CHAPTER NINETEEN

As so often happens in April, a violent thunderstorm swept in from the west during the night and for the next two days and nights ominous dark clouds crowded the sky above Rome. The streets were shrouded in gloom, except for when brilliant bursts of lightning lit them up for an instant. Rain pelted down, hammering the tiled roofs, window shutters and paved streets. Rushing torrents swept down the streets and alleys of the capital, washing the dirt away and tumbling into the drains that fed the Great Sewer snaking beneath the heart of Rome before it joined the Tiber.

The population of the city sheltered indoors and for two days the streets were empty of the scavenging bands of the impoverished looking for scraps of food. The Emperor and his family did not venture out either. They remained in the palace and the men of Burrus’s cohort of the Praetorian Guard took it in turns to march from the camp to the palace through the downpour, huddled in their cloaks. Despite the animal fat worked into the wool to render them waterproof, the rain found its way through and into the tunics beneath the armour, chilling the flesh of the guardsmen as they stood on duty, shivering, until they were relieved in turn and marched back to their barracks in the Praetorian camp.

There was no chance for Cato and Macro to check the safe house for any messages as the new acting centurion of the Sixth Century refused to allow any of his men to leave the camp when off duty. At his first morning parade as their new commander Tigellinus announced that the century’s discipline had become lax under his predecessor. Henceforth, there would be an evening parade and extra drill, as well as their usual guard duty at the palace. The new optio was also relishing his promotion and bawled out his commands in emulation of Tigellinus. Tigellinus moved into Lurco’s quarters and left Macro and Cato to cope with Fuscius, who now decided everything in the section room, from what time the lamp was extinguished at night to which pegs were reserved for the optio’s use alone.

Macro did his best to keep his simmering irritation hidden. Cato, meanwhile, continued to ponder the mystery of the missing grain. He went over every detail of the search that he and Macro had conducted at the warehouse, as well as the information he had gleaned from the grain merchants’ guild and the clerk at the offices of Gaius Frontinus. How could so much grain disappear into the city without any apparent trace? It was a maddening puzzle for Cato which vexed him as he polished his kit and spread his cloak and tunics out to dry on the small wooden rack that was set up close to the section room’s compact brazier. Meanwhile, Macro dutifully headed out each evening to carry out his punishment in the latrines at the end of the block nearest the wall of the camp.

At last, on the third morning the storm blew away, leaving a clear blue sky in its wake and the sun soon began to heat the roofs and streets of Rome, sending tendrils of vapour twisting languidly into the air before they dispersed. The people began to emerge on to the streets, and once more the bodies of those who had starved to death or succumbed to an illness in their weakened state were carried out of the city gates in carts to be added to the many hundreds that had been placed in mass graves along the roads leading out of Rome.

Word arrived from the palace that the Emperor and his retinue would set out to inspect the engineering works and the preparations for the spectacle up at the Albine Lake. Burrus gave the command for the Fifth and Sixth centuries to form up and Tigellinus stormed through the barracks bellowing at his men to get their kit and form up ready to march. The soldiers of each section scrambled out, some still fastening chinstraps and buckling on their armour. When the last man was ready Tigellinus called them to attention and then inspected the ranks, pulling his men up on every minor infraction while Fuscius noted the crime and punishment on a waxed tablet. When the inspection was complete Tigellinus moved back and faced his new command, his fists resting on his hips.

‘No doubt some of you are still wondering what’s become of Lurco. As far as you’re concerned he’s dead. As far as he’s concerned he might as well be, once Tribune Burrus gets his hands on him.’ Tigellinus paused while some of the men chuckled. Then he drew a deep breath and continued, ‘I’m your centurion now. I set the standard and I will command the best century in the entire Praetorian Guard. That means I will be hard on you. I will have discipline. I will have smartly turned-out soldiers and I will have heroes, if the need arises. Any man who falls short of my requirements had better be ready to transfer out of the Guard to some lesser formation. If such a man chooses to stay then I will break him. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the men responded unevenly.

‘I didn’t bloody hear you!’ Tigellinus bellowed. ‘You sound like a bloody rabble! I said, is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the soldiers shouted in one voice that echoed back off the wall of the opposite barrack block.

‘That’s better.’ Tigellinus nodded. ‘You’ve already proved to the Emperor that you are good in a fight. He has honoured us by making this unit his personal escort. I mean to keep that honour for the foreseeable future, gentlemen. Whenever the Emperor leaves the palace I want my men to be guarding him. I want us to remain his first and last line of defence. We will be the shield and sword at his side. He will continue to put his faith in us, to trust us with his life, and the lives of his family. I need hardly remind you how grateful emperors can be to those who give them good service. Do your duty and we’ll all do well out of this. Don’t let me down.’ He ran his eyes along the ranks of his men and then turned to Fuscius. ‘That’s all. Have the men form up by the main gate, ready to march, Optio.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Fuscius stood to attention, and remained there until Tigellinus had left the small parade ground. Then he called out, ‘Sixth Century, left face!’

The two lines turned and stood ready for the next order.

‘March!’

As the column moved forward, Macro spoke quietly to Cato, now marching ahead of him. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘You know what I think,’ Cato answered. ‘We keep our eyes and ears open and watch like a hawk.’

The men of the Fifth and Sixth centuries marched up to where Tribune Burrus was waiting, mounted on an immaculately groomed black horse. When the column stood ready he waved a hand towards the gate and the leading rank moved off. They entered Rome and marched down to the palace where the imperial retinue joined the column before it marched back out of the city and headed towards the lake, over ten miles from the capital. The Emperor was attended by fewer advisers than usual, Cato noticed. There was Narcissus, but no sign of Pallas or the Empress, or the two boys.

The rain-washed countryside smelt fresh and the warmth heralded the coming of spring. The first buds were emerging on the branches of many of the fruit trees lining the route. The litters carrying the imperial party were between the two centuries of Praetorians and from the rear Cato could just make them out when he craned his neck to look over the gleaming helmets and javelin tips rippling ahead of him. As the column passed between small villages, the inhabitants came to watch their Emperor pass by and offered a cheer as Claudius raised a hand in greeting. On either side of the litters marched the German bodyguards, their barbarian appearance unnerving the more timorous villagers.

They reached the lake in the early afternoon and the men were allowed to fall out of line and rest while the Emperor and his advisers inspected the preparations for the Naumachia. The imperial grandstand was nearly complete, constructed on an artificial mound that had been raised at the edge of the lake. Along the shore carpenters were hard at work preparing the barges and river craft that had been hauled up from the Tiber to serve as the two fleets that would battle it out on the waters of the lake. Makeshift masts rose from the decks of the vessels with spars, sails and rigging that were more decorative than functional. Rowing benches were fixed along the sides and stout rams attached to the bows of each boat. From a distance they might pass for the warships of the Roman navy, but on a much reduced scale. A quarter of a mile away from the activity on the shore of the lake stood the stockades where those who were to fight were to be held for the duration of the spectacle.

‘Unbelievable,’ Macro commented ruefully as he and Cato surveyed the scene from a rocky outcrop a short distance from where the men of the escort relaxed on the verdant grass either side of the road leading back to Rome. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks more like the preparations for a major campaign than a bloody gladiator show.’

‘I don’t recall there being quite as much effort being put into the invasion of Britannia,’ Cato responded with an ironic grin. ‘But then Claudius was only out to win a new province for the empire. Now he’s out to win the heart of the mob, an objective of far more strategic importance at present - assuming he lives long enough to appease their taste for gladiator fights, not to mention their hunger. I’d say the odds are stacking up against Claudius.’

