Praetorian (40 page)

T
hroughout the morning the people of Rome continued to stream down the Appian Way towards the lake. Most were families on foot, ragged and gaunt looking, with infants strapped to their mothers inside slings of soiled cloth. In among them were hawkers carrying bundles of goods or hauling handcarts laden with cushions, fans and wineskins. The usual sellers of snacks and round loaves of bread were conspicuously absent. There were only a handful of mules and ponies used to draw the carts and they were as starved as the people, ribs showing through their hides like silky cloth laid over iron bars. Most of Rome’s draught animals had already been butchered for food. Even their bones and skins had been boiled up to add to a watery broth. In among the stream of starving humanity came the better off, still adequately fed, and chatting animatedly among themselves as their slave escorts cleared a path for them with stout clubs and wooden staffs.

As they reached the shores of the lake the multitude was carefully marshalled between lines of tables where they were handed their food ration from the stockpile brought up from the storerooms of the imperial palace. In among the plain loaves of bread and strips of cured meat were luxuries that hardly any of the common people had ever heard of, let alone seen. Honeyed cakes, lark’s tongue pies, haunches of smoked venison, jars of the finest garum and pots of preserved fruit plucked in distant provinces and shipped to Rome at vast expense. Some of the recipients of the Emperor’s largesse looked at the fine food in blank incomprehension before sniffing and sampling them. Most then attempted to trade them for something more recognisable.

Clutching their rations, the people then continued on, round the lake, to find a place to sit and watch the coming spectacle. The
space along the shore rapidly filled up and then the slope behind so that to Cato and Macro, watching a short distance to one side of the imperial pavilion, the opposite shore seemed to be one seething landscape of humanity speckled with colour.

‘By the gods,’ Macro marvelled. ‘I have never seen so many people. All Rome must be here, surely.’

Cato shrugged. It was hard to conceive of the number of people on the far shore. He knew that the Great Circus could hold over two hundred thousand spectators, and if the population of Rome was nearly a million souls, as he had been told, then surely most of them were here today. The streets of the capital must seem like those of a ghost town, the stillness and quiet broken only by the odd figure or voice of those too infirm to travel to the lake, or too dishonest to pass up the chance to break into empty houses and shops. Only the rich could afford to leave armed slaves behind to safeguard their property. Cato turned to look towards the diminishing reserves of food stockpiled a short distance behind the imperial pavilion and calculated that they would be exhausted by the second day of the spectacle. After that only the Sicilian grain ships stood between Emperor Claudius and a ravenous mob.

If Claudius was toppled, the Liberators would step forward with the vast supply of grain that they had hidden away somewhere in, or near, Rome. Having starved the mob into violence in the first place, the Liberators would then play the part of public-spirited benefactors. The thought made the blood burn in Cato’s veins. He pushed his anger aside and forced himself to concentrate. In the Liberators’ place, where would he store so much grain?

‘Heads up, lads!’ Fuscius called out. ‘Banquet’s over. Stand to!’

The imperial party had been dining under a large open-sided tent and the last notes of music from the flutes and harps of a Greek ensemble died away as Claudius led his family and advisers past the other guests who had hurriedly risen to their feet. They emerged into the bright sunshine and the men of Burrus’s cohort snapped smartly to attention, javelins and shields held firmly in each hand. Three centuries stood lined up either side of the short route from the banqueting tent to the garlanded entrance of the pavilion, beyond which a wide staircase led up to the viewing platform. The
German bodyguards were already in place, positioned around the imperial box where Claudius and his family would sit on cushioned chairs.

The Sixth Century, still enjoying the particular gratitude of Claudius, had the honour of guarding the outside of the pavilion while the rest of the cohort was to be held back a short distance in case they were needed to assist the auxiliaries guarding the food stockpile and prisoner pens.

Once the Emperor and his entourage had entered the pavilion, Burrus marched the other five centuries away and Centurion Tigellinus began to dispose his men around the perimeter of the pavilion. Cato and Macro were posted to a shaded spot just below the reviewing stand.

‘Here we go,’ said Macro, gesturing towards the prisoner pens. ‘The show’s about to start.’

