Praetorian (2011) Read online

  Cato could not help looking at the younger boy, surprised by the confidence and knowingness in the tone of his voice.

  ‘Boys! Boys!’ the tutor broke in with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s enough. You must stop this bickering. It is not worthy of the Emperor’s heirs. What would he say if he could see you now?’

  ‘S-s-stop it!’ Nero mimicked and let a little bit of spittle dribble from his lips as he stuttered, and then giggled.

  The tutor frowned at him and held up his hand to quieten the boy. ‘That is ungracious of you. Let there be no more digressions from today’s lesson, do you hear?’

  Nero nodded, struggling to stifle a smile.

  ‘Very well. The subject today is responsibility. Especially the responsibility of an emperor to his people. Now, I could lecture you on the matter, but being Greek, I prefer to deal with this by way of protracted dialogue.’

  Cato heard a long soft hiss of expelled air come from Macro at the tutor’s words.

  ‘Let’s start with you, Nero, since you are in high spirits today. What do you think are the primary responsibilities of an emperor?’

  Nero folded his hands together and thought for a moment before he spoke. ‘His first duty is to make Rome safe, obviously. Rome must be defended from its enemies, and its wider interests must be protected. Then the emperor must look after his people. He must feed them, but not just with food. He must give them his love, like a father loves his children.’

  Britannicus sniffed derisively, but Nero ignored him and continued.

  ‘He must teach them the important values: love of Rome, love of art, love of poetry.’

  ‘Why these things?’

  ‘Because without them we are nought but animals that scratch a living and then die unmissed.’

  Britannicus shook his head. The movement was caught by the tutor.

  ‘You have something to say?’

  ‘I do.’ Britannicus looked up defiantly. ‘Ahenobarbus is too influenced by that new personal teacher of his, Seneca. What is poetry to the common people? Nothing. They need food, shelter and entertainment. That’s what they want from their emperor. He can do his best to give some of them that, but not all. So what is his duty? It’s simple. His duty is to uphold order and fight chaos. He needs to defend Rome from those within as much as from the barbarians who live beyond our frontiers.’

  ‘That is a very cynical line of thought, young Britannicus,’ the tutor commented.

  ‘I am young. But I am learned beyond my years.’

  ‘Yes, your precocity has been noted.’

  ‘And not approved of.’ Britannicus smiled coldly.

  ‘There is a wisdom that comes with age and no other way. Until you have walked in the boots of other men, you are not wise. Only well read.’

  Britannicus regarded the man with a world-weary expression. ‘Perhaps if you had walked in my boots you would understand my cynicism. I have a family that is not a family but a colony of killers. I have a father who no longer treats me like a son. I have no mother, and I have a … brother who will surely kill me if ever he becomes Emperor.’ The boy paused. ‘Walk in those boots, Eurayleus, and see if you do not have to live on your wits.’

  The tutor stared at him with a sad expression and then drew a deep breath. ‘Let us continue. Nero thinks that the common man can have poetry in his life.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Nero said fervently.

  ‘Does he have this capacity innately? Or must it be taught to him?’ The tutor turned to Macro and Cato as if noticing them for the first time. ‘Take these two men. Soldiers. They know little but the art of destruction, which is the opposite of knowledge. They know weapons and drill, and spend their leisure time in mindless bouts of drinking, womanising and visits to the arena. Is that not so, soldier? You there!’ He pointed at Macro. ‘Answer me.’

  Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘Pretty much sums it up, sir.’

  ‘You see? How can you expect to teach such men to appreciate the finer sentiments of poetry? How can you induce them to know the subtle shades of expression upon which the finest literature turns? They are a class apart. Why, look at them. See those black eyes? Not content with their dullard existence of the mind, they compound their denigration by engaging in brawls. What hope is there of them finding their way to the great works of the finest thinkers? I doubt that they can even read. You there, the other man. Tell me, have you ever read the works of Aristotle?’

