Praetorian c-11 Read online

  The Vineyard of Dionysus was easy enough to find. A large painted placard had been fixed over the entrance to the premises. A crudely painted man with a big grin was holding a brimming drinking horn against a backdrop of heavily laden grape vines, amid which, in a fascinating variety of positions, amorous couples were going at it hammer and tongs. Macro paused outside with a quizzical expression.

  ‘That one there, that’s just not possible.’

  ‘It is after you’ve had your fill of our wines!’ announced a cheery voice. A thickset man with heavily oiled hair detached himself from the pillars either side of the entrance and beckoned them inside. ‘The wares of the Vineyard of Dionysus are famous across Rome. Welcome, friends! Please step inside. There’s a table for all, a warm fire, good food, fine wines and the best of company,’ he winked, ‘for a modest price, sirs.’

  ‘We need food and drink,’ Cato replied. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘For now,’ Macro added, still scanning the illustrations above the door. ‘We’ll see how we go, eh?’

  The tout waved his customers inside before they could move on and then followed them. The interior was larger than Cato had expected, stretching back some sixty feet. A counter was set halfway down the side of one wall, flanked by alcoves, two of which had their curtains drawn. A thin, heavily made-up woman with wiry red hair sat in another alcove with a bored expression, her head propped on her hand as she stared blankly across the room. The place was filled with the first of the evening trade – men from the Boarium who had packed up their stalls or finished their business for the day. Most were having a quick drink before returning home for the night. There were a few old soaks among them, bleary eyed and with stark veins on their noses and cheeks, who were only just starting a long evening drinking themselves into oblivion.

  The tout who had picked them off the street called out to the innkeeper who nodded and chalked up two strokes on the wall above the wine jars to add to the tally of those that the tout had already brought in.

  ‘Here’s your table.’ The tout gestured to a plain bench with four stools a short distance inside the door. Cato and Macro nodded their thanks and squeezed past the other customers and set their yokes down against the wall before sitting.

  Macro glanced round and sniffed. ‘Narcissus chose well.’

  ‘Yes. The kind of place where men can get lost in the crowd. Nice and discreet.’

  ‘I was thinking it was well chosen because it was my kind of place. Cheap, cheerful and waiting for a punch-up to start any moment.’

  ‘There is that,’ Cato replied offhandedly. He scanned the room for any sign of their contact. Only a handful of customers seemed to be drinking on their own but none seemed to return his gaze in any meaningful way. A moment later the innkeeper threaded his way over to them.

  ‘What would you like, gents?’

  ‘What have you got?’ asked Macro.

  ‘It’s on the wall.’ The man pointed to a long list of regional wines that had been chalked up on a board behind the counter.

  ‘Mmmm!’ Macro smiled as he ran his eye down the wines. ‘How’s the Etruscan?’

  ‘Off.’

  ‘Oh, all right. The Calabrian?’

  ‘Off.’

  ‘Falernian?’

  The innkeeper shook his head.

  ‘Well, what have you got?’

  ‘Today it’s the Ligurian or the Belgic. That’s it.’

  ‘Belgic?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought they made beer?’

  ‘They do.’ The innkeeper scratched his nose. ‘They should stick to beer in my opinion.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato shrugged. ‘The Ligurian then. One small jar and three cups.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good choice.’ The innkeeper bowed his head and turned back to the counter.

  ‘Is he trying to be funny?’ Macro scowled. ‘Anyway, Ligurian? Never heard of it.’

  ‘Then tonight should be something of an education for us.’

  The innkeeper returned with the wine and the cups and set them down on the table. ‘Five sestertii.’

  ‘Five?’ Macro shook his head. ‘That’s robbery.’

  ‘That’s the price, mate.’

  ‘Very well,’ Cato cut in, fishing the coins out of the small sum that Narcissus had advanced them. ‘There.’

  The innkeeper swept the coins off the top of the table and nodded his thanks.

  Cato picked up the jar and sniffed the contents. His nose wrinkled at the sharp acidic odour. Then he poured them each a cup of the dark, almost black, wine. Macro raised his in a mock toast and took a mouthful. At once he made a face.

