Macro climbed up on to it and again lifted Cato up on to the wall. He cautiously peered over the top to where the guard had returned to his stool to continue his meal. Beyond, the fight over the spilt fruit had ended. The gang master and his thugs had re-established their cordon and the unloading of the barge had resumed. Several bodies lay on the ground about them, most moving feebly and a few lying still. Those who had managed to gather some of the dates had already fled the scene while the rest continued to watch the unloading of the barge, hoping for another chance to snatch something to eat. Cato looked for, and then saw, Septimus. The imperial agent raised a hand in acknowledgement and then made his way along the wharf to the gate. He stopped a short distance from the guard.
‘Spare me some of that?’ Septimus pointed to the bread and sausage resting in the man’s lap.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Come on, friend. I’m hungry.’
‘That’s not my problem. And I’m not your friend, so like I said, fuck off.’
While Septimus took another step forward and asked again, more forcefully, Cato heaved himself up on to the wall and reached down to help Macro up. Then, making sure that the guard’s attention was fixed on Septimus, they lowered themselves down the other side of the wall, straining the muscles in their shoulders and arms, and let go. Their boots crunched audibly on the filth and rubbish that had gathered at the foot of the wall. The guard started and looked round quickly. His eyes widened and in an instant he snatched up his club and was on his feet, his meal tumbling to the ground in front of the stool.
‘I see! Thought you’d play a trick on me, eh? One comes from the front, while his pals take me from behind, eh?’
He lowered himself into a crouch, backed against the gate and swung his club to and fro. Cato could see that there were nails driven through the end of the club and could well imagine the damage those vicious points could do to a man’s flesh. He raised a hand.
‘Easy there. Our mistake. Come on, lads, this one’s too tough for us. Let’s be off.’
Septimus circled round the guard to join the others and then the three men backed away and turned to walk quickly along the wharf in the direction of the Boarium. The guard laughed nervously and blew a loud raspberry after them.
‘Yes, piss off then, you wankers! If I see your faces round here again then you’ll feel the kiss of my little Medusa here!’ He thrust the head of his club after them.
‘Bastard could do with a lesson in manners,’ Macro grumbled, slowing his pace until Cato grasped his shoulder and urged him on.
‘Not now. Let’s get out of here before he remembers me.’
Septimus turned to Cato. ‘Did you find anything?’
Cato briefly explained what they had seen and the imperial agent’s expression became anxious. ‘Damn. We need that grain.’
‘What about that convoy from Sicilia?’ asked Macro. ‘I thought that was going to save the situation for the Emperor.’
‘It will, when it arrives. But the extra grain would have been good insurance in case there was a delay in the arrival of the convoy. Now it all hinges on its arrival. Pray to the gods that it arrives safely. The spectacle that Claudius is putting on up at the Albine Lake will only divert the mob for a short time.’
They walked on in silence for a moment before Cato gave a dry chuckle.
Septimus looked at him sharply. ‘What?’
‘I was just thinking about all the threats that Rome has faced over the years, and now it seems that hunger will succeed where barbarians, slave armies, ambitious politicians and tyrants have failed. If there’s one great enemy of civilisation it is surely starvation. No empire, no matter how great, is ever more than a few meals away from collapse.’ He glanced round at the others. ‘Interesting, don’t you think?’
Septimus glared at Cato and then caught Macro’s eye. ‘Your friend is not very helpful at times. Tell me, does his mind often wander like this?’
Macro nodded wearily. ‘You can’t imagine. Does my head in.’
Cato could not help smiling apologetically. ‘Just an observation.’
‘Well, keep your eyes and mind on the job,’ Septimus chided. ‘The Liberators are planning to do something soon. We have to be on our guard and look to the safety of the Emperor and his family. The enemy might have another chance to do something two days from now.’
‘Why?’ asked Cato. ‘What’s up?’
‘The last section of the drain for the lake will be completed tomorrow. Claudius has decided to hold a celebratory feast for the engineers and a select audience before he gives the order for the sluices to open. It’s not a public event, so there won’t be too many people for your century to keep an eye on. But there’s always the chance of trouble as the imperial retinue makes its way out of Rome, or comes back the same way.’
‘We’ll keep a close watch on the old boy,’ said Macro. ‘After that business in the Forum you can count on it.’
‘I hope so,’ Septimus replied as they reached the entrance to the Boarium. ‘It’s clear enough why the Liberators want the grain. That’s the carrot they can offer to the mob once they’ve removed the Emperor. The question is, what are they going to use as the stick to beat Claudius? There’s not much time left before they make their move, and we’re still no wiser about their plan. You must concentrate on Sinius, find out who his contacts are. If we have the names of the ringleaders then we can strike first.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ Cato reassured him. ‘But Sinius isn’t giving anything away. He’s using us, but he’s not taking us into his confidence. If we discover anything, we’ll make sure we leave a note at the safe house at the first opportunity.’
‘Very well.’ Septimus bowed his head in farewell. ‘I’d better make my report to Narcissus. He’s not going to be happy.’
The three men parted and the imperial agent turned abruptly and strode off through the Boarium in the direction of the imperial palace complex that loomed over the city from the crest of the Palatine Hill. Macro and Cato stared after him for a moment before Macro muttered, ‘We’re losing this one, aren’t we?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This fight … this job for Narcissus. We don’t know where the grain is. We don’t know what the enemy is planning. Shit, we don’t even know who the enemy is, besides Sinius and Tigellinus.’ Macro shook his head. ‘I don’t see any sign of a happy ending to this situation, Cato, my lad.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that we’re not making any progress,’ Cato replied determinedly. ‘We’ll get there. You’ll see.’
As they stepped into the section room they shared with Fuscius and Tigellinus, Cato caught the younger man admiring himself in a polished ornamental breastplate hanging with the rest of the kit from the pegs in the wall. There was a moment’s bemusement before Cato saw the long staff crowned with a brass knob in Fuscius’s left hand.
‘Better not let Tigellinus catch you with that.’
‘What?’ Fuscius reacted instinctively and glanced towards the door with a worried expression, before he caught himself and smiled. ‘It doesn’t bother me. Not now. Tigellinus has no need of this any longer.’ Fuscius held the staff up and looked at it proudly. ‘This is mine.’
Macro laughed and turned to Cato. ‘Sounds like the boy’s balls have dropped at last. Fancy that.’ He turned back to Fuscius. ‘Seriously, I’d put that away before someone sees you with it.’
Irritation and a spark of anger flitted across the young man’s face. Then Fuscius stood, stretched to his full height, and tilted his head back slightly as he addressed them.
‘You’ll have to stop speaking like that to me.’
‘Oh?’ The corner of Macro’s mouth lifted in amusement. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Because I am the new optio of the Sixth Century. The acting optio, anyway,’ Fuscius added.
‘You?’ Macro could not hide his surprise, and not a little disapproval, as he regarded the other man. ‘What about Tigellinus? What’s happened to him?’
‘Tigellinus?’ Fuscius smiled. ‘Until Centurion Lurco is found, Tigellinus has been promoted to acting centurion of the Sixth Century. Tribune Burrus made the decision. He said that he couldn’t afford to have one of his units lacking a commander during the current crisis, and there’d be hell to pay for any man going absent without
