‘We call him “sir” outside of the palace, and “your imperial majesty” inside,’ Cato replied.
Tigellinus nodded, and then added quietly, ‘And some can call him whatever they like behind his back.’
Cato turned to look at him with a surprised expression. Tigellinus smiled thinly.
‘You won’t be so shocked when you’ve been here for more than a month, Capito. You’ll see for yourself the truth of the situation. Claudius has always been ruled by his freedmen and his wives. Messallina had him eating out of her hand, until she made a play for the throne and got the chop. Her replacement’s a sharp one.’ Tigellinus’s smile warmed for a moment. ‘Agrippina knows exactly how to tweak his strings. His or any other man’s. Now then, what about the Empress?’
‘“Imperial majesty” in the palace and in public,’ Cato replied. ‘Since she does not have to worry about public opinion.’
Tigellinus turned to him sharply. ‘That’s enough, Capito. You’re a bloody ranker. You don’t get to comment on such matters. Just the correct form of address from now on. Clear?’
‘Yes, Optio.’
The column stopped at the gate to relieve the section on duty and then continued up the broad staircase to the main entrance hall of the imperial palace. Cato had been raised within these walls many years ago and felt a peculiar tingle in his scalp at the thought of all that he had seen as a child on the fringes of the imperial court. For a moment he wondered how many of the slaves he had been raised with were still serving in the palace. He had been a fresh-faced youth when he left, but now he was older, his hair was a military crop and he bore the scars of his years in the army. He would not be recognised even if he did encounter someone from his past.
At the head of the column of four centuries marched Tribune Burrus and at each station of the first watch he barked the orders to relieve those who had been on duty during the night. There were three watches in all, the first running from first light to noon, the second from noon to dusk, and the third – the least popular – guarding the palace through the night. The night watch operated with only two centuries since they simply had to guard the entrances and patrol the public precincts of the palace. The private suites were protected by the German bodyguards.
At length, it was the turn of Tigellinus’s section as the column passed through the palace and into the gardens of the imperial family, built on a terrace, surrounded on three sides by a colonnade. The fourth side had a marble balustrade and overlooked the Forum. Tigellinus and his men took up their positions around the garden, with Cato and Macro being assigned to the entrance of a small hedged area around a fountain. Marble benches, with red cushions, were arranged near the fountain. Due to the height of the garden there was little residual water pressure from the aqueduct that supplied the palace and only a small jet of water emerged from the fountain to tinkle pleasantly into the surrounding pond.
‘Nice.’ Macro nodded as he looked round the neatly kept garden. ‘A very restful spot indeed. With the kind of view you could get killed for.’
‘It’s been known to happen,’ Cato replied as he adjusted his toga. It was a cumbersome thing and he kept getting the interior folds snagged on the handles of the sword he wore underneath.
‘What are you doing?’ Macro stared at him. ‘You look like you’ve picked up a particularly nasty itch off some tart.’
‘It’s this stupid toga.’
‘Lad, you are pretty hopeless sometimes.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Here, let me sort you out before the whole bloody thing gets tangled.’ He stepped over to Cato and pulled a length of the cloth up, over the shoulder and then folded it across his friend’s left arm. ‘There. See how that goes?’
‘Thanks … Still feels ridiculous.’
‘Well, if anyone can make it look ridiculous, you can.’ Macro continued looking round the garden again. Tigellinus and the others had taken up their stations and wandered along their beats, as if they were civilians come to take in the pleasant surroundings. ‘So this is what we do? Just swan around up here for the next five hours? How is that going to get us any nearer to exposing this conspiracy that Narcissus is so keen to uncover?’
‘I don’t know. We just keep our eyes and ears open.’
The sun rose higher into the sky, accompanied by a gentle breeze that ruffled the topmost boughs of the trees in the garden and carried off the smoke from the fires burning in the city. Despite the pleasant day and the peaceful scene, Cato’s mind was troubled. While there were unmistakable signs that the Emperor’s authority was slipping, there was little direct evidence of a conspiracy. Prefect Geta’s tough training regime was no more than what was expected of any good commanding officer. And they had seen no sign of sudden wealth among the ranks since they had arrived at the Praetorian camp. Today was the first day they were to put into practice what they had learned about their duties from Tigellinus. Cato paused to think a moment about the optio. Tigellinus, he had discovered from the other guardsmen in Lurco’s century, had been with the Praetorians for just over a year, after having been recalled from exile, along with a number of other people who had fallen foul of Messallina. Most were friends or servants of Agrippina who had been persecuted by her predecessor. Quite what Tigellinus had done to be sent into exile no one could say.
Cato’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices and he turned towards the colonnade to see a stooped silver-haired man in a cloak, leading two boys towards the hedged enclosure around the pond. One of the boys looked to be a teenager, long limbed and with a fine head of curly dark hair. The other was younger by a few years and was solidly built, with fair hair. He looked down as he trailed the others, and held his hands behind his back, as if deep in thought.
The old man glanced back and called out in a thin reedy voice, ‘Keep up, Britannicus! Don’t dawdle.’
‘Ha!’ the older boy called out with a ready smile. ‘Come on, little brother!’
Britannicus scowled but increased his pace nevertheless.
‘Heads up,’ said Cato. ‘We’ve got company.’
They quickly stood to attention, just inside the enclosed area either side of the entrance, and stared straight ahead. The light patter of footsteps on the paved path gave way to the soft crunch of gravel as the man and two boys passed through the opening in the neatly clipped hedge. They ignored the two guards as they crossed to the pond. The old man eased himself down on to a bench and indicated that the boys should sit on the edge of the pond.
‘There. Now let me collect my thoughts.’ He wagged a gnarled finger. ‘Ah, yes! We were going to talk about your responsibilities.’
‘Boring,’ said the older boy. ‘Why can’t we discuss something more important?’
‘Because your adopted father wishes you to think on your obligations, Nero. That’s why.’
‘But I want to talk about poetry.’ His voice was plaintive and slightly husky. Cato risked a look at the tutor and his two students now that their attention was on each other. The boy, Nero, was effeminate-looking with a weak jaw and a slight pout. His eyes were dark and expressive and he regarded his tutor with an intense gaze. A short distance from him Britannicus sat resting his head in his hands as he stared down at the gravel, apparently uninterested. The tutor looked vaguely familiar and then in a flash Cato remembered him. Eurayleus. He had been one of the palace tutors when Cato was a child. Eurayleus had been tasked with the education of the children of the imperial family. As such he had little to do with the handful of other tutors who taught the sons of the palace officials and the children of the hostages that Rome kept in comfort while their elders were required to maintain treaties or apply pressure in Rome’s interest. As Cato recalled his childhood he could well remember the aloof manner in which the tutor had regarded the rest of the palace staff. Their paths had only crossed once, when a young Cato had been running up and down the corridor outside the tutor’s door and had received a beating.
‘We will talk about poetry another time,’ Eurayleus said firmly. ‘Today’s subject for discussion has been decided by the Emperor and neither you nor I can challenge his decision.’
‘Why?’ asked Nero.
‘You can ask that question when you become Emperor,’ the tutor replied tersely.
‘If he becomes Emperor,’ said Britannicus. ‘Ahenobarbus is only the adopted son. I am the natural son. I should be first in line of succession.’
Nero turned to his stepbrother with a frown. ‘My name is Nero.’
Britannicus shrugged. ‘That’s what some say. But in your heart you will always be what you were first named. And to me, too, you will always be Ahenobarbus.’
Nero glared at him for a moment before he spoke. ‘Always quick to try and cut me down to size, aren’t you?