They turned their attention to the imperial party as the official in charge of organising the spectacle made his report to the Emperor. Even at a distance of over a hundred paces Cato could see that Claudius was giving the man his full attention. Every now and then his head twitched violently as he limped alongside the official.

‘Not such an enviable thing being the Emperor, is it?’ Cato said in a reflective tone. ‘Enemies on all sides, and those closest to him are by far the more dangerous.’

‘You talk utter bollocks at times, Cato,’ Macro responded. ‘You think our lives are any less at risk than Claudius’s? I don’t think so, and I have the scars to prove it, and so do you. In any case, there are one or two perks that go with the job of being the absolute ruler of the greatest empire in the world. I think I might just get used to the occupational hazards.’

‘It’s one thing to face a man with a sword in a straight fight. Quite another to walk into a room full of people, knowing that many of them would as happily stab you in the back as offer you a greeting and promise undying loyalty. Speaking of which, where’s Tigellinus?’ Cato scanned the imperial party, anxiously looking for the centurion.

‘He’s over there, with Burrus and the others.’ Macro pointed towards the handful of men clustered around Tribune Burrus who was still in the saddle. Cato saw the tall figure of the centurion and let out a quiet sigh of relief. Macro heard the soft escape of breath and looked at his friend.

‘When do you think Tigellinus is going to make his move?’

Cato thought for a moment. ‘He might make an attempt at the first chance he gets, provided he has no regard for his own life. But from what I’ve seen of the man, I doubt he’ll throw it away if there is any hope of saving it. If I were Tigellinus I’d bide my time until I was close to the Emperor, and with as few others surrounding him as possible. Then I might have a chance to escape after striking the blow. So, when the Sixth Century is close to the Emperor, we stay closer still to Tigellinus.’

The Emperor completed his tour of the preparations and returned to his litter. As the imperial retinue began to make its way along the shore to the engineering works at the end of the lake nearest the Tiber, the optio called the men back into formation. The guards swiftly marched to take up their positions around the Emperor and then fell into step with the slaves carrying the heavy gilded litter. The party wound its way along the edge of the lake until it reached the first of the stepped dams that led down towards the tributory of the Tiber, three miles away.

The imperial column halted. A small party of engineers in plain tunics approached and bowed in front of the litter. Claudius swung his legs over the side and hobbled over to the youthful-looking man leading the engineers.

‘My dear Ap-apollodorus!’ Claudius greeted him. ‘How is the work progressing? Nearly completed, I trust? I expect the storm has put you behind schedule.’

The engineer gave a deep bow, as did his companions. ‘No, sire. The works were completed according to schedule. And I have prepared something interesting to amuse the mob when the Naumachia begins.’

‘Oh?’ Claudius cocked an eyebrow. ‘And what would that be?’

‘I’d prefer it to remain a surprise, sire. I’m certain you will be impressed.’

Claudius frowned briefly, and then his expression relaxed. ‘Very well, young man. But you are certain the weather has caused no delays? Be honest n-now.’

‘I would not let a bit of rain and wind cause me to break my word to you.’

‘Good man!’ Claudius beamed and clasped the engineer’s forearm. ‘I wish all m-my officials were as eff-efficient as you.’

The Emperor turned to Narcissus, standing a short distance behind him. ‘You and Pallas could learn much from this young f-fell-fellow.’

The imperial secretary forced a smile. ‘It would be a shame to take such a promising talent under my wing and rob you of the skills of an accomplished engineer, sire. Apollodorus’s undoubted talents are better deployed in the field, rather than the palace - although Pallas might benefit from his expertise.’

‘Pallas?’ The Emperor thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, yes. He does seem to be r-r-rather off form these days. Tired and distracted.’ Claudius smiled indulgently. ‘I imagine the fellow’s in love. It tends to be a wearisome process.’

‘Yes, sire. Perhaps Pallas should be sent to Capri for a rest. I would be glad to oversee his staff during his absence.’

‘I’m sure you would.’ Claudius smiled. ‘Then again, perhaps you also need a rest, my friend.’

‘Not at all, sire.’ Narcissus stood as erect as he could. ‘My place is at your side. I live only to serve you.’

‘How fortunate I am to have such servants. C-come, Narcissus! Let us learn something of the art of engineering from our d-d-dear Appollod-d-dorus here.’

The engineer bowed his head again, and then began to talk through the procedure he had devised to drain the Albine Lake. Cato listened as best he could to the engineer’s lecture but his eyes were fixed on Tigellinus. The centurion stood at the head of the century, no more than fifty feet from the Emperor. His hand was resting on the pommel of his sword, his fingers drumming against the sword handle. Between him and Claudius stood a loose screen of German bodyguards. The Emperor was safe for the moment, Cato decided.

Apollodorus gestured down the vale leading to the river. ‘As the Emperor can see, I have ordered the construction of a series of dams, each with a sluice, so that we can control the flow of water as we drain the area around the lake. If we had simply cut a channel from the lake to the river, as I believe your adviser, Pallas, originally suggested, then we might well have caused the Tiber to overflow and flood the centre of Rome as the main body of water reached the city.’

Narcissus chuckled. ‘Not one of my friend’s finer moments, alas. Still, Pallas has his talents, whatever they may be.’

‘Quite right.’ Claudius nodded. ‘My wife, the Empress, rates him highly indeed.’

Macro whispered. ‘Oh, I’m sure she does.’

‘Shhh!’ Cato hissed.

The engineer led the way down the track that had been cut into the slope of the vale. Every half mile or so was another dam, behind which the water flowing out of the lake filled an expanse of the vale. Late in the afternoon the procession finally reached the last and biggest of the dams. At its foot a small stream flowed round a curve in the vale, the sides of which were appreciably steeper than up by the lake. The stream was fed by a culvert dug round the end of the dam. A handful of workmen stood off to one side, loading unused timber on to a wagon. They briefly bowed towards the Emperor and then continued with their task.

Apollodorus paused at the base of the dam where long, thick lengths of timber braced the stakes driven vertically into the ground. A number of ropes had been tied round the central buttress timbers and led up to the sides of the vale where they were fed through large pulleys, secured to stakes.

Narcissus looked up warily at the dam towering some fifty feet above him. ‘Are we quite safe here?’

‘Perfectly!’ Apollodorus smiled confidently. He stepped forward and slapped one of the buttress timbers. ‘It will take a hundred men pulling on the ropes to dislodge each of these. When the time comes, that is exactly what will happen, once we’ve cleared the route that the flow will take down to the tributary leading into the Tiber. For now, nothing short of an earthquake will shift these. Once the water behind this dam has drained, we’ll move up the vale, draining each pool in turn until we reach the lake. That way we can control the flow of water and there’ll be only the slightest of rises in the level of the Tiber for a short time.’ He stood back and looked up at the dam with undisguised pride in his achievement. Then, conscious of the Emperor once again, Apollodorus turned to him hurriedly. ‘The celebration to mark the completion of the project is ready, sire. Just round the bend in the vale there, on the bank of the river. If you would do me the honour?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course!’ Claudius smiled. ‘It would be m-m-my pleasure, young man. Lead the way!’

Narcissus stepped forward. ‘Sire, it is late in the day. It is already unlikely that we will return to the city by nightfall. It would be wise to set off for Rome without delay.’

‘Nonsense!’ Claudius frowned. ‘What? Are you afraid of the dark? In any c-case, this man has done a wonderful j-jo-job. The least we can do is celebrate his success.’

Narcissus bowed his head. ‘As you wish, sire.’

The Emperor patted Apollodorus on the back. ‘Lead on, my boy! L-lead on!’

