gets tangled.’ He stepped over to Cato and pulled a length of the cloth up, over the shoulder and then folded it across his friend’s left arm. ‘There. See how that goes?’

‘Thanks … Still feels ridiculous.’

‘Well, if anyone can make it look ridiculous, you can.’ Macro continued looking round the garden again. Tigellinus and the others had taken up their stations and wandered along their beats, as if they were civilians come to take in the pleasant surroundings. ‘So this is what we do? Just swan around up here for the next five hours? How is that going to get us any nearer to exposing this conspiracy that Narcissus is so keen to uncover?’

‘I don’t know. We just keep our eyes and ears open.’

The sun rose higher into the sky, accompanied by a gentle breeze that ruffled the topmost boughs of the trees in the garden and carried off the smoke from the fires burning in the city. Despite the pleasant day and the peaceful scene, Cato’s mind was troubled. While there were unmistakable signs that the Emperor’s authority was slipping, there was little direct evidence of a conspiracy. Prefect Geta’s tough training regime was no more than what was expected of any good commanding officer. And they had seen no sign of sudden wealth among the ranks since they had arrived at the Praetorian camp. Today was the first day they were to put into practice what they had learned about their duties from Tigellinus. Cato paused to think a moment about the optio. Tigellinus, he had discovered from the other guardsmen in Lurco’s century, had been with the Praetorians for just over a year, after having been recalled from exile, along with a number of other people who had fallen foul of Messallina. Most were friends or servants of Agrippina who had been persecuted by her predecessor. Quite what Tigellinus had done to be sent into exile no one could say.

Cato’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices and he turned towards the colonnade to see a stooped silver-haired man in a cloak, leading two boys towards the hedged enclosure around the pond. One of the boys looked to be a teenager, long limbed and with a fine head of curly dark hair. The other was younger by a few years and was solidly built, with fair hair. He looked down as he trailed the others, and held his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought.

The old man glanced back and called out in a thin reedy voice, ‘Keep up, Britannicus! Don’t dawdle.’

‘Ha!’ the older boy called out with a ready smile. ‘Come on, little brother!’

Britannicus scowled but increased his pace nevertheless.

‘Heads up,’ said Cato. ‘We’ve got company.’

They quickly stood to attention, just inside the enclosed area either side of the entrance, and stared straight ahead. The light patter of footsteps on the paved path gave way to the soft crunch of gravel as the man and two boys passed through the opening in the neatly clipped hedge. They ignored the two guards as they crossed to the pond. The old man eased himself down on to a bench and indicated that the boys should sit on the edge of the pond.

‘There. Now let me collect my thoughts.’ He wagged a gnarled finger. ‘Ah, yes! We were going to talk about your responsibilities.’

‘Boring,’ said the older boy. ‘Why can’t we discuss something more important?’

‘Because your adopted father wishes you to think on your obligations, Nero. That’s why.’

‘But I want to talk about poetry.’ His voice was plaintive and slightly husky. Cato risked a look at the tutor and his two students now that their attention was on each other. The boy, Nero, was effeminate-looking with a weak jaw and a slight pout. His eyes were dark and expressive and he regarded his tutor with an intense gaze. A short distance from him Britannicus sat resting his head in his hands as he stared down at the gravel, apparently uninterested. The tutor looked vaguely familiar and then in a flash Cato remembered him. Eurayleus. He had been one of the palace tutors when Cato was a child. Eurayleus had been tasked with the education of the children of the imperial family. As such he had little to do with the handful of other tutors who taught the sons of the palace officials and the children of the hostages that Rome kept in comfort while their elders were required to maintain treaties or apply pressure in Rome’s interest. As Cato recalled his childhood he could well remember the aloof manner in which the tutor had regarded the rest of the palace staff. Their paths had only crossed once, when a young Cato had been running up and down the corridor outside the tutor’s door and had received a beating.

‘We will talk about poetry another time,’ Eurayleus said firmly. ‘Today’s subject for discussion has been decided by the Emperor and neither you nor I can challenge his decision.’

‘Why?’ asked Nero.

‘You can ask that question when you become Emperor,’ the tutor replied tersely.

‘If he becomes Emperor,’ said Britannicus. ‘Ahenobarbus is only the adopted son. I am the natural son. I should be first in line of succession.’

Nero turned to his stepbrother with a frown. ‘My name is Nero.’

Britannicus shrugged. ‘That’s what some say. But in your heart you will always be what you were first named. And to me, too, you will always be Ahenobarbus.’

Nero glared at him for a moment before he spoke. ‘Always quick to try and cut me down to size, aren’t you? Well, you may be the natural son of the Emperor, but your mother was most unnatural. So I wouldn’t set too much store by the Emperor’s affection for you, little Britannicus.’

‘My mother is dead. She died because she was a fool. She let the power of the imperial palace go to her head.’ Britannicus smiled faintly. ‘How long do you think it will be before your mother does the same? Then what will become of you? At least I have common blood with my father. What do you have?’

Cato could not help looking at the younger boy, surprised by the confidence and knowingness in the tone of his voice.

