Lions of Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  Rufinus, holding his key and staring at his secretary, wondered how long a person could talk before drawing breath. Philip seemed to be going for some sort of record.

  ‘Now, with regard to your officers,’ the man said, still without new oxygen, and Rufinus held up a hand that miraculously silenced him.

  ‘Thank you. Clearly you have everything under control. I imagine, knowing the senior ranks of the empire’s military as I do, that former prefects have been largely content to give out a few awards, make sure they can afford to hold a few good parties, use their rank as a sinecure in political circles, and leave the actual running of the navy to men like yourself.’

  Philip’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. ‘A rather astute and undoubtedly unpopular appraisal, I might say, sir. Yes, in truth Prefects of the Fleet come and go with remarkable regularity and few seem interested in the workings of their command. Few indeed seem to know one end of a ship from the other,’

  ‘In that respect, I may not be much better,’ Rufinus admitted, ‘but I am a man given to hard work and I do not approve of men reaping rewards without getting their hands dirty in the process. I intend to do my share of the work, Philip, though as you quite rightly say, it will be some time before I can do anything without constantly bothering you for explanations. For now, though, I would like to leave it all in your capable hands while I settle in. Forget about the meeting this afternoon and schedule one for the morning. I shall likely live in the castrum apartments much of the time. I campaigned in Pannonia for years, so I am more than capable of sleeping amid the shouts of soldiers.’

  I was one of them, after all…

  Philip bowed. ‘As you command, Prefect. I shall have your officers leave you in peace until the morning, then. Do you need a guard of men on your door? Some prefects feel it is a necessity of rank, others prefer their seclusion when they withdraw.’

  Rufinus shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine needing a bodyguard in a fortress of my own soldiers.’

  Images of the many Roman officers who had met death at the hands of an underling drifted through his mind, and he shook them off as Philip nodded. ‘Very well, sir. I shall be in my office, which is beside the entrance lobby, if you need me.’

  With a brief salute, the man turned and marched off, leaving Rufinus feeling a little baffled. With a deep breath, he turned and strode over towards the door indicated. He had to weave between groups of marines and sailors practicing things with ropes, and felt an odd pride in his first real command. In Dacia, he’d been a sort of subsidiary officer, beholden to all the others and very much out of his depth. Here, though he knew nothing about his job or command, he could content himself with the knowledge that all his predecessors had been in the same boat, so to speak, and at least he had some solid military experience, while most of those men would have spent their early days in the military drinking wine and discussing Macedonian tactics in the works of Arrian. This felt true. This was a proper command, even if he held it under an assumed name.

  The key turned in a well-oiled lock in a solid door with a plaque noting his rank, if not his name, beside the frame. He opened it to find a clean and well-ordered office. Tables and scroll racks, a desk with piles of writing tablets and scroll cases on it. A map of the sea on the wall, covering everywhere from Hispania to Syria and Britannia to Africa. Without being told, he was certain that this neatness was not the doing of his predecessor. This excessive order and cleanliness was, he already realised, a mark of Philip having a hand in things.

  He strolled over to the table, noting the door that would lead to his private rooms. Three of the documents on the table bore his name as well as his rank, the rest addressed to whoever held the position at the time and therefore considerably less important right now.

  The first case bore the seal of the Palace, and so Rufinus went to that first, cracking the wax and sliding out the parchment contents. He read it with interest, swiftly. An invitation to an imperial dinner to be held during the Ludi Apollinares next month. While it as a great honour to be asked, Rufinus’ first instinct was to find a way to be legitimately and acceptably too busy to attend. The chance of bumping into men who knew him, even men who hated him, at such an event was extremely high, and even bearded and hairy, he felt it would be unwise to circulate in such crowds.

  The second case bore a seal he did not recognise, so he snapped that and examined the contents. It was a short note from his predecessor, congratulating him on his appointment, none-too-subtly suggesting that he might be able to make ready cash from his position if he works it wisely, and advising him to sit back and reap his rewards without fuss since his secretary was more than capable of running the whole place anyway.

  With a roll of the eyes, he dropped that message and examined the third one, which bore the seal of Septimius Severus. This one was a short note, very much to the point, typical of the governor’s business-like manner.

  Congratulations, Rufinus. No time to settle in. Once you have found this message, keep yourself to yourself for the rest of the day. Do not leave the castrum and do not engage in conversation with anyone you do not have to. Once darkness has truly fallen, leave wearing only a toga. Exit the castrum by the rear entrance that opens into an alley below the baths. Make your way to my townhouse. Do not leave before dark, do not leave in uniform, and do not leave by the main entrance. Come alone. Once you have committed these instructions to memory, destroy this note.

  Rufinus blinked. Was he somehow working for the frumentarii now, as this sounded very much like their sort of business and not the actions of a senior and well-respected commander of a Roman fleet. Still, if Severus needed him, he would go, and the African most certainly wouldn’t make such demands as these without good reason.

