Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘Shit …’ Macro spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Always shit, one way or another.’

He drew a deep breath and stepped forward a pace.

‘Macro!’ Cato hissed. ‘What the hell are you doing? Get back in line before he sees you.’

Macro ignored him and called out instead, ‘Optio! I spoke.’

Tigellinus spun round and strode up to Macro, pushing through the first rank and stopping right in front of him, an enraged expression on his face.

‘You? Guardsman Calidus. I expect more from a veteran of your experience. Or was your precious Second Legion no better than a bloody ladies’ sewing circle? Eh?’

Cato winced. Under normal circumstances his friend would regard such a comment as fighting talk. The fact that he would have outranked Tigellinus if he had not been forced to go under cover would only fuel Macro’s ire. But Macro kept his mouth firmly shut and did not respond to the provocation. Tigellinus paused briefly and then curled his lip as he continued.

‘So much for the fighting spirit of the Second. You’re on a charge, Calidus. I’ll have you on latrine-cleaning duties for ten days. Next time you’re on parade maybe you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.’

‘Yes, Optio.’

‘In line!’ Tigellinus barked and Macro stepped back a pace.

The optio shot one last scowl at him, then turned on his heel and made his way back down the line.

‘What the hell did you do that for?’ Cato whispered out of the side of his mouth.

‘He heard me. You know his type, Cato. Won’t let a thing lie.’

‘All the same, you haven’t got time to waste shovelling shit.’

Macro shrugged slightly. ‘Right now, I feel I’m wading through the stuff.’

They stood in silence a while longer, and some of the men of other centuries who had been dismissed from morning parade paused as they passed the end of the barracks to look on curiously.

‘What are you gawping at?’ Tigellinis shouted at them, and the guardsmen hurried on their way.

A tall, stocky officer strode past the end of the barracks in the direction of headquarters, glanced at the Sixth Century, and then paused midstride, changed direction and marched towards Tigellinus.

‘What’s all this, Optio?’ Tribune Burrus called out. ‘Why are your men still on parade?’

Tigellinus snapped his shoulders back and stood to attention. ‘Waiting for Centurion Lurco, sir.’

‘Waiting?’ Burrus frowned. ‘What the fuck for? Send for him. Did you send a man for him?’

‘Yes, sir. But the centurion was not in his quarters.’

‘No? Then where the hell is he?’

The question was rhetorical and Tigellinus kept his mouth tightly closed.

Burrus shook his head. ‘Right then, dismiss your men. Send someone to look for Lurco. I want him to report to me the moment he’s found.’ He raised his voice so that everyone in the Sixth Century would hear his words. ‘I don’t give a damn about rank when any man under my command fails in his duty. Centurion Lurco is in for the bollocking of a lifetime when I see him. Optio, carry on!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tigellinus saluted, and waited for the tribune to stride off before he turned back to the men and drew a deep breath. ‘Sixth Century … dismiss!’

The men turned to the side and then fell out, making for the barrack block, muttering in low voices as they speculated about the absence of the centurion. Cato and Macro returned to the section room with Fuscius and immediately the younger man closed the door. He turned round with an excited expression.

‘This is a turn-up for the books, even for Lurco!’

Macro cocked an eyebrow. ‘The centurion has form, then?’

‘Oh yes. He’s been the worse for wear before but he’s never missed a parade. Where the hell has he got to?’

‘Probably drunk himself insensible,’ said Cato. ‘He’s going to be for the high jump whenever he turns up. Tribune Burrus doesn’t look like the merciful type.’

‘True enough.’ Fuscius grinned as he placed his javelin in the rack. His stomach rumbled plaintively as he stood back. Fuscius winced. ‘By the gods, I’m hungry.’

‘So are we all, lad,’ Macro replied. ‘But we do better than those down in the Subura. At least we get fed regular. Those poor bastards have to hunt for scraps. They’ll be dropping like flies soon.’

Fucsius nodded thoughtfully. ‘It ain’t good. The Emperor’s let us down badly. Won’t be long until we start starving, alongside the mob. Then there’ll be trouble.’

Cato looked at him. ‘Trouble? You think there isn’t enough trouble as it is?’

‘The food riots?’ Fuscius shook his head. ‘That’ll be as nothing compared to what will happen once people begin to starve to death in their thousands. I’m telling you, when that happens the streets are going to be running with blood. The Praetorian Guard will be the only thing that can prevent chaos. The only thing that stands between the Emperor and the mob. And when that happens either Claudius will have to promise us a sizeable fortune to keep us loyal, or …’

‘Or what?’ Macro prompted.

Fuscius shot a nervous glance towards the door to make sure that it was closed, and then continued in a subdued tone, ‘Or we choose a new Emperor. One who can afford to pay for our loyalty.’

Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato before he cleared his throat. ‘That’s treason.’

‘You’ve been in the legions too long, my friend.’ Fuscius smiled. ‘That’s the way we do business in the Praetorian Guard.’

‘And how would you know? You’ve barely served long enough to know one end of a javelin from the other.’

‘I listen to the others. I talk to people.’ Fuscius nodded. ‘I know what’s going on. Claudius may be Emperor for now, but unless he does something to keep the Praetorian Guard sweet, there’ll be those of us who might consider finding a new master.’

‘Easier said than done,’ said Cato. ‘Britannicus is too young. So is Nero.’

‘Nero may be young, but he’s popular. You saw how the guards cheered him at the Accession games.’

‘So, we just chop and change our emperors according to popular whim?’

Fuscius pursed his lips briefly. ‘It’s as good a reason as any. And you can be sure that any new emperor will do all he can to win the Praetorian Guard over as soon as possible. That suits me. And it’d suit you, too, if you were smart enough to realise it.’

Cato did not like the younger man’s fickle understanding of a soldier’s duty. He had seen the unpalatable greed burning in Fuscius’s eyes and felt an overwhelming desire to cut himself free from the venomous snakepit of Rome’s politics. The mendacity and ruthless ambition that filled the hearts of those at the centre of power in the empire was unhindered by any strand of morality. Now that he and Macro had been sucked into this world he longed to return to regular army duties. The need to conceal his true identity and guard his back created a constant and exhausting tension and Cato had no desire to remain in Rome any longer than he could help it. He suddenly realised that marrying into Julia’s family might well embroil him in the dangerous and devious world of the capital. Her father was a senator, a player in the often lethal game of politics. If he became part of that life, Cato realised that he would have to live on his wits all the time.

That was no life for a soldier, Cato reflected, then inwardly smiled with amusement at this ready identification of himself. Until recently he had harboured grave doubts about his ability as a fighting man and felt that he was merely playing the part of a warrior. That no longer troubled him. The hard experiences of years of soldiering had engraved the profession upon his soul, just as the weapons of his enemies had left their marks on his flesh so that all could see him for what he was – a soldier of Rome, through and through.