been painted recently. In the same way the paved road had no litter and was obviously swept regularly.
‘Your run a tidy camp,’ said Macro.
‘Oh, that’s down to Geta,’ the young Praetorian replied. ‘He’s a stickler for high standards. Keeps us on our toes all right. Surprise barrack inspections, calls to arms in the middle of the night and regular kit checks are the order of the day here, mate. Don’t know what things are like in the legions, but you’d best play it his way when you’re here in Rome, or else.’
Cato looked at the youth. ‘I take it you weren’t transferred from a legion.’
‘Me? No. Many of the lads are recruited from central Italia. What with all the perks of the job it ain’t easy getting in, but a letter of commendation from a local magistrate usually swings it. Unfortunately I was a few years too late to qualify for the donative the Emperor handed out when he took power. Five years’ pay, that’s what he gave each man! Bloody fortune. Still, Claudius ain’t going to last forever and whoever comes next will have to cough up again, if they know what’s good for them.’
Macro coughed. ‘Your loyalty to the Emperor is most touching.’
The Praetorian glanced at him with a quizzical expression and then smiled when he realised that Macro was mocking him. ‘I’m loyal enough. Without an emperor to protect, where would the Praetorian Guard be? Disbanded and sent to join the legions, that’s where. On half of the pay, stuck in some forsaken frontier outpost surrounded by barbarians waiting to cut your throat at the first opportunity. Not much of a life.’ He paused and looked at the other men closely. ‘No offence meant.’
‘None taken,’ Cato replied lightly. ‘Tell me, are all the Praetorians as cynical as you? No offence either, but you strike me as, well, a bit mercenary.’
‘Mercenary?’ The Praetorian considered the suggestion. ‘I suppose some might see it that way. It’s certainly a cushy number for the most part. Generous pay, comfortable accommodation, good seats at the games and not much chance of active service. And you’ve arrived at a fortunate time, as it happens. It’s the Accession games in ten days’ time.’
‘Accession games?’
‘On the anniversary of the day that Claudius became Emperor. He puts on a parade here in the camp, some gladiator fights and a few other events and caps if off with a feast. He doesn’t forget who put him in power and he makes sure he keeps relations with the Praetorian Guard sweet. So you can get used to the imperial treats. That said, it ain’t all a holiday. Geta drills us hard and if we’re called on, we can put up a decent fight.’
‘We’ve seen the Praetorians in battle,’ said Macro. ‘That was back in Britannia. They did well enough.’
The Praetorian’s expression brightened. ‘You were there? At Camulodunum?’
Macro nodded.
‘I’ve heard from those who accompanied the Emperor that it was a hard battle.’
‘It was. But it shouldn’t have been. The enemy laid a neat trap for us. If Claudius hadn’t been so keen to charge in and have his great victory then we wouldn’t have been caught on the hop. As it was, the Second Legion saved the day, and the skins of the Praetorians and the Emperor.’
‘You were with the Second Legion, I take it.’
‘We were. And proud of it. The Second Legion Augusta is the best legion in the army. You should have seen us, boy. Battle after battle we tore them Celts apart. Not that they were soft, mind. The Celts are big men, brave, and they’d sooner fight than do anything else in life. It wasn’t an easy campaign. I know some in Rome say that it was. But they weren’t there. I was, and I know what I saw, and I speak the truth. Ain’t that right, Ca-’
Cato coughed loudly and glared furiously at Macro. The latter flushed and cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Just ask Capito there, when he’s got over his coughing fit.’
The Praetorian looked at Cato and then turned his attention back to Macro. ‘Look here, Calidus, a word of advice. I’d watch what you say about your legion in front of some of the other lads here. They tend to think that because we’re the Emperor’s own, it makes us the best soldiers in the army.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I’ve only ever known the Guard. I think it would be rash of me to offer an opinion about things I have no experience of.’
Macro smiled. ‘Wise boy.’
They had reached the heart of the Praetorian camp and Cato and Macro saw for the first time the colonnaded front and pillared entrance to the headquarters. Macro let out a low whistle.
‘Bloody hell, looks more like a temple than a military building.’
They passed through the gateway, looking up to marvel at the carvings on the ceiling that arched overhead. Inside the entrance was a large open space, a hundred feet on either side, Cato estimated, which was lined by another colonnade. Directly opposite the gates was another entrance, this time to the headquarters offices which formed the far side of the square. A handful of clerks, wrapped in cloaks, scurried about their duties and a section of guardsmen stood watch outside the offices. The Praetorian explained his order to the optio in charge of the section and then lowered his shield and unbuckled his sword and dagger belts and left them with the other weapons surrendered by visitors on a table inside the entrance.
The optio nodded to Cato and Macro. ‘Leave your yokes and kitbags here. Any weapons on you?’
Cato pointed to the kitbags. ‘In there.’
‘In there,
Cato stiffened. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t know what discipline is like in the legions, but the Praetorians are sticklers for it,’ the optio continued, as Macro hurriedly stood to attention beside Cato. The optio curled his upper lip as he looked over their worn cloaks and tunics. ‘Same goes for your kit. Prefect Geta likes his men well turned out. You two look like tramps. Don’t show your faces here again unless you are neat and clean. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato chorused.
‘Right, lad, get these two in front of Centurion Sinius.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I dare say that the centurion will be equally unimpressed by you. Go.’
They followed the young Praetorian into the entrance hall and then right into a long chamber with offices on one side and long tables where clerks sat between piles of waxed slates and baskets of scrolls. Long slits high up on the walls provided barely enough illumination for the men to work and Cato saw some squinting at the smaller details of the records in front of them. He was still smarting from the frosty reception that he and Macro had received since arriving at the camp. Cato had grown too used to the automatic deference of the lower ranks in recent years and it was an uncomfortable jolt back to the first days of his army service to be treated as a common soldier once again. No longer was he Prefect Cato, he was merely Guardsman Capito, and he must live and breathe the part he was forced to play. The same was true for Macro. Glancing to his side as they strode past the first office doors, Cato saw that Macro looked unperturbed by the small dressing-down they had just received. That was a surprise, Cato thought. He would expect Macro, of all people, to rankle at such treatment.
‘Here we are,’ the Praetorian announced. He indicated the nearest door. Unlike most of the other offices in the chamber, the door to this one was closed. ‘Centurion Sinius’s office.’
He paused briefly to give the new arrivals a chance to compose themselves and then knocked.
‘A moment!’ a muffled voice called from inside. There was a short delay. ‘Come in!’
The young soldier lifted the latch and swung the door inwards. He stepped into the doorway, stood to attention and bowed his head. ‘Beg to report that the optio of the watch on the main gate ordered me to escort two recruits to headquarters, sir.’
Cato, being taller than most men, was able to see over the Praetorian’s shoulder into the office. The centurion closed a waxed tablet and tidied it away into a small document chest on the side of his desk. Sinius looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, too young to have won promotion from the ranks; Cato guessed he must have been directly appointed to the centurionate. A member of a wealthy equestrian family who had relinquished his social privileges to join the Praetorian Guard. Unusually for a Roman the officer had fair hair, with a light wave that was carefully combed in an attempt to hide the premature onset of baldness. He was a slender man, sinewy with a hard face. However, when he looked up he smiled warmly.
‘Very well, show them in.’
The youth stood aside and Macro and Cato marched in and stood a respectful distance in front of the centurion’s desk, shoulders back and chests out. The office was generously proportioned – fully fifteen feet across. A shuttered window was behind the desk and light entered from two openings higher up the wall, just underneath