  ‘Which, sir? The Poetics, Politics, Ethics, Metaphysics, Nicomachean Ethics or De Anima?’

  The tutor stared at Cato for a moment, nonplussed.

  Britannicus chuckled. ‘Please continue, Eurayleus. Your line of argument is most intriguing.’

  The tutor struggled to his feet and gestured to his pupils. ‘Come, let’s find somewhere more, er, private, to continue the discussion.’

  He walked straight between Cato and Macro without meeting their eyes. Nero followed him, pausing only to wink at Cato and pat him on the shoulder before he left the enclosure. The smaller boy was slower to get up and he came and stood before Cato and stared up at him.

  ‘What is your name, Praetorian?’

  ‘Capito, sir.’

  ‘Capito … You are rather different to the other Praetorians, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’

  ‘Yes you do. I shall watch you. I don’t forget a face. I may need you one day. Tell me, Capito, if you could choose your new emperor when Claudius dies, who would it be? Me or Ahenobarbus?’

  ‘The choice is not mine to make, sir.’

  ‘But you are a Praetorian, and when the time comes, the Praetorians will have to make a choice, as they did when my father became Emperor. So who would you choose?’

  Cato was stuck. He dared not provide an answer for the boy. Moreover, he was surprised by the mature depth to his eyes and the shrewd, knowing manner of his speech.

  Britannicus shrugged and kicked a small stone towards the pond, and for a moment looked just like any other boy his age. Then he spoke again. ‘When the time comes, you will have to make a choice. For me there will be no choice. I must try to kill Ahenobarbus before he kills me.’ He looked up at Cato again, staring into his eyes without any trace of self-consciousness. ‘I’m sure we will run into each other again, Praetorian. Until then, farewell.’

  He folded his hands behind his back again and walked off quickly on his short stocky legs to catch up with his tutor and stepbrother. As the sound of footsteps faded, Macro turned to Cato and puffed his cheeks out.

  ‘Phew, he’s a strange one, that Britannicus. An old man in a boy’s body. Never seen the like.’

  Cato nodded. There had been something very unsettling about the boy. Something that had left Cato feeling quite cold. He had about him an air of ruthless calculation and Cato had no doubt that Britannicus had meant what he had said about killing Nero when the time was right. The child would have his backers too - men like Narcissus who wanted to ensure that they retained their positions of influence when Claudius passed into the shades. However, it was clear to Cato that the imperial secretary would be dealing with a boy emperor possessing far greater intelligence than the present incumbent. Britannicus would be his own man. But what kind of man? Cato wondered. There was some truth in what Eurayleus had said. Intelligence was one thing. But unallied to wisdom and empathy it could easily result in a cruel tyranny of reason every bit as damaging to Rome as Caligula’s madness had been. Even at his present age, Britannicus was something of a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘What do you make of the other one?’ asked Macro. ‘Nero.’

  ‘He seemed harmless enough. Head seemed a bit lost in the clouds but his heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And he’s popular with the lads in the Praetorian Guard.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato could see that Nero had an easy charm about him. In the inevitable struggle for succession, that would be a considerable advantage over his more intelligent but co
ld stepbrother. Cato felt a leaden sense of foreboding weigh down his heart. Neither boy was ready to succeed the Emperor. It would be some years before they had the experience to rule wisely. For that reason, it was vital that Claudius survived long enough to see the order and stability of his reign continue for as long as possible. If Rome fell into the hands of either boy then she would face a danger every bit as grave as that posed by the barbarian hordes biding their time beyond the empire’s frontiers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The day before the Accession games were to be held was taken up with preparations. A temporary arena had been under construction on the parade ground outside the camp for several days. When the workmen had packed up their tools and departed, one of the Praetorian cohorts was tasked with painting the timber stands and decorating the imperial box with fresh garlands of oak leaves. A large purple canopy was erected over the seating area of the imperial box to shield the Emperor and his family from the elements. On the front of the box some of the Praetorians, with more artistic skills than the rest of their comrades, painted a large mural depicting Claudius being acclaimed by the guardsmen on the day he had become Emperor. Another mural showed the Emperor handing out gold coins to the soldiers in order to remind them of the special beneficence that he showed to his Praetorians, and the loyalty that they owed him in return.

