Praetorian (48 page)

By the time Cato had joined his friend, Macro was back on his feet, wrestling the ladder back into place. He glanced round as he heard Cato’s footsteps and noted the raw scratches and finger marks around Cato’s throat.

‘You still fit to fight, lad?’

‘Yes,’ Cato croaked and winced with agony. He pointed up the ladder.

‘Aye.’ Macro nodded. ‘Let’s get after the bastard.’

With Macro leading the way, they climbed the ladder and stepped up on to the ledge. A faint orange loom from Cestius’s torch was still visible in the tunnel and they ran on, their footsteps echoing off the walls of the tunnel. After a few paces the tunnel began to slope up, continuing in a straight line so that they could see Cestius some distance ahead, outlined by the glow of the torch that he held up and out in front of him. Then the tunnel began to bend to the right and flatten out and for a moment they lost sight of their prey and ran on blindly. Fortunately the tunnel had been well used and the floor was smooth and unobstructed. Rounding the corner they caught sight of Cestius again as he approached a small doorway at the end of the tunnel. The gang leader paused and glanced back. As soon as he heard the footsteps behind him he ducked through the doorway and then there was a sharp grating sound as the door began to close.

‘Shit!’ Macro grunted, pushing his legs harder, Cato panting a short distance behind him. Ahead the aged hinges of the door squealed with protest as the bottom of the door scraped across the fine gravel that had gathered on the stone lintel in the years that the door had been left open. Cestius’s face could be seen by the light of his torch, strained and desperate as he heaved his muscled shoulder
against the door. He had already half closed it and now the door seemed to be moving more easily as Macro and Cato sprinted towards him. There was a gap of barely six inches as Macro slammed into the edge of the door, nudging it back a short way. Cato threw himself against the aged wood at Macro’s side, and scrambled for purchase on the ground with his boots. The tunnel filled with the sounds of the three men straining on both sides of the door and for a moment Cestius seemed to be giving ground. Then he let out a sharp hiss of air and heaved with all his strength and the door began to close again.

Macro reached for the handle of his dagger and snatched it out. The gap was already less than a foot but he thrust his arm through, turned it in and stabbed at where he guessed Cestius must be. The blade caught in a fold of material and Macro punched it home, tearing into the flesh beneath. There was a bellow of pain from the other side of the door and the pressure slackened.

‘Heave! Heave the bastard!’ Macro yelled and thrust again, missed, and then snatched his hand back to press on the door. It gave way, gradually. ‘We’ve got him!’

Suddenly the door fell back and Macro tumbled forward on to his knees. Instinctively he threw his weight to one side, crashing against the side of the tunnel, as he anticipated a blow from Cestius. But the gang leader was on the run again, sprinting across the low chamber on the other side of the door. The air smelled of damp and mould and by the flare of Cestius’s torch Cato could see that the stone walls were covered with slimy growths. Macro jumped back on to his feet as Cato ran past him and they chased after Cestius under a low arch on the far side of the chamber and out into a space beyond. It was a long, low storeroom filled with discarded piles of timber, iron hoops, damp heaps of old leather covered in mould and what looked to be broken chariot wheels. Cestius was weaving through the piles of junk, making towards a squared-off doorway at the end of the storeroom. With a grunt Macro squeezed under the arch and straightened up alongside Cato. He cast a quick, curious glance round at his surroundings as they set off after Cestius. A pathway of sorts had been cleared through the junk and with a fleeting moment of satisfaction Cato saw that they
were gaining on their prey. Cestius was only some forty feet ahead of them when he ran through the entrance to the storeroom and began to climb a narrow flight of stairs, rising at a sharp angle. Cato and Macro were breathing hard as they reached the steps and ran up them, taking them two at a time.

At the top they emerged into a huge vaulted chamber that stretched out in a shallow curve on either side. The chamber was nearly a hundred feet wide and the far wall was pierced by wide arches that reached up some twenty or so feet. The floor of the chamber was covered in sand which extended out beyond the arches into a vast open space that stretched out into the darkness. Cestius sprinted towards the nearest arch, kicking up divots of sand in his wake.