‘Boys! Boys!’ the tutor broke in with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s enough. You must stop this bickering. It is not worthy of the Emperor’s heirs. What would he say if he could see you now?’

‘S-s-stop it!’ Nero mimicked and let a little bit of spittle dribble from his lips as he stuttered, and then giggled.

The tutor frowned at him and held up his hand to quieten the boy. ‘That is ungracious of you. Let there be no more digressions from today’s lesson, do you hear?’

Nero nodded, struggling to stifle a smile.

‘Very well. The subject today is responsibility. Especially the responsibility of an emperor to his people. Now, I could lecture you on the matter, but being Greek, I prefer to deal with this by way of protracted dialogue.’

Cato heard a long soft hiss of expelled air come from Macro at the tutor’s words.

‘Let’s start with you, Nero, since you are in high spirits today. What do you think are the primary responsibilities of an emperor?’

Nero folded his hands together and thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘His first duty is to make Rome safe, obviously. Rome must be defended from its enemies, and its wider interests must be protected. Then the emperor must look after his people. He must feed them, but not just with food. He must give them his love, like a father loves his children.’

Britannicus sniffed derisively, but Nero ignored him and continued.

‘He must teach them the important values: love of Rome, love of art, love of poetry.’

‘Why these things?’

‘Because without them we are nought but animals that scratch a living and then die unmissed.’

Britannicus shook his head. The movement was caught by the tutor.

‘You have something to say?’

‘I do.’ Britannicus looked up defiantly. ‘Ahenobarbus is too influenced by that new personal teacher of his, Seneca. What is poetry to the common people? Nothing. They need food, shelter and entertainment. That’s what they want from their emperor. He can do his best to give some of them that, but not all. So what is his duty? It’s simple. His duty is to uphold order and fight chaos. He needs to defend Rome from those within as much as from the barbarians who live beyond our frontiers.’

‘That is a very cynical line of thought, young Britannicus,’ the tutor commented.

‘I am young. But I am learned beyond my years.’

‘Yes, your precocity has been noted.’

‘And not approved of.’ Britannicus smiled coldly.

‘There is a wisdom that comes with age and no other way. Until you have walked in the boots of other men, you are not wise. Only well read.’

Britannicus regarded the man with a world-weary expression. ‘Perhaps if you had walked in my boots you would understand my cynicism. I have a family that is not a family but a colony of killers. I have a father who no longer treats me like a son. I have no mother, and I have a … brother who will surely kill me if ever he becomes Emperor.’ The boy paused. ‘Walk in those boots, Eurayleus, and see if you do not have to live on your wits.’

The tutor stared at him with a sad expression and then drew a deep breath. ‘Let us continue. Nero thinks that the common man can have poetry in his life.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Nero said fervently.

‘Does he have this capacity innately? Or must it be taught to him?’ The tutor turned to Macro and Cato as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Take these two men. Soldiers. They know little but the art of destruction, which is the opposite of knowledge. They know weapons and drill, and spend their leisure time in mindless bouts of drinking, womanising and visits to the arena. Is that not so, soldier? You there!’ He pointed at Macro. ‘Answer me.’

Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘Pretty much sums it up, sir.’

‘You see? How can you expect to teach such men to appreciate the finer sentiments of poetry? How can you induce them to know the subtle shades of expression upon which the finest literature turns? They are a class apart. Why, look at them. See those black eyes? Not content with their dullard existence of the mind, they compound their denigration by engaging in brawls. What hope is there of them finding their way to the great works of the finest thinkers? I doubt that they can even read. You there, the other man. Tell me, have you ever read the works of Aristotle?’

‘Which, sir? The Poetics, Politics, Ethics, Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics or De Anima?’

The tutor stared at Cato for a moment, nonplussed.

Britannicus chuckled. ‘Please continue, Eurayleus. Your line of argument is most intriguing.’

The tutor struggled to his feet and gestured to his pupils. ‘Come, let’s find somewhere more, er, private, to continue the discussion.’

He walked straight between Cato and Macro without meeting their eyes. Nero followed him, pausing only to wink at Cato and pat him on the shoulder before he left the enclosure. The smaller boy was slower to get up and he came and stood before Cato and stared up at him.

‘What is your name, Praetorian?’

‘Capito, sir.’

‘Capito … You are rather different to the other Praetorians, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

‘Yes you do. I shall watch you. I don’t forget a face. I may need you one day. Tell me, Capito, if you could choose your new emperor when Claudius dies, who would it be? Me or Ahenobarbus?’

‘The choice is not mine to make, sir.’

‘But you are a Praetorian, and when the time comes, the Praetorians will have to make a choice, as they did when my father became Emperor. So who would you choose?’

Cato was stuck. He dared not provide an answer for the boy. Moreover, he was surprised by the mature depth to his eyes and the shrewd, knowing manner of his speech.

Britannicus shrugged and kicked a small stone towards the pond, and for a moment looked just like any other boy his age. Then he spoke again. ‘When the time comes, you will have to make a choice. For me there will be no choice. I must try to kill Ahenobarbus before he kills me.’ He looked up at Cato again, staring into his eyes without any trace of self-consciousness. ‘I’m sure we will run into each other again, Praetorian. Until then, farewell.’

