The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Read online

  ‘It’s an outrage,’ grumbled a thin, swarthy man standing next to Cato. Cato pretended not to hear, and the man stepped in front of him and shook his head. ‘Keeping me waiting here while my ships sit idle in port.’

  ‘Oh?’ Cato smiled sympathetically, then instantly wished he had not as the man leaned closer.

  ‘That’s right. Sitting idle while there’s cargoes of grain and oil gathering dust in the warehouses at Carales.’ The shipowner frowned. ‘It’s costing me a fortune, I can tell you.’

  ‘What’s happened, then?’

  The man’s eyes widened briefly. ‘How can you not know?’

  ‘I’ve only just returned to Rome from the east.’

  ‘Ah, my apologies.’ He looked Cato up and down, taking in his uniform and the medals fixed to his harness before quickly calculating that a senior army officer was an acquaintance well worth having. He thrust out his hand. ‘Rhianarius is the name, shipowner.’

  ‘So I guessed.’

  ‘I provide low-cost freighting and passenger services to Sardinia and Corsica. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a reliable service at the cheapest rates you can find. If you ever need passage from Ostia to the islands, look me up.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ Cato nodded, wondering what Rhianarius did in order to make good his boast on prices. ‘So why are you here? What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s these stories of a plague in the southern region of Sardinia. There’s even a rumour that the procurator at Ostia is going to quarantine ships arriving from Carales and forbid anyone to sail there. It’s nonsense, of course, er . . . Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ he prompted.

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato, tribune of the Praetorian Guard. Or at least I was.’

  ‘Tribune, eh? Well, I’m glad to meet you, sir. Olearius Rhianarius Probitas is my full name.’

  ‘I’m sure. What’s the story on the plague you mentioned?’

  ‘First I heard was just over a month ago. Reports from sailors and passengers arriving at Ostia. Apparently a sickness had broken out amongst the slaves on one of the large estates in the south of the island. It spread to other estates nearby before it reached the towns. Carales has been hit hard, they say, but I’ve spoken to the captains of ships arriving from other ports and they claim that the whole thing’s been exaggerated. It’s nothing more than the seasonal sweating sickness that does the rounds of the marshy areas in the region. That’s my guess. And that’s why I’m here.’ He took out a scroll and waved it under Cato’s nose. ‘A petition from the shipowners of Ostia to protest against any quarantine, before it does any damage to our trade.’ He tucked the scroll away. ‘How about you?’

  Cato was not prepared to reveal the reason for his presence – the shame and pain of being relieved of his command was still too fresh a wound to his pride – but nor was he about to lie to the man. ‘I’m here to report on the situation on the eastern frontier.’

  ‘Tribune Cato?’ Rhianarius frowned briefly and then snapped his fingers. ‘The Cato? The one the crowd was cheering at the races yesterday. That Cato?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  The shipowner smiled broadly and pumped Cato’s hand. ‘I heard about your heroics from a crowd of Praetorians at an inn after the races were over. You’re quite the hero, it seems. Everyone was talking about you.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ Cato felt awkward at the prospect of being thought of as a hero by the mob. It was a prospect that might not do him any favours if the emperor and his advisers were aware of his unwanted fame. He backed away from Rhianarius. ‘Look here, I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve just spotted one of my comrades I expected to meet before my audience. I have to go.’

  ‘Oh? All right, then. But don’t forget my name. Make sure you ask for me if you need to take a ship at Ostia.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  As Cato eased his way through the crowd to the far side of the room, he heard Rhianarius’s voice behind him. ‘You’ll never guess who that was . . .’

  He made for the corner by the door to the audience chamber and bowed his head in order to remain as inconspicuous as possible while he waited to be summoned. Each time an imperial clerk emerged, faces turned hopefully and there was a lull in the conversation. Then a name was announced and they returned to their business as one of their number hurried through the crowd to present himself to the clerk.

  The hours of the morning dragged on. Shortly before noon, the clerk came out again and looked at the list of names on his waxed slate.

  ‘Tribune Quintus Licinius Cato!’