‘Come on!’ Cato urged.

They ran on, hearts pounding and muscles burning with the effort. They passed through the arch and out into starlight.

‘Bloody hell!’ Macro panted. ‘We’re in the Great Circus.’

On either side of them the sand stretched away towards the dark mass of the spectator seating on either side. Ahead of them rose the central island with its assorted statues and officials’ platforms. When the chariot races took place, this vast space was filled with the deafening roar of two hundred thousand voices, madly cheering on their favourite teams. Now there was an uncanny and immense stillness, and Cato felt his flesh tingle as he continued to pursue Cestius across the smoothly raked sand of the racetrack.

‘We have to catch him before he reaches the far end,’ Macro called to him. ‘If he gets out of the public entrance and on to the streets we’ll lose him.’

Cato nodded and pushed his tiring limbs on. Then, just as Cestius drew parallel with the raised platform of the imperial box, he stumbled and fell headlong. The torch shot out of his hand and hit the ground in a flurry of sparks. He was down only briefly before he clambered to his feet and snatched up the torch, but it was long enough for Cato and Macro to catch up to him, drawing their swords as they did so. Cato edged to one side, and Macro the other, crouching low and ready to strike as they drew ragged breaths of the cool night air. Cestius could see that the route to the
public entrance was blocked and he backed away, towards the base of the imperial box, his sword drawn.

‘Give up,’ said Cato. ‘You can’t escape now.’

‘No?’ Cestius licked his dry lips. ‘Let’s see if you two have got what it takes to beat me, eh?’

‘By the gods, you’re full of it,’ Macro growled. ‘Shove an enema up your arse and they’ll be carrying you to your funeral in a bloody thimble.’ He patted his sword against the palm of his left hand. ‘Come on then, you arrogant shit.’

‘Stop.’ Cato held up his hand. ‘I want him alive. Cestius, throw down your sword.’

‘No chance!’ Cestius snarled and quickly stepped forward, sweeping the torch round in an arc so that it flared fiercely as it roared past Cato and Macro, forcing them back a pace. He suddenly frowned. ‘I know you … The Praetorians at the inn. And …’

His rapid recollection was interrupted by distant cries from the starting gates where they had emerged from the storerooms. A handful of figures were trotting across the sand towards them. Staff and officials who worked in the Circus, Cato guessed, come to investigate the disturbance. Cato pointed towards them with his spare hand.

‘You can’t escape. If you fight us you will die. If you give up, you may be spared.’

‘I’m no fool, Praetorian. I know what fate awaits me.’ Cestius crouched low, sword and torch held out, ready to fight. ‘I’ll not give in meekly. If you want me then you’re going to have to kill me first … before I kill you!’

He sprang forward, sweeping his torch out towards Macro and then turned swiftly on Cato to make a thrust with his sword. While Macro fell back before the fiery arc, Cato held his ground and parried the attack, and then responded with a feint that forced Cestius to recover his blade and hold it close, ready to counter Cato’s attack. Instead, Cato held his sword up and stared at his opponent, noticing the dark patch of blood on the right shoulder of Cestius’s tunic, where Macro had stabbed him as they had struggled for control of the door at the end of the tunnel. The point of the big man’s sword quivered as his injury caused his arm to tremble.
Cato stepped forward and feinted to the right, then cut under Cestius’s blade and stabbed to the left. It was a simple attack, intended to test the other man’s responses rather than draw blood. With a desperate motion Cestius knocked the sword aside and backed away, closer to the base of the imperial box which was a scant few feet behind him. Cato made to attack again, and this time Macro went in from the other side. Cestius warded them off with a flurry from his torch and sword, and then his heel struck the solid wall behind him. There was no room to manoeuvre any longer and Cato sensed that he would react in the only way left to him now, a wild attack.

‘Careful, Macro.’

‘Don’t worry, I know his kind,’ Macro replied without taking his eyes off Cestius.

