CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Throughout the morning the people of Rome continued to stream down the Appian Way towards the lake. Most were families on foot, ragged and gaunt looking, with infants strapped to their mothers inside slings of soiled cloth. In among them were hawkers carrying bundles of goods or hauling handcarts laden with cushions, fans and wineskins. The usual sellers of snacks and round loaves of bread were conspicuously absent. There were only a handful of mules and ponies used to draw the carts and they were as starved as the people, ribs showing through their hides like silky cloth laid over iron bars. Most of Rome’s draught animals had already been butchered for food. Even their bones and skins had been boiled up to add to a watery broth. In among the stream of starving humanity came the better off, still adequately fed, and chatting animatedly among themselves as their slave escorts cleared a path for them with stout clubs and wooden staffs.

As they reached the shores of the lake the multitude was carefully marshalled between lines of tables where they were handed their food ration from the stockpile brought up from the storerooms of the imperial palace. In among the plain loaves of bread and strips of cured meat were luxuries that hardly any of the common people had ever heard of, let alone seen. Honeyed cakes, lark’s tongue pies, haunches of smoked venison, jars of the finest garum and pots of preserved fruit plucked in distant provinces and shipped to Rome at vast expense. Some of the recipients of the Emperor’s largesse looked at the fine food in blank incomprehension before sniffing and sampling them. Most then attempted to trade them for something more recognisable.

Clutching their rations, the people then continued on, round the lake, to find a place to sit and watch the coming spectacle. The space along the shore rapidly filled up and then the slope behind so that to Cato and Macro, watching a short distance to one side of the imperial pavilion, the opposite shore seemed to be one seething landscape of humanity speckled with colour.

‘By the gods,’ Macro marvelled. ‘I have never seen so many people. All Rome must be here, surely.’

Cato shrugged. It was hard to conceive of the number of people on the far shore. He knew that the Great Circus could hold over two hundred thousand spectators, and if the population of Rome was nearly a million souls, as he had been told, then surely most of them were here today. The streets of the capital must seem like those of a ghost town, the stillness and quiet broken only by the odd figure or voice of those too infirm to travel to the lake, or too dishonest to pass up the chance to break into empty houses and shops. Only the rich could afford to leave armed slaves behind to safeguard their property. Cato turned to look towards the diminishing reserves of food stockpiled a short distance behind the imperial pavilion and calculated that they would be exhausted by the second day of the spectacle. After that only the Sicilian grain ships stood between Emperor Claudius and a ravenous mob.

If Claudius was toppled, the Liberators would step forward with the vast supply of grain that they had hidden away somewhere in, or near, Rome. Having starved the mob into violence in the first place, the Liberators would then play the part of public-spirited benefactors. The thought made the blood burn in Cato’s veins. He pushed his anger aside and forced himself to concentrate. In the Liberators’ place, where would he store so much grain?

‘Heads up, lads!’ Fuscius called out. ‘Banquet’s over. Stand to!’

The imperial party had been dining under a large open-sided tent and the last notes of music from the flutes and harps of a Greek ensemble died away as Claudius led his family and advisers past the other guests who had hurriedly risen to their feet. They emerged into the bright sunshine and the men of Burrus’s cohort snapped smartly to attention, javelins and shields held firmly in each hand. Three centuries stood lined up either side of the short route from the banqueting tent to the garlanded entrance of the pavilion, beyond which a wide staircase led up to the viewing platform. The German bodyguards were already in place, positioned around the imperial box where Claudius and his family would sit on cushioned chairs.

The Sixth Century, still enjoying the particular gratitude of Claudius, had the honour of guarding the outside of the pavilion while the rest of the cohort was to be held back a short distance in case they were needed to assist the auxiliaries guarding the food stockpile and prisoner pens.

Once the Emperor and his entourage had entered the pavilion, Burrus marched the other five centuries away and Centurion Tigellinus began to dispose his men around the perimeter of the pavilion. Cato and Macro were posted to a shaded spot just below the reviewing stand.

‘Here we go,’ said Macro, gesturing towards the prisoner pens. ‘The show’s about to start.’

Cato turned his head and saw the first batch of prisoners being led out through one of the gates. They were herded down to the ships by the shore and there half of them were issued helmets, shields, swords and armour from the back of a wagon. The other half were directed up the wooden ramp to the first ship’s deck and then ordered below to man the oars.

‘Look at that kit,’ Macro remarked. ‘They must have emptied the Temple of Mars for that lot. Celt, Greek, Numidian. Some of that stuff must date back to before the civil war.’

Once the prisoners had been armed they boarded the vessel and loosely formed up on deck to await their officers. The two fleets were distinguished by the colour of the pennants flying from the top of each mast. The fight had been billed as a re-enactment of the battle of Salamis where the Greek warships had taken on a much larger Persian fleet and won the day. The ships chosen to represent the Persians carried light blue pennants, while those playing the part of the Greeks carried scarlet colours. One by one the other ships were similarly manned and then finally, two hours after midday, the admirals in command of the two fleets and the ships’ officers were assembled before the reviewing stand. Most of them were professional gladiators, chosen to provide the discipline and leadership needed to lead the vast number of barely trained criminals and slaves who had been forced to take part in the spectacle. Looking over them Cato could see that they were in fine condition and some carried scars from previous combat. Tigellinus called out the four sections of men that he had been holding in reserve to form a line between the fighters and the reviewing stand.

The gladiators and the Praetorians stood facing each other in silence, until Narcissus emerged on the reviewing stand and crossed to the rail to look out over the raised faces of the men who would lead thousands of men to their deaths on the lake.

Narcissus was silent for a moment before he began his address in a harsh tone. ‘In a moment the Emperor will be before you to acknowledge your salute, before the Naumachia begins. I would prefer that you were all chosen men, the very best that could do honour to the spectacle that you are privileged to take part in. But you are not. You are all that could be scraped together in the time available. Little better than the scum on those ships that you will be commanding. That said, I demand the best from you. As do they.’ He pointed towards the far shore. ‘Put on a good show. Make sure that you and your men fight well and those that survive may be rewarded.’

As the imperial secretary had been speaking, Cato noticed that some of the gladiators and the other fighters looked confused and some turned to mutter angrily to each other.

‘Silence there!’ Narcissus yelled. ‘Stand still, and show respect for your Emperor!’

He turned and nodded to the bucinators standing either side of the doorway that led on to the reviewing platform. They raised their instruments, pursed their lips and blew several strident notes, rising in pitch. As the signal faded, Claudius stepped into the bright sunshine. The golden wreath on his unkempt snow-white hair gleamed brilliantly. The impression of his finely embroidered toga was marred somewhat by the splatters of sauce that ran down the front of it. He held a gold cup in his hand and made his way unsteadily to the rail. Narcissus bowed before him and backed to the side.

‘Gladiators!’ Narcissus called out. ‘Greet your Emperor!’

There was a pause before the men mumbled an uneven salute whose words were barely distinguishable. Claudius, bemused by the wine he had consumed, could not help laughing and as the salute died away he shook his head.

‘Come, you men. You c-c-can do better than that, surely?’ The Emperor raised his free hand. ‘On three! Ready? One, t-t-two, three!’

‘Hail, Caesar!’ the fighters bellowed in one voice. ‘We salute you, those who are about to die!’

Claudius shook his head as he saw that some of the men had not joined in. He raised his cup and slurred, ‘Or not, as the case may be. On that I gi-give you my word.’

The gladiators glanced at one another as they digested what the Emperor had just said. Claudius turned to Narcissus and muttered.

‘Get ‘em on the ships and start the ba-battle, before any more time is w-w-wasted.’

‘As you command, sire.’

The Emperor turned and lurched back towards the interior of the pavilion, wine slopping from his cup. As soon as he was gone Narcissus hurried to the rail.

‘To your ships! Prepare for battle!’

Cato was watching the fighters closely. Several were talking animatedly and the rest were clustering round, shouting their support.

‘There’s trouble.’

‘What are they saying?’ asked Macro. ‘Can’t quite make it out.’

Cato caught the odd word but not enough to make any sense and he shook his head. Above them Narcissus’s voice rang out again, shrill and angry.

‘Get to your ships or I swear I will crucify every last one of you who survives the fight!’

The fighters parted and one of the gladiators stepped forward, thumbs tucked into his belt as he gazed defiantly at the imperial secretary. ‘Nothing doing. We all heard the Emperor, as you did. It was clear enough what he said. We’re pardoned. The fight is off.’

Macro turned to Cato with a surprised expression, and Cato shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘What did you say?’ Narcissus asked in astonishment.

‘The Naumachia. It’s off. That’s what the Emperor said.’

‘Are you mad? What are you talking about?’

The gladiator frowned. ‘It was clear enough to us. He said we weren’t to die. He gave his word. You heard it from his own lips. The Emperor’s word is law. There was a rumour going through the pens last night that the spectacle was off. Looks like it was true after all.’

‘He meant nothing of the sort, you fool! Now get to your ships!’

The gladiator turned to look at his nearest supporters and there was a muted exchange before he turned back to Naricissus and folded his arms. ‘We are pardoned men. The Emperor said as much. We demand to be set free at once.’

‘You demand?’ Narcissus choked. ‘How dare you, slave!’ The imperial secretary leant over the rail and shouted down to Tigellinus. ‘Centurion, kill that man, and any others who refuse to obey their orders.’

There was a brief pause and the air filled with tension as the gladiators and the other fighters reached for the handles of their swords. Centurion Tigellinus stepped in front of his line of men and looked up at Narcissus. ‘Sir?’

Narcissus stabbed a finger at him. ‘Do as you are ordered, or you’ll share his fate. Do it!’

Tigellinus stepped back into line, raised his shield and drew his sword. He sucked in a nervous breath and called out the order. ‘Sixth Century! Advance javelins!’

There was a loud stamp as the guardsmen planted one foot forward and then lowered the tips of their javelins at an angle towards the gladiators. Cato looked over the men opposite and calculated that there must be at least eighty of them, more or less even odds if the situation got out of hand. Beside him Macro fixed his stare on their leader and growled, ‘I had hoped never to fight slaves again. Gladiators least of all.’

‘A sestertius to a denarius that this lot were trained at the school in Rome,’ Cato muttered.

Macro glanced at him. The Great School was famed throughout the empire for the quality of the gladiators it turned out. Macro sucked in a deep breath. ‘Then we’re in trouble.’

Centurion Tigellinus must have shared their anxiety and turned to order one of the men to run to Tribune Burrus to request reinforcements. As the guardsman hurried off, Tigellinus raised his shield and turned it to face the gladiators. ‘Sixth Century, at the walk, advance!’

The line of Praetorians rippled forward, their ceremonial armour gleaming on top of their spotless white tunics. It had been some time since Cato and Macro had fought as part of a battle line, rather than in command of one, and Cato concentrated on keeping the length of his pace the same as the men on either side of him. Before him the leader of the gladiators stretched out a hand towards Narcissus.

‘Tell the Praetorians to halt! Or it’ll be the blood of your men that’s shed. And the Emperor will hold you responsible, freedman.’ His voiced dripped with contempt as he uttered the last word.

Cato glanced back quickly and saw Narcissus glaring down on the scene, his lips pressed together in a narrow line.

‘Gladiators!’ their leader bellowed. ‘Draw your weapons!’

The air filled with the sharp rasp and rattle of blades being ripped from their scabbards and Cato raised his oval shield higher so that it protected his torso and the lower part of his face. The gladiators were less than twenty paces away. Behind them a palisade stretched from the shore to the pens. A handful of auxiliary troops in a watch-tower beyond the palisade had witnessed the confrontation and one was now calling down to his colleagues to alert them. There would be no escape for the gladiators in that direction, Cato decided. Indeed, there would be no escape for them in any direction. They could only stand their ground and die, or make for the ships. Those who had already boarded crowded on to the foredecks to watch and Cato prayed that they would not be fired by the indignant zeal that had caused their leaders to defy Narcissus. Fortunately, they were far enough away not to have heard the Emperor’s offhand remark and the bitter exchange it had provoked.

The leader of the gladiators lowered himself into a crouch and held his buckler forward of his body, ready to punch it into the face of the first enemy that dared to oppose him. His sword was drawn back, ready to stab. The other men quickly followed his example, spreading out to give themselves space to move. Cato could not help wondering at the difference in fighting styles between the gladiators and the Praetorians. One side trained to fight as individuals, experts in the techniques required for the individual duels that defined their lives. Ranged against them were the elite soldiers of Rome, drilled to fight in disciplined battle lines, each man just one part of a machine.

Tigellinus called out to them, ‘Save yourselves! Give up that man and you will be spared.’

‘Fuck you!’ a voice screamed back.

Their leader’s lips parted in a feral grin and he slapped his cuirass with the flat of his sword. ‘Come and get me!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘So be it,’ Tigellinus responded coldly. ‘Sixth Century, halt! Ready javelins!’

Cato and Macro drew up with the rest of the men, and then adjusted their grip and hefted the javelins back and tensed their muscles ready to hurl the missiles when the centurion gave the order. Cato had lived through this moment in previous battles and waited for the enemy to flinch and waver. Instead the gladiators held their ground, unmoving, their eyes fixed unblinking on the Praetorians, their muscles poised to dodge the first strike of their opponents.

‘Try for their leader,’ said Macro. ‘If he goes down, the rest may give up.’

Cato nodded.

‘Release!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato hurled his arm forward, throwing his weight through the line of the javelin’s flight and releasing his grasp at the last instant. The dark shaft arced up into the air with the others javelins of Tigellinus’s century. They rose up between the two bodies of men and then seemed to slow at the top of their arc before plunging down. The gladiators had developed sharp reflexes as part of their training and darted aside as the javelins landed among them. Only a handful of men were struck down, one skewered through the top of his skull, the point passing down his neck and deep into his body. Cato saw the man stagger on the impact, then hold still before he pitched forward and was lost from view. Two more were mortally wounded as the deadly iron lengths of the javelin heads ripped through their torsos. The last, standing directly in front of Cato, howled as the javelin slammed through his boot and pinned his foot to the ground. The remainder, incredibly, had escaped harm.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Macro. ‘They’re good. Never seen men move so damned fast.’

‘Draw swords!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato grasped the handle of his weapon, taking care to lock his fingers firmly round the leather grip, knowing full well that it was fatal for a fighter’s sword to slip in his hand during battle. He pulled the weapon from his scabbard and held it level, the side of the blade resting against the trim of his shield with no more than six inches protruding beyond the shield. On either side of him the rest of the guardsmen continued to advance on the gladiators, sword points glinting.

Their leader, unharmed by the Praetorians’ javelins, swiftly sheathed his blade and snatched at one of the shafts angled into the ground. He yelled to his followers. ‘Come on, lads, give them some of their own medicine!’

He hurled the javelin towards the guardsmen, now less than twenty paces away. He could hardly miss the line of shields and gleaming helmets bearing down on him. The javelin punched through the shield of the man next to Macro, bursting through his shield arm and lodging hard against the guardsman’s mailed chest, before the weight of the shaft dragged his shield and arm down. He let out a roar of pain as his pace faltered and he dropped out of line, sheathing his sword, and then wrenched his shield arm free in a welter of blood.

‘Close up!’ Macro ordered instinctively. ‘Close the line!’

Several of the gladiators followed their leader’s example and four more of the guardsmen went down before Tigellinus could react to the danger and prevent the loss of more of his men.

‘Charge!’ he cried desperately. ‘Charge!’

Macro’s mouth opened wide as he let out a deafening roar of battle rage, then he lowered his head and pounded forward. Cato gritted his teeth and stayed close to Macro’s flank. Ahead of them the gladiators braced themselves for the impact. Those with javelins still in hand grasped the shafts tightly, ready to use the weapons as spears. There was a rolling clatter of thuds and grunts, broken by the sharp ringing rattle of blades clashing as the Praetorians surged in among their foes.

Macro made straight for a barrel-chested German with shaggy hair tied back from his face. The man raised his heavy round shield and held a falcata out to the side, ready to strike. He bared his teeth in a snarl and leaped forward. The shields crashed together forcefully, but the greater momentum was with Macro. He threw his weight in behind his shield for good measure, causing the German to stumble back a couple of paces. Even so he was trained to recover swiftly and savagely parried Macro’s thrust, sending the point wide. Good as his responses and technique were, it was his training for individual combat that did for him. His attention was fixed on Macro and it was only at the last instant that he recognised the threat from Cato, coming from the other side. Cato punched his shield in, catching the German hard on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He went down, his wide back bent over one knee. Cato struck without hesitation, ramming his blade deep between the shoulder blades, ripping through muscle and shattering the man’s ribs and spine. He wrenched the blade free, with a spray of hot blood, and instantly turned to guard against any attack.

‘Good kill, lad,’ Macro acknowledged.

The skirmish raged around them, the gladiators holding their own as they fended off the Praetorians’ blows with their shields or parried them away with deft flicks of their wrists. As Cato watched he caught sight of the leader as the man slammed his buckler into a guardsman’s helmet, snapping his head aside. Then the gladiator followed through with a powerful thrust into the exposed throat, ripping the blade free at once as he stepped back, lowering his body into a crouch, looking round for his next opponent. There were other Praetorians on the ground, Cato noted, and only two gladiators. Only the armour and larger shields of the Praetorians were saving them from suffering even more casualties in the uneven fight.

‘We’re losing this,’ Macro observed. ‘We’d better do something. We have to take charge.’

Cato nodded, keeping his eyes on the fight. It would draw attention to them, and there would be those who might wonder at their easy assumption of command - if they survived the skirmish.

Macro snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Praetorians! On me! On me!’

Cato echoed the cry. The nearest of their comrades began to edge towards them and quickly a small ring formed, shield to shield, as the guardsmen sought the protection of the formation.

‘Hold your position!’ Macro called. ‘There’ll be help any moment! Hold on!’

Tigellinus had echoed the cry and a second ring of Praetorians had formed a short distance away. The rest fought back to back or were locked in a series of individual combats across the open ground. Cato kept his shield up as he stood beside Macro. Glancing to the other side he saw Fuscius breathing heavily. The optio’s eyes were wide and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Despite the fierceness of his expression his arms were trembling and the end of his sword wavered as he pointed it at his foes.

‘We’re safe enough,’ Cato said to him. ‘If we keep together and hold the formation.’

Fuscius glanced at him quickly and then looked back, nodding vigorously.

The gladiators surrounded the ring, but there was no coordinated attempt to charge home. Instead each man seemed to have chosen a particular soldier as his opponent and either stood sizing them up or darted forward to attempt to slip their weapon round the shield. Some made feints and then tried to strike. In all cases the presence of the soldiers on either flank of their chosen target foiled their attempts. This was not the kind of fight they had been trained for and their frustration was evident. There was a lull in their attacks. Cato sensed the opportunity to make a fresh appeal to them to end the fight.

‘You cannot win!’ he called out. ‘There’ll be more soldiers here any moment. You’ll be cut to pieces if you resist. Lower your swords!’

‘We die either way, brothers!’ the leader called out. ‘Out there fighting to entertain Romans, or here and now, fighting Romans! Fight on!’

With a bellow of rage the gladiator charged at the man just beyond Fuscius and punched high with his shield, forcing the Praetorian to raise his shield to counter the blow. At the same time he drew his arm back and swung it in a hooking arc, under and round the bottom of the guardsman’s shield, then up in a vicious thrust into the Praetorian’s groin. So hard was the blow that it drove the air from the man’s lungs and almost lifted him off his feet as the blade punched up into his vital organs. With a savage cry of triumph the gladiator ripped his sword free and leaped back, then punched the gore-stained blade into the air.

‘Kill them! Kill them all, my brothers!’

There was a chorus of roars and shouting from his companions as they closed round the two rings of Praetorians and hacked and slashed at the shields and helmets.

‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’

Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily down on the scene.

‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’

Macro nodded and braced himself in a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Ready, lad?’

‘Ready.’

‘Now! Disengage.’ Macro stepped back into the ring, closely followed by Cato. At once Macro called out another order. ‘Close up!’

Fuscius and the man to Macro’s right edged towards each other while Cato and Macro sidestepped round until they were lined up with the gladiators’ leader. Cato moved forward, pushing between two of his comrades. ‘Make way there! Make way.’

The guardsmen shuffled aside to let them in and Macro stared intently at the man no more than eight feet away. ‘We’ll take him when he next strikes. On my command.’

Cato tightened his grip on his sword and felt his blood surging through his veins, making his muscles tingle with the familiar tension of battle. The gladiator fixed his eyes on Macro who grinned and beckoned with his sword hand. ‘Go on then! Try me, if you dare!’ Macro moved his shield arm to the side to expose his chest, taunting his opponent.

The gladiator’s brow creased and he roared, ‘Then die, you bastard!’