He folded his hands behind his back again and walked off quickly on his short stocky legs to catch up with his tutor and stepbrother. As the sound of footsteps faded, Macro turned to Cato and puffed his cheeks out.

‘Phew, he’s a strange one, that Britannicus. An old man in a boy’s body. Never seen the like.’

Cato nodded. There had been something very unsettling about the boy. Something that had left Cato feeling quite cold. He had about him an air of ruthless calculation and Cato had no doubt that Britannicus had meant what he had said about killing Nero when the time was right. The child would have his backers too - men like Narcissus who wanted to ensure that they retained their positions of influence when Claudius passed into the shades. However, it was clear to Cato that the imperial secretary would be dealing with a boy emperor possessing far greater intelligence than the present incumbent. Britannicus would be his own man. But what kind of man? Cato wondered. There was some truth in what Eurayleus had said. Intelligence was one thing. But unallied to wisdom and empathy it could easily result in a cruel tyranny of reason every bit as damaging to Rome as Caligula’s madness had been. Even at his present age, Britannicus was something of a force to be reckoned with.

‘What do you make of the other one?’ asked Macro. ‘Nero.’

‘He seemed harmless enough. Head seemed a bit lost in the clouds but his heart’s in the right place.’

‘That’s what I thought. And he’s popular with the lads in the Praetorian Guard.’

‘Yes.’ Cato could see that Nero had an easy charm about him. In the inevitable struggle for succession, that would be a considerable advantage over his more intelligent but cold stepbrother. Cato felt a leaden sense of foreboding weigh down his heart. Neither boy was ready to succeed the Emperor. It would be some years before they had the experience to rule wisely. For that reason, it was vital that Claudius survived long enough to see the order and stability of his reign continue for as long as possible. If Rome fell into the hands of either boy then she would face a danger every bit as grave as that posed by the barbarian hordes biding their time beyond the empire’s frontiers.

CHAPTER NINE

The day before the Accession games were to be held was taken up with preparations. A temporary arena had been under construction on the parade ground outside the camp for several days. When the workmen had packed up their tools and departed, one of the Praetorian cohorts was tasked with painting the timber stands and decorating the imperial box with fresh garlands of oak leaves. A large purple canopy was erected over the seating area of the imperial box to shield the Emperor and his family from the elements. On the front of the box some of the Praetorians, with more artistic skills than the rest of their comrades, painted a large mural depicting Claudius being acclaimed by the guardsmen on the day he had become Emperor. Another mural showed the Emperor handing out gold coins to the soldiers in order to remind them of the special beneficence that he showed to his Praetorians, and the loyalty that they owed him in return.

All was complete by the evening of the twenty-fifth day of January. The arena was large enough to seat every soldier in the camp behind the low barrier wall. There was a wide gate opposite the imperial box to admit the participants of the games, and two small exits at each side for those injured or killed to be removed from the freshly spread sand that covered the parade ground. At headquarters the halls and colonnades had been filled with tables and benches ready for the following evening’s feast. Wagons laden with bread, cured meat, cheese, fruit and wine had trundled into the camp, from the surrouding countryside, where their contents were unloaded into the storerooms under the watchful eyes of junior officers to ensure that there was no pilfering.

As night settled across the Praetorian camp, Macro and Cato sat in the hot room of the bathhouse. After exchanging a few pleasantries with their new comrades they had taken one of the benches in the corner where they would not be overheard by the other men scattered about the sweltering chamber. Some of them were engaged in conversation but most sat with sweat coursing down their bodies, relishing the heat.

A drop fell from Macro’s heavy brow and made him blink. He wiped his forehead clear on the back of his forearm and glanced at Cato. His friend sat deep in thought, staring at the tessellated floor in front of him. Earlier in the day Cato had visited the safe house and found a message from Septimus demanding a progress report. They were to meet him there in two days’ time.

‘Sestertius for your thoughts,’ Macro said softly.

‘Eh?’ Cato looked round.

‘I know the look. What’s bothering you?’

‘Lack of progress. I just don’t see how we are supposed to do what Narcissus wants. It’s not as if the Liberators are advertising for new members, nor have we uncovered anything particularly sinister.’

‘What about Sinius?’ asked Macro. ‘He seems like a suspicious character.’

‘True. But we have no proof of his involvement in any conspiracy.’ Cato chewed his lip. ‘Which begs the question; is Narcissus jumping at shadows? What if those who ambushed the bullion convoy were just after the silver?’

‘It’s possible,’ Macro conceded. ‘But what about that man Narcissus had tortured? He said he was working for the Liberators, and he gave up a name.’

‘That’s no surprise. The interrogators know their craft and can break any man. How reliable is the information given under torture? After a while I imagine a man would say anything to try to put an end to his torment.’

Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘All right. But let’s suppose the information is accurate. We should concentrate our attention on Centurion Lurco when he gets back to the camp. Follow him and see who he talks to. If he’s a ringleader of the conspiracy then we’ll soon know about it.’