  Cato straightened up. ‘Here.’

  ‘If you’d follow me, sir.’ The clerk bowed his head slightly in deference to Cato’s equestrian rank. ‘A word of warning. The emperor has chosen to be addressed as Imperial Majesty, thereafter simply Majesty, rather than the usual “sire”.’ He waved Cato through the entrance into the presence of Nero and his advisers.

  Cato had been in the audience chamber on several occasions, but was immediately struck by the changes to the decor since the days of the previous emperor, Claudius. Instead of plain ochre, the columns on either side of the chamber were now painted a brilliant turquoise and gilded with depictions of vines and leaves that glittered in the shafts of sunlight streaming from the openings high above. The chamber was some thirty paces long and fifteen wide, and a low dais rose from the floor at the far end. Nero was seated on a purple cushion atop his gilded throne, the imperial wreath on his brow. He wore an elaborately embroidered tunic, longer than was tasteful for a man, and red knee-length boots. The instant impression was that of some crass actor parading before his fans rather than the ruler of a great empire. Burrus and Seneca stood to the right of the dais, along with two scribes. Several more men in togas stood to the left. Cato recognised some of them as senators. A squad of German bodyguards were arranged around the sides of the chamber, with two more standing behind the throne.

  ‘Tribune Quintus Licinius Cato, Imperial Majesty!’ the clerk announced.

  Nero gestured to Cato to approach. ‘What’s this about? And let’s make it quick. I am tired of all this work. I need a rest. We’ll make this appointment the last one today.’

  The clerk glanced down at the long list of names on his tablet. ‘Imperial Majesty, there are still thirty petitioners to deal with.’

  Nero winced and grasped his brow between thumb and forefinger. ‘Am I to be forever a slave to everyone else’s needs before my own? Is that the burden of office? Is that to be my fate? To be condemned to thrust aside my poetry, my music, my art for the sake of the petty squabbles of the plebs? Oh, I grow so weary of duty.’

  Before the clerk could respond, Burrus spoke up. ‘You heard his Imperial Majesty. There will be no more appointments today. Send them away. Tell them to come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, Prefect,’ the clerk replied, bowing as he backed to the door, which one of the German guards opened for him, closing it behind him with a decisive thud.

  Cato strode forward, stopped a pace from the foot of the dais and saluted. He had chosen to wear his military apparel in order to solicit some sympathy for his cause, as nearly every emperor since Augustus had been keenly aware of the need to favour their soldiers, the men of the Praetorian Guard most of all.

  Nero glanced at him briefly, with a bored expression. ‘I remember you. You were the officer that dealt with Britannicus’s plot against me after I claimed the throne.’

  ‘Yes, Imperial Majesty.’ Cato’s hopes rose. Perhaps the emperor’s gratitude would be helpful with respect to his present predicament.

  ‘What do you want from me, soldier?’

  ‘Want?’ Cato was taken by surprise. ‘Imperial Majesty, I was sent for.’

  ‘You were? Why?’

  Burrus stepped up hurriedly. ‘Majesty, this is the officer who was in command of the cohort you sent to protect General Corbulo two years back.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. He returned to Ro
me a few days ago with less than a third of his men, after having disobeyed your orders to keep his cohort out of battle.’

  Nero shifted his grey eyes to Cato. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘I was acting under Corbulo’s orders, Majesty,’ Cato replied. ‘I did my best to minimise casualties. However, the Second Cohort was obliged to fight for its survival on occasion. I was fortunate to return to Rome with as many men as I did, Majesty.’

  Nero’s expression lit up eagerly. ‘You and your men fought in many battles?’

  ‘A few, Majesty.’

  ‘Against desperate odds?’

  ‘We were usually fighting at a disadvantage, yes.’

  ‘Tell me, are those Parthian fiends as dangerous an enemy as we are told they are?’

  Cato could sense Burrus bridling, but he realised that Nero’s excitement could be turned to his advantage. ‘They are indeed the most dangerous enemy I have fought, Majesty. But my men and I were inspired by our devotion to you and to Rome and would have died rather than disappoint your faith in our loyalty.’

