‘Yes, sir!’ Tigellinus snapped his waxed tablet closed and hurriedly placed it in his side bag along with the stylus. As the centurion strode off, making for his quarters at the end of the nearest barrack block, Tigellinus gave the order for the men to fall out, and then strode off in the direction of the camp’s headquarters.
Cato and Macro relaxed their posture alongside the other men. Then Macro glanced at Cato. ‘What was that about the Albine Lake? Any idea what’s going on there?’
Cato recalled that the lake was a large body of water in the foothills half a day’s march from the city. He had passed by it a few times as a child and did not relish the memory. The lake was surrounded by low-lying boggy ground infested with mosquitoes and other insects, which made the land useless for farmers, as well as forcing travellers to make lengthy diversions around the affected
area. Draining it was a long-awaited project, finally being realised under Claudius.
‘Another of the Emperor’s big civil projects,’ Cato replied. ‘Seems there’s been more than a few changes in Rome since we left. First a new port, now the lake, and a new wife and stepson.’
‘But still the same old Narcissus,’ Macro muttered sourly. ‘Pulling strings behind the scenes. Some things never change.’
They followed the other men leaving the parade ground and returned to their section room. Fuscius was already there, carefully placing his cleaned armour and weapons back on their pegs. He nodded a greeting as the others lowered their shields and began to follow suit.
‘Bloody footslogging,’ Fuscius complained. ‘It’s been bad enough with all the patrols we’ve had to mount in the city. My bloody boots are giving me blisters.’
‘Hah, you’re too soft, lad,’ Macro replied. ‘Wait until you’ve had to do some proper soldiering, like Capito and me. Then you’d know what real marching is like.’
Fuscius stared at him. ‘Spare me the back-in-my-day routine, Calidus. I’m just pissed off with those bloody rioters in the city. Now they’ve gone and made my life even more difficult because the Emperor wants to divert their attention to the great works he’s doing for the benefit of the people. Pah, it’s a goodwill stunt and nothing else. I’ll be glad when things have settled down again.’
‘Assuming that happens,’ said Cato.
‘Oh it will,’ Fuscius replied. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that the Emperor’s diverted some grain from Sicilia. Once that reaches the city, it’ll keep the mob quiet while other supplies are organised.’
‘And where did you hear that?’
Fuscius tapped his nose. ‘Friends of friends.’
Macro snorted and shook his head. ‘Like
you
have highly placed contacts …’
Cato pursed his lips. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. The Emperor needs to buy some time.’
Fuscius hung up his sword belt. ‘There’s a dice game in the mess. You two want to come?’
‘Sure,’ Macro answered. ‘Soon as we’re done here.’ He patted
the purse hanging at his side and smiled. ‘Time to spend some of the pay that headquarters advanced us.’
‘Or lose the lot.’ Fuscius laughed. ‘I’d be careful to check the dice before you play. Some of the lads are not above trying to put one over on new recruits.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday.’ Macro raised a fist. ‘Besides, let ‘em, if they dare.’
Once Fuscius had gone, Macro turned to Cato. ‘What are we going to do about Lurco? You said you had a plan.’
Cato glanced towards the door to make sure no one was within earshot before he replied. ‘Centurion Lurco is a keen party boy. More often than not he spends the night away from the barracks. It’s a question of following him and trying to catch him alone.’
‘And then?’
‘Then we have to tell him the situation.’
Macro snorted. ‘That’s great. He gets accosted by two of his men, rankers, and you think he’ll sit down quietly for a chat? Let’s assume, for argument’s sake, that he doesn’t listen to us. Then what?’
‘Then we use force and take him to the safe house and get Septimus to arrange for him to disappear, until the conspiracy is crushed.’
‘And when shall we do it? Tonight?’
‘No. We wait until we get back from escorting the Emperor. If Lurco goes missing tonight then there’s a danger that a different century will be assigned to guard Claudius while there is a search for Lurco. We need to stay close to the Emperor. Our first duty is to protect Claudius from any further attempts on his life.’
