PRAETORIAN IV
***
Lions of Rome
by S. J. A. Turney
For Kate and her gladiator
Good friends and colleagues
Cover design by Dave Slaney.
All internal maps are copyright the author of this work.
Published in this format 2018 by Mulcahy Books
Copyright - S.J.A. Turney
First Edition
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Also by S. J. A. Turney:
The Praetorian Series
The Great Game (2015)
The Price of Treason (2015)
Eagles of Dacia (2017)
The Damned Emperors (as Simon Turney)
Caligula (2018)
Commodus (2019)
The Marius' Mules Series
Marius’ Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)
Marius’ Mules II: The Belgae (2010)
Marius’ Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)
Marius’ Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2012)
Marius’ Mules V: Hades’ Gate (2013)
Marius’ Mules VI: Caesar’s Vow (2014)
Marius’ Mules: Prelude to War (2014)
Marius’ Mules VII: The Great Revolt (2014)
Marius’ Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis (2015)
Marius’ Mules IX: Pax Gallica (2016)
Marius’ Mules X: Fields of Mars (2017)
Marius’ Mules XI: Tides of War (2018)
The Ottoman Cycle
The Thief's Tale (2013)
The Priest's Tale (2013)
The Assassin’s Tale (2014)
The Pasha’s Tale (2015)
Tales of the Empire
Interregnum (2009)
Ironroot (2010)
Dark Empress (2011)
Insurgency (2016)
Emperor’s Bane (2016)
Invasion (2017)
Jade Empire (2018)
The Templar Series
Daughter of War (2018)
The Last Emir (2018)
Roman Adventures (for children)
Crocodile Legion (2016)
Pirate Legion (2017)
Short story compilations & contributions:
Tales of Ancient Rome vol. 1 - S.J.A. Turney (2011)
Tortured Hearts vol 1 - Various (2012)
Tortured Hearts vol 2 - Various (2012)
Temporal Tales - Various (2013)
A Year of Ravens - Various (2015)
A Song of War – Various (2016)
For more information visit http://www.sjaturney.co.uk/
or http://www.facebook.com/SJATurney
or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney
Simon is represented by Mulcahy Associates of London.
Maps
Part One
The Lion’s Pride
“Omnium Rerum Principia Parva Sunt”
(The beginnings of all things are small.)
- Marcus Tullius Cicero
Chapter One – Novo Homus
Lugdunum, March 187 A.D.
Rufinus paused in the doorway and took a deep breath of the spring air which still contained a chill and was loaded with the scent of rain. He had spent the past three days in the townhouse of the governor with all its accoutrements of luxury and glory and had felt no real need to step outside into the real, and very dangerous, world. But things were beginning to move, and this morning’s message had pushed them along a great deal.
He scratched his chin irritably and frowned. Rufinus had grown a beard three times in his life prior to this and each time had been a matter of simply being on campaign and not finding the time, energy and tools to shave. For sixty or seventy years now, since the days of Hadrian, who had only grown his own fuzz to hide his scars, beards had become steadily more popular. They were the growing trend for decades and had, by now, become the norm. Rufinus hated growing a beard, though. On the cheeks it was alright, but only until you could grip it between finger and thumb and then it had to go. On the chin was horrible and felt like some sort of animal was clinging on to your lower face. The moustache continually interfered with eating, drinking and any other mouth-centred habit. And as for the neck… he shivered.
And yet over the preceding months he had grown a beard almost to match that of Severus himself, bushy, curly, and thick enough to lose a squirrel in. It was irritating and itchy and awful, and he hated it, but it was fashionable. He had also grown out his hair into a short mane of shaggy locks that made him feel like he ought to be bouncing around the arena on all fours and trying to eat criminals. It was almost too much to bear, and it made him twitch almost as much as it made him itch…
But he would be the first to admit that he was unrecognisable.
And that was the point.
Because Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus was dead. He had died at the bottom of a cliff in the wilds of Dacia the previous year, and reports of his demise would have reached Rome within months, witnessed by Daizus, who would have reported to Clodius Albinus or Pescennius Niger. Either of those would have sent the dispatch to the capital, given that Cleander had sent him to Dacia, and no one could afford to fail to update the chamberlain. Cleander knew that Rufinus was dead, and with that came a strange freedom, albeit one that required a great deal of ongoing subterfuge.
Rufinus, still recovering from his wounds and accompanied by Senova and Acheron, had stayed with Septimius Severus after their meeting in Athens, travelling east to exotic Syria where the governor had become betrothed to the lady Julia Domna, a beguiling eastern aristocrat. They had dallied there until the end of winter when the marriage proposal was accepted by her father and then they had returned to Lugdunum, of which Severus was propraetorian governor.
