Simon Scarrow - Praetorian

‘Hail, Caesar!’ the fighters bellowed in one voice. ‘We salute you, those who are about to die!’

Claudius shook his head as he saw that some of the men had not joined in. He raised his cup and slurred, ‘Or not, as the case may be. On that I gi-give you my word.’

The gladiators glanced at one another as they digested what the Emperor had just said. Claudius turned to Narcissus and muttered.

‘Get ‘em on the ships and start the ba-battle, before any more time is w-w-wasted.’

‘As you command, sire.’

The Emperor turned and lurched back towards the interior of the pavilion, wine slopping from his cup. As soon as he was gone Narcissus hurried to the rail.

‘To your ships! Prepare for battle!’

Cato was watching the fighters closely. Several were talking animatedly and the rest were clustering round, shouting their support.

‘There’s trouble.’

‘What are they saying?’ asked Macro. ‘Can’t quite make it out.’

Cato caught the odd word but not enough to make any sense and he shook his head. Above them Narcissus’s voice rang out again, shrill and angry.

‘Get to your ships or I swear I will crucify every last one of you who survives the fight!’

The fighters parted and one of the gladiators stepped forward, thumbs tucked into his belt as he gazed defiantly at the imperial secretary. ‘Nothing doing. We all heard the Emperor, as you did. It was clear enough what he said. We’re pardoned. The fight is off.’

Macro turned to Cato with a surprised expression, and Cato shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘What did you say?’ Narcissus asked in astonishment.

‘The Naumachia. It’s off. That’s what the Emperor said.’

‘Are you mad? What are you talking about?’

The gladiator frowned. ‘It was clear enough to us. He said we weren’t to die. He gave his word. You heard it from his own lips. The Emperor’s word is law. There was a rumour going through the pens last night that the spectacle was off. Looks like it was true after all.’

‘He meant nothing of the sort, you fool! Now get to your ships!’

The gladiator turned to look at his nearest supporters and there was a muted exchange before he turned back to Naricissus and folded his arms. ‘We are pardoned men. The Emperor said as much. We demand to be set free at once.’

‘You demand?’ Narcissus choked. ‘How dare you, slave!’ The imperial secretary leant over the rail and shouted down to Tigellinus. ‘Centurion, kill that man, and any others who refuse to obey their orders.’

There was a brief pause and the air filled with tension as the gladiators and the other fighters reached for the handles of their swords. Centurion Tigellinus stepped in front of his line of men and looked up at Narcissus. ‘Sir?’

Narcissus stabbed a finger at him. ‘Do as you are ordered, or you’ll share his fate. Do it!’

Tigellinus stepped back into line, raised his shield and drew his sword. He sucked in a nervous breath and called out the order. ‘Sixth Century! Advance javelins!’

There was a loud stamp as the guardsmen planted one foot forward and then lowered the tips of their javelins at an angle towards the gladiators. Cato looked over the men opposite and calculated that there must be at least eighty of them, more or less even odds if the situation got out of hand. Beside him Macro fixed his stare on their leader and growled, ‘I had hoped never to fight slaves again. Gladiators least of all.’

‘A sestertius to a denarius that this lot were trained at the school in Rome,’ Cato muttered.

Macro glanced at him. The Great School was famed throughout the empire for the quality of the gladiators it turned out. Macro sucked in a deep breath. ‘Then we’re in trouble.’

Centurion Tigellinus must have shared their anxiety and turned to order one of the men to run to Tribune Burrus to request reinforcements. As the guardsman hurried off, Tigellinus raised his shield and turned it to face the gladiators. ‘Sixth Century, at the walk, advance!’

The line of Praetorians rippled forward, their ceremonial armour gleaming on top of their spotless white tunics. It had been some time since Cato and Macro had fought as part of a battle line, rather than in command of one, and Cato concentrated on keeping the length of his pace the same as the men on either side of him. Before him the leader of the gladiators stretched out a hand towards Narcissus.

‘Tell the Praetorians to halt! Or it’ll be the blood of your men that’s shed. And the Emperor will hold you responsible, freedman.’ His voiced dripped with contempt as he uttered the last word.

Cato glanced back quickly and saw Narcissus glaring down on the scene, his lips pressed together in a narrow line.

‘Gladiators!’ their leader bellowed. ‘Draw your weapons!’

The air filled with the sharp rasp and rattle of blades being ripped from their scabbards and Cato raised his oval shield higher so that it protected his torso and the lower part of his face. The gladiators were less than twenty paces away. Behind them a palisade stretched from the shore to the pens. A handful of auxiliary troops in a watch-tower beyond the palisade had witnessed the confrontation and one was now calling down to his colleagues to alert them. There would be no escape for the gladiators in that direction, Cato decided. Indeed, there would be no escape for them in any direction. They could only stand their ground and die, or make for the ships. Those who had already boarded crowded on to the foredecks to watch and Cato prayed that they would not be fired by the indignant zeal that had caused their leaders to defy Narcissus. Fortunately, they were far enough away not to have heard the Emperor’s offhand remark and the bitter exchange it had provoked.

The leader of the gladiators lowered himself into a crouch and held his buckler forward of his body, ready to punch it into the face of the first enemy that dared to oppose him. His sword was drawn back, ready to stab. The other men quickly followed his example, spreading out to give themselves space to move. Cato could not help wondering at the difference in fighting styles between the gladiators and the Praetorians. One side trained to fight as individuals, experts in the techniques required for the individual duels that defined their lives. Ranged against them were the elite soldiers of Rome, drilled to fight in disciplined battle lines, each man just one part of a machine.

Tigellinus called out to them, ‘Save yourselves! Give up that man and you will be spared.’

‘Fuck you!’ a voice screamed back.

Their leader’s lips parted in a feral grin and he slapped his cuirass with the flat of his sword. ‘Come and get me!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘So be it,’ Tigellinus responded coldly. ‘Sixth Century, halt! Ready javelins!’

Cato and Macro drew up with the rest of the men, and then adjusted their grip and hefted the javelins back and tensed their muscles ready to hurl the missiles when the centurion gave the order. Cato had lived through this moment in previous battles and waited for the enemy to flinch and waver. Instead the gladiators held their ground, unmoving, their eyes fixed unblinking on the Praetorians, their muscles poised to dodge the first strike of their opponents.

‘Try for their leader,’ said Macro. ‘If he goes down, the rest may give up.’

Cato nodded.

‘Release!’ Tigellinus yelled.

Cato hurled his arm forward, throwing his weight through the line of the javelin’s flight and releasing his grasp at the last instant. The dark shaft arced up into the air with the others javelins of Tigellinus’s century. They rose up between the two bodies of men and then seemed to slow at the top of their arc before plunging down. The gladiators had developed sharp reflexes as part of their training and darted aside as the javelins landed among them. Only a handful of men were struck down, one skewered through the top of his skull, the point passing down his neck and deep into his body. Cato saw the man stagger on the impact, then hold still before he pitched forward and was lost from view. Two more were mortally wounded as the deadly iron lengths of the javelin heads ripped through their torsos. The last, standing directly in front of Cato, howled as the javelin slammed through his boot and pinned his foot to the ground. The remainder, incredibly, had escaped harm.