Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

Nero nodded, struggling to stifle a smile.

‘Very well. The subject today is responsibility. Especially the responsibility of an emperor to his people. Now, I could lecture you on the matter, but being Greek, I prefer to deal with this by way of protracted dialogue.’

Cato heard a long soft hiss of expelled air come from Macro at the tutor’s words.

‘Let’s start with you, Nero, since you are in high spirits today. What do you think are the primary responsibilities of an emperor?’

Nero folded his hands together and thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘His first duty is to make Rome safe, obviously. Rome must be defended from its enemies, and its wider interests must be protected. Then the emperor must look after his people. He must feed them, but not just with food. He must give them his love, like a father loves his children.’

Britannicus sniffed derisively, but Nero ignored him and continued.

‘He must teach them the important values: love of Rome, love of art, love of poetry.’

‘Why these things?’

‘Because without them we are nought but animals that scratch a living and then die unmissed.’

Britannicus shook his head. The movement was caught by the tutor.

‘You have something to say?’

‘I do.’ Britannicus looked up defiantly. ‘Ahenobarbus is too influenced by that new personal teacher of his, Seneca. What is poetry to the common people? Nothing. They need food, shelter and entertainment. That’s what they want from their emperor. He can do his best to give some of them that, but not all. So what is his duty? It’s simple. His duty is to uphold order and fight chaos. He needs to defend Rome from those within as much as from the barbarians who live beyond our frontiers.’

‘That is a very cynical line of thought, young Britannicus,’ the tutor commented.

‘I am young. But I am learned beyond my years.’

‘Yes, your precocity has been noted.’

‘And not approved of.’ Britannicus smiled coldly.

‘There is a wisdom that comes with age and no other way. Until you have walked in the boots of other men, you are not wise. Only well read.’

Britannicus regarded the man with a world-weary expression. ‘Perhaps if you had walked in my boots you would understand my cynicism. I have a family that is not a family but a colony of killers. I have a father who no longer treats me like a son. I have no mother, and I have a … brother who will surely kill me if ever he becomes Emperor.’ The boy paused. ‘Walk in those boots, Eurayleus, and see if you do not have to live on your wits.’

The tutor stared at him with a sad expression and then drew a deep breath. ‘Let us continue. Nero thinks that the common man can have poetry in his life.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Nero said fervently.

‘Does he have this capacity innately? Or must it be taught to him?’ The tutor turned to Macro and Cato as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Take these two men. Soldiers. They know little but the art of destruction, which is the opposite of knowledge. They know weapons and drill, and spend their leisure time in mindless bouts of drinking, womanising and visits to the arena. Is that not so, soldier? You there!’ He pointed at Macro. ‘Answer me.’

Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘Pretty much sums it up, sir.’

‘You see? How can you expect to teach such men to appreciate the finer sentiments of poetry? How can you induce them to know the subtle shades of expression upon which the finest literature turns? They are a class apart. Why, look at them. See those black eyes? Not content with their dullard existence of the mind, they compound their denigration by engaging in brawls. What hope is there of them finding their way to the great works of the finest thinkers? I doubt that they can even read. You there, the other man. Tell me, have you ever read the works of Aristotle?’

‘Which, sir? The Poetics , Politics , Ethics , Metaphysics , Nicomachean Ethics or De Anima ?’

The tutor stared at Cato for a moment, nonplussed.

Britannicus chuckled. ‘Please continue, Eurayleus. Your line of argument is most intriguing.’

The tutor struggled to his feet and gestured to his pupils. ‘Come, let’s find somewhere more, er, private, to continue the discussion.’

He walked straight between Cato and Macro without meeting their eyes. Nero followed him, pausing only to wink at Cato and pat him on the shoulder before he left the enclosure. The smaller boy was slower to get up and he came and stood before Cato and stared up at him.

‘What is your name, Praetorian?’

‘Capito, sir.’

‘Capito … You are rather different to the other Praetorians, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

‘Yes you do. I shall watch you. I don’t forget a face. I may need you one day. Tell me, Capito, if you could choose your new emperor when Claudius dies, who would it be? Me or Ahenobarbus?’

‘The choice is not mine to make, sir.’

‘But you are a Praetorian, and when the time comes, the Praetorians will have to make a choice, as they did when my father became Emperor. So who would you choose?’

Cato was stuck. He dared not provide an answer for the boy. Moreover, he was surprised by the mature depth to his eyes and the shrewd, knowing manner of his speech.

Britannicus shrugged and kicked a small stone towards the pond, and for a moment looked just like any other boy his age. Then he spoke again. ‘When the time comes, you will have to make a choice. For me there will be no choice. I must try to kill Ahenobarbus before he kills me.’ He looked up at Cato again, staring into his eyes without any trace of self-consciousness. ‘I’m sure we will run into each other again, Praetorian. Until then, farewell.’

He folded his hands behind his back again and walked off quickly on his short stocky legs to catch up with his tutor and stepbrother. As the sound of footsteps faded, Macro turned to Cato and puffed his cheeks out.

‘Phew, he’s a strange one, that Britannicus. An old man in a boy’s body. Never seen the like.’

Cato nodded. There had been something very unsettling about the boy. Something that had left Cato feeling quite cold. He had about him an air of ruthless calculation and Cato had no doubt that Britannicus had meant what he had said about killing Nero when the time was right. The child would have his backers too – men like Narcissus who wanted to ensure that they retained their positions of influence when Claudius passed into the shades. However, it was clear to Cato that the imperial secretary would be dealing with a boy emperor possessing far greater intelligence than the present incumbent. Britannicus would be his own man. But what kind of man? Cato wondered. There was some truth in what Eurayleus had said. Intelligence was one thing. But unallied to wisdom and empathy it could easily result in a cruel tyranny of reason every bit as damaging to Rome as Caligula’s madness had been. Even at his present age, Britannicus was something of a force to be reckoned with.

‘What do you make of the other one?’ asked Macro. ‘Nero.’

‘He seemed harmless enough. Head seemed a bit lost in the clouds but his heart’s in the right place.’

‘That’s what I thought. And he’s popular with the lads in the Praetorian Guard.’

‘Yes.’ Cato could see that Nero had an easy charm about him. In the inevitable struggle for succession, that would be a considerable advantage over his more intelligent but cold stepbrother. Cato felt a leaden sense of foreboding weigh down his heart. Neither boy was ready to succeed the Emperor. It would be some years before they had the experience to rule wisely. For that reason, it was vital that Claudius survived long enough to see the order and stability of his reign continue for as long as possible. If Rome fell into the hands of either boy then she would face a danger every bit as grave as that posed by the barbarian hordes biding their time beyond the empire’s frontiers.