‘Ahhh, not bad!’
‘Of course.’ Fuscius grinned. ‘They keep the good stuff for the Praetorians because we pay well, and they dare not give us second-best.’
‘I see.’ Cato pursed his lips, then raised his cup again and pretended to take another sip.
‘So what do you make of the new posting so far?’ asked one of Fuscius’s companions. ‘Is it, or is it not, the best job in the army?’
‘There’s a world of difference between the Praetorian Guard and the real army,’ said Macro. ‘Yes, it’s a good job, but it ain’t proper soldiering.’
Cato winced as he saw the expressions of the other men around the table freeze for a moment. Then one of the older guardsmen blew a loud raspberry and laughed and the others joined in.
‘Typical bloody legionaries!’ another one of the veterans called down the table. ‘Think they own the army. Then they come here with their high and mighty airs. Bollocks. Give ‘em a year in the Guard and they’ll forget they ever were legionaries.’
Macro leant forward and pointed his finger at the man. ‘Now see here. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You show any disrespect for the legions in front of me and Capito and we might take it to heart just enough to beat the living shit out of you. Ain’t that right, Capito?’
‘What?’ Cato shot a furious glance at Macro.
‘I’ve had it up to here with these preening ponces. Going on about spit and polish as if it was all that mattered.’ He took another mouthful of wine and continued, ‘Taking twice the pay of a decent soldier and sitting pretty while the same soldier goes out and risks his life for Rome …’
‘So?’ the veteran at the other end of the table responded. ‘You’ve served your time on campaign, like me, and this is the long overdue reward we’ve always promised ourselves. What’s your problem with that?’
Macro stared hard at him, then drained his cup and set it down with a sharp rap, and blew a raspberry. ‘Not a bloody thing! Now fill the cup again.’
The men round the table roared with laughter and Fuscius poured more wine into Macro’s cup. He glanced at Cato but the latter shook his head with a quick smile.
‘Tell me,’ said Cato. ‘What’s with all the training that I hear you’ve been put through? I thought the Guard was an easy posting. Seems like Prefect Geta is preparing the Praetorians for war, from what I’ve heard.’
‘Fucking Geta!’ one of the younger men spat. ‘Ever since Crispinus went off on sick leave, Geta’s been making us work like dogs. Route marches, sword practice and those bloody false alarms night and day. I’m sick of it. I think you’re right. He wants to persuade the Emperor to send us off to some damned war.’ The man looked down into the dregs of his cup. ‘Knowing my luck, the Praetorians will be sent back to Britannia to clear the mess up.’
‘Ha!’ Fuscius clapped his hands together. ‘Small world! Friend Capito here has just returned from Britannia. And Calidus.’
‘Oh?’ One of the older Praetorians struggled to focus his attention on the new arrivals. ‘What’s the word then? Are we winning?’
Cato pursed his lips. ‘Define winning.’
‘Define winning?’ The man frowned. ‘What bollocks is that? Either we’re winning or we ain’t. Which is it?’
‘You’ll have to forgive my friend,’ Macro intervened. ‘He thinks he’s a philosopher. Truth of it is that the Celts are tougher beasts than the Emperor thought. We can beat ‘em on the battlefield easily enough, so they’ve taken to ambushing our lads then running like hares. Cowards they may be, but they’re whittling us down, man by man. If you want my opinion, Rome’s better off without those bog-hopping barbarians. The Emperor should bring the troops home.’
‘What about them Druids?’ asked one of the younger Praetorians.
‘What about ‘em?’
‘If we don’t crush ‘em in Britannia, we’ll only have to fight them again in Gaul, and then everywhere else they can get to. At least that’s what I’ve heard.’
‘Then forget what you’ve heard,’ Macro said harshly. ‘I’m telling you, the Druids are broken. Retreated into the mountains. They’re finished. That line they spun about having to invade Britannia to save the empire from the Druids is a bloody black lie. There’s only one reason the legions are in Britannia, and that’s to make the Emperor look like a proper general. Any halfway decent emperor would never have put his men’s lives at risk in order to look good in front of the mob.’