‘I suppose so.’ Cato sighed. ‘In any case, he’s the only real possibility we have right now.’

They stayed a little longer before using the brass strigils to scrape off the grime that had sweated out of their skin. Then they moved through to the cold room and jumped into the pool where the shock of the chilled water made them gasp. Cato struck out briskly, swimming two lengths of the pool before he climbed out and hurried out to the changing area where he rubbed himself down with one of the towels drying over the rack above the hypocaust flues. Macro joined him and they began to dress.

‘You know,’ Macro began, ‘if there is no conspiracy and we’re looking for a gang of thieves then that’s going to make things much harder for us. A conspiracy needs supporters to achieve its ends. Anyone involved in a simple theft is going to want to keep it close to their chests.’

Cato nodded.

‘In which case,’ Macro continued, ‘we’re pretty well stuffed, since Narcissus isn’t going to reward us for failing to produce the results he wants. Insane as it sounds, we’d better pray that there is a conspiracy to unearth.’

As they reached the entrance to the barracks, Tigellinus was waiting for them. He jerked a thumb towards the centurion’s quarters.

‘Lurco is back. He wants to see you.’ Tigellinus smirked. ‘He sent for you over an hour ago. Shame I couldn’t find you - the centurion is not a man who is inclined to tolerate delay.’ The optio gave a dry laugh before he sauntered off to the squad’s room. ‘Good luck.’

Macro’s lips pressed together as he waited until Tigellinus was out of earshot, then he hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Bastard. He knew where we were. He’s set us up.’

Cato shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about it now. Come on.’

They made their way to the door of the small office adjoining the centurion’s private quarters and saw that it was open. Lurco was standing at the window, looking out across the wall of the camp and over the city, illuminated by the twinkling sparks of torches and lamps. He stood quite still as he stared in the direction of the imperial palace, his back dimly lit by the single oil lamp glimmering on his desk. Cato gestured to Macro and they stood directly outside the door frame. Taking a deep breath, Cato rapped on the wooden frame.

‘You sent for us, sir?’

Lurco turned quickly and Cato saw that the centurion was younger than he had been expecting, in his mid-twenties. His hair was dark and artfully arranged in oiled curls above a finely featured face that was on the pretty side of handsome. His good looks hardened into a frown.

‘Are you the new men? Capito and Calidus?’ he asked in a thin, high-pitched voice.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t just stand there. Enter.’

They strode in and stood before their commander’s desk. He was taller than Cato and by tilting his head back slightly he gave even more of an impression of looking down on the other men.

‘Where have you been? I sent for you ages ago. Why weren’t you in the barracks?’

‘Beg your pardon, sir, but we were in the bathhouse,’ Macro explained.

‘Shirking some duties no doubt.’

‘No, sir. We’re veterans. We’ve been excused fatigues.’

‘Veterans?’ Lurco sneered. ‘So, you think the world owes you a living? You think you’re better than the rest of us no doubt. Just because you’ve got some mud on your boots, and a few scratches.’ He flicked his hand dismissively in the direction of Cato’s face. ‘I don’t care if you’re veterans. The men of my century are all the same as far as I am concerned. And now it seems you all depend on me so much that I have been ordered to cut my leave short and return to the camp for tomorrow’s tedious little show put on for the Emperor. I could have been at a party in the city having a good fuck with some senator’s wife or daughter, but no, I’m stuck here in the camp. So if I have to give up my friends to be here, then the bloody least you can do is have the damned good grace to come when you are summoned.’

Cato felt an instinctive dislike of the man, and was suddenly painfully conscious of the scar that had ruined his own face. Lurco, with his finely arranged good looks, was the kind of young officer who would be a success with the capital’s ladies. Possibly the kind of person that a woman like Julia might encounter and take a fancy to. It was a foolish thought, Cato told himself, angry that he had relaxed his hold on the feelings he had been struggling to suppress.

‘We came as soon as we were told you wanted to see us, sir,’ said Macro.

‘Well, that’s not soon enough,’ Lurco snapped. He stared at them, his nostrils flared. ‘Well, now we know each other, and you know what I stand for. In future when I give an order I expect you to obey it at once. Fail to do so and I will see to it that your veteran status is revoked, and I’ll have you up to your necks in shit doing latrine fatigues for the rest of the year. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato replied.

Lurco stared at them. ‘Tomorrow we play host to the Emperor. Our cohort will be placed either side of the imperial box. That means I want a good turnout. My century will be the smartest unit in the entire Praetorian Guard, or I’ll know the reason why. Don’t you dare let me down. Got that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then leave me. Go. Get out of my sight.’

They saluted, turned, and Macro led as they strode out of the room. They made their way to the stairs and Macro’s breath escaped with a hearty sigh. ‘What a complete bloody arsehole. I’ll bet the uppity bastard has been turned down by some woman. Now he’s taking it out on us. As for that bollocks about veterans … Damn! The man owes us a little more respect.’ He fumed for a moment before continuing, ‘It’s all down to Tigellinus. He knew where we were. He was in the room when we left for the baths. I’ll have words with the optio, so help me.’

