Praetorian (2011)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You cannot win!’ he called out. ‘There’ll be more soldiers here any moment. You’ll be cut to pieces if you resist. Lower your swords!’

  ‘We die either way, brothers!’ the leader called out. ‘Out there fighting to entertain Romans, or here and now, fighting Romans! Fight on!’

  With a bellow of rage the gladiator charged at the man just beyond Fuscius and punched high with his shield, forcing the Praetorian to raise his shield to counter the blow. At the same time he drew his arm back and swung it in a hooking arc, under and round the bottom of the guardsman’s shield, then up in a vicious thrust into the Praetorian’s groin. So hard was the blow that it drove the air from the man’s lungs and almost lifted him off his feet as the blade punched up into his vital organs. With a savage cry of triumph the gladiator ripped his sword free and leaped back, then punched the gore-stained blade into the air.

  ‘Kill them! Kill them all, my brothers!’

  There was a chorus of roars and shouting from his companions as they closed round the two rings of Praetorians and hacked and slashed at the shields and helmets.

  ‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’

  Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily down on the scene.

  ‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’

  Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’

  Macro nodded and braced himself in a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Ready, lad?’

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Now! Disengage.’ Macro stepped back into the ring, closely followed by Cato. At once Macro called out another order. ‘Close up!’

  Fuscius and the man to Macro’s right edged towards each other while Cato and Macro sidestepped round until they were lined up with the gladiators’ leader. Cato moved forward, pushing between two of his comrades. ‘Make way there! Make way.’

  The guardsmen shuffled aside to let them in and Macro stared intently at the man no more than eight feet away. ‘We’ll take him when he next strikes. On my command.’

  Cato tightened his grip on his sword and felt his blood surging through his veins, making his muscles tingle with the familiar tension of battle. The gladiator fixed his eyes on Macro who grinned and beckoned with his sword hand. ‘Go on then! Try me, if you dare!’ Macro moved his shield arm to the side to expose his chest, taunting his opponent.

  The gladiator’s brow creased and he roared, ‘Then die, you bastard!’

  He sprang forward, sword angled up at Macro’s throat. Macro kept his shield low and swung his sword up to parry the blow. At the last moment the gladiator did a cut over and redirected his attack at the angle between Macro’s helmet and his shoulder. The same instant Cato leaped forward, slamming his shield into the gladiator’s side as his sword hacked down into the other man’s extended sword arm. The edge cut deep into muscle before jarring against bone. The arm spasmed and the fingers exploded away from the sword handle so that the weapon clattered clumsily off the double layer of mail on Macro’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from his wound as he let out an animal howl of rage and pain. His followers parted around him, pulling back from the Romans, staring aghast at their leader. His sword arm hung uselessly at his side. He cast his buckler to the ground and clamped his shield hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘Come on,’ Macro muttered to Cato. ‘Let’s finish this.’

  They stepped forward warily, watching for danger, but the gladiators kept their distance. Their leader had slumped down on to his knees, eyes clenched as he fought to contain the agony of his injury. Macro stood over him while Cato faced the others, his shield up, ready to deal with any man who sprang to the gladiator’s aid.

  ‘Your leader is beaten!’ Macro called out. ‘He is finished! Sheath your weapons if you don’t want to die with him here!’

  There was a pause as the other men waited for a response from their leader. Macro ground his teeth in fury before he snarled, ‘Do it! Do as I say, or there will be no mercy for you!’

  The first of the gladiators hesitantly returned his blade to its scabbard. Another followed his lead, then more as the rest drew away from the Praetorians and did as Macro ordered. Their wounded leader remained on his knees, gazing around him fiercely. ‘Fight, damn you! Fight back. You were promised freedom by the Emperor. Now fight for it, or it will be taken from you!’

  ‘The man’s a bloody l-l-liar!’ Claudius shouted drunkenly. ‘I said no such thing! The cheek of the fellow! Kill him. K-ki-kill any of them who refuse to lower their swords. Quickly.’ He gestured to the far side of the lake and the sound of a slow mocking clap carried across the water. ‘Don’t test their patience any longer.’

  The leader of the gladiators saw that his cause was lost. He glanced up at Macro and spoke quietly. ‘Make it quick.’

  Macro nodded. The gladiator reached out with his good arm and clasped it round the back of Macro’s knee and tipped his head back and to the side to expose his neck and collar bone. Macro knew that the warriors of the arena were trained how to die with no show of fear, and only the faint tremor in the man’s hand as it clutched the back of his knee betrayed his real feelings. Leaning his shield against his side, Macro raised his sword, then felt for the slight notch behind the man’s collar bone. Then he eased the tip of the sword against the flesh, not hard enough to break the skin.

  ‘Ready?’

  The gladiator nodded and closed his eyes.

