The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘He must be famous. Everyone is cheering.’

  ‘All the drivers are famous. Just like all the champion gladiators.’

  ‘Are we going to cheer for him?’

  ‘No, we are bloody not!’ said Macro. ‘Blues? Never. Bunch of cheating bastards who try and rig every race that’s run. It’s the red team for us, lad. The pride of the Subura.’

  ‘Reds?’ Lucius looked at Macro, who nodded vigorously and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Up the Reds!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Up the Reds!’ Lucius echoed, his shrill voice cutting across the throng. Those at the rear of the crowd turned and glared.

  ‘I think that will do for now, Lucius,’ said Cato. ‘Save your breath for later.’

  Petronella dug her elbow into Macro’s side. ‘And you can pipe down and all. No starting any fights before we even get inside, eh?’

  ‘No, my love,’ Macro answered in a chastened tone, then winked at Lucius the moment Petronella had turned away.

  They picked their way through the vendors selling cushions, strips of coloured cloth, and snacks, and climbed the stairs of the spectators’ entrance. The seats higher up the stands, assigned to the commoners, were already filling up, and the stadium rang with the hubbub of thousands of voices, pierced every so often by a cry of greeting or chorus of laughter. There was still plenty of space in the second tier of seating, reserved for those, like Cato, who belonged to the equestrian class of society. He presented the gold ring on his left hand to the attendant at the barrier and they were ushered through.

  The best seats were those on either side of the imperial box, closest to the racetrack and near the area Cato and his small group were making for. Those seats were reserved for the senators and their families, though none of them had arrived yet. Instead, their slaves had been sent ahead to reserve their positions and prepare cushions and other comforts for their masters. Another team of slaves was in the emperor’s box, making ready for the arrival of Nero and his entourage later in the morning. Some were arranging garlands, while others prepared small braziers to heat the jars of scented water that would sweeten the air about Nero and his guests.

  ‘Over there.’ Macro pointed to a stretch of empty benches close to the barrier, overlooking the sand. ‘We’ll have a good view of the line-up at the start, and the finish of each race.’

  ‘And we’ll be able to see the emperor,’ Petronella added excitedly. Like many of her social status, she had a fascination with the members of the imperial household, and their affairs, that was curiously ineluctable.

  They took their places, with Lucius resting his hands and chin on the rail as he stared towards the row of arches at the end of the stadium where the teams could be seen preparing the chariots and checking the reins and traces before the horses were put in harness. A handful of attendants were raking the sand, while others carried baskets of bandages on stretchers to the injury treatment posts on the island that ran down the middle of the track. The sun rose and filled the stadium with light and warmth. The banks of seating stretched some six hundred paces from their position to the curved benches at the far end of the arena. The scale of the structure alone and the shimmering mass of tens of thousands of spectators were enough to guarantee the excitement and anticipation that Cato saw in his son’s eyes as he gazed at his surroundings in wonder.

  Macro ruffled the boy’s curls. ‘Never seen anything like it, eh, lad?’

  Lucius shook his head. ‘It’s like everyone in the whole Empire is here.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Macro smiled.

  The first of the senatorial parties arrived, the men dressed in togas that revealed the broad red stripe on the shoulder of their tunics, dutifully doing their best to look dignified as they made their way to their seating area, pausing to wave to groups of their clients in the commoners’ seating. As the last of them took their places, accompanied by their wives and children, there was a sudden blaring of trumpets and all eyes turned towards the imperial box, the hubbub dying down. Cato could see the squad of German bodyguards, who had already taken up their positions around the box. As the sound of the trumpets faded away, other figures emerged and took their places, and then there was a brief stillness. A fresh chorus of notes split the quiet and a bearded youth sprang into view and thrust his arms out towards the spectators. They cheered and roared their approval in response, and a chant began, quickly taken up until the sound filled the stands. ‘Ne-ro! Ne-ro! Ne-ro!’

