Lions of Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  He kept his gaze on that magnificent vessel as their own barge began to slow once more ready to make the right hand turn into the main hexagonal harbour. He could see a company of marines lined up on the deck in gleaming finery, looking like seaborne Praetorians. There was a standard there and a small group of officers at the rail, looking out over the water. Possibly even the prefect, though uniforms were a mystery to Onirus. Still, it might be worth putting in a report to pass on to the chamberlain. Might be enough to earn him a few coins and keep him in wine.

  What happened next came understandably as something of a shock. A crewman bellowed out in alarm, drawing looks from both Onirus and his dour companion. Neither of them knew much about ships, but the note of urgency in the man’s voice suggested that something awful had happened. Onirus turned, thinking of making his way to the captain to enquire, when the entire ship suddenly tipped to an alarming angle. Gripping the rail, Onirus felt his feet slipping out from under him as the barge listed more and more.

  Someone was shouting something about a hole. The ship was sinking. Right here, in the middle of the channel of one of the world’s busiest ports, the barge was apparently sinking! And it seemed to be doing so with alarming speed.

  All along the ship men were staggering and falling about, shouting in panic. Onirus watched sailors leaping overboard into the channel. He turned to Silvius, whose face was a picture of disgust.

  ‘The documents,’ his friend said. In their cabin, which was a sectioned-off part of the hold, they had important documents from the prefect, but also two unfinished reports to their contact in the chamberlain’s employ.

  ‘Fuck the documents… the money!’ Onirus replied. He had brought all his remaining money with him, planning to find a nice brothel where he could spend his evenings.

  The two men lurched away from the rail, skittering along the dangerously slanting deck, heading for the stairs down. Sailors were leaping to safety all around, and only the captain and his steersman remained at their post, bellowing orders fruitlessly, since no one was listening. Twice on the rush across the deck as men screamed and timbers groaned, Onirus slid and almost fell across the boards into the water, but they managed to reach the stairs, and there he paused.

  ‘Can you get my money?’ He didn’t like the idea of going below while the ship was clearly sinking.

  ‘Get your own damn money,’ snapped Silvius, as he started down the stairs. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

  Onirus was not so sure. The deck below was still dry at this end, though he could hear the roar and slosh of water off in the dark somewhere, as it slowly filled the barge. Still, they only had to grab two things from their cabin. He slid down the stairs and followed Silvius across to their door, where the miserable looking man produced their key, unlocking the cabin door and slipping inside. Onirus followed, wishing they had a lamp. It was dark in here, darker even than the gloom in the hold itself. Still, he knew where his purse was, under his pillow on the bunk, and he could find it by feel.

  He ran across to the bed while Silvius crossed to the other side and began to gather up their documents.

  There was a bang and a scraping noise behind them, and Onirus turned in the darkness, panic rising, wondering what the noise had been for only a moment before he realised. The door to the cabin had shut. Forgetting his money now amid his rising fear, he ran back to the door and hauled at it.

  It was locked.

  Silvius had left the key in the lock when they opened it, but how in Hades had it slammed shut and locked? Panic filling his world now, he wrenched at the door desperately. It was a solid timber construction, though. Nothing short of an axe was getting through it without the key.

  Panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. There was no other way out.

  ‘Open the door,’ Silvius snapped, crossing to him.

  ‘I can’t. It’s locked.’

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Onirus wailed.

  The roar of water was becoming deafening beyond the door. The hole in the ship must have widened somehow and the speed with which they were sinking increased dramatically. Water began to swish into the room through the crack beneath the door, soaking Onirus’ boots.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  The report of the sinking of the grain barge Demeter was lodged with the port officials that cold January afternoon. It was generally considered to be lucky, as it could have been so much worse. The barge had been empty, destined to load up in the port, and the entire crew escaped with their lives, the water claiming only two passengers who had been foolish enough, according to witnesses, to disappear to their room below deck while it sank.