  ‘Really?’ Nero smiled. ‘Did you hear that, Seneca? My soldiers are inspired by me.’

  ‘Why would they not be, Majesty? Every Roman is inspired by you and gives thanks to the gods for placing you on the throne to rule over us and grace us with your tremendous intelligence and flawless good taste.’

  Cato forced himself not to smile at this grotesque flattery. He looked at Nero, waiting for the young man’s expression to register amusement at Seneca’s grovelling praise. Instead Nero nodded sombrely, as if taking the senator’s words at face value.

  ‘True. Rome is indeed blessed to have me as emperor. As my legions are blessed to have me as their supreme leader. If only I had not been cursed with the sensitivity of an artist, I would surely have fought the Parthians at your side, Tribune Cato, and no doubt led you to victory, thereby sparing many of your comrades a glorious death at the hands of the most ferocious of our enemies. You are not to blame for not having me there to command you and the men of your cohort. Rest assured I shall not hold you culpable on that count.’

  He smiled benignly and Cato bowed his head in gratitude. ‘I thank you for your forbearance, Majesty.’

  ‘There is still the matter of the tribune’s failure to obey orders, Majesty,’ Burrus chipped in. ‘Such insubordination should not go unpunished. After all, it was your orders he was disobeying, Majesty. He defied your will. He is also guilty of courting the support of the mob at the Great Circus yesterday.’

  ‘I heard about that.’ Nero’s smile faded. ‘It is a serious matter. My predecessors would have executed a man for lesser offences . . .’

  Cato felt an icy tingle down his spine, but managed to keep his expression fixed as Nero regarded him closely.

  ‘But I am not like those despots,’ the emperor continued. ‘When I came to power, one of the first things I did was to free political prisoners, was it not, my dear Seneca?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’ The senator nodded. ‘You also pledged to put an end to all political persecution and fortune-chasing by informants. You proclaimed that a golden age had begun from Rome.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose . . .’ Nero looked disappointed at the reminder. A frown formed on his brow. ‘You claim to be a loyal soldier, Tribune Cato, but as Prefect Burrus has pointed out, you disobeyed my orders. Had I not given the pledge to be a just and merciful emperor, your life would now be forfeit. Therefore, the very least you deserve is to be removed from command of the Second Cohort. That, I think, is sufficient for now. Let this be a warning to you, former tribune Cato. If you should ever disappoint me again, I will not be so lenient next time.’ He let out a theatrical sigh. ‘I am exhausted. After our long discussions last night, and these frivolous appointments this morning, my head is pounding. I must rest. The session is over, gentlemen. Burrus, come with me. We need to discuss the matter of appointing a new commander of the Second Cohort.’

  The prefect bowed deeply. ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  Nero stood up, strode to the edge of the dais and hopped down nimbly before making his way to the door at the rear of the chamber that led to his private quarters. Burrus hurried after him, followed by the German bodyguards. The others in the room bowed their heads until the emperor had left the room, then the senators fell to talking quietly as the clerks packed up their writing materials.

  Cato stood apart, his heart heavy with a grave sense of injustice over his treatment. He had saved the emperor’s life twice now, and rendered him good service. And yet he was being punished for no better reason than that it might serve as a warning to those who displeased Nero. Still, his fate could have been worse, he told himself. He had been stripped of his command, but he was alive, and Lucius had been spared the misery of being an orphan. There had been no mention of confiscating his property, so at least he would have a roof over his head and could live in comfortable obscurity. Perhaps it was as well that it had happened now, he considered. With Macro retiring, much of the appeal of continuing a military career had disappeared. He had already reached as high a rank as he was ever likely to attain. The only official promotion left open to him was the post of Prefect of Aegyptus, the sole provincial command available to men of equestrian rank. But that seemed a remote possibility now.

  Seneca made his farewells to the other advisers as they trooped out of the chamber, then turned to Cato with an apologetic expression. ‘You have my sympathy, Tribune.’

  ‘If you’ll pardon me for saying so, sympathy is of little use to me.’