  ‘Ne-ro!’ Lucius climbed onto the bench and punched his little fist in the air as he cried out the emperor’s name. Petronella joined in, followed by Macro and Cato, albeit with less obvious enthusiasm.

  The emperor encouraged the acclaim, even blowing kisses to the crowd in a breach of the usual imperial decorum. Macro glanced at Cato and the latter shrugged. If Nero chose to be something of a showman, then who was he to quibble with the individual who ruled over the world’s greatest empire?

  ‘What’s he up to now?’ asked Macro as the emperor undid the clasp of his cloak and let it drop behind him. As a slave hurried forward to sweep it up, Nero strode to the top of the flight of steps that led down to the sand and descended onto the track. A moment later, he sauntered out, waving to the crowd as he made for the nearest of the twelve gates, which had been closed in preparation for the races. At his approach, it snapped back on its springs to reveal two attendants leading out four white horses harnessed to a purple chariot decorated with brilliant gold-painted wreaths.

  Cato laughed in disbelief. ‘I think our emperor fancies himself as a charioteer.’

  ‘He can’t be serious . . .’ Macro looked on, scandalised. It was one thing to play to the crowd, quite another to descend to the role of a common entertainer.

  The attendants brought the team of horses to a stop and calmed them as Nero paused to pat one on the cheek before making his way round and stepping up into the flimsy body of the racing chariot. He took up the reins in one hand while raising the other to salute the crowd. Behind him the crews of the next four gates readied the release gear and stood by, waiting for the signal. Trumpets sounded again, this time from the spine in the centre of the track, and as the starting official climbed onto his podium, the crowd fell quiet and leaned forward in excitement.

  Nero took up the reins in both hands and braced his feet apart as he stared at the seven gilded dolphins above the podium. The official grasped a lever, paused, and then heaved it down. Above him the first of the dolphins tilted forward, as if diving into the sea. The four gates sprang back and charioteers of the red, blue, green and white teams, wearing tunics in their team’s colours, snapped their reins as they urged their horses into action. Wheels spun, sand and grit spurted into the air and the chariots surged towards that of Nero. The emperor flicked his reins and his team of horses trotted forward, breaking into an easy canter at a second command from their driver. He gradually increased the pace into a steady gallop that was comfortably within the pace the horses were capable of. Behind him the other charioteers reined in enough to remain behind the leader as the crowd bellowed encouragement.

  Macro tilted his head towards Cato’s ear to make sure he would be heard above the din. ‘Any idea what odds are being offered for the emperor to win? Can’t imagine any bookie taking bets on this farce.’

  Even so, the crowd continued to cheer as Nero approached the far end of the stadium and slowed down to a trot to make the turn, forcing the following charioteers to do the same. Briefly the racing teams were out of sight as they continued down the far side of the spine, then Nero appeared again, still leading the field, and carefully rounded the near end of the spine as the second dolphin dipped to signal the start of the next lap.

  ‘The emperor’s still ahead!’ Lucius clapped his hands together.

  ‘I know,’ Cato replied, deadpan. ‘How amazing . . .’

  ‘Do you think he will win, Daddy?’

  ‘I would be astonished if someone of his experience and background managed to lo
se such a race.’

  As the race continued, the crowd began to tire of the turgid spectacle. The cheers that greeted Nero as he crossed the winning line were perfunctory at best and motivated by relief that the display was over, rather than any lingering appreciation of the fact that the emperor could actually drive a chariot. The other teams trundled to a halt and the charioteers bowed their heads in defeat to the imperial champion, then a group of officials scurried from the spine, their leader carrying the winner’s wreath on a large red cushion. Nero snatched it up and presented it to the crowd before placing it on his own head and striding back towards the steps leading up to the imperial box, to continuing relieved applause. Meanwhile, the chariot teams, with a replacement driver taking Nero’s place, made their way back to the large central arch of the main block as the four starting gates were reset for the next race.

  Cato looked down at his son. ‘I bet you never thought you would be lucky enough to see an emperor do something like that.’

