Simon Scarrow: Praetorian

‘You have your instructions. We’ll leave here in separate groups. Once you get beyond Picenum, take the routes you have been given back to the warehouse in Rome. I’ll see you there. Watch your carts carefully. I don’t want any petty thieves stumbling on the contents of these chests. Keep your heads down and play your part and no one will suspect us. Is that clear?’ He looked round. ‘Good. Then let’s get the first carts on the move!’

Over the next hour the carts left the dip in the road singly, or in groups of two or three at irregular intervals, intermixed with the horsemen. Some made for Picenum, others branched off at the road junction before the town, passing to the west or east and following an indirect route to Rome. Once the last cart was on its way, Sinius took a final look around. There were still some tracks left by the carts and the hoofs of the mules and horses, but he doubted that they would attract attention from travellers on their way to or from Picenum.

With a brief nod of satisfaction, Sinius steered his horse on to the road and walked it unhurriedly towards the town. He paid his toll to the guards on the town gate and stopped at a tavern to have a bowl of stew and a mug of heated wine before continuing his journey. He left the town’s south gate and took the road to Rome.

It was late in the afternoon when he saw a small column of horsemen in white cloaks riding up from the south. Sinius pulled the hood of his worn brown tunic up over his head to hide his features and raised a hand in greeting as he passed by the Praetorian guardsmen riding to meet the convoy from Narbonensis. The officer leading the escort haughtily ignored the gesture and Sinius smiled to himself at the prospect of the man having to explain the disappearance of the wagons and their chests of silver when he reported to his superiors in Rome.

Ostia, January, AD 51

The rough sea was grey, except where the strong breeze lifted veils of white spume from the crests of waves as they rolled in towards the shore. Above, the sky was obscured by low clouds that stretched out unbroken towards the horizon. A light, cold drizzle added to the depressing scene and soon soaked Centurion Macro’s dark hair, plastering it to his scalp as he gazed out over the port. Ostia had changed greatly since the last time he had been there, a few years earlier on his return from the campaign in Britannia. Then the port had been an exposed landing point for the transhipment of cargo and passengers to and from Rome, some twenty miles inland from the mouth of the River Tiber. A handful of timber piers had projected from the shore to provide for the unloading of imports from across the empire. A somewhat smaller flow of exports left Italia for the distant provinces ruled by Rome.

Now the port was in the throes of a massive development project under the orders of the Emperor as part of his ambition to boost trade. Unlike his predecessor, Claudius preferred to use the public purse for the common good, rather than absurd luxuries. Two long moles were under construction, stretching like titanic arms to embrace the waters of the new harbour. The work continued without let up through every season of the year and Macro’s gaze momentarily rested on the miserable chain gangs of slaves hauling blocks of stone across wooden rollers out towards the end of the moles where they were pitched into the sea. Block by block they were building a wall to protect the shipping from the water. Further out, beyond the moles, stood the breakwater. Macro had been told by the owner of the inn where he and his friend, Cato, were staying that one of the largest ships ever built had been loaded with stones and scuttled to provide the foundations of the breakwater. More blocks of stone had been dropped on to the hull until the breakwater had been completed and now the lower levels of a lighthouse were under construction. Macro could just make out the tiny forms of the builders on the scaffolding as they laboured to complete another course.

‘Sooner them than me,’ Macro mumbled to himself as he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

He had taken this walk along the shore every morning for the last two months and had followed the progress of the harbour construction with less and less interest. The port, like so many ports, had its complement of boisterous inns close to the quays to take advantage of the custom of freshly paid sailors at the end of a voyage. For most of the year there would have been plenty of interesting characters for Macro to enjoy a drink with and swap stories. But few ships put to sea in the winter months and so the port was quiet and the inns frequented by only a handful of characters in need of drink. At first Cato had been willing enough to join him for a few cups of heated wine but the younger man was brooding over the knowledge that the woman he intended to marry was a day’s march away in Rome and yet the orders they had received from the imperial palace strictly forbade Cato from seeing her, or even letting her know that he was staying in Ostia. Macro felt sympathy for his friend. It had been nearly a year since Cato had last seen Julia.

Before arriving in the port, Macro and Cato had been serving in Egypt where Cato had been obliged to take command of a scratch force of soldiers to repel the invading Nubians. It had been a close-run thing, Macro reflected. They had returned to Italia in the full expectation of being rewarded for their efforts. Cato had richly deserved to have his promotion to prefect confirmed, as Macro deserved his pick of the legions. Instead, after reporting to Narcissus, the imperial secretary, on the island of Capreae, they had been sent to Ostia to await further orders. A fresh conspiracy to unseat the Emperor had been uncovered and the imperial secretary needed Macro and Cato’s help to deal with the threat. The orders given to them by Narcissus had been explicit. They were to remain in Ostia, staying at the inn under assumed names, until they were given further instructions. The innkeeper was a freedman who had served in the Emperor’s palace in Rome before being rewarded with his freedom and a small gratuity which had been enough to set him up in business in Ostia. He was trusted by the imperial secretary to look after the two guests, and not ask any questions. It was imperative that their presence was kept secret from anyone in Rome. Narcissus had not needed to name Julia Sempronia. Cato had taken his meaning well enough and contained his frustration for the first few days. But then the days stretched into a month, then two, and still there was no further word from Narcissus and the young officer’s patience was stretched to the limit.

The only information that Narcissus had volunteered was that the plot against the Emperor involved a shadowy organisation of conspirators who wanted to return power to the senate. The same senate which had been responsible for leading the Republic into decades of bloody civil war following the assassination of Julius Caesar, Macro thought bitterly. The senators could not be trusted with power. They were too inclined to play at politics and paid scant regard to the consequences of their games. Of course there were a few honourable exceptions, Macro mused. Men like Julia’s father, Sempronius, and Vespasian, who had commanded the Second Legion in which Macro and Cato had served during the campaign in Britannia. Both good men.

Macro took a last look at the slaves working on the breakwater and then pulled up the hood of his military cloak. He turned and made his way back along the coastal path towards the port. There, too, was evidence of the redevelopment of Ostia. Several large warehouses had sprung up behind the new quay and yet more were under construction in the area where the old quarter of the port had been razed to make way for the new building projects. Macro could see that it would be a fine modern port when the work was done. Yet more proof of Rome’s wealth and power.