Rufinus paused. He’d been intending only to libate to the god with wine and incense, but for a moment wondered whether his prayers might be borne aloft better in the blood of a bull or a ram. In the end he shook his head, declining even a chicken, and bought some very expensive Arabian olibanum and a jar of the very best Falernian wine from one of the other merchants. Walking reverentially into the place of worship, he nodded his head in respect to the attendant and to two men who were kneeling on the floor, praying to the sea god for something. He crossed to the altar, proclaimed Neptune to be ‘great’ in the traditional formal manner, and then began to pour wine into one of the purple-stained dishes on the central altar. The stone figures of two Nereids watched him as he leaned across the frieze of Ahenobarbus and placed the incense in among the detritus of used frankincense, and used a taper to light it.
Thus honouring the god, he made his prayer silently, his lips barely moving. For while the public, and Cleander’s spy who would be lurking somewhere close by, would imagine the Prefect of the Fleet to be beseeching Neptune to spare his vessels, or praying for their safety in coming days, only Rufinus truly knew that he was actually thanking the god for swallowing the grain fleet.
He left the temple feeling rather more upbeat than he had done in some time, which lasted all the way to the Castrum Misenatum, though not beyond for there a new message awaited him. Thanking the clerk, he sat at his office desk and peered at the scroll case. It bore Severus’ seal, and Rufinus had to fight hard to dismiss the notion that the governor had somehow already known about the fleet. How could he have? But then the timing was incredibly coincidental if not.
He cracked the seal and began to read.
Rufinus,
Forgive my brevity and directness. I do believe that your time serving the fleets of Rome is almost at an end. You have filled that role admirably, but the time is almost upon us when there are better places for you to be.
If you remember the story you told me when we met in Athens about your friend with the Midas touch, then you will remember who the man with three initials was. It is time he was confronted with his past and made to step down. His position will shortly need to be vacant, for his successor already waits.
I trust you will deal with this matter with your own ‘Midas touch’, swiftly and efficiently.
Yours,
Lucius Septimius Severus
Rufinus stared. Did Severus know what had happened to the grain fleet even before word had reached Rome? It certainly looked that way. He considered Rufinus’ time as Prefect of the Fleet to be up. He had done all he could. Well, that was certainly the truth. He had done all he could, and no man in the role would be able to repair the damage now done. He would, in truth, be glad to give up the role, especially if it meant a return to his real life.
But no. Not that just yet. He could not be himself as long as Cleander lived.
What next then?
His heart lurched as the suspicion fell upon him. P S F were the three initials – those of Publius Seius Fuscianus, the prefect of the Urban Cohorts. The man had been accepting bribes in the form of gold from the Dacian mines controlled by Clodius Albinus, and had been a willing client and co-conspirator there. Rufinus was to persuade him to step down as Urban Prefect? How? He knew what the man had been up to, of course, but he had no proof, since the gold had been taken back by Niger in Dacia. But if P S F was to be removed from office, what did Severus intend? Surely Rufinus could not move into that position? It would be too close to Cleander. He would so easily be recognised and undone.
But whatever the case, one thing was certain: his days with the fleet were almost over and as the plot moved on, accelerating now towards its climax, Severus had new tasks for him.
Chapter Thirteen – Trouble
Rome, July 189 A.D.
Rufinus alighted from his litter and looked around in surprise. The last time he’d seen the Horrea Galbana, from the hill opposite, there had been little life and activity about the place. Now, only nine days later, the street was thronged with people.
It took only moments to realise that these were not teamsters and warehouse labourers or the everyday folk of the region. These were the hungry people of Rome. There was an air of discontent that was almost palpable. His marines closed in a little, creating a better protective cordon about him, leaving the litter bearers to fend for themselves if there was trouble.
And there could very well be trouble.
Along with numerous other government-owned horrea across Rome, this, the main such institution, was one of the locations where the people could come to collect their ration of the grain dole. The whole system had been something of a mystery to Rufinus to begin with, since he had belonged to a wealthy exiled family out in the provinces, and the grain dole had been something that happened to other people.
