He strode now down this new street, his gaze moving from shop to shop as he came to them. These were not really stores to serve the majority of the public, who would visit the tabernae in the heart of town. These were shops that served the local industries. Not well visited. Quiet. And he was, to the casual observer, looking for a specific one of them.
Taking a chance, just to be sure, he stopped at an alley and scratched his head, peering down it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the brown tunic stop at a shop front and pick something up to examine it. Satisfied once more Rufinus moved on, looking into the next alley. None of the alleyways were large enough to be of use – if this came to a fight he would need space to do it right. He sighed. It would have to be somewhere more open, then.
The next gap on his left opened into a fuller’s, as Rufinus’ nostrils already told him. As he approached, he saw a man in a good blue tunic with nice boots emerge, a clerk with a tablet and stilus beside him, writing as they walked. The man, presumably some sort of overseer, wandered off down the street, and Rufinus made the decision there and then.
He turned into the fuller’s and as he entered immediately stepped left behind the wall. His eyes once more took in the scene. A thug with a club stood across the other side, constituting the main security of the business. Two freedmen moved around the place, snapping orders at the workers. The rest of the population were poor slaves in one of the less favourable destinations slavery could take you: treading the wool in the vats of urine to remove the impurities.
The whole place smelled as bad as any latrine Rufinus had ever used, and his nose hairs were curling as he breathed. One of the freedmen gave an alarmed call, and the bruiser with the club started to move purposefully around the edge, heading towards Rufinus, waving.
It all happened before the man could do anything about it, though.
Brown-tunic ducked his head in through the entrance. He had been astute enough not to just walk in, but had not quite reckoned on Rufinus being right next to the entrance and ready for him. The Praetorian’s big arm slipped around his pursuers neck and pulled him in. The basket of comestibles fell away, bounced and ended up in a vat of piss, being trodden in by a slave who complained and yelped at the obstruction.
The man struggled, taken by surprise, but Rufinus was not going to give him time to recover. Spinning him, he released his grip and as the man reeled, trying to regain his wits, Rufinus gave him a solid jab to the sternum, not hard enough to crack it but plenty strong enough to cause pain. He followed up with a punch to the gut that winded the man in the brown shirt, who staggered backwards, gasping. The man reached the edge of one of the urine vats, whose occupant scrambled out and ran away. He teetered there for a moment, about to fall into the murk, and Rufinus grabbed hold of his tunic, holding him up.
‘Here, what’s this?’ snarled the security guard, approaching with a brandished club. He was undecided as to what to do with this interloper and his victim. His orders would largely be to keep the slaves in line, and smacking a noble on the head with a club without finding out why he was there first could be a terrible career move for any man.
‘This is a private matter,’ Rufinus replied, without taking his eyes off the man in his grip. ‘Go about your business and forget that this happened and there will be enough denarii in it for you and your friends over there to keep you drunk for a week.’
Threats would have done nothing with a man like that, and demands would probably rile him, but bribery was a whole different matter. The club man narrowed his eyes for a moment, glanced across at the nearest freedman, who nodded, and then smiled.
‘Didn’t see a thing, mister.’
A moment later he had turned his back and was wandering over to his favourite spot.
Rufinus still hadn’t taken his eyes off the stunned and winded man in his grip. A movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention as the teetering man reached down. Rufinus’ free hand batted his questing fingers out of the way, felt around the man’s hip, found the concealed knife and removed it. Holding it in a threatening fashion, he gently shook the man.
‘Who sent you?’
‘What? I don’t… I don’t know what you… mean. I work for Tiberius Meno. Shipping man.’
‘Bollocks. Who were you watching. What’s your brief?’
‘Tiberius Meno. He owns…’
Rufinus dropped the knife tip towards the man’s groin, drawing widened eyes. ‘If you say Tiberius Meno again I’m going to change your religion.’
‘I…’
‘The chamberlain?’