  Not long after he had eaten the note, not being able to think of a more thorough solution, a knock at his door heralded four marines carrying his chests and bags from the ship, containing all his worldly goods. As he thanked them and they left the gear in the office, Rufinus wondered if it was coincidence that the top item of the pile was his neatly folded toga. The men saluted and left him in peace once more, shutting the door as they departed.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon tense and impatient, wondering why Severus was in the city, which clearly he was, what he had to say, and why Rufinus couldn’t simply head that way and hear it without all this drama. He examined his new apartments, found them to be easily the match of anywhere he’d ever lived, and visited the small bath house of the castrum to wash away the pervading odour of brine. With several hours still to go before he could leave, he began, despite what Philip had said, going through the baffling collection of lists, orders and requests on the desk. Perhaps one in every dozen he felt he could handle without asking his secretary what in Hades they meant.

  He signed a few and put them in a new pile with a great sense of satisfaction, then spent an interested half hour examining the map on the wall. He’d seen plenty of maps in his time, including grand-scale military ones, but he’d never come across one like this before. It noted the garrison of each of the empire’s legions and the capital of every province, but other than that the land was largely bare, other than where navigable rivers cut through it. The sea, on the other hand, which was usually fairly blank on maps, was a riot of information from trade routes to currents and notable wind systems, ports, known trouble spots, fleet bases and so much more.

  He noted the presence on the coast of Africa of the fleet based at Caesarea Mauretaniae, whose duties included suppressing those same Mauri pirates of whom his brother had spoken raiding Hispania’s coast. He wondered whether perhaps the Misenum fleet should be lending a hand to their lesser African brothers since they seemed not to be up to the task on their own. He would ask Philip in the morning. He also noted the grain routes, which were marked in dotted lines. He was interested to see, as well as the grain routes from Africa and Aegyptus, and other lesser yet still well known ones, a line from southern Gaul that led to Misenum. A supply
for the fleet, clearly, but one that came from Gaul. Not from Gallia Lugdunensis, run by Severus, but Rufinus did remember hearing that the governor of southern Gaul, a man called Cilo, was also a very good friend of the African.

  By dusk he had done just about everything he could do, including putting away all his gear and examining the map over and over again, committing it all to memory. As the last light slid from the sky, he donned the toga as requested, still having trouble settling the folds into place without a slave to help. He would ask Philip about a body slave. Barely had he made that decision before he thought guiltily of what Senova would say. Still, she was a slave no more, and she would have to have slaves of her own if they were to live properly.

  Wistful memories of her began to drift into his mind, and he spent the remaining hour or so wishing she was here in Rome and not tucked away for safety in a villa in southern Gaul. Finally, satisfied that he was appropriately attired and that the light had gone from the sky, he left the chambers, locking the door behind him, and strolled along the courtyard edge until he reached the archway that led to the rear entrance. The marine on duty there was surprised to see him, but he now wore the seal ring of the fleet prefect and a brief flash of it was enough for the door to be opened without question.

  The narrow street outside was empty, though far from quiet with the sounds of the sailors inside the complex and the light blaring out from the public baths above on the hill. Rufinus turned right and shuffled away from the place at the strange pace adopted by anyone who had to try and walk casually in a toga. It took him the better part of half an hour to reach Severus’ townhouse, which stood on the Viminal hill.

  He found the house, whose address and description both had been committed to memory long ago while in Syria, easily. The doorman opened the portal and without asking who he was or even uttering a word, stood aside for Rufinus to enter. He did so and was led to a triclinium with a wide window that somehow, though the careful placement of surrounding buildings, contrived to offer an unparalleled view of the city. Severus was standing looking out across the rooftops, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Governor.’

  ‘Rufinus. Good. Settling in?’

  ‘I will be. Not really had time yet. Why the summons? Is something amiss?’

  ‘No. But your arrival has taken a weight from my shoulders. We have a meeting. An assignation if you like. Two days from now. I had worried you might miss it, but no. You are here. There is a warehouse on the Aventine just south of the Horrea Galbana that belongs to one Publius Zela. It is easily identifiable and bears a sign of five barrels. The day after tomorrow, at the ninth hour, you need to be there. I will meet you at the warehouse, along with a number of others.’

  ‘Might I ask the nature of the meeting?’

  ‘No. You might not. Though you’ll likely already have guessed. You will leave here now. Go somewhere for a bath or a massage, listen to some music, have some wine, and then return to the Castrum Misenatum and do not leave the place then until the time you come to the meeting. In between do not draw any attention to yourself, do not mention my name and do not speak of the meeting, the warehouse or even the Aventine to a single soul.’

  ‘Why are we being so secretive?’ Rufinus pressed. ‘You have every right to be in the city, and so do I, and it is well known that I am your friend and we travelled together in the east.’

  Severus nodded. ‘But our enemy has eyes and ears everywhere and they spend all their time making connections and finding treachery even where there is none. We must remain careful and the less we are seen together the safer it will be for both of us. Only leave the castrum when you have good reason, and preferably when you know it is safe to do so. Cleander has eyes on your headquarters as he does almost every institution in the city. This is why you timed your departure carefully. I have an arrangement with friendly frumentarii who are contriving to keep those watchful eyes distracted at key times to allow us a degree of free movement. Now go. Do your work in the castrum, be completely nondescript and then meet me at Zela’s warehouse at the ninth hour.’

