Rome 4: The Art of War by M. C. Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

my business. They wanted to know about Pantera and so I told them what I knew.
    ‘There was a boy Nero wanted that the others didn’t want him tohave. Pantera bought him with a promise.’
    ‘What kind of promise?’
    Caecina asked that, and this was not the affable general, the man-amongst-men who led from the front all the way from the Rhine, beloved by his officers and men alike, and known for his leonine courage and humour. This Caecina was angry, clearly, but it wasn’t clear with whom. He radiated a kind of hard, brittle danger; nothing so crude as a blade in the belly, more the threat of crucifixion, or worse.
    I was always taught that, if in doubt, it was safest to fall back on formality. Crisply, I said, ‘In return for the boy’s life, Pantera promised to find the man who set fire to Rome, and to kill him.’
    Lucius lifted a lazy brow. ‘Did he succeed?’
    Caecina said, ‘We believe so, lord. He killed the arsonist, and then, later, helped to return their stolen eagle to the Twelfth legion.’
    Listening to that, I thought Pantera sounded exactly the kind of man who should have been helping to rebuild Rome after a year of civil war. I didn’t say it, I’m not prone to suicide, but it must have shown on my face.
    In a voice that crackled at the edges, Caecina said, ‘Pantera has given himself to Vespasian. We have reason to believe he has committed Seneca’s entire network of agents to the traitor’s cause.’
    Standing, Lucius walked around the desk. He was nowhere near as tall as his brother, but far leaner. Fitting his shoulders against the wall opposite, he fixed his gaze on me.
    ‘Vespasian is en route to Egypt. Mucianus is marching towards Rome with his legions. He will take six months to reach us, or at least to be close enough to do us harm. In that time, we must make Rome secure. Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes, lord.’ Only an imbecile would fail to grasp that much.
    ‘Good. In order to bring about this security, we are creating thenew Guard, as you know. Tomorrow’s investiture ceremony will include a lottery, in which each of the new centurions will draw the name of an enemy of the state, apparently at random. You will draw Pantera’s name; of those we trust, you alone can identify him.
    ‘Your fellow officers have orders to kill their target on sight. You, however, will do your utmost to bring Pantera and his accomplices to us alive in order that they may be questioned. Failure to do so will be seen as complicity with his cause. Is that clear?’
    ‘Yes, lord.’
    ‘Then go. Pantera’s ship docked at Ravenna last night. When we know where he’s going, you will be informed. You may choose two or three good men to accompany you, but you will be circumspect in what you tell them. It goes without saying that this conversation has not happened. Do you understand?’
    ‘Lord.’
    I backed out of the doorway, bowing as much to hide the sweat on my face as out of respect for the two men inside.
    That was the night before the lottery. I had lain awake through the hours of darkness wondering how they were going to rig it so that I chose Pantera’s name and by noon I had found out – and I dared not speak of it to Juvens, who had just drawn the name of the man most revered in all the legions.
    Everyone has heard of Trabo, tribune of the Guard, but I can perhaps give you a soldier’s perspective. What marked him out was that he was one of us; an ordinary soldier who became extraordinary.
    He didn’t come from a senatorial family. His father was barely an equestrian, although he had been a centurion with the VIth, and there was a great-grandfather back somewhere down the line who’d won a neck ring for valour serving underMarc Antony in the wars of the Triumvirate, but that was it.
    Trabo joined up at eighteen and from the start he was … you’d want to say unique, but the point is that he wasn’t. He was one of us but he was just that little bit better than all of us at everything.
    He