‘No. What chamberlain? No.’
‘Who sent you. The truth.’
‘Fuck you.’
Rufinus let go. The man yelped as he fell back, but Rufinus caught him again only a foot lower. ‘I can get very nasty. I’ve had a lot of practise at it.’ He lifted the knife so that the man could see the scarred hand gripping it, with the smooth, strange finger ends, devoid of nails. The man gulped.
‘Tribune. Tribune sent me.’
‘What sort of tribune. Give me a name.’
‘Praetorian. Appius Fulvius.’
Praetorians. And whoever this tribune was, his ultimate master these days would be Cleander, whatever this man thought.
‘And what are you to do?’
‘Just watching the governor. Standard practise.’
Rufinus gave him a nasty grin. ‘That’s not standard practice for the Guard. I happen to know that.’
A weary sadness flowed over him. He was going to have to finish the man. Whatever his duties might have been, he had now seen Rufinus. It would not take long to place him, despite the beard, given his injuries. And then everything would start to unravel. But it was not in his nature to kill a man in cold blood. He tried not to think of Scopius in the aqueduct. That was different. It had been personal. But this would simply be expediency. Damn it.
He learned to his cost that he had dithered too long. The Praetorian in his grip had clearly recovered both wits and wind, and had moved his hand again unnoticed as Rufinus wrestled with his conscience. A second knife appeared from somewhere and sliced through the air. Rufinus let go and lurched backwards, his instant reaction the only thing that saved his life, else the sharp blade would have neatly sliced his throat from side to side. In the event all he suffered was a slight nick on the chin that began to bleed.
As he lurched, the Praetorian in brown hit the pool of urine with a cry, piss splashing up in a wave that slopped over all sides of the vat. The man’s shout was cut off with a watery gurgle as the vat’s contents washed over him, filling his mouth. He rose like some latrine demon, coughing and gaging, cursing and blinking away the stinking liquid, still brandishing the knife.
Rufinus punched him. It was not a carefully placed, planned boxing move. It didn’t really need to be with the man half-blinded, choking and swaying. It was a simple right hook to the man’s face that broke his nose and pulled the wits from him once more. He fell again with another splash and this time Rufinus cursed as the urine soaked his boot.
The man had to be finished, but at least now Rufinus felt a little better about it. This was far from an innocent man, and he embodied, to Rufinus, everything that was wrong with the Praetorian Guard these days. He glanced for a moment at the knife in his hand and decided against it, letting that go to fall into the vat along with its owner. The authorities would have to be notified of the body eventually, and knife wounds would demand a thorough investigation. But a man who had apparently fallen into a vat of piss, hit his head and drowned? That was nice and easily wrapped up for any Urban Cohort, and they could tick all the boxes and be in the tavern for drinks without having to go through any inconvenient real work.
Rufinus crouched, not wanting to kneel in what was all over the floor, and reached out with a strong hand, grabbing the tunic at the man’s neck and pushing him back down into the vat. He squawked and then disappeared beneath the surface. For a few unpleasant moments he thrashed
and kicked and then paused, jerked a few more times, and then finally fell still.
Rufinus held him there a minute longer, just in case, and then lifted him, committing his face to memory, just in case. As he did so, a chain fell out of the man’s tunic neck, and Rufinus noted the bronze scorpion hanging on it. So they were taking to wearing the symbol like that now? With a jerk, he pulled the pendant, snapping the chain. The body fell back and splashed into the vat once more and Rufinus rose with his prize. He strode over towards the thug with the club, whose whole life was spent amid this horrible stuff and who had no qualms about taking a good sum of money from the stranger’s urine soaked hand. Rufinus paid him handsomely.
‘A little extra for the mess,’ he explained.
He left the fuller’s, smiling at the security man’s face as he worked through how he was going to explain a drowned man with two knives in one of the vats. He would do it. For that amount of money, Rufinus was sure of it.
