Simon Scarrow: Praetorian

‘Hold ‘em back!’ Macro bellowed as he fell into place beside Cato.

For a moment the struggle continued and then the first of the traitors retreated, clutching his spare hand to a wound in his sword arm. With no way through to the Emperor, the others backed off one by one. Geta turned to them in fury.

‘Fools! If you don’t kill him now, you are as good as dead. It’s too late to retreat. Strike! Strike a blow for liberty while you still can!’

Geta lashed out with his sword in a series of vicious cuts which Cato parried as best he could until Macro launched himself forward, hammering his sword against the prefect’s, forcing the other man back.

One of the Praetorians made to move forward and help Macro but Cato grabbed his shoulder. ‘Stay where you are! Every man is to hold position. Protect the Emperor until help gets here.’

The two sides drew apart and the din of the fighting was replaced by heavy breathing as the Praetorians and the traitors watched each other warily. Geta glared at the Emperor, then swallowed nervously before he took a half step towards Claudius and the men guarding him. Before he could call on his men to attempt another strike against the Emperor, the sound of shouting and footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the study.

‘That’s Tribune Burrus,’ Cato spoke out to the traitors. ‘Throw down your weapons and surrender.’

‘Surrender and we all die!’ Geta responded loudly. ‘There will be no mercy if we fail now.’

His followers hovered indecisively for an instant before one turned and ran back through the broken shutters. Another made to follow him and then others fled, leaving Geta and Sinius alone. Beyond them, Cato was aware of a third officer, in the shadows by the broken shutters.

‘Cowards!’ Geta yelled bitterly. ‘Cowards all!’

Sinius grabbed his arm and pulled his superior back. ‘There’s nothing we can achieve here, sir! We must go.’

‘Go where?’ Geta asked.

‘There may be another chance, sir. Come!’ Sinius roughly pulled the Praetorian prefect away and then bundled him out of the room towards the gardens. Cato lowered his sword and looked round the room. The wounded were moaning on the floor. Two of the men lay still. Those on either side of him were breathing heavily from their desperate run through the palace and the brief skirmish in the Emperor’s study. The Emperor himself was unhurt but there was no mistaking the terror in his eyes.

‘You men stay here,’ Cato ordered the Praetorians. ‘Macro, with me!’

He tightened his grip on his sword as they strode briskly across the room towards the smashed shutters. They stepped out of the study cautiously, just in case any of the traitors were waiting for them in the colonnade outside. The light of the crescent moon bathed the garden in dark shades of grey and the figures of the traitors were easy enough to see as they fled down the shingle paths through the neat shrubberies and flower beds. Macro started after the nearest of the men but Cato grabbed his arm.

‘No. Leave him. Those are the ones we want.’ He pointed his sword at the three officers running towards the steps leading down to the lower terrace of the garden where there was access to the servants’ quarters beneath the imperial suites. If Geta and the others could reach them, they might lose their pursuers in the labyrinth of service corridors and storerooms before escaping into the city’s streets. Cato and Macro set off after the officers, sprinting down from the colonnade towards the steps. They lost sight of their prey momentarily between two lines of neatly trimmed box hedges and then saw them, a short distance ahead. Geta and his companions dashed down the stairs and headed across a paved area towards the dark entrance to the servants’ quarters. An instant later there was a faint glow there that outlined the stone arch and then the flicker of a torch and the sound of voices.

The three men stopped as they realised there was no escape in that direction. They turned and ran the opposite way, along the balcony that looked directly down on to the Forum. At the far end lay a secluded rose garden surrounded by tall hedges. Cato and Macro chased after them while the first soldiers spilled out from the servants’ entrance. Higher up there were shouts as more men began to search the upper terrace for the traitors. Burrus’s voice carried through the night air as he issued his orders. The three officers hurried round the corner of the rose garden out of sight. Cato stopped and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Over here. They’re over here! Hurry!’

He and Macro continued their pursuit, rushing headlong round the edge of the neatly trimmed bushes only to see an empty stretch of path before them, lined with pine trees on one side which filled the air with their rich scent. Cato held up his hand to stop his friend and they stood, hearts pounding, as they strained their eyes to see in the gloom.

‘Where did they go?’ hissed Macro. ‘They have to be close. Best be careful, lad.’

They paced forward warily, senses tuned to detect the slightest sign of movement or sound in the trees on either side of the path. The voices of Burrus’s men rang out across the garden and then Cato saw a party of soldiers appear at the far end of the path. He took a breath and called out.

‘Geta! You’re trapped. There’s nowhere to run. Give yourself up!’

There was no response from close at hand, but the soldiers at the far end of the path began to trot towards Cato. Suddenly, not twenty feet ahead, there was a deep groan and a body slumped out of the shadows and fell across the path, a sword clattering dully to the ground beside the man.

‘What are you doing?’ Geta’s voice rose up in alarm only to be cut off abruptly. There was a rustling between the trees behind the body and then a stifled cry.

‘Shit.’ Macro started forward. ‘The bastards are doing themselves in.’

Cato ran after him. Before they could reach the body, a figure stepped out on to the path, sword in hand, and faced Macro and Cato. As he stepped away from the tree, Cato saw who it was.

‘Tigellinus.’

They halted, a safe distance beyond sword’s length, and raised their weapons, ready to fight if the centurion chose to resist. Behind him the soldiers approached at the run.

‘You three!’ a voice called out. ‘Drop your swords!’

Tigellinus glanced briefly over his shoulder before he tossed his weapon on to the path. The Praetorians slowed to a stop and their leader carefully stooped to pick up Tigellinus’s sword before he gestured towards Cato and Macro. ‘You too!’

‘What?’ Macro growled. ‘We’re on the same side, man! We’re the ones who sent for Burrus.’

‘We’ll see soon enough,’ the Praetorian replied. ‘Now drop those swords, before me and my lads make you.’

Macro took a step towards them.

‘Do as he says,’ Cato intervened, throwing his weapon at the feet of the soldiers.

Macro hesitated a moment, then shrugged and followed suit.

Once the weapons had been collected and the Praetorians had surrounded Cato, Macro and Tigellinus, the leader of the soldiers prodded the body on the path with his boot and then squinted into the shadows where a second corpse lay.

‘What’s going on here, then?’

Tigellinus cleared his throat. ‘You address me as “sir” when you speak to me, Centurion Tigellinus, commander of the Sixth Century, Third Cohort.’

‘Bollocks,’ Macro spat. ‘You’re nothing but a bloody traitor, like your two friends here.’

‘Friends?’ Tigellinus responded in a surprised tone. ‘I think you are mistaken. I saw these men running from the Emperor’s study. I chased after them and caught up with them here. There was a fight, and I slew them by my own hand.’