The time in the east had given Rufinus the opportunity to heal fully and to recover his wits. At the behest of Severus he had begun to go by the name Aulus Triarius Rufinus, and Senova was now Julia Triaria, his wife. Acheron had been kept as far from the public eye as possible, for the sake of secrecy. Rufinus had questioned the use of his own name as part of his new guise, but Severus had been insistent that it was better to have a name that he would find it natural to answer to than some strange new moniker he would constantly forget. And it was not as though he had been the only Rufinus even in the capital, after all.
And so the old Rufinus began to be forgotten while Aulus Triarius Rufinus surfaced in the east as one of Severus’ comites – his circle of trusted friends. He had begun to grow the beard and hair out there where such a fashion was very much the rage and somehow, through a network of contacts and via his own administration in Lugdunum, by the time the party returned from the east a few weeks ago, Aulus Rufinus was recognised by the Roman bureaucracy, owned land and estates in Italia and Gaul, had served in various lower administrative and military posts in Africa, Gaul and in the Fourth Scythica, all of which had at the time been under the direct control of Severus. Somehow, using his own records, his past and his contacts, Severus had created an entirely new Rufinus who even the fussiest clerk in the tabularium would recognise as authentic.
Senova had taken to the ruse with gusto, dyeing her hair with saffron and henna to a rich auburn, applying makeup for the first time Rufinus knew of, which somewhat changed her appearance, and not necessarily for the worse despite her natural good looks. Her mode of dress shif
ted up to that of a Roman noblewoman, with accoutrements to match. In fact, to Rufinus’ mind she was enjoying the whole thing far too much, for when this was over, she would just be Senova once again, and her husband would be just a Praetorian soldier with a shaky record. But Acheron? Acheron was the only real hiccup in the plan.
Rufinus had not been without the big black hound now for more than half a decade, or at least not for any length of time. He was aware that the great beast was getting older now, but he was still a powerful dog and in rude health, and he was hopelessly attached to Rufinus, suspicious of most others. Yet he was also a talking point, and finding him in the company of the his owner would almost certainly crack or smash Rufinus’ guise. Thus Acheron had, for now, become Severus’ dog. At least the governor was one of the remarkably few people Acheron accepted, though the servants and slaves who were given the jobs of feeding, washing and walking him did so with great care and trepidation.
Rufinus’ hand slipped down to the pouch at his belt that still held the message that had arrived by courier this morning. Sealed with the sign of the Castra Peregrina, Rufinus had opened it with a level of tense excitement, knowing the frumentarius Vibius Cestius to be its author. He felt assured it would be news of import, for Cestius was not a man given to inanities, but he still had not been prepared for its tidings.
His brother Publius had been released. After more than a year in the clutches of Cleander, a political prisoner in a gilded cage, Publius had been sent out into the world, free of interference and control. More than that, Rufinus’ father had come to Rome, the two had spent a short while together, before Publius had taken ship for Tarraco in Hispania, the family’s old estate, favoured for their timely exile.
The knowledge that Publius was free was an immense weight lifted from Rufinus’ shoulders, though he knew his father for a meddling fool, and no good could come from the pair of them having been together. Still, it was better news than he could have anticipated. And for the first time since they had landed three weeks ago, dressed in noble finery and with a beard that looked like a well-pruned shrub, Rufinus had left the governor’s mansion and emerged into the city. Somewhere in the low town called Condate across the river, the governor’s major domo had told him, was a shop that sold the best wine to be found in all of Gaul. Despite his lofty role, Severus’ tastes in wine were those of a soldier, and his favoured jar resembled poor vinegar to Rufinus’ palate. He wanted to celebrate Publius’ freedom, and so he would purchase the best jar of wine he could find and tonight he would drink it with Senova… err, Julia… while Severus quaffed his vinegar.
Patting the pouch containing the note, he set off with an unexpected spring in his step, nodding to the two soldiers on detached duty from the Eighth Augusta as the governor’s guard. This being his first time out of the complex as Aulus, he had considered taking a bodyguard as was the norm with the well-to-do, but had decided against it. A man on his own raises fewer glances than a man with an escort in any circumstances.
Enjoying the freshness of the air and hoping that the promised drizzle would hold off until his return, Rufinus strode along the street, smiling at the various other folk he passed, crossed the grand façade of the theatre and turned, beginning the descent of the steep road that led down to the bridge and the more commercial old town. His senses alert, he was pleased to note that he was raising little more than passing interest from anyone, which was as good as he could hope. This was, after all, his first real test of his new identity, barring those days in the company of the governor in the east.
The street that cut down the steep hillside to the river and the grand stone bridge was vertiginous in places, and the rut in the centre that had been formed as a guide for the braking poles of carts was deep and well-used. For a strange moment, Rufinus was transported back to that day he had first signed on to guard the villa of the treacherous empress Lucilla, when the cart carrying the new recruits from Tibur had careered down a similar slope on the way to the country estate.