He took a different route home, all thoughts of wine purchase gone from his mind. Marching on to the end of the street, trailing the reek of the fuller’s with him as he went, he turned a corner and made for the western end of the port, where a less imposing street ran up the slope to the high city, the almost sole province of workmen and teamsters. This he climbed, raising horrified faces from even the poor and the enslaved at the smell he emitted. At the top, he hurried back to the governor’s palace.
The two soldiers from the Eighth on guard at the door stared at him as he approached. He was well enough known to them that they admitted him without incident, but as the door closed, Rufinus heard the brief explosion of laughter before the portal shut with a click.
He moved through the house, raising startled astonishment and gagging noises from everyone he encountered and finally found Severus in his office. The great leonine governor with the swarthy skin and dark eyes looked up from his desk as Rufinus entered, and his brow creased.
‘Where did you acquire that smell?’
Rufinus cast the broken chain with the scorpion pendant onto the table, where it landed with a clink. ‘You are being watched by Praetorians, probably on Cleander’s orders. For now they have two eyes less on you, but I’ll bet there are more in the city yet.’
Severus frowned and lifted the pendant with his stilus, unwilling to touch it, peering at the design.
‘Cleander is casting his net ever wider. Did you clear up after yourself?’
‘Some poor bastard tripped into a fuller’s vat, banged his head and drowned in piss,’ Rufinus replied. ‘Or at least I believe that’s the way it’ll be recorded by the time the report reaches your desk.’
‘Good. I have news and was planning on a working lunch with you and a few others. I whole-heartedly recommend you visit the bath house first, though. I suspect the wine will go off with just being near you.’
Rufinus gave him a sour look. ‘I need to take some time off.’
‘You’ve barely started,’ noted Severus. ‘But as it happens I have a new appointment for you anyway. You can squeeze in a visit to your brother before you begin.’
Rufinus frowned. He’d long since given up being surprised when Severus knew things before he had any right to. As long as he was on your side that was all to the good. ‘New appointment?’
Severus nodded. ‘Aulus Triarius Rufinus, you are hereby appointed Prefect of the Misenum fleet by order of the emperor, ratified by consent of the senate.’
Rufinus stared as Severus lifted a scroll case bearing the imperial seal, made to pass it over, then thought again and replaced it. ‘Perhaps you can read it after your bath.’
‘Prefect of the fleet?’
‘The Praetorian fleet,’ corrected Severus.
‘But I’m… I’m nobody. I don’t even really exist.’
‘Oh, you have an illustrious family history, young prefect. In fact, your father and I served together years ago.’
‘But he doesn’t exist either.’
‘Please don’t go letting logic get in the way out our work, Rufinus. The fact is that there are very few positions of import that are not appointed or ratified by Cleander these days. Prefect of the fleet just happens to be one that he has not got his claws into yet. And I like the idea of having fast ships at our command should we need them. We are beginning our great task now, Rufinus. All must be put in place in preparation. So go visit your villa in Hispania and see your brother, but make sure he does not drop your continuing existence into conversation with anyone. And then, when you’re done, don’t come back here. I shall send your wife and your dog to the safe house in Cemenelum, and you must head from Hispania straight to Misenum, where you will need to present yourself to your subordinates. I will leave messages for you there. Good luck.’
Rufinus continued to stand for a long moment, slack-jawed, staring at the appointment orders, which was clearly what the scroll case contained. Prefect of the fleet?
Today was just full of surprises…
Chapter Two – Villa Marcia
Tarraco, Hispania, April 187 A.D.
Rufinus paused at the twin lines of Cypress trees that marked the start of the white, chalky drive leading up to the villa. The tension he had felt throughout the trip from Massilia, combined with the strange excitement of seeing Publius again, was now building exponentially as he approached the journey’s end. He felt a frisson across his skin, prickling the flesh and raising the hairs.
