he realised that he was only a few years older than the young Praetorian standing before him. A few years of experience that made all the difference, he reflected.
The Praetorian looked round to make sure that Tigellinus was not within earshot before he spoke. ‘Don’t worry about him. Tigellinus gives all the new arrivals a hard time. Says it does ‘em good to keep them on their toes. Should have seen how he used to treat me.’ He smiled. ‘Fuscius is the name.’
Macro smiled back. ‘I’m Calidus and the lanky one there is Capito. Transferred from the legions.’
‘I guessed as much when I saw the …’ His words trailed off as he pointed at the scar across Cato’s face. ‘How did you get that?’
‘Sword cut,’ Cato explained flatly. ‘Last year in … Britannia. Took it when we were ambushed by some Durotrigan tribesmen.’
Fuscius stared at him for a moment longer in frank admiration, then realised that he must look foolish and flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’ll wager you have quite a few tales you could tell about Britannia.’
‘How much will you wager?’ Macro asked drily. ‘If you want decent stories then you come to me, young ‘un.’
‘Oh?’ Fuscius did not know how to proceed without offending either man so he just mumbled something as he squeezed past and made for one of the beds either side of the window. ‘Anyway, it’s good to have someone else in the room. Tigellinus isn’t much of a talker. Well, he does talk, but mostly to complain about things.’
‘So we’ve noticed,’ said Cato as he pulled his red tunic off and slipped on his newly issued Praetorian tunic. ‘Come on, Calidus, better hurry.’
‘When you’ve done for the day, some of the lads and I are going out for a drink tonight,’ Fuscius said. ‘Fancy joining us?’
‘Sounds good,’ Cato replied as he smoothed the tunic down and fastened his thick military belt round his middle. ‘Calidus?’
‘Why not? Could use a decent drink after that filthy muck we drank when we arrived.’
‘Good, then let’s find the tribune.’
Tribune Burrus was an aged veteran. From the number of scars he bore on his face and arms, he had served a good many years in the legions before being appointed to the Praetorian Guard. Aside from a fringe of white hair, he was bald. One eye had been lost and a leather patch covered the socket, tied in place with a thin strap. He was tall and thickset and Cato realised that he must have been a formidable figure in his time. Now, though, he was serving his last few years in the Guard before he took his gratuity and left the army. He might use his elevation to the equestrian class to take up an administrative job in Rome, or one of the other cities and towns in Italia, but Cato guessed that the man would prefer the company of old soldiers to bureaucrats. The tribune would end his days in some military colony, respected by men who knew his quality, even as he grew stooped and frail.
‘Well, don’t just dawdle by the bloody door!’ Burrus snapped.
When Cato and Macro were standing to attention in front of him, the tribune scrutinised them for a moment before he continued, ‘Proper soldiers at last! About damn time. I’ve seen too many of these soft city boys joining the ranks of late. Especially after the casualties we took in Britannia. But you’ll remember that battle outside Camulodunum. It was your legion that saved us from that trap. My, but those bloody Celts were devious bastards. Fought hard, too, and brought out the best in the Praetorians, even though we were roughly handled. So,’ he concluded, ‘it’s good to have two veterans join the cohort. Though I see that one of you is still a bit on the young side, eh? Which one are you?’
‘Capito, sir.’
‘Age?’
‘Twenty-five, sir.’
‘You’ll have served seven years then.’
‘Nearer eight, sir. I joined about the time I turned seventeen.’
Burrus frowned. ‘That’s against regs. Eighteen is the minimum age.’
‘I was sent to the army by my father as soon as he thought I was ready for it.’ Cato spoke tonelessly as he gave his cover story.
‘He must be a proud man indeed. You’ve done well for yourself.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Burrus turned his attention to Macro. ‘What’s your story? From the look of you, you’re an old sweat. How many years have you served, Calidus?’
‘Twenty-three years, sir.’
‘Good gods, and still only a legionary? You should have been killed off or promoted to centurion by now, optio at the very least. What’s your excuse?’
Macro swallowed his bitterness and answered directly. ‘I’m a ranker first and last, sir. Didn’t see any reason to go and get myself promoted. I like plain soldiering. I fight hard and have put down a good many of Rome’s enemies in my time.’
‘A good fighter’s one thing, but do you think you can cope with the demands of being a Praetorian? You will be constantly before the eyes of the senators and the people. There’s more to being a good soldier than killing enemies. If you fuck up and embarrass the Praetorian Guard then you’ll embarrass the Emperor and, worse, far worse, you will shame me. If that should happen I will jump on you like a mountain of shit, is that clear, Calidus?’
‘Yes, sir.’
There was a pause while the tribune let his warning sink in, then he cleared his throat and continued in a more moderate tone. ‘I’ll tell you what I tell every recruit at the moment. You’ve joined us at a difficult time. The Emperor is getting on and won’t last forever, even if some fool of a senator gets him voted a divinity. It’s a shame because as emperors go he’s been one of the better ones. However, he’s flesh and blood, and he will die. Our job is to make sure that is down to natural causes. Now, I know the old joke about natural causes in the imperial family include a host of unusual ailments such as poisoning, a knife in the back or a sword in the guts, being smothered by a pillow, and so on. That will not happen during my time in command of the palace cohort. So you will keep your eyes open when you’re on duty. I don’t trust those German pricks in the personal bodyguard any further than I could spit ‘em. Our job is to stop anyone getting close enough to Claudius for those Germans to have to earn their money. As far as I am concerned, my men are the first and final line of defence. If either of you have to throw yourselves in front of an assassin’s knife to save the Emperor then you’ll do it without hesitation. If not, then there’s no place for you in my cohort. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato and Macro replied at once.
‘Good. As I said, it’s a difficult situation. There are various factions in the palace who are already making their plans for the succession. Some are backing Britannicus, others the upstart Nero. Besides that, there’s the bloody freedmen who advise the Emperor, Pallas, Narcissus and Callistus, shifty little grafters every one of ‘em. They’ll be looking to make an alliance with their chosen candidate for the purple. That’s fine by me, just as long as they don’t do anything to try and accelerate the process. Watch for threats from within as well dangers from without. Any questions?’ He looked at each of them. ‘No? Then I’ll have Tigellinus go through the basic protocols with you tomorrow. You better be fast learners, as I’ll have you on duty the day after that. It’s a case of swim or sink, lads. Dismissed!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Bloody bunch of toy soldiers is what the Praetorians are,’ said Macro as they walked down the lane leading to the inn that Fuscius had named earlier. Night had fallen and both men had taken their cloaks to ward off the chill of a winter night. On either side of the thoroughfare the dark masses of the cheaply built tenement blocks reared up, pierced by the loom of occasional lamps and tallow candles glimmering within. The foetid stink of sweat, sewage and rotting vegetables filled the air. Macro exhaled sharply. ‘They do nothing but prepare for parades.’
‘I thought you liked that aspect of the job,’ Cato replied. ‘You used to tell me that drilling was the reason