  All was complete by the evening of the twenty-fifth day of January. The arena was large enough to seat every soldier in the camp behind the low barrier wall. There was a wide gate opposite the imperial box to admit the participants of the games, and two small exits at each side for those injured or killed to be removed from the freshly spread sand that covered the parade ground. At headquarters the halls and colonnades had been filled with tables and benches ready for the following evening’s feast. Wagons laden with bread, cured meat, cheese, fruit and wine had trundled into the camp, from the surrouding countryside, where their contents were unloaded into the storerooms under the watchful eyes of junior officers to ensure that there was no pilfering.

  As night settled across the Praetorian camp, Macro and Cato sat in the hot room of the bathhouse. After exchanging a few pleasantries with their new comrades they had taken one of the benches in the corner where they would not be overheard by the other men scattered about the sweltering chamber. Some of them were engaged in conversation but most sat with sweat coursing down their bodies, relishing the heat.

  A drop fell from Macro’s heavy brow and made him blink. He wiped his forehead clear on the back of his forearm and glanced at Cato. His friend sat deep in thought, staring at the tessellated floor in front of him. Earlier in the day Cato had visited the safe house and found a message from Septimus demanding a progress report. They were to meet him there in two days’ time.

  ‘Sestertius for your thoughts,’ Macro said softly.

  ‘Eh?’ Cato looked round.

  ‘I know the look. What’s bothering you?’

  ‘Lack of progress. I just don’t see how we are supposed to do what Narcissus wants. It’s not as if the Liberators are advertising for new members, nor have we uncovered anything particularly sinister.’

  ‘What about Sinius?’ asked Macro. ‘He seems like a suspicious character.’

  ‘True. But we have no proof of his involvement in any conspiracy.’ Cato chewed his lip. ‘Which begs the question; is Narcissus jumping at shadows? What if those who ambushed the bullion convoy were just after the silver?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Macro conceded. ‘But what about that man Narcissus had tortured? He said he was working for the Liberators, and he gave up a name.’

  ‘That’s no surprise. The interrogators know their craft and can break any man. How reliable is the information given under torture? After a while I imagine a man would say anything to try to put an end to his torment.’

  Macro thought a moment and nodded. ‘All right. But let’s suppose the information is accurate. We should concentrate our attention on Centurion Lurco when he gets back to the camp. Follow him and see who he talks to. If he’s a ringleader of the conspiracy then we’ll soon know about it.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Cato sighed. ‘In any case, he’s the only real possibility we have right now.’

  They stayed a little longer before using the brass strigils to scrape off the grime that had sweated out of their skin. Then they moved through to the cold room and jumped into the pool where the shock of the chilled water made them gasp. Cato struck out briskly, swimming two lengths of the pool before he climbed out and hurried out to the changing area where he rubbed himself down with one of the towels drying over the rack above the hypocaust flues. Macro joined him and they began to dress.

  ‘You know,’ Macro began, ‘if there is no conspiracy and we’re looking for a gang of thieves then that’s going to make things much harder for us. A conspiracy needs supporters to achieve its ends. Anyone involved in a simple theft is going to want to keep it close to their chests.’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘In which case,’ Macro continued, ‘we’re pretty well stuffed, since Narcissus isn’t going to reward us for failing to produce the results he wants. Insane as it sounds, we’d better pray that there is a conspiracy to unearth.’

  As they reached the entrance to the barracks, Tigellinus was waiting for them. He jerked a thumb towards the centurion’s quarters.

  ‘Lurco is back. He wants to see you.’ Tigellinus smirked. ‘He sent for you over an hour ago. Shame I couldn’t find you - the centurion is not a man who is inclined to tolerate delay.’ The optio gave a dry laugh before he sauntered off to the squad’s room. ‘Good luck.’