He sprang forward, sword angled up at Macro’s throat. Macro kept his shield low and swung his sword up to parry the blow. At the last moment the gladiator did a cut over and redirected his attack at the angle between Macro’s helmet and his shoulder. The same instant Cato leaped forward, slamming his shield into the gladiator’s side as his sword hacked down into the other man’s extended sword arm. The edge cut deep into muscle before jarring against bone. The arm spasmed and the fingers exploded away from the sword handle so that the weapon clattered clumsily off the double layer of mail on Macro’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from his wound as he let out an animal howl of rage and pain. His followers parted around him, pulling back from the Romans, staring aghast at their leader. His sword arm hung uselessly at his side. He cast his buckler to the ground and clamped his shield hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

‘Come on,’ Macro muttered to Cato. ‘Let’s finish this.’

They stepped forward warily, watching for danger, but the gladiators kept their distance. Their leader had slumped down on to his knees, eyes clenched as he fought to contain the agony of his injury. Macro stood over him while Cato faced the others, his shield up, ready to deal with any man who sprang to the gladiator’s aid.

‘Your leader is beaten!’ Macro called out. ‘He is finished! Sheath your weapons if you don’t want to die with him here!’

There was a pause as the other men waited for a response from their leader. Macro ground his teeth in fury before he snarled, ‘Do it! Do as I say, or there will be no mercy for you!’

The first of the gladiators hesitantly returned his blade to its scabbard. Another followed his lead, then more as the rest drew away from the Praetorians and did as Macro ordered. Their wounded leader remained on his knees, gazing around him fiercely. ‘Fight, damn you! Fight back. You were promised freedom by the Emperor. Now fight for it, or it will be taken from you!’

‘The man’s a bloody l-l-liar!’ Claudius shouted drunkenly. ‘I said no such thing! The cheek of the fellow! Kill him. K-ki-kill any of them who refuse to lower their swords. Quickly.’ He gestured to the far side of the lake and the sound of a slow mocking clap carried across the water. ‘Don’t test their patience any longer.’

The leader of the gladiators saw that his cause was lost. He glanced up at Macro and spoke quietly. ‘Make it quick.’

Macro nodded. The gladiator reached out with his good arm and clasped it round the back of Macro’s knee and tipped his head back and to the side to expose his neck and collar bone. Macro knew that the warriors of the arena were trained how to die with no show of fear, and only the faint tremor in the man’s hand as it clutched the back of his knee betrayed his real feelings. Leaning his shield against his side, Macro raised his sword, then felt for the slight notch behind the man’s collar bone. Then he eased the tip of the sword against the flesh, not hard enough to break the skin.

‘Ready?’

The gladiator nodded and closed his eyes.

‘On three,’ Macro said calmly. ‘One …’

He punched the sword down with all his strength, thrusting the blade through the gladiator’s vital organs, into the heart. The impact caused him to gasp, his jaw jerking down as his eyes opened and bulged. Macro gave the sword a twist and then yanked it out, the blood welling up from the open mouth of the wound in a swift torrent. The gladiator swayed a moment and then toppled on to his back, staring up at the sky as he gasped one last time and died. There was a brief stillness around the scene and Cato heard the shout of orders and the tramp of boots as Tribune Burrus led the rest of the cohort towards them. The sound drew the attention of some of the other fighters and they backed away towards the palisade. A handful of others followed suit, then more, until only a few men remained under arms, glaring defiantly at the Praetorians.

‘Sixth Century!’ Tigellinus called out. ‘Form line!’

The men hurried into place. Macro paused to use the hem of the gladiator’s tunic to wipe the blood off his blade, then he and Cato joined the others. Several bodies lay stretched out on the ground, most of them Praetorians, and the wounded among them moaned with pain.

‘Last chance,’ Tigellinus called out to the men who still defied the order to put aside their weapons. ‘Sheath your blades, or die.’

‘Then die it is!’ one of the men, a tall muscular easterner, cried out. His dark lips drew back in a snarl and he charged at the Praetorians. There was a brief flurry of blows as he struck out at one of his foes, driving him back from the line. Then the Praetorians on either side turned on the gladiator. He managed to parry the first stroke before being stabbed in the side. He pulled himself off the blade with a groan and was at once struck from the other side, and then from the front. A few more savage blows cut him to the ground where he slumped, chest heaving as he bled out.

The brutal end to his show of defiance unnerved the last men still standing with swords in their hands and they returned them to their scabbards and backed away. Behind them, the auxiliaries appeared along the walkway behind the palisade, javelins held at the ready.

‘Just in time,’ Macro commented sourly.

A moment later Tribune Burrus reached the scene and deployed his men on either side of the Sixth Century, hemming in the gladiators. He strode up to the reviewing platform and saluted the Emperor. ‘Your orders, sire?’

Claudius’s expression was cold and merciless and the fingers of one hand drummed on the rail while his other hand tightly clenched the goblet.

‘There is only one f-fate for those who defy the Emperor. I would have you all slaughtered here and now … were it not for that rabble over there.’ Claudius nodded at those who covered the hills on the far side of the lake. The disgruntled clapping had reached a crescendo. ‘As it is,’ he continued, ‘you will die out there, on the water, if there is any justice. B-b-burrus!’

‘Sire?’

‘Get these scum on to their ships at once.’

‘Yes, sire.’

With a last scowl, Claudius turned away from the rail and made his way back into the pavilion. Burrus strode through the ranks of his men and approached the gladiators. Placing his hands on his hips he glared at them.

‘You heard the Emperor. When you get on those ships I’d be sure to put up a good fight if I were you. Impress the mob enough and some of you may walk away from this alive. Off you go.’

The gladiators began to shuffle towards the waiting ships.

‘MOVE!’ Burrus yelled at them. ‘You’ve buggered about long enough already! Run, you bastards, before I have my men shove their javelins up your arses.’

The men picked up the pace and trotted down towards the shore. One of them held back and approached the tribune tentatively.

‘Well?’ Burrus barked at him.

‘Sir, the leader of our fleet is dead.’ The gladiator indicated the man Macro had killed. ‘We have no commander.’

‘You do now.’ Burrus thrust a finger at him. ‘The job’s yours. Get out of my sight.’

The gladiator bowed nervously and then ran off to the largest of the ships flying red pennants from their masts. When the last of the men had boarded their vessels, the gangways were hauled aboard and then the fighting men crowded to the rear in order to raise the bows high enough for the men at the oars to be able to back the ships away from the shore. To Macro and Cato, who had served with the navy during a campaign against a nest of pirates, the manoeuvres of the scratch fleets of Persians and Greeks appeared clumsy. Even so, at the sight of the ships making their way to their start lines, the crowd on the far side of the lake rose to their feet and the slow clapping stopped.

With the gladiators no longer presenting any danger to the Emperor, Tribune Burrus stood his cohort down and the Sixth Century took up their positions around the pavilion. The bodies of the dead were removed by the auxiliaries while the wounded were hurriedly tended to by the imperial physician who did not want to miss the spectacle taking place on the lake.

As the two battle lines formed half a mile apart, across the width of the lake, Centurion Tigellinus made the rounds of his men. Cato and Macro stood to attention as he approached. Tigellinus regarded them closely for a moment before he spoke.

‘That was quick thinking back there,’ he said quietly. ‘When you called on the men to form up.’

‘Seemed like the best thing to do in the situation, sir,’ Macro replied.

‘I see. It was as if you were used to issuing commands. A man who did not know better might think you had been an officer once. An optio perhaps, or even a centurion.’

Macro’s gaze did not waver as he responded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘I did not mean it as a compliment, Calidus. It was an observation. Tell me, how is it that two rankers are able to behave so like men used to command?’

There was no mistaking the suspicion in the centurion’s face.

Macro pursed his lips calmly. ‘There’s not much to tell, sir. When you’ve served in as many campaigns as I have, you learn to do what circumstances demand. There’s been more than one occasion when my centurion’s been knocked on the head in a battle, the optio too. Then someone has to step up and take charge. I’ve done it a few times, so has Capito here. So would any veteran worth his salt, sir.’

Tigellinus considered his reply, and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Then it’s as well that you’re on my side. When the time comes, a few good men may well change the destiny of Rome.’ The centurion stepped closer and glanced from one man to the other. ‘There’s more to you two than I thought. That had better be a good thing.’

Cato frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘I’ve a few inquiries to make. If you two turn out to be anything other than what you claim you are, then you’ll be joining Lurco as soon as it can be arranged.’

He did not wait for a reply but turned on his heel and strode away. Cato let out a long anxious breath. ‘We’re in the deepest of shit, my friend.’

‘Bollocks we are,’ Macro replied. ‘Our cover story is sound enough. By the time he can discover anything about us, the job will be over and we’ll be far from Rome. As long as Narcissus lives up to his promise.’

‘Like I said, we’re in the shit.’ Cato stared at the retreating back of Tigellinus and added, ‘I hope you’re right about him.’

They were interrupted by the blare of trumpets from the other side of the pavilion and turned to look out across the lake. Two barges were anchored between the two fleets and a large rock-filled basket was suspended between them. As soon as the signal was given, the men on the barges cut the basket loose and it splashed into the water.

Macro frowned. ‘What’s that all about?’

As they continued to watch, there was a disturbance in the water a short distance from the two barges. Three gleaming spikes emerged from the lake, followed by a shaft and then a hand and an arm. As the water cascaded off the rising object, Macro shook his head in wonder. ‘What the hell is that?’

Cato smiled. ‘That is Apollodorus’s little crowd-pleasing opener, I think.’

Now it was clear what the object was - a huge likeness of Neptune, painted gold, and as the counterweight sank to the bottom of the lake, the impressive device that the engineer had promised Claudius stood a good twenty feet tall, water lapping at the feet as if the structure was standing on the surface. A great cheer rose up from the far shore and a flickering shimmer rippled along the slopes overlooking the lake as the crowd waved coloured strips of cloth to emphasise their approval.

‘Oh, that’s good!’ Macro grinned in delight. ‘Very clever.’

Meanwhile the crews of the two barges were rowing frantically for the shore, anxious to get clear of the two fleets before they clashed. Another blast from the trumpets provided the signal for the Naumachia to begin. There was a brief defiant cheer from each of the two fleets of twenty vessels and then the steady sound of drumbeats from the timekeepers on each ship. The oars stroked the water in a clumsy rhythm as the small warships gradually gained speed. Some were faster than others and the lines quickly became ragged, made more chaotic still by the inability of a handful to steer a straight course.

‘Not the most impressive display of nautical skills I’ve ever seen,’ commented Cato. ‘Even the greenest crew in the fleet would run rings round that lot.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Macro responded irritably. ‘Why don’t you stop coming the seasoned veteran with me and just enjoy the show, eh?’

Cato glanced at his friend. ‘The calm reserve of old hands …’

‘Shhh!’

The leading ships were within missile range of each other and now Cato could make out a thin waft of smoke from the decks of each vessel. An instant later an arrow from one of the blue-pennanted ships traced a fiery arc across the open water, leaving a fine smoky trail behind to briefly mark its passage. The arrow plunged into the lake a good fifty feet short of the bow of the nearest enemy ship.

‘So much for eastern archery,’ Macro chuckled. ‘That was way off.’

The failure of the first shot to reach the target did not stop the inexperienced archers on both vessels from loosing off more arrows and the surface of the lake was peppered with tiny splashes as the two ships closed on each other. There was no attempt to manoeuvre into a better position to use the ram and the two crashed into each other, glancing off as they struck bow to bow. The makeshift mast of the Greek ship snapped close to the deck and pitched forward, rigging snaking behind it, toppling on to the fighters crowded on the foredeck. An excited cheer came from the far shore. As the men struggled to free themselves from the rigging, their opponents hurled grappling hooks across and hauled the ships together before the first men scrambled aboard. From the shore the distant glint of swords and armour told little of which side had the upper hand.

More ships clumsily made their way into the fray and those that had been slowest to get off the mark now reaped the benefit of being able to pick a target to ram in the beam. The first such attack was crudely handled and the speed was too slow for the ram to break through the hull. The crew backpaddled a short distance to try again, only to be caught by one of their foes full on. Slivers of wood from shattered oars burst into the air as the small ship reeled under the impact, pitching men into the water. A handful of those in armour managed to remain briefly on the surface before the weight dragged them under. The shocking impact of the ramming ship also proved to be its undoing as the brazier used for lighting the fire arrows tipped over, spilling burning embers across the deck which quickly set fire to the tarred rigging. Soon the vessel was ablaze and flames, fanned by the gentle breeze blowing down the lake, spread to the ship that had been rammed. The fighting ceased as the men of both sides made to save themselves, desperately stripping off armour before grabbing anything that might give them buoyancy and jumping over the side.

‘Poor devils,’ Cato muttered as the vast audience cried out with delight.

Within two hours of the signal for the battle to begin the surface of the lake was littered with debris from the ships. One vessel had sunk and three more were on fire. The rest were locked in a series of duels and tangled melees, to the cheers of the crowd as they tucked into the food issued to them earlier in the day by the Emperor’s officials. Watching them, and hearing the occasional loud comments from the pavilion, Cato conceded that the spectacle was succeeding admirably as a diversion from the difficulties besetting the capital. If the entertainment and provisioning could be eked out for another day or two then the Naumachia had succeeded in its purpose.

The sound of hoofbeats drew his attention away from the lake and he turned to see an imperial courier galloping along the shore from the direction of the road leading back to the capital. The rider was bent low over his mount, urging it on as the foam spattered back from either side of the bit in its mouth. He reined in sharply in front of the pavilion and swung himself down from the saddle before running towards the stairs leading up to the Emperor’s box.

‘What’s his hurry, I wonder.’ Macro rubbed his cheek. ‘Bad news?’

‘When was the last time there was any good news?’ Cato replied.

They turned back to watch the fight, but Cato could not help wondering what tidings the courier had brought to the Emperor in such haste. The light was beginning to fade as the sun slipped below the horizon. The trumpets sounded again, and according to their strict instructions the surviving ships of both fleets began to disengage and limp back towards the shore on which the pavilion stood. The small ships divided either side of the pavilion and it was possible to count them and see that the Persians had won the upper hand on this first day of the spectacle. One by one the ships beached and the weary crews and fighters stumbled down the gangways and were swiftly disarmed and herded away to their pens by vigilant auxiliary troops.

Macro nudged Cato and pointed briefly. ‘Look there, isn’t that Septimus?’

Cato looked in the direction Macro had indicated and saw four men loaded down with wineskins under the direction of an individual in the plain purple tunic of one of the servants on the palace staff. A quick glance was enough to confirm the man’s identity.

‘It’s him.’

‘Then what’s he doing here?’

‘Has to be something to do with Narcissus.’

Macro glanced wearily at Cato. ‘I worked that out for myself, thank you.’

They watched as the party moved from one group of Praetorians to the next, working their way towards Cato and Macro. As they approached, Septimus indicated the wineskins and called out, ‘A token of his imperial majesty’s gratitude to his loyal soldiers!’

Septimus clicked his fingers and one of the men began to unsling one of the wineskins. Septimus moved closer to the two soldiers and continued to smile pleasantly as he spoke in an urgent undertone.

‘Narcissus sent me as soon as the courier had passed on his message. It was the only way to get a message to you without attracting attention. Say nothing. Just take the wine and listen.’ Septimus glanced round to make sure that there was no one else close enough to hear, then continued in a whisper, ‘There is news from Ostia. The grain fleet from Sicilia was lost in a storm. Only two ships survived, and they were forced to dump most of their cargo over the side.’

Macro whistled softly. ‘That’s buggered things up.’

‘You don’t say,’ Septimus responded drily. ‘The Emperor was counting on that grain to keep order in Rome once the Naumachia is over. And now …’

He left the sentence unfinished and Cato could readily imagine the chaos that would break loose on the streets of the capital once the people discovered that nothing could save them from starvation. Cato reached for the wineskin that one of the slaves was holding out to him. He spoke to Septimus in a low voice. ‘What does Narcissus intend to do?’

‘There’s not much he can do. It will be up to the Praetorian Guard to keep order on the streets at any cost. Prefect Geta has suggested that he returns to Rome and calls out the rest of the Guard to start preparing the defence of the imperial palace, the senate house and the temples. Claudius will remain here tonight and watch the games in the morning before he and the rest of the imperial family slip away.’

‘What does Narcissus want us to do?’ asked Macro.

‘Nothing yet. Just be ready to act when he sends word.’

‘There is something that we can do,’ said Cato. ‘Something that we have to do now.’

‘Oh?’

‘Find that grain that’s missing from the warehouse.’ Cato stared fixedly into Septimus’s eyes. ‘You tell Narcissus we must find it. The Praetorian Guard won’t be able to hold back the mob for long. Only that grain can save the Emperor now.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The next day, once the spectators’ attention was fixed on the renewal of the fighting on the lake, the Emperor discreetly departed, accompanied by only the Empress, Nero and Britannicus. Most of his retinue remained in the pavilion to cover his absence. Tribune Burrus left the First Century of his cohort behind to guard the pavilion and to add to the deception. The rest of his men formed a column behind the empty prisoner pens and took a little-used path between the foothills before joining the main road leading to Rome. They reached the city gate early in the afternoon and saw at once the measures being put in place by Prefect Geta. The men of the urban cohorts who usually stood guard over the gate and collected the tolls had been sent to patrol the streets and their places were taken by Praetorians.

Inside the city wall the streets were quiet and almost deserted since most of the inhabitants of Rome were enjoying the entertainment at the Albine Lake. Sections of men from the urban cohorts occupied the main crossroads. As the column crossed the Forum and approached the imperial palace, Cato noted that the doors to the temples were closed and wooden barricades comprised of sharpened stakes had been placed about the entrances. Behind the barricades stood more men from the Guard. Similar defences had been erected to protect the palace gates. Once the imperial family and its escort had been safely escorted inside, the gates of the palace were closed behind them and the locking bar was heaved into its receiver brackets for good measure.

‘Place looks like a fortress,’ Macro said quietly as he looked round at the preparations being made for the defence of the palace complex. Wagons had been positioned behind the wall either side of the gate and covered over with planks to provide a fighting step. Stocks of javelins lay in bundles on the ground beneath the wagons.

Cato shrugged. ‘Maybe, but the Praetorians can’t hope to cover every way in. The walls are easy enough to climb over in many places. It’s just a show of force. The prefect’s hoping to intimidate the common people when they return from the lake.’

‘They’ll behave, once they see soldiers everywhere,’ Macro replied confidently.

‘You think so?’

‘Of course. They’d be mad to go up against the Praetorians and the urban cohorts. They’d be slaughtered.’

‘But they will be mad. Hunger will drive them to it, and they will have nothing to lose. In any case, the Praetorians will also be without food soon. They’ll be weakened, and perhaps even tempted to make common cause with the mob.’ Cato lowered his voice. ‘When that happens, the people who control the grain will become the real power in Rome.’

He looked around at the preparations to defend the palace, and saw more guardsmen higher up the Palatine Hill, posted on the balconies and the garden terraces. The sight provoked an unsettling thought.

‘This may look like a fortress, but it could equally be used as a prison, or a trap.’

Macro turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The imperial family are surrounded by Prefect Geta’s troops. The senate house has been sealed up and I’ll bet there will be a curfew imposed on the streets until the crisis is resolved, one way or another. Anything could happen to the Emperor and his family and Geta would be able to tell the outside world whatever story he liked. And once that hidden grain is released to the mob, they’d be grateful to whoever saved them from starvation. By the time Geta lifts the curfew, Rome might well have a new emperor, or no emperor at all.’

Macro thought for a moment before he responded. ‘You’re jumping at shadows again, lad. This is happening because the grain convoy from Sicilia was lost in that storm. The Liberators can’t have foreseen that.’

‘No, but they are prepared to take advantage of the opportunity it presents to them. Trust me, Macro, if they intend to strike, they’ll do it soon. Very soon.’

Cato looked over to where Tribune Burrus was conferring with his officers. Beyond them Prefect Geta appeared from a small entrance beneath the wide flight of stairs that ascended to the lofty portico of the palace’s main entrance. Burrus and the others stood to attention as they became aware of his approach. Geta issued a rapid series of commands and then returned to the palace as the group split up. Tigellinus strode across the courtyard to his century and called for their attention.

‘Men, the prefect says there will be trouble on the streets of the capital in the coming days. The riot we saw earlier was merely a taste of what we can expect. The food supply in the city is all but exhausted. There is barely enough left in the palace to feed us on half rations for more than two days. From tonight, rations will be cut to a third.’