The vale curved gently to the right before giving out on to an expanse of open ground. Two hundred paces beyond, the river gleamed in the sunshine as it flowed towards Rome. Several tables had been arranged together and covered with an expanse of red cloth. On the table sat a huge cake, artfully constructed to resemble the dam they had just seen. Thirty or forty of Apollodorus’s staff stood waiting beyond the table and bowed their heads at the Emperor’s approach.

Claudius smiled in delight as he reached the table and inspected the cake. ‘Excellent! Most excellent! I trust it tastes as good as it looks?’

‘It should, sire. The best cooks scoured Rome for ingredients to prepare it.’

‘This looks delicious. I’ll be the first to taste it, if I may?’

‘Of course, sire.’ Apollonius clicked his fingers and a slave ran forward with a spoon for the Emperor. Claudius paused a moment and then dipped it into the blue jelly behind the dam and turned to his retinue. ‘Tribune Burrus. One of your men please.’ Claudius turned to the engineer. ‘I m-me-mean no offence, but I have to be sure.’

‘I understand, sire.’

Burrus turned in his saddle to survey the men of the Sixth Century. Before he could speak, Tigellinus stepped forward. ‘I volunteer, sir!’

Burrus opened his mouth, as if to speak, then shrugged and nodded. Cato felt his muscles tense as the centurion paced forward, between two of the German bodyguards. He stopped a short distance from the Emperor and there was a brief pause before Claudius offered the spoon up to his mouth. Tigellinus leant forward and consumed the mouthful. His jaws worked briefly and then he swallowed. There was another pause before Claudius arched his eyebrows. ‘Well?’

‘Bloody tasty, sir!’ Tigellinus barked.

‘No ill effects?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Very well.’ Claudius waved him away and Tigellinus backed off through the cordon of German bodyguards. Cato let out a pent-up breath and felt his body relax.

‘We’ll have some of this delicious cake and then return to R-r-rome,’ the Emperor announced. ‘Tribune, you may order your men to stand down while I eat.’

‘Praetorian Guard!’ Burrus called out. ‘Fall out!’

The guardsmen, on reduced rations, looked on enviously, having moved off a short distance to allow Claudius and his small retinue to pick at the cake and indulge in small talk. Cato noted with a smile that Narcissus was doing his best to insert himself between his master and the engineer and respond to the words of the Emperor with his customary obsequiousness while frowning frostily at every comment made by Apollodorus.

Macro was staring wistfully at the cake. ‘I could murder some of that.’

‘It looks far too rich,’ Cato responded dismissively. ‘Probably give you indigestion.’

‘I could live with it.’ Macro tore his gaze away and looked at his friend. ‘I was a bit worried there, when our friend Tigellinus stepped up to test the food.’

‘Me too. Seems I was right. Whatever his plan is, it doesn’t involve suicide.’

‘Except by indigestion.’ Macro turned to look for the centurion as he and Cato leant on their shields. Tigellinus had moved a short distance off and had unfastened his chinstraps and removed his helmet. He mopped his brow and then began to unbuckle his breastplate. He glanced briefly back up the vale with a strained expression. Easing his armour on to the ground, Tigellinus stretched his shoulders, raising his arms into the air.

Macro turned back to look at the small party of dignitaries crowded around the cake, scooping away at the choice ingredients. His stomach grumbled loudly enough for Cato to hear and the two exchanged a smile. Cato opened his mouth to comment, but before he could speak a dull crash reverberated through the air. Everyone turned in the direction of the sound. A moment later there was another crash that merged into a cacophony of splintering timber and falling rocks. Then a rushing roar that swelled up and filled the air. A sudden breeze stirred at the end of the vale, and strengthened.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Macro turned towards the din.

But Cato knew instantly what the sound was and his stomach knotted in icy terror. He glanced towards the Emperor, staring up the vale, a spoon heaped with jelly halfway to his mouth. As Cato turned back he saw a dark liquid mass, gleaming and foaming, sweep round the bend in the vale, smashing down the stunted trees that clung to the steep slopes, dislodging boulders and mounds of earth, carrying all before it. The vast body of water that had been held back by the final dam roared out of the vale, directly towards the imperial party and its escort.

CHAPTER TWENTY

At first no one moved. Every man was too horrified by the sight of the churning wall of water sweeping towards them. Tigellinus acted first. He cupped a hand to his mouth and yelled, ‘Run! Run for your lives!’

The cry broke the spell and the imperial retinue, the engineers and the Praetorian guardsmen began to flee, some heading directly away from the water, while most tried to escape to the side where the ground rose slightly. Cato threw down his shield and spear and snatched at his chinstraps. Macro did likewise, already moving away from the wave.

‘Wait!’ Cato called to him. ‘We must save the Emperor!’

Macro paused, then nodded and they turned towards the table and the cake. Claudius was stumbling towards the river as fast as his limp would allow, casting terrified glances back over his shoulder as the wave approached. Tigellinus was racing across the ground after him and Cato saw, with a stab of fear, that the centurion might reach the Emperor first. He struck out, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him, still weighed down by his scaled armour vest. Macro ran after him. A strong breeze rippled the folds of the Emperor’s toga and the loose strands of his hair as the wave thrust a cushion of air ahead of it. The hissing roar of the pounding water seemed deafening to Cato as he ran at an angle towards Claudius. To his left he could see that Tigellinus was gaining ground and would reach the Emperor first. His dagger was grasped in his hand, point held low and level as he single-mindedly sprinted towards his prey.

The air felt cool at Cato’s back and he risked one last glance towards the wave and saw that it was no more than fifty feet behind him, an ugly churning mass of spray and brown water carrying brush and trees with it. There was a cry of terror and despair away to his right as the first of the Praetorians went down, and then the voice was instantly silenced as the man was submerged in the tumult.

Ahead, Tigellinus was no more than ten feet from the Emperor, and then he stumbled, the toe of his boot stubbing against a rock. He fell down, the dagger spilling from his fingers. Cato ran on, calling out, ‘Sire!’

Claudius looked back at Cato, wide eyed, then past him, aghast. Cato grabbed the Emperor’s arm with one hand and wrenched at the toga with the other. At once the Emperor struggled and lashed out with his spare hand. ‘Help! Murder!’

‘No, sire! The toga will weigh you down!’ Cato shouted, ripping the thick woollen material from the Emperor’s shoulder. He heard Macro cry out a short distance behind, but before he could turn to look, the wave struck. There was an instant when he felt a surge around his calves, and Cato stepped in front of the Emperor, trying to shield him with his body. The full force of the water slammed into his back, instantly wrenching him off his feet. Cato tried to stay upright, kicking down to get purchase on the ground as he was swept along. He held tightly to the Emperor, pushing Claudius up. The water surged around his head, flowing over him and roaring in his ears before he surfaced, snatching a breath.

Something struck him in the ribs, a winding blow that drove the air from his lungs in an explosive cough and water instantly flooded his mouth before he could shut it. Then he was under again, still holding the Emperor and feeling him struggling wildly in his grasp. Cato felt something solid close by and risked letting go of Claudius with one hand as he groped. He felt the branch of a tree. He clamped his fingers round the rough bark and pulled himself and the Emperor towards it. His head burst through the surface once more and Cato took a breath. Around him was a chaotic mass of spray and water and debris, with the heads of men and flailing limbs all about. Cato thought he saw Macro a short distance away, but water closed over the head before he could be sure. Claudius came up, spluttering at his side.

‘Sire!’ Cato yelled into his face. ‘Grab the branch!’

Claudius turned his head to Cato. ‘I can’t! I’m being dragged down! S-s-save yourself, young man. I’m done for!’