Cato had been watching the men’s reactions as his friend spoke and could see most of them nodding with approval. The discontent with the imperial policy towards Britannia was evident. The implication of Macro’s last sentence was not lost on them.
‘He won’t last forever,’ someone muttered.
‘Then what, you fool?’ the veteran snapped. ‘You think we’ll find a better emperor than Claudius waiting in the wings?’
‘Could hardly be worse. That lad, Nero, has a good heart, and he likes the Guards. He gets round the camp. He’ll look after us.’
‘I’ve seen it all before. Young Gaius Caligula was just the same, and look how he ended up.’
At that moment there was a loud chorus of shouts as a gang of tough-looking men in grimy tunics entered the inn. They had
clearly had some drink and were in good spirits - until their leader, a giant of a man, saw the Praetorians and held his arms out to stop his followers. The other customers glanced over and the conversation rapidly began to die away.
‘Well look over there, lads!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been honoured by the Emperor’s toy soldiers tonight! Look at ‘em. Filling their guts with wine. Just as they stuff themselves with good bread and fine cuts of meat.’
‘Who on earth is that?’ asked Cato.
‘Cestius,’ Fuscius replied. ‘He’s the leader of the Viminal gang - a pretty tough crew. They drink in here from time to time.’
‘He looks a tough enough proposition all on his own.’
‘He is. Used to wrestle in the arena. Broke two men’s necks with his bare hands.’
Cestius folded his massive arms and glared at the Praetorians for a moment before he continued. ‘Oh yes, they do well enough, while the rest of Rome goes hungry. I’ve never seen such a bunch of pansy layabouts in my life. All spit and polish and full of bullshit. There’s not a real soldier amongst ‘em. I’ve seen harder-looking men begging in the gutters.’
Some of the customers had risen from their tables and were making for the exit as unobtrusively as possible. More followed and the Praetorians at the other tables got to their feet unsteadily and backed towards the table where Cato, Macro and the others were still sitting.
‘This looks like a nasty situation,’ Cato muttered.
‘Perhaps.’ Macro nodded. ‘But we’ll see what these Praetorian lads are made of.’
‘Frankly, I’d rather they, and we, stayed in one piece.’
Cato stared at Cestius as the gang leader began to make his way through the rapidly emptying inn towards them. Over by the counter the innkeeper was frantically retrieving as many jars and cups as possible before the storm broke. He dumped the first load behind the counter and dived out for some more while there was still a moment’s grace. Cestius and his thugs crowded towards the Praetorians, and Cato saw that some of them were brazen enough to defy the law and carry knives in their belts. Others had heavy
leather saps. Cato had no weapons with him and a quick glance around revealed that only a handful of Praetorians had come out armed, mostly with small knives they used to cut meat and bread.
‘There’s a law against going armed within the walls of the city,’ Cato announced as boldly as he could. There was a brief pause as everyone looked at him in baffled amusement.
Cestius stood a short distance from the soldiers. ‘This inn is on my turf. My turf, my rules. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave, boys,’ he said with false civility. ‘Right now.’
Fuscius looked round at the other Praetorians and his hand reached for his cloak, until Macro swatted it away.
‘We’re just having a quiet drink, friend.’ Macro smiled at Cestius. ‘As you can see, there’s plenty of space for both of us, thanks to your entrance.’
The corner of Cestius’s mouth lifted in a half smile, half sneer. ‘Ah, but a quiet drink is exactly what I want, and a mob of loudmouth Praetorians is going to spoil the mood.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘So you get out.’
Macro looked disappointed. ‘There’s no need to be so touchy.’ He paused and sniffed. ‘Besides, you and your lads stink like you just crawled out of some sewer. No offence, but you do. Now, for the sake of a quiet night, let’s have no trouble, eh? You and your lot can drink over there, in the far corner. You can have the first round on us, since, as you say, we can afford it. Come!’ He reached for the nearest jug and filled a cup. Then he turned towards Cestius, took a pace towards him and offered up the cup. Cestius’s gaze was instinctively drawn to the cup. That’s when Macro smashed the jug into the giant’s face. There was a splintering crack as the jug burst in a rush of red wine. Cestius staggered back a step, blood streaming from his crushed nose. Macro threw the handle down and his parade-ground bellow filled the inn.
