Praetorian c-11 Read online

  ‘For how long, I wonder? Perhaps not for as long as I might wish to keep you rotting here.’

  Macro’s expression darkened. ‘Fuck you. Fuck you and your nasty little schemes.’ Macro bunched his hands into fists and for a moment Cato was afraid his friend might take it into his head to pulverise the imperial secretary. The same thought occurred to Narcissus who flinched back. Macro glowered at him for a moment then stood up abruptly. ‘Cato, let’s go and get a drink. Some other place. The air’s foul here.’

  ‘No,’ Cato answered firmly. ‘We have to do it. I’m not staying in Ostia any longer than I can help it.’

  Macro stared down at his comrade for a moment and then shook his head. ‘You’re a fool, Cato. This snake will get us killed. Why should we succeed in uncovering the Liberators when the Emperor’s agents have failed all these years?’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’ll do it. And you’ll come with me.’

  ‘Bah!’ Macro threw up his hands. ‘I thought I knew you. I thought you were smarter than this. Seems I was wrong. You’re on your own, Cato. I’ll have no part of this.’

  Macro strode to the door and wrenched it open, slamming it behind him. Cato heard his footsteps receding with a sinking feeling in his heart. Macro was right about the dangers, and Cato realised that he had little confidence that he could see such a mission through without the tough and dependable Macro at his side. For the first time in many months, he felt a pang of fear. The prospect of facing the Emperor’s shadowy enemies on his own was daunting.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about him.’ Narcissus chuckled. ‘Now he’s had a chance to unleash his anger at me, he’ll come round soon enough.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Trust me, I can read almost any man like a scroll. And our friend Macro is a somewhat less challenging read than most. Am I wrong? You know him well enough.’

  Cato reflected for a moment. ‘Macro is capable of surprising turns of thought. You should not underestimate him. But yes, I think he’ll come with me. Once he’s had a chance to simmer down and reflect on the fact that you might make his life very difficult. I take it you meant that.’

  Narcissus’s thin lips twisted into a faint smile as he rose to leave. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fair enough. But I have one piece of advice for you, if you want this mission to go well.’ Cato paused. ‘Never ever call him a friend to his face again.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The surface of the Tiber was dotted with flotsam and patches of sewage as the barge approached Rome late in the afternoon. A team of mules was towing the vessel against the current and their driver, a skinny, barefoot slave boy, flicked his whip once in a while to keep the pace up. Ahead a thick pall of woodsmoke hung over the city as the inhabitants struggled to stay warm through the dreary winter months, adding the output of the communal fires they were permitted to the smoke of the tanneries, smiths and bathhouses that plied their trade in the capital.

  Cato wrinkled his nose as a foul odour swept across the surface of the river, blown by the stiff easterly breeze.

  ‘You forget how bad the place stinks,’ Macro muttered sourly at his side as they stood on the small foredeck of the barge. They were the only passengers. The rest of the available space was piled with jars of olive oil from Hispania. So heavily laden was the barge that there was scarcely a foot of freeboard above the glistening sweep of the Tiber.

  ‘Oh, it ain’t so bad!’ a cheery voice sounded from behind them and the two soldiers turned to see the captain of the barge approaching them round the jars. The man’s thin frame was evident even under his tunic and thick cloak. A felt cap was jammed on his head from which protruded straggles of dark hair. He smiled, revealing a jagged display of teeth that reminded Cato of a cluster of long-neglected and stained tombstones. ‘They say you get used to it soon enough when you live here. Course, I don’t, seeing as me and the lad there make the trip up from Ostia only five or six times a month.’ He gestured to his son on the steering oar at the rear of the barge, gangly like his father and no more than ten years old. ‘Ostia smells like a bloody perfume market by comparison.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Macro responded drily.

  ‘Too right.’ The barge captain nodded. ‘So, what are you visiting Rome for, my friends? Soldiers on leave, eh? Back from the provinces?’

  Macro’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What we are and what our business may be is none of yours – friend.’