Cato saw that his toga was still caught round his chest and debris in the surging water was pulling at the cloth and dragging the Emperor with it. Cato grabbed at the fabric and wrenched it as hard as he could, working it free. It slipped down a little, yet Claudius was still being pulled under and let out a despairing cry before the water closed over his face again. He came up and Cato shouted, ‘Kick it free! Kick it free, or you’ll die!’

‘Yes … yes,’ Claudius spluttered. ‘Kick it free.’

While he thrashed at the material with his legs, Cato used his spare hand to try to pull the toga away from the Emperor’s body. The wool was like a live thing, squirming in the chaotic current, the folds wrapping around Cato’s hand and arm. With one last pull it came off and both men came up, heads and shoulders clear of the water as they gripped the branch. The water around them was no longer raging quite so much and Cato could see for the first time that they had been swept some distance from the end of the vale. Around them were the remains of the tables, and Cato saw Tigellinus, some fifty feet away, trying to haul himself on to one of the table tops, which was spinning round in the fast current.

‘Cato!’

He turned and saw a commotion in the water where Macro was trying to swim towards the branch. Then, between them, another figure came up coughing and hacking, his arms flailing to keep him above water. Cato saw that it was Tribune Burrus.

‘Over here, sir! Here!’ Cato waved his arm and Burrus began to kick out towards him. The tribune reached the branch and wrapped his arms over it, gasping for breath. Cato looked round and saw that Macro would join them in a moment. Then he noticed something strange a short distance ahead of them. The leading edge of the wave just seemed to have disappeared, leaving a sharp line no more than fifty feet away.

‘Oh shit,’ Cato muttered. ‘The river …’

The tree, and the men clinging to it, were being swept towards the steep riverbank and down into the river. Cato put his arm round the Emperor and clung tightly to the branch. He saw that Macro had grasped the end of a smaller branch a short distance away. Cato filled his lungs and cried out above the din of the rushing water, ‘Hold on tight! We’re going into the river!’

The end of the branch abruptly shot out into thin air for an instant. Then it tipped over the edge. Once again water closed over Cato and he felt his legs being scraped by rocks and debris as the branch dragged those hanging on to it under the raging surface of the river. The water roared in Cato’s ears and his lungs began to burn. The Emperor seemed to writhe against him, but it was impossible to tell if he was struggling or simply being battered about by the current. Then there was a swirl in the water and the branch broke the surface. Cato snatched a deep breath.

‘Sire, are you all right? Sire!’

The Emperor retched and spluttered and rested his head on the branch as his body was wracked by a coughing fit.

Cato looked round and saw that Burrus was still clinging on, but could not locate Macro. Cato turned his head from side to side, anxiously scanning the surface of the river. There were several men visible, struggling to stay afloat or striking towards the bank. Tigellinus was sprawled across the tabletop some distance away. Now that the river had absorbed most of the water unleashed by the collapse of the dam, the worst had passed, Cato realised. Except there was no sign of Macro. Then he saw a glistening hummock in the water some twenty feet away. It began to roll over and Cato realised it was a body, and then, stricken by fear, he recognised Macro’s features as his face briefly cleared the surface before submerging again.

‘Tribune!’ Cato called out. ‘Tribune Burrus, sir!’

Burrus looked up with a dazed expression, his single eye blinking.

‘Look after the Emperor, sir! Do you understand?’

‘Yes …’ Burrus nodded, concentrating his thoughts with some effort. Cato turned to Claudius. ‘Hold on, sire. We’ll get you out of this.’

Then he released his grip on the branch and thrust himself out towards one of the other tables that was slowly turning round in the current close to where Macro was floating. Cato pulled his chest on to the table and kicked out with his legs, striking out towards his friend who showed little sign of life. As he came within reach, Cato threw out his arm, his fingers struggling for purchase in the folds of Macro’s tunic. He tightened his grip and pulled Macro on to the table. A thin trail of blood etched its way down Macro’s forehead and Cato saw a cut on his forehead.

‘Macro!’ He shook his shoulder violently. ‘Macro! Open your eyes.’

His friend’s head rolled limply back on to the planks of the table and his jaw sagged open. Cato slapped him hard. ‘Open your bloody eyes!’

There was no response and Cato slapped him again, harder. This time Macro’s head jerked up and his eyes blinked open. His jaw clenched defiantly. ‘Which one of you bastards hit me, eh?’

Then the water in his lungs caused him to cough and retch agonisingly and it took him a while to recover sufficiently to register Cato’s presence. He smiled weakly. ‘What the hell happened to you, lad? You look a right state.’

Cato could not help smiling back in delight. ‘Me? You should see yourself.’

‘What … what happened?’ Macro grimaced. ‘Feels like some bastard’s dropped a rock on my head.’

‘You must have hit your head on the branch when we went into the river.’

‘River?’ Macro raised his head and looked round in confusion. Then he started as he recalled the final moments before the wave struck. ‘The Emperor!’

‘He’s safe. Over there.’ Cato pointed towards the branch where Burrus had shifted position to be at Claudius’s side. It was close to the riverbank and a moment later it snagged on some obstruction under the surface and swung in towards the bank. Cato gave vent to a short sigh of relief and then punched Macro lightly. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Cato started kicking, working the table round so that it pointed towards the riverbank. Then he and Macro kicked out, heading away from the middle of the current. It took a while in the swift flow before they felt the bed of the river beneath their boots and eased the table into the narrow strip of reeds growing along the water’s edge. There they abandoned the table and waded through the reeds until they reached firm ground and slumped on to the grassy bank beyond the reeds. Macro cradled his head in his hands and groaned while Cato remained on hands and knees, head hung low as he breathed in deeply, coughing up the last of the water in his lungs and spitting to clear his mouth. His heart was beating fast and he was trembling uncontrollably. The air was cold and made his soaked body feel colder still, but Cato knew that the trembling was due to the frantic exertion since the wave struck him. That and the delayed shock and terror over what had happened.

He struggled to his feet and scanned the surrounding landscape. Looking upriver he could see the end of the vale, some half a mile away. An earthen streak scarred the pasture between the vale and the bank of the river. Uprooted trees lay scattered across the ground and several figures stood or sat amid the mud, staring about them. More stood at the fringes of where the wave had swept past. There was no sign of the imperial litters, or the tables on which the cake had stood. A few hundred paces upstream Cato could see Burrus supporting the Emperor as they made their way back upriver. There was no sign of Tigellinus in any direction.

Cato squatted down beside Macro. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore.’ Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘I must have taken quite a crack to the head … I was holding on to that branch - we went over something and dropped down. That’s the last I can recall until some bastard smacked me round the chops.’ He glanced up. ‘That was you, I take it.’

‘What are friends for?’ Cato offered his hand and helped Macro on to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s get back to what’s left of the century.’

They began to walk towards the figures scattered about the flood plain, some of whom were looking for survivors caught in the debris or tending to the injured.

‘What the hell happened?’ asked Macro.

‘That’s obvious. The dam gave way.’

‘How? How is that possible? You heard the engineer. It would take a hundred men to cause the dam to collapse.’

Cato thought for a moment. ‘Evidently not. It collapsed by itself, or someone helped it to.’

‘Shoddy bloody Greek workmanship - that’s what caused it.’

‘You really think so? Just when the Emperor happened to be standing right in the path of the wave when it struck? Quite a coincidence.’

‘It happens. The gods will play their games.’

‘So will some traitors. Did you see Tigellinus? It was as if he was the only one among us who wasn’t surprised by the wave.’

They continued in silence for a while before Macro cleared his throat. ‘All right then, so if the Liberators are responsible for this, how the hell did they manage it?’