  Tusculum, late January 188 A.D.

  Curtius Primus smiled to himself. His last missive to his contact about the movements of the praefectus vehiculorum had been so well received that he’d been given a fat purse of coins. Better even than that, the prefect, Nicomedes, seemed to think that Primus was his best, most trusted man. So much so that even as Primus betrayed his master, Nicomedes sent him to Tusculum undercover with a remit to check the mansio there, as it was rumoured that the man was creaming off much more than the anticipated ten percent of all takings before sending it to Rome.

  A week in the pretty little hill town with his expenses paid and a remit to lounge about in the mansio there, making use of the baths, the restaurant and the rooms, and to go along with it, he had a small fortune from Cleander’s own hand to spend while he was there. He was going to have a rich old time. That arse Nicomedes was such a fool. Primus wondered idly whether he should save half his money in case the prefect assigned him to some boring task in the city the next week, but he decided against it. He would undoubtedly be able to find something of use for the chamberlain and make more cash.

  He glanced across at his companion. The second rider, the only other person within sight, had cost him above the odds, but he had been worth it. Nicomedes had told him not to take guards, since he was undercover and not visiting in an official capacity, but still the roads of Latium were dangerous, and so Primus had hired a man for the trip. In his role as inspector of installations – southern Latium, he had come across the dangers of travel more than once through the years.

  The guard was an ex-soldier with some weird, eastern name that matched his swarthy skin and dark eyes. But he seemed both confident and competent, and the bureau from which Primus had hired him had assured him of a good reputation.

  His eyes slid back to the road. Twin lines of trees bordered it as it bent gently to the left. At the next farm drive it would angle right again. Primus knew the road well, had travelled it on plenty of occasions in his time with the service. He could see the hills above Tusculum now between the trees, just two and a half miles further on. He would be there before dark, settling in to a warm bath before the evening meal. The mercenary could do as he liked then, staying in the city or returning to Rome, as long as he was at the mansio’s door in a week’s time ready to escort Primus back to the capital.

  Danger came without warning.

  An arrow hissed from some unseen source, slithering through the air entirely unanticipated until it thudded with finality into the neck of Primus’ horse. The animal gave an unearthly shriek and bucked. Primus could ride, but he knew he was far from the best horseman in the empire, and he felt a moment of indecisive panic. Should he try and control the beast or leap free?

  Being on foot with some unseen attacker nearby sounded like a bad idea, but the animal was clearly doomed, and he knew he would not be riding the poor thing away from here, so he let go of the reins and tried to jump. The good, secure, four-horned saddle was designed well to keep a rider in his seat, and it took Primus three goes to lever himself out of it as the beast bucked and thrashed, dying on its feet.

  He hit the ground hard, winded, and barely managed to scramble away before the horse landed in the same spot, thrashing wildly. Staring in horror at the animal’s flailing hooves, he backed away further. His eyes swep
t this way and that, now. His guard’s horse had similarly been hit, and the easterner had leapt from his saddle with considerably more success than Primus, not that it had done him much good.

  The ex-soldier had clearly landed on his feet and ripped his sword from its sheath, but he would never get to use it. Already he had an arrow jutting from his left shoulder and another from his right thigh. He staggered and turned pleading eyes on Primus.

  ‘Help me,’ he begged.

  ‘Piss off,’ snapped Primus, his retort punctuated by two more arrows that thudded into the guard, one into his chest and the other his face. The man toppled backwards, howling, to land on the road, shaking in his death throes.

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ Primus managed. He knew bandits were not unknown in the region, but usually they would think twice about attacking an armed man, and they seemed to have had no fear of this easterner.

  Desperately, Primus scrambled further away from the scene until he reached the line of trees beside the road. There, he ducked behind a trunk and sheltered in its lee, shaking like a leaf. If he got out of this he was going to refuse this sort of job in future. Let Nicomedes do his own dirty work. Primus would find something juicy on him and report it to his contact, try and make lots of money. Then he could retire, perhaps.