  ‘On three,’ Macro said calmly. ‘One …’

  He punched the sword down with all his strength, thrusting the blade through the gladiator’s vital organs, into the heart. The impact caused him to gasp, his jaw jerking down as his eyes opened and bulged. Macro gave the sword a twist and then yanked it out, the blood welling up from the open mouth of the wound in a swift torrent. The gladiator swayed a moment and then toppled on to his back, staring up at the sky as he gasped one last time and died. There was a brief stillness around the scene and Cato heard the shout of orders and the tramp of boots as Tribune Burrus led the rest of the cohort towards them. The sound drew the attention of some of the other fighters and they backed away towards the palisade. A handful of others followed suit, then more, until only a few men remained under arms, glaring defiantly at the Praetorians.

  ‘Sixth Century!’ Tigellinus called out. ‘Form line!’

  The men hurried into place. Macro paused to use the hem of the gladiator’s tunic to wipe the blood off his blade, then he and Cato joined the others. Several bodies lay stretched out on the ground, most of them Praetorians, and the wounded among them moaned with pain.

  ‘Last chance,’ Tigellinus called out to the men who still defied the order to put aside their weapons. ‘Sheath your blades, or die.’

  ‘Then die it is!’ one of the men, a tall muscular easterner, cried out. His dark lips drew back in a snarl and he charged at the Praetorians. There was a brief flurry of blows as he struck out at one of his foes, driving him back from the line. Then the Praetorians on either side turned on the gladiator. He managed to parry the first stroke before being stabbed in the side. He pulled himself off the blade with a groan and was at once struck from the other side, and then from the front. A few more savage blows cut him to the ground where he slumped, chest heaving as he bled out.

  The brutal end to his show of defiance unnerved the last men still standing with swords in their hands and they returned them to their scabbards and backed away. Behind them, the auxiliaries appeared along the walkway behind the palisade, javelins held at the ready.

  �
�Just in time,’ Macro commented sourly.

  A moment later Tribune Burrus reached the scene and deployed his men on either side of the Sixth Century, hemming in the gladiators. He strode up to the reviewing platform and saluted the Emperor. ‘Your orders, sire?’

  Claudius’s expression was cold and merciless and the fingers of one hand drummed on the rail while his other hand tightly clenched the goblet.

  ‘There is only one f-fate for those who defy the Emperor. I would have you all slaughtered here and now … were it not for that rabble over there.’ Claudius nodded at those who covered the hills on the far side of the lake. The disgruntled clapping had reached a crescendo. ‘As it is,’ he continued, ‘you will die out there, on the water, if there is any justice. B-b-burrus!’

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘Get these scum on to their ships at once.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  With a last scowl, Claudius turned away from the rail and made his way back into the pavilion. Burrus strode through the ranks of his men and approached the gladiators. Placing his hands on his hips he glared at them.

  ‘You heard the Emperor. When you get on those ships I’d be sure to put up a good fight if I were you. Impress the mob enough and some of you may walk away from this alive. Off you go.’

  The gladiators began to shuffle towards the waiting ships.

  ‘MOVE!’ Burrus yelled at them. ‘You’ve buggered about long enough already! Run, you bastards, before I have my men shove their javelins up your arses.’

  The men picked up the pace and trotted down towards the shore. One of them held back and approached the tribune tentatively.

  ‘Well?’ Burrus barked at him.

  ‘Sir, the leader of our fleet is dead.’ The gladiator indicated the man Macro had killed. ‘We have no commander.’

  ‘You do now.’ Burrus thrust a finger at him. ‘The job’s yours. Get out of my sight.’

  The gladiator bowed nervously and then ran off to the largest of the ships flying red pennants from their masts. When the last of the men had boarded their vessels, the gangways were hauled aboard and then the fighting men crowded to the rear in order to raise the bows high enough for the men at the oars to be able to back the ships away from the shore. To Macro and Cato, who had served with the navy during a campaign against a nest of pirates, the manoeuvres of the scratch fleets of Persians and Greeks appeared clumsy. Even so, at the sight of the ships making their way to their start lines, the crowd on the far side of the lake rose to their feet and the slow clapping stopped.

  With the gladiators no longer presenting any danger to the Emperor, Tribune Burrus stood his cohort down and the Sixth Century took up their positions around the pavilion. The bodies of the dead were removed by the auxiliaries while the wounded were hurriedly tended to by the imperial physician who did not want to miss the spectacle taking place on the lake.

  As the two battle lines formed half a mile apart, across the width of the lake, Centurion Tigellinus made the rounds of his men. Cato and Macro stood to attention as he approached. Tigellinus regarded them closely for a moment before he spoke.

  ‘That was quick thinking back there,’ he said quietly. ‘When you called on the men to form up.’

  ‘Seemed like the best thing to do in the situation, sir,’ Macro replied.

  ‘I see. It was as if you were used to issuing commands. A man who did not know better might think you had been an officer once. An optio perhaps, or even a centurion.’

  Macro’s gaze did not waver as he responded. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I did not mean it as a compliment, Calidus. It was an observation. Tell me, how is it that two rankers are able to behave so like men used to command?’

  There was no mistaking the suspicion in the centurion’s face.

