Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘Well look over there, lads!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been honoured by the Emperor’s toy soldiers tonight! Look at ‘em. Filling their guts with wine. Just as they stuff themselves with good bread and fine cuts of meat.’

‘Who on earth is that?’ asked Cato.

‘Cestius,’ Fuscius replied. ‘He’s the leader of the Viminal gang – a pretty tough crew. They drink in here from time to time.’

‘He looks a tough enough proposition all on his own.’

‘He is. Used to wrestle in the arena. Broke two men’s necks with his bare hands.’

Cestius folded his massive arms and glared at the Praetorians for a moment before he continued. ‘Oh yes, they do well enough, while the rest of Rome goes hungry. I’ve never seen such a bunch of pansy layabouts in my life. All spit and polish and full of bullshit. There’s not a real soldier amongst ‘em. I’ve seen harder-looking men begging in the gutters.’

Some of the customers had risen from their tables and were making for the exit as unobtrusively as possible. More followed and the Praetorians at the other tables got to their feet unsteadily and backed towards the table where Cato, Macro and the others were still sitting.

‘This looks like a nasty situation,’ Cato muttered.

‘Perhaps.’ Macro nodded. ‘But we’ll see what these Praetorian lads are made of.’

‘Frankly, I’d rather they, and we, stayed in one piece.’

Cato stared at Cestius as the gang leader began to make his way through the rapidly emptying inn towards them. Over by the counter the innkeeper was frantically retrieving as many jars and cups as possible before the storm broke. He dumped the first load behind the counter and dived out for some more while there was still a moment’s grace. Cestius and his thugs crowded towards the Praetorians, and Cato saw that some of them were brazen enough to defy the law and carry knives in their belts. Others had heavy leather saps. Cato had no weapons with him and a quick glance around revealed that only a handful of Praetorians had come out armed, mostly with small knives they used to cut meat and bread.

‘There’s a law against going armed within the walls of the city,’ Cato announced as boldly as he could. There was a brief pause as everyone looked at him in baffled amusement.

Cestius stood a short distance from the soldiers. ‘This inn is on my turf. My turf, my rules. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave, boys,’ he said with false civility. ‘Right now.’

Fuscius looked round at the other Praetorians and his hand reached for his cloak, until Macro swatted it away.

‘We’re just having a quiet drink, friend.’ Macro smiled at Cestius. ‘As you can see, there’s plenty of space for both of us, thanks to your entrance.’

The corner of Cestius’s mouth lifted in a half smile, half sneer. ‘Ah, but a quiet drink is exactly what I want, and a mob of loudmouth Praetorians is going to spoil the mood.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So you get out.’

Macro looked disappointed. ‘There’s no need to be so touchy.’ He paused and sniffed. ‘Besides, you and your lads stink like you just crawled out of some sewer. No offence, but you do. Now, for the sake of a quiet night, let’s have no trouble, eh? You and your lot can drink over there, in the far corner. You can have the first round on us, since, as you say, we can afford it. Come!’ He reached for the nearest jug and filled a cup. Then he turned towards Cestius, took a pace towards him and offered up the cup. Cestius’s gaze was instinctively drawn to the cup. That’s when Macro smashed the jug into the giant’s face. There was a splintering crack as the jug burst in a rush of red wine. Cestius staggered back a step, blood streaming from his crushed nose. Macro threw the handle down and his parade-ground bellow filled the inn.

‘Get stuck in!’

Snatching up a stool, Macro hurled himself towards the gang members. One, with more presence of mind than his comrades, leaped in front of his leader and stood in a crouch as Macro’s stool arced towards his head. Those Praetorians who had not yet had too much wine scrambled forward, swinging punches, while the others lurched into action clumsily. The man in front of Macro threw his arm up to try to ward off the blow but his forearm smashed into the side of his head and there was a crunch as a bone broke, and a cry of agony. Cato bunched his hands into fists and looked for an opponent.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Macro called over his shoulder. ‘An invitation? Hit someone!’

Both sides were matched in terms of numbers and the brawl began to spill out across the floor of the inn.

‘Noooo!’ cried the innkeeper as he snatched a jug from a table just as it went crashing over under the impact of two men wrestling as they tried to grab each other’s throats. More tables and benches went over, together with the remaining pottery cups and wine jugs, and dark jets of wine exploded across the floor. Cato stepped forward, fists raised. In front of him one of the Praetorians stumbled to one side, exposing a stocky man with a shock of dark hair. His mouth was open, revealing only a handful of crooked teeth. Cato lunged forward and threw his right fist at the man’s face. The blow connected on the chin, snapping the jaw shut, and the man fell to his knees. At once Cato pressed his advantage, striking each side of the head before the man slumped on to his side, dazed.

A quick glance revealed that Macro was still attacking Cestius, slamming fist after fist against the man’s head and body in a flurry of powerful blows. Incredibly the gang leader was weathering the assault and had raised his fists to block Macro’s punches. Cestius shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision and then went for Macro with a deep growl that Cato heard above all the other groans, grunts, cries and crashes that filled the inn. Cestius lashed out with his left, a boxer’s punch that caught Macro on the shoulder and knocked him back a step. The right swung out and round in a sweeping blow that Macro had plenty of time to duck and get an upper cut of his own in. Cestius’s head juddered but he stepped forward and punched Macro again, this time catching him full in the ribs with the first and striking him below the left eye with the second, snapping his head back. Macro reeled away, against the table he had been sitting at shortly before. The cups and jugs shot off the top of the table and crashed to the floor. Macro was dazed, blinking wildly, as the giant loomed over him. Cestius grinned cruelly and punched him again in the stomach and then on the mouth, splitting his lip.

Cato realised that unless he moved quickly Macro was going to be severely beaten. He thrust aside one of the Praetorians as he desperately tried to make his way to his friend’s side. Cato never saw the blow, but his head jerked to one side and he instantly had double vision. Instinctively he lowered his head and raised his fists protectively and the next punch glanced off his elbow. Ahead he saw Fuscius had downed an opponent and was beating the man with the leg from a shattered stool.

‘Fuscius!’ Cato shouted. The young guardsman looked up and Cato shouted, ‘Save Macro!’

Fuscius frowned and Cato felt a cold tremor of fear in his guts as he realised what he had said. He drew a sharp breath and cried out again. ‘Look out for Calidus!’ He raised his arm and pointed to make sure his instruction was clear. Fuscius turned and saw the gang leader throw another punch; he tightened his fist round the stool leg and came up behind Cestius, raising the leg high over his head.

‘Watch it, chief!’ someone cried and Cestius began to turn. But it was too late and the stool leg cracked down on the top of his head. His jaw dropped in a groan and Fuscius hit him two more times. Blood streamed down, plastering his hair to his scalp. Fuscius changed tactics and now rammed the end of the leg into the giant’s stomach, doubling him over.