Cato turned his head and saw the first batch of prisoners being led out through one of the gates. They were herded down to the ships by the shore and there half of them were issued helmets, shields, swords and armour from the back of a wagon. The other half were directed up the wooden ramp to the first ship’s deck and then ordered below to man the oars.

‘Look at that kit,’ Macro remarked. ‘They must have emptied the Temple of Mars for that lot. Celt, Greek, Numidian. Some of that stuff must date back to before the civil war.’

Once the prisoners had been armed they boarded the vessel and loosely formed up on deck to await their officers. The two fleets were distinguished by the colour of the pennants flying from the top of each mast. The fight had been billed as a re-enactment of the battle of Salamis where the Greek warships had taken on a much larger Persian fleet and won the day. The ships chosen to represent the Persians carried light blue pennants, while those playing the part of the Greeks carried scarlet colours. One by one the other ships were similarly manned and then finally, two hours after midday, the admirals in command of the two fleets and the ships’ officers were assembled before the reviewing stand. Most of them were professional gladiators, chosen to provide the discipline and leadership needed to lead the vast number of barely trained criminals
and slaves who had been forced to take part in the spectacle. Looking over them Cato could see that they were in fine condition and some carried scars from previous combat. Tigellinus called out the four sections of men that he had been holding in reserve to form a line between the fighters and the reviewing stand.

The gladiators and the Praetorians stood facing each other in silence, until Narcissus emerged on the reviewing stand and crossed to the rail to look out over the raised faces of the men who would lead thousands of men to their deaths on the lake.

Narcissus was silent for a moment before he began his address in a harsh tone. ‘In a moment the Emperor will be before you to acknowledge your salute, before the Naumachia begins. I would prefer that you were all chosen men, the very best that could do honour to the spectacle that you are privileged to take part in. But you are not. You are all that could be scraped together in the time available. Little better than the scum on those ships that you will be commanding. That said, I demand the best from you. As do they.’ He pointed towards the far shore. ‘Put on a good show. Make sure that you and your men fight well and those that survive may be rewarded.’

As the imperial secretary had been speaking, Cato noticed that some of the gladiators and the other fighters looked confused and some turned to mutter angrily to each other.

‘Silence there!’ Narcissus yelled. ‘Stand still, and show respect for your Emperor!’

He turned and nodded to the bucinators standing either side of the doorway that led on to the reviewing platform. They raised their instruments, pursed their lips and blew several strident notes, rising in pitch. As the signal faded, Claudius stepped into the bright sunshine. The golden wreath on his unkempt snow-white hair gleamed brilliantly. The impression of his finely embroidered toga was marred somewhat by the splatters of sauce that ran down the front of it. He held a gold cup in his hand and made his way unsteadily to the rail. Narcissus bowed before him and backed to the side.

‘Gladiators!’ Narcissus called out. ‘Greet your Emperor!’

There was a pause before the men mumbled an uneven salute
whose words were barely distinguishable. Claudius, bemused by the wine he had consumed, could not help laughing and as the salute died away he shook his head.

‘Come, you men. You c-c-can do better than that, surely?’ The Emperor raised his free hand. ‘On three! Ready? One, t-t-two, three!’

‘Hail, Caesar!’ the fighters bellowed in one voice. ‘We salute you, those who are about to die!’

Claudius shook his head as he saw that some of the men had not joined in. He raised his cup and slurred, ‘Or not, as the case may be. On that I gi-give you my word.’

The gladiators glanced at one another as they digested what the Emperor had just said. Claudius turned to Narcissus and muttered.

‘Get ‘em on the ships and start the ba-battle, before any more time is w-w-wasted.’

‘As you command, sire.’

The Emperor turned and lurched back towards the interior of the pavilion, wine slopping from his cup. As soon as he was gone Narcissus hurried to the rail.

‘To your ships! Prepare for battle!’

Cato was watching the fighters closely. Several were talking animatedly and the rest were clustering round, shouting their support.

‘There’s trouble.’

‘What are they saying?’ asked Macro. ‘Can’t quite make it out.’

Cato caught the odd word but not enough to make any sense and he shook his head. Above them Narcissus’s voice rang out again, shrill and angry.