‘GET STUCK IN!’
Snatching up a stool, Macro hurled himself towards the gang members. One, with more presence of mind than his comrades, leaped in front of his leader and stood in a crouch as Macro’s stool arced towards his head. Those Praetorians who had not yet had too much wine scrambled forward, swinging punches, while the others
lurched into action clumsily. The man in front of Macro threw his arm up to try to ward off the blow but his forearm smashed into the side of his head and there was a crunch as a bone broke, and a cry of agony. Cato bunched his hands into fists and looked for an opponent.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Macro called over his shoulder. ‘An invitation? Hit someone!’
Both sides were matched in terms of numbers and the brawl began to spill out across the floor of the inn.
‘Noooo!’ cried the innkeeper as he snatched a jug from a table just as it went crashing over under the impact of two men wrestling as they tried to grab each other’s throats. More tables and benches went over, together with the remaining pottery cups and wine jugs, and dark jets of wine exploded across the floor. Cato stepped forward, fists raised. In front of him one of the Praetorians stumbled to one side, exposing a stocky man with a shock of dark hair. His mouth was open, revealing only a handful of crooked teeth. Cato lunged forward and threw his right fist at the man’s face. The blow connected on the chin, snapping the jaw shut, and the man fell to his knees. At once Cato pressed his advantage, striking each side of the head before the man slumped on to his side, dazed.
A quick glance revealed that Macro was still attacking Cestius, slamming fist after fist against the man’s head and body in a flurry of powerful blows. Incredibly the gang leader was weathering the assault and had raised his fists to block Macro’s punches. Cestius shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision and then went for Macro with a deep growl that Cato heard above all the other groans, grunts, cries and crashes that filled the inn. Cestius lashed out with his left, a boxer’s punch that caught Macro on the shoulder and knocked him back a step. The right swung out and round in a sweeping blow that Macro had plenty of time to duck and get an upper cut of his own in. Cestius’s head juddered but he stepped forward and punched Macro again, this time catching him full in the ribs with the first and striking him below the left eye with the second, snapping his head back. Macro reeled away, against the table he had been sitting at shortly before. The cups and jugs shot
off the top of the table and crashed to the floor. Macro was dazed, blinking wildly, as the giant loomed over him. Cestius grinned cruelly and punched him again in the stomach and then on the mouth, splitting his lip.
Cato realised that unless he moved quickly Macro was going to be severely beaten. He thrust aside one of the Praetorians as he desperately tried to make his way to his friend’s side. Cato never saw the blow, but his head jerked to one side and he instantly had double vision. Instinctively he lowered his head and raised his fists protectively and the next punch glanced off his elbow. Ahead he saw Fuscius had downed an opponent and was beating the man with the leg from a shattered stool.
‘Fuscius!’ Cato shouted. The young guardsman looked up and Cato shouted, ‘Save Macro!’
Fuscius frowned and Cato felt a cold tremor of fear in his guts as he realised what he had said. He drew a sharp breath and cried out again. ‘Look out for Calidus!’ He raised his arm and pointed to make sure his instruction was clear. Fuscius turned and saw the gang leader throw another punch; he tightened his fist round the stool leg and came up behind Cestius, raising the leg high over his head.
‘Watch it, chief!’ someone cried and Cestius began to turn. But it was too late and the stool leg cracked down on the top of his head. His jaw dropped in a groan and Fuscius hit him two more times. Blood streamed down, plastering his hair to his scalp. Fuscius changed tactics and now rammed the end of the leg into the giant’s stomach, doubling him over.
‘That’s it!’ Cato called out, crouching as he backed towards Macro. He exchanged a few blows and kicks with two of the gang and then he was beside Macro. Meanwhile Fuscius kneed his opponent in the face and then struck him about the head a few more times until the gang leader tumbled on to his back, arms flailing as he took two men down with him in a sprawling heap of limbs.
‘Look out!’ a voice cried. ‘Someone’s called for the urban cohort! Let’s get out of here!’