  Lucius grinned and shook his head vigorously. ‘He can do anything, can’t he?’

  ‘I suspect that is what most people tell him, yes.’

  There was a sudden change in the tone of the noise from the crowd around the imperial box, and Cato craned his neck to look over the heads of those seated in the Praetorians’ area. The emperor was seated on a large cushioned chair at the front of the box. Another chair, only slightly smaller, had been set up beside him, and a young woman with short blond hair in a shimmering purple stola had sat down beside him.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Petronella. ‘His wife?’

  ‘Claudia Octavia?’ Cato squinted and then shook his head. She was not the woman he had seen with Nero at the imperial palace on a few occasions some years earlier. ‘I don’t think so.’

  There was now a rising chorus of jeers, and Cato saw that some in the senators’ parties had turned to look up at the box and were muttering to each other, discreetly pointing at the woman and sneering.

  ‘Unless I miss my guess, I’d say that’s Claudia Acte, his mistress.’

  ‘I thought he was supposed to be keeping her in the background,’ said Macro.

  ‘Quite . . . It seems he wants to bring her out into the open and some don’t like it.’

  Even as he spoke, the first of the senators had risen to his feet and gestured impatiently to his wife; now they made off, chins tilted up as if they were walking past an open sewer. Others began to follow their example as the jeers and lewd cries from the crowd around the imperial box rose in volume. Nero sat quite still, staring ahead with a smile on his face, waving occasionally to sections of the crowd. Claudia Acte’s lips compressed into a tight line, and she looked at her feet. Nearby, Burrus quickly appraised the situation before pacing over to one of his tribunes and whispering something. A moment later, the officer hurried down to the sand, raced across to the official on the podium rising above the spine and shouted some orders. Preparations for the next race went ahead quickly, and with none of the usual preamble. The first of the reset dolphins went nose-down, the gates swung open and four chariots burst across the sand, faster than those that had emerged for the previous event, converging as they strove to take the lead into the first straight. The crowd’s attention snapped towards the action on the racetrack and the jeers gave way to cheers, with coloured strips of cloth swept from side to side in a wild frenzy.

  But not everyone’s attention was so fickle. A steady stream of senators and those with them continued to file away. Nero, seemingly unperturbed, took his mistress’s hand and leaned over to kiss her from time to time.

  Macro scratched his chin. ‘Looks like some of the quality aren’t too keen on Nero’s choice of companion.’

  ‘Same goes for the mob.’ Cato nodded in the direction of the crowd behind and either side of the imperial box.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Petronella. ‘Humiliating his wife so publicly is a scandal.’ She frowned darkly. ‘Why, if her poor old father could have seen this, he’d never have adopted Nero as his heir. It’s worse than a scandal; it’s an outrage.’

  Lucius looked at each of them in turn with a puzzled expression. ‘Daddy, what’s a scandal?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s just a game rich people can’t help playing.’

  ‘A game? How do you play it?’

  ‘Let me see . . . You invent some rules and tell people that they are really important, and that everyone has to obey them, and then you don’t.’

  Lucius thought about this and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.’

  ‘It’s more fun than you might think, lad,’ Macro muttered. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Don’t you listen to him!’ Petronella interrupted sharply. She turned and hissed at Macro. ‘Stop putting ideas into his head. Lucius is a good boy.’

  ‘Of course he is. But when he becomes a man, that’s another story.’

  ‘Oh, and you’d rather he ends up like you, I suppose?’

  Macro looked hurt. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I know what you soldiers are like.’

  ‘And yet you married me.’

  ‘That can be fixed easily enough.’ Petronella crossed her arms and turned her attention to Lucius. ‘If you get the chance, try not to grow up like your uncle Macro.’

  ‘But I want to be just like Uncle Macro.’

  The centurion beamed and his wife raised her hands in frustration and turned away.