‘Better not,’ Cato responded. ‘Not if we want to avoid being punished for insubordination.’

‘I was thinking of something a little more forceful than insubordination,’ Macro said darkly. ‘He needs seven shades kicked out of him. I know his type. He’ll set us up at every opportunity. He’s the kind of optio who will do all he can to pull the ladder up behind him now that he’s sitting pretty waiting for his appointment to the centurionate.’

‘Forget it,’ Cato said calmly. ‘We’re not going to be here long enough for him to make our lives a misery. So, we’ll ignore him and keep our minds on the job, yes?’

Macro grunted. ‘If it turns out that our dear optio is part of any conspiracy then I shall be sure to offer my services to anyone who gets to interrogate him.’

At dawn Tribune Burrus gave orders for his cohort to assemble outside the barracks. The sky was overcast and the air felt damp and clammy as the soldiers formed up in the centuries and stood at ease. Macro and Cato were among the first to fall in and watched as the other guardsmen stumbled out of the building, some still fastening their belts about their tunics. Centurion Lurco was one of the last to emerge, bleary eyed and pale faced.

Cato leant towards Macro. ‘He’s been drinking.’

‘Poor lad must have had his heart broken,’ Macro responded without a trace of sympathy.

Tigellinus, positioned two paces in front of the first rank, turned his head and bellowed, ‘Silence! Next man who utters a single fucking word is on a charge!’

Lurco winced at the sound as he shuffled into place in front of the optio and the century’s standard bearer. When the last men of the cohort were in place, there was a short silence before the sturdy figure of Tribune Burrus stepped out of the main entrance of the cohort’s barrack block. The senior centurion of the cohort, the trecenarius, drew a deep breath and called out, ‘Commanding officer present!’

The men stood to attention with a loud crash of nailed boots on the paving stones. Burrus strode out to stand in front of his command, hands clasped behind his back as he puffed his chest out and ran his good eye over the lines of men standing in their centuries.

‘Most of you know the drill. There’s quite a few who have joined our ranks since the last Accession games. I’ll spell it out so that we all know what is expected of us. The Emperor, his family and selected guests of the imperial court will be spending the day with the Praetorian Guard. As the unit that will be in closest proximity to the imperial party we are the standard by which the rest of the Guard will be judged. You are on your best behaviour and I will have the balls off any man who gets drunk or acts in any way that discredits the honour of the Praetorian Guard.’ He paused a moment and then continued in a less harsh tone. ‘As we know, the Emperor has his funny ways. He is inclined to stammer and when he gets excited he has a tendency to slobber at the mouth. It is not the most edifying of sights, I grant you. However, Claudius is the Emperor and we have all sworn an oath to honour and obey him. So there will be no laughing, nor even the faintest of tittering, if the old boy gets going. Is that clear? I can assure you it will be no laughing matter for any man I catch mocking the Emperor.’ Burrus turned and paced a short distance before turning back.

‘There’s one other thing. The new Empress will be joining the games for the first time. Now, I am certain that some of you are still a little surprised, shocked even, by the fact that the Emperor has decided to marry his own niece.’

There were discreet murmurs from some of the guardsmen and Cato was aware of the men stirring uncomfortably on either side of him. Burrus raised a hand to silence them.

‘Whatever your feelings, the marriage was sanctioned by the senate and so it is lawful. The morality of the situation is not our concern. We are soldiers and we obey orders, right or wrong, and that is the end of it. So, if any of you harbour any misgivings about the Emperor’s new wife, keep them to yourselves. That is an order. I don’t want to hear one word of discontent pass your lips.’ He paused again to let his words sink in. ‘One last thing. Today is supposed to strengthen the ties between the Emperor and the Praetorian Guard. Claudius is paying for the entertainment and the feast that follows it. Therefore it would be polite of us to express our gratitude at every occasion. You will cheer for him and his family as if your lives depended on it. That should please the old boy no end. A happy emperor is a generous emperor. Every time you applaud him, it’s money in the pay chest. Or will be, whenever he gets round to presenting the next donative to the Guard … The imperial party is expected to arrive at the camp two hours after sunrise. Every man is to be in his seat before then, suited and booted. That’s all!’

As the tribune turned back towards the entrance to the barracks, the senior centurion bellowed, ‘Cohort, dismissed!’

As the command echoed back from the walls of the barracks, the men stood at ease and then began to fall out of formation. Macro was staring after the retreating tribune.

‘Well, that was pithy and to the point.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Might be an idea to fetch our cloaks before we get some decent seats.’

By the time they had climbed the stairs at the back of the temporary arena, hundreds of men had already settled in their places. Burrus and his men had been assigned the seats flanking the imperial box which rose above the northern side of the arena to take whatever warmth was offered by the sun. Unlike the raked seating erected for the Praetorians, the imperial box was constructed on a platform level with the rearmost seats. Cato pointed them out.

‘Up there.’

‘But if we want a good view of the entertainment we should go to the front,’ Macro protested.

‘It’s the Emperor and his party we want a good view of. That’s the best spot.’

