The Blood of Rome

Book 17: Eagles of the Empire

by Simon Scarrow

Genres: Historical Fiction; Ancient; War & Military; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

The gripping Cato and Macro adventure in Simon Scarrow's best-selling Eagles of the Empire series, not to be missed by fans of Conn Iggulden and Bernard Cornwell.

It is AD 55. As trouble brews on the eastern fringes of the Roman Empire, Tribune Cato and Centurion Macro must prepare for war....

The wily Parthian Empire has invaded Armenia, a frontier territory claimed by Rome, ousting King Rhadamistus. The king is ambitious and ruthless, but he is vital to Rome's strategic interests. General Corbulo must restore him to power while also readying the troops for war with the powerful Parthian Empire. Corbulo orders new arrivals Cato and Macro, and their elite cohort of Praetorian Guards, to carry out the task.

Marching into unmapped and unfamiliar terrain to restore an unpopular king is a perilous mission. Allies cannot be trusted, and foes lurk on all sides. The bravery and skill of the Roman army will be tested to the limit....

Release date: September 3, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Ctesiphon, capital city of the Parthian Empire, March, AD 55

The setting sun lit up the broad stretch of the Tigris river, so that it gleamed like molten gold against the pale orange of the sky. The air was still and cool, and the last clouds of the thunderstorm that had drenched the city had passed to the south, leaving the faintest odour of iron in the gathering dusk. The servants of the royal palace were scurrying about their duties as they prepared the riverside pavilion for that evening’s meeting of the king and his council to discuss the latest Roman threat to Parthia. They were urged on by the impatient shouts and blows from the chamberlain, a thin rake of a man, prematurely grey with the anxiety that came from attending the irascible ruler of an empire that stretched from the banks of the Indus to the borders of the Roman province of Syria. King Vologases was a man bent on reviving the grandeur of Parthia and was not prepared to suffer anyone who stood in the way of his destiny, to the smallest degree. Neither rebellious noble, nor clumsy or inefficient servant. The last chamberlain had failed to ensure that the food served at a banquet had been sufficiently hot when it reached the royal table. For that he had been flogged almost to death before being thrown into the street. The current chamberlain was determined not to follow his example, and so he cursed and beat his underlings as they set up the divans, piled fuel by the braziers and hung thick embroidered screens on three sides of the pavilion. The fourth was left open for the king and his guests to enjoy the view of the river as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the stars came out and shimmered on the dark waters of the river.

When the last silk cushions had been carefully deployed, the servants backed to the side of the enclosed space and waited as the chamberlain scrutinised their work and bent to make a handful of minor adjustments until satisfied that there was nothing his master could take exception to. Not that Vologases was inclined to closely inspect every detail of the luxury he was accustomed to living within. Still, the chamberlain mused, better to be scrupulous than take the slightest risk of incurring the king’s wrath. Having completed his inspection, he clapped his hands loudly.

‘Away, you dogs! Bring the fruit and wine.’

As they began to trot away, he turned to his assistant. ‘And you, tell the kitchen master to have the meal readied to be served the instant I give the word.’

His assistant, a younger, corpulent man who no doubt aspired to replace him, nodded and scurried away. The chamberlain cast another look round at the handiwork of his staff and then stood in front of the king’s dais and narrowed his eyes as he inspected the large divan, cushions and covers minutely. He leaned forward to ease out a crease in the cloth and then stood back and folded his arms in satisfaction. Then, uncharacteristically, he gave a thin smile and glanced around warily. But he was quite alone. It was a rare moment in his life, consumed as it was with the myriad duties of his post. The interlude would be brief enough before the servants returned with the fruit and wine, along with the royal taster, who would sample each bowl and jar at the behest of the chamberlain to ensure that King Vologases would be able to eat and drink safely. Vast and enduring though Parthia was, the empire’s rulers were less enduring, regularly falling victim to the plots of powerful nobles, or the ambitions of members of the royal family.

The chamberlain breathed deeply as he smiled at the royal divan and felt an almost irresistible urge to bound forward and throw himself upon its silk cushions, unobserved. It would be the act of a moment and no one would ever know. His heart quickened at the prospect of such an extraordinary breach of protocol, and for a few breaths he tottered on the brink of temptation. Then he drew himself back and covered his mouth in horror at the thought of what would become of him if the king ever discovered what he had done. Although the chamberlain was quite alone, the fear of his master ruled his heart and he quailed at his fleeting madness. With an anxious gasp he hurried to the top of the steps leading down to the gardens either side of the path that stretched towards the bulk of the palace. The first of the servants was returning, laden with a large silver platter of figs, dates and other fine fruits.

