Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

Cato and Macro made their way over to the table and Fuscius, with several cups of wine under his belt, made the introductions.

‘Lads! Here’s the two new boys I told you about. Well, maybe not boys, eh?’ He wrapped an arm round each of the new arrivals’ shoulders and breathed over Cato’s face as he turned to grin blearily at him. ‘This one’s Capito. And this here’s Callus.’

‘That’s Calidus,’ Macro corrected him evenly. He looked round at the other men and nodded a greeting. There were nine of them, three who looked like veterans and the others fresh faced and young, like Fuscius. Most seemed to have had as much to drink as Fuscius, though the veterans were better at holding their drink and still seemed to have their wits about them.

‘Have a seat,’ Fuscius continued and glanced down and saw that there wasn’t a bench at that end of the table. He turned round to the next table where three scrawny youths were sitting with a fat whore, plying her with wine.

‘Get up!’ Fuscius ordered. ‘Oi, on your feet! I need your bench.’

One of the youths looked round and muttered, ‘Piss off! Find your own fucking bench. This one’s taken.’

‘Not any more. When a Praetorian tells you to jump, you bloody jump. Now get up.’

‘You going to make us?’ The youth smiled coldly and his hand slipped down towards his belt.

Fuscius stepped aside to reveal the table where his comrades were sitting. ‘Only if you force us to.’

The Praetorians glared at the youths. They took the hint and hurried to their feet, roughly lifting the woman who groaned in protest. She was so far gone her limbs were loose and her companions struggled to drag her away through the throng. Fuscius pulled the bench over to the table and waved Cato and Macro down.

‘There you are. Head of the table. Have a drink.’ He pulled the nearest jug over, saw that it was empty and reached for the next before filling two cups to the brim and pushing them towards Cato and Macro, spilling a measure of the contents.

They picked up their cups and raised them to toast the other men. Cato made a show of drinking a deep draught and squirted most back into the cup which he lowered to his side and discreetly tipped on to the floor. Macro had taken a good swallow and now wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Ahhh, not bad!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cato pursed his lips. ‘Define winning.’

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

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

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

‘What about ‘em?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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