‘I don’t know. Not yet. But I want a good look at what’s left of the dam.’

By the time they joined the other survivors, the remaining German guards had formed up round the Emperor. Their drenched locks of hair, streaked with mud, and their soiled tunics and armour made them look even more barbaric than normal and the Praetorian guardsmen and the civilians kept their distance. Someone had found a stool for the Emperor and Claudius sat on it numbly, surveying the scene. The survivors had instinctively made for the high ground to one side of the end of the vale, in case of another disaster. Narcissus was leaning in towards the Emperor, offering words of comfort while a terrified-looking Apollodorus stood a short distance off, between two of the German bodyguards.

‘You two!’

Cato turned sharply to see Tribune Burrus striding towards them. He and Macro stood to attention and saluted the commander of their cohort. Burrus studied Cato’s features briefly and then nodded. ‘You’re the one who helped me to save the Emperor, aren’t you?’

Cato thought quickly. It was tempting to take the credit for his part in rescuing Claudius, but it would be dangerous to risk drawing any attention to himself, or Macro. Particularly if word got back to the Liberators who would be certain to suspect their motives.

‘I was holding on to the same branch. That is all. I believe you were the one most responsible for saving him, sir.’

Burrus’s eyes narrowed, as if he suspected some kind of a trick. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Very well. All the same, I shall make sure that your part in this does not go unrewarded.’

Cato nodded his gratitude.

‘Your centurion’s missing. Have you seen him?’ the tribune asked.

‘He was close to us in the river. I lost sight of him afterwards.’

‘A pity. A good man that. Quick off the mark to try to save the Emperor when the wave struck. Lucky I was there to succeed where he failed, eh?’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘His optio’s in charge now.’ Burrus nodded towards Fuscius who had somehow managed to hang on to his staff and was busy searching among the bedraggled survivors for men from the Sixth Century. ‘You’d best report to Fuscius directly.’

‘Not yet, Tribune,’ Narcissus called out as he made his way over to the three guardsmen. ‘I want to have a closer look at the dam. I want these two to help me, in case there’s any further danger.’

‘Further danger?’ Burrus looked surprised by the suggestion, then shrugged. ‘Very well, they’re yours.’

The imperial secretary nodded towards the Emperor and lowered his voice. ‘Look after him. He’s badly shaken.’

‘Of course.’

Narcissus glanced at Cato and Macro with the blank expression of one accustomed to seeing the broad mass of humanity as a single class of servants. ‘Follow me!’

They strode off across the grass, skirting the slick expanse of mud that sprawled across the land between the vale and the river. When they entered the vale, they had to progress carefully across the slippery ground and negotiate the tangled remains of trees and shrubs. As soon as they were out of the sight of the survivors, Narcissus turned to Cato and Macro.

‘That was no accident. That was a blatant attempt on the Emperor’s life, and mine.’

Macro snorted. ‘Not to mention a few hundred guardsmen and civilians. But I suppose we don’t count for much, eh?’

‘Not in the grand scheme of things, no,’ Narcissus replied coldly. ‘For now I’m happy for that Greek engineer to think it was an accident. He’s scared out of his wits and might divulge some information that might be useful. Now or later.’

‘Later?’ Cato glanced at him.

‘If by some slip of the tongue he tells me something that leaves me with a hold over him, that’s a useful by-product of the situation.’

Macro shook his head. ‘By the gods, you never miss a trick, do you?’

‘I try not to. That’s why I’m still alive and at the side of the Emperor. Not many of my predecessors can claim to have survived in that position for a fraction of the time that I have.’

‘And now Pallas is trying to push you out,’ Macro noted and clicked his tongue. ‘Puts you on the spot, eh?’

‘I’ve bested sharper men than Pallas,’ Narcissus replied dismissively. ‘He won’t concern me for much longer.’

‘Oh?’

Narcissus shot him a quick look and then stepped round a large boulder. He looked ahead and pointed. ‘That’s where we’ll find some answers, I hope.’

Cato and Macro followed his direction and saw the remains of the dam. A line of rocks stretched across the narrow bottom of the vale and water still trickled from between them. More rocks and shattered timbers lay strewn about the ground in front of the foundations of the dam. The three men picked their way forward and stopped a short distance below the main breach.

‘I’m trying to recall how it looked before,’ said Narcissus. ‘I should have paid more attention to that bore, Apollodorus. Weren’t there some big sticks supporting the middle?’

‘Sticks?’ Cato smiled. ‘I think he called them buttresses.’

Narcissus looked at him and frowned briefly. ‘Buttresses then. I remember he said that they would need plenty of men to shift them when the time came to drain the water behind the dam.’

‘That’s right.’ Cato nodded.

‘So what happened? Where did all these men suddenly come from? There wasn’t anyone near the dam.’

‘Yes … Yes there was,’ Cato replied. ‘You remember that party by a wagon close to the base of the dam.’

Macro nodded. ‘Yes. Can’t have been more than ten of them though. They wouldn’t have been able to shift those timbers. Not by themselves.’

‘No. You’re right,’ Cato conceded.

They picked their way across the muddy debris. Then Narcissus pointed down the vale. ‘Isn’t that one of them? One of those buttresses? Or at least what’s left of it.’

Cato and Macro turned to look. A hundred paces away, to the side of the vale, what looked like a shattered tree trunk stood up at an angle, wedged between two huge boulders. Cato could see that it was too straight and regular to be the remains of a tree. ‘Worth a look,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked Macro, not liking the look of the mud-encrusted tangles of vegetation that lay between them and the shattered buttress.

‘For the dam to collapse, both of the main supports would have to give way first, right?’

‘So?’

‘So, aren’t you curious about how they did give way?’

Macro gave him a surly look. ‘I could be more curious.’

Cato ignored him and began to clamber across the ruined landscape towards the two boulders. After a moment the other two followed. Cato was examining the thick length of timber when they caught up with him. Some of the buttress was buried in the mud and another six feet or so protruded into the air before ending in a confusion of shattered splinters. Cato was tracing his fingers across what was left of a regular line at the edge of the splinters.

‘Do you see here?’ He moved aside to give them a clear view. Macro stood on tiptoe and squinted.

‘Looks like it’s been sawn.’ He reached up and traced his fingers along the mark. ‘Quite some way into the timber.’

Cato nodded. ‘I’d wager that we’d find the same on the other buttress if we could find it, as well as some of the lesser supports. Weaken enough of them and you’d no longer need hundreds of men to put enough pressure on the timbers to cause them to give way, or shatter under the strain, like this one.’ He patted the timber. ‘Just shift some of the supports and the pressure of the water behind the dam will do the rest.’

Narcissus nodded. ‘As I said, this was no accident, and here is the proof.’

‘There is something else,’ Cato said. ‘When we saw the wave, did you notice how everyone was rooted to the spot?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘One man wasn’t. Centurion Tigellinus made a run at Claudius before anyone else gathered their wits enough to react. And he had taken off his heaviest pieces of kit to make sure he wasn’t weighed down.’

Narcissus’s brow furrowed slightly as he recalled the event. ‘Yes, he was quick off the mark. I might have assumed he was going to protect the Emperor, were it not for the fact that he had replaced Lurco.’ He looked at Cato. ‘Are you saying Tigellinus knew about the dam? That that was why they got rid of Lurco, because this was what they had been planning?’

‘Perhaps.’ Cato looked unsure. ‘But how could they know that the Emperor was planning to visit the drainage works? The decision to replace Lurco was made before Claudius decided to come here today.’

‘It’s a big project and has taken years to complete,’ Macro observed. ‘There’s every chance that he would come to see the final stages for himself.’