  A loud gasp filled the stadium as the leading charioteer, a chunky man with a shock of blond hair and dressed in a blue tunic, lost control as he came round the spine, his nearside wheel rising off the sand. He tried to adjust his balance, but too late to kill the momentum. The light frame tipped over on its side in a spray of grit, spilling the charioteer onto the ground. His nearside horse was pulled into its companion and the team veered off, dragging the chariot and the man after it. As the spectators leaped to their feet, the charioteer snatched out his dagger and tried to cut himself free of the reins fastened to his leather waistband. The straps parted and he rolled clear just as the other three chariots swerved round the spine and pounded past him.

  Cato felt a surge of relief at the man’s escape, but noted the look of disappointment on the faces of some in the crowd, who were clearly here for the blood as well as the competition. By the time his attention turned back to the imperial box, he could see that Claudia Acte was on her feet and waving a finger at Nero. Then, before he could react, she turned on her heel, hurried to the back of the box and disappeared from view. Nero looked around helplessly, but all the others in the imperial box were staring fixedly at the racetrack and affecting not to notice the altercation that had taken place. Cato felt pity touch his soul at the thought of the loneliness of the youth’s position. Too young to be burdened by learning or experience. Too powerful to be seen to ask for help to make up for the lack of the former qualities. After a moment, Nero stood up, glanced round the stadium and hurried off in pursuit of his mistress. Few in the crowd paid any attention and the cheering rose in a fresh crescendo as the remaining chariots battled to take the lead.

  The Reds won the first race and the lithe, bearded charioteer collected his wreath before driving his team back to the starting gates. The noise from the crowd subsided and Cato stood up to stretch his back, casually looking over towards the Praetorian seating. He recognised some faces from the Second Cohort and one man waved at him as their gazes met. Before he could check himself, Cato waved back. Some of those around the Praetorian looked up to see what had drawn his attention, and one of them cupped his hands to his mouth and called out, ‘Cato! Cato! Cato!’

  One by one his friends joined in, punching the air with their fists, followed by more men from the cohort and then Praetorians from other units, turning towards Cato and echoing his name.

  ‘Sounds like word’s got round that you’ve been given a raw deal,’ Macro mused as the nearest section of the crowd took up the chant, catching the enthusiasm of the Praetorian
s and delighting in being part of it.

  ‘Cato! Cato! CATO!’

  The object of the veneration saw the commander of the Praetorian Guard look round at his men and frown. He sat down quickly, his pulse quickening.

  ‘Cato!’ Macro shouted happily. ‘Cato!’

  ‘Stop it!’ Cato snarled as he hunched down and lowered his head.

  Macro froze, mouth agape. Then he shook his head. ‘What’s up? Why not enjoy your moment in the sun? Can’t do you any harm to be the darling of the mob.’

  ‘Can’t it?’ Cato glared at him. ‘How do you think Burrus is going to react tomorrow when I have to face him and the others? You think he’s going to be happy to have my name rubbed in his face like this? Fuck . . .’

  Macro got the point and stared ahead. Even with Cato trying to stay out of sight as much as possible, the chant continued to spread until the stadium echoed to his name. Every time it resounded it was like a blow to his ears, and he prayed to the gods that it would end. At length the trumpets sounded for the next race, and the crowd’s attention turned to the gates as the starting official reached for the lever.

  Cato looked at his boots as the crowd let out a roar and the din of the shouts of the competing supporters crashed together in a deafening cacophony. Any hope that he might present himself to his superiors the following day as a humble officer merely doing his duty had been stripped away. Burrus would punish him for this unwanted, and unsought, acclaim, just as surely as there had been no doubt about the result of the first race of the day.

  The rising storm of voices that had chorused his name shortly before now seemed to mock him from every side.

  Chapter Six

  By the time Cato reached the anteroom to the imperial audience chamber, there were already scores of petitioners there, along with others, like him, who had been commanded to present themselves to the emperor and his advisers. Some sat anxiously on the benches lining the walls, wondering why they were there and fearful of the outcome. Others were filled with indignation over some injustice done to them and were only too pleased to set out their case to whoever they could pin down in the crowded space.