  ‘No?’ Seneca’s lips wrinkled in distaste. ‘You may find that you may soon be grateful for any sympathy you can elicit. To be without powerful friends in Rome may be more dangerous than you yet suppose. If I were you, young man, I would adopt a more measured attitude. It would only take a word in Nero’s ear from me to bring his full wrath down upon you. Another word might do much to repair your fortunes . . .’

  Cato smiled cynically. ‘If I become your client, I suppose?’

  ‘Why not? I look after those who accept me as their patron. Ask anyone in Rome. They will confirm what I say.’

  ‘I’m sure they will. But I have had enough of being forced to act as the dogsbody of imperial advisers. You are not the first to try and suborn me. There was Pallas before you, and before him , Narcissus. They both had their moment in the sun, but Narcissus is dead, and Pallas has lost his place at the emperor’s side – and from what I hear, he will be on trial for his life soon.’

  Seneca wafted a hand dismissively. ‘He is not in any mortal danger. Not with me defending him.’

  ‘You seem very confident in your ability.’

  ‘My confidence is well founded. I happen to be rather more intelligent than any advocate the Senate chooses to prosecute Pallas. Besides, once I let the prosecutor and the presiding magistrate know that the emperor is minded to be lenient . . .’

  ‘And is Nero so minded?’

  ‘He is, if I choose to make him so. You saw how he is. The innocent boy is inclined to take every scrap of praise at face value, no matter how obvious the hyperbole. I note that you grasped that very quickly and turned it to your advantage readily enough. Other men would not have done. It amuses me that so many people think it is beneath them to flatter the emperor. Where does their stiff-necked pride get them? A smug little niche on the fringes of power. If you want to influence him, you must treat Nero like that cithara he is so keen on. The strings must be plucked in the correct order to create music to soothe his thinking and steer it in the desired direction.’

  ‘And can you play him that easily?’

  Seneca clicked his tongue. ‘I never said it was easy. As with any instrument, the skill of the player is the result of a combination of innate ability and much practice. Which is why I have rather more influence over him than Burrus, who has all the finesse of a boxer playing the flute with his hands bound up for a fight. It is why I have managed to resolve the rather delicate matter of the emperor’s unfortunate obsession w
ith that little flirt Claudia Acte.’

  ‘Nero’s mistress? I saw her storm out of the imperial box.’

  ‘And well she might. There is not a senator in Rome who is not scandalised by the way the emperor has courted her. Until last night, Nero was attempting to convince the Senate that she was of high birth and therefore suitable material for him to marry. The truth is that she is as common as muck. I know. I’m the one who found her on the streets and had her scrubbed clean and dressed in finery. I knew she was just the kind of girl to infatuate Nero.’

  ‘Another string of the cithara for you to pluck?’

  ‘Quite so. She was only supposed to be there for the plucking in secret, but Nero insisted on treating her like a princess and having her accompany him in public. That will never do.’

  ‘You said the matter was resolved.’

  ‘It is. Or rather, it will be once she is escorted from Rome. Nero will forget her soon enough once a fresh bauble of the flesh is dangled in front of him.’ Seneca paused to appraise Cato in silence for a moment. ‘That’s where you come in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nero showered the woman with gifts. One of which is a couple of large estates in Sardinia. That is where she is being sent into exile. She won’t be too pleased, as you can imagine. But it is vital that she is escorted there and that she remains on the island and makes no attempt to return to Rome. The governor of Sardinia has already been informed of the island’s newest resident.’

  Cato felt a weary sense of anticipation. ‘You want me to babysit her?’

  Seneca looked amused. ‘She is no child, Cato. She is one of the more intelligent women I have met, as well as one of the most ambitious, which is why she is too dangerous to be permitted to remain at Nero’s side.’

  ‘Then it must be tempting to ensure her removal is permanent,’ Cato responded drily. ‘I’m sure it could be arranged.’

  ‘How very euphemistic of you. I am sure you could master the imperial cithara given the chance.’ Seneca regarded him warily and then smiled thinly. ‘One day it may well become imperative that she is, ah, removed, as you say.’