They joined the dice game in the mess hall. Some tables and benches had been dragged aside so that the men could gather round the action. The standard bearer oversaw the cast of the dice and the raucous placing of bets between throws. Cato leant close to Macro and cupped a hand to his friend’s ear. ‘I need to drop a message off. Tigellinus may still be at headquarters, if he hasn’t returned to the barracks. Try and find him and keep an eye on him. If he leaves, you follow him. Agreed?’
Macro nodded. ‘Be careful.’
Cato smiled, and then waited until there was a roar of delight and frustration at the latest roll and the winners crowded round those taking the bets to claim their winnings. Using the chaos to cover his exit, Cato slipped out of the hall and fetched his old army cloak that he had worn in Egypt. He had decided that it would be best not to wear a cloak issued from the Praetorian stores if he was to blend in on the streets. When he reached the safe house he wrote a brief note to Septimus explaining his intentions for Centurion Lurco once the century returned to Rome after escorting the Emperor. He placed the waxed tablet in the cavity beneath the floorboards, turned the lamp towards the door as agreed to signal a message, and then left. Back on the street Cato pulled his hood up and headed towards the square where the River of Wine stood. Even though it was late in the morning the streets and alleys were far quieter than usual. The men of the Praetorian Guard and urban cohorts were still patrolling the city and breaking up any gatherings, as well as stopping and questioning anyone acting in such a way as to provoke their suspicion. Cato assumed that most of the Subura’s inhabitants were too nervous to venture out for anything other than food and water.
He was making his way down a dim alley when he saw a figure approaching from the other direction. Like Cato he was wearing his hood up and kept his head bowed. He wore an expensive embroidered tunic beneath the flaps of his cape. There was something about him that sparked a vague sense of recognition in Cato. Something in the way he carried himself as he paced down the alley, the swagger of a fighting man. As they passed, his shoulder caught Cato and he mumbled something that might have been an apology or a warning and continued on his way without breaking his stride.
Cato felt a cold tremor ripple down his spine as he walked on, not daring to look back immediately. It was Cestius. Cato was certain of it. He waited until he was a safe distance before slowing and glancing over his shoulder. The gang leader was already some thirty paces away, and then he turned abruptly into a side alley sloping down towards the Forum. Cato doubled back, ran to the tight junction and peered round the corner. Cestius was walking
steadily on, head bowed. He passed an open door where a haggard woman sat on a step with a wailing infant clutched to her small, sagging breast. She muttered something and held out her hand, but Cestius swept by without a word. Cato let him build up a decent lead and then followed him down the alley, hurrying past the woman. He spared her a sidelong glance, just long enough to see her pinched face and large eyes. The infant’s arms were thin and spindly and the skull clearly defined under the pale skin. Beyond her he saw other children on the floor of the room, sitting listlessly as the family starved.
‘A coin, sir.’ She made to clutch at the hem of his cloak and Cato just had to time to swerve beyond her grasp. He increased his pace to get past her and then slowed to keep his distance from Cestius. The big man continued heading down into the heart of the city, emerging a short distance from the Temple of Venus and Rome. Then he turned towards the Tiber, keeping away from the centre of the Forum as he passed along the palace wall. A semblance of normality had returned to Rome, for some at least, and parties of officials and a handful of senators and their retinues crossed the Forum on their way to or from the senate house. A few of the usual market stalls were set up in the porticoes of the basilica, but there was not the usual loud throng of traders and shoppers that normally filled the Forum. Soldiers stood at almost every junction, scrutinising passers-by. Cestius kept clear of the soldiers as far as possible and left by a narrow unguarded alley, heading towards the Boarium market and the warehouse district.
As Cato kept up with the man, his mind was whirling anxiously. Why was Cestius courting danger by taking to the streets when a reward had been placed on his head? Where was he going? Cato scrutinised the other man’s clothing. The cloak and tunic were expensive items and Cestius had replaced his heavy boots with a soft leather pair that extended halfway up his calf, the kind of boots that Macro would have derided as effeminate.