‘Wait,’ murmured one of the four escorts that had accompanied him all the way from Lugdunum, and made a few gestures to his companions. Rufinus’ eyes narrowed with suspicion. Ostensibly they were four ordinary veteran legionaries from the Eighth Augusta, assigned by Severus. And they were definitely experienced fighting men. But they appeared brighter than your average legionary and a lot quieter, more agile and more subtle. There was no way to tell for sure, and the men had snorted derisively when he’d mentioned the subject, but he’d be willing to place a good wager that at least one of them was actually a member of the frumentarii – that secretive subsection of the army that moved about within the forces, acting as the eyes and the ears – and sometimes the knife – of the emperor. They certainly had that same inscrutable professionalism he’d come to expect based on his experience with Dis and Vibius Cestius. Still, if they were frumentarii, that only made them likely more trustworthy, for they would die for the emperor and owed no loyalty to Cleander whatsoever. Something that once upon a time could have been said for the Praetorians.
Rufinus held up a hand to object, but the soldier shook his head. ‘There’s no point in having a guard if we’re not permitted to guard you. And you might not be one of the Eighth, sir, but you’re Prefect of the Fleet now. It doesn’t do for a gentleman of your rank to get down and dirty with bruised knuckles.’
Bruised knuckles? Did the man know Rufinus was a boxer, and if so how, given that he wasn’t that man any more. They had to be frumentarii.
‘I trust your judgement,’ he replied, levelly, ‘but I also know this villa and its estate like the back of my own hand. Two of you peel off left. There’s a side path about three hundred paces down the drive that leads to a small industrial complex with a wine press. From there you can follow the vegetation at the edge of the vineyards and almost reach the house itself unnoticed. Don’t go inside without me.’ He turned to the others. ‘You two come with me. When I pass through the gate, I’ll be visible from almost all angles. That should draw anyone out. You can follow the perimeter wall and deal with them, alright? I promise I’ll try not to get into a sword fight.’
The men looked neither convinced nor approving, but all nodded their consent anyway. The small five-man party moved on down the path between the lines of neat cypresses and their leader’s gaze remained on the distant shape of the main structure. The villa. Rufinus hadn’t been here since that day he and his father had argued and called one another unspeakable things that could never be unsaid.
He had left the villa a young man, still green and untri
ed. He had been wealthy and privileged, well-educated and expected to climb the cursus honorum in appropriate stages, beginning his career with a lengthy sinecure as a tribune in one of the legions. He had the best clothes, the best wine, the best oratorical tone. All this was limited, of course, to the confines of Hispania. The governor there was sympathetic to the family’s plight, and could still secure Rufinus such positions, but their influence in Rome had evaporated like a spring’s morning mist. Still, for an unpopular family in self-imposed exile, he could still have risen to perhaps a quaestor’s role, for they might be exiled, but they were still of good blood.
Instead, he had left under a cloud with nothing but his good clothes, a few days’ worth of food, his sword and a large bag of coins, and had marched off and signed on as a recruit at the lowly rank of soldier in a legion where he could have been one of the six most senior officers.
And here he was coming back, very different and almost unrecognisable. Now he was a prefect, a rank usually gifted to the equestrian class and not his own patrician blood, yet with impressive power and influence. He was no young and naïve scion now; he was scarred and weary, and not a little bit wily along with it. He wore only a drab tunic and breeches beneath a waxed caracalla – a Gallic military-style cloak.
At the side path he’d spoken of the two soldiers separated, trotting off towards the collection of tile-roofed buildings where the estate workers processed the harvest and began the production of the villa’s wine. Casting his mind back to the tent mates with whom had endured the wars against the Marcomanni in the snowy north, he could hardly imagine that lot of farting bruisers sneaking around like this and engaging in skullduggery and observation. They’d all been brave and good with a sword, but half of them wouldn’t have noticed if Jove himself had trodden on them, unlike Rufinus’ escort.
Lions of Rome Page 2