That had ended well. And badly, in a way.
As he strolled, casually with apparently not a care in the world, something nagged at him. Years of growing caution and intrigues that had honed his senses and reactions took control. He couldn’t quite say what it was that had grabbed his attention, but he needed to find out. Something was prickling the hairs at his neck.
Very casually, he started to affect a light hobble, cursing and glaring down at his foot. With a heavy sigh, he crossed the pavement to where a heavy stone block sat, carved with an inscription naming the man who’d had the road paved. He sat on the stone heavily and reached down to his boot. As he did so, he subtly picked up a small stone from among the debris below the block, and held it tight as he unlaced and removed his boot. He then held the boot at head level and tipped it up, letting the pebble fall as though it had come from his footwear.
For just that moment his eyes scanned the entire roadway and landed on the source of his discomfort. He knew in an instant why he had felt the strange worry, even as he bent to his boot, slipping it back on and lacing it once more.
A man. A very ordinary man in an ordinary brown tunic with ordinary sandals and an ordinary beard and hair. He carried a basket with some sort of bread and provisions. He was no different from any of the other folk in this street, but for one thing.
He had been across the road, reading a sign on the wall, when Rufinus had emerged from the house. Logic told Rufinus that any ordinary man could easily be there and then here too. Rufinus had reason to be in both places, so why not this man? But logic could go hang. There was an answer to that. Rufinus was in no hurry and was enjoying his first walk out in Lugdunum. He had ambled slowly on his journey, with no timetable to keep to. This man, though, was carrying provisions. He was, therefore, a man with a purpose and times to keep. While he could easily stroll at Rufinus’ pace, it was unlikely that a man in his position would be as slow as Rufinus and that very simple fact had set off the alarm in his head.
The man was following him.
He made sure to sit and be slow tying his lace so that the brown-clad man sauntered past him. He was good. Not once did he look directly at Rufinus as he passed. But again even there he had failed, given the years of training in intrigue Rufinus had undergone. Other folk in the street naturally glanced over at the wealthy fellow sitting on the stone and holding his boot as he cursed. It was normal to be interested in such things. But the man in brown had not even glanced as he passed, so intent was he on not being noticed.
Standing and ostensibly testing the boot to make sure the stone was gone, Rufinus set off once more. Now, just to add a little conspicuousness to himself, he began to whistle a tune that he had heard often in the court in Syria.
What to do about the man. First of all, of course, he had to be certain. He was, anyway, but even Severus, suspicious as he was, would worry that Rufinus was grasping at straws without any further proof. Well, the moment he was certain, he would have to confront the man. Somewhere private.
His gaze now began to scour his surroundings, logging anything and anywhere that might be of use. The man in brown was a little ahead. Rufinus was just beginning to doubt himself when the man slipped on the rut in the centre of the road and flailed, a round loaf of bread wrapped in cloth falling from the basket. The man cursed and stopped, rubbing his sore ankle and gathering his fallen provisions. Rufinus had to force himself not to smile as he once more passed the brown man and became quarry rather than hunter.
The man was good. Not as good as Rufinus, but better than most.
He was sure now. The man was watching him. But the question of why remained unresolved. He had been picked up at the governor’s residence. While it was possible that the man had been waiting for him, it was at least equally possible he was watching the whole residence and had just selected Rufinus because of his mode of dress and interest value.
He had to know. Everything was just too damn dangerous at the moment to leave anything to chance. Eyes
taking in everything, Rufinus reached the bottom of the hill and entered the small suburb by the river. He could smell the port off to his left with its refuse and endless fish deliveries, and he could smell the tanneries and fullers nearby. No wonder anyone with money lived on the hill. He could just see the top of the amphitheatre from here, above the roofs of Condate on the far bank, but he wouldn’t cross the bridge. Condate was reputedly a thriving mercantile place and it would be more difficult to find anywhere appropriate over there. Rounding the bend in the street Rufinus could see the bridge ahead. The bulk of humanity on this street was passing across that bridge in one direction or another, most of the rest turning along the river front and making for the port.
Rufinus settled on a decision. There were four streets between here and the river. He began to slow at the first, making a show of squinting at the street name on the brick wall. Shaking his head, he moved on. He was looking for an address, as far as any observer would guess. He moved no to the next side street and peered at the sign though in truth he was paying much more attention to his peripheral vision. Perfect. This was the place.
With a smile, as though he had found the street name he sought, he turned down it, not once looking back to alert the man following him that he was aware of the presence. This side street had what he needed. It was all-but deserted, with only a few slaves bearing trolleys of goods. It was also noisy and busy in the background, with the sound of industry only overwhelmed by the smell of it. Despite that, there were a few small shops built into the street frontages, and here and there were alleys and entrances to yards.
Lions of Rome Page 1
