Simon Scarrow: Praetorian

The path joined the road leading to the port and the iron studs on the soles of Macro’s army boots sounded loudly on the paved surface. He passed through the gate with a brief exchange of nods with the sentry who knew better than to demand the entrance toll from a legionary. One of the perks of being a soldier was exemption from some of the petty regulations that governed the lives of civilians. Which was only fair, Macro thought, since it was the sacrifice of the soldiers that made the peace and prosperity of the Empire possible. Apart from the idle tossers in cushy garrison postings in quiet backwaters like Greece, or those preening twats in the Praetorian Guard. Macro frowned. They were paid half as much again as the men in the legions, yet all they had to do was dress up for the odd ceremony and see to the efficient disposal of those condemned as enemies of the Emperor. The chances of any active service were slight. That said, Macro had seen them in action once, back in Britannia during the Emperor’s brief trip to claim credit for the success of the campaign. They had fought well enough then, he admitted grudgingly.

The blocks of apartments lining the street, three or four storeys high, crowded the already wan daylight and imposed a chilly gloom along the route leading into the heart of the town. Reaching the junction where the streets radiated out to the other districts of Ostia, Macro turned right into the long thoroughfare that ran through the heart of the port where the main temples, plushest baths and the Forum crowded upon each other as if jostling to be the most prestigious establishment. It was market day and the main street was busy with merchants and municipal officials hurrying about their business. A line of slaves, chained at the ankle, on their way to the holding pens of the slave market shuffled along the edge of the street under the watchful eye of a handful of burly guards armed with clubs. Macro passed through the Forum, which extended across both sides of the street, and then turned into a side street where he saw the imposing columned facade of the Library of Menelaus where he had agreed to meet Cato. The library had been gifted to Ostia by a Greek freedman who had made his fortune importing olive oil. It was well stocked with an eclectic range of books that were arranged on shelves in an equally eclectic manner.

Macro eased his hood back as he stepped up from the street and ascended the short staircase to the library’s entrance. Just inside the doorway a clerk sat at a plain wooden desk, warmed by the flames of a brazier. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the sight of a soldier.

‘May I be of any assistance, sir?’

Macro wiped the moisture from his brow and nodded. ‘Looking for someone. A soldier, like me.’

‘Really?’ The clerk arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you certain this is the place, sir? It is a library.’

Macro stared at him. ‘I know.’

‘Might I suggest, sir, that you would have better luck looking for your comrade in one of the inns close by the Forum. I believe that those sorts of establishments are more popular with soldiers than this library.’

‘Trust me, my friend arranged to meet me here.’

‘Well, it’s not where soldiers usually meet, sir,’ the clerk persisted, tersely.

‘True, but then my friend is not your usual military man.’ Macro smiled. ‘So, have you seen him? Just answer the question, eh? No need to look down your nose at me, not if you like it the way it is.’

The clerk realised that this stocky, tough-looking visitor was not going to be fobbed off. He cleared his throat and reached for a stylus and waxed slate, as if to imply that he had been interrupted in the process of carrying out some complex and vital bureaucratic task. ‘I only came on duty a short while ago, sir. If your friend is here, he must have already entered because I have not seen him and have no idea where he might be. I suggest you go and look for him.’

‘I see,’ Macro replied evenly. He stood his ground for a moment and then leant forward across the desk and let the hem of his cloak drip down on to the clerk’s tablet. The clerk froze, then looked up anxiously.

‘Sir?’

‘A parting thought,’ Macro growled. ‘There’s no need for the surly treatment, my lad. You try it on again and I might mistake your nice neat little library for a very rough and ready inn, if you take my meaning.’

The clerk swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. My apologies. Please feel free to enjoy the facilities of the library as you wish.’

‘There!’ Macro leant back with a pleasant smile. ‘Just as easy to be polite as to act like a complete cunt, eh?’

The clerk nervously glanced about to see if any of his colleagues were in view, but he was alone. He looked warily at the soldier in front of his desk. ‘Yes, sir. As you say.’

Macro turned away and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. He had an abiding hatred of the petty officials of the world who seemed to serve no other purpose than to hinder those who actually had useful acts to perform.

The library had a large entrance hall with two doors leading off either side and another directly opposite the entrance. After a brief pause, Macro made for the middle way, his footsteps echoing off the high walls. He entered a long room lined with shelves which were filled with scrolls. The ceiling, rising some thirty feet from the tiled floor, had been painted with nautical scenes which were lit by narrow windows high up in the walls. A line of tables and benches ran down the centre of the library’s main room and since it was still early on a cold morning, there were only three men present, two older men hunched over a scroll as they engaged in a muted discussion, and the unmistakable slender figure of Cato in his military cloak. He sat at the far end of the room, where a faint shaft of light provided barely adequate illumination for the broad sheets of papyrus that lay before him.

The loud clatter of Macro’s boots caused the two old men to break off their discussion and look up with a frown at the new arrival who had disrupted the usual quiet of the library. Although Cato must have heard the sound of his friend’s boots, he continued reading until Macro was almost upon him and then placed his finger on the papyrus to mark his place and looked up. His face was gaunt and he regarded Macro without a flicker of expression as he sat down on the bench opposite Cato. The younger officer had received a severe wound to his face while they were in Egypt and now a white line of scar tissue stretched from his forehead, across his brow and down his cheek. It was quite a dramatic scar but it had not really disfigured his features. A mark to be proud of, Macro thought. Something that would distinguish Cato from the other fresh-faced officers serving the Emperor, and one that would single him out as the seasoned veteran he had become since joining the Second Legion as a weedy recruit some eight years earlier.

‘Found what you’re looking for?’ Macro nodded at the sheets in front of Cato, then gestured to the laden shelves lining the walls. ‘More than enough reading matter to keep you busy, eh? Should help to pass the time.’

‘Until what, I wonder.’ Cato raised his spare hand and lightly rubbed his cheek where the scar ended. ‘We’ve heard nothing from Narcissus for nearly a month now.’

Cato had sent a message to the imperial secretary via the innkeeper, requesting to know why he and Macro had to remain in Ostia. The reply had been terse and simply told them to wait. Cato’s boredom at the enforced stay in the port alternated with acute anger that he was being kept from seeing Julia. Even so, he was tormented by the prospect of her reaction to his scar. Would she accept it and take him into her arms again? Or would she recoil in disgust? Worst of all, Cato feared that she would pity him and offer herself to him on that basis. The thought sickened him. Until he saw her again he could not know her response. Nor could he prepare her for the encounter since Narcissus had forbidden him from contacting her.