  Voices emerged over the fading noises of dying man and beasts. He could hear at least four men shouting.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘I thought you had him?’

  ‘I lost him behind the horse.’

  ‘Why didn’t you shoot him first, not his horse?’

  ‘Fuck off, Tiberius, I’m not an archer, am I?’

  ‘He went that way. Across the road.’

  ‘Behind the trees.’

  Primus felt the panic return in a massive wave, then, as booted footsteps clomped across the road, becoming louder as they grew closer.

  Bandits. But maybe they could be reasoned with? Certainly if he just sat here he was doomed, and he’d never outrun four or more men. But he was a negotiator born and bred. Taking a deep breath, he rose and stepped slowly out from the tree, hands raised.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘There he is.’

  There were five of them, in fact, two with bows still strung and in hand, three with swords out, and they were now angling his way, converging on him.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I have money, which you are welcome to. Take it and leave me, and it’ll be worth your while. But bear in mind that I have the ear of Marcus Aurelius Cleander, Chamberlain of the Imperial household and Commander of the Praetorian Guard. Doing me harm would be a terrible mistake with probably fatal consequences. Take the money and go. Easy pickings and no trouble.’

  There was a hiss and a thud, and he turned wide eyes down to the arrow shaft his leg had sprouted suddenly. For just a moment all he felt of it was a strange pressure and a warm numbness. Then the pain flourished. He shrieked as his leg gave way and he toppled to the ground. He’d never experienced agony like this. Was this what soldiers expected? Why would anyone sign up for the army?

  The pain failed to dim at all, but breathlessness ended his screaming as he heaved in air, rolling about on the grass, eyes screwed tight and shaking.

  ‘Oh dear. Had an accident have we?’ taunted a gruff voice.

  ‘Listen,’ Primus said desperately between gasps, ‘you can still walk away… from this. Cleander…’

  ‘Cleander is a treacherous piece of shit, and his days are numbered,’ snapped a bandit as he reached Primus and stood over him, sword brandished.

  ‘He’s powerful,’ wailed Primus.

  ‘Does he feel powerful right now?’ said one of the bandits nastily, a young bearded fellow with a network of scars and a glove on his left hand. The man crouched, as did one of the other bandits opposite him. Primus noted with passing surprise that the second man had a tattoo of a stylised trireme on his arm, along with the name Celeritas. The gloved man did not have any tattoo, but burns and scars marked his arm as he positioned his sword above Primus’ chest.

  ‘I have money,’ he pleaded.

  ‘It’s not money I want.’

  The blade plunged down hard, robbing Primus of his life quickly and efficiently.

  Rome, February 188 A.D.

  Marcus Calatorius looked up irritably from his desk. The noise in the emporium was too much some days. He would have liked to close the folding, concertinaed doors to help keep the office quiet, but it was common practice to have them open here. Closed doors suggested that the business was closed, while open ones invited customers.

  On his desk sat three different deals all waiting to be confirmed and signed off or refused and discarded. He would have to have them finished with by the ides. Severus was not a forgiving boss, and his business interests were important to him.

  But despite their clear importance, they would have to wait until he had finished this. Ideally, he would be writing this letter at home, in the seclusion of his room, rather than here in public. But time was of the essence, and if he was not in his office during working hours, it might get back to Severus, who was a suspicious enough man as it was.

  He trembled slightly as he wrote. He might be sealing his employer’s doom with this letter, and that was no small thing, but Calatorius’ true master needed to know. It had taken him several weeks to confirm what he suspected, but for a man who knew what to look for in figures and reports it was all there if you cared to dig deep enough. The connections to Dionysus were dubious, but he felt that they were tangible enough to mention, and the links to Prefect Rufinus were clear. What Severus was up to he had no idea, but the feeling that the governor was building some kind of web to rival Cleander’s was strong, and he felt the chamberlain would reward him well for the information. Possibly this latest letter would buy him a way into the palace in the chamberlain’s legitimate service. Almost certainly it would buy Severus a one way trip to the Palatine’s cellars, and Calatorius would be out of a job.

