‘Yes, well, it can be overdone,’ Macro admitted grudgingly. ‘The point is that the drilling is for battle, not for endless parades and ceremonies. They’re supposed to be soldiers, not useless bloody ornaments.’
‘I wonder. They have a certain elan about them and I dare say that when they have to fight the men will not dishonour the reputation of the Guard.’
Macro looked sidelong at Cato, and stumbled over the body of a dog. ‘Oh, shit! Fucking guts are all over my foot …’ He paused to scrape his boot on the side of a wall. ‘What I was going to say was that there’s as much chance of seeing the Praetorians in action as there is of seeing the vestal virgins at an orgy. It happens but not often.’
‘We’re not here for a fight. I don’t want to be in the Praetorian Guard any longer than I have to. We’re here for one purpose only.’
‘I know, to find and kill the traitors.’
‘Actually, I was thinking to get all that’s due to us from that snake Narcissus.’
Macro laughed and clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘How right you are, lad!’
Cato smiled. Much as he resented having to earn his promotion to prefect over again, it felt good to be restored to the same rank as Macro. There had been moments of tension between them when Macro had to defer to Cato’s higher rank, and Cato had regretted the loss of the easy give and take of their relationship in earlier years. That would change once the present task was over, Cato reflected with a degree of sadness. If Narcissus held to his word then he would be confirmed as a prefect and would have an auxiliary cohort of his own to command. In all probability Macro would be appointed to a legion and they would part company. Assuming that their mission was successful, Cato reminded himself.
‘I think this must be the place.’ Macro pointed down the street to where a small square opened out around a public fountain. A strong breeze had picked up during the early evening and had swept away most of the pall of smoke that hung over Rome and now the stars glinted coldly from the heavens, bathing the city in a faint glow, picking out the roof lines of the tenement blocks further down the Esquiline Hill. As the two soldiers entered the square, they saw to their right a large door with a sign hanging above it with the neatly painted wording: The River of Wine. The sound of shouting and laughter spilled out into the square and the door opened briefly as a man staggered outside, and threw up in the warm glow cast by the lamps and candles that burned within.
‘The mouth of the river, no doubt,’ Cato suggested.
‘Very funny. Let’s go to the source. I’m parched.’
Cato held his friend’s arm to restrain him a moment. ‘By all means drink. But don’t get drunk. We can’t afford to slip up.’
‘Trust me, I’ll stay as sober as a vestal virgin.’
‘That is not an encouraging comparison, according to some accounts.’
They crossed the square and carefully stepped round the man doubled over in the gutter as he continued heaving up from the pit of his stomach. Stepping through the entrance, Cato saw that the inn was large and extended much of the way beneath the tenement block above, which rested on the thick support columns that divided the room. It was already filled with the evening trade and the warm air was thick with smoke from the lamps and candles and the acrid odour of cheap wine. The flagstone floor was covered with a loose layer of straw and sawdust. Cato estimated that there were over a hundred men and a few women squeezed into the space and all the tables were filled so that some customers sat slumped against the walls. There were small clusters of off-duty guardsmen as well as men from one of the urban cohorts. The rest were civilians.
‘Hey! Over here!’
They turned towards the voice and saw Fuscius beckoning to them from the corner not far from the entrance. He was sitting at a long table with some other guardsmen. Several jars of wine stood before them.
Cato and Macro made their way over to the table and Fuscius, with several cups of wine under his belt, made the introductions.
‘Lads! Here’s the two new boys I told you about. Well, maybe not boys, eh?’ He wrapped an arm round each of the new arrivals’ shoulders and breathed over Cato’s face as he turned to grin blearily at him. ‘This one’s Capito. And this here’s Callus.’
‘That’s Calidus,’ Macro corrected him evenly. He looked round at the other men and nodded a greeting. There were nine of them, three who looked like veterans and the others fresh faced and young, like Fuscius. Most seemed to have had as much to drink as Fuscius, though the veterans were better at holding their drink and still seemed to have their wits about them.
‘Have a seat,’ Fuscius continued and glanced down and saw that there wasn’t a bench at that end of the table. He turned round to the next table where three scrawny youths were sitting with a fat whore, plying her with wine.
‘Get up!’ Fuscius ordered. ‘Oi, on your feet! I need your bench.’
One of the youths looked round and muttered, ‘Piss off! Find your own fucking bench. This one’s taken.’
‘Not any more. When a Praetorian tells you to jump, you bloody jump. Now get up.’
‘You going to make us?’ The youth smiled coldly and his hand slipped down towards his belt.
Fuscius stepped aside to reveal the table where his comrades were sitting. ‘Only if you force us to.’
The Praetorians glared at the youths. They took the hint and hurried to their feet, roughly lifting the woman who groaned in protest. She was so far gone her limbs were loose and her companions struggled to drag her away through the throng. Fuscius pulled the bench over to the table and waved Cato and Macro down.
‘There you are. Head of the table. Have a drink.’ He pulled the nearest jug over, saw that it was empty and reached for the next before filling two cups to the brim and pushing them towards Cato and Macro, spilling a measure of the contents.
They picked up their cups and raised them to toast the other men. Cato made a show of drinking a deep draught and squirted most back into the cup which he lowered to his side and discreetly tipped on to the floor. Macro had taken a good swallow and now wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘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?’