  ‘By the gods, I hope there’s better inns close to the Praetorian camp.’

  Cato took a cautious sip and felt the sour, fiery flow all the way down into his guts. He set the cup down and leant against the wall behind his back. ‘Just have to hope our contact turns up soon.’

  Macro nodded. They sat and waited in silence, while around them the locals drank copious amounts of the only available wine, seemingly oblivious to its rough flavour. There was a cheerful atmosphere, except at the table where the two soldiers sat, waiting with growing impatience as night fell outside. At length Macro stirred, drained his cup with a wince, and stood up. He gestured towards the woman still sitting in the alcove.

  ‘I’m, er, just going over there.’

  ‘Not now, Macro. We’re waiting for someone. Another time.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t showed up yet, so I might as well enjoy myself.’

  ‘We shouldn’t risk drawing attention to ourselves.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Macro nodded towards the drawn curtains. ‘Just fitting in with the locals, as it were.’

  As he spoke, one of the curtains covering the alcoves was gently drawn back and a tall sinewy man with short dark hair eased himself out of the alcove. He had already pulled on his tunic, and held a neck cloth in one hand. Behind him a woman was slipping on the short tunic that signified her trade. He turned and tossed a few coins on to the couch and then made his way out into the middle of the room.

  ‘There,’ said Macro. ‘No one’s paying him any attention.’

  Cato watched as the man glanced round and then saw the two empty stools at their table. He came over. ‘May I?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘No. We’re waiting for a friend.’

  ‘I know. That’s me.’ The man smiled and then sat down opposite the two soldiers. He raised his hand so that they could see his ring and then laid it down close by Cato’s hand so that he could see that the designs were identical. Cato looked at him carefully, noting the dark eyes, smoothly shaven cheeks and the small tattoo of a half-moon and star on his neck, before it was hidden by the strip of cloth he arranged loosely about his neck. Cato felt a stab of mistrust even as the man lowered his voice and spoke. ‘Narcissus sent me.’

  ‘Really? Then what’s your name, friend?’

  ‘Oscanus Optimus Septimus,’ he said in a low tone that Cato could just make out. ‘And I’ll have that ring back, if you don’t mind.’ He held out his hand.

  Cato hesitated a moment before he took off the ring and handed it over. ‘I assume that’s not your real name.’

  ‘It serves. And as far as anyone is concerned from here on in, you are Guardsmen Titus Ovidius Capito and Vibius Gallus Calidus, is that clear? It would not be wise to reveal your real identities to me.’

  The names were neatly written on the documents that Cato had been given; he had taken the identity of Capito, and Macro had that of Calidus, both veterans of the Second Legion.

  ‘That mark on your neck,’ Macro commented. ‘I take it you served on the eastern frontier.’

  Septimus narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘I might have.’

  ‘In the legions or the auxiliary cohorts?’

  Septimus was silent for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Not that it matters, but I did a stint in a cavalry cohort before I was recruited by Narcissus.’ He gestured towards his neck. ‘That was the cohort’s emblem. Most
of the lads have the tattoo. Bit of a pain now as I have to keep it covered up in my line of work.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Macro. He took a deep breath and exhaled impatiently. ‘Anyway, you’re late. Kept us waiting while you saw to your woman over there.’

  Septimus frowned. ‘My woman? Hardly. I was using her as a cover.’

  ‘Whichever way you like it.’

  Narcissus’s agent scowled at Macro. ‘If I had a woman, it wouldn’t be one like her. Anyway, her alcove provided a good place to keep an eye on you when you turned up. And the other customers. Just to make sure you weren’t being watched, or followed. Sorry for the wait, but I had to be sure. This business is too dangerous to take any chances. Right, the introductions are over. Let’s go.’

  ‘Go?’ Cato leant forward slightly. ‘Go where?’

