Gates of Rome

CHAPTER 70

AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome

Cato strode down the dimly lit main passageway towards the front portico.

‘I said… they’re not actually from Britain.’

Macro looked at him. ‘They’re not?’

‘No… the place they come from is…’ Cato made a face. ‘I’m still struggling to make sense of it myself, as it happens. The place they come from is the future.’

‘The future?’

‘Yes, the very same place as the Visitors. Time ahead of us.’

Macro frowned as his mind worked on that. ‘Years yet to be?’

Cato nodded. ‘But from a place more than a thousand years yet to be.’

He expected his old friend to struggle with that concept. Instead, he nodded casually. ‘Well, that explains quite a lot, then.’

‘Macro, I don’t understand what’s going on with that prisoner we found. They’re talking about something. Perhaps they’re discussing some of the Visitors’ devices. Perhaps their chariot. I don’t know. But all I do know is we have got to find a way to give them some more time.’

‘Cato, there’s you and me, your centurion, Fronto, and that giant of a man back inside.’

‘Bob.’

‘Yes, Bob… strange name. Anyway, I’m not sure how long the four of us can hold back the entire Praetorian Guard, Cato. That’s a fool’s errand.’

‘We have Fronto’s men. That’s enough men right there to hold the front gate for a while if it comes to a fight.’

‘That’s if they’ll fight on our side.’

‘True.’

They strode through the entrance portico. Cato nodded at the section of men stationed there. They carried on down several steps outside into the courtyard. He could see Fronto’s men across the courtyard drawn up in an arc round the iron gates. Through the iron bars he could see a body of troops outside. Dismounted equites. Cavalry on foot acting for the moment, very reluctantly, as infantry.

He picked out Fronto and approached him. ‘Centurion!’

‘Sir!’

‘What’s going on here?’

Fronto nodded to the decurion still standing outside the gates. Beyond him Cato could see in the failing light of the late afternoon what looked like two or three hundred men and their horses. Still more of them in the distance, a column on horseback trotting up the avenue.

‘This traitor, sir!’ Fronto barked loud enough for his men to hear him clearly. ‘Wishes to loot the emperor’s palace.’

‘I see.’

The decurion caught Fronto’s reply above the noise of his own men assembling in ranks behind him. ‘That’s not true! I have orders from the prefect!’ The decurion looked at Cato. ‘Orders for your arrest.’

‘It’s common practice in the Roman army to address a senior officer as sir, Decurion.’

‘Open the gates immediately!’ the decurion snapped as Fronto’s men lined up behind their shield wall. ‘This tribune is to be arrested for treachery!’

Macro snarled angrily and took several steps towards the gate. He grabbed the iron rails in his hands. ‘This tribune is your superior officer!’

The decurion offered him a patronizing smile. ‘And you? What are you, you fat old man? Nothing. Not even a soldier.’

Macro ground his teeth then spat through the bars. ‘I could still take you on… boy.’

The officer ignored him. ‘You will open the gates immediately or you will ALL be treated as traitors and punished accordingly!’

‘Lads!’ Cato turned to face his men. ‘Those men outside the gate… have become deserters! Mercenaries! They’re here to fill their pockets and then flee the city before our emperor returns! It is our sacred duty to hold this gate!’

‘He’s lying!’

‘Quiet!’ snapped Macro, smacking his fist against the bars of the gate.

‘Men!’ Cato shouted. His voice was never going to match the parade-ground roar of Macro or Fronto, but it carried the authority of rank and experience. ‘The emperor has entrusted this cohort and this particular century to guard his home. He favours us. He trusts us. If we allow those men outside,’ he laughed, ‘those horse-maidens to come in…’

The men shared his amusement. There was little love lost between any legion’s foot soldiers and its squadron of cavalry. Equites who considered themselves a class above the rest.

‘… then we are breaking his trust and disobeying a direct imperial order!’

The decurion sighed, shook his head. ‘Right… have it your own way.’

Cato joined Macro beside the gate. They watched as the young officer turned away from them and headed back to rejoin his men.

Fronto joined the pair of them. ‘Well done, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘Some of my lads were looking a bit twitchy for a moment there.’

‘This stand-off’s only going to last until someone turns up with a higher rank or a written order,’ said Cato. ‘Then those men will turn us over.’

‘Maybe not… they’re good boys all in.’ Fronto shot a glance at the anxious faces of his men, eyes glinting in the shadow of their helmets, eyes on their centurion. ‘They’re a loyal bunch.’

‘Loyal enough to be branded traitors alongside us?’ replied Cato. ‘To face Caligula’s wrath?’

The centurion pursed his lips, not entirely sure of his answer.

‘Like I say… this stand-off’s going to be over the moment we get a higher rank out there.’

‘Stand-off?’ Macro sucked air through his gap-teeth. ‘It looks like we’re up for a bit of a scrap if you ask me. Look.’

Cato followed the direction he’d nodded in and saw a cart being rolled forward through the assembled ranks. It was stacked high and heavy with sacks of animal manure, pushed by several dozen men and beginning to roll under its own momentum.

He reached up and tightened the strap on his helmet. ‘I think you might be right there, Macro.’