‘More than a chance,’ Narcissus interrupted. ‘Apollodorus didn’t put on that celebration by himself. It was Pallas’s idea. He organised the celebration and commissioned that cake.’

‘So Pallas is behind this?’ Macro frowned. ‘Pallas is working for the Liberators?’

‘I don’t know,’ Narcissus admitted. ‘It’s possible. But I doubt it. Pallas has nothing to gain from a return to the Republic. In fact he has as much to lose as I have. I doubt that he was behind this attempt on Claudius’s life.’

‘Why not?’ asked Cato. ‘If Claudius drowns then Nero is the most likely successor.’

‘That’s true,’ Narcissus conceded ‘But there were enough people in the palace who knew that the Emperor would be here. Any one of them could be working for the Liberators. However it happened, the Liberators got wind of his visit to the project and decided to bring forward their plan for Tigellinus to assassinate the Emperor. They sabotaged the supports for the dam and Tigellinus knew what was going to happen and made ready to strike in the moment of confusion as the wave came towards us.’

‘It’s a bit far fetched,’ Macro protested. ‘Tigellinus would be putting his life at risk. For that matter, so would those men who were involved in weakening the dam. One wrong step there and the whole thing would have come down on them.’

‘Just shows how determined our enemy has become,’ Narcissus said grimly.

‘They want an assassin close to the Emperor. Whatever plans they have for Tigellinus, the chances are that there would be precious little hope of him escaping having committed the deed. In fact, this business with the dam probably gave him the best possibility to strike and get away with it that he was likely to get.’

Cato nodded. ‘I think you’re right. The trouble is, if this was just an opportunistic attempt, then the initial plan is still ready to go ahead, as long as Tigellinus has survived, or they have another man ready to step into his boots if he hasn’t. We still have to be on our guard. Are you going to tell the Emperor?’

Narcissus hesitated. ‘Not yet. I want to have this investigated. I have to be certain of the facts before I go to Claudius.’

‘Fair enough. There is one thing though. Apollodorus had no hand in this. The wave came as much of a surprise to him as the rest of us. You should put his mind at rest before you have him look at the evidence.’

Narcissus considered the suggestion. ‘Perhaps later on, after he’s been questioned. For now I’m content for people to think that it was an unfortunate accident. That’s clearly what the Liberators want us to think, and I don’t want them running scared just yet. They’re making their move. They failed this time. They will try again if they think we aren’t wise to their conspiracy. The more risks they take, the better the chances we have of identifying and eliminating them.’

‘And the better chance they have of eliminating the Emperor,’ Macro retorted.

‘Then we shall all have to be more alert to potential dangers, shan’t we?’ Narcissus said sharply. He paused and forced himself to continue in a more measured tone. ‘This is my chance to deal with the Liberators once and for all. I should have crushed them many years ago when I had the chance,’ he added bitterly. He continued swiftly, ‘If we force them to go to ground now, then they will bide their time and wait for another opportunity to strike. In the meantime the Emperor will be under constant threat and my agents and I will be stretched to the limit to respond to every possible sign of danger. Better to finish it now, don’t you think?’

Macro looked at him and shrugged. ‘It’s your decision. It’s not really my job to ferret out conspirators. It’s up to you to protect the Emperor.’

‘No.’ Narcissus tapped his finger on Macro’s chest. ‘It’s up to all of us. All those whose duty it is to protect the Emperor, and Rome. You swore an oath.’

Macro’s fist shot up and closed tightly round the imperial secretary’s hand. ‘And I’ll swear another oath if you ever poke me like that again. Got it?’

The two men stared at each other, until Macro clenched his fist hard and Narcissus’s gaze faltered as he winced. He wrenched his hand free and flexed his fingers painfully. ‘You’ll regret that.’

‘I’ve regretted a lot of things in my life,’ Macro responded dismissively. ‘Didn’t stop me from doing them in the first place.’

Cato was growing impatient with the mutual hostility of his companions. ‘Enough!’ he said sharply. ‘We should rejoin the Emperor. Narcissus, you need to see him safely back to the palace before the Liberators start spreading rumours that he has been killed.’

The imperial secretary shot one last scowl at Macro before he nodded. ‘You’re right. Besides, his escort is in poor shape to resist an attack. We need to be on the road before night falls.’

‘Quite.’ Cato gestured to them. ‘Let’s go.’

They set off, eager to quit the silent desolation of the vale. As Cato led the way he could not help wondering at the determination of the enemy. If they were prepared to risk their own lives so willingly in order to achieve their aims, then they were as deadly an enemy as he and Macro had ever faced. The next time they struck they had better be more zealous in their efforts than ever.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘Fourteen drowned, another ten injured and twelve still missing, including the centurion,’ said Fuscius as he slumped down on to his cot in the section room. He shook his head. ‘The lads didn’t stand a chance when the water hit us …’ The young optio closed his eyes and his voice dropped to barely more than a whisper. ‘I was certain I’d die when I went under.’

Cato was sitting on the cot opposite and leant forward. ‘I think we all were. Something like that is never going to be on the training programme, is it?’

His attempt at gentle levity fell on deaf ears. Fuscius stared at the ground between his boots. ‘The Fifth Century suffered even more losses than we did … I thought joining the Praetorian Guard was supposed to be a cushy number. First the bloody riot and now this. It’s like we’re cursed.’

Macro gave a harsh laugh. ‘What? You think being a soldier ain’t supposed to be dangerous? Lad, you should have seen some of the pickles that Capito and I have been in over the years. Much worse than this. And we’re still here to talk about it. None of it was to do with curses. So you just raise a cup to the comrades you’ve lost, honour their memories and get on with the soldiering. That’s all you can, and should, do. You don’t sit there, wallowing in your own misery, muttering about curses. Especially when you’re an optio. Until Tigellinus returns, or is replaced, you’re in command of the century. So you’d better pull yourself together.’

Fuscius looked up and stared at Macro. At first his expression was neutral, but then his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘This has all happened since you two arrived.’

‘Us?’

‘That’s right. Before then everything was nice and easy. Now we’ve been battered by the mob, Lurco’s disappeared and half the Sixth Century has been lost in a freak flood.’ He paused. ‘From where I’m sitting it looks like more than a coincidence. Which begs the question, what have you two done that has caused the wrath of the gods to be heaped on your comrades, eh?’

‘You’re talking bollocks, lad. Capito and I have been doing our duty. Nothing more or less. Same as you. Same as the rest of the lads. The gods have got nothing to do with this.’

‘So, the dam just collapsed all by itself then? A freak accident? Do us a favour, Calidus. That was an act of the gods if ever there was one.’

‘Act of the gods, my arse! Some bastard—’

‘Calidus!’ Cato snapped. ‘That’s enough. The optio’s had a tough time of it. If he’s going to take command, then he needs rest. So leave him be.’

Macro turned to Cato with an enraged expression. ‘You heard him. The little shaver thinks this is down to us.’

Cato raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

‘Oh … yes, I see …’ Macro swallowed his anger and turned back to Fuscius. He cleared his throat. ‘My, er, apologies, Optio. I was out of line.’

‘Fair enough.’ Fuscius nodded slowly. ‘Let’s let it lie, eh? I do need to rest. Maybe Tigellinus will turn up. If not, then I’ll need to be fresh come the morning.’

‘That’s right, Optio.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll see to it you’re not disturbed. Better still, Calidus and I will clear off for a bit and give you some peace.’

Macro shot Cato an angry look but his friend glared back and jerked a thumb towards the door. They rose from their cots and quietly left the room as the young optio lowered himself on to his coarse mattress and curled up on his side. As Cato closed the door behind them, Macro hissed angrily, ‘That little oik needs to be put in his place. How dare he speak to us like that?’