There was a groan from some of the men, and a handful of angry mutters before Tigellinus snatched a deep breath and roared at his men, ‘Silence in the bloody ranks! I don’t like to go short any more than you do, but we have orders to carry out, and our duty is to protect the Emperor. The Sixth Century will take up position in the imperial accommodation suite. Apart from those barbarian thugs of the German bodyguard, we are the last line of defence.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘You will be vigilant. You will carry out your orders without question. Without question, gentlemen. This is an uncertain time, a dangerous time. When it is over, the only thing that will matter to us is that we did our duty. Optio Fuscius will take you to your stations. The cohort will be relieved at dawn. That is all.’

Tigellinus handed a set of waxed tablets to his optio and stood aside as Fuscius stepped forward and puffed out his chest to give the order. ‘Sixth Century, follow me!’

As the guardsman marched past their centurion, Tigellinus briefly fell into step alongside Cato and Macro. ‘Be ready to act on my order. Whatever that order may be. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato muttered, and Tigellinus stepped away from the column and watched the rest of his men file past.

The optio led the way up the wide stairs and through the main entrance into the palace. There was evidence of the prefect’s preparations on all sides: checkpoints at the entrance to every audience chamber and banqueting suite, and at the doors to the slave and servants’ quarters. Some entrances had been closed off and the doors barricaded by heavy items of furniture. The imperial accommodation was at the highest point of the Palatine Hill, overlooking the Forum. It comprised a range of sleeping chambers, studies and terraced gardens. There was one entrance to the suite from within the palace but a determined man could scale the walls from below and Fuscius positioned men to guard against such a threat. The optio consulted the waxed tablets that Tigellinus had handed him and pointed to Macro.

‘Calidus! You and Capito here, on the balcony outside the Emperor’s study.’

Macro nodded and he and Cato climbed the steps up on to the colonnaded balcony. Fuscius waved the rest of the men on to the largest of the terraced gardens. As they marched off, Macro turned to Cato.

‘What was Tigellinus’s little pep talk all about? The only thing that matters is that we obey orders.’ Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘Looks like you might be right about what’s going on. The Emperor’s in danger.’

At that moment there were footsteps inside the study and Macro and Cato quickly stood to attention, backs against the pillars on either side of the door leading from the balcony into the study. Out of the corner of his eye, Cato saw Claudius limp over to his desk and sit down on a padded stool. Two of his German bodyguards silently took their places on either side and a short distance behind their master. In front of the desk stood Prefect Geta, Narcissus and Pallas, together with Agrippina. Narcissus glanced towards the men guarding the access from the balcony and for an instant there was a look of surprise in his thin features, before he forced his face to assume its customary neutral expression.

Claudius flicked a finger at Geta. ‘Make your r-report, Prefect.’

‘Sire, I have six cohorts in the palace precinct. Three on duty until the morrow and three resting. The other cohorts have taken control of the city gates, the Forum and the senate house. I have ordered that the senate’s proceedings be halted until the crisis has passed.’

‘Oh?’ Claudius looked at him sharply. ‘In whose name did you give such an order?’

‘Yours, sire. You were still on your way back to the city at the time. I thought it best to act at once rather than risk any delay. For the safety of the senators.’

Claudius considered this and nodded. ‘Very well, but I will not have my officers take such d-d-decisions in my name again. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sire. My apologies.’

There was an awkward pause before Claudius spoke again. ‘So, gentlemen, what are we to do? There are a m-million people in Rome, and almost nothing to f-f-feed them with. I trust that orders have been sent to every town and village for at least a hundred m-miles to send what food they can?’

Narcissus nodded. ‘Yes, sire. I sent out messengers the moment I heard about the loss of the convoy. They carry orders to requisition whatever food and transport is available to supply Rome.’

‘On my authority as well, I dare say.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Narcissus replied. ‘As the prefect stated, there was no time to waste.’

‘I see.’ Claudius sniffed. ‘It would appear that the government of R-r-rome can continue perfectly well in my absence.’

There was another awkward silence before Claudius spoke again. ‘Anyway, even if food is requisitioned, it will not arrive in sufficient quantities to save the m-mob from starvation. Is that not true?’

‘Alas, yes, sire,’ said Narcissus. ‘That is why you and your family should leave Rome until the danger has passed.’

‘Leave Rome?’

‘Yes, sire. As soon as possible. Before the mob returns from the Naumachia and discovers what has become of the grain fleet. Once they hear the news, there will be panic and a breakdown of order. The imperial family will be in danger.’

‘Nonsense,’ Geta interrupted. ‘My men will see that you are adequately protected.’

‘You command nine thousand soldiers,’ Narcissus replied. ‘You are outnumbered a hundred to one. Even the Praetorian Guard cannot defy such odds.’

‘We’re game. Let ‘em try to break in here and see what happens.’

‘If they get over the walls of the palace, then it’s obvious what will happen. They will butcher everyone they find. Regardless of rank. That is why the imperial family must be moved to a place of safety. Outside the city.’

Pallas shook his head. ‘Out of the question. The Emperor must remain here, to set an example to his people. To share their suffering during the present difficulties, figuratively speaking. If you leave Rome, sire, they will say that you are abandoning them to their fate. You will lose their respect, their love and their loyalty. Such a loss may take years to recover, if it ever does. As one of your closest advisers, I strongly urge you to remain in the palace, under the protection of Prefect Geta and his fine soldiers. With them at hand, I cannot believe you and your family would be in any danger.’

Narcissus took half a step towards the Emperor. ‘Sire, I must protest.’

‘Enough!’ Claudius raised a hand. ‘Still your tongue, N-narcissus. I must think.’ Claudius scratched his unruly white hair. He was silent for a moment before he looked up at his wife. ‘And what do you think, my d-dear? What should I do?’

Agrippina tripped lightly round the desk and knelt before him, taking his hands in hers. ‘My dearest husband, Pallas is right. The people look to you. You cannot flee when they need you most.’

‘The Emperor is not fleeing,’ Narcissus interrupted. ‘He is merely exercising prudence for the good of Rome. What would it profit the empire to put his life, and those of his family, at risk?’

Agrippina turned and scowled at Narcissus. ‘Is it the Emperor’s life you wish to protect, or your own?’

Cato watched as Narcissus sucked in a breath and coolly addressed his reply to the Empress. ‘I have devoted my life to the service of the Emperor, my lady. His continued safety has filled my waking thoughts. My motives are selfless.’ Narcissus paused and then gestured towards Pallas. ‘I cannot think what impulse motivates my colleague here to place the Emperor in jeopardy. Pallas, my friend, why would you so willingly undermine all that I have striven to do to make our master safe from his enemies?’

The other imperial freedman gave Narcissus an icy glare before he responded in an even tone. ‘We are merely advisers to his imperial majesty. I consider it unseemly to offer my opinion in such a forceful manner as you do. The Emperor will make his own decision.’

‘Well said!’ Agrippina smiled. She turned to her husband and looked up into his face with an adoring expression. ‘It is for you to say, my dearest love. Should we stay and brave the peril that faces our people, or should we do the sensible thing, as good Narcissus suggests, and flee the city until the danger has passed?’

Claudius looked down at her fondly and cupped her cheek in his hand. Agrippina turned her head slightly to kiss his hand and then close her lips over his finger. The Emperor’s eyes fluttered for a moment before he withdrew his hand.

‘I have decided. We shall st-st-stay in Rome. It is the right thing to do. At least for tonight.’

Cato saw Narcissus’s shoulders sag a little at the words. Pallas did his best not to smirk and Geta clasped his hands behind his back, the thumb of his sword hand vigorously working the flesh of the other hand.

‘Fine words, my husband,’ said Agrippina as she stood up. ‘Brave words. But bravery alone will not sustain a man. You have not eaten all day. Come, you’ll need your strength. Let us eat together, in my bedchamber. I’ll send for some food. Your favourite dish perhaps?’

‘Mushrooms!’ Claudius grinned. ‘You are good to me, Agrippina.’

He eased himself on to his feet and straightened his back as he faced the other men in the room. ‘I have spoken my m-mind. Let it be known that the Emperor will remain in Rome.’

Geta, Pallas and Narcissus bowed their heads and stood aside as Claudius and his wife, hand in hand, made their way out of the study. Geta followed them out. The two imperial freedmen were the last to leave, as social protocol demanded. As the prefect of the Praetorian Guard left the room, Pallas turned to Narcissus with a look of cold amusement. ‘If I were you I’d take my own advice and get out of Rome, while you can.’

‘What, and leave the Emperor’s life in the hands of you and your friends?’ Narcissus spoke loudly enough for Cato and Macro to catch his remarks.

‘Friends?’

‘The Liberators. That’s who you are working for. You and Geta. What have they promised you as a reward?’

Pallas shook his head mockingly. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, my friend. I have nothing to do with the Liberators. For what it’s worth, I pledge my life on that.’

‘Liar.’

‘No.’ Pallas stood in front of Narcissus and thrust his finger into his chest. ‘You will live to see the truth of it, but I would not count on living much longer than that.’ He paused and ran his eyes over the imperial secretary. ‘It has been a pleasure to have worked alongside you these past years, Narcissus. For the most part, at least. We have served Claudius well, but no emperor lasts forever. The only issue is who will succeed Claudius. You have made your choice of who to serve, and I have made mine. Farewell, Narcissus.’ He held out his hand, but the imperial secretary did not move. Pallas shook his head sadly. ‘I would prefer that we parted as friends. It’s too bad. Goodbye.’

Pallas turned away and strode from the room. Narcissus watched him leave, with undisguised hatred. When the sound of his rival’s footsteps had faded away, he turned to the balcony and approached Macro and Cato.

‘You heard?’

Cato nodded. ‘Every word.’

‘They mean to murder Claudius, I am certain of it. The fool has played into their hands,’ Narcissus said bitterly. ‘That little bitch has him wrapped around her finger. Him and that bastard, Pallas. We have to act quickly.’ He stopped and looked at them with a puzzled expression. ‘How did you two come to be posted here?’

‘Fuscius had a duty roster,’ Macro explained. ‘Tigellinus handed it to him.’

‘Tigellinus?’ The imperial secretary stared at him anxiously. ‘He means to place his men as close to the Emperor as possible. Has he given you any instructions?’

‘He told us to be ready to act.’

‘That’s all?’

Cato nodded.

Narcissus rubbed his jaw anxiously. ‘The Liberators have men in place close to the Emperor. The prefect and some of his officers are in on the plot and they have taken control of the palace. I’d say they will act soon. Tonight perhaps. Certainly no later than noon tomorrow.’

‘Why then?’ asked Macro.

‘Because the spectacle is over. Most of the mob will remain by the lake tonight. They will set off for Rome at first light and reach the city at midday. Unless there is food here to feed them, there will be nothing to stop them venting their rage. It’s my guess that the Liberators will have taken control by then. The Emperor will be dead, and then they’ll produce all the grain that they have amassed in secret. The mob will be grateful enough to whoever feeds it.’ Narcissus looked at them with a cynical smile. ‘Once the people have been won over, the Liberators will start to remove anyone who was loyal to the previous regime. In which case, I’m as good as dead already. Me, and Britannicus.’

‘Why not the others?’ asked Cato. ‘Won’t they want to dispose of Agrippina and Nero as well?’

‘Why would they?’ Narcissus asked bitterly. ‘My guess is that they’re in on the plot. Why else would Agrippina have persuaded the Emperor to remain in the palace? Now they have Claudius where they want him.’

Cato was thinking. ‘That doesn’t make sense. Agrippina can’t be part of the Liberators’ plot.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was there when the Liberators attacked the imperial party in the Forum. They tried and nearly succeeded in killing her son.’ As Cato recalled the incident, there were some details that still defied explanation, but he continued with his original line of thought. ‘And afterwards, Nero spoke to me. He said he would reward me when he became Emperor. He seemed quite certain about it.’

‘So?’

‘If he believes he is going to be Emperor, then Agrippina must have planted the idea in his head. You said it yourself, she is using him to further her own ambitions. In which case, why would she conspire with the Liberators?’

‘He’s got a point,’ said Macro.

Narcissus hissed with frustration. ‘All right. Then if she’s not part of the Liberators’ plot, why is she trying to keep Claudius in Rome, where he’s in greatest danger? There’s only one good reason for that. She’s running her own conspiracy. She’s working with Pallas to remove the Emperor and place her son on the throne. It’s no secret that she has been doing her best to bend Claudius to her will. Firstly by seducing him, then persuading him into marriage, then the adoption of her son and finally making Nero heir to the throne.’

‘Now that makes more sense.’ Macro nodded. ‘So we’re dealing with two conspiracies, not one. The Liberators want to remove the entire imperial family, while Agrippina wants to replace the Emperor with her son. That I can get my head round.’

It made sense, thought Cato, but for one small nagging detail. ‘You’re right. She and Pallas have a motive, and the means, if they can get their strike in before the Liberators and disarm them. But there’s something that still doesn’t fit. Something that I’ve not been able to explain.’

‘Speak up then, man,’ Narcissus hissed. ‘We haven’t got much time. We have to act. What’s the problem?’

‘It’s about that day in the Forum when the Liberators attacked the imperial party. Their leader, Cestius, pushed Britannicus aside just before he went for Nero.’

‘What of it?’

‘Why would the Liberators pass up the chance to kill one of the Emperor’s sons? It would have been the work of a moment to strike Britannicus down before turning on Nero. Why did Cestius spare Britannicus?’

‘I don’t know,’ Narcissus said irritably. ‘Perhaps Cestius didn’t recognise him. There’s no time for this now, Cato. We can go through it all later. Right now we have to save the Emperor. We need to protect him. I don’t know how far the conspiracy has spread through the ranks of the Praetorians. We know about Geta, Sinius, Tigellinus, and I have the names of a few other suspects but that’s all. There could be many more. The only troops that we can rely on are the German bodyguards. I’ll have them all roused and placed close enough to the Emperor to prevent any assassin getting through to him.’

‘That won’t be enough to save him. The Liberators, and Pallas - assuming you’re right about him and the Empress - are not the only threat. We have to keep the mob under control, or they’ll succeed where the conspirators have failed.’

‘To do that we need to feed the mob,’ Narcissus responded tersely, ‘and I can’t just make grain appear.’

‘No,’ Cato conceded.

Macro sniffed. ‘Either way, we’re in deep shit. Just like I said. The situation stinks.’

Cato stared at his friend. ‘That’s it,’ he muttered. ‘It has to be.’

‘What are you on about, lad?’

‘Cestius. You remember when we first ran into him, and his men. At the inn?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

‘Do you remember how they smelled?’

Macro nodded. ‘Like shit.’

‘Exactly. Just like shit,’ Cato said with an excited gleam in his eyes. ‘And where would you go to stink like that? A sewer, that’s where. To be precise, the Great Sewer that runs right under the heart of the city before it flows into the Tiber.’

‘Very interesting. So what if Cestius and his pals have been mucking about among the turds? How does that help us?’

‘Think about it, Macro. Where does the Great Sewer empty out into the Tiber?’

‘Not far from the Boarium. In fact close to that warehouse of Gaius Frontinus.’

‘Right next to it as it happens.’ Cato could not help smiling at the cleverness of the conspirators. ‘Surely you see it now.’

Macro looked at Cato, then glanced at Narcissus. ‘What’s he talking about?’

Narcissus stroked his jaw. ‘I think I can guess.’

‘There’s no other answer,’ said Cato. ‘We know that the grain was taken to the warehouse. Sometime between its purchase and when we searched the place, the grain was moved to another location. I’ve been trying to think how they managed it without attracting any attention to themselves. Now I know. They must have access to the sewer. They used the sewer to move the grain unseen. That’s probably why Cestius and his men were at the inn that night, to celebrate the completion of the job.’ He turned to Narcissus, eyes fired with excitement. ‘We have to go back to the warehouse. I need some men we can trust. We can’t use the Praetorians. It’ll have to be the Germans. Give me fifty men, and torches, and we’ll find that grain.’

‘I don’t know if I can spare them. They’re needed here.’

‘If we don’t secure that grain, it won’t matter where they are.’

The imperial secretary struggled to make a decision. Then he nodded. ‘All right, but you can take twenty men. No more. You’ll need one of their officers.’ Narcissus thought quickly. ‘Centurion Plautus can be trusted.’ The imperial secretary looked up at the sky above the city. The light was fading fast and a pastel red hue stained the horizon. ‘You’d better go quickly. And take Septimus with you. Leave your kit here.’ Narcissus wagged his finger at Cato and Macro. ‘You’d better be right about this. If anything happens to the Emperor because there weren’t enough men to guard him properly then it’ll be on your head, Cato.’

‘Thanks for the kind words of encouragement,’ Cato replied sourly. ‘There’s one more thing. How are we going to get out of the palace without raising the alarm?’

Narcissus could not help a small smile. ‘There’s a way. You didn’t think the emperors would have built a place like this without a secret exit, did you? It comes out close to the Great Circus. Caligula used it from time to time when he wanted to go to the races incognito. It was kept a secret from the Praetorians in case they tried to keep an eye on him during his peregrinations.’

Macro chuckled. ‘Didn’t do him much good then.’

‘You’d better take us to this passage,’ said Cato. ‘And have your Germans meet us there, armed and ready.’ He nodded towards the sunset. ‘I think we’re in for a long and bloody night. Only the gods know what the dawn will bring.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

‘Next time keep a civil tongue in your head.’ Cato smiled pleasantly as he gently prodded the warehouse guard under the chin with the tip of his sword.

The man looked confused, as well as scared. ‘Sorry, sir. I-I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ Cato frowned, robbed of his brief moment of pleasure. There was nothing to be gained from taking a small revenge on a man who had completely forgotten his offence in the first place. ‘Never mind. Tell me, has anyone entered or left the warehouse since you have been on watch?’

The man glanced round at the group of big men who had stolen up on him in soft-soled boots while he dozed and then picked him up and pinned him to the wall of the warehouse of Gaius Frontinus. He swallowed nervously as his eyes turned back to Cato.

‘Best to be honest, if you want to live,’ Cato said softly, pricking the man’s skin slightly.

‘Just one m-man, sir.’

‘Reckon that’s Cestius,’ said Macro at Cato’s side. ‘What did he look like? Big bloke? Small?’

The watchman looked Cato up and down. ‘About your size, sir.’

‘Not Cestius then.’ Cato eased his sword off the man’s neck. ‘How long ago?’

‘No more than an hour, I’d say.’

‘And no one else?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure of it.’

‘Right, then you’re coming with us. Macro, open the gate.’

Macro nodded and stepped over to the heavy iron bolt and eased it free of the receiver as quietly as he could. Thanks to the curfew there was no one on the wharf but Cato was wary of alerting anyone inside the warehouse to their presence. Macro eased the gate open just wide enough to admit himself and the rest of the men in single file. Cato allowed Septimus, the centurion and five of his Germans to pass through before he nudged the watchman towards the gap.

‘Don’t make a noise or try to get away from me, understand?’

The man nodded vigorously and Cato steered him inside. The warehouse yard looked just as deserted as it had a few days earlier. A crescent moon provided some dim illumination and by its light the centurion and his men quickly searched each of the storerooms. They were as deserted as before. There was no sign of any life.

‘Look for a hatch or some kind of drain cover,’ Cato ordered. ‘It has to be here somewhere.’

The centurion and his men searched again before the officer reported back to Cato. ‘Nothing.’

‘Damn.’ Cato released his grip on the watchman. ‘Have one of your Germans keep an eye on him. He’s not to utter a sound. If he tries to raise the alarm, or makes a run for it, tell your man to cut his throat.’

The centurion nodded and called one of the bodyguards over to issue his orders in a mixture of broken Latin and their own harsh guttural tongue. Cato turned to Macro and Septimus.

‘There has to be some kind of access to the sewer system here. We have to look until we find it.’

‘Or we don’t,’ said Macro. ‘Or we run out of time. Face it, Cato, this is a long shot.’

‘No it isn’t,’ Cato replied determinedly. ‘It has to be here. Keep searching.’

He strode away from the others and began a circuit of the yard, examining the ground under the carts carefully. Septimus came up to him and spoke in a hushed tone. ‘What if there’s a false wall?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Supposing Cestius and his men knocked through a wall into a neighbouring warehouse, and then made up a false wall to disguise the gap?’

‘No, that wouldn’t work. If they did that they’d have had to have hired another warehouse and we’d know about it. Besides, that wouldn’t explain the stink of Cestius and his men.’

‘You’re assuming that it was to do with the sewer. There could be other explanations.’

Cato stopped to look at Narcissus’s agent. ‘Such as?’

Septimus tried to think for a moment and then shrugged.

Cato nodded. ‘Quite. Now, if you’ve finished, let’s continue the search.’

Septimus went off in the opposite direction and Cato continued to work his way round the yard. There was no sign of any disguised hole on the front wall and he was starting to edge his way along the inside wall when the pile of sacking in the far corner caught his eye. A faint ray of hope glimmered in Cato’s heart and he made his way over to it. He knelt down and began to pull the sacks aside. Macro joined him.

