Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘It’s the Emperor and his party we want a good view of. That’s the best spot.’

Macro muttered something under his breath, took a sorrowful look at the empty seats right by the arena and then turned to follow his friend up the steep stairs between the rows of seating. At the top Cato looked into the imperial box and then shuffled a short distance from it to allow the curve of the seating to afford a better view of the imperial party. Satisfied, he sat down. Macro looked at the rapidly filling ranks of benches stretching out in front of him and sighed.

‘Nice view,’ he said flatly.

‘It’s good for our purposes,’ Cato replied, pulling his cloak on and easing the hood back so that his head was exposed.

Around them the Praetorians streamed in through the entrances and hurried towards the best of the remaining seats. The air swelled with good-natured conversation as the light slowly strengthened. The sky was still overcast, but a lighter patch marked the position of the sun as it struggled into the heavens and shed a little more warmth over the city and the surrounding countryside. The officers were among the last to enter, picking their spots in the front row and displacing the rankers who were already seated there. Macro smiled at the sight, instinctively enjoying their disappointment. Directly below them Tribune Burrus and his centurions took their places and behind them sat the optios and standard bearers. Cato watched Lurco settle down close to the imperial box, but not so close as to be out of sight of those sitting at the fringes of the Emperor’s entourage. He wore an eye-catching gold bracelet on his left arm and no doubt hoped to draw the attention of a prospective patron to further his career. Tigellinus was sitting behind and to one side of his centurion and Cato could read the contempt in his expression as the optio turned to regard Lurco.

At the appointed time the uneven tramp of boots from the direction of the Viminal Gate announced the approach of the imperial party. Mounted German bodyguards led the way, and then came the first of the litters bearing the Emperor’s guests. Slaves, neatly dressed in fresh tunics, laboured under the load of the carrying spars, while those inside the litters chatted freely. A section of eight more German guards on foot came into view through the city wall, their bushy beards and strange armour making them appear barbaric. Then came the litter carrying Agrippina and Nero, and behind that the litter bearing the Emperor himself, accompanied by Britannicus. More litters followed carrying the rest of the party: Narcissus, Pallas, Seneca – Nero’s new tutor, recently recalled from exile – and lastly those senators and their wives honoured with an invitation to join the Emperor.

The column halted outside the entrance to the imperial box and the lowest-ranking guests hurried from their litters to take their places before the Emperor and his family took their seats. The prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Geta, emerged from the imperial box and bowed to the Emperor as he sat in his litter. The prefect exchanged a few words with Claudius before joining the other guests in the box.

Many of the guardsmen in the highest seats turned their heads to watch the arrivals. Cato and Macro saw Narcissus look up briefly at the faces overhead but if he saw them he gave no sign of recognition before he disappeared from view. At last the imperial party was ready to enter and Nero hopped down from his litter and held his mother’s hand to help her out.

‘A dutiful son,’ Macro commented wryly. ‘And look how he adores his stepfather and brother.’

Having seen to his mother Nero had turned to the last litter with an icy stare. Britannicus stepped out of the litter and then bowed his head respectfully as the Emperor struggled up from his embroidered purple cushions. Holding his son’s hand, Claudius limped forward, head twitching, until he stood at the entrance. He smiled as he gestured for Agrippina and Nero to join them and then waited as ten of the German guards formed up ahead of the family and began to climb the stairs into the imperial box. The Praetorians watched expectantly. The bodyguards formed up at the sides and rear of the seated guests so as not to obstruct the view of the arena. Then there was a short pause before Narcissus discreetly gestured with his hand and the occupants of the box rose to their feet.

At once the Praetorians followed suit and let out a deafening cheer, rising to a crescendo as the gilded wreath on the Emperor’s head bobbed into view. Claudius climbed the last few steps and walked awkwardly on to the dais where two large chairs sat side by side. Agrippina joined him and the two boys stood at each side. Claudius kept his expression neutral, struggling to contain his tic as he turned his head slowly to acknowledge the acclaim from all sides. At last he eased himself down and when he was seated, Agrippina sat, followed by the rest of the guests.

‘She’s a looker, all right,’ Macro spoke loudly into Cato’s ear. ‘You can see why the old goat went for her.’

‘There was more to it than her looks,’ Cato replied. ‘She has influence, brains, and comes with a healthy son who might be a useful heir to Claudius should Britannicus fall from favour.’

The crowd’s cheering began to subside as the Praetorians started to sit down. Cato and Macro joined them and soon there was an excited hubbub as the editor of the games conferred with his officials to make certain that all was ready. Satisfied, the editor looked over the rail at the front of the imperial box and gave the nod to the four soldiers waiting on the sand below, holding their long brass horns. They raised the instruments and blasted out a series of ascending notes. At once the Praetorians fell silent and at the front of the imperial box the editor raised both his arms.

‘His imperial majesty Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus bids his comrades of the Praetorian Guard welcome!’ The editor had a finely modulated voice that carried across the arena and could be clearly heard by everyone present.

‘In accordance with his desire to assure his brave soldiers that their loyalty to him is returned in kind and with great affection, his imperial majesty, in honour of the day on which the gracious citizens of Rome entrusted him with their welfare, herewith presents a day of entertainments …’

The editor ran through the programme, drawing appreciative rounds of applause as each item was mentioned. While he spoke, Cato’s attention was focused on the imperial box. The Emperor was sitting as still as his tic allowed, his full attention on the editor. He nodded his thanks at every round of applause. Beside him Agrippina propped her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her head on her hand. She looked utterly bored with the preliminaries and after a while turned to look around the imperial box until her gaze fixed on the small cluster of seats where the Emperor’s advisers were sitting. Narcissus was engaged in a quiet conversation with one of his companions. The other man was nodding, and then he became aware that the Empress was looking at him and he flashed a quick smile over Narcissus’s shoulder. Narcissus noticed and glanced round just as the Empress looked away. There was the briefest of pauses before he continued his muted conversation.

Cato’s attention turned to the other members of the box and he saw Britannicus standing stiffly by his father’s side, left arm hidden under the folds of his small toga. That he wore a toga was significant. Claudius clearly wished to indicate that his son was soon to be accorded titles and honours beyond his years, just as his adopted son, Nero, had been. The latter, also dressed in a toga, had taken his mother’s hand and now raised it to his lips and kissed it, lingering over it for a moment, until she drew her hand away from him.