‘Run, you idle dog!’ the chamberlain snapped, and the man broke into a trot as he struggled not to upset the arrangement on the platter.

The chamberlain took a last look at the setting and offered a quick prayer to Mithras that his master would find nothing amongst the arrangements to displease him.

When the king and his small retinue emerged from the palace, the sun had slipped beyond the horizon and a band of bronze sky stretched across the shadowy landscape across the river. Above, the bronze gave way to violet and the dark velvet of night, where the first stars glittered like tiny specks of silver. A party of bodyguards marched in front, armed with lances and wearing their flowing, richly embroidered trousers tucked into their leather ankle boots. Scale armour cuirasses and conical helmets gleamed in the light of the torches and braziers burning either side of the path. But their appearance was as the basest metal to the purest gold compared to the magnificence of their master. Vologases was a tall, well-built man with a broad brow and square jaw, made to look more square still by the meticulous trimming of his dark beard. His eyes were equally dark, like polished ebony, which lent his gaze a formidable intensity. Yet there appeared to be humour in his expression too. His lips lifted at the very edges so that he smiled when he spoke in his deep, warm voice. And, indeed, he was capable of wit and kindness, alongside his wisdom and ambition, and his soldiers and his people regarded him with loyal affection. But those who knew him well were wary of the mercurial change in mood that he was capable of and smiled when he smiled and stood in rigid, fearful silence when he raged.

This night his mood was sombre. News had reached the Parthian capital that Emperor Claudius was dead, murdered, and that he had been succeeded by his adopted son, Nero. The question for Vologases was how the change of reign might affect the strained relationship between Parthia and Rome, a relationship that had soured in recent years. The cause, as ever, was the fate of Armenia, the hapless border kingdom caught between the ambitions of Rome and Parthia. Some four years earlier a pretender to the Armenian throne, Prince Rhadamistus of the neighbouring kingdom of Iberia, had invaded Armenia, killed the king and his family, and installed himself as the new ruler. Rhadamistus had proved to be as cruel as he was ambitious, and the Armenians had appealed to Vologases to save them from the tyrant. So he had led his army against Rhadamistus, who fled his capital, and placed his brother Tiridates on the throne. It was a provocation, Vologases knew, since Rome had regarded Armenia as within the Roman sphere of power for over a hundred years now. The Romans were not likely to regard Parthia’s intervention favourably.

The chamberlain, who had been waiting at the entrance, bowed to the waist as the party climbed the steps into the pavilion. The bodyguards took their positions outside, except for the two largest men, who stationed themselves either side of the king’s dais. Vologases eased himself down on to the divan and settled comfortably before he gestured to the members of his high council.

‘Be seated.’

In a formal setting his guests would have remained standing before their master, but Vologases had deliberately chosen the pavilion and put court protocol aside to encourage his subordinates to speak freely. Once they were seated on the divans, the king leaned forward, plucked a fig from his platter and took a bite, thus giving permission for the others to eat as they wished.

Vologases tossed the half-eaten fruit back on the platter and gazed round at his guests: Sporaces, his finest general; Abdagases, the royal treasurer; and Prince Vardanes, the eldest son of the king and heir to the Parthian throne. An ambassador from Tiridates completed the gathering: a younger man, about the same age as the prince, Mithraxes by name.

‘We’ve little time to waste, my friends,’ Vologases announced. ‘So you’ll pardon me for dispensing with any small talk. You’ve all heard the news from Rome. We have a new emperor to contend with. Nero.’

‘Nero?’ Sporaces shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I recall the name, sire.’

‘It’s hardly surprising. He was only adopted a few years back. Son of Emperor Claudius’s last wife by a previous marriage.’

‘The same wife who happens to be Claudius’s niece,’ Vardanes added wryly. He clicked his tongue and raised an eyebrow. ‘Those Romans, eh? Quite the decadent type. Never anything short of scandalous.’

The others smiled at his comment.