The staff of the Circus were much closer now and one of them called out, ‘Oi! What do you three jokers think you’re playing at? You’re not allowed in here. Take your bloody fight somewhere else.’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Macro yelled. ‘We’re Praetorians.’ He gestured with his sword. ‘That one’s a criminal and a traitor we’ve been hunting. Now you either help us take him down, or you answer to the Emperor.’

‘He’s lying!’ Cestius called out. ‘They’re thieves. Tried to rob me before chasing me in here. Save me and I’ll make it worth your while.’

The officials drew up just short of the confrontation, not sure who to believe. With himself and Macro reeking of sewage and wearing heavily soiled tunics, Cato feared that the burden of proof rested on their shoulders. They could not risk any delay. He snatched a deep breath and shouted, ‘Now, Macro! Take him!’

With a roar Macro sprinted in, sword held up and ready to strike, while Cato charged from the side. Cestius tried to parry Macro’s sword with his torch but the blazing length was punched aside and down into the sand. Macro rushed on, slamming into Cestius with his shoulder and sending him crashing back against the wall. An instant later Cato cut down into Cestius’s sword arm, slicing through the muscled flesh and down to the bone, severing
tendons so that the other man’s fingers released the sword. Cato’s momentum carried him on; he thudded into Cestius’s side and his sword punched home into the giant’s guts with a wet thud. Cestius let out an explosive grunt and his body stiffened for a moment before he sagged and his legs gave way, and he sank on to the sand. Macro and Cato drew back and regarded him cautiously, but Cato could see by the light of the torch still burning where it lay on the ground that Cestius’s wound was mortal.

He reached down to pick up the gang leader’s sword and toss it to one side, out of reach, before sheathing his own weapon. Macro kept his sword to hand and moved round to confront the other men who looked on in silence. ‘You lot, stay back!’

They needed no prompting and Cato left Macro to keep a watch on them while he concentrated his attention on Cestius. The big man was slumped against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, his hands clasped over the wound in his side. His eyes were tightly clenched for a moment before he opened them and smiled bitterly at Cato.

‘Told you you’d have to kill me,’ he said softly. He closed his eyes again.

‘Cestius.’ Cato leant forward and shook his shoulder. ‘Cestius!’

The giant’s eyes flickered open. ‘Can’t you let a man die in peace?’

‘No,’ Cato replied harshly. ‘Not until you answer some questions.’

‘Fuck you.’

Cato drew his dagger and held it up for Cestius to see. ‘I can make this painful if you refuse to talk, or quick and painless if you co-operate.’

‘I’m dying. What difference does it make?’

Cato smiled coldly. ‘Do you really want to find out?’

There was a brief silence between the two men before Cestius shook his head faintly.

‘Right, then.’ Cato lowered the dagger. ‘First, who paid you to hoard the grain?’

‘A Praetorian centurion. Sinius.’

Cato nodded. ‘What was the arrangement?’

‘He paid me in silver. I laundered the money through my gang and used the proceeds to buy the grain. I used some of the merchants as fronts. The grain cargoes were stored in a warehouse, and then my lads moved it to the cave.’ Cestius smiled thinly. ‘As you know. We were to take a big cut when Sinius gave the word to start selling the grain. That was the deal.’

Cato nodded. ‘Did Sinius tell you who he was working for?’

‘Not my business to inquire into the reasons for anything. Not these days. More trouble than it’s worth. Not that it stopped Sinius blabbing away that it was for a noble cause. All for the good of Rome.’ Cestius sneered, and then his features contorted and he let out a long, keening moan. Cato squatted down beside him, fearing that he might die before he had given up all the information that he wanted. At length Cestius’s pained expression faded and he licked his lips and fixed his gaze on Cato once again.

‘Did you meet any of the other conspirators?’

Cestius was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Not among the Liberators.’

Cato leant forward. ‘Then who else?’

Cestius ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘Who are you working for, Praetorian? Not the Liberators. I know that. Your master is in the imperial household, I’d guess.’

Cato said nothing.

‘Which means Pallas … or Narcissus.’

‘I have one more question,’ Cato said. ‘About the day your gang attacked the imperial party in the Forum. How did you know we were going to be there?’