Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We’ll do our best,’ said Cato.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sword cut,’ Cato explained flatly. ‘Last year in … Britannia. Took it when we were ambushed by some Durotrigan tribesmen.’

Fuscius stared at him for a moment longer in frank admiration, then realised that he must look foolish and flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’ll wager you have quite a few tales you could tell about Britannia.’

‘How much will you wager?’ Macro asked drily. ‘If you want decent stories then you come to me, young ‘un.’

‘Oh?’ Fuscius did not know how to proceed without offending either man so he just mumbled something as he squeezed past and made for one of the beds either side of the window. ‘Anyway, it’s good to have someone else in the room. Tigellinus isn’t much of a talker. Well, he does talk, but mostly to complain about things.’

‘So we’ve noticed,’ said Cato as he pulled his red tunic off and slipped on his newly issued Praetorian tunic. ‘Come on, Calidus, better hurry.’

‘When you’ve done for the day, some of the lads and I are going out for a drink tonight,’ Fuscius said. ‘Fancy joining us?’

‘Sounds good,’ Cato replied as he smoothed the tunic down and fastened his thick military belt round his middle. ‘Calidus?’

‘Why not? Could use a decent drink after that filthy muck we drank when we arrived.’

‘Good, then let’s find the tribune.’

Tribune Burrus was an aged veteran. From the number of scars he bore on his face and arms, he had served a good many years in the legions before being appointed to the Praetorian Guard. Aside from a fringe of white hair, he was bald. One eye had been lost and a leather patch covered the socket, tied in place with a thin strap. He was tall and thickset and Cato realised that he must have been a formidable figure in his time. Now, though, he was serving his last few years in the Guard before he took his gratuity and left the army. He might use his elevation to the equestrian class to take up an administrative job in Rome, or one of the other cities and towns in Italia, but Cato guessed that the man would prefer the company of old soldiers to bureaucrats. The tribune would end his days in some military colony, respected by men who knew his quality, even as he grew stooped and frail.

‘Well, don’t just dawdle by the bloody door!’ Burrus snapped.

When Cato and Macro were standing to attention in front of him, the tribune scrutinised them for a moment before he continued, ‘Proper soldiers at last! About damn time. I’ve seen too many of these soft city boys joining the ranks of late. Especially after the casualties we took in Britannia. But you’ll remember that battle outside Camulodunum. It was your legion that saved us from that trap. My, but those bloody Celts were devious bastards. Fought hard, too, and brought out the best in the Praetorians, even though we were roughly handled. So,’ he concluded, ‘it’s good to have two veterans join the cohort. Though I see that one of you is still a bit on the young side, eh? Which one are you?’

‘Capito, sir.’

‘Age?’

‘Twenty-five, sir.’

‘You’ll have served seven years then.’

‘Nearer eight, sir. I joined about the time I turned seventeen.’

Burrus frowned. ‘That’s against regs. Eighteen is the minimum age.’

‘I was sent to the army by my father as soon as he thought I was ready for it.’ Cato spoke tonelessly as he gave his cover story.

‘He must be a proud man indeed. You’ve done well for yourself.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Burrus turned his attention to Macro. ‘What’s your story? From the look of you, you’re an old sweat. How many years have you served, Calidus?’