  Macro pursed his lips calmly. ‘There’s not much to tell, sir. When you’ve served in as many campaigns as I have, you learn to do what circumstances demand. There’s been more than one occasion when my centurion’s been knocked on the head in a battle, the optio too. Then someone has to step up and take charge. I’ve done it a few times, so has Capito here. So would any veteran worth his salt, sir.’

  Tigellinus considered his reply, and nodded. ‘Fair enough. Then it’s as well that you’re on my side. When the time comes, a few good men may well change the destiny of Rome.’ The centurion stepped closer and glanced from one man to the other. ‘There’s more to you two than I thought. That had better be a good thing.’

  Cato frowned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve a few inquiries to make. If you two turn out to be anything other than what you claim you are, then you’ll be joining Lurco as soon as it can be arranged.’

  He did not wait for a reply but turned on his heel and strode away. Cato let out a long anxious breath. ‘We’re in the deepest of shit, my friend.’

  ‘Bollocks we are,’ Macro replied. ‘Our cover story is sound enough. By the time he can discover anything about us, the job will be over and we’ll be far from Rome. As long as Narcissus lives up to his promise.’

  ‘Like I said, we’re in the shit.’ Cato stared at the retreating back of Tigellinus and added, ‘I hope you’re right about him.’

  They were interrupted by the blare of trumpets from the other side of the pavilion and turned to look out across the lake. Two barges were anchored between the two fleets and a large rock-filled basket was suspended between them. As soon as the signal was given, the men on the barges cut the basket loose and it splashed into the water.

  Macro frowned. ‘What’s that all about?’

  As they continued to watch, there was a disturbance in the water a short distance from the two barges. Three gleaming spikes emerged from the lake, followed by a shaft and then a hand and an arm. As the water cascaded off the rising object, Macro shook his head in wonder. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Cato smiled. ‘That is Apollodorus’s little crowd-pleasing opener, I think.’

  Now it was clear what the object was - a huge likeness of Neptune, painted gold, and as the counterweight sank to the bottom of the lake, the impressive device that the engineer had promised Claudius stood a good twenty feet tall, water lapping at the feet as if the structure was standing on the surface. A great cheer rose up from the far shore and a flickering shimmer rippled along the slopes overlooking the lake as the crowd waved coloured strips of cloth to emphasise their approval.

  ‘Oh, that’s good!’ Macro grinned in delight. ‘Very clever.’

  Meanwhile the crews of the two barges were rowing frantically for the shore, anxious to get clear of the two fleets before they clashed. Another blast from the trumpets provided the signal for the Naumachia to begin. There was a brief defiant cheer from each of the two fleets of twenty vessels and then the steady sound of drumbeats from the timekeepers on each ship. The oars stroked the water in a clumsy rhythm as the small warships gradually gained speed. Some were faster than others and the lines quickly became ragged, made more chaotic still by the inability of a handful to steer a straight course.

  ‘Not the most impressive display of nautical skills I’ve ever seen,’ commented Cato. ‘Even the greenest crew in the fleet would run rings round that lot.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Macro responded irritably. ‘Why don’t you stop coming the seasoned veteran with me and just enjoy the show, eh?’

  Cato glanced at his friend. ‘The calm reserve of old hands …’

  ‘Shhh!’

  The leading ships were within missile range of each other and now Cato could make out a thin waft of smoke from the decks of each vessel. An instant later an arrow from one of the blue-pennanted ships traced a fiery arc across the open water, leaving a fine smoky trail behind to briefly mark its passage. The arrow plunged into the lake a good fifty feet short of the bow of the nearest enemy ship.

  ‘So much for eastern archery,’ Macro chuckled. ‘That was way off.’

  The failure of the first shot to reach the target did not stop the inexperienced archers on both vess
els from loosing off more arrows and the surface of the lake was peppered with tiny splashes as the two ships closed on each other. There was no attempt to manoeuvre into a better position to use the ram and the two crashed into each other, glancing off as they struck bow to bow. The makeshift mast of the Greek ship snapped close to the deck and pitched forward, rigging snaking behind it, toppling on to the fighters crowded on the foredeck. An excited cheer came from the far shore. As the men struggled to free themselves from the rigging, their opponents hurled grappling hooks across and hauled the ships together before the first men scrambled aboard. From the shore the distant glint of swords and armour told little of which side had the upper hand.

  More ships clumsily made their way into the fray and those that had been slowest to get off the mark now reaped the benefit of being able to pick a target to ram in the beam. The first such attack was crudely handled and the speed was too slow for the ram to break through the hull. The crew backpaddled a short distance to try again, only to be caught by one of their foes full on. Slivers of wood from shattered oars burst into the air as the small ship reeled under the impact, pitching men into the water. A handful of those in armour managed to remain briefly on the surface before the weight dragged them under. The shocking impact of the ramming ship also proved to be its undoing as the brazier used for lighting the fire arrows tipped over, spilling burning embers across the deck which quickly set fire to the tarred rigging. Soon the vessel was ablaze and flames, fanned by the gentle breeze blowing down the lake, spread to the ship that had been rammed. The fighting ceased as the men of both sides made to save themselves, desperately stripping off armour before grabbing anything that might give them buoyancy and jumping over the side.