Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘By the gods,’ he muttered. ‘Vitellius … Bastard.’

‘Who is he then?’ asked Fuscius.

Cato shot a warning glance at Macro before the latter replied. ‘He was senior tribune in the Second Legion a few years back.’

Fuscius made a wry smile. ‘Doesn’t sound like you approve of him.’

‘He nearly got us killed,’ Cato said flatly, as he considered how much it was safe to say. He was cross with himself, and Macro, for their reaction to seeing Vitellius again. The former tribune had been involved in a plot to assassinate the Emperor while Claudius was in Britannia. Even though Cato and Macro had foiled the attempt, Vitellius had managed to deftly exculpate himself. ‘Vitellius is the kind of man who puts himself first, above all other considerations. A word of advice, Fuscius. Never step in his way. You’d be crushed under his heel with no more regard than if he had trod on an ant.’

‘I see.’ Fuscius stared towards the loud group of aristocrats for a moment. ‘Still, seems like a popular lad.’

‘He has charm,’ Cato admitted, recalling all too painfully how the tribune had seduced Cato’s first love, and then killed her when there was a danger that she might expose his plot to kill the Emperor. ‘Bastard,’ he repeated.

‘I just hope he doesn’t see us,’ said Macro. ‘We didn’t exactly part on good terms, Fuscius,’ he explained.

Cato watched as Vitellius turned away again, engrossed in conversation. ‘We should be all right. He can’t possibly recognise us under all this kit.’

A brassy blast cut through the air to announce the approach of the Emperor. The Praetorians quickly snapped to attention, shields held in and spears grasped perpendicular to the ground. The public fell silent and stood respectfully. Behind Cato the imperial litters made the short trip from the tents and then their occupants waited until the German bodyguards had taken their place at the very foot of the platform. The Emperor and his coterie of close advisers climbed out and advanced down the short avenue of Praetorians, and up on to the stage. Out of the corner of his eye Cato could see that Claudius was doing his best to disguise his limp and suppress his tic and look dignified before his guests. He made his way up on to the dais and sat on the gilded throne. There was a pause as he surveyed the audience with an imperious tilt to his head and then he waved those that had them back to their seats. Narcissus and Pallas stood discreetly behind the dais, as befitted their status. Though they wielded far more power than any senator, consul or proconsul, as freedmen they technically ranked lower than the poorest freeborn Roman citizen presently starving to death in the most squalid districts of Rome.

‘Remember, sire, keep it clear and keep it short,’ Cato heard Narcissus say.

‘I kn-kn-know,’ Claudius replied tartly out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m no fool, you know.’

He cleared his throat with a rather unpleasant guttural sound and drew a deep breath.

‘My friends! Rome has endured much hardship in recent months. Our b-b-b-beloved city is troubled by social unrest. The failure of the grain supply has vexed our p-p-people. I have done all in my power to scour Italia for food to feed the capital. However, I believe we are close to solving the g-g-gr-grain shortage.’

Cato’s ears pricked and he sensed Macro stir beside him. Finding a reliable supply of food was the key to ending the strife in the city. Once that was dealt with, the people would be grateful to their Emperor and his enemies would no longer be able to exploit the discontent. Claudius had better be right, Cato thought. If he raised hopes only to dash them, it would only inflame the anger of his people.

The Emperor was about to continue when Narcissus leant forward slightly and spoke in an undertone. ‘Remember, pause for effect.’

Claudius nodded, staring at the audience for long enough for a few uncertain coughs to break out. Then he launched back into his prepared speech. ‘Until the people’s bellies are filled again, it is only ri-ri-right that the Emperor offers Rome the com-comfort of entertainment to help them through the c-cri-crisis. If their stomachs are empty, then let their hearts b-be-be filled instead!’ He thrust his arm into the air with a dramatic rhetorical flourish.

‘Pause for applause,’ Narcissus prompted and there was a brief delay before those in the audience who had been primed clapped their hands. The sound quickly spread and swelled and Narcissus smiled cynically, while his master bathed in the adulation of his audience. Narcissus allowed it to go on for a while and then made a cutting action with his hand. The applause died away, rather too soon for the Emperor’s taste and his brow creased into a frown before he continued, with a gesture towards the channels and dams that had been constructed to link the lake with the Tiber’s tributary.

‘By the end of next month, my engineers will have completed their work here and once the lake is dr-drained, we will, b-b-before the end of the year, have increased the farmland close to R-r-rome by several thousand iugerae. More land means more grain. Never again will Rome go h-hun-hungry!’

This time Narcissus did not need to prompt the applause. It was freely given by those who were relieved at the prospect of pacifying the mob.

‘Before the lake is dr-dr-dr-drained,’ the Emperor continued, ‘it is my intention to use the natural arena of the Albine lake to stage the gr-gr-greatest gl-glad-gladiatorial spectacle in history.’

The current of excitement that swept through the crowd was palpable and it was a while before the muttering died away enough for Claudius to resume.

‘Two fleets, crewed by ten thousand gladiators, will fight on the lake, b-be-before the eyes of the entire pop-population of Rome! For generations to come, people will remember the reign of Cl-cl-claudius not because of food riots but because of our gladiators and the spectacular N-nau-naumachia they provided. Our heirs will look on us with envy. Th-thin-think on that, and pass the word into every street and alley of Ro-rome!’

Claudius thrust out his arms, as if to embrace the thousands who stood cheering before him. Cato caught a look of smug gratification on the face of Narcissus as he turned to Pallas. The latter looked furious, but held his position, and a moment later forced himself to join in the celebration with muted applause.

‘Bloody hell.’ Macro shook his head and muttered to Cato, ‘Where’s he going to find ten thousand gladiators? He’s mad.’

‘No,’ Cato responded quietly. ‘Just desperate.’

Claudius turned away from his audience and arched an eyebrow at his two closest advisers. ‘Well?’

‘A fine speech, sire!’ Narcissus clapped his hands together. ‘The Naumachia is just what your people need.’

‘Indeed,’ Pallas agreed. ‘Your speech was so good that one grieves over its brevity.’

Narcissus glanced daggers at the other freedman and then smiled brilliantly at the Emperor. ‘Ah, yes! But brevity is an art that few in history have mastered as well as you, sire.’

‘Yes, quite.’ Claudius nodded vigorously. ‘And when w-word of the games reaches the vulgar mo-mo-mob they’ll forget that they were ever h-h-hungry. Speaking of which, it’s time to return to the palace. I need to eat. I have a craving for mush-mushrooms.’

With a last gracious wave to his audience Claudius left the dais and limped down from the stage back to his litter. Pallas followed quickly, trying to steal a lead on his rival. Narcissus let him go and then, as he passed by Cato and Macro, he seemed to catch his boot and trip over his toga. His arms flailed as he fell against Cato. Cato felt the imperial secretary’s hand thrust something into the palm of his shield hand.