  His stylus slipped on the wax and he looked up angrily. The din out there was unacceptable. The emporium was always a noisy place, of course, filled with offices and warehouses, quays and ships, merchants and sailors, but today it was noisier even than usual.

  He glanced out of his door. His office was one of fifty identical ones lining both sides of a wide hallway in a building set back a little way from the dock. From here he ran five different business concerns for the Severan family, though not today, given the import of his troubling current task.

  Outside, in the wide hall, there was a lot of activity and raised voices.

  He rose from his seat and plodded across to the doorway, keeping glancing back at the incriminating document on his desk for reassurance. A quick peek out into the hallway told him all he needed to know. A dozen or so sailors were engaged in some friendly competition of athletic prowess in the wide marble hall, cheered on by the bystanders both mercantile and nautical and a few stray children. Shouts of encouragement and the odd insult were hurled. Many other offices had disgorged their occupants to the doorway to watch the fun. Not so Calatorius. He had more important matters to attend to, although he wished they would hurry up and win or lose so that they could take their din elsewhere.

  With a cantankerous grunt, he dismissed them out of hand and turned back to his work, crossing the office and sitting at the desk. He picked up the stilus once more and paused, trying to recapture his train of thought. The wording was important in any missive like this, especially one destined for the subtle and careful chamberlain, selling out a propraetorian governor.

  The noise outside was so loud now with cheering and screaming and chanting names that he was having real trouble thinking straight, and so loud, indeed, that he didn’t hear the man approach his office until the footsteps were inside. With a start, realising he was not alone, Calatorius snapped his wax tablet shut, fingers edging close to the scraper on his desk, with which he could erase the writing in just a couple of short strokes, freeing him of any incrimin
ating evidence.

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘What can I…’

  His words died in his throat as he saw the bearded sailor closing his office door.

  ‘You can’t do that. I am open for business.’

  ‘I think your business here is done,’ said the sailor in a threatening voice, turning, his non-gloved hand going to his belt. Calatorius’ eyes widened as it came back up gripping a small, sharp knife of the kind used to peel fruit.

  ‘Who are you?’

  But he realised in that moment who it had to be. After all, had he not just written this very man’s name in the tablet beneath his fingers.

  ‘Our mutual friend, your employer, is a trifle unhappy that you seem to be serving two masters.’

  Calatorius’ fingers closed protectively on the wooden tablet case, although Rufinus couldn’t possibly know what was in it.

  ‘I serve only the propraetor, Prefect. No one else.’

  The way you grip that tablet suggests otherwise,’ Rufinus said with an unpleasant smile. ‘Shall we read it together and prove me wrong?’

  Calatorius moved in a flash, one hand flipping open the tablet, the other whipping across and scraping the page clear. A malicious smile crossed his face as he looked up.

  ‘There seems to be a lack of evidence to…’

  His words tailed off as the fruit knife cut through his windpipe. Rufinus had moved fast too, stepping to Calatorius’ right hand side where he was out of the path of the jet of crimson that washed across the desk.

  Thank you for erasing whatever you were telling the chamberlain,’ Rufinus hissed. ‘Saved me one tedious chore.’

  Calatorius could say nothing, indeed could make no sound other than the gravelly, bubbly hissing noise of air and blood escaping through his neck. He stared in horror. He was dead. He’d been killed, even if he wasn’t quite there yet.

  He tried to stand but discovered that all strength had left his body and he couldn’t quite lever himself out of the chair. Prefect Rufinus had moved away from him again now, edging around the periphery of the room, staying out of the way of the impressive spray of blood. Calatorius gaped in fascinated terror at the lake of red across the desk and floor, covering those three important documents he hadn’t dealt with and now never would.