Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘Sire, are you hurt?’ he asked anxiously.

Claudius shook his head. ‘N-no. Quite all right.’

‘Jupiter be praised!’ Narcissus rejoiced, then turned to the Empress. ‘Your majesty?’

‘Unharmed.’ Agrippina smiled coldly.

Narcissus turned to Britannicus and quickly looked him over to satisfy himself that the boy had received no injuries other than that to his hand. Then he saw Nero and with a flicker of anguish approached the boy who still stood beside Cato.

‘I saw the man attack you. I thank the gods that you were spared.’

Nero nodded towards Cato. ‘This man saved my life.’

Narcissus looked up and met Cato’s gaze without a hint of recognition. ‘Very well, I shall see that he is rewarded.’

‘You do that,’ Macro added quietly.

Nero turned to Cato and looked him in the eye. ‘I am in your debt, soldier. What is your name?’

‘Titus Ovidius Capito, sir.’

Nero’s gaze switched to the blood-soaked tear in the tunic on Cato’s shoulder. ‘Get your wound attended to, Capito. I shall not forget this. I never forget a face. One day, I shall repay you.’ He lowered his voice so that only Cato could hear. ‘One day I shall be Emperor. If you ever need my help, then it is yours. I give you my most sacred promise.’

He grasped Cato’s hand and squeezed it firmly before he released his grip and turned away to join his mother and the Emperor. Narcissus watched him go then turned to fix Cato with an icy stare before he scurried back to comfort his master.

Four days later Cato was sitting on his bed when Macro and the others returned from their patrol in the city. Following the food riot the Emperor had ordered the Praetorian cohorts on to the streets alongside the soldiers of the urban cohorts, leaving the palace under the protection of his German mercenaries. There were checkpoints at all the major junctions of avenues and streets and even the smallest gatherings of men in public places were swiftly broken up. Rewards had been offered for the ringleaders of the riot and their descriptions had been posted on the streets surrounding the Forum. So far only a handful of minor rabble-rousers had been arrested and disposed of, their heads mounted on stakes outside the entrance to the imperial palace. Cestius was still at large, despite the small fortune offered to anyone who could lead the authorities to his hiding place. Such was his fearsome reputation that none of the inhabitants of the Subura dared to admit they had even heard of Cestius when questioned by patrols.

Cato’s wound had been cleaned and stitched up by one of the surgeons in the hospital at the camp who had excused him from duties for ten days to give the wound time to heal. Cato had only ventured out of the camp twice, to visit the safe house and leave a message for Septimus, requesting a meeting to make his report, and then again a day later to see if there had been a reply. There was none and Cato had decided to stay in camp for a few more days before looking again, just in case his excursions drew unwelcome attention.

‘How’s that tiny cut on your arm today?’ asked Macro as he leant his shield against the wall by the door, and started to remove his sword belt and armour.

‘Stiff, but the pain’s bearable, thanks.’

‘As I said, a flesh wound. Little more than a scratch really.’ Macro struggled out of his chain-mail vest and laid it on the floor by his shield before slumping down on his bed. ‘Still, it’s a good way of ducking out of duties.’

‘It has served its purpose.’ Cato smiled briefly before his expression became serious again. ‘How are things in the city?’

‘Quiet. The Emperor has stamped down on it. He’s also sent word to every town and city within a hundred miles to send wagons of grain to Rome. The granaries of the Praetorian Guard are going to be used to eke out what little is left in the imperial store. Which means we will be on half rations from tomorrow. Not the smartest of moves.’ Macro shook his head. ‘We’ll need to keep our strength up if we’re to keep order on the streets. But if it helps appease the mob, then I guess it will serve its purpose for a few days at least. Beats me how Claudius ever let us get into this situation in the first place. He must have known the situation in Egypt was going to disrupt the supply for a while. So why didn’t he plan for it?’

‘Maybe he did but someone sabotaged the plan.’

Macro cocked his head. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not quite sure yet.’ Cato reached his left hand up and lightly stroked the dressing over his wound, his fingertips sensing the lumps where the stitches had closed the gash. ‘Have you been keeping an eye on Centurion Lurco?’

‘I have. He’s a useless fart if ever there was one. Frankly, Cato, if he is involved in any conspiracy then I’d say the Emperor has nothing to worry about.’

‘That’s my impression too.’ Cato nodded thoughtfully then continued, ‘But it’s interesting how things are drawing together, wouldn’t you say? The theft of the bullion, Narcissus uncovering a plot, the riot, and then that ambush on us the same day.’

‘No doubt you think there’s a connection between it all,’ Macro suggested wearily.

‘I’m not sure, but at the very least, it’s all pretty suggestive.’

Macro sighed. ‘To your mind, yes. For the rest of us, it’s just a question of the shit being piled on. That or the gods have decided to give us some grief, for whatever reason. Either way, I think you’re jumping at shadows now.’

Cato was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Maybe it’s the shadows jumping at us.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Cato tried to explain the thoughts that were troubling him. ‘Something’s going on. I can feel it. There’s too much happening to dismiss it as coincidence. All of this makes some kind of sense. Or would, if I could piece it together somehow. Right now I can only speculate, but I’m sure the conspiracy is real.’

‘Not very helpful.’ Macro eased himself forward and folded his legs. ‘Of course, it could be nothing more than the usual mess. The palace has screwed up the grain dole and some greedy bastards have pinched the silver. As for Narcissus’s conspiracy, well, when haven’t the Liberators been plotting the removal of the Emperor and the return of the Republic? We’re on a wild-goose chase, Cato my lad.’

At the mention of his name, Cato growled. ‘Careful!’

‘We’re alone. What does it matter?’

‘It matters because you said it without thinking.’

‘Just like you did back at the inn, eh?’

Cato flushed with shame. ‘Exactly. We can’t afford to make another mistake until this is all over.’

‘Come the day,’ Macro said wearily.

They were interrupted by footsteps and then Fuscius and Tigellinus entered the room and began to remove their kit.

‘Still skiving, Capito?’ asked Tigellinus.

‘Am I ever, Optio?’ Cato forced a grin as he stretched out on his bed. ‘This is the life for me. Resting up while you lot tramp up and down those shit-filled streets of the Subura.’

‘Ain’t that fun?’ Tigellinus put his hands behind his back and rubbed the bottom of his spine. ‘It doesn’t help that the centurion is a bag of nerves. He thinks everyone he sees on the streets has got it in for us. He’s stopped and searched almost every man we’ve run into, and given them a good slapping into the bargain at the slightest excuse. The mad bastard is going to end up causing another riot if he’s not careful.’ He paused. ‘He should never have been appointed to the Guard. Classic case of the stupidity of direct commissions to the centurionate. A centurion needs experience. And guts. You get that the hard way. It ain’t right that he’s our centurion. Should be someone else.’