‘Keep your mind on the job,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘You nearly gave the game away just then. As far as anyone else is concerned, the collapse of the dam was an accident, remember? Until Narcissus says otherwise.’

‘You really think that story is going to convince people for much longer?’

‘No,’ Cato replied wearily. ‘But it might buy us some time before the other side takes extra care in covering their tracks. Right now we need all the help we can get.’ Cato nodded towards the door. ‘Let’s talk, but not here. Just in case. Let’s go down to the mess.’

The large room at the end of the barracks on the ground floor was almost empty. Besides Cato and Macro there were only a handful of men in one corner, half-heartedly playing at dice. They looked up and nodded a greeting and then returned to their game. Choosing a table on the opposite side of the mess, the two friends sat down. Macro sighed impatiently.

‘Well, here we are. What do you want to talk about?’

Cato did not reply at once. He stared down at the heavily scored surface of the table and then ran a finger slowly along the grooves where some bored guardsman had carved his initials some years earlier. ‘I’m trying to work out where we’ve got to in all this.’

‘Good luck, lad. I’ll confess it’s getting too complicated for my head. These bloody Liberators seem to be getting their dirty hands in everywhere. They’ve got men in key positions in the Praetorian Guard. They’ve used their contacts in the grain merchants’ guild to buy up the grain supply and now they’ve managed to sabotage that dam. They’re everywhere, I tell you, Cato. Like bloody sewer rats.’

Cato frowned at Macro’s last words for a moment, as if trying to recall something, and then he gave up with a shake of his head. ‘You’re right, and that doesn’t seem right to me. How can the Liberators have so many people working for them and still keep to the shadows? It doesn’t make sense. The more people they have in play, the harder it gets to keep the whole thing secret. If anyone stands a chance of infiltrating such a conspiracy and destroying it then it’s Narcissus. And yet he seems to know no more than we do. That’s something of a first in our dealings with him.’

Macro grunted with feeling.

‘There’s something else that doesn’t seem to add up,’ Cato continued. ‘Why weren’t the Empress or Pallas at the lake today?’

‘I think we know the answer to that one well enough.’ Macro grinned. ‘They had better things to occupy themselves with.’

‘Leaving that aside, don’t you find it just a little too convenient that they happen not to be with Claudius on the day he is almost killed?’

‘It’s certainly a lucky escape,’ Macro agreed. ‘But what are you implying? You think they had something to do with today’s little adventure? That doesn’t make sense, lad. Earlier on you were saying that Tigellinus was in on it. We know that he’s part of the Liberators’ conspiracy. In which case, how can he be working for Pallas and the Empress? Not unless they are all in it together. But how could that work? The Liberators are hardly likely to make common cause with the wife of the Emperor. They want her removed from the scene just as much as they do Claudius. And not just her, but the rest of the imperial family and all their most trusted advisers, like Pallas and our boy Narcissus.’ Macro shook his head. ‘The fact that Pallas and Agrippina weren’t there today has to be a coincidence.’

‘You may be right,’ said Cato. ‘But if you were the Liberators, wouldn’t you want to remove the imperial family in one go? Why risk Tigellinus and those men who sabotaged the dam only to have to go through it all again with the rest of the imperial family? With the Emperor dead the security around the rest of them would become far tighter; the Liberators would find it much harder to finish the job.’

Macro reflected on this for a moment. ‘Perhaps they’re getting desperate. They’ve already failed in one attempt to assassinate the imperial family. Perhaps they’re taking their chances as and when they can.’

‘That might be,’ Cato conceded. ‘But there’s another possibility. What if we are dealing with more than one conspiracy here? What if the Liberators are plotting to eliminate the imperial family, while at the same time Pallas and Agrippina are also plotting to do away with Claudius and clear the path to the throne for Nero?’

Macro shook his head. ‘That still doesn’t explain this afternoon. If Pallas was responsible, then how do you explain Tigellinus’s part in it?’

Cato puffed irritably. ‘I can’t. Not yet. Unless he’s some kind of double agent … What if he were?’ Cato’s mind suddenly raced ahead with the suggestion. ‘Now that would make sense of things. The question then becomes which side is he really working for and which side is he misleading?’ He recalled what he knew of the recently promoted centurion. ‘He returned to Rome from exile about the same time as Agrippina. Perhaps he’s working in her interests. He could be posing as a servant of the Liberators to use them to help Agrippina and Pallas …’ A sudden flash of inspiration fired Cato’s mind. ‘Yes! That would make some sense of what happened this afternoon. The Empress and Pallas intend to wait until the Liberators have removed Claudius and then seize power. When she has what she wants and Nero sits on the throne, she can use the intelligence gathered by Tigellinus to move against the Liberators.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Clever, very clever.’

‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself,’ Macro said drily. ‘Maybe you’re right but that doesn’t help us to discover how the Liberators are intending to do away with Claudius.’

‘I know.’ Cato’s expression resumed its earlier weariness. ‘All the same, I must let Narcissus know about my suspicions as soon as possible. If I’m right, then the threat to Claudius is greater than Narcissus knows.’

‘After today’s dowsing, I think Narcissus might just be thinking that already.’

Cato laughed. The sensation felt as if a burden had been lifted from his mind. He realised how exhausted he was. Aside from the strength-sapping struggle against the body of water that swept him away and down the river, Cato was covered with scratches and bruises from the battering he had endured in the process. He needed rest badly, and looking at Macro he could see that his friend did too.

‘The hour’s late. We should get some sleep.’

Macro nodded and they rose stiffly and made their way out of the mess. They exchanged nods with the men still playing dice and then closed the door behind them. Outside a long colonnade led to the stairs up to the second storey. They had passed the centurion’s quarters and office and then the first of the section rooms when they saw a figure by the foot of the stairs pace slowly towards them. The man’s features were indiscernible. He stopped ten feet away, blocking their path. Cato strained his eyes and could just make out that the man was covered in mud. He wore a tunic and boots and his dagger scabbard was empty. His sword hung against his left hip, as was the custom for officers. Cato swore a silent oath and stood to attention.

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

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

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

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

‘Sir?’

‘The Emperor, did he survive?’

‘Yes, sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then Fuscius is in command?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where is he?’

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

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

‘Yes, sir.’

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

‘Is there anything else, sir?’

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

‘Sir?’ Macro responded innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Nothing, sir,’ Macro answered truthfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Assuming Narcissus keeps his word.’

‘True enough,’ Cato conceded.

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

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

‘Care to place any money on that?’

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What for?’ asked Macro.

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

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

The carpenters had completed their work on the vessels which were drawn up at either end of the pavilion, some twenty on each side. The beams of the barges had been built up to support decks that covered the rowing benches fitted into what had been the holds. Decorative fantails curved over the sterns while eye motifs had been painted at the bows, either side of the iron-tipped rams. It was hard to believe that the vessels had enjoyed a previous life as humble barges plying their trade along the Tiber. Out on the lake several of the small ships were going through their drills as a detachment of sailors from the imperial navy hurriedly trained the crews in the rudiments of rowing and steering.

Further along the shore, surrounded by a guarded palisade, were the stores of bread, meat and wine to be distributed to the people. Much of this had been taken from the vast storerooms beneath the imperial palace in a desperate bid to stave off the starvation of the mob long enough for the grain convoy from Sicilia to arrive. On the far side of the lake there were already some small groups of people clustered around makeshift shelters and smoke from campfires trailed into the air against the backdrop of the hills beyond.