‘What do we know of this Nero?’ Sporaces continued. The general was a veteran who had little time for levity, a characteristic that suited his thin, almost gaunt features. Most of those in the royal court held his boorish manners in low regard, but Vologases knew his worth as a soldier and prized his talents. Moreover, as the son of a Greek mercenary and a whore from Seleucia, Sporaces was despised by the great nobles of Parthia and therefore posed no threat to Vologases.

The king nodded to Abdagases, who ran the network of spies that Parthia used to glean information about events within the Roman Empire. ‘You’ve read the full report. You tell them.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Abdagases cleared his throat. ‘Firstly, he’s young. Only sixteen years old. Barely more than a boy.’

‘Maybe so.’ Sporaces tilted his head slightly. ‘But Augustus was only eighteen when he set out to destroy his opponents and become the first emperor of Rome.’

‘Nero is no Augustus,’ the treasurer contradicted him tersely. ‘He may become one, though the possibility of that is remote, according to our agents in Rome. The new emperor fancies himself as something of an artist. A musician. A poet . . . He surrounds himself with actors, musicians and philosophers. He has ambitions to make Rome some kind of beacon for such people, rather than turn his mind towards more martial matters.’

‘An artist? A musician?’ Sporaces shook his head. ‘What kind of a bloody emperor is that?’

‘One who will play into our hands, I trust,’ said Vologases. ‘Let us hope that young Nero continues to concentrate his efforts on his art and is not distracted by events in Armenia.’

Abdagases nodded. ‘Yes, sire. We can hope, but it may be wise not to be guided by mere hope. Nero may be a dilettante, but it would be foolish to dismiss him out of hand. He is surrounded by advisers, many of whom have the intelligence and experience to cause us problems. Not least because they suffer from the Roman disease.’

‘Roman disease?’ Vardanes cocked an eyebrow, helped himself to a second fig and took a big bite. His jaws worked casually before he attempted to continue with a full mouth. ‘What . . . disease . . . is that?’

‘It’s a term some of us at the royal court have used for those Romans obsessed by the pursuit of glory and their utterly inflexible sense of honour. No Roman noble of any standing ever passes up the chance to win acclaim for his family. Whatever the cost. Which is why Crassus attempted to invade Parthia and came to grief. And Marcus Antonius after him. It’s a pity that they seem to measure themselves by outdoing the achievements of their ancestors, and are driven to succeed where others have failed.’ Abdagases paused a moment. ‘It would seem that the failures of Crassus and Antonius only serve to inspire Romans to regard Parthia as a challenge to be overcome. Reasonable men might have profited from the example of failure, but Roman aristocratic honour trumps Roman reasoning almost every time. Augustus was shrewd enough to realise that he could gain more from diplomacy than from military actions in his dealings with Parthia, and his heirs have followed his example in the main. Even if that meant frustrating the senators urging them to wage war on us. The question is, will this new emperor be able to resist the blandishments of his advisers, and the Senate?’

‘I sincerely hope so,’ Vologases answered. ‘Parthia can ill afford the risk of war breaking out with Rome while we have enemies threatening trouble on other fronts.’

Vardanes sighed. ‘You speak of the Hyrcanians, Father?’

Vardanes was the king’s favourite son. He had courage, intelligence and charisma, qualities useful in an heir. But he also had ambition, and that was an attribute that was as much to be feared as admired. Particularly in Parthia. The king’s expression darkened.

‘Yes, the Hyrcanians. It seems that they disapprove of the increase in tribute I have demanded of them.’

Vardanes smiled. ‘Which is no surprise. And not helpful at a time when we have provoked our Greek subjects by forcing them to put their language and traditions aside to embrace ours, even though Greek is the common tongue across the eastern world. Then there is the trouble brewing up with Rome over Armenia.’ He sipped his wine. ‘I fear we are overreaching ourselves. Particularly with respect to Armenia. Rome and Parthia are like two dogs fighting over a bone.’

The treasurer coughed politely as he interrupted. ‘His Highness oversimplifies the matter. The bone happens to be ours, and those Roman interlopers have no right to attempt to seize it. Most of the nobles of Armenia share our blood. Armenia owed loyalty to the Parthian empire for centuries before Rome turned its gaze to the east.’

‘I think we can all agree that Rome has no right to Armenia. Nevertheless, Rome lays claim to Armenia, and if it comes to war, she will take it. I have heard much about the might of the Roman legions. We cannot prevail against them.’