  The other man raised his hands defensively, but continued smiling. ‘No offence! Not meaning to pry, like. Just a polite question. I could see you was soldiers, soon as you boarded in Ostia. Like I said to my son, them’s soldiers. You can see it in the way they hold themselves. Proud and erect like. Warriors. You can see it from their scars too, I said. It was obvious. So, no offence meant, sirs.’

  ‘None taken.’ Cato smiled back. ‘And you’re right, we’ve just come back from campaigning in Britannia.’

  ‘Britannia?’ The man scratched his cheek. ‘Think I’ve heard of it. Where’s that then?’

  ‘Across the sea from Gaul.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have it now! That was the place there was all that rumpus about when the Emperor celebrated a triumph some years ago.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s this about the campaign still going on? We was told the place was conquered.’

  ‘We’ve beaten the most important tribes. The army’s just mopping up the remnants,’ Cato explained smoothly. It had been nearly four years since they had been in Britannia and although he had heard fragments of news about the progress of the campaign, it was clear that the barge captain knew far less. Narcissus had promised him a detailed report, along with their documents appointing them to the Praetorian Guard, and forged letters of commendation from the governor of the new province, when they met their contact in Rome. ‘In fact, my comrade and I fought in the decisive battle. We led our legion in the charge and captured a Celt chief. That’s why we’re here. The governor recommended us for an appointment in the Praetorian Guard as a reward.’

  The barge captain’s eyes widened and he shook his head. ‘Who’d have believed it? Two bloomin’ war heroes on me barge. Wait till the lad hears this! He’s always wanted to be a soldier when he grows up. I always thought it must be a good life. Nice pay. Looked after well. And there’s the uniform! Turns the ladies’ heads, does that. Then there’s the good outdoor life and the chance for glory and spoils, eh? Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Macro smiled. ‘It’s a great life all right. One long party I thought when I signed up. Never imagined I’d be fighting hairy-arsed barbarians in a frozen, bog-strewn wasteland. Strange how things turn out.’ He winked at the captain. ‘The only thing that keeps me up at night is worrying how I’m going to spend all that money I’m paid.’

  ‘Ignore my companion,’ said Cato. ‘He got out of bed the wrong side this morning. Literally. He had a skinful last night and smacked his head on the wall when he woke up.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Macro growled. ‘I had a reason to get drunk, didn’t I? A bloody good reason. I already think I should have stayed where I was.’

  The barge captain looked astonished. ‘What, and miss out on being a Praetorian?’

  Macro eyed him coldly. ‘I can assure you, if I could avoid it, I would with all my heart.’

  Cato intervened quickly. ‘That’s just the hangover talking. I’m sure he’ll get over it. He just needs a little bit of peace and quiet.’

  ‘I can see that clear enough!’ The barge captain roared with laughter at Macro’s fragile expression. ‘Still, I’d get used to it, if I was you. I’ve seen them Praetorians drink in some of the inns close to the wharves. They don’t half go at it, and they can be a right handful when they’re in their cups, I can tell you!’ He paused and frowned. ‘And heavy handed with it of late.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cato looked at him inquiringly. ‘There’s been trouble?’

  The barge captain nodded. ‘A fair bit t
hese last months. The grain supply has been running low, what with that business in Egypt last year. Price has been rising steadily. The mob don’t like it one bit and there’s been a few shops looted and some grain merchants beaten up. So the Praetorian Guard started cracking heads together. Well, more than that. They’ve gone and killed some people.’ He looked at the two soldiers warily. ‘Had to, I suppose. I mean, you’ve got to have order, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro said tersely.

  ‘Anyway, we don’t want to keep you from your duties.’ Cato nodded towards the rear of the barge.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. The lad can handle it all right up until I heave the mooring ropes ashore.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘No need to break up the party.’

  ‘There’s no party,’ said Macro. ‘Now go about your business.’

  The barge captain looked surprised, then a little hurt, and he turned and unhurriedly made his way back to the stern.

  Cato sighed. ‘Was that necessary?’

