Free Praetorian by Simon Scarrow

what have you got?’
    ‘Today it’s the Ligurian or the Belgic. That’s it.’
    ‘Belgic?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought they made beer?’
    ‘They do.’ The innkeeper scratched his nose. ‘They should stick to beer in my opinion.’
    ‘I see.’ Cato shrugged. ‘The Ligurian then. One small jar and three cups.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Good choice.’ The innkeeper bowed his head and turned back to the counter.
    ‘Is he trying to be funny?’ Macro scowled. ‘Anyway, Ligurian? Never heard of it.’
    ‘Then tonight should be something of an education for us.’
    The innkeeper returned with the wine and the cups and set them down on the table. ‘Five sestertii.’
    ‘Five?’ Macro shook his head. ‘That’s robbery.’
    ‘That’s the price, mate.’
    ‘Very well,’ Cato cut in, fishing the coins out of the small sum that Narcissus had advanced them. ‘There.’
    The innkeeper swept the coins off the top of the table and nodded his thanks.
    Cato picked up the jar and sniffed the contents. His nose wrinkled at the sharp acidic odour. Then he poured them each a cup of the dark, almost black, wine. Macro raised his in a mock toast and took a mouthful. At once he made a face.
    ‘By the gods, I hope there’s better inns close to the Praetorian camp.’
    Cato took a cautious sip and felt the sour, fiery flow all the way down into his guts. He set the cup down and leant against the wallbehind his back. ‘Just have to hope our contact turns up soon.’
    Macro nodded. They sat and waited in silence, while around them the locals drank copious amounts of the only available wine, seemingly oblivious to its rough flavour. There was a cheerful atmosphere, except at the table where the two soldiers sat, waiting with growing impatience as night fell outside. At length Macro stirred, drained his cup with a wince, and stood up. He gestured towards the woman still sitting in the alcove.
    ‘I’m, er, just going over there.’
    ‘Not now, Macro. We’re waiting for someone. Another time.’
    ‘Well, he ain’t showed up yet, so I might as well enjoy myself.’
    ‘We shouldn’t risk drawing attention to ourselves.’
    ‘I’m not.’ Macro nodded towards the drawn curtains. ‘Just fitting in with the locals, as it were.’
    As he spoke, one of the curtains covering the alcoves was gently drawn back and a tall sinewy man with short dark hair eased himself out of the alcove. He had already pulled on his tunic, and held a neck cloth in one hand. Behind him a woman was slipping on the short tunic that signified her trade. He turned and tossed a few coins on to the couch and then made his way out into the middle of the room.
    ‘There,’ said Macro. ‘No one’s paying him any attention.’
    Cato watched as the man glanced round and then saw the two empty stools at their table. He came over. ‘May I?’
    Cato shook his head. ‘No. We’re waiting for a friend.’
    ‘I know. That’s me.’ The man smiled and then sat down opposite the two soldiers. He raised his hand so that they could see his ring and then laid it down close by Cato’s hand so that he could see that the designs were identical. Cato looked at him carefully, noting the dark eyes, smoothly shaven cheeks and the small tattoo of a half-moon and star on his neck, before it was hidden by the strip of cloth he arranged loosely about his neck. Cato felt a stab of mistrust even as the man lowered his voice and spoke. ‘Narcissus sent me.’
    ‘Really? Then what’s your name, friend?’
    ‘Oscanus Optimus Septimus,’ he said in a low tone that Cato could just make out. ‘And I’ll have that ring back, if you don’t mind.’ He held out his hand.
    Cato hesitated a moment before he took off the ring and handed it over. ‘I assume that’s not your real name.’
    ‘It serves. And as far as anyone is concerned from here on in, you are Guardsmen Titus Ovidius Capito and Vibius Gallus Calidus, is that clear? It would not be wise to reveal your real