  Macro’s lips pressed together as he waited until Tigellinus was out of earshot, then he hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Bastard. He knew where we were. He’s set us up.’

  Cato shrugged. ‘Nothing we can do about it now. Come on.’

  They made their way to the door of the small office adjoining the centurion’s private quarters and saw that it was open. Lurco was standing at the window, looking out across the wall of the camp and over the city, illuminated by the twinkling sparks of torches and lamps. He stood quite still as he stared in the direction of the imperial palace, his back dimly lit by the single oil lamp glimmering on his desk. Cato gestured to Macro and they stood directly outside the door frame. Taking a deep breath, Cato rapped on the wooden frame.

  ‘You sent for us, sir?’

  Lurco turned quickly and Cato saw that the centurion was younger than he had been expecting, in his mid-twenties. His hair was dark and artfully arranged in oiled curls above a finely featured face that was on the pretty side of handsome. His good looks hardened into a frown.

  ‘Are you the new men? Capito and Calidus?’ he asked in a thin, high-pitched voice.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t just stand there. Enter.’

  They strode in and stood before their commander’s desk. He was taller than Cato and by tilting his head back slightly he gave even more of an impression of looking down on the other men.

  ‘Where have you been? I sent for you ages ago. Why weren’t you in the barracks?’

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but we were in the bathhouse,’ Macro explained.

  ‘Shirking some duties no doubt.’

  ‘No, sir. We’re veterans. We’ve been excused fatigues.’

  ‘Veterans?’ Lurco sneered. ‘So, you think the world owes you a living? You think you’re better than the rest of us no doubt. Just because you’ve got some mud on your boots, and a few scratches.’ He flicked his hand dismissively in the direction of Cato’s face. ‘I don’t care if you’re veterans. The men of my century are all the same as far as I am concerned. And now it seems you all depend on me so much that I have been ordered to cut my leave short and return to the camp for tomorrow’s tedious little show put on for the Emperor. I could have been at a party in the city having a good fuck with some senator’s wife or daughter, but no, I’m stuck here in the camp. So if I have to give up my friends to be her
e, then the bloody least you can do is have the damned good grace to come when you are summoned.’

  Cato felt an instinctive dislike of the man, and was suddenly painfully conscious of the scar that had ruined his own face. Lurco, with his finely arranged good looks, was the kind of young officer who would be a success with the capital’s ladies. Possibly the kind of person that a woman like Julia might encounter and take a fancy to. It was a foolish thought, Cato told himself, angry that he had relaxed his hold on the feelings he had been struggling to suppress.

  ‘We came as soon as we were told you wanted to see us, sir,’ said Macro.

  ‘Well, that’s not soon enough,’ Lurco snapped. He stared at them, his nostrils flared. ‘Well, now we know each other, and you know what I stand for. In future when I give an order I expect you to obey it at once. Fail to do so and I will see to it that your veteran status is revoked, and I’ll have you up to your necks in shit doing latrine fatigues for the rest of the year. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato replied.

  Lurco stared at them. ‘Tomorrow we play host to the Emperor. Our cohort will be placed either side of the imperial box. That means I want a good turnout. My century will be the smartest unit in the entire Praetorian Guard, or I’ll know the reason why. Don’t you dare let me down. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then leave me. Go. Get out of my sight.’

  They saluted, turned, and Macro led as they strode out of the room. They made their way to the stairs and Macro’s breath escaped with a hearty sigh. ‘What a complete bloody arsehole. I’ll bet the uppity bastard has been turned down by some woman. Now he’s taking it out on us. As for that bollocks about veterans … Damn! The man owes us a little more respect.’ He fumed for a moment before continuing, ‘It’s all down to Tigellinus. He knew where we were. He was in the room when we left for the baths. I’ll have words with the optio, so help me.’

  ‘Better not,’ Cato responded. ‘Not if we want to avoid being punished for insubordination.’