  ‘What? Me getting rid of the chirpy sod? I thought so, before you blabbed every detail of our affairs. The man’s got a mouth as wide as the Tiber. Half of Rome is going to know we’ve arrived before the day is out.’

  ‘And what’s the problem with that?’ Cato glanced back towards the stern where the captain had taken the steering oar from his son and was staring ahead intently. ‘What’s he going to say? Just that he carried two soldiers upriver from Ostia and that they were on their way to join the Praetorian Guard. That’s not going to harm us in any way. On the contrary. If anyone starts to check up on us then he will be able to confirm the cover story. And anyone who speaks to him is going to realise at once that he’s too guileless to spout a line that he has been told to deliver.’ Cato paused to let Macro think it through. ‘Relax. You have to try not to think like a spy otherwise you’ll stop behaving like a soldier. If that happens the enemy will see through us in an instant.’

  ‘Enemy?’ Macro puffed his cheeks out. ‘What a fine to-do this is. Here we are pretending to be Praetorians so that we can hunt down and kill some other Roman citizens who just happen to have a different set of political values. At the same time they’re busy plotting the murder of their Emperor and anyone who stands between them and that aim. And all the while the frontier of the empire is teeming with real enemies who would like nothing better than for us to turn on each other. Forgive me for sounding naive, Cato, but isn’t this all just a little fucked up?’

  Cato was silent for a moment before he replied. ‘Yes. It’s a mess. But that’s not our concern. We’re here to do one job. Whatever you may think, this isn’t that different from our duties as soldiers. We’re here to scout the enemy out, then infiltrate their position and take them on. Macro, it isn’t the job of soldiers to think beyond that. We don’t get to debate the whys and wherefores of the campaigns we fight for Rome. It’s the same with the job at hand. Right or wrong, we swore an oath to the Emperor and that makes anyone who decides to be his enemy, our enemy. Besides, Rome could do worse than have Claudius on the throne, a lot worse.’

  Cato eased himself down on to the foredeck and stared towards the vast sprawl of palaces, temples, theatres, markets, bathhouses, private homes and teeming apartment blocks that covered the hills of Rome. Macro’s bitter expression faded and he chuckled to himself.

  ‘What’s so damned funny?’

  ‘Just thinking. When we first met I was the one who was stuck on the certainties of duty, and you who was forever putting the other side of things. By the gods, it used to drive me mad.’

  ‘People change.’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, not that much. No, I think I understand you well enough, Cato. This is all about getting that promotion, so that you get Julia. Funny how a man will try to justify with reason the desires of his heart.’

  Cato glared back at him, angry with himself for being so transparent. Then he relented. The thing was, he was shocked to discover that he had half believed what he had said to Macro. The only shred of comfort was that Macro, above all people, knew him well enough to see through his argument. He would have to hope that he played his part well in the coming days. If not, then he would surely be found out and killed.

  The barge eased towards the vast warehouses that stood at the foot of the Aventine Hill. In front of the warehouses was the river port where hundreds of barges and smaller craft crowded a wharf that stretched along the bank of the Tiber. In the distance, where the river bent to the west, Cato could see the Sublician Bridge where the swift current flowing beneath the wooden trestles of the footbridge effectively ended the upriver commercial traffic for the barges from Ostia. Dusk was not far off and already some of the details of the city were merging into indistinct grey shapes in the distance.

  The mule team reached the terminus at the start of the wharf and the slave untied the yoke and handed the tow cable to a gang of burly men who were waiting to haul the barge on to a mooring. The captain released the steering paddle and then he and his son took some thick timber poles to fend the barge off the vessels that were already moored alongside the wharf. Sometimes the boats were tied up two or three deep so that gangplanks were laid across the sides and the cargoes loaded or unloaded across the intervening hulls. The captain glanced ahead and seeing that there was little sign of a berthing space for some stretch he indicated a single craft a short distance away.