‘Not in pitched battle, my prince. But if we can avoid a head-on clash, our forces can wear them down, weaken them and, when the time is right, tear them to pieces. Just as hunting dogs kill the mountain bears. Is it not so, General?’ Abdagases turned to Sporaces for support.

The general thought a moment before he responded. ‘Parthia has defeated the Romans in the past. When they have blundered into our lands without adequate intelligence of the lay of the land, or adequate supplies to sustain them. They march slowly, even without a siege train. Whereas our forces can cover ground far more swiftly, particularly our horse-archers and cataphracts. We can afford to trade ground for time in order to let them exhaust their supplies and their strength. But that is true only if they wage war across the rivers and deserts of Mesopotamia. Armenia is different. The mountainous terrain favours Rome’s infantry rather than our cavalry. I fear Prince Vardanes is correct. If Rome wants to take Armenia, it will succeed.’

‘There!’ Vardanes clicked his fingers. ‘I told you.’

‘However,’ Sporaces continued, ‘in order to take Armenia, Rome will be forced to concentrate its forces. Her soldiers are the best in the world, it is true. But they cannot be in two places at once. If they march into Armenia, then they will leave Syria exposed. Not to conquest. We lack the forces to achieve that. Parthia will never be strong enough to destroy Rome, and Rome will never have enough men to conquer and occupy Parthia. And that is how it has always been, and always will be, my prince. A conflict neither side can win. Therefore the only answer is peace.’

‘Peace!’ Vologases snorted. ‘We have tried to make peace with Rome. We have honoured every treaty made between us, only for them to be broken more often than not by the accursed Romans.’

Vologases’ brow creased in frustration as he thought a moment. ‘And for that reason we must be certain that we choose wisely in dealing with the situation in Armenia.’

He turned towards the ambassador sent by his brother. ‘Mithraxes, you have not spoken yet. You have no opinion about the new emperor in Rome and his intentions towards Armenia?’

Mithraxes shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It hardly matters what my opinion is, Majesty. I am an Armenian noble, descended from a long line of nobles, none of whom has ever lived to see our land free of the influence of either Parthia or Rome. Our kings have a habit of being deposed, or murdered. Your brother has been on the throne barely two years. He is no worse than some who have ruled Armenia and—’

‘Choose your words carefully when you speak of my brother,’ Vologases warned.

‘Majesty. I was sent to report on the situation in Armenia and ask for your help. I believe that is best done if I speak honestly.’

The king regarded him closely, and noted that the Armenian did not flinch under his gaze. ‘Courage as well as integrity? Are all Armenian noblemen like you?’

‘Sadly not, Majesty. And that is the problem that besets your brother. As I said, he is no worse than many rulers, and better than many. Yet, he has been obliged to rule with a firm hand in order to establish his authority over his new realm.’

‘How firm a hand?’

‘Some nobles favour Rome, Majesty. Some resent having any foreigner imposed on them. King Tiridates determined that lessons were needed in order to discourage such disloyalty. Regrettably, it was necessary to banish some, and execute others. This had the effect of quelling most of the discontent.’

‘I can imagine.’ Vardanes smiled. ‘But I dare say it might have inclined some to feel just a little more discontented.’

‘Quite so, Your Highness. However, King Tiridates remains on the throne in Artaxata. His enemies are cowed for the present. Though I am certain they will soon appeal for aid in unseating the king. If they haven’t already.’ Mithraxes turned his gaze to Vologases. ‘Therefore, your brother requests that you send him an army to ensure his control over Armenia. Enough men to defeat any nobles that conspire against him, and to dissuade Rome from invading his lands.’

‘An army? Is that all he asks of me?’ the king of Parthia scoffed. ‘And does my brother think I can just pluck armies out of thin air? I need all my soldiers here in Parthia to deal with the threats I already face.’

‘He does not ask for a large army, Majesty. Just a force strong enough to discourage any attempts to remove him.’

‘The Armenian rebels are one thing, the Romans quite another. I doubt they would be discouraged by any force I could afford to send to Armenia.’

Mithraxes shook his head. ‘I am not so sure, Majesty. Our spies in Syria report that the Roman legions there are badly prepared for war. They are understrength and poorly equipped. It has been many years since they have seen any action. I doubt they constitute much of a threat to King Tiridates.’

Vologases turned to his general. ‘Is this true?’