‘Get to your ships or I swear I will crucify every last one of you who survives the fight!’

The fighters parted and one of the gladiators stepped forward, thumbs tucked into his belt as he gazed defiantly at the imperial secretary. ‘Nothing doing. We all heard the Emperor, as you did. It was clear enough what he said. We’re pardoned. The fight is off.’

Macro turned to Cato with a surprised expression, and Cato shook his head uncomprehendingly.

‘What did you say?’ Narcissus asked in astonishment.

‘The Naumachia. It’s off. That’s what the Emperor said.’

‘Are you mad? What are you talking about?’

The gladiator frowned. ‘It was clear enough to us. He said we weren’t to die. He gave his word. You heard it from his own lips. The Emperor’s word is law. There was a rumour going through the pens last night that the spectacle was off. Looks like it was true after all.’

‘He meant nothing of the sort, you fool! Now get to your ships!’

The gladiator turned to look at his nearest supporters and there was a muted exchange before he turned back to Naricissus and folded his arms. ‘We are pardoned men. The Emperor said as much. We demand to be set free at once.’

‘You demand?’ Narcissus choked. ‘How dare you, slave!’ The imperial secretary leant over the rail and shouted down to Tigellinus. ‘Centurion, kill that man, and any others who refuse to obey their orders.’

There was a brief pause and the air filled with tension as the gladiators and the other fighters reached for the handles of their swords. Centurion Tigellinus stepped in front of his line of men and looked up at Narcissus. ‘Sir?’

Narcissus stabbed a finger at him. ‘Do as you are ordered, or you’ll share his fate. Do it!’

Tigellinus stepped back into line, raised his shield and drew his sword. He sucked in a nervous breath and called out the order. ‘Sixth Century! Advance javelins!’

There was a loud stamp as the guardsmen planted one foot forward and then lowered the tips of their javelins at an angle towards the gladiators. Cato looked over the men opposite and calculated that there must be at least eighty of them, more or less even odds if the situation got out of hand. Beside him Macro fixed his stare on their leader and growled, ‘I had hoped never to fight slaves again. Gladiators least of all.’

‘A sestertius to a denarius that this lot were trained at the school in Rome,’ Cato muttered.

Macro glanced at him. The Great School was famed throughout the empire for the quality of the gladiators it turned out. Macro sucked in a deep breath. ‘Then we’re in trouble.’

Centurion Tigellinus must have shared their anxiety and turned
to order one of the men to run to Tribune Burrus to request reinforcements. As the guardsman hurried off, Tigellinus raised his shield and turned it to face the gladiators. ‘Sixth Century, at the walk, advance!’

The line of Praetorians rippled forward, their ceremonial armour gleaming on top of their spotless white tunics. It had been some time since Cato and Macro had fought as part of a battle line, rather than in command of one, and Cato concentrated on keeping the length of his pace the same as the men on either side of him. Before him the leader of the gladiators stretched out a hand towards Narcissus.

‘Tell the Praetorians to halt! Or it’ll be the blood of your men that’s shed. And the Emperor will hold you responsible, freedman.’ His voiced dripped with contempt as he uttered the last word.

Cato glanced back quickly and saw Narcissus glaring down on the scene, his lips pressed together in a narrow line.

‘Gladiators!’ their leader bellowed. ‘Draw your weapons!’

The air filled with the sharp rasp and rattle of blades being ripped from their scabbards and Cato raised his oval shield higher so that it protected his torso and the lower part of his face. The gladiators were less than twenty paces away. Behind them a palisade stretched from the shore to the pens. A handful of auxiliary troops in a watch-tower beyond the palisade had witnessed the confrontation and one was now calling down to his colleagues to alert them. There would be no escape for the gladiators in that direction, Cato decided. Indeed, there would be no escape for them in any direction. They could only stand their ground and die, or make for the ships. Those who had already boarded crowded on to the foredecks to watch and Cato prayed that they would not be fired by the indignant zeal that had caused their leaders to defy Narcissus. Fortunately, they were far enough away not to have heard the Emperor’s offhand remark and the bitter exchange it had provoked.