‘Having fun?’

‘Just give me a hand.’

They worked methodically, clearing them away, and then, just before they reached the angle in the wall, Macro paused, looked down, and hurriedly pulled away several more sacks. ‘Over here. I’ve found it.’

Cato dropped the sack in his hand and went to crouch by his friend. There amid the cobbles at Macro’s feet was a small wooden handle. Macro tried to clear some more of the sacking away but it would not move. Grumbling, he grasped a loose corner and pulled hard. There was a tearing sound, a length of the coarse material ripped free and Macro stumbled back with a curse.

Cato knelt down for a closer look. ‘Clever. They’ve stuck the sacking down on to the hatch to help conceal it.’

He grasped the handle and gave it an experimental pull. The hatch was heavy and Cato applied his other hand. An area four feet square began to rise. Cato turned to Macro. ‘Help me.’

With Macro helping at the corner, they raised the hatch and eased it back against the rear wall of the courtyard. A wide ladder fixed to one side led down into pitch blackness. There was no sign of movement, but there was a faint sound of trickling water, and a waft of foul air.

Cato turned and called as loudly as he dared, ‘Septimus, over here. Plautus, bring your men.’

The others padded over and stood looking down at the opening. Cato gave the order for the torches to be lit. Plautus took out the tinder box from his side bag and began to strike sparks on to the thin sheets of charred linen. As soon as the first glimmer of a flame appeared he fed it with some dried moss until the flame was large enough to use. He gestured to one of the men carrying the bundled torches. ‘Let me have one.’

He carefully dipped the tallow-impregnated cloth on the end of the wooden shaft towards the flame and held it there until the torch produced bright yellow tongues of light. Plautus rose to his feet.

‘Let’s light the rest of them.’

One by one the torches flared into life and Cato took one. He ordered Plautus to leave the warehouse guard gagged and bound and then cautiously lowered himself on to the top rung of the ladder. He descended a few more rungs and by the light of the flame he could see that Cestius and his men had shored up the sides of the shaft with stout timbers. Ten feet down, the shaft opened up and Cato held the torch out to examine his surroundings. Old brickwork curved away on both sides and below there was a dull gleam of moving water. The ladder descended another six feet and then he reached the bottom. He was standing on a narrow paved walkway to one side of a small tunnel. It was just possible to stand erect under the curved ceiling. At his side a glistening flow headed steadily towards the Great Sewer. The air was thick with the stench of human waste and Cato wrinkled his nose in disgust.

‘What can you see?’ Macro called down.

‘There’s a tunnel. Leads towards the sewer in one direction. The other seems to head towards the Aventine district. Bring the rest of the men down. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.’

As the other men descended the ladder, Cato made his way a short distance upstream, examining the walls and the walkway. Most of the brickwork was covered in a layer of slime, but there were extensive patches that had been scraped away, and the same was true of the walkway which looked as if it had been heavily used recently enough for the stone to be dry to the touch, with scant evidence of new growth. Behind him the sounds of the Germans muttering in disgusted tones filled the tunnel.

‘Nice spot you’ve discovered here,’ Macro grumbled as he and Septimus joined Cato. ‘Very fragrant.’

Cato ignored the comment and stared along the tunnel. There was no movement within the loom cast by his torch, aside from the flow of sewage and the scampering of a pair of rats as they scuttled away from the men who had invaded their realm. There was a splash and a scrabbling sound from the dark as they ran off.

‘Do you think any of them are still here?’ Septimus asked nervously as he stared into the gloom.

‘One at least.’ Cato stood up. He turned back to Centurion Plautus. ‘Tell your men that we go on from here in silence. Not a sound, understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato could not help a slight smile at being addressed as a superior. Narcissus had told the centurion to obey him and Macro when he had briefly introduced the two Praetorians, dressed in plain white tunics and carrying no sign of their rank. Now it seemed that Plautus recognised and accepted Cato’s authority without having to be told anything of his real identity and rank. He glanced back and saw that all the men were ready to follow him. The flickering glow of the torches illuminated the damp walls of the tunnels and the flow of sewage gleamed as turds and rubbish drifted by. Cato held his torch forward at an angle and then gestured with his spare hand. ‘Let’s go,’ he called softly.

He crept forward, leaning over slightly as the roof of the tunnel became lower and the flame licked off the brickwork overhead. The sewer led straight for fifty paces before bending to the right. Cato calculated that they were nearly at the edge of the warehouse area and heading in the direction of the Aventine district, one of the poorest districts of the city. Another hundred paces on they came to a junction where a smaller tunnel, no more than four feet high, led off to the left. Cato raised his hand to halt the men behind him then examined the tunnel. There was no walkway and no sign of disturbance in the growths on either side of the tunnel. He waved the men forward again.

They passed more junctions but there was no sign that Cestius and his men had deviated from the walkway. After quarter of a mile of slow progress the sewer opened up into a chamber. Two large tunnels entered from each side, while directly opposite was a small cataract. Filthy foam bubbled across the surface of the chamber and the churned-up sewage made the stench more overpowering than ever. One of the Germans coughed violently and then bent over and threw up.

‘That’s going to help.’ Macro frowned. He looked round. ‘What now? Which way do we go? Left or right?’

Cato glanced from side to side for a moment before he consulted Septimus. ‘I reckon we must be close to the Aventine.’

The imperial agent thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘In which case, the left tunnel would take us towards the Palatine, and the other one into the Aventine district. Where would Cestius be most likely to hide the grain?’

‘I doubt he would want to hide it near the palace. There are several secret tunnels beneath it, as you know. He wouldn’t want to risk running into any of those. The other tunnel is our best bet.’

‘I agree. Let’s have a look. Macro, you come too.’ Cato turned to the centurion. ‘Stay here while we scout ahead. I’ll send Septimus back for you if it looks like we’re on the right track.’

‘Yes, sir. But don’t be too long, eh?’ Plautus sniffed. ‘The air here is fucking horrible.’

Cato grinned and clapped the man on the shoulder before he entered the right tunnel, followed by Macro and Septimus. Thankfully there was another walkway on the side that saved them from having to wade upstream through the flow of sewage. Cato kept his torch up and paused every so often to examine the sides of the tunnel and the paving stones at their feet. They had gone no further than fifty feet when he stopped and turned round to face the others.

‘This isn’t the right way.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Macro.

‘There’s no sign that anyone’s used this route for a while. Look at the walls. They’re untouched. Same with the walkway.’ He used the edge of his boot to scrape some of the grime from the stone beneath. ‘We’ve missed something. Come on, we have to go back.’

Back in the chamber Cato looked round again, then his gaze fixed on the cataract. He worked his way around the edge of the chamber to examine it more closely. The channel above the pool was perhaps six feet high, and dropped eight feet into the pool. Tendrils of some kind of growth hung down amid the flow cascading from above. Cato held his torch up to the steady torrent, grimacing as some of it splashed on to him. It was impossible to see through the flow. He bit his lip. There was only one way to find out for sure if his suspicion was correct.

Cato drew the torch back and held it low as he bent forward to shield it from above, flinching as he felt the heat of the flame. Then he sucked in a breath and edged forward along the narrow walkway leading under the cataract. At once his head and shoulders were pounded by water and lumps of solid matter. Then he was lost from the view of his comrades.

Macro’s mouth opened in alarm. ‘What the fuck is he doing?’

Septimus and the bodyguards stared towards the cataract in silence, waiting for a sign of Cato. For a while none of them moved, and the only noise was the crashing rush of fluid over the cataract, amplified by the brick walls of the chamber. Macro could not wait any longer to find out what had become of his friend and hurried round the edge of the chamber. He paused momentarily at the edge of the cataract but before he could steel himself to duck beneath the flow, something moved out from under the curtain of foul water and Cato, minus his torch, burst through spluttering, his eyes clenched shut. As soon as he was out of the flow he straightened up and opened his eyes with a grin.

‘Found it.’

Macro looked him over. ‘You look like … well, you know what you look like. So what’s there?’ He jerked his thumb at the cataract. ‘Besides the obvious.’

‘Best if you see for yourself.’ Cato leant past him and beckoned to Septimus and Plautus. ‘Bring ‘em over!’

‘See for myself?’ Macro shook his head. ‘You are joking.’

‘It’s nothing we haven’t been in before,’ Cato quipped. ‘At least it isn’t deep this time. Come on, follow me. Just be sure to keep your feet on the edge if you don’t want to slip and end up in the pool there. And shield your torch. The rest of you wait here for a moment.’

Cato led the way and with a reluctant sigh Macro followed him with gritted teeth. The sewage closed over his head briefly and then he was through and he found himself in a brick-lined tunnel stretching back behind the cataract. Cato bent down to retrieve the torch he had left on the ground. Macro mopped his brow and took a few paces further in and looked down the tunnel. The floor was paved and there was a channel in the middle, flanked by two stepped walkways, but the channel was dry.

‘What is this place?’ Macro wondered. ‘If Cestius and his lads put it together then they’re a damned sight better organised than I thought.’

‘I doubt they had anything to do with it,’ Cato responded. ‘I had a brief look further along. There’s a feed tunnel off to the right and a bit further on this comes to a dead end. My guess is this section of the sewer was abandoned. At least until Cestius and his gang started to use it.’

‘What makes you think they have?’

‘This.’ Cato held up his spare hand and opened it to reveal a few grains of wheat. ‘I found it just inside the tunnel leading off this one. They brought the grain this way sure enough.’

‘Then that’s a pity. It’s sure to have been spoiled by going under that river of shit back there.’

‘No. That’s not how they did it,’ Cato’s eyes gleamed. ‘Come and see.’

He led Macro back to the cataract and pointed up at the ceiling. For the first time, Macro noticed a wooden board secured to the brickwork by a bolt at each corner close to the cataract. The other end had a chain attached to a hook mounted in the ceiling. Cato handed his torch to Macro and lifted the chain off the hook and eased the board towards the cataract. As he did so, a long stout wooden shaft clattered to the floor, narrowly missing his boots.

‘Aha! I thought there would be something.’ Cato nodded. ‘Right then, the next part should make it all clear to you. Watch.’

Bracing his boots, Cato pushed the board out into the flow, straining as he pushed it out and up. The flow of the sewage was deflected away from the ledge and now the two of them could see the startled expressions of the other men. ‘Get that post!’ said Cato. ‘Wedge it up under the board. Quickly. I don’t know how long I can hold this up.’

Macro grabbed the post and stood beside Cato as he placed one end under the board and then scraped the other end into a small niche in the floor that seemed to have been cut into the stone deliberately. ‘There.’

They stood back and watched as the flow poured over the edge of the board, well clear of the ledge running under the cataract. Septimus appeared round the corner of the tunnel, then Plautus and the first of the Germans.

‘Can’t tell you how glad I am you came up with that.’ Septimus nodded at the board. ‘Otherwise …’ he gestured towards them with a grimace.

‘It wasn’t down to me,’ said Cato. ‘It’s something that Cestius and his friends came up with, so they could get the grain through without exposing it to the sewage. Simple, but very effective.’ He turned to Plautus. ‘I think we’re very close to them now. Have your men draw their swords. We’ll also put out some of the torches. Calidus, Septimus and I will feel our way ahead. You follow on, slowly. We can’t afford to give ourselves away until we know what lies ahead.’

Plautus nodded. ‘We’ll be ready to go in as soon as you give the word, sir.’

‘Good.’ Cato held his torch out into the flow to douse the flames and then handed it to one of the Germans before he turned towards the tunnel. He took a calming breath and the three of them set off, the padding of their soft-soled boots drowned out by the sound of the cataract until they had gone a good fifty feet further. The light from the torches faded behind them. Cato trailed his fingertips against the side of the tunnel until they came to an opening. He slowed down. ‘Here. To the right.’

‘Can’t see a bloody thing,’ Macro grumbled from the darkness. ‘Daft idea not to bring at least one of the torches.’

‘Too risky,’ Cato replied. ‘We’ve no idea what lies ahead. Best not to risk alerting Cestius.’

‘We’re sure to outnumber him. Those German lads might not be the sharpest arrows in the quiver but they’re tough. We’ve got nothing to fear from Cestius. Not unless he’s got a small army tucked away down here.’

‘He might have, for all we know. But I’m more worried about him getting away. I need to speak to him, if I can.’

‘Why?’ asked Septimus.

‘I need some answers,’ Cato replied bluntly. ‘We’re wasting time. Let’s move.’

They set off down the side tunnel, feeling their way in the darkness with one hand on the wall, while they probed ahead with the toes of their boots. The floor of the tunnel was dry and the only sounds were the occasional scrape of their footsteps, the sound of their breathing and the scuttling of rats. Twice Cato thought that he could hear something ahead of them but by the time he stopped and whispered for the others to be still the sound had gone. The pace was slow and Cato worried that the Germans might start to follow them in their eagerness to finish the job and get out of the tunnels back into the open air. He glanced back frequently and was gratified to see the faintest glimmer of a torch only once. Centurion Plautus clearly had his men in hand.

Which is more than Cato could say for his imagination. Every sound seemed grossly magnified so that he was torn between anxiety over the amount of noise he and the other two men were making and fear that the sounds were covering up any danger that may lurk ahead in the blackness.

‘I don’t like this,’ Septimus muttered. ‘What if there’s nothing here?’

‘Then there’s no grain to feed the mob. The mob gets angry and kills the Emperor and you and Narcissus are out of a job, sunshine,’ Macro replied in a low growl. ‘Bear that in mind, and keep your mouth closed, eh?’

Cato came to a halt. Macro brushed up against his back before he could stop and there was a final shuffle of Septimus’s boots before there was quiet. ‘Listen.’

At first Macro could not separate out any noise that might be of significance. Then there was the unmistakable sound of laughter from ahead, a brief snatch and then quiet again.

Cato turned in the direction of his companions, invisible in the pitch black of the tunnel. ‘Septimus, you stay here.’

‘What? Alone?’ The fear in his voice was clear. ‘Why?’

‘Calidus and I are going on ahead. When Plautus and his Germans catch up I don’t want them going any further unless I give the word. You tell him to stop and wait.’

There was a pause before Septimus’s voice quavered. ‘All right. But don’t be too long.’

Cato reached back and tugged Macro’s tunic and they edged forward even more slowly than they had advanced so far. A short distance further on they heard voices, more laughter and the shrill cry of a woman. Then there was the faintest hue of light ahead, revealing the dark outline of the tunnel as it turned to the left. The two men kept moving and soon they could see enough to light their way and no longer needed the reassurance of touching the wall. Cato lowered his hand to his sword handle and carefully drew the weapon. He heard a light dry rasp as Macro followed suit. Cato lowered himself into a crouch. His pulse quickened and his mouth felt dry. He slowed down and stopped as he came to the corner. The sound of voices, many of them, filled the tunnel now and Cato turned back and held up a hand to halt Macro who was just visible in the gloom. Then he edged a step forward and slowly looked round the corner.

The tunnel gave out on to what looked like a huge storeroom, illuminated by the flames of several braziers and torches guttering in brackets fixed to the walls. In front of the tunnel the ground was a jumble of rocks. At first Cato thought that the space must have been constructed, then he realised that it was a natural cave that had been enlarged by human hands. The walls seemed to have been cut from the rock in places to expand the size. Guttering torches in iron brackets provided enough illumination to make out the details. Great mounds of grain sacks had been piled at the far end and extended well over half the length of the cave, some hundred paces long by forty across. To one side a wide ladder climbed up to a ledge, beyond which there was a brick-lined passage that sloped upwards into the shadows.

At the near end of the cave were several tables and benches at which sat thirty or forty men. There were a handful of women too, in short tunics that reached just below their buttocks. Their faces were powdered white and dark kohl had been crudely applied around their eyes. To one side was a table longer than the rest. At its head sat Cestius, with a plump red-haired girl sitting on his lap, the fingers of one hand playing with his curls as he squeezed the breast that sagged loosely out of her tunic. The toughest-looking men of his gang sat close by, drinking and laughing with their leader.

Cato gestured to Macro to join him.

‘What do they think they’re celebrating?’ Macro whispered once he had taken in the scene.

‘What do you think? They’re sitting on top of a mountain of grain in a city on the verge of starvation. They’re going to make a killing. Or someone is, and they’ll take their cut.’

They continued to watch in silence for a moment before Macro spoke again. ‘I reckon we can take ‘em. Most of them are armed with daggers. There’s a few swords, clubs and axes about the place. They look tough enough, but they’ve had a skinful of wine and that’ll take the edge off their ability to fight.’

Cato scrutinised the men in the cave. He agreed with his friend’s assessment, but they would still be outnumbered by Cestius and his gang. It would be prudent to make sure that Narcissus knew about the grain and the cave, in case the fight went against them.

‘All right, we’ll do it. But we’ll send one of the men back to report to Narcissus. Just in case.’

Macro shrugged. ‘If you think it’s necessary. Thanks to those bastards I’ve had to spend the night wading through shit. I don’t feel like being very merciful.’

‘Nevertheless, we’ll send a man back.’

They eased their way back from the corner and Cato pointed back down the tunnel to where a slight glow indicated the position of Septimus and the German bodyguards. ‘Bring ‘em up, but make sure they do it nice and quiet, and put their torches out. We’re outnumbered and we’ll need the advantage of surprise.’

Macro nodded, then turned to make his way back down the tunnel. Cato watched him briefly and then returned to the corner. He stared at Cestius, determined to take the gang leader alive. That would not be easy, Cato reflected. Cestius was a powerfully built killer who was sure to fight to the death if he could. Even so, only Cestius could answer the question that had plagued Cato ever since they had clashed in the ambush at the Forum.

The approach of Macro and the rest of the men was heralded by the light scrape of footsteps and Cato turned just in time to see the last glow of orange from the tunnel flicker out as the final torch was extinguished. The men emerged from the darkness and Macro gestured to them to fan out on either side. The Germans crept silently by and eased themselves into places of concealment behind the rocks. As quietly as they could, they drew their swords and crouched, waiting for the order to attack. Cato drew back into the mouth of the tunnel and hurriedly outlined the report for Narcissus. The German assigned for the task nodded as Plautus translated, then handed the man his tinder box and one of the extinguished torches. The German turned to make his way back into the darkness. A moment later there was a faint flare as he struck sparks, then again, before a brief pause and then a steady glow swelled in the gloom. It quickly faded away as the man made his way off into the tunnel.

Cato crept forward to join Macro who was squatting behind a large rock in the middle of the line of Germans. Cato drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and then tightened his grip on the handle of his sword. ‘Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be. Let’s have ‘em.’

Cato tensed his limbs, glanced left and right to see that the rest of the men were watching him intently. Then he snatched a breath and shouted, ‘Follow me!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As the cry echoed off the walls of the cave Cato leaped over the rocks in front of him and sprinted towards the men and women at the tables. Macro let out a deafening roar that was instantly drowned out by the savage cries of the Germans as they charged. The laughter and drunken talk of Cestius and his men ceased abruptly as they stared at the bearded intruders racing towards them, swords drawn, bellowing barbaric war cries. For a moment Cestius and his men were too stunned to move. Then the spell was broken as Cestius turfed the woman off his lap and sprang to his feet, ripping out his short sword as he did so.

‘Don’t just fucking sit there! Pick up yer tools and get ‘em!’ he shouted.

Cato was charging towards Cestius, visible over the heads of his men, when a stocky man with dark features and hairy arms stepped into his path, swinging up a heavy club pierced with nails. Gritting his teeth, the man swung the club in a savage arc towards Cato’s head. The end of the club, with its lethal spikes, whistled through the air and Cato ducked low as the weapon passed inches from his scalp with a whoosh. The man grunted as the shaft of the weapon struck his other shoulder, hard. Cato thrust his sword up at an angle and the point ripped through the man’s tunic and sliced open the muscles packed over his ribs. Instead of recoiling in surprise and pain, as Cato expected him to, the man just roared with anger, his senses numbed by drink. He swung the club in a vicious backhand. This time Cato stumbled back out of range and the head of the club swept past his face, and on into the head of one of the man’s companions who was staggering drunkenly forward to get into the fight. The full weight of the club struck home and with a sound like an egg being thrown against a wall, the points of the club pierced skin and bone and drove deep into the man’s brain. His head snapped to the side and then he collapsed, dragging the club down with him.

With an angry curse his comrade wrenched violently at the handle of the club, trying to free it, but all he succeeded in doing was waggling his victim’s head about obscenely. The man’s jaw worked furiously and his eyes bulged as blood and brain matter spattered from his wounds. Cato pounced forward and stabbed the man armed with the club deep in the guts. He wrenched his sword free, thrust him aside and moved on, scanning the battling figures for Cestius. The flames of the braziers threw wild shadows as the men fought and the air was filled with thuds and the clatter and ringing of blades. It was hard to make out the features of any man in these conditions, and only the beards and bulk of the Germans singled out one side from the other. To his left Cato could hear Macro somewhere close at hand, bellowing at his enemies as he laid about him with his sword.