Sporaces reflected a moment before he replied. ‘It is consistent with our own intelligence, Majesty. But if the Romans should decide to intervene, they will bring more legions to Syria, and will be sure to find fresh recruits for the existing legions. Of course, they will need to be trained. Supplies will need to be stockpiled, roads repaired, siege trains massed. It will take time to prepare a campaign. Years perhaps. But once the Romans have decided to act, nothing will stop them. It is the Roman way.’ He paused briefly to let the others consider his words, then continued. ‘My advice would be not to provoke our enemy any further. Rome already feels affronted by having Tiridates placed on the throne. But it has not yet decided on war. If we send troops to aid your brother, that may tilt the Romans towards action. Besides, we do not yet know the mettle of this new emperor, Nero. He may be swayed either way. So let’s not give the war party in Rome any opportunity to persuade him to fight. Instead, I suggest we flatter him with warm words of friendship and congratulate him on his becoming emperor. If he questions our actions in Armenia, then tell him we were forced to replace a tyrant, and that we have no interest in any other lands that border Rome’s territory.’ He bowed his head in conclusion. ‘That is my humble advice, Majesty.’

Vologases eased himself back on his cushions and folded his hands as he considered all that he had heard from his advisers. It was true that Rome’s pride would endure being pricked only so far. Yet he could not risk sending any men to support his brother while he faced potential rebellion in Hyrcania in any case.

‘It seems that I am forced to wait on events. The choice over what to do lies with Emperor Nero. He will decide whether we have peace. Or war.’

CHAPTER TWO

Tarsus, capital of the eastern Roman province of Cilicia,two months later

‘It’s war,’ Centurion Macro announced as he entered the quarters of his commanding officer and slipped his cloak off and slung it on to a chest by the door. He had returned from morning inspection of the troops guarding the silk merchant’s house where General Corbulo was billeted.

‘War?’ Cato looked up from the floor where he was sitting with his son, Lucius. The boy was playing with toy soldiers carved from wood by some of the soldiers commanded by Tribune Cato and presented to the boy as a gift. The Second Praetorian Cohort had been sent from Rome to serve as the bodyguard for General Corbulo and his staff. Cato was still getting used to being addressed by the official rank of tribune, since the men and officers had previously addressed him as Prefect, the rank under which he had won so much renown in recent years. But General Corbulo was a stickler for protocol, and Tribune Cato it had become. During the long voyage from Brundisium the men had come to regard Lucius as a mascot and spoiled him at every opportunity. Cato gently ruffled his son’s fine, dark hair and stood up. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Imperial proclamation. A messenger sent from Rome was reading it out in the Forum just a moment ago. Seems like the boy Nero has grasped the nettle and decided on sticking it to the Parthians and retaking Armenia.’ Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘War it is then.’

Both men were briefly silent as they contemplated the implications of the news. It had not come as much of a surprise as the decision to send the general to take command of the armies of the eastern Empire had already been taken some months before. Still, Cato reasoned, Rome had often succeeded in getting its way by merely threatening to use force in the past, such was the awe in which the Empire was held by most of the kingdoms who had the misfortune to encounter its legions on the battlefield. Perhaps the emperor and his advisers had hoped that sending an officer of Corbulo’s stature would be enough to convince Parthia to abandon its ambition to restore Armenia to its empire. It seemed as if Nero’s bluff had been called. That, or the emperor had been persuaded that nothing short of war would satisfy the need to establish his reign firmly. There was nothing the Roman people liked more than news of another war successfully prosecuted.

‘Well, one thing’s for certain,’ said Macro. ‘We’ll not be ready to march into Parthia for a while yet. Not until the general has gathered enough men and supplies. Could take months.’

‘I’d have thought a year at the very earliest,’ Cato replied. ‘And that’ll be time the Parthians won’t be wasting. They’ll be prepared and ready for us long before Corbulo crosses the frontier.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Let ’em prepare as much as they like. Ain’t going to make much difference. You know what those easterners are like, lad. A bunch of ponces parading around in flowing silk. We’ve faced them before and given them a good kicking.’

‘True,’ Cato conceded. ‘But next time it may well be the other way round. Don’t forget Crassus lost the best part of five legions at Carrhae. Rome cannot afford to repeat such a disaster.’