  Rufinus nodded, a mixture of discomfort and unhappiness in his expression as he was shown to the door. He did not like all this subterfuge. And clearly the meeting for which they were bound concerned Cleander. He wondered in what respect, and who else would be there.

  Still, however irritating it might be, he was glad at least that things were beginning to move. Cleander’s fall was imminent, and Rufinus was determined to play his part.

  Chapter Four – Conspiratorial Whispers

  Rome, June 187 A.D.

  The mid-afternoon sun beat down upon the streets of Rome with merciless power. Rufinus, in his toga only though with a discrete knife at the belt beneath just in case, plodded along the lower slope of the Aventine, sweating buckets and wondering, if this was what mid-June was bringing the city, what it would be like in August. The great and the good of Rome would be abandoning the urban sprawl for their seaside villas early this year, especially with disease stalking the streets as it was.

  The nobility tended to think themselves immune to such horrors, living as they did behind high walls in the more exclusive areas of the city, but Rufinus knew they were all as much at risk. More than once a patrician with a nervous disposition had kept his townhouse sealed tight, planted sweet fragranced flowers and refused to accept visitors only to have death come calling anyway. Every house had to eat and cook. Every house had to send its slaves to the markets to buy food and charcoal, and sometimes they came back with more than they bargained for.

  One notable merchant had stocked up with all his goods for half a year, deigning to eat salted meat like a legionary on campaign just to keep his house sealed. He had filled his house and garden to the brim with flowers to ward off the bad airs from the city around. The gardener had brought the plague, and because of the owner’s refusal to open his doors the whole household had been dead half a month before they were found. Such were the stories now abounding in Rome.

  Rufinus was constantly struck by the sadness and horror of what he saw around him but, though he might flinch from contact, on the whole he walked freely as though there was nothing wrong with the city. There was no defence against the plague, no dodging or parrying its blows. If the gods were to be kind, he would walk untouched. If they were feeling wicked, he would die. Nothing he did would change that, and so he slogged on in his heavy white wool toga, making for the address he had memorized with Severus.

  The area bounded by the Aventine hill, the river, and the huge mound of broken pottery that was already nicknamed the ‘eighth hill of Rome’ was a sprawl of warehouses, granaries, workshops and stores. Businesses operated from the district – perhaps up to half the large mercantile companies in the city, even – and traders had their main stores here. Private concerns owned more than half the great structures, and here and there were government-controlled units. The main one of those was the Horrea Galbana, a massive courtyarded complex of warehouses, granaries and offices, all centred on the tomb of the man who’d had it built centuries ago. The Horrea Galbana was the main government store for the gathering and distribution of the grain unloaded monthly on the waterfront emporium nearby.

  But it was no government structure Rufinus was making for today. He turned off the main thoroughfare and moved into the warehouse district with relief, leaving behind the larger crowds. Partially, of course, because of the ever-present risk of plague, but there was also the knowledge that he was bound for some clandestine meeting and that despite his level of awareness and every precaution he had taken, crowds were easy places to follow a man.

  Wary dark eyes watched him now as he moved along a side street, turned down forks and alleys, then made circuits and back to roads he’d already trod, trying to be certain he was not being followed. Every store house in this whole district, whether privately owned or controlled by the administration, had its guards. Privately owned armies of ex-soldiers, ex gladiators or simply thugs with a level o
f self-control patrolled these structures for their owners, making sure their precious commodities were safe. In some areas there were better dressed, higher class knights of Rome moving about offices and doing business deals, and teamsters, workmen and clerks were in plenty of evidence, but many of the buildings were devoid of offices, being simply large storerooms, and so the only life around them was its watchful guards. It was into these areas that Rufinus began to stray.

  He found the warehouse of Publius Zela without too much difficulty, and knew immediately why it had been chosen as a meeting place. The building was in about the most secure location in the entire district. The slopes of the pottery mountain rose behind it, the steep sides treacherous for climbing, formed by broken shards of pot loosely held together by budding tufts of grass. To the north: a wide street that separated it from the massive complex of the Horrea Galbana, to the south: a sprawling, poorly-tended garden of some merchant’s house and to the east: the solid wall of a huge granary. Best still, the only approach by road was either in public view outside the Galbana or a side alley that ended dead outside the warehouse door, surrounded by high walls. There was no easy place for an eavesdropper to lurk.

  Rufinus noted the guards even before he turned into that side alley. Ostensibly they looked no different from the similar groups of private mercenaries protecting other people’s buildings, but Rufinus could see a difference here. These men might be dressed the same as their counterparts elsewhere, but they were not. Few in the streets would have noticed it, but Rufinus was becoming adept at these things. The men watching over Zela’s warehouse were arranged with the precision of Praetorians around the emperor. A military mind was behind their disposition. They were in two rings around the building, the inner ones close to the walls like all other groups, preventing easy approach or access, all within sight of one another. The outer ring was disguised as ordinary folk in the streets.