Cato caught a glint of metal to his right and spun round to see a man charging him with a dagger held high. His face was distorted by a savage battle cry and his unkempt beard bristled. Cato swung his sword up and knocked the blow aside.

‘Fool!’ he yelled at the man. ‘I’m on your side!’

The man he took for a German growled a surly apology in Latin and then his eyes widened at the same instant that Cato realised his mistake. The wine had taken the edge off the other man’s reactions and Cato struck first, punching the hilt of his sword into his opponent’s nose which gave with a dull crack. Blood streaming down his face, the man stumbled back, tripped over a bench and fell, knocked cold as his skull struck the edge of one of the tables. Cato moved on, thrusting between men locked in savage duels, searching for Cestius. There was a sudden flurry of rags as someone slammed into his chest with a shrill screech. Cato absorbed the blow and looked down to see a short fat woman with tangled black hair pummelling his chest with her clenched fists. The moment she realised he was looking down at her, she raked his cheek with her fingernails. Cato felt a burning sensation as she drew blood and he instinctively rammed his knee up and into her chest and then kicked hard. She flew back and slammed into one of the gang members with a deep grunt, then stood fixed in place by the sword that had pierced her back and burst out of her abdomen and through her grubby brown tunic. The man thrust her body forward with his left hand as he ripped his sword free, then punched the bloodied blade at Cato’s face. What he lacked in swordsmanship he made up for in brute strength and Cato’s attempt to parry the blow only just deflected it from his face. Even so the edge of the blade cut into the top of his ear.

‘Bastard!’ Cato cried out in rage. He gritted his teeth and launched himself forward, balling his left hand into a fist. The blow caught his opponent on the jaw. It was a solid punch and would have dazed a normal man. But those who followed Cestius were chosen for their strength and toughness. They were men from the slums of Rome where you either learned to talk with your fists or you were beaten down into the gutter. His head snapped back but then he straightened and laughed at Cato. His expression abruptly changed to one of puzzled surprise as he looked down and saw that Cato’s sword had pierced him in the side, just below the ribs. Cato twisted the blade one way, then the other, working it into the man’s vital organs. Each twist brought a deep agonised groan to the man’s lips. Then Cato ripped the blade out in a dark gush of blood.

The agony of his mortal wound only seemed to enrage the man further and he threw himself at Cato and both fell on top of a table, the impact knocking their swords from their hands. The man’s face was inches from Cato’s; his sour breath stank of cheap wine and roasted meat. One hand was groping its way up Cato’s chest and he realised that the man was reaching for his throat. Cato grabbed the hand and tried to force it aside, but his opponent was too strong for him and Cato felt the fingers pinch viciously into his neck. He was dimly aware of a hot dampness across his stomach and chest as the man’s blood flowed from his wound. Cato clawed at the man’s hand but it clenched more tightly still, and he felt his eyes bulge and a dark red veil begin to close in over his vision.

Some twenty feet away Macro was wrestling with another of Cestius’s men, each grasping the wrist of the other’s sword hand in a deadly test of strength. Their eyes met and the gang member half growled and half chuckled as he strained his muscles and felt Macro’s arms begin to give.

‘That the best you can do?’ the man sneered.

‘Not quite the best,’ Macro spat back. ‘Try this!’

He drew his head back and with a savage jerk head-butted the other man in the face. It was a tactic he had used several times before in battles and skirmishes, but rarely without a helmet on. As their skulls cracked loudly together, the other man’s jaw snapped shut under the impact, his teeth biting deeply into his tongue. Macro felt a piercingly sharp pain across his forehead. His head reeled sickeningly.

‘Fuck, that hurts …’ he groaned. Then, sensing that his opponent’s grip had eased off, Macro thrust him back, ripped his sword arm free and thrust the blade into his opponent’s throat. The gangster collapsed to his knees, blood pumping from his wound. Macro kicked him to the ground. He looked about him. The fight had spread out across the floor of the cave and several bodies lay on the ground or sprawled across the tables and benches. Cestius was exchanging vicious sword blows with one of the Germans while Septimus finished off a wiry man with a thrust to his heart. Macro felt a stab of anxiety as he failed to see any sign of his friend. Then he noticed two figures struggling on top of a table a short distance away. The man on top was one of Cestius’s gang members. Macro could just make out that the individual beneath was tall and thin and his gangling legs were kicking out desperately as he tried to free himself.

‘Not again,’ Macro muttered to himself as he raced across to save Cato. As he pushed past one of Plautus’s men Macro saw Cestius smash his sword down into the skull of the German warrior, cutting through bone and brains. Cestius wrenched his sword free with a vicious yank and then retreated a pace to quickly survey the skirmish. With a bitter frown he turned to run towards the base of the ladder leading up to the tunnel.

‘Shit.’ Macro gritted his teeth in frustration. He was still ten feet from Cato and now a handful of struggling figures had blocked his path. Cato must be saved, but equally Cestius could not be allowed to escape. Then Macro saw Centurion Plautus cut down a man on the other side of the table where Cato was pinned down.

‘Plautus!’ Macro yelled.

The centurion’s head whipped round and Macro thrust his hand towards Cato. ‘Help him!’

Plautus glanced towards the table and nodded and at once Macro pushed his way free of the melee and ran after Cestius. The gang leader had cleared the area where the tables and benches stood and crossed the open floor of the cave. He reached the bottom of the ladder, sheathed his sword and jumped on to the second rung. His hands grasped one of the stout cross timbers above and he began to scale the ladder with nimble agility and was well out of reach by the time Macro reached the foot of the ladder. Cestius’s boots were scrambling over the ledge above the top rung as Macro began to climb after him. He had ascended six feet when he felt the ladder lurch under his grip. He clung on instinctively and looked up. Cestius loomed overhead. He was pushing the ladder out, away from the ledge. For an instant Macro thought that the ladder’s angle was not steep enough to enable Cestius to topple it, but then the man raised his boot and kicked it away with all his might. The ladder swayed back and seemed to steady for a moment before slowly falling back into the cave, carrying Macro with it.

The red mist had almost closed across Cato’s eyes as he stared up into the face of the man throttling him. A froth of bloody spittle had formed at his lips from his bitten tongue and it dripped down on to Cato’s chin. The pressure on Cato’s throat was excruciating and with the last reserves of his strength Cato lashed out with his knees and boots and punched his left hand into the side of the man’s face as hard as he could, again and again. Even as he struggled, some small part of his mind seemed to look down on him with deep regret at the ignominy of dying in the cave, killed by a lowly street villain, while he stank of shit. Hardly a fitting end for the decorated soldier who aspired to marry the daughter of a senator. At that, his heart filled with longing for Julia and a determination not to die here in this cave. Tensing his neck muscles and pressing down as hard as he could with his jaw, Cato stopped clawing at the man’s hand and jabbed his fingers into his eyes as hard as he could.

His opponent bellowed with rage and pain, spattering Cato’s face with blood, but he did not loosen his grip. The pressure that threatened to burst Cato’s head became greater than ever for a brief moment, and he clenched his eyes shut. Then it was gone, and the weight pressing down on his chest abruptly eased. Blinking his eyes open, Cato saw his attacker in the thick hairy arms of Plautus. With a savage twist the officer broke the man’s neck with a loud crunching crack and then threw the body down with a triumphant ‘Ha!’ before he heaved Cato off the table and back on to his feet.

Cato nodded his thanks and then winced. He reached up to his throat and touched it tenderly. It took a moment for the dark mist to clear from his vision and for the nauseating dizziness to pass. As soon as Plautus could see that he was able to fend for himself, he turned away and charged back into the melee.

A quick glance round the cave was enough for Cato to see that Cestius’s men were losing the fight. Most of them were down, as well as several of the Germans and two of the women. Another three had backed off into one corner and were clutching each other in terror as they watched. One woman, stockier and braver than her companions, stood bare chested, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other as she screamed shrilly at the two grinning Germans moving in on her. Cato recognised her as the woman who had been sitting in Cestius’s lap a short time before. One of the Germans contemptuously lowered his sword and bared his own chest as he approached her. Her screaming stopped and she sprang forward, breasts swaying, and stabbed at him. The German moved nimbly aside with a deep laugh and made to swat her bottom as she blundered by. Instead, she turned neatly and stuck the sword into his side and then swung her other hand and slammed the dagger through his throat. The German’s laughter died on his lips and then turned to a hoarse gurgle as he clawed at the blood coursing from his neck.

‘Barbarian scum!’ she screeched. ‘Die, you pig!’

Those were her last words, as the other German ran her through with a brutal thrust that carried her off her feet before she dropped back on to the ground as the sword blade ripped free from her guts.

Cato tore his eyes away and looked for Cestius. The gang leader was not among those still on their feet. Then he noticed Macro rising up from the ground over to one side of the cave, struggling to get himself free of the ladder that had fallen on him. There was a movement from above on the ledge and Cato saw the unmistakable outline of Cestius against the glow of a torch flickering at the entrance to the tunnel. Then the man turned and snatched the torch out of its bracket before he made off into the tunnel. Cato quickly gave orders to Plautus to remain in the cave and guard the entrances until more men could be sent to secure the grain.

By the time Cato had joined his friend, Macro was back on his feet, wrestling the ladder back into place. He glanced round as he heard Cato’s footsteps and noted the raw scratches and finger marks around Cato’s throat.

‘You still fit to fight, lad?’

‘Yes,’ Cato croaked and winced with agony. He pointed up the ladder.

‘Aye.’ Macro nodded. ‘Let’s get after the bastard.’

With Macro leading the way, they climbed the ladder and stepped up on to the ledge. A faint orange loom from Cestius’s torch was still visible in the tunnel and they ran on, their footsteps echoing off the walls of the tunnel. After a few paces the tunnel began to slope up, continuing in a straight line so that they could see Cestius some distance ahead, outlined by the glow of the torch that he held up and out in front of him. Then the tunnel began to bend to the right and flatten out and for a moment they lost sight of their prey and ran on blindly. Fortunately the tunnel had been well used and the floor was smooth and unobstructed. Rounding the corner they caught sight of Cestius again as he approached a small doorway at the end of the tunnel. The gang leader paused and glanced back. As soon as he heard the footsteps behind him he ducked through the doorway and then there was a sharp grating sound as the door began to close.

‘Shit!’ Macro grunted, pushing his legs harder, Cato panting a short distance behind him. Ahead the aged hinges of the door squealed with protest as the bottom of the door scraped across the fine gravel that had gathered on the stone lintel in the years that the door had been left open. Cestius’s face could be seen by the light of his torch, strained and desperate as he heaved his muscled shoulder against the door. He had already half closed it and now the door seemed to be moving more easily as Macro and Cato sprinted towards him. There was a gap of barely six inches as Macro slammed into the edge of the door, nudging it back a short way. Cato threw himself against the aged wood at Macro’s side, and scrambled for purchase on the ground with his boots. The tunnel filled with the sounds of the three men straining on both sides of the door and for a moment Cestius seemed to be giving ground. Then he let out a sharp hiss of air and heaved with all his strength and the door began to close again.

Macro reached for the handle of his dagger and snatched it out. The gap was already less than a foot but he thrust his arm through, turned it in and stabbed at where he guessed Cestius must be. The blade caught in a fold of material and Macro punched it home, tearing into the flesh beneath. There was a bellow of pain from the other side of the door and the pressure slackened.

‘Heave! Heave the bastard!’ Macro yelled and thrust again, missed, and then snatched his hand back to press on the door. It gave way, gradually. ‘We’ve got him!’

Suddenly the door fell back and Macro tumbled forward on to his knees. Instinctively he threw his weight to one side, crashing against the side of the tunnel, as he anticipated a blow from Cestius. But the gang leader was on the run again, sprinting across the low chamber on the other side of the door. The air smelled of damp and mould and by the flare of Cestius’s torch Cato could see that the stone walls were covered with slimy growths. Macro jumped back on to his feet as Cato ran past him and they chased after Cestius under a low arch on the far side of the chamber and out into a space beyond. It was a long, low storeroom filled with discarded piles of timber, iron hoops, damp heaps of old leather covered in mould and what looked to be broken chariot wheels. Cestius was weaving through the piles of junk, making towards a squared-off doorway at the end of the storeroom. With a grunt Macro squeezed under the arch and straightened up alongside Cato. He cast a quick, curious glance round at his surroundings as they set off after Cestius. A pathway of sorts had been cleared through the junk and with a fleeting moment of satisfaction Cato saw that they were gaining on their prey. Cestius was only some forty feet ahead of them when he ran through the entrance to the storeroom and began to climb a narrow flight of stairs, rising at a sharp angle. Cato and Macro were breathing hard as they reached the steps and ran up them, taking them two at a time.

At the top they emerged into a huge vaulted chamber that stretched out in a shallow curve on either side. The chamber was nearly a hundred feet wide and the far wall was pierced by wide arches that reached up some twenty or so feet. The floor of the chamber was covered in sand which extended out beyond the arches into a vast open space that stretched out into the darkness. Cestius sprinted towards the nearest arch, kicking up divots of sand in his wake.

‘Come on!’ Cato urged.

They ran on, hearts pounding and muscles burning with the effort. They passed through the arch and out into starlight.

‘Bloody hell!’ Macro panted. ‘We’re in the Great Circus.’

On either side of them the sand stretched away towards the dark mass of the spectator seating on either side. Ahead of them rose the central island with its assorted statues and officials’ platforms. When the chariot races took place, this vast space was filled with the deafening roar of two hundred thousand voices, madly cheering on their favourite teams. Now there was an uncanny and immense stillness, and Cato felt his flesh tingle as he continued to pursue Cestius across the smoothly raked sand of the racetrack.

‘We have to catch him before he reaches the far end,’ Macro called to him. ‘If he gets out of the public entrance and on to the streets we’ll lose him.’

Cato nodded and pushed his tiring limbs on. Then, just as Cestius drew parallel with the raised platform of the imperial box, he stumbled and fell headlong. The torch shot out of his hand and hit the ground in a flurry of sparks. He was down only briefly before he clambered to his feet and snatched up the torch, but it was long enough for Cato and Macro to catch up to him, drawing their swords as they did so. Cato edged to one side, and Macro the other, crouching low and ready to strike as they drew ragged breaths of the cool night air. Cestius could see that the route to the public entrance was blocked and he backed away, towards the base of the imperial box, his sword drawn.

‘Give up,’ said Cato. ‘You can’t escape now.’

‘No?’ Cestius licked his dry lips. ‘Let’s see if you two have got what it takes to beat me, eh?’

‘By the gods, you’re full of it,’ Macro growled. ‘Shove an enema up your arse and they’ll be carrying you to your funeral in a bloody thimble.’ He patted his sword against the palm of his left hand. ‘Come on then, you arrogant shit.’

‘Stop.’ Cato held up his hand. ‘I want him alive. Cestius, throw down your sword.’

‘No chance!’ Cestius snarled and quickly stepped forward, sweeping the torch round in an arc so that it flared fiercely as it roared past Cato and Macro, forcing them back a pace. He suddenly frowned. ‘I know you … The Praetorians at the inn. And …’

His rapid recollection was interrupted by distant cries from the starting gates where they had emerged from the storerooms. A handful of figures were trotting across the sand towards them. Staff and officials who worked in the Circus, Cato guessed, come to investigate the disturbance. Cato pointed towards them with his spare hand.

‘You can’t escape. If you fight us you will die. If you give up, you may be spared.’

‘I’m no fool, Praetorian. I know what fate awaits me.’ Cestius crouched low, sword and torch held out, ready to fight. ‘I’ll not give in meekly. If you want me then you’re going to have to kill me first … before I kill you!’

He sprang forward, sweeping his torch out towards Macro and then turned swiftly on Cato to make a thrust with his sword. While Macro fell back before the fiery arc, Cato held his ground and parried the attack, and then responded with a feint that forced Cestius to recover his blade and hold it close, ready to counter Cato’s attack. Instead, Cato held his sword up and stared at his opponent, noticing the dark patch of blood on the right shoulder of Cestius’s tunic, where Macro had stabbed him as they had struggled for control of the door at the end of the tunnel. The point of the big man’s sword quivered as his injury caused his arm to tremble. Cato stepped forward and feinted to the right, then cut under Cestius’s blade and stabbed to the left. It was a simple attack, intended to test the other man’s responses rather than draw blood. With a desperate motion Cestius knocked the sword aside and backed away, closer to the base of the imperial box which was a scant few feet behind him. Cato made to attack again, and this time Macro went in from the other side. Cestius warded them off with a flurry from his torch and sword, and then his heel struck the solid wall behind him. There was no room to manoeuvre any longer and Cato sensed that he would react in the only way left to him now, a wild attack.

‘Careful, Macro.’

‘Don’t worry, I know his kind,’ Macro replied without taking his eyes off Cestius.

The staff of the Circus were much closer now and one of them called out, ‘Oi! What do you three jokers think you’re playing at? You’re not allowed in here. Take your bloody fight somewhere else.’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Macro yelled. ‘We’re Praetorians.’ He gestured with his sword. ‘That one’s a criminal and a traitor we’ve been hunting. Now you either help us take him down, or you answer to the Emperor.’

‘He’s lying!’ Cestius called out. ‘They’re thieves. Tried to rob me before chasing me in here. Save me and I’ll make it worth your while.’

The officials drew up just short of the confrontation, not sure who to believe. With himself and Macro reeking of sewage and wearing heavily soiled tunics, Cato feared that the burden of proof rested on their shoulders. They could not risk any delay. He snatched a deep breath and shouted, ‘Now, Macro! Take him!’

With a roar Macro sprinted in, sword held up and ready to strike, while Cato charged from the side. Cestius tried to parry Macro’s sword with his torch but the blazing length was punched aside and down into the sand. Macro rushed on, slamming into Cestius with his shoulder and sending him crashing back against the wall. An instant later Cato cut down into Cestius’s sword arm, slicing through the muscled flesh and down to the bone, severing tendons so that the other man’s fingers released the sword. Cato’s momentum carried him on; he thudded into Cestius’s side and his sword punched home into the giant’s guts with a wet thud. Cestius let out an explosive grunt and his body stiffened for a moment before he sagged and his legs gave way, and he sank on to the sand. Macro and Cato drew back and regarded him cautiously, but Cato could see by the light of the torch still burning where it lay on the ground that Cestius’s wound was mortal.

He reached down to pick up the gang leader’s sword and toss it to one side, out of reach, before sheathing his own weapon. Macro kept his sword to hand and moved round to confront the other men who looked on in silence. ‘You lot, stay back!’

They needed no prompting and Cato left Macro to keep a watch on them while he concentrated his attention on Cestius. The big man was slumped against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands clasped over the wound in his side. His eyes were tightly clenched for a moment before he opened them and smiled bitterly at Cato.

‘Told you you’d have to kill me,’ he said softly. He closed his eyes again.

‘Cestius.’ Cato leant forward and shook his shoulder. ‘Cestius!’

The giant’s eyes flickered open. ‘Can’t you let a man die in peace?’

‘No,’ Cato replied harshly. ‘Not until you answer some questions.’

‘Fuck you.’

Cato drew his dagger and held it up for Cestius to see. ‘I can make this painful if you refuse to talk, or quick and painless if you co-operate.’

‘I’m dying. What difference does it make?’

Cato smiled coldly. ‘Do you really want to find out?’

There was a brief silence between the two men before Cestius shook his head faintly.

‘Right, then.’ Cato lowered the dagger. ‘First, who paid you to hoard the grain?’

‘A Praetorian centurion. Sinius.’

Cato nodded. ‘What was the arrangement?’

‘He paid me in silver. I laundered the money through my gang and used the proceeds to buy the grain. I used some of the merchants as fronts. The grain cargoes were stored in a warehouse, and then my lads moved it to the cave.’ Cestius smiled thinly. ‘As you know. We were to take a big cut when Sinius gave the word to start selling the grain. That was the deal.’

Cato nodded. ‘Did Sinius tell you who he was working for?’

‘Not my business to inquire into the reasons for anything. Not these days. More trouble than it’s worth. Not that it stopped Sinius blabbing away that it was for a noble cause. All for the good of Rome.’ Cestius sneered, and then his features contorted and he let out a long, keening moan. Cato squatted down beside him, fearing that he might die before he had given up all the information that he wanted. At length Cestius’s pained expression faded and he licked his lips and fixed his gaze on Cato once again.

‘Did you meet any of the other conspirators?’

Cestius was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Not among the Liberators.’

Cato leant forward. ‘Then who else?’

Cestius ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘Who are you working for, Praetorian? Not the Liberators. I know that. Your master is in the imperial household, I’d guess.’

