Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

Cato coughed. ‘Excuse me.’

The clerk lowered his stylus and looked up. ‘Yes … sir?’

‘I’m looking for Gaius Frontinus.’

‘He’s not here, sir. May I help?’

‘Perhaps. I’m inquiring about leasing some storage space down on the wharf.’

The clerk took in Cato’s poor appearance. ‘We don’t lease lock-ups. Just warehouses.’

‘That’s what I’m after.’

‘Then I can’t help you, sir. We let them two months ago. There’s nothing available.’

‘I see.’ Cato frowned. ‘Who did you let them to? Perhaps I could talk to the man and get a sublet.’

‘I am not at liberty to say, sir. In any case the master dealt with that contract personally.’

‘Then can I see Gaius Frontinus? To discuss a contract when the present one expires?’

‘The master is not here, sir, as I’ve already told you. He left Rome on business a month ago.’

‘Did he say when he would be back?’

‘No, sir. He just left me a letter telling me to take charge in his absence.’ The clerk coughed self-importantly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I have work to do. You might try one of the other leasing offices. I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for with one of the smaller concerns. Good day.’

Cato nodded and walked off slowly. He felt the familiar tingle of cold dread grasp the back of his scalp. There was more to the conspiracy than Narcissus had realised. The Liberators, or whoever else it was, were preparing the ground on a far wider scale than the imperial secretary had guessed. Cato could link only a few elements of the puzzle together but one thing was for certain. The enemy was well organised and their plan was already being put into effect.

The sun was shining fitfully through the scattered clouds as the Praetorians took up their positions around the stage that had been set up for the Emperor to address his summoned guests. Most of the senators and their wives had been carried out on litters to the side of the Albine Lake. The lower ranks of Roman society had made the short journey in carts, on horseback or on foot, and were to stand behind the seating areas that had been arranged for the senators. March was coming to an end and the ground was firm and free of the glutinous winter mud that had hampered the work of the engineers. They were tasked with digging the channel that would drain off most of the lake, and the surrounding marshes, into a tributary of the Tiber.

Centurion Lurco’s men were footsore after the previous day’s march from Ostia, and the march to Ostia from Rome two days before that. Claudius had made a quick inspection of the progress on the new harbour and gave a series of short speeches around the town to reaffirm his love of his people and to promise them the rich rewards that would flow from the increase of trade passing through the port. The Emperor had also provided a banquet for the leading politicians, merchants and administrators of the port. Having appeased the people of Ostia, he and his court had moved on to the engineering works at the Albine Lake to attempt to win over the people of Rome. Claudius was due to make a public announcement and the men of his escort had been speculating on its nature all morning.

‘Has to be a spectacle,’ said Fuscius. ‘That or a distribution of food. Maybe both.’

‘As long as he doesn’t reduce our rations to supply the mob,’ Macro grumbled. The Praetorian Guard had been on half rations for three days and his stomach was beginning to growl. Despite the imperial order for other towns and cities to send their food reserves to the capital, only a handful of wagons were entering the city each day and most of the stock was bought by those wealthy enough to pay the premium prices demanded. Supplies earmarked for the public granary were diverted by corrupt officials and pilfered by those entrusted with guarding what little grain remained. Many of the poorest and weakest had already starved to death and as the supply wagons rumbled into the capital they passed the carts carrying the dead to the open graves outside the walls of Rome. The cries and wails of lamentation echoed through the narrow streets of the slums and Macro wondered how long it would take for the grief to turn once more to anger. When that happened, only the Praetorians and the urban cohorts would stand between the Emperor and the mob.

Cato had been listening to the exchange. ‘If there’s no bread then Claudius is going to have to depend on circuses to keep the mob happy. If he is going to stage a gladiatorial event then he’ll have to do something special. Even then, he may have satisfied their bloodlust but their bellies will still be empty.’

Fuscius shrugged. ‘I suppose. But it might buy him a few more days in which to find some food. Just as long as he doesn’t take any more of ours. If he does, then there’ll be consequences,’ the young Praetorian added darkly.

‘Consequences?’ Macro spat on the ground with contempt. ‘What consequences? Claudius is the bloody Emperor. He can do what he likes.’

‘You think so?’ Fuscius cocked an eyebrow. ‘He’s Emperor just for as long as the Praetorian Guard says so. We made him. We can just as easily put someone else in his place, if he forces us to.’

‘Who’s this “we” you’re talking about? You and a few disgruntled mates?’

Fuscius looked round and lowered his voice. ‘Not so few of us, judging from word going round the barracks. If the time comes, I’d make sure you’re on the right side, Calidus.’

‘Maybe, but until then, I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you. You’re talking treason, lad.’

Cato smiled thinly. ‘You know the saying, treason is just a question of timing. Fuscius has a point. Best to see how things work out before you pick a side.’

Macro shook his head in disgust. ‘Politics … Good soldiers should never get involved in it.’

‘Oh, I agree with that, sure enough,’ Cato replied. ‘Trouble is that sometimes politics can’t help getting involved with soldiers. Then what’s a man to do?’

As he asked the question, Cato watched Fuscius for his response. The younger Praetorian was silent and his expression suddenly became fixed and unreadable as he glanced over Cato’s shoulder.

‘What’s all this then?’ Tigellinus barked. ‘Gossiping like old ladies? Fall in, the Emperor’s coming.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the tents further along the side of the lake. The German bodyguards were stirring and the slaves hurried forward with the imperial litters. The men of Lurco’s century raised their shields and javelins and began to form up around the stage. Half of the men stood either side of the approach to the rear of the stage while the others, including Cato and Macro, provided a loose screen around the sides and front. Meanwhile the last of the senatorial families had arrived to take up their seats.

‘Shit …’ Macro muttered and Cato glanced sharply at him.

‘What?’

‘To the right, close to that red litter, see that party of hooray Horatios. Try not to be obvious.’

Cato casually turned his head to survey the Emperor’s audience until he saw the party that Macro had indicated – twenty or so young aristocrats in expensive tunics beneath their rather more austere togas. They seemed to be gathered around one individual. He was a tall but manifestly overweight individual whose jowls shook as he talked. At first Cato could not recognise him from that angle, but then the man slapped his thigh and laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry clearly over the hubbub of the other senatorial guests, several of whom turned in his direction with expressions of disapproval. The man turned and glanced towards the stage and Cato felt a chill seize his heart.