Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

Macro was right, Cato decided. It would be better to be far from Rome with its treachery and its luxurious caprices that softened men and made them into scoundrels or fools. Better to be back in the ranks of the legions where a man’s worth was defined by the rigid and honest standards of military life. Even as he thought it, Cato wondered whether his yearning for the certainties of a soldier’s life outweighed his yearning for the love of Julia, and a life spent with her, which might well entail living in Rome. He sensed that he knew the answer to that and hurriedly pushed all thought of making a choice aside as the award ceremony concluded and the newly crowned Tribune Burrus turned to his men and gave the order for the cohort to return to the camp.

The following day the cohort marched out to the Albine Lake as the final preparations were made for the coming spectacle. The change of season was evident in the new growth bursting from trees, shrubs and vines in the countryside through which the cohort marched. The men had been issued with marching yokes to carry their mess kits, spare clothing and meagre rations. For the duration of the spectacle the cohort was to camp close to the newly erected imperial compound where Claudius and his guests would be accommodated in luxury.

The weather had turned decisively and warm sunshine bathed the Praetorians marching along the road. As good weather will, especially after a cold, drab winter, it raised the spirits of the men and they talked and sang lustily as they marched. Their officers relaxed the usual discipline of the Praetorian Guard and indulged their mens’ good humour so that the column took on the ambience of a friendly procession rather than a manouevre conducted by the elite formation of the Roman army. Even Macro, a soldier to the very core of his being, was content as they advanced in broken step. He felt good to leave Rome behind and savour the familiar grinding chorus of nailed boots, the weight of a yoke braced against his padded shoulder and the cheery camaraderie of the rankers. The road crossed rolling countryside and afforded pleasing vistas over the farmland with its newly sown crops. One field contained a small flock of sheep with several newborn lambs whose wool gleamed like freshly laundered togas.

‘This is the life, eh?’ Macro grinned at Cato. ‘Proper soldering.’

Cato adjusted his yoke once more. He had never had Macro’s experience of being a common legionary and had therefore never quite mastered the art of carrying the heavy yoke with any degree of comfort over long distances. Already he was beginning to wonder what had possessed him yesterday when he had been so adamant in his desire to return to what his friend so fondly termed proper soldiering. He bunched his padding up under the wooden shaft as best he could before he replied to his friend. ‘Ah yes! Blisters and tired muscles. What more could a man ask for, I wonder.’

Macro was well used to Cato’s assumed dour acceptance of the strains of marching and laughed. ‘Come on, lad. Admit it, you’re as pleased to be out and about as I am. No more skulking about in Rome for a few days at least. And it’ll be good to spend some nights under the stars with grass at our backs, a fire to warm us, and a jug of wine to share. May not be much food in our bellies, but there’s no shortage of wine thank the gods. Now that would be a tragedy. Man can live by bread alone, but who would want to, eh?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cato grunted under the burden of his yoke. ‘I would give up a month’s pay for a decent haunch of mutton and a freshly baked loaf of bread right now.’ He glanced wistfully at the grazing sheep and lambs.

‘Don’t even think about it!’ said Fuscius, marching beside the column where he had overheard the exchange and noted Cato’s look. ‘That lot are protected by order of the Emperor. All available livestock for ten miles around the city has been commandeered by the Emperor.’

‘What for?’ asked Macro.

‘There’s one man who ignores the gazette.’ Fuscius laughed. ‘Claudius wants to make sure that he has the biggest audience he can find for the spectacle. One way to guarantee that is to offer the mob food as well as entertainment. They’ll come all right.’

When the cohort reached the lake, Cato was astonished by the work that had been carried out in the few days since he had last seen the site. The pens built for the combatants were already filling with men and as the cohort marched up he could see a long line of prisoners, in ankle chains, being led to the site from the south. A unit of auxiliaries stood guard over the pens. The imperial pavilion had been completed and dominated the shoreline. Although constructed from timber, it had been painted in white so that from a distance it looked like a small palace constructed from the finest marble. The main viewing stand was built over the water and supported by heavy piles driven into the bed of the lake. At the side of the pavilion was a stand where the Emperor would be able to review the fighters as they paraded past and boarded the small ships of the two fleets.

The carpenters had completed their work on the vessels which were drawn up at either end of the pavilion, some twenty on each side. The beams of the barges had been built up to support decks that covered the rowing benches fitted into what had been the holds. Decorative fantails curved over the sterns while eye motifs had been painted at the bows, either side of the iron-tipped rams. It was hard to believe that the vessels had enjoyed a previous life as humble barges plying their trade along the Tiber. Out on the lake several of the small ships were going through their drills as a detachment of sailors from the imperial navy hurriedly trained the crews in the rudiments of rowing and steering.

Further along the shore, surrounded by a guarded palisade, were the stores of bread, meat and wine to be distributed to the people. Much of this had been taken from the vast storerooms beneath the imperial palace in a desperate bid to stave off the starvation of the mob long enough for the grain convoy from Sicilia to arrive. On the far side of the lake there were already some small groups of people clustered around makeshift shelters and smoke from campfires trailed into the air against the backdrop of the hills beyond.

A palace official guided the cohort to the site prepared for their camp, a short distance from the prisoner pens. As the centurions and officers bellowed the order to down packs, Macro stretched his shoulders and rocked his head from side to side to ease his neck muscles. Then he paused and sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose.

‘What is that stench?’

Cato pointed towards the prisoner pens. ‘Over there. Can’t see any latrine trenches. They’re having to shit inside the pens.’

Both men paused to stare at the palisade before Macro muttered, ‘That’s no way for a fighting man to have to live.’

‘They’re not fighting men. Remember what Narcissus said: mostly criminals and any other dregs that could be scraped together to fill out the ranks on each side.’

Macro was silent for a moment. ‘Even so, they’ll be fighting soon enough and shouldn’t be treated like animals.’

‘You two!’ Fuscius cried out. ‘No dawdling! Get over to the wagons and fetch a tent for the section!’

A line of wagons had been parked at the far end of the campsite and the men of the cohort were busy unloading bundles of goatskin, tent poles, guy ropes and ground pegs. As Macro and Cato trudged over towards the wagons between the lines marked out for each century’s tents, Macro chuckled. ‘Seems the optio’s found his voice again. Bawling us out like a veteran. Or trying to at least. Funny, he reminds me of you back in the early days.’

‘Me?’ Cato looked at him with raised eyebrows.