  ‘To a safe house. Where we can talk without any risk of being overheard. It’s also a place where we can meet and where you can drop off any messages safely. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting to and from the Praetorian camp – the soldiers pass in and out of their barracks freely. That’s how we’ll communicate for the most part.’ Septimus looked round warily. ‘Follow me. But let’s make it look casual. Better finish our drinks first.’

  He poured himself a cup and raised his voice. ‘For the road!’

  Macro and Cato followed suit and forced down what remained in their cups, then reached for their packs and stood up. By now the inn was filling with customers and they had to push their way to the entrance. Outside the tout was still looking for further custom. He smiled as he saw them. ‘Leaving so soon? The night is barely beginning, sirs. Stay awhile and drink your fill.’

  Macro stopped in front of him. He drew a breath and spoke loudly enough so that passers-by could clearly hear him. ‘Anyone who drinks their fill of the slop in this place is going to be staying for more than a while. It’s poison.’

  The tout tried to laugh it off and clapped Macro on the shoulder as he turned to join Cato and Septimus. In a flash, Macro spun round and slammed his fist into the tout’s stomach. As the man collapsed, gasping for breath, Macro backed off with a look of bitter satisfaction.

  ‘That’ll knock the wind out of the bugger. Stop him peddling his wares for a bit.’

  Septimus glanced nervously at the people who had stopped to witness Macro’s action.

  ‘Macro,’ Cato hissed. ‘Let’s go before you attract any more attention, shall we?’

  They strode unhurriedly along the edge of the Boarium and left by the wide street that passed between the Palatine Hill and the Capitoline. To their right the edifices of the imperial palace complex covered the hill; torches and braziers lit the columns and statues that looked down on the rest of Rome. On the left loomed the mass of the Temple of Jupiter, built on a rock with sheer sides in places and accessed by a wide ramp that zigzagged up to the temple precinct. They entered the Forum and crossed in front of the senate house. A party of finely dressed youths came the other way, talking loudly as they boasted of their ambitions for the night’s entertainment. They quietened down a little as they passed the two soldiers and the imperial agent then continued as before when they were a safe distance beyond. On the far side of the Forum another street led past the Temple of Peace and up into the Subura, one of the poorer quarters of the city where crime was rife and the buildings so poorly constructed that hardly a month went by without one of the ramshackle tenement blocks collapsing or burning down.

  ‘Narcissus isn’t putting us up in the bloody Subura, I trust,’ Macro said quietly to Cato. ‘Had enough of it the last time we had to stay in Rome.’

  Septimus glanced back. ‘It’s not far now. On the edge of the Subura, as it happens. So that it’s convenient for you to get to from the Praetorian camp. Don’t worry. The apartment is in one of the better tenement blocks. At least that’s what the landlord said when I took it.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Doesn’t concern me. I don’t have to live there.’

  The street began to incline and they passed between the first of the tall brick structures where most of the city’s inhabitants lived. The tenements crowded the street and towered high above so that the dim gloom of the night sky provided almost no illumination. A few lamps burned in the entrances to the buildings but the streets were in darkness. Which was no bad thing, Cato reflected as the foul air filled his nostrils. He did not want to know what he was stepping in. Around and above them, they could hear voices. Some laughter, some quiet conversations, occasional angry shouts or the crying of infants and the splatter of slops being emptied into the streets.

  ‘Here we are,’ Septimus announced, climbing a few steps up from the street into a narrow entrance. An oil lamp flickered in its bracket and revealed a muscular man in a plain tunic sitting on a stool just inside the doorway. He took a good look at Septimus and nodded before he lit a taper from the lamp and handed it to the imperial agent. There was a short corridor with a narrow staircase at the end of it. As he led the way up the stairs Septimus raised a hand in front of the taper to protect the flame. On the fourth floor he stopped in front of a door and opened the latch. He led the way inside and Macro and Cato lowered their packs on to the floorboards.

  ‘Just a moment, I’ll light a lamp,’ said Septimus and he reached up on to a shelf. The pale flicker of the taper flared for a moment and then the flame settled into a steady glow and he removed the taper and blew it out. ‘There.’