Macro muttered something under his breath, took a sorrowful look at the empty seats right by the arena and then turned to follow his friend up the steep stairs between the rows of seating. At the top Cato looked into the imperial box and then shuffled a short distance from it to allow the curve of the seating to afford a better view of the imperial party. Satisfied, he sat down. Macro looked at the rapidly filling ranks of benches stretching out in front of him and sighed.

‘Nice view,’ he said flatly.

‘It’s good for our purposes,’ Cato replied, pulling his cloak on and easing the hood back so that his head was exposed.

Around them the Praetorians streamed in through the entrances and hurried towards the best of the remaining seats. The air swelled with good-natured conversation as the light slowly strengthened. The sky was still overcast, but a lighter patch marked the position of the sun as it struggled into the heavens and shed a little more warmth over the city and the surrounding countryside. The officers were among the last to enter, picking their spots in the front row and displacing the rankers who were already seated there. Macro smiled at the sight, instinctively enjoying their disappointment. Directly below them Tribune Burrus and his centurions took their places and behind them sat the optios and standard bearers. Cato watched Lurco settle down close to the imperial box, but not so close as to be out of sight of those sitting at the fringes of the Emperor’s entourage. He wore an eye-catching gold bracelet on his left arm and no doubt hoped to draw the attention of a prospective patron to further his career. Tigellinus was sitting behind and to one side of his centurion and Cato could read the contempt in his expression as the optio turned to regard Lurco.

At the appointed time the uneven tramp of boots from the direction of the Viminal Gate announced the approach of the imperial party. Mounted German bodyguards led the way, and then came the first of the litters bearing the Emperor’s guests. Slaves, neatly dressed in fresh tunics, laboured under the load of the carrying spars, while those inside the litters chatted freely. A section of eight more German guards on foot came into view through the city wall, their bushy beards and strange armour making them appear barbaric. Then came the litter carrying Agrippina and Nero, and behind that the litter bearing the Emperor himself, accompanied by Britannicus. More litters followed carrying the rest of the party: Narcissus, Pallas, Seneca - Nero’s new tutor, recently recalled from exile - and lastly those senators and their wives honoured with an invitation to join the Emperor.

The column halted outside the entrance to the imperial box and the lowest-ranking guests hurried from their litters to take their places before the Emperor and his family took their seats. The prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Geta, emerged from the imperial box and bowed to the Emperor as he sat in his litter. The prefect exchanged a few words with Claudius before joining the other guests in the box.

Many of the guardsmen in the highest seats turned their heads to watch the arrivals. Cato and Macro saw Narcissus look up briefly at the faces overhead but if he saw them he gave no sign of recognition before he disappeared from view. At last the imperial party was ready to enter and Nero hopped down from his litter and held his mother’s hand to help her out.

‘A dutiful son,’ Macro commented wryly. ‘And look how he adores his stepfather and brother.’

Having seen to his mother Nero had turned to the last litter with an icy stare. Britannicus stepped out of the litter and then bowed his head respectfully as the Emperor struggled up from his embroidered purple cushions. Holding his son’s hand, Claudius limped forward, head twitching, until he stood at the entrance. He smiled as he gestured for Agrippina and Nero to join them and then waited as ten of the German guards formed up ahead of the family and began to climb the stairs into the imperial box. The Praetorians watched expectantly. The bodyguards formed up at the sides and rear of the seated guests so as not to obstruct the view of the arena. Then there was a short pause before Narcissus discreetly gestured with his hand and the occupants of the box rose to their feet.

At once the Praetorians followed suit and let out a deafening cheer, rising to a crescendo as the gilded wreath on the Emperor’s head bobbed into view. Claudius climbed the last few steps and walked awkwardly on to the dais where two large chairs sat side by side. Agrippina joined him and the two boys stood at each side. Claudius kept his expression neutral, struggling to contain his tic as he turned his head slowly to acknowledge the acclaim from all sides. At last he eased himself down and when he was seated, Agrippina sat, followed by the rest of the guests.

‘She’s a looker, all right,’ Macro spoke loudly into Cato’s ear. ‘You can see why the old goat went for her.’

‘There was more to it than her looks,’ Cato replied. ‘She has influence, brains, and comes with a healthy son who might be a useful heir to Claudius should Britannicus fall from favour.’

The crowd’s cheering began to subside as the Praetorians started to sit down. Cato and Macro joined them and soon there was an excited hubbub as the editor of the games conferred with his officials to make certain that all was ready. Satisfied, the editor looked over the rail at the front of the imperial box and gave the nod to the four soldiers waiting on the sand below, holding their long brass horns. They raised the instruments and blasted out a series of ascending notes. At once the Praetorians fell silent and at the front of the imperial box the editor raised both his arms.

‘His imperial majesty Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus bids his comrades of the Praetorian Guard welcome!’ The editor had a finely modulated voice that carried across the arena and could be clearly heard by everyone present.