  ‘There!’ he called, pointing out the spot to the men pulling on the tow rope. Their leader nodded and shortly afterwards the barge was tied up alongside. Cato and Macro picked up their kitbags and marching yokes and waited until the gangways were tied securely before they made to quit the boat.

  ‘Best of luck with the new posting!’ The captain beamed as he ushered his son towards them. ‘This is my boy. Come to meet the heroes of the campaign in Britannia. Say hello, lad.’

  The boy looked up shyly and whispered a greeting that was drowned out by the shouts and cries of the gangs of porters on the wharf. Cato smiled down at him and gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Your father says you want to join the legions. Do you think you are tough enough?’

  The boy shook his head quickly. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m sure you will be one day. You should have seen me when I was your age. Nothing but skin and bones, and I turned out all right.’

  Macro looked at him with feigned shock, but Cato ignored his friend and continued, ‘Work your body hard and you could be a hero one day, and make your father proud.’

  ‘Or,’ Macro spoke under his breath, ‘you could end up as the dogsbody of a scheming imperial freedman …’

  The barge captain’s smile faded a little. ‘I’m proud of him already.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Cato replied quickly. ‘Come on, Macro, let’s be off.’

  Swinging his kitbag up on to the fork at the end of the marching yoke, Cato carefully picked his way along the gangplank extending over the next boat and then up on to the wharf, feeling greatly relieved to have solid ground beneath his boots, even if it was covered with filth. Macro joined him and both men looked around for a moment to get their bearings.

  ‘Where did you say we were to meet that contact of Narcissus?’ asked Macro.

  ‘An inn called the Vineyard of Dionysus, on the north side of the Boarium. From what Narcissus said, it should be over that way.’ Cato indicated the civic buildings rising up beyond the end of the warehouse complex and they set off along the wharf. After the relative quiet of the streets of Ostia, the empire’s capital was a seething turmoil of noise and sights and the sweaty stench of people mingled with acrid woodsmoke. Gangs of slaves, some chained together, struggled under the burden of bales of exotic materials, jars of wine and oil and smaller sealed pots packed in straw-filled cases that contained perfumes and scents from the east. Others carried ivory tusks, or lengths of rare hardwoods. Around them skirted the captains of the barges, merchants and petty traders and the air was filled with voices, in a smattering of ton
gues: Latin, Greek, Celtic dialects, Hebrew and others that Cato had never heard before. The dusk was thickening in the dark winter air. Amid the gloom, fires flickered in braziers and cast pools of lurid red light across the paved wharf strewn with mud and rubbish. A few dogs and feral cats darted through the crowds, sniffing for food. Beggars squatted in archways and in front of locked doors, rattling wooden or brass bowls as they cried out for spare coins.

  Cato edged through the press and Macro followed closely, careful to keep a firm grip on his yoke. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that his kitbag was safe from petty thieves. He had heard stories of sharp knives being used to cut open the goatskin containers, so that a swift hand might pluck something out without the victim knowing until it was too late.

  ‘Shit, it’s like being stuck in the middle of a battle.’

  ‘Without the danger,’ Cato replied tersely then added, ‘or the blood, the bodies, the screams and the great big icy hand of terror clamped round the back of your neck. But otherwise, yes.’

  ‘Funny.’

  The crowd thinned out a little as they neared the arched entrance to the Boarium market. Like the warehouses, it was built on a grand scale with a columned entrance, above which loomed a pediment topped with statues of statesmen from the republican era, their original paint now obscured by a patina of grime and bird shit. The tang of blood and meat from the butchers’ stalls filled the air. On the other side of the entrance a wide vista opened out, large enough to camp a legion in, Cato estimated. The temporary stalls were already being dismantled and packed, with the traders’ goods, on to small handcarts to be taken to the secure stores at the side of the Boarium. Elsewhere the permanent stalls were being closed up for the night. Around the edge of the Boarium was a two-storey colonnade. The ground level was used for shops and inns, while above were the offices of those officials who collected duties and the rents of the traders. Many of the city’s bankers rented premises on the second level as well, aloof from the bustle below as they counted their profits.