When he had first learned of it, he had assumed that it was a measure of charity, that the emperor and the senate had imposed a system to feed the poor and hungry of the city. In actual fact the whole system was a lot more subtle and jaded than it appeared. Near a third of a million people received free grain in the city on a monthly basis, which constituted perhaps a third of the city. Those recipients were kept on a list and were thus privileged. But the fact was that those third were the male citizen-only population over the age of manhood. Only an adult male citizen received the free grain. More or less the voting population of the city, unsurprisingly.
That being said, the poor and the disenfranchised gained from the grain dole anyway. Those who received the grain were at least partially those who could easily afford to feed themselves, and their ration was accordingly passed on to their clients, slaves, servants and those who owed them loyalty. Thus did the state buy the loyalty of voters and the voters buy the loyalty and support of their lessers.
Moreover, the bulk free supply of grain in the city kept the grain prices with the private merchants at an acceptably low level, so that the poor who had no one to rely upon for charity might be able to afford to buy bread anyway.
It seemed so charitable while in reality being so political, yet the result was unarguably beneficial regardless.
His gaze took in those in the street. They represented a specific stratum of society. They were, to Rufinus’ eye, the ‘citizen mob’, those who had the right to vote and played a part in the functioning of the great city, but who belonged solidly to the plebeian class with no one below them to shout on their behalf. They were gathered for their grain hand out. The rich would send their slaves to do it for them and the truly poor were ineligible anyway.
Rufinus straightened. He was well-coiffured, dressed in an immaculate toga and with expensive boots. He had arrived in a litter with a guard. He was clearly not one of them.
Taking a deep breath he nodded to the optio, and his guard began to move towards the door of the Horrea Galbana, keeping him surrounded, urging the crowd back. The mob watched him with barely concealed anger, and Rufinus realised now just how dangerous Rome was becoming. On normal days, if a pleb cast at his betters the kind of looks Rufinus was getting, the guards of that better would teach him a lesson. The ire of the city was rising.
He was more grateful than he’d expected to be when they reached the door and he marched inside, past the two men of the Urban Cohorts on guard there. The situation really was becoming bleak, as was silently evidenced by the open doors to the majority of the granaries and store rooms, awaiting delivery of something to store. Very few doors were closed and those that were seemed largely to contain olive oil or other such items. Grain was hard to find.
He approached the office of the Praefectus Annonae, and nodded to his marines to wait outside.
Papirius Dionysus was sitting at his desk rubbing his head in exasperation. His desk was covered in reports and two clerks were busy at work on a huge trestle at one side, compiling lists.
‘Prefect,’ Rufinus greeted Dionysus with a weary tone.
Dionysus looked up, saw Rufinus and turned to
his clerks. ‘Out. Close the door.’
They did so and Rufinus, content that they were alone and only his marines stood even the faintest chance of hearing them, approached the table.
‘Every time you come here, it represents a danger to us all,’ Dionysus muttered.
Rufinus shook his head. ‘I have been ordered to liaise with you among others over the protection of the grain fleet. I am here quite legitimately. And you won’t have to put up with me for much longer anyway. I am standing down before Saturnalia. The senate already have my replacement lined up, though I pity the poor bastard stepping into the mess we’ve left him.’
Dionysus nodded gruffly. ‘Fair enough. To what do I owe this visit then, or have you actually come to coordinate with me over the safety of my grain?’
Rufinus shook his head. ‘Things are moving. Things are changing. With Severus still out in Gaul and keeping his full plan largely to himself, I want to keep myself abreast of the situation. There are angry people outside, so tell me where we are right now?’
Dionysus shrugged. ‘You first.’
