Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

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

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

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

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

‘Go on.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

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

‘Yes, sir.’

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

Macro could not help smiling at the prospect.

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

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

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

On the other side of the section room Cato nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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