Cato said nothing.

‘Which means Pallas … or Narcissus.’

‘I have one more question,’ Cato said. ‘About the day your gang attacked the imperial party in the Forum. How did you know we were going to be there?’

‘It was planned from the outset. I was paid to have my lads provoke the food riot …’ Cestius began to breathe raggedly. ‘Once it was in full swing we were to stand by to ambush the Emperor and his escort … Would have killed our targets too, if you and your friend there hadn’t got in the way.’

Cato felt his heart quicken. ‘Targets? The Emperor and his family?’

Cestius shook his head. ‘The Empress and her son.’

‘Just them?’ Cato felt a cold tingle at the base of his neck.

‘Yes.’

‘No one else? Are you certain?’

‘He was quite clear about it … Just Agrippina and Nero.’

‘Who? Who gave you the order?’

Cestius winced and sucked in a long shallow breath. Cato reached forward and shook his shoulder roughly.

‘Who paid you to do it? Tell me!’

Cestius licked his dry lips again and this time there was blood in his spittle. A thick dark drop trickled down his chin as he replied. ‘A man from the palace. I’ve done jobs for him before. Made people disappear. Put the frighteners on others. Kind of thing I do well.’ Cestius smiled with pride.

‘Enemies of the Emperor?’

‘Not always.’

‘What was his name?’ Cato demanded.

‘Don’t know. Wasn’t part of the arrangement. He just paid me to do what his master needed done, and not ask questions.’

Cato hissed with frustration. ‘Well, what did he look like? The man who gave you your instructions?’

Cestius shrugged. ‘Just a man. Your build. Few years older …’

‘What else?’ Cato snapped. ‘Any scars, anything to make him stand out?’

‘Yes … A mark, a tattoo here.’ Cestius reached up and touched his neck just below the ear.

Cato felt his blood grow cold and he heard Macro swear softly. ‘What kind of tattoo?’

Cestius thought briefly. ‘Only saw it clearly one time. Once, when we met in the public baths. A crescent moon and star …’

Cato knew at once where he had seen the distinctive mark before, the day they had arrived in Rome.

‘That’s Septimus - has to be,’ Macro muttered to Cato. ‘Septimus? What the hell is going on?’

Cato’s mind was filled with a jumble of recollected images and lines of thought that had seemed confusing or came to a dead end. Now they fell into place, one by one. There was a conspiracy lurking in the shadows even deeper than that being hatched by the Liberators. A monstrous scheme that left Cato marvelling at its brilliant deviousness even as it repulsed him and made him aware for the first time of the scale of the deception that both he and Macro, among many others, had been enduring for years. He stood up quickly and turned to his friend.

‘We have to get back to the palace at once. We must find Narcissus.’

‘Narcissus?’

By the dying flickers of the torch in the sand, Cato looked at his friend intently. ‘We’ve been duped. There’s more than one plot against the Emperor. I suspected there might be. But there’s something else. We have to go, Macro. Now.’

Cestius chuckled.

‘What’s so damned funny?’ asked Macro.

‘Just agreeing with your friend there. Now would be a good time to act.’

Cato rounded on him. ‘Why?’

‘Last word I had from Sinius was that I should be ready to move the grain back to the warehouse first thing tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Cato’s brow creased. ‘Then whatever the Liberators are planning is going to happen tonight …’ His guts were seized by an icy dread. ‘Shit, they’re going to try to kill the Emperor tonight. We have to go, now!’

As Cato turned towards the public entrance there was a plaintive groan as Cestius stirred and raised a bloodied hand. ‘Wait! You promised me a quick death, Praetorian.’

‘So I did.’ Cato turned back and briefly stared down at the gang leader before tossing his dagger down into the sand behind him. ‘There. You’ve used one on other men, striking them from the shadows. Now use it on yourself, if you have the guts.’

Cato began to run towards the public entrance and Macro followed him across the sand.

‘Oi! Oi, you!’ One of the Circus staff called after them. ‘You can’t leave him here! Oi! I’m talking to you!’

The man ran a few paces after the two figures receding into the gloom and then stopped. There was a short grunt from the direction of the imperial box and then a long expiring sigh. By the time he turned to see what had happened, the mortally wounded giant had slumped over on to his side and lay still, the handle of a dagger protruding from his chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

By the flickering glow of the same oil lamp they had used to light their way out of the imperial palace Cato and Macro emerged from the secret tunnel leading towards the Circus Maximus. Macro shook his head as he considered the situation.

‘I don’t get it. Why would Narcissus want Nero and Agrippina killed?’

Cato cautiously tried the door that Narcissus had led them to two hours earlier. It was still unlocked and he eased it open and peered out into the chamber where the fuel was stored for the palace’s main bathhouse. Neatly stacked logs lined the walls. Cato waited a moment but there was no sound or sign of movement, so he beckoned to Macro to follow him. ‘Think about it, Macro. After all, you should know the answer.’

‘Don’t play cute,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Just tell me.’

‘It was you who saw Agrippina and Pallas together, remember?’

‘How could I forget? The wife of our Emperor in the paws of some greasy little Greek freedman is hardly an edifying sight.’

‘Quite.’ Cato smiled. ‘Nevertheless, there’s no avoiding the truth. Agrippina has taken Pallas as a lover. His fortune is linked to hers, and that of her son. Pallas is positioning himself for the day when Claudius puts in his application for divinity. If, as looks likely, Nero becomes the new Emperor then Pallas would be in a very powerful position as the lover of Agrippina.’

‘Obviously,’ Macro sighed.

‘So where do you think that leaves Narcissus?’

Macro paused midstride. ‘Wait, are you saying he’d dare to make an attempt on the son of the empress?’

‘Why not? It’s the most sensible thing to do. If he just killed Pallas, then Agrippina would be sure to find herself a new lover soon enough and then Narcissus is back to square one. If he kills Nero, then Britannicus will have no rival for the throne and Agrippina’s influence will diminish, and Pallas’s fortunes along with hers. Of course, the tricky part is to remove Nero in such a way that there is no suspicion that Narcissus might be behind the assassination. So he used Cestius and his gang. That’s why Cestius spared Britannicus. He was under orders to kill only Nero and possibly his mother. Narcissus was there with us so that it would look like he was in just as much danger as everyone else.’

Macro was silent for a moment as they trod warily across the chamber towards the narrow door leading into the service corridor beyond. ‘By the gods, Narcissus and his friends play some pretty deadly games with each other.’

Cato shrugged. ‘Welcome to life in the imperial palace. Conspiracy, treachery and murder are the diet of those who run the place.’ He turned to Macro with a rueful smile. ‘Now you can see why I was lucky to be sent to join the legions. I doubt I’d have survived for long if I had gone into the imperial service, like my father. At least in the army you know who your enemies are … most of the time.’

Macro snorted. ‘Most of the time, but not in the Praetorian Guard. They’re a bunch of pretty puppets playing at soldiering and politics in equal measure.’

Cato nodded. ‘And that is what makes them so dangerous to the emperors. Tiberius nearly lost his crown thanks to the Praetorians, and Caligula lost his life. The odds are that Claudius and a good many of his successors are going to go the same way.’

‘Unless the Liberators get what they want.’

Cato shot his friend a quick look. ‘I suppose. Anyway, we’d best be quiet from here on.’ He lifted the latch on the door and eased it open. The service corridor was empty, and the only light was from a single torch guttering at the foot of the stairs leading up into the heart of the palace. Cato blew the lamp out and placed it by the door before he and Macro padded down the corridor, passing the doors to several more chambers. The staircase led up to one of the palace’s kitchens where the shelves that were usually filled with luxuries were now mostly bare.

‘It’s quiet,’ said Macro. ‘Haven’t seen or heard a soul so far.’

They passed out of the kitchens into one of the main thoroughfares and made for the private quarters of the imperial family.

‘I don’t like this,’ Cato said softly. ‘We should have run into someone by now. Some of the Praetorians, or the slaves at least.’

At last, as they approached the doors to the private suites of the Emperor and his family, they saw some of the guards. Eight Praetorians stood on watch by the light of a brazier. As Cato and Macro emerged from the gloom they saw a figure step forward and recognised Fuscius.

‘Stop there!’ the optio barked. ‘Identify yourselves.’

Cato muttered to his friend, ‘Time to drop the cover story, I think.’

‘High bloody time,’ Macro agreed with feeling.

As they stepped into the pool of light cast by the brazier, Fuscius swore softly. ‘Calidus and Capito! What have you two been up to? You’re covered in filth.’ His eyes widened as he was struck by a more salient thought. ‘You’re supposed to be on guard! You’ve deserted your posts.’

‘Quiet!’ Cato snapped. ‘Optio, what’s going on? Where are the rest of the Praetorians?’

Fuscius opened his mouth in astonishment at being addressed in this curt manner by a ranker. He puffed out his chest as he took a deep breath to bawl the two men out.

‘There’s no time for lengthy explanations,’ Cato said curtly. ‘All you need to know is that my name is not Capito. I’m Prefect Cato and this is Centurion Macro. Why are there so few men in the palace?’

‘Hold it.’ Fuscius stared at them. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We’ve uncovered a plot to kill the Emperor. We’ve been investigating a plot involving some officers of the Praetorian Guard.’

‘Bollocks. I don’t believe it. You two are on a charge.’

‘Shut your mouth,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Or it’ll be you on a charge, sunshine, at the very least, should anything happen to the Emperor. Now tell the prefect what’s going on. Where are the rest of the Praetorians?’

Fuscius swallowed nervously before he replied. ‘All right, all right then … they’ve been ordered out of the palace to guard the perimeter of the imperial quarter. Only Tribune Burrus and two centuries remain in the palace.’

‘Who gave the order?’ Cato demanded.

‘Prefect Geta. Less than half an hour ago, I’d say. Same time that he ordered the German bodyguards to be confined to quarters.’

Cato felt his blood go cold. ‘Where is Tigellinus?’

Fuscius glanced from one to the other briefly, his mouth working helplessly. Then he shook his head. ‘The centurion’s not here.’

‘Where is he then?’ Cato demanded.

‘He went off with Prefect Geta and another officer, Centurion Sinius, and a squad of men.’

Cato stabbed his finger into the scale armour on the optio’s chest. ‘Where did they go?’

‘I don’t know. They were making for the gardens. Doing the rounds of the sentries, I think the prefect said.’

Cato exchanged an anxious glance with Macro before he addressed Fuscius again. ‘Where’s the tribune?’

‘He set up a command post in the entrance hall, sir.’

‘Then you go to him at once. Tell him to bring every man he can to the imperial quarters immediately. Tell Burrus that the Emperor’s life depends on it. We’ll take these men with us.’ Cato saw the optio was on the verge of indecision again and he took a step towards the man and grasped him by the shoulders. ‘Get a grip on yourself, Fuscius! You have your orders, now go!’ Cato gave him a firm shove away from the entrance and Fuscius hurried away towards the main entrance of the palace, the clatter of his nailed boots echoing off the high walls.

Turning back, Cato faced the remaining Praetorians. Their expressions were as shocked and surprised as the optio’s. He needed them to accept his authority and obey his orders without question. Cato drew a calming breath as he looked at them. ‘I meant what I said about the danger to the Emperor. There are traitors in our ranks. Men who would break their sacred oath. The only hope we have of stopping them is if you obey my orders, and those of Centurion Macro, without question. Is that clear?’ He looked at each man in turn, daring them to defy him. There were no dissenters and Cato nodded.

‘Very well. Draw your swords and follow us.’ He gestured to Macro, and with a light scrape of his blade, Cato drew his sword and trotted through the entrance of the imperial quarters with Macro at his side. With a chorus of steely rasps the Praetorians drew their weapons and fell in behind the two officers.

As they ran down the long corridor connecting the main part of the palace to the more private and comfortable suites occupied by Claudius and his family, Cato hurriedly thought through the layout of this part of the palace complex. There would still be some men of the Sixth Century at their stations, and perhaps a handful of the German bodyguards who had been with the Emperor when their comrades had been quietly removed from the scene. Therefore the logical route for the assassins to take would be through the terraced gardens and then a final assault through the colonnade that ran along the side of the gardens. It would take them longer than the direct route, but it would avoid having to bluff, or fight, their way through each checkpoint. There was still a chance that they might reach the Emperor first.

Two flights of stairs led up to the highest level of the palace where the sleeping quarters and the gardens overlooked the heart of the city. As they climbed breathlessly up the final set of stairs, Cato heard a cry of alarm, then a shout and the unmistakable clatter of sword blades.

‘On me!’ he called, taking the last three stairs in a frantic leap. The corridor was lit by oil lamps and was some ten feet wide, with doors opening off each side. It stretched the full length of the top level of the palace, and the Emperor’s sleeping chamber and private study were halfway along on the left. The sound of voices and the clash of blades were louder now. As Cato, Macro and the Praetorians sprinted along the marbled floor, a door opened just ahead of them and Britannicus stepped out, bleary eyed. His sleep-clouded mind cleared in an instant as he saw the soldiers pounding towards him, swords drawn.

‘Get back inside!’ Cato shouted as he slithered to a halt. He turned to the nearest of the Praetorians. ‘You! Stay with the Emperor’s son. Lock the door and guard him with your life.’

Without waiting for the man’s response, Cato ran on again. The sounds of the fighting echoed dully off the corridor walls and then, when they were no more than twenty feet from the Emperor’s study, the door burst open and a German fell out, crashing on to the floor. A Praetorian leaped out after him, stabbing down on his sword with his full weight. The blade tore through the German’s stomach and the point burst through his back and struck the marble beneath with a loud crack. The German bellowed with agony and then his face contorted into a snarl as he grabbed the other man’s head in both hands and bit off his nose.

Cato thrust his blade into the Praetorian’s spine as he reached the door and the man gasped, dropping his sword, before he slumped over the body of the German. Rushing inside, Cato saw that he had been right. The shutters that had been drawn across the doors leading out on to the portico and the gardens had been smashed open and the splintered remains hung on the hinges. The main lampstand that stood beside the Emperor’s desk had been knocked over in the fight and the only illumination in the room came from a single lamp holder still casting its wan glow from a small table in one corner.

The room seemed to be filled with leaping shadows as men fought like furies. Cato held his sword out and glanced round, and saw the Emperor back into the wall behind his desk. In front of him stood Narcissus, a dagger held out as he shielded Claudius with his body. A huge German stood to one side a short distance before his master, sweeping the air with a long sword as he screamed out his war cry. There were two more Germans fighting in the room, together with a palace slave. Against them were ranged eight Praetorians, two of whom wore the breastplates of officers. A German, two slaves and two Praetorians were already down on the floor, moaning from their wounds.

Macro reacted to the confused scene first. ‘Form up on the Emperor, lads!’

He led the way, rushing round the side of the room towards Claudius and Narcissus pressed up against the wall behind their German protector. Cato accepted the sense of Macro’s order at once and joined the other men.

‘Stop them!’ a voice cried out. ‘Kill the Emperor! Kill the tyrant!’

Cato recognised the voice - Sinius.

Leaving two of their number locked in combat with the bodyguards in the middle of the study the traitors surged towards the Emperor, rushing round the desk, and one man vaulted over it. The German managed one more swing of his sword, cutting down one of his attackers before the rest swarmed over him, hacking and stabbing with their short swords. He staggered under the impact and then collapsed on to his knees, arms stretched wide as he struggled, even in death, to shield his master. His sacrifice delayed the assassins for only a heartbeat, but it was long enough for Macro to reach the far wall. With a bellow he charged headlong into the men who had killed the German, punching his sword into the face of the first man in his path. As the skull shattered with a wet crack, Macro slammed into the next two men, sending them flying back, one falling at the feet of Narcissus who promptly stabbed him in the back with his dagger, the other stumbling back among his companions.

Cato was close behind his friend and swerved aside to place himself between the traitors and the Emperor as one of the officers thrust his way past the press of bodies caused by Macro’s wild charge. In the gloom Cato could just make out Prefect Geta’s determined expression as he raised his sword and made to strike at Claudius. Cato threw his blade up to deflect the blow and sparks sprang from the expertly forged metal as the weapons struck. He felt the impact of the savage blow travel down his arm and his fingers were momentarily numbed. The prefect’s sword cut through the air to one side of the Emperor and clattered against the wall, gouging a chunk out of the ornately painted plaster. Claudius flinched as a chip of plaster struck him on the cheek. Before Geta could recover his sword to attack again, Cato threw himself forward and slammed his left forearm into the prefect’s chest, throwing him off balance. The Praetorians following on behind Macro and Cato forced themselves between the Emperor and the traitors and the room filled with the desperate grunts and cries of the two sides, together with the scrape of blades as they fought hand to hand.

‘Hold ‘em back!’ Macro bellowed as he fell into place beside Cato.

For a moment the struggle continued and then the first of the traitors retreated, clutching his spare hand to a wound in his sword arm. With no way through to the Emperor, the others backed off one by one. Geta turned to them in fury.

‘Fools! If you don’t kill him now, you are as good as dead. It’s too late to retreat. Strike! Strike a blow for liberty while you still can!’

Geta lashed out with his sword in a series of vicious cuts which Cato parried as best he could until Macro launched himself forward, hammering his sword against the prefect’s, forcing the other man back.

One of the Praetorians made to move forward and help Macro but Cato grabbed his shoulder. ‘Stay where you are! Every man is to hold position. Protect the Emperor until help gets here.’

The two sides drew apart and the din of the fighting was replaced by heavy breathing as the Praetorians and the traitors watched each other warily. Geta glared at the Emperor, then swallowed nervously before he took a half step towards Claudius and the men guarding him. Before he could call on his men to attempt another strike against the Emperor, the sound of shouting and footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the study.

‘That’s Tribune Burrus,’ Cato spoke out to the traitors. ‘Throw down your weapons and surrender.’

‘Surrender and we all die!’ Geta responded loudly. ‘There will be no mercy if we fail now.’

His followers hovered indecisively for an instant before one turned and ran back through the broken shutters. Another made to follow him and then others fled, leaving Geta and Sinius alone. Beyond them, Cato was aware of a third officer, in the shadows by the broken shutters.

‘Cowards!’ Geta yelled bitterly. ‘Cowards all!’

Sinius grabbed his arm and pulled his superior back. ‘There’s nothing we can achieve here, sir! We must go.’

‘Go where?’ Geta asked.

‘There may be another chance, sir. Come!’ Sinius roughly pulled the Praetorian prefect away and then bundled him out of the room towards the gardens. Cato lowered his sword and looked round the room. The wounded were moaning on the floor. Two of the men lay still. Those on either side of him were breathing heavily from their desperate run through the palace and the brief skirmish in the Emperor’s study. The Emperor himself was unhurt but there was no mistaking the terror in his eyes.

‘You men stay here,’ Cato ordered the Praetorians. ‘Macro, with me!’

He tightened his grip on his sword as they strode briskly across the room towards the smashed shutters. They stepped out of the study cautiously, just in case any of the traitors were waiting for them in the colonnade outside. The light of the crescent moon bathed the garden in dark shades of grey and the figures of the traitors were easy enough to see as they fled down the shingle paths through the neat shrubberies and flower beds. Macro started after the nearest of the men but Cato grabbed his arm.

‘No. Leave him. Those are the ones we want.’ He pointed his sword at the three officers running towards the steps leading down to the lower terrace of the garden where there was access to the servants’ quarters beneath the imperial suites. If Geta and the others could reach them, they might lose their pursuers in the labyrinth of service corridors and storerooms before escaping into the city’s streets. Cato and Macro set off after the officers, sprinting down from the colonnade towards the steps. They lost sight of their prey momentarily between two lines of neatly trimmed box hedges and then saw them, a short distance ahead. Geta and his companions dashed down the stairs and headed across a paved area towards the dark entrance to the servants’ quarters. An instant later there was a faint glow there that outlined the stone arch and then the flicker of a torch and the sound of voices.

The three men stopped as they realised there was no escape in that direction. They turned and ran the opposite way, along the balcony that looked directly down on to the Forum. At the far end lay a secluded rose garden surrounded by tall hedges. Cato and Macro chased after them while the first soldiers spilled out from the servants’ entrance. Higher up there were shouts as more men began to search the upper terrace for the traitors. Burrus’s voice carried through the night air as he issued his orders. The three officers hurried round the corner of the rose garden out of sight. Cato stopped and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Over here. They’re over here! Hurry!’

He and Macro continued their pursuit, rushing headlong round the edge of the neatly trimmed bushes only to see an empty stretch of path before them, lined with pine trees on one side which filled the air with their rich scent. Cato held up his hand to stop his friend and they stood, hearts pounding, as they strained their eyes to see in the gloom.

‘Where did they go?’ hissed Macro. ‘They have to be close. Best be careful, lad.’