‘Alright. My ships have been largely pulled back in from diverse assignments and are now patrolling the Italian and Sicilian coasts and the sea lanes around there. We have secured the strait between Sicilia and Africa and I have ships in Carthage, Syracuse and Puteoli with orders to escort any grain shipments that depart from there. The African fleet has been pulled back from Hispania and with the aid of my ships are containing the Mauri once more. Indeed, with the help of the Third Legion and the governors of the southern provinces, it is believed that we have rooted out two of the pirates’ strongholds and flattened them. Piracy has all but collapsed. I am six ships down after that storm last month, but we have new vessels in production. I am actually being lauded in high circles for my part in the solution of the crisis, but the one who has come off best is Pertinax. He took over governing Africa, promised to end piracy and has more or less done so within a month. He is a golden figure now. I suspect he could have his pick of positions if he but asked. All of this is moot, though. We’ve got safe and secure seas, but there is still no grain, since the majority of the fleet was ravaged in one grand storm. The senate has voted money to replacing them from an emergency fund, and already new ships are being retained, but finding and constructing vessels large enough takes time and there will be no adequate grain fleet until the spring, I am told. So what I want to know is where that leaves us here, Dionysus.’
‘Well, Rufinus, it leaves us deep in the cess pit, up to the neck, as you are no doubt aware. We have less than half the grain we need to fulfil the dole, and I am holding out on distribution until the very last moment in the hope that extra can be found. We have cleared out the state granaries and warehouses in Ostia, Portus, Puteoli and any other main local source. We’ve put in for extra from those provinces who have their own stores set against a bad year such as Achaea, Hispania and Gaul, but it will take time for them to arrive.’
‘And that all means?’
‘Essentially, it is unlikely that anyone will receive their full ration this month. I foresee distributing a half ration of two and a half modii per recipient. That will be insufficient for the bulk of the populace and ill feeling will only rise. If we do not have some kind of breakthrough within the next month, then the following month we will be lucky to distribute a single modius of grain to each recipient, which is a fifth of what they are due. And the public can hardly afford to buy from private sources. With the available quantity so restricted, prices have risen high. A modius of grain that would normally cost a man perhaps thirty sestertii is currently nearing two hundred. I think you can imagine what’s going to happen soon.’
‘Riots?’
‘Very likely. And I and my department and all our installations will be the prime target of disaffection. That is why the men of the Urban Cohorts now guard my door, and that is why I’ve had another missive from our mutual friend. He has instructed me to begin working on Cleander, urging him to stockpile the grain we have in private guarded storehouses. I just need to work out the way to persuade him that it’s the perfect solution, and that instead of making us villains it will make us heroes. Not an easy task, but I’ll do it. I only hope I can shift the blame to him before everything explodes and I end up with my head bouncing around on a spear tip.’
Rufinus nodded. Something else had occurred to him as Dionysus spoke. The Urban Cohorts… Severus had instructed them both to move on with the plan now. Dionysus’ part in it would be to increase misery and tension in the city and then lay it firmly with Cleander. Rufinus’ was to effect a change in command of the Urban Cohorts, the very force that would be required to deal with the city’s rising tensions. He had a sinking feeling about his ongoing role in that respect.
‘Right. Well I have to carry out my own instructions for now, so I had better leave.’
Dionysus frowned. ‘And they are?’
‘Let’s just say don’t call on the Urban Cohorts for help just yet.’
The grain commissioner’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Rufinus gave him a weary nod and then turned, leaving the office and collecting his marines. As they strode across the huge open courtyard of the horrea, he ran through it all again in his head. Rome was building to an eruption. He could feel it. And if Severus had got his timing right then just as it finally exploded, the blame would all lie with Cleander and Rufinus would be part of the military that needed to impose control and limit the damage to the city and its people. He had yet to see how Severus expected him to command the Urban Cohort without Cleander realising. It would be impossible to take on such a role without the chamberlain seeing him regularly, and that would just raise alarms for the man.