‘In accordance with his desire to assure his brave soldiers that their loyalty to him is returned in kind and with great affection, his imperial majesty, in honour of the day on which the gracious citizens of Rome entrusted him with their welfare, herewith presents a day of entertainments …’

The editor ran through the programme, drawing appreciative rounds of applause as each item was mentioned. While he spoke, Cato’s attention was focused on the imperial box. The Emperor was sitting as still as his tic allowed, his full attention on the editor. He nodded his thanks at every round of applause. Beside him Agrippina propped her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her head on her hand. She looked utterly bored with the preliminaries and after a while turned to look around the imperial box until her gaze fixed on the small cluster of seats where the Emperor’s advisers were sitting. Narcissus was engaged in a quiet conversation with one of his companions. The other man was nodding, and then he became aware that the Empress was looking at him and he flashed a quick smile over Narcissus’s shoulder. Narcissus noticed and glanced round just as the Empress looked away. There was the briefest of pauses before he continued his muted conversation.

Cato’s attention turned to the other members of the box and he saw Britannicus standing stiffly by his father’s side, left arm hidden under the folds of his small toga. That he wore a toga was significant. Claudius clearly wished to indicate that his son was soon to be accorded titles and honours beyond his years, just as his adopted son, Nero, had been. The latter, also dressed in a toga, had taken his mother’s hand and now raised it to his lips and kissed it, lingering over it for a moment, until she drew her hand away from him.

‘Did you see that?’ Macro hissed. ‘What does he think he’s playing at? Trying to start a scandal?’

Cato looked round at the soldiers but there seemed to be no reaction to Nero’s effrontery.

‘Perhaps people are used to such displays,’ Cato suggested. ‘Let’s face it, the imperial family has form. It might be innocent. It might not. Wouldn’t be the first time that members of the imperial family tinkered with incest.’

Macro’s lip curled in disgust. ‘Perverts.’

The editor wound up his speech to another deafening cheer and Claudius smiled and raised an arm in salute to his soldiers. There was no further preamble before the first event; a boxing match between two Numidian giants. Their skin had been oiled and they gleamed like ebony as they squared up and began their bout. In the audience the Praetorians quickly fell to making wagers over the outcome and shouting the odds to each other. The fight went on for some time and the sand around the two men was flecked with blood as the leather bindings wrapped round their fists tore and gouged. Eventually a knock-down blow was landed to a mix of groans and cheers from the spectators. There followed a display of archery by a dark-skinned man in eastern robes who shot his arrows with breathtaking accuracy, even around his boy assistant as the latter stood against a straw target with his arms outstretched. Afterwards there was a short break before the editor announced the ‘Trojan Pageant’ - a display of horsemanship put on by the sons of Roman aristocrats. There was tolerant applause from the Praetorians.

A score of riders entered the arena wearing gilded helmets that hid their faces. Behind them came some of the guardsmen carrying target posts and straw dummies which they set up in lines across the arena. When the preparations were completed, Claudius stood up to acknowledge the salute of the leader who rode a pure white mare.

‘You may b-be-be-begin!’ The Emperor’s head shook then he sat down heavily.

The boys took turns charging down the line of posts, slashing at the straw targets with their swords. Then they were handed light javelins and began to gallop down the line of targets, picking one to hurl their weapon at. A stiff breeze had begun to blow, making them work hard to compensate for it as they took aim. Those who missed were dropped from the competition and left the arena. Soon only three remained and the range was increased. After another pass, one more left the competition. The last two, one of whom was the leader, were fine shots and once more a furious round of betting began as the boys matched each other and the range increased. At length the leader’s rival missed his target and there was another cheer from the crowd as the winner punched his fist into the air and turned his mount towards the imperial box, reining in with a spray of sand.

‘Quite a rider,’ said Cato. ‘I wonder who he is.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Just another bloody spoilt brat showing off.’

The rider raised his hands to undo the chinstraps and then quickly lifted the helmet to reveal his face. There was a surprised gasp from the crowd and then a tumultuous cheer split the air as they saw that it was Nero.

Cato glanced at the Emperor and dimly recalled seeing his stepson drift towards the rear of the box a while earlier. Nero’s mother was on her feet clapping her hands with delight while the Emperor beamed. The Praetorians’ cheering gradually synchronised into a repeated roaring of his name. ‘Nero! Nero! Nero!’

The boy made a slow circuit of the arena, sitting haughtily in his saddle as he revelled in the cheers. Macro nudged Cato and pointed to the imperial box.

‘There’s one who is not so happy.’

On the dais, beside his father, was young Britannicus; his expression hardened into a cold scowl and his right hand balled into a tight fist. He only relaxed when his rival finally left the arena and the Praetorians ceased cheering. Noon had passed and the editor announced a short interlude while the targets were removed and the arena prepared for the main entertainment of the day, ten gladiator bouts culminating with a fight between a secutor known as the ‘Dove’ - the current darling of the mob - and the ‘Neptune of Nuceria’, a retiarius. A handful of those in the imperial box hurried down the steps to relieve themselves or take refreshment in the area beneath the box.

‘I’m going for a quick piss,’ Macro announced, standing up.

Cato nodded as his friend squeezed past and made his way down the stairs and along to the head of the staircase leading out of the arena. Cato’s mind was still preoccupied with the expression he had caught on Nero’s face just before he had left the arena. There was no mistaking the light of ambition that burned there. It had been a calculated performance in front of the Praetorians and for the moment he was their darling.