They paced forward warily, senses tuned to detect the slightest sign of movement or sound in the trees on either side of the path. The voices of Burrus’s men rang out across the garden and then Cato saw a party of soldiers appear at the far end of the path. He took a breath and called out.

‘Geta! You’re trapped. There’s nowhere to run. Give yourself up!’

There was no response from close at hand, but the soldiers at the far end of the path began to trot towards Cato. Suddenly, not twenty feet ahead, there was a deep groan and a body slumped out of the shadows and fell across the path, a sword clattering dully to the ground beside the man.

‘What are you doing?’ Geta’s voice rose up in alarm only to be cut off abruptly. There was a rustling between the trees behind the body and then a stifled cry.

‘Shit.’ Macro started forward. ‘The bastards are doing themselves in.’

Cato ran after him. Before they could reach the body, a figure stepped out on to the path, sword in hand, and faced Macro and Cato. As he stepped away from the tree, Cato saw who it was.

‘Tigellinus.’

They halted, a safe distance beyond sword’s length, and raised their weapons, ready to fight if the centurion chose to resist. Behind him the soldiers approached at the run.

‘You three!’ a voice called out. ‘Drop your swords!’

Tigellinus glanced briefly over his shoulder before he tossed his weapon on to the path. The Praetorians slowed to a stop and their leader carefully stooped to pick up Tigellinus’s sword before he gestured towards Cato and Macro. ‘You too!’

‘What?’ Macro growled. ‘We’re on the same side, man! We’re the ones who sent for Burrus.’

‘We’ll see soon enough,’ the Praetorian replied. ‘Now drop those swords, before me and my lads make you.’

Macro took a step towards them.

‘Do as he says,’ Cato intervened, throwing his weapon at the feet of the soldiers.

Macro hesitated a moment, then shrugged and followed suit.

Once the weapons had been collected and the Praetorians had surrounded Cato, Macro and Tigellinus, the leader of the soldiers prodded the body on the path with his boot and then squinted into the shadows where a second corpse lay.

‘What’s going on here, then?’

Tigellinus cleared his throat. ‘You address me as “sir” when you speak to me, Centurion Tigellinus, commander of the Sixth Century, Third Cohort.’

‘Bollocks,’ Macro spat. ‘You’re nothing but a bloody traitor, like your two friends here.’

‘Friends?’ Tigellinus responded in a surprised tone. ‘I think you are mistaken. I saw these men running from the Emperor’s study. I chased after them and caught up with them here. There was a fight, and I slew them by my own hand.’

Macro was dumbfounded and took a moment to speak. ‘That’s a bloody lie! It was me and Cato who were chasing ‘em, and you too, you traitor!’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,’ Tigellinus said smoothly.

‘Right, that’s enough!’ the leader of the Praetorians snapped. ‘Shut your mouths, all three of you. Tribune Burrus will soon have the truth out of you, make no mistake.’ He detailed four of his men to pick up the bodies before turning back to his prisoners. ‘Let’s go!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Emperor Claudius eased himself down on to the padded throne in the small audience chamber he used for his routine business. Through the arched windows running along one of the walls the first glimmer of the coming dawn illuminated the city’s skyline and the first bird calls of the day carried into the palace. Neither the pink tinge in the sky nor the light-hearted chorus of the sparrows touched the hearts or minds of those gathered in the chamber.

The room was lined with German bodyguards hastily summoned from their quarters where Prefect Geta had confined them a few hours before. The bodies of the prefect and Centurion Sinius lay in the centre of the room. Sinius had a wound to his throat while Geta had been stabbed in the heart. The surviving members of their party stood behind the bodies, their hands bound in front of them, their expressions fearful. Centurion Tigellinus stood a small distance apart, flanked by two of the Germans. Cato and Macro, still in their soiled tunics, were also under guard. The Empress, Nero and Britannicus sat on stools to one side of the Emperor’s throne and on the other side were the Emperor’s closest advisers, Narcissus and Pallas, together with Tribune Burrus.

Claudius’s gaze slowly travelled round the occupants of the chamber and Cato could see that he was still badly shaken by the attempt on his life. A small nick in his cheek had bled unchecked for a while and a streak of dried blood ran down his jowl and had stained a small patch at the top of his white tunic. He leant forward, resting his elbow on his knee as his fingers nervously stroked his jaw. At length he eased himself back and cleared his throat.

‘By the gods, someone is going to p-pay for this.’ He thrust his finger at the two corpses. ‘That is the f-f-fate of anyone connected with this conspiracy. I want their heads mounted in the Forum for all to see. I want their f-families sent into exile. Their sympathisers will be sent to the lions in the ar-arena.’ He swallowed and coughed as he choked on his rage. The coughing continued for a moment, and his head twitched violently as he struggled to regain control. At length the fit passed and he glowered at the bodies in silence, until the silence became unbearable. Narcissus bit his lip and then took a quiet step forward to draw his master’s attention.

‘Sire? Perhaps it would be best to begin with Tribune Burrus’s report,’ Narcissus suggested.

Claudius thought a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes … Yes. Good. Well, Tribune? Explain yourself. Keep it to the p-point.’

All eyes were on Burrus as he strode forward and faced the Emperor directly. As usual he was immaculately turned out and his crested helmet was tucked under his arm. He bowed his head curtly before he began.

‘I called the men out as soon as Optio Fuscius told me what was going on, sire. I took the first available section and gathered more men as we made for the imperial suite. By the time we got to your study the traitors had fled, so I sent the men out to search the gardens. That’s where they found the bodies, and those three.’ He indicated Tigellinus, Cato and Macro. ‘They were making all sorts of claims so I ordered that they be held under guard while I made sure that you and your family were safe, sire, and that there was no sign of any further traitors hiding in the gardens or in the imperial suite. As soon as I discovered Prefect Geta’s part in the plot I gave instructions for his orders to be revoked. The Germans were sent for and the rest of the Praetorians assigned to guard the palace were recalled from outside and repositioned to protect the imperial palace and prevent anyone from entering or leaving without your permission. That’s when I received your summons to come here, sire,’ Burrus concluded with a brief nod.

Claudius nodded and pursed his lips. He pointed to Cato and Macro. ‘And you two? What’s your st-story? I seem to recognise you. Have I seen you before?’

‘Yes, sire,’ Cato answered. ‘During the campaign in Britannia, and here in the palace some years before. And we were there, at your side, when the imperial party was attacked in the Forum. And when the dam collapsed below the Albine Lake.’

‘Oh?’ Claudius narrowed his eyes. ‘I see you wear the tunics of Praetorians, but you look like beggars from the F-f-f-forum. What was your part in the night’s events, eh? Are you part of the conspiracy?’

‘No, sire. Centurion Macro and I led the party that saved you in your study.’

‘Did you now? … Centurion Macro, you say? And who are you then, young man?’

‘Prefect Cato, sir. Before that, a centurion in the Second Legion.’

‘But you wear the tunic of the Praetorians, like those t-traitors lying there on the floor. Burrus, are these two yours?’

‘Yes, sire.’ Burrus frowned. ‘They joined the Guard several weeks ago. Promoted from the legions. At least that was their story. They went by the names of Capito and Calidus. Now they claim to be Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro.’

‘So then.’ Claudius turned back to Cato and Macro. ‘What were two legionary officers doing in the P-p-praetorian Guard, under false names? Unless you were part of the plot against me.’

Narcissus stepped forward with a light cough. ‘Sire, I can vouch for these men. They are indeed officers from the legions. It was I who summoned them to Rome to carry out a mission, in your service, sire.’

‘Mission? What m-mission?’

‘You recall the matter of the theft of the silver bullion, sire?’

‘Of course. I’m old, not st-stupid.’

‘Indeed, sire.’ Narcissus bowed his head. ‘Then you will remember that I reported discovering a connection between the theft of the silver and certain members of the Praetorian Guard. Men who I suspected were linked to the Liberators.’

Claudius nodded. ‘Continue.’

‘In order to pursue my investigation I needed some men on the inside, sire. Cato and Macro have served you well before and such is their loyalty to you that they willingly agreed to risk their lives and go under cover in an effort to penetrate the conspiracy.’

‘Agreed?’ Macro whispered. ‘That’s pushing it.’

‘Their mission was dangerous,’ Narcissus continued. ‘But between their efforts and those of my most trusted agents, we were able to identify the ringleaders of the conspiracy, as well as uncovering the full scope of the plot, sire. We discovered that the traitors were behind the grain shortage. They intended to provoke civil disorder by deliberately starving your people. Luckily the Liberators’ grain hoard has been located and it is now under the protection of one of the urban cohorts, sire.’ Narcissus paused and coughed. ‘I gave the order in your name, if you’ll forgive me.’

The Emperor’s eyes lit up and he leant forward. ‘This grain is safe, you say? Then we must start feeding the m-m-mob as soon as p-possible.’

‘I have already given the orders to begin moving the grain to the palace, sire, so that you may take credit for restoring the grain dole.’

‘Very good!’ Claudius smiled in relief. Then he waved a hand. ‘Go on.’

Narcissus paused a moment as he looked meaningfully at Centurion Tigellinus. ‘Although two of the officers who led the plot are dead, and the other would-be assassins are also dead, or captured, there are still others involved in the conspiracy against you. Or, more precisely, the two conspiracies.’

Claudius frowned. ‘Two? Explain yourself.’

Narcissus gestured towards Cato and Macro. ‘My agents discovered the existence of a parallel plot, sire. The Liberators were not the only traitors working towards your downfall. The collapse of the dam and the attempt to disrupt the Naumachia were the handiwork of other conspirators. Those who hoped to turn the Liberators’ efforts to their own ends …’ Narcissus turned towards Tigellinus and paced slowly round him so that he could look back, in the direction of Pallas, before he resumed. ‘It was only with tonight’s attempt on your life that I began to grasp the scope of their plans. It was their intention to do what they could to help the Liberators murder you, sire. And then make use of the chaos to replace you with their choice of Emperor.’

Cato saw the blood drain from Pallas’s face as the imperial secretary outlined his thoughts. Pallas glanced quickly at Agrippina before he got control of himself and stared rigidly at his rival, Narcissus.

‘Who are these other traitors then?’ the Emperor demanded. ‘Who do they intend to r-replace me with?’

Narcissus turned and bowed his head towards Nero. ‘Your adopted son.’

Claudius sucked in his breath and turned towards Nero. ‘Is this true?’

The boy’s jaw sagged and he shook his head. Before he could speak, Agrippina jumped to her feet with a furious expression and stabbed a finger at Narcissus. ‘He’s a liar! Like all these Greek freedmen you choose to surround yourself with.’

Pallas winced.

‘How dare you accuse my son?’ Agrippina said furiously. ‘How dare you?’

‘I did not accuse him of taking part in the conspiracy,’ Narcissus responded loudly enough to override her protest. ‘I said that there were others who wished to use Nero to replace the Emperor. Presumably so that they could manipulate him for their own ends.’

‘Who are these traitors?’ Claudius repeated, his mind concentrating sufficiently to eclipse his stammer. ‘Name them.’

‘I can’t, sire. Not yet. Not quite,’ Narcissus apologised, even as he looked at both Pallas and Agrippina. ‘But I know the identity of one man close to the heart of the second conspiracy. Notably this officer.’ He pointed at Centurion Tigellinus. ‘My agents, Cato and Macro, caught him with the bodies of the two officers who led the attempt on your life, Prefect Geta and Centurion Sinius. He was with them then, and he fled with them, and it is clear that he killed them in order to cover up his part in the plot. Naturally, the centurion protested his innocence, and claimed to have chased them down and engaged them in combat before killing them.’

‘That is the truth, sire,’ Tigellinus cut in calmly.

‘No, it is a lie,’ Narcissus responded. ‘As will be proved when you are handed over to my interrogators who will find out exactly who your accomplices are. They have something of a knack for getting answers out of traitors.’

Tigellinus looked at Agrippina and she glanced at Pallas and discreetly made a gesture to urge his intervention. Pallas licked his lips anxiously and then stepped forward.

‘Sire, this man, Centurion Tigellinus, is innocent. I swear it.’

‘Oh?’ Narcissus could not help a small smile. ‘And how can you be so certain?’

‘He is working for me,’ Pallas replied. ‘He has been from the start.’

Claudius looked confused. ‘This traitor is your agent?’

‘He is no traitor, sire,’ Pallas replied. ‘I too had discovered that the Liberators were plotting to bring you down. Like Narcissus I decided to place a man inside the conspiracy to find out who was behind it. Is this not true, Centurion?’

‘That’s right.’ Tigellinus nodded steadily. ‘That was the plan.’

‘Even though we did our best to infiltrate the conspiracy, we were unable to achieve as much as my esteemed colleague and his team.’ Pallas bowed his head politely towards Narcissus who responded to the words of praise with an icy, hate-filled glare. ‘Tigellinus was still in the process of gathering intelligence tonight when your enemies struck, sire. However, he did manage at least to warn the Empress and Prince Nero before they could be attacked.’

Claudius held up a hand to still Pallas’s tongue, and turned to his wife. ‘Is this true?’

Agrippina nodded. ‘He entered my sleeping chamber to tell me and Nero to go and hide. He said he would try to save you.’

Claudius stared at her. ‘Nero was in your room? In your bed?’

‘He could not sleep,’ Agrippina replied steadily. ‘The poor boy had a headache and I was comforting him.’

‘I see.’ Claudius turned to Pallas. ‘And how did you come to know this?’

‘Sire?’

‘That Tigellinus managed to warn my wife?’

‘She told me, as we were waiting for you here, a moment ago.’

‘Very well.’ The Emperor scratched his chin. ‘I think I’ll hear the rest of it from the centurion’s lips. Speak up, Tigellinus. What happened next?’

‘I left the Empress, sire, and ran to catch up with the traitors, but they had already burst into your study to attack you. I heard sounds of fighting then saw the traitors fleeing. I recognised Geta and Sinius and pursued them. I brought them to bay at the far end of the garden. They were forced to fight and, by the grace of Jupiter, I overcame them. That’s when Capito and - I beg your pardon, sire - that’s when the agents of Narcissus turned up, together with the Praetorians. Too late to be of assistance, alas,’ he added in a regretful tone.

‘So you say,’ Narcissus intervened. ‘But the truth is that you murdered these two officers to prevent them from implicating you. Far from investigating the Liberators’ conspiracy, you were actually doing everything you could to further it so that your masters could seize power in the name of Prince Nero, after the Emperor was killed. It’s clear that you warned the Empress to hide in order to preserve her and her son, and had no intention of doing anything to save the Emperor.’

Tigellinus shrugged. ‘It’s a nice story, freedman. But it’s still just a story.’

‘Oh, it’s more than a story,’ Narcissus sneered. ‘It’s no coincidence that the Empress, the Prince … and Pallas were not with the Emperor the day when the dam was sabotaged.’

‘Was it sabotaged? I had no idea.’

‘Then why did you attempt to kill Claudius when the water rushed down upon us?’

Tigellinus frowned. ‘I did no such thing.’

‘Yes you did.’ Narcissus turned to Cato. ‘Isn’t that right, Prefect Cato? If you had not intervened and reached the Emperor first, he would have been murdered. Is that not so?’

Cato was acutely aware of every eye upon him and felt his heart quicken with anxiety. Even though the truth was that Tigellinus, Pallas and Agrippina had been plotting the death of the Emperor, he was shrewd enough to see that they were covering their tracks adroitly. So far Narcissus had cleverly avoided accusing Pallas and Agrippina directly and had focused his accusations on Tigellinus. Under torture the centurion would inevitably confess their involvement and Narcissus’s case against them would be complete. But what if the imperial secretary failed to bring them down? Cato knew that if that happened, he and Macro would be sure to join Narcissus on their list of enemies - a danger that Cato could not ignore. He cleared his throat.

‘It was peculiar that the centurion was alone in not being surprised by the wave. He had stripped off his armour and was the first to react. That is why I placed myself between him and the Emperor.’

‘I was as surprised as anyone else,’ Tigellinus countered. ‘Should I be blamed for reacting to the danger more swiftly than you? Have you considered that your preventing me from coming to the Emperor’s aid might have actually increased the risk to his life?’

‘I was tasked with protecting the Emperor,’ said Cato. ‘Your actions were suspicious, to say the least. And, as the imperial secretary has pointed out, it was very convenient for you that those with most to gain from the Emperor’s death were not on the scene.’

‘I am not responsible for the whereabouts of members of the imperial household,’ Tigellinius said dismissively. ‘Whereas I am responsible for the safety of the Emperor and went to his aid the moment I perceived the danger to his life.’

‘Enough of your lies!’ Narcissus broke in. ‘Let’s put this matter in the hands of the interrogators. They’ll get to the bottom of things soon enough. Sire, may I give the order?’

Before Claudius could consider the question, Agrippina hurried to his side and knelt beside him. ‘My dearest Claudius, we cannot let this good man suffer just because one of your servants suspects him of some kind of involvement in this awful plot by the Liberators.’ Her voice was low and sweet and she cast a pitying look at Tigellinus. ‘It would be a poor reward for saving my life and that of my son. Besides, Pallas has vouched for him.’

Claudius smiled at her. ‘Yes, but Narcissus has not, and I have learned to trust his judgement over the years.’

Agrippina took his hand and pressed it to the thin folds of material covering her breast. Claudius’s smile took on a distinct leer. She spoke again, in a lower, softer voice that was almost a purr. ‘Narcissus has worked tirelessly for you. I know that. But tired men make mistakes, my love. It’s only to be expected. The poor man is overwrought and is so used to seeing conspiracies that sometimes the simple truth escapes him. You’ve heard his accusations, and you have heard Tigellinus’s explanations of his conduct. I believe him.’

Claudius twisted round to cup her cheek with his spare hand, while keeping the other on her breast. ‘My dear, you are t-t-too good. Too innocent of the ways of men.’

Cato saw the panic etched on Narcissus’s face. The imperial secretary took a step towards his Emperor. ‘Sire, I suggest that we leave my interrogators to settle the matter. If Tigellinus is innocent we shall know soon enough. Better that he suffers a little than permit a traitor to go free.’

‘Please, Claudius, there’s been enough blood shed tonight,’ said Agrippina, then she moved her head slightly so that she could kiss the palm of his hand. As Cato watched, he saw her tongue dart out and flick over the Emperor’s skin and Claudius gave a little shudder of pleasure.

‘You’re right, my love.’ He smiled, then looked up at the others gathered in the audience chamber. ‘The plot against me has been crushed. The ringleaders are dead. All that m-m-matters now is to start feeding the people of Rome again. Pallas, you can take charge of that.’

‘With pleasure, sire.’ Pallas bowed low.

Claudius turned to Narcissus. ‘You have done well, my friend. Once again you have defeated my enemies and I am in your d-debt. But the Empress is right. We must not lash out in a blind panic. The centurion was carrying out Pallas’s instructions. I am indeed fortunate to have two such devoted servants …’ He paused and looked at Cato and Macro. ‘I owe my thanks to you …’ His brow creased.

‘Cato, sir,’ Cato filled in. ‘Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro.’

‘Cato and Macro. Fine work. You shall be rewarded. It is thanks to you that R-rome can be fed once more.’ He rose from his throne and approached them with a grateful smile. Then he stopped at arm’s length and sniffed the air and grimaced. ‘Yes, well. Good j-job. Better go and, er, get yourselves bathed and find some fresh t-t-tunics.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Cato and Macro replied with a smart bow of their heads.

Claudius forced another smile before shuffling back out of range of the odour emanating from their filthy tunics. He took Agrippina’s hand again and beamed dotingly at her. ‘Come, my love. It has been an eventful night. We could b-b-both do with a rest, eh?’

The Empress raised her plucked eyebrows suggestively. Claudius led her towards the rear door of the audience chamber. Then he paused and looked back at the prisoners who had been standing silently, hoping that they might have been overlooked. ‘Oh, and have those men executed. Their heads are to be mounted next to their leaders’. See to it, Pallas.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Claudius turned back to his wife and continued towards the door with his awkward gait. Britannicus and Nero followed a short distance behind. The rest of the men in the chamber stood in silence until the Emperor and his family had left. Then they began to talk in muted tones. The Germans marched the prisoners away to their deaths while others removed the bodies of Geta and Sinius. Tigellinus turned to Cato and Macro with a smirk. ‘I hope for your sake that our paths don’t cross again.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Macro responded. ‘We’ll be quitting the Praetorians as soon as we can. Back to the proper army for us.’

‘Lucky you. Less pay, fewer prospects and the squalor of the frontier. I am positively consumed with envy.’

Macro grabbed the centurion’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘I know what you are,’ he said in a soft voice, dripping with menace. ‘You may have fooled the Emperor but we know the truth, Cato and me. If our paths do ever cross again, I swear I’ll kill you first and ask questions later.’