Moreover, he was starting to harbour another suspicion. Severus had been directing everything thus far from his provincial palace in Lugdunum, out of Cleander’s eye and ostensibly uninvolved in anything in the city. To an extent Rufinus could see the sense in that, but he was also beginning to suspect that Severus intended nothing more than to direct all matters from a distance, while men like Dionysus and Rufinus did the actual dangerous work. Still, there was little he could do about it all now. He had nailed his colours to Severus’ mast and there was no taking them down.
As they approached the exit to the complex, Rufinus could already feel the disaffection, anger and resentment boiling in the air. He suddenly found himself worrying for Dionysus, and for himself too. The grain commissioner was a good man, and clever, and seemed to be content that he could pull off this shifting of the blame. But Rome was close to the edge, and riots were dangerous and unpredictable. If the city exploded before they were ready, or in an unexpected direction, then he and Dionysus would be the Pompeii and Herculaneum to Rome’s Vesuvius. He shivered.
His marines surged ahead of him as they passed beneath that great arch. Two of the men of the Urban Cohort stood in the archway still, preventing unauthorised entry. They looked nervous as they stepped aside to allow Rufinus past.
There was a surge of noise from the crowd as Rufinus and his men emerged, and he could pick out the threads in the rise and fall. Hope, to start with: hope that this heralded someone coming to inform the crowd that the dole was ready to be distributed and they could go home and make bread. At the realisation that it was just some rich man with his private escort, the hope sank into misery and despair that the grain was still not forthcoming, and hunger would continue to assail them.
Finally, as the small unit of marines and the toga-clad man at their centre began to move through the crowd, shoving angry citizens out of the way, the despair turned into something else…
Anger. Hate. Disgust.
This man in white with his soldiers represented the regime that was withholding the grain, and all in Rome knew there was grain, even if it wasn’t enough for all. Rufinus could almost hear the words going through their minds. Distribute what you have. Feed who you can. And truly, that would probably be the humane thing to do. But it was not what
they needed to do.
The morality of what they were attempting once more sank into Rufinus’ heavy heart. He and his friends and companions had caused this misery. There had already been hunger and illness and misery in ever increasing amounts, due to the plague and its effects on food production across the empire, but this was different. Rufinus and the other conspirators had deliberately made it far, far worse, and were continuing to do so, all in order to bring down one man. Yes, the storm had done most of the work, but perhaps had he not have played with the fleet and beseeched the god, that might not have happened. Certainly this was what he had wished for.
He hardened his heart. It was almost done, and when it was they could try and heal the damage. But for now the most critical thing was to continue with their plan to bring down Rome’s most dangerous man.
And that meant moving on to Severus’ next step. Oddly, this little display might just give him the opportunity he required. He needed to visit Publius Seius Fuscianus, the Urban Prefect, and had been planning to do so ever since the directive had arrived from Severus. But though Severus had not mentioned it, it had occurred to Rufinus that the Prefect of the Fleet visiting the Urban Prefect might raise questions, and he knew perfectly well that he had been shadowed by Cleander’s creatures for months now. He’d spent days trying to work out how to visit the man without being followed. And he’d known there were eyes on him all the way from his home to the horrea this morning. Somewhere in this crowd those eyes were still watching.
He took a deep breath. All he needed was an excuse. A surge of this crowd could perhaps cover his departure? His marines were forming an ever tighter circle around him as they moved, the crowd thrumming with angry noises and refusing more and more often to step back willingly. He was now halfway to the litter.
It came out of the blue. Some angry citizen in the crowd found it too much and threw a small jar. A cheap earthenware thing about the size of a hand, it hurtled across the crowd just above their heads, seemingly aimed at Rufinus, but instead it smashed into the back of one of the marine’s heads, sending him lurching forward with a cry of pain. His mates hauled him back upright, but Rufinus knew what would happen next. According to law and tradition, being within the Pomerium boundary much of the time, his men were not armed for war but they did carry a stout ash stick for protection. Half a dozen such weapons were immediately produced and brandished. The optio yelled at his men to hold their position. All it would take was one soldier to hit a citizen and what was already ugly and dangerous could turn into a bloodbath.
Lions of Rome Page 19