  He placed the lamp back on the shelf and turned round. By its wan glow Cato could see that the room was empty except for two bedrolls. It was barely ten feet across and another doorway led through into a similar-sized room.

  ‘Not much in the way of creature comforts,’ complained Macro, prodding one of the bedrolls with the toe of his boot.

  ‘We like it that way,’ said Septimus. ‘There’s nothing to steal. In any case, the watchman keeps an eye on the place most of the time.’ He reached inside his tunic for a small pouch and took out a small bundle of scrolls and two sets of waxed slates, and handed them over. ‘The rest of your documents and the report on Britannia. You can sleep here tonight and then make your way up to the Praetorian camp in the morning. If you need to leave me a message then put it over there beneath the shelf. The floorboard is loose and there’s a small space underneath. Make sure that you come up here and check as regularly as you can. If there’s a message, then turn the lantern towards the door. Otherwise point it away. If it’s pointing any other way then we’ll know that the apartment has been compromised.’

  ‘Compromised?’ Macro chuckled. ‘What’s that? Secret agent talk?’

  ‘We understand,’ said Cato. ‘I assume we can use this place to hide if we need to. Or conceal something.’

  Septimus nodded. ‘And if you need to meet me for any reason. Just make sure that you are never followed here. If the enemy manages to do that then they can keep tabs on the visitors and trace me back to Narcissus. Watch your back at all times and don’t take any chances.’ He looked at Macro. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, you’ll see. It’s him you need to look out for. Cato.’

  ‘No!’ Septimus thrust up his hand. ‘Only use your cover names from now on. At all times. Whoever you were before today must be left behind. From now on it’s Capito and Calidus.’ He stared at them a moment and then made towards the door. ‘Get some sleep. Tomorrow you join the Praetorian Guard.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Early the next morning Macro and Cato passed through the Viminal Gate on the city wall and into the suburb where the Praetorian camp had been constructed during the reign of Tiberius. A light rain was falling and formed puddles in the expanse of the parade ground that stretched from the city wall to the camp. They strode across the open space to the main gate and presented themselves to the optio on watch in the guardhouse. He was a short, well-built man with neatly trimmed hair that had receded some way. Macro and Cato had lowered their yokes and stood to attention as the rain
dripped from the hems of their cloaks.

  ‘What do we have here then?’ the optio asked good-naturedly.

  Cato reached into his side bag, drew out the document appointing them to the Praetorian Guard and handed it to the optio. ‘Transfer from the Second Legion, sir. Legionaries Titus Ovidius Capito and Vibius Gallus Calidus. We’ve been appointed to the Guard.’

  ‘Oh really? Capito and Calidus? Sounds like a bloody mime double act.’ The optio took the flattened scroll and unravelled it. He quickly scanned the document and looked up. ‘It says here, “For meritorious conduct in the field”. Did you two take on the barbarian army by yourselves then?’

  Cato felt a fleeting desire to tear a strip off the optio, but suppressed the impulse. They were back in the ranks and needed to behave accordingly.

  ‘No. Optio.’

  ‘No? Then I’d like to know what you two heroes did that warrants a transfer to the Praetorian Guard. But that’ll have to wait.’ He looked round them and pointed to one of the men standing by the gate. ‘Over here!’

  The Praetorian came trotting up and stood to attention. Cato glanced at him. He was young, barely out of his teens. Like the Praetorians who had briefly appeared during the early stages of the campaign in Britannia, he wore an off-white tunic and cape. Beneath the cape glinted a vest of scale armour of the same issue that some legionaries still favoured. The rest of his kit – sword, dagger, boots, groin guard and helmet – were standard issue. Only the shield was different, oval rather than the rectangular design used in the legions. A large scorpion decorated the front. The symbol had been chosen by a previous prefect, Sejanus, to flatter his master, Emperor Tiberius, who was born under that star sign.

  The optio folded the scroll and handed it back to Cato. ‘Escort these two beggars to headquarters. Centurion Sinius is in charge of recruiting, training and transfers. Take them to him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Off you go, lads. Oh, and welcome to the Praetorian Guard. You’ll find it somewhat different to life in the legions.’