‘That would be rather pointless,’ Tigellinus observed as he reached up and pulled his tunic out of Macro’s fingers. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I find your stench offensive.’ He backed away to a safe distance and took his place beside Pallas. The freedman could not help a triumphant grin as he faced Narcissus.

‘It’s not over,’ the imperial secretary said firmly. ‘You’ve won this round, but you won’t be able to fool the Emperor for ever.’

‘I won’t have to. How much longer do you suppose Claudius will live? Five years? Three? One?’ Pallas plucked at the hem of his tunic. ‘My boy is next in line to the purple. Britannicus is a spent force. Face it, you picked the wrong horse, Narcissus. I have Nero, I have his mother and the Emperor has given me the job of handing out the grain. I should think that makes me the most popular man in a starving city, don’t you? Meanwhile, what do you have? The Emperor’s gratitude, that’s what. How long do you think that’s going to work in your favour when Agrippina has her claws stuck into the old boy? Whatever your undoubted talents, I doubt that seducing a randy old man is among them.’ Pallas patted the imperial secretary on the shoulder. ‘Enjoy this moment, my old friend. There won’t be any more opportunities. You have my word on it. Come, Tigellinus.’ He beckoned to the centurion and headed towards the door of the chamber. ‘We must have a little talk about your future.’

Only Narcissus, Cato and Macro remained in the chamber. The imperial secretary stood and stared at the Emperor’s throne with a bitter, weary expression. Macro tugged his friend’s arm and spoke softly. ‘Come on, we’re done here. It’s over.’

‘Over?’ Cato shook his head. ‘How can you say that?’

‘The people will get their grain. The Emperor’s survived an assassination attempt. We’re still alive.’ Macro shrugged. ‘That’s as good a result as you can hope for in my book. Now, I could use a bath, a drink and some sleep. So could you. Let’s go, lad.’

‘Go? Go where? Back to the camp? Isn’t that going to be difficult now that our cover story has been exposed?’

‘Where else can we go? We don’t have any home outside of the barracks, Cato.’

Cato thought a moment, and nodded. Now that the plot had been foiled, they should be safe enough at the camp under their real names. For a few days at least, until some better arrangement could be made. Cato took one last look at the dejected imperial secretary. There was still one matter to be resolved.

‘Narcissus … We’ll talk later.’

‘Yes,’ Narcissus replied vaguely. Then he turned to face Cato with a calculating look. ‘Talk about what?’

‘The Liberators,’ Cato replied deliberately. ‘That, and your promise to find us postings back to the army, with confirmation of my promotion.’

‘I see. Yes.’ Narcissus nodded slowly. ‘We’ll speak later then.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

‘Lurco and Vitellius were not particularly grateful when I gave orders for their release,’ said Narcissus, smiling faintly. ‘Vitellius swore that he would have his revenge on you two, apparently.’

‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t have bothered with Vitellius,’ Macro responded without a trace of humour. ‘It would have been better if you had arranged for him to be dropped into a nice deep well. I doubt he’d have been missed by many people. Come to that, if you want the job done, you only have to ask.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Narcissus replied. ‘Were it not for the fact that Vitellius hates Pallas even more than me, I might be tempted to take you up on your offer. As it is, he may yet be of some use to me. Frankly, I need every ally I can get at present.’

Cato briefly wondered if the imperial secretary was looking for sympathy. It had been five days since the attempt on the Emperor’s life. Claudius had spent most of the time with his young wife and left his subordinates to run his affairs. While Pallas had taken charge of distributing the grain supply, Tribune Burrus had been appointed prefect of the Praetorian Guard. The other prefect was pensioned off and there were no plans to replace him. Henceforth, there would be one commander of the Praetorians, with all the dangers that entailed. The Empress had seen to it that Centurion Tigellinus was promoted to replace Burrus. It was clear to Cato that the balance of power had shifted from Narcissus to Pallas and his associates.

Narcissus had been silent for a moment, as if awaiting a response to his predicament. When none came he frowned slightly and leant forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and arched his fingers together as he regarded the two officers sitting in front of him.

‘As you will recall, the Emperor promised you a reward for your services in uncovering the Liberators’ plot. Given that Agrippina is busy wrapping Claudius round her little finger, it would be best to claim that reward now, before she entices him into changing his mind. Rome is likely to become as dangerous a place for you as it is for me in the days to come.’

‘I doubt that,’ Macro commented. ‘We’re not party to the games you and Pallas are playing.’

‘Oh, but you are. Very much so. You and Cato came close to exposing Pallas and Agrippina’s plot. Tigellinus was lucky to escape with his life. I doubt that they will be very forgiving as far as you two are concerned. In which case it would be wise to remove you both from Rome and find you safer employment. Pallas’s star is rising, and at present I find it hard to believe that Nero will not succeed Claudius. In which case, Britannicus is a lost cause. There is not much I can do to save him now. Indeed, I may not be able to do much to save myself, but I’ll do what I can for you. It is the very least that you deserve after all that you have done in the service of your Emperor.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Spare us the sanctimonious air of self-sacrifice, Narcissus. If you want to keep us safe then it’s only because you think you might have cause to use Macro and me again one day. That being the case, we’ll take our reward, and on our terms.’

‘Your terms?’ Narcissus’s eyebrows rose. ‘And what terms would those be?’

‘You will see to it that my promotion to the rank of prefect is confirmed, and you will provide us both with commands worthy of our ranks. We’ve earned it, over and over, and we will have what is due to us,’ Cato concluded firmly.

The imperial secretary stared at Cato. ‘You have a pretty high and mighty opinion of yourself. What makes you think I will bow to your demands?’

‘It is in our mutual interest,’ Cato responded. ‘While you still have some influence over the Emperor, Macro and I can profit from it.’

‘And what’s in it for me?’

Cato regarded the man coldly for a moment before he replied. ‘If you give us what we want then Macro and I will keep quiet about your attempt to have Nero murdered.’

Macro stirred and looked at his friend in surprise, but kept his silence as he waited for Cato to explain.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ Narcissus responded flatly. ‘I suggest you withdraw your groundless accusation.’

‘Groundless?’ Cato chuckled. ‘I don’t think so. I had it from the mouth of Cestius, before he died. You paid him to kill Nero.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘He took his orders from Septimus who answers directly to you. It comes to the same thing.’

‘I’m afraid not. Cestius is dead. You have no evidence.’

‘Not unless we can persuade Septimus to confirm what Cestius told us. Not just about the attempt to kill Nero, but also about other tasks he performed for you.’

‘What tasks would those be?’

Cato stared at the imperial secretary. ‘Those associated with the threat posed by the Liberators for several years now.’

Narcissus met Cato’s eyes without betraying his thoughts in the smallest degree. ‘Go on.’

‘Very well.’ Cato nodded, gathering his suspicions and conclusions together. ‘Let’s talk about the Liberators. They’ve been a thorn in Claudius’s side ever since he became Emperor. More precisely, ever since you began to wield power behind the scenes.’

‘Most interesting. So what?’

‘There have always been conspiracies against emperors. But never anything as enduring and as secretive as the Liberators. Which is odd, given how they have failed to achieve much, until recently.’ Cato paused. ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought in the last few days. It occurs to me that if the Liberators didn’t exist, then it might be a good idea to invent them.’

Macro frowned. ‘What are you talking about? How can that be a good idea?’

Cato turned to his friend. ‘Think about it. There are plenty of people who would happily see the back of the emperors. They might even consider hatching their own plots against Claudius. But what if there was a secret organisation dedicated to his downfall? Not so secret that no one ever heard of them, of course. Wouldn’t they attract the attention of almost every aspiring assassin? Far better to join other like-minded people than go it alone.’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘I suppose.’

‘Then what could be more logical than to use the Liberators as a front to draw out those who harbour a grudge against Claudius? It’s just the kind of scheme that a man tasked with running the Emperor’s spy network might come up with, don’t you think?’

Macro shook his head. ‘That’s a step too far. Even for Narcissus. That would be playing with fire.’

‘Yes, it would be risky, but while it worked it would provide an invaluable means of identifying traitors, and then arranging for their quiet disposal, or recruitment as double agents.’

Narcissus sat back in his chair. ‘All very interesting, but you have no proof that any such scheme ever existed.’

‘Of course not. That’s how it would have to work. The Liberators would need a high degree of autonomy if they were to believe that their conspiracy was real. Only there was something that you didn’t anticipate.’ Cato shook his head slightly. ‘You didn’t think that the organisation might take on a life of its own. You lost control of them, didn’t you?’

Narcissus did not respond, and there was a tense silence until Narcissus cleared his throat.

‘As I said, you have no proof to back up your wild speculations.’

‘I will have, once Septimus is interrogated. He was your middle man. He shared everything that you knew about the Liberators. He was more than a middle man, he is your right-hand man.’

Narcissus smiled. ‘As it happens, he is even more than that, Cato. Septimus is my son. Do you really think he would betray me? That’s why I placed him in that position. I can rely on him, at least.’

‘Your son?’ Cato was taken by surprise. Then he nodded. ‘That makes sense. But even a son might sell his father out, with the right … persuasion. I wouldn’t count on Septimus holding his tongue.’

‘Then you should not rely on him being taken alive for interrogation. Either he would take his own life, or it could be arranged for another to do the deed for him.’

Cato felt his stomach turn in disgust. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘I would. Do you think a man from my background could achieve what I have without abandoning every principle save that of self-interest? Well?’

For a moment Cato’s composed mask slipped as he muttered, ‘By the gods, you are a monster …’

Narcissus shook his head. ‘I am the servant of the Emperor, tasked with keeping him on the throne at any price. That is all.’

There was a brief silence before the imperial servant continued. ‘I know that you may despise me for what I am about to say.’

‘No,’ Macro interjected. ‘We despise you already.’

Narcissus shot him an icy look. ‘Be that as it may, you have to understand the stakes before you condemn me. I am all that stands between the order of the Empire and chaos. That is the nature of my world. There is no room for all those fine values that you soldiers think are so important.’ His lips lifted in a sneer. ‘I think you’d better go back to the army. Your sense of morality is too dangerous to you here in Rome, and it threatens all that I stand for …’

Cato closed his eyes and fought down the bile that filled his guts. When he opened them again he refused to meet Narcissus’s gaze and turned instead to Macro. ‘I think I felt cleaner when I was standing up to my neck in shit back in the Great Sewer. He’s right, Macro. We should get out of here. Get out of Rome. Get back to the army.’

His friend nodded, rising to his feet. ‘Like I always said. Let’s go.’

Cato stood up, then looked at Narcissus for the last time. ‘You’ll see to it that we get our commands. Do that and we’ll not speak of what we know. Not to anyone.’

‘That is the deal,’ Narcissus agreed. ‘And since you wish for it so fervently, I shall be delighted to have you sent back to … Britannia. I’m sure the natives will be delighted at the prospect of your return.’

‘Suits me,’ Cato replied, then with a quick look at Macro he turned and led the way out of the imperial secretary’s office, feeling sick to the core of his being. Both men were silent until they had left the palace behind them and emerged into the crowded thoroughfare of the Sacred Way, the route that ran through the heart of Rome.

‘Do you think he will keep his side of the bargain?’ asked Macro.

‘He will. It serves his ends to get us far from here as soon as possible. After that, he’ll have no time to spare us any attention. He’ll be too busy dealing with Pallas.’ Cato thought for a moment. ‘I doubt he’ll survive for long. I think he’s finally met his match.’

‘Then good riddance.’

Cato looked at his friend and laughed humourlessly. ‘Narcissus falls, Pallas rises and all is as before. That’s how it will be.’

‘So? By then we shall be far away. Back where we belong.’

‘Britannia?’

‘Why not? That’s where the fighting is best at the moment.’ Macro clapped his hands together at the prospect. ‘Think on it, lad. Battles to be won, booty to be had as far from that slimy reptile Narcissus as possible. And we still have that small fortune Sinius gave us. What could be better?’

Cato stopped and stared at his friend. ‘You intend to keep that?’

‘Why not? You can’t say that I’ve not earned it. You too.’

Cato thought for a moment. ‘If anyone found out we had kept the silver, then we’d be in deep trouble.’

‘Who’s alive to tell the tale?’ Macro smiled. ‘Sinius is dead, so is Geta.’

‘What about Tigellinus?’

‘He might know something about it. But if he says anything, it’ll only prove that he knew more about the Liberators than he’s said so far. He’ll keep his mouth shut.’ Macro looked at Cato pleadingly. ‘Come on, lad. After all that we’ve been through, it’s only fair. It’s not as if Claudius is going to miss a handful of coins.’

‘Handful?’ Cato wrestled with the idea for a moment, before the spectre of Narcissus and his devious machinations appeared in his mind’s eye. He nodded. ‘Why not?’

‘Good lad!’ Macro gave a relieved grin and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I knew you’d see the sense of it.’

‘Good sense doesn’t come into it,’ Cato said quietly.

They reached the road leading back up to the Praetorian camp and stopped. Since their true identities had been revealed, they had been granted accommodation at headquarters, although they were regarded with cool formality by the other officers.

‘You go ahead,’ said Cato. ‘There’s something I have to do.’

Macro gave a lopsided smile, half tender, half nervous for his friend. ‘She’s back in Rome, then.’

‘I heard this morning.’ Cato felt dread welling up in his heart again at the prospect of seeing Julia. It had been over a year since they had last seen each other. In that time there had been a handful of letters exchanged. Though her words had been tender and reassuring, Cato could not help fearing that they were no guarantee that her heart was still his. ‘I told myself I would see her as soon as we were finished with Narcissus.’

‘So, go on, then. What are you waiting for?’

Cato’s brow creased as he stood still, as if rooted to the spot. ‘I don’t know … I really don’t know.’

‘What is there to know, except the truth of how things stand between you?’ Macro punched his shoulder. ‘You can only discover that by going to see her.’

‘Yes. You’re right. I’ll go. Now.’

‘Want me to hold your hand?’

Cato looked at him sharply. ‘Fuck off, thank you.’

Macro laughed heartily and winked at Cato before turning away and striding up the road leading to the camp as if he had not a care in the world. Cato watched him enviously for a moment and then continued on his way, pushing through the crowd as he made for the house of Senator Sempronius on the Quirinal Hill.

It was late in the morning when he stepped up from the street on to the steps to the entrance of the house. The heavy wooden doors were open and the last of the senator’s clients were sitting on benches in the atrium, waiting to present their petitions to their patron. A slave approached Cato to ask him his business.

‘I’m here to speak to Julia Sempronia.’

‘Yes, master. What name shall I give her?’

Cato sucked in a deep breath to calm his nerves. ‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato.’

The slave nodded and turned away on his errand. For an instant Cato was tempted to call the man back and cancel the instruction, but the slave was already at the far end of the atrium and Cato did not want to shout after him. It was too late for that. He stood, his right hand twitching against his thigh. He looked round, not really taking in the details of the house.

Then he froze.

Overhead the sky was clear and larks swooped high above, but Cato had no eyes for them and no ears for their shrill song. Instead he stared across the atrium at a slender young woman in a plain, long, light-blue tunic. She was standing in the opposite doorway, her dark hair tied back in a simple pony tail. She stared back at him. Then she began to walk steadily across the tiled floor, round the shallow pool in the centre of the atrium, her pace slowing as she approached him. Cato tried desperately to read her expression, for any hint of the despair or joy that the next moment might bring.

‘Julia Sempronia.’ He bowed his head formally, not knowing why he did it and feeling foolish.

‘Cato,’ she replied softly. ‘Cato … My Cato.’

Then with a patter of her slippered feet she rushed into his arms and held him tight and Cato felt a warm wave of relief sweep through his chest. He pressed his cheek down against her hair and closed his eyes as her scent, almost forgotten, rushed back amid a confusion of memories and emotions.

Julia drew back and he opened his eyes to see her staring into his face. She reached a hand up to touch his lips, then moved her fingers lightly and uncertainly to trace the line of his scar. Then he saw a tear gleaming at the corner of her eye, where it swelled like a tiny translucent pearl before it rolled down her cheek.

Cato felt his heart torn in two as he regarded her. Much as he loved and desired Julia, Cato wanted to leave Rome at the first opportunity and get far away from its deadly cross-currents of deceit and treachery. He and Macro would be leaving to rejoin the army campaigning in Britannia. Nothing could sway Cato from that. Those were the terms that Julia would have to accept if she still wanted to have him.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’ Her brow furrowed anxiously.

Cato took her hands in his. ‘We must talk.’

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Being set mainly in Rome, Praetorian is something of a departure from the usual battlefield adventures of Cato and Macro. The last occasion they were in the city was when they were waiting for the outcome of an investigation into the death of a superior officer. Then they were living on the last of their savings, forced into taking rooms in a crumbling tenement block in one of the slum districts. It was only a brief interlude, however, and they were soon sent off to join a naval campaign against a gang of pirates. At the time I was quite taken with Rome as a setting for the story and wished that Cato and Macro could have spent more time in the capital. It’s a fascinating setting to write about. With a population of around a million, Rome was a vast city even by modern standards. It is worth pointing out that during the early Renaissance the population of Rome was no more than fifteen thousand - living amid the ruins of a civilization that dwarfed their own. It was not until the nineteenth century that the population of Rome returned to the levels it had enjoyed under the Caesars. That is eloquent proof of the fact that human history is not a tale of steady progress towards greater knowledge and achievement.

Even so, daily life in ancient Rome was no picnic. The streets were filled with refuse and sewage and the stench would have been unbearable to a modern nose. Poor sanitation was only one of the dangers. With no regular police force on the beat, the streets were ridden with crime. Cut-purses and roving gangs of thieves haunted the narrow alleys winding off the main thoroughfares. Even if you avoided that threat you still had to face the danger of a complete lack of building regulations. With such a huge population squeezed into a relatively small area, the value of building land was at a premium. Accordingly, a mass of cheaply constructed tenement blocks rose up on Rome’s hills, and in the valleys between the hills. Many were as high as six storeys and all of them posed significant fire risks as well as being in danger of collapse, burying alive those unfortunate enough to dwell within, as well as any unlucky passers-by.

The vast majority of the population lived in grinding poverty in these high-piled, filthy, crime-ridden slums. Perhaps half the infants born in these slums survived beyond the age of five and did well to live to the ripe old age of fifty. As with all great cities, food had to be transported in from the countryside and therefore commanded relatively high prices which many could not afford. It had long been realised that a starving mob was not conducive to social stability and so the Senate and, later on the emperors, put in place a system of food subsidies and handouts. Having seen to the stomach of the mob, Rome’s rulers proceeded to occupy their minds with entertainments. Something like a third of the days in every year were given over to chariot races, gladiator spectacles and public festivals. It was by such means that the emperors kept the mob in check. It was, however, always a parlous mechanism for social control and vulnerable to the fluctuations in supply of grain depicted in Praetorian.

It was a different story for the rich, of course. Those who could afford it bought houses on the hills where breezes made the stench more tolerable and helped to clear away the brown smog that frequently cloaked the capital. Attended by slaves, they could live off the best and most exotic foods that were imported into the city. They enjoyed the best seats at the Great Circus and in the theatres, as well as the complete gamut of pleasures of the flesh.

This then was the Rome in which Cato and Macro arrived to carry out their undercover mission for Narcissus. Although they had fought on the frontiers of the empire, the presence of Rome was always in the back of their minds as the embodiment of all the values that they were fighting for. The city was very much the centre of the Roman world. Not only was it the seat of government, it was also home to the temples of the empire’s gods, and the hub of a vast economy that spanned the known world. In a race as hidebound by tradition as the Romans were, the fount of those traditions would always be regarded as sacred and its soldiers would be willing to face any peril in defence of the honour of Rome and all that it stood for.

This makes the reality of life in the great city such an interesting contrast to the abstract principle for which men like Cato and Macro fought and died. The ideals on which Rome had been built had largely perished along with the Republic and by the mid-first century the authority of the emperors was absolute. Sure enough there were still people who professed a yearning for the old days but they were usually sensible enough to keep their political views to themselves. The Senate, once the scene of debates and deeds that shaped the known world, was reduced to little more than an exclusive club who rubber-stamped imperial edicts. The power that had once been theirs had been transferred to the coterie of advisers who surrounded the emperor. To rub salt in the wound, these advisers were frequently men from inferior social classes. In the palace itself, there were deep divisions between the emperor’s subordinates who jostled for influence over the emperor. Influence led to power and the chance to make vast fortunes, as the likes of Narcissus and Pallas duly did. If the stakes were high for the emperor’s advisors, they were higher still for members of his family. The casualty rate amongst those closest to the emperor made the dangers facing those soldiers guarding the frontiers rather mild by comparison. For a brilliantly racy portrait of the lethal nature of life in the imperial palace I’d heartily recommend reading Graves’s I, Claudius, or watch the excellent BBC television series.