‘Corbulo is no Crassus. The general’s been fighting on the Rhine for most of his career and the enemy don’t come any harder than those bastards in Germania. If the Parthians have any sense, then they’ll come to terms as quick as boiled asparagus.’ Macro crossed the room and ducked his head into the next chamber. The shutters were closed and the interior was dim, but he could easily make out the woman lying on her side on the large sleeping couch within. ‘Ah, I wondered where you’d got to, my love.’

She stirred and let out a groan before pulling the covers more tightly about her shoulders.

‘Let the poor woman sleep.’ Cato eased him away from the door frame. ‘Petronella was up most of the night with the boy. He’s got toothache.’

‘So why’s he still awake and she’s asleep?’ Macro winked. ‘I think there’s something wrong with my woman, Cato. She’s a slacker and no mistake.’

‘Come here and say that,’ Lucius’s nurse growled. ‘If you want a thick ear.’

Macro laughed. ‘That’s my love! Always up for a fight.’

He turned away and gently closed the door before crossing to the table, where the remains of the morning meal still lay: some bread, cheese, honey and the jug of spiced wine that the local people favoured. Picking up the jug, Macro gave it an experimental swirl and smiled happily as the liquid sloshed inside. He poured himself a cup, then paused and glanced at his friend. ‘Want some?’

‘Why not? Precious little else for us to do here besides getting drunk until Quadratus reaches the city.’

Macro shook his head. ‘That’s a meeting that won’t go well.’

Cato nodded. Ummidius Quadratus was the governor of Syria, one of the most prestigious postings for any senator. At least, until Corbulo had arrived in the region with the emperor’s authority to draw on all the resources, civilian and military, of the provinces bordering Parthia. The general had sent a message out ahead of his arrival, summoning Quadratus to Tarsus to confer on arrangements for the coming campaign. Cato could well imagine how the governor was going to react when Corbulo requisitioned most of his soldiers, equipment and supplies. There would also be the matter of ordering the provincials to stump up further taxes to pay for the repairs to the roads in the region, as well as providing draught animals and wagons for the baggage train and mounts for the cavalry units. Quadratus was going to be inundated with protests from angry town magistrates, claiming that they could not afford such impositions. Not that such complaints would have any effect. It was the duty of the provinces of the Empire to pay up when the army prepared to campaign in their region and there was no avoiding the obligation. Not unless those concerned were willing to face the ire of the emperor when word reached Rome of their parsimony.

‘Quadratus isn’t going to be happy,’ Cato agreed. ‘But that’s the chain of command and he’ll have no choice in the matter. Besides, Corbulo is not the kind of man who takes no for an answer.’

They exchanged an amused smile. In the course of the journey from Rome they had come to know the general well enough to recognise his type. Corbulo was a career soldier; an aristocrat who had a taste for the military life and the talent to go with it. So after serving out his time as a tribune he had remained with the legions rather than returning to Rome to submerge himself in the world of politics. One of the few virtues of the career path of Roman aristocracy, Cato mused, was that it permitted the weeding out of those with limited military potential, while making it possible for those who shone to remain in the army. Corbulo was a soldier’s general. He often shared their rations, and hardships. When they slept in the open, so did he. In battle, once the soldiers had been positioned and given their orders, he led from the front. He pushed his men hard, and pushed himself harder still. That had won the soldiers’ respect, and grudging affection. This, Macro and Cato had learned from the handful of staff officers Corbulo had chosen to bring with him from the Rhine frontier. The two friends had served under enough poor commanders to welcome being assigned to the general.

There were other reasons to be grateful to be heading far from Rome. A new emperor meant change, and those who had enjoyed the favour of Claudius now faced an uncertain future. New men would be appointed to positions of power and there were scores to settle. There always were in the seething pit of Roman politics. Inevitably powerful men would be accused of crimes committed under the previous regime and there would be trials; some senators would be exiled, some quietly disposed of, and their property would be divided between informers and the imperial treasury. Innocence was irrelevant when informers and lawyers scented blood and, more importantly, money.

Cato had no desire to be caught up in such matters. Especially as he had been rewarded with the estate of his father-in-law, who had been rash enough to be part of a plot to depose Nero in the early days of his reign. The surviving friends of Senator Sempronius had made little secret of their feelings about the source of Cato’s recently found wealth, and he knew that his fortune had come at the price of making enemies who would seek to do him down as soon as they were confident the ti