Cato continued following Cestius, down towards the Tiber, between the mass of the Capitoline Hill to their right and the palace on the left. The Boarium had suffered the same decline in activity as the Forum and no more than a third of the stalls had been erected.
There were fewer soldiers in evidence, mostly clustered outside the offices of tax collectors and money lenders, many of whose premises had been looted during the riot. Cestius continued through the Boarium until he came to the bank of the Tiber, where the Great Sewer emptied into the river, then he turned left towards the warehouse district.
A terrible stench of human waste filled the air as the dark stream of shit, piss and refuse merged into the flow of the Tiber. The hummock of a human body had caught around the bows of a moored barge and a pair of rats were busy chewing through soaked cloth to get at the rotting flesh beneath. Already a boatman was rowing out to the body to retrieve it to add to the small pile of corpses that had been fished out of the river close to the exit of the sewer - the usual harvest of careless drunks, murder victims and accidents. It was a sight Cato had been familiar enough with as a boy when he had come down to the wharf with his father. He recalled that when enough corpses had been gathered to fill a wagon, they would be carried off to a mass grave outside the city walls.
He turned away from the grisly sight just in time to see Cestius exchange a few words with a stout bald man in a bright yellow cloak and green tunic. Two muscular men with heavy clubs stood silently behind the bald man as he talked with Cestius. The bald man smiled and patted Cestius on the arm before they parted company. Cato discreetly scrutinised the man as he approached and noted the gold chain round his neck and the jewels in the rings on his fingers. Clearly a man of some wealth, and not afraid of displaying his fortune in public, as long as he was accompanied by a pair of bodyguards who looked as if they would pulverise anyone who even considered grabbing their master’s purse.
Cato steered aside so that they passed each other by a safe margin and continued following the gang leader. Cestius continued for a short distance before he looked round quickly. Then, seemingly satisfied that no one was watching him, he made for the guarded entrance of one of the warehouse compounds. He nodded a greeting to the man at the gates, who heaved one open to admit his visitor and then drew it shut once Cestius had disappeared from
sight. Cato felt a surge of panic at the prospect of losing his quarry. He stopped on the wharf opposite the gates and squatted down and retied the lace of his boot as he looked over the gateway. A sign was painted on the wall next to the heavy timbers of the gates announcing that the warehouses were rented out by Gaius Frontinus. It invited interested parties to apply at his offices in the Boarium.
Cato drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and strode up to the gates. The guard stirred and moved to block his way. He was a thickset man with a scarred face and Cato guessed that he must be one of the many former gladiators who turned up in such roles after they had won their freedom, or been discarded by their trainers.
‘What do you want?’ the guard demanded without any preamble.
‘I’m supposed to meet my master here, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘I saw him enter just a moment ago.’
‘Really? So what’s his name then?’
Cato opened his mouth and caught himself just in time. If Cestius was in disguise then there was a strong possibility that he was using a false name as well. If Cato tried to use his real name the guard would refuse him entry. Worse still, he might mention it to Cestius on the way out and thereby alert him to the fact that he had been followed.
The pause was long enough for the guard to reach a decision. ‘Thought so. You’re a chancer. Now turn away and piss off. Before I make you.’ He patted the studded club swinging from his belt.
Cato knew that there was no sense in provoking any disturbance. He backed off a few paces and then turned and walked back towards the Boarium. Then it occurred to him that there was still something useful that he could discover and he broke into a run. He pushed his legs hard, looking for the man in the yellow cloak and his two bodyguards. There was no sign of his easily distinguishable cloak on the length of the wharf, and Cato ran on into the Boarium. Even though the market was not filled with its usual dense press of bodies, there were enough people to obscure Cato’s view. He pulled himself up on to the pediment of a statue of Neptune and hung on to the shaft of the trident as his gaze swept over the market.
Then he saw the yellow tunic, on the far side, close to the hall of the grain traders.