A palace official guided the cohort to the site prepared for their camp, a short distance from the prisoner pens. As the centurions and officers bellowed the order to down packs, Macro stretched his shoulders and rocked his head from side to side to ease his neck muscles. Then he paused and sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose.

‘What is that stench?’

Cato pointed towards the prisoner pens. ‘Over there. Can’t see any latrine trenches. They’re having to shit inside the pens.’

Both men paused to stare at the palisade before Macro muttered, ‘That’s no way for a fighting man to have to live.’

‘They’re not fighting men. Remember what Narcissus said: mostly criminals and any other dregs that could be scraped together to fill out the ranks on each side.’

Macro was silent for a moment. ‘Even so, they’ll be fighting soon enough and shouldn’t be treated like animals.’

‘You two!’ Fuscius cried out. ‘No dawdling! Get over to the wagons and fetch a tent for the section!’

A line of wagons had been parked at the far end of the campsite and the men of the cohort were busy unloading bundles of goatskin, tent poles, guy ropes and ground pegs. As Macro and Cato trudged over towards the wagons between the lines marked out for each century’s tents, Macro chuckled. ‘Seems the optio’s found his voice again. Bawling us out like a veteran. Or trying to at least. Funny, he reminds me of you back in the early days.’

‘Me?’ Cato looked at him with raised eyebrows.

‘Sure. Shrill, overkeen and making up with pickiness what you lacked in experience.’

‘I was like that?’

‘Near enough.’ Macro smiled. ‘But you came good, eventually. So will our boy, Fuscius, you’ll see.’

‘Maybe.’ Cato glanced at the optio and continued in a low voice. ‘If he’s smart enough to keep his nose out of any conspiracy.’

‘Do you think he’s involved?’

‘I don’t know.’ Cato thought a moment. ‘He was as unlikely a choice for preferment as Tigellinus, so I think I’ll reserve judgement for now.’

Macro shook his head. ‘You’re seeing conspirators everywhere, my lad. I wonder how long it’ll be before you start suspecting me.’

Cato smiled. ‘On that day, I think I’ll just go and quietly open my veins. If there’s one thing in this world that I know the true worth of, it’s our friendship. It’s seen us through—’

Macro smiled awkwardly and raised a hand to silence his friend. ‘Stick a boot in it, Cato, or you’ll make me fucking cry.’

During the night the slaves and servants of the imperial household arrived to prepare the pavilion for the imperial family and their guests. They worked by the light of braziers and lamps to ensure that all the furnishings and banqueting tables and couches were ready for the Emperor’s arrival the following noon. A steady trickle of torches advancing round the far side of the lake indicated the arrival of the slaves sent to find good vantage points for their wealthy masters still in bed back in Rome. The opposite shore was nearly half a mile away and ranged along its length the campfires and torches glowed against the dark hills, and their reflections glinted and glittered across the surface of the water. After the rest of the men in their section had retired to the tent to sleep, Cato and Macro shared a wineskin and watched the numbers swell on the far shore.

‘I doubt that there will ever be a spectacle on this scale again,’ mused Macro. ‘I’ve never seen or heard of the like.’

‘That’s because there’s never been such a need for one,’ Cato suggested. ‘Desperate times call for spectacular diversions. If anything goes wrong with the show, or the mob isn’t entertained sufficiently then Claudius’s days are numbered. Either the mob will tear him to pieces or the Liberators will stab him in the back, or the deed will be done by someone even closer to him.’ Cato was silent for a moment. He reached for another piece of wood to toss on to the dying campfire. ‘Shit …’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Hardly a great state of affairs, is it? We risk our lives and shed our blood keeping the barbarians back from the frontiers of Rome only for these fools to put it all in jeopardy.’

‘So? What do you think you can do about it?’

Cato was silent, then looked cautiously into his friend’s eyes. ‘Not much, I admit. But it seems to me that right now Claudius is the best hope for Rome. That’s why we must do all we can to keep him safe.’

‘Claudius?’ Macro shook his head. ‘I think you’ve had too much wine, my lad.’

Cato leant forward. ‘Listen, Macro, I’m not drunk … I’m serious. We’ve seen enough of the world to know that Rome, for all its faults, is not the worst of empires. Where Rome rules there is order and prosperity and - though I know you don’t place much store by it - culture. There are libraries, theatres and art. And there is a degree of religious tolerance. Unlike those nests of arrogance and bigotry in Britannia and Judaea.’ Cato shuddered as he recalled the Druids and Judaean fanatics he and Macro had faced in battle. ‘Rome is the best hope for mankind.’

‘I doubt that’s a view shared by those we have crushed on the battlefield and made into slaves.’ Macro stared into the small flames licking up from the charred wood and ash of the fire. ‘You’re an idealist, Cato. A romantic. There is no more to it than a test of strength. We conquer because that is what Rome does, and we are good at it.’

‘There is more to it than brute strength …’ Cato began, then he paused. ‘All right, there is that. But Rome has more, much more, to offer than simply the sword. Or it might have, but for some of the emperors. I’ve seen them at close hand. Tiberius and that monster, Gaius. Each of them has wielded power with carelessness and cruelty. Claudius, for all his faults, has tried to be better. The question is, do you think young Britannicus, or Nero, will continue his good work?’

‘I hadn’t even thought about it.’ Macro yawned. ‘As long as they can pay to maintain the legions and leave the campaigning up to the professionals, then that’s all that concerns me.’

Cato stared at him. ‘I don’t believe you. You think I don’t know what stirs your heart?’

Macro turned to face him. ‘Even if I felt some of what you do about all this, then I’m old enough to know that it is a waste of time to even think about it any more. Will you change the world? Will I? No. That’s not for us. It never was, never will be. Not for men of our class. Do you not think that I once felt as you do?’ Macro paused, and continued in a kindly tone, ‘It is like a sweet delirium and age is the cure. Now, I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. You should rest too.’

Macro eased himself up, half-empty wineskin in hand, and nodded to Cato before walking across to the flap of the section tent and disappearing inside. Cato drew up his knees and wrapped his arms round them as he stared into the wavering glow of the fire. Macro’s blunt outlook on life angered and frustrated in him equal measure, as ever. Cato’s heart was young enough to harbour boundless dreams and desires to shape his future, and he demanded that others should think as he did. If they did not then it was through lack of vision or inclination. Yet, even as he felt the heat of ambition in his heart, Cato’s mind coldly considered his friend’s point of view. There was wisdom in Macro’s words, but when wisdom is proffered from the position of greater age and experience it is seldom palatable.

The night air was chilly and Cato trembled as he hunched his body to try to stay warm. Beyond the fire he could make out the mass of the imperial pavilion, its white paint dimly luminous in the starlight. He wondered what preoccupied the minds of men like Claudius, and his heirs. Men not doomed to the obscurity that was the fate of the masses. For all his ambitions and dreams, Cato well knew that a hundred, a thousand, years hence men would still talk of Claudius, while the names of Macro and Cato, and countless others, would be buried and forgotten in the dust of history. He stared at the outline of the imperial pavilion with simmering resentment for a long time, as the last heat from the fire faded away.

‘Well,’ he muttered to himself at length, then stood up. ‘You’re a cheery bugger, aren’t you?’

As he made his way towards the tent, Cato saw a figure moving along the far side of the tent line. As he passed one of the braziers lit to warm the sentries, Cato recognised the features of Tigellinus. He exchanged a salute with one of the men on watch. So, Cato mused, there’s another man whose troubled mind was denying him sleep. He watched a moment longer as the centurion continued into the night, in the direction of the prisoner pens, and then Cato ducked inside the goatskin section tent, felt his way carefully to his bedroll and lay down to sleep.