Macro shook himself off and lowered his tunic. The latrine block was filled with men who were taking advantage of the intermission. He made his way outside towards the gate giving out on to the parade ground. He picked his way through the litters and the slaves squatting silently beside them until he came to the enclosure beneath the imperial box. Two German guards stood either side of the heavy red curtain flaps that covered the entrance. As Macro approached, one of them held out his hand and spoke in his harsh tongue.

‘Easy there, Herman,’ Macro growled. ‘Just passing by. Don’t get your beard in a bloody twist.’

At that moment a gust of wind whipped back the curtains and Macro had a clear view of the man Narcissus had been sitting next to in the imperial box. One of his arms was wrapped round a woman as he kissed her arched neck. His other hand was under the folds of her stola, between her legs, and her mouth gaped in ecstasy. They looked round sharply as the curtains flapped and their eyes met Macro’s for what seemed a long moment. Then as abruptly as it had come, the gust died and the curtains dropped back into place. Macro had not moved and the German called out another warning.

‘I’m going,’ he muttered before hurrying back inside the arena. A cold tremor of anxiety ran down his spine. The woman he had just seen in the throes of ecstasy was Agrippina. The last thing he wanted was to be a witness to the infidelity of the Empress. This was dangerous knowledge. Agrippina was sure to have learned from her predecessor’s mistakes and would realise the need to remove anyone who could denounce her to the Emperor.

Macro climbed the steps to rejoin Cato and sat down quickly, leaning back on his bench to make sure that he could not be seen from the imperial box.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Cato. ‘You look as white as a toga.’

‘I’m fine … fine.’

‘What is it?’ Cato had rarely seen his friend look so worried.

Macro shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you now.’ He indicated the men sitting in front and on either side of them. ‘Not here.’

Down in the arena the first pair of gladiators had made their salute to the Emperor and now squared off, lowering themselves into a poised crouch as they waited for the signal to begin. The editor milked the tension for as long as he dared before shouting the command, ‘Engage!’

The smaller, more lithe of the two fighters charged in and launched a ferocious attack on his opponent and the sounds of blades clashing and the thud of sword strokes on shields echoed around the arena. Then both men parted and began to circle each other warily. Cato smiled at the small piece of theatre the gladiators had used to open the fight with a flash of excitement. Around them the Praetorians were avidly watching, muttering comments about the two gladiators’ physiques and fighting styles as they placed bets. Cato leant towards Macro and spoke as loudly as he dared.

‘It’s safe to speak now. Everyone’s concentrating on the action.’

Macro glanced round Cato to look into the imperial box. No more than thirty feet away the Empress had resumed her seat and was staring down into the arena, her face composed. The man who had been groping her was not in view. Macro quietly related what he had seen.

‘Are you sure they saw you clearly?’ asked Cato.

‘Well enough to recognise me if they saw me again.’

‘Shit.’ Cato frowned. ‘That’s not helpful.’

‘Well, pardon me,’ Macro growled.

Cato scratched his chin as he tried to think through the implications. If Agrippina had already taken a lover from among the Emperor’s retinue then she was playing a dangerous game indeed. Unless she was using the man to further some other purpose. But what? And did it have any connection with the conspiracy that Narcissus was attempting to uncover and defeat?

As Cato sat in contemplation, Macro saw Narcissus approach the Emperor and bend down close to his ear. Claudius listened and then turned in his seat and looked up at Narcissus in concern. There was a brief conversation before the Emperor nodded and waved him towards Prefect Geta. Moments later, guardsmen hurried out of the pavilion to carry messages to the officers in the arena. Many of the Praetorians close to the imperial box were watching curiously as Tribune Burrus stood up and cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Sixth Century! Form up outside the arena at once!’

Lurco quickly rose from his bench and beckoned to Tigellinus and then hurried across to the entrance. His men began to follow.

‘What do you think this is all about?’ asked Macro. ‘Is it to do with what I saw?’

‘We’ll know soon enough.’

As they descended the stairs, Cato took a last look into the box. The Emperor and his family had already left their seats, and Narcissus and some others went after them. The rest of the guests remained where they were, trying to look unflustered as the fight continued in the arena.

The men of the Sixth Century gathered around Lurco, while a short distance away the litter slaves were on their feet, ready to take up their burdens the moment the order was given. As Macro, Cato and the last of the men came out of the arena, the centurion called out loudly so that he could be heard over the noise from the arena.

‘The Emperor is returning to the palace. He has just received a report that a food riot has broken out in the Forum. The urban cohorts have the matter in hand but the Emperor wants to take command of the situation in person. Prefect Geta has decided to reinforce the Emperor’s bodyguard with the Sixth Century. This is not ceremonial. Our orders are to protect the Emperor, his family and advisers at all costs. If anyone tries to block our path we’re authorised to use whatever force is needed to get the litters through.’ Lurco paused to draw breath. ‘Fetch your weapons and armour from barracks. Then get back here ready to march. At the double!’