‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going, Centurion,’ snarled a hoarse voice and Rufinus halted, startled, at the sight of a figure in the Praetorian white uniform of a senior officer. He’d almost walked into the man, so absorbed was he in his own contemplations.
He straightened, remembering at the last moment to add a sort of hint of regrettable disobedience into his stance. After all, he was Urban Cohort and this man was Praetorian. If he was going to play the role, he was going to play it right.
The officer glared at him and, though he was actually slightly shorter than Rufinus, contrived somehow to manage to look down his nose at the centurion.
‘Have you no nowhere important to be?’ the Praetorian snapped.
‘Just arrived, sir. Reporting to the prefect.’
‘Then kindly stop staring into your apparel and blocking the street for real soldiers.’
Rufinus bridled again, but realised with a shock of panic that his nail-less, mutilated left hand was open to view, and the officer was looking directly at it. Instinct made him thrust it back into the glove sharply, as though by hiding it once more he could somehow make the man unsee his deformity.
There was an odd, uncomfortable silence and the officer walked on, casting one curious, disapproving backwards glance at him. Only now did Rufinus realise that the officer had had a soldier following him, carrying his things. With another thrill of worry, he noticed the hexagonal shield with its scorpion-and-stars design. A cavalryman. And an officer. Almost certainly a tribune, looking at him. Rufinus had not had a lot of interaction with the cavalry during his time with the Guard, for the division between horse and foot was almost as pronounced as that between both of them and the Urban Cohorts. But unless things had changed drastically in the last year or two he was fairly sure there was only one tribune in the Guard in command of the cavalry.
And that would make the man he’d just seen Appius Fulvius, the last of the six guilty murderers he hunted. His blood froze. And Fulvius had seen him. Seen his nail-less scarred hand. And Fulvius worked for Cleander.
He picked up the pace, hurrying on for the prefect’s office. With luck the man would forget about him and he could blend into the fortress quickly. One thing was certain: he was going to have to be a damn sight more careful in the coming days.
Part Three
A Gathering of Crows
“Omnes Una Manet Nox”
(One night awaits everyone)
- Vergil
Chapter Fifteen – Of Memories Painful
Rome, Februarius 190 A.D.
It amazed Rufinus in some ways how easy it was to sink into the ways of a centurion.
‘Maximus? In my office.’
He nodded respectfully at Pertinax and dismissed his men back to their barracks before turning from the Cohort’s parade ground in the centre of their section of the castrum and marching into the headquarters.
It had been at once very familiar and similar to the routine he had adopted during his temporary commission before the campaign in Dacia, and yet so much easier. He was doing all the same things: weapons training, assigning duties, dealing with complaints and sick lists and the like, but unlike that awful month in Dacia, he was working with loyal and willing soldiers this time, with no men determined to make him fail. His century seemed not to be perturbed by his youth. But then the past decade had left more than ten years of wear on him, for sure, and Maximus was not a young man, even if Rufinus still might be considered so. The century treated him with the respect due a veteran senior centurion with a record of wartime success.
It made it so much easier.
And in the Cohort he felt relatively safe. It was something of a boon that the Praetorian Guard and the Cohort endured that divide, since it meant that Rufinus could spend all his time among his own men and avoiding almost all contact with the Guard without looking the slightest bit strange.
The only potential hiccup was the Prefect. He had met Pertinax a few times. Admittedly it had been years earlier, and he had only been a passing figure during meetings with the man, but Pertinax was shrewd and certainly no fool. Though the prefect dealt with Maximus in a perfectly expected and acceptable manner, Rufinus kept spotting an odd look pass across the man’s face as though he thought there was something odd about the centurion, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Or, worse still, perhaps he already remembered Rufinus and was simply playing along with the ruse until he decided what to do about it. After all, the man had served with the real Maximus. Either way there was an odd hint of suspicion hanging over their relationship.
Rufinus’ century had spent the winter engaged in largely camp-based activity. Like the new prefect, Rufinus was being eased into the role. And he was still learning. He knew the duties of a centurion, of course. As well as having been one briefly, he had served under a good one since the day he joined up. But it was more a matter of getting used to the routine of the Urban Cohorts and the vast differences in their duties from the legions. Thus he and his men had taken the lightest duties on the roster for the first few months at the insistence of Pertinax.
When they did go into the city, split up into patrols or guard units for various official institutions or routines, Rufinus was struck over and over by the changes wrought by the latest outbreak of the disease. It was not just the sickness itself, though that was appalling – bodies hugging the gutters of any alleyways and carts collecting disfigured corpses for disposal in the pits beyond the Esquiline – it was the atmosphere.
Between the fear of the ever-present pestilence and the growing hunger of the city’s populace in a world where grain was in shorter supply by the month, the sense of simmering discontent was thick enough to cut with a knife. Even Rufinus felt it, but he heard his men talking about it, and that truly brought it home. These men lived and worked in the streets of Rome. They saw the ordinary people of the city every day with their joys and woes, their troubles and triumphs. Those men now openly declared this to be the worst they had ever seen the city. Strong, veteran soldiers were beginning to live in fear of performing their duties in the city, for the threat of mob violence was becoming more pronounced all the time.
There were now angry demonstrations on an almost daily basis, complaining about food and the imperial administration’s unwillingness to help. The emperor seemed to be out of the city all the time, huddled away in his seaside villa with his mistress, and Cleander might be becoming unpopular, but he was still strong and still untouchable, locked in the Palatine with his men. And the mob simmered, close to the boil. Angry crowds gathered, shouting, outside the horrea or in the forum, or even outside the Castra Praetoria. And on every occasion the Urban Cohorts were deployed in their least belligerent manner. The last thing Pertinax wanted to do was goad such demonstrations into full-blown conflict. So the men kept their weapons sheathed and their hands away from the hilts while their officers talked down the crowd, urging them to disperse. And though there were occasional thrown bricks or jugs or suchlike, the men were prepared, keeping their shields ready to ward off such missiles. The soldiers were actually serving with a level of calm and level-headed distinction that Rufinus had been impressed with.
As yet he and his century had not been deployed on riot duty. Though his men would be perfectly able to deal with it, he had not served in this capacity before and was still learning how to deal with civil disturbance by watching his peers at work.
With a deep breath, Rufinus walked into the prefect’s office, chin high, vine stick tucked beneath his arm and helmet clutched in the other. He stood straight as a board, eyes locked on a point in the wall just above the prefect’s left shoulder.
‘Centurion Maximus. Good.’
There it was again. That flicker of suspicious recognition. Rufinus tried not to flinch.
‘I understand you have put in for this afternoon as leave?’
Rufinus nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Family business.’
Pertinax huffed. ‘I was planning on shifting you and your men to the full a
ctive duty roster now. Vitulus and his men have been dispatched to deal with an incident in Ostia, and Lurco’s century have been deployed around Pompey’s theatre. There’s an African troupe playing there at the moment and just the very fact that they’re from one of the grain provinces seems to be drawing angry crowds. I’m expecting to have to disperse the mob there more than once in the coming days. So I’m short of men to send out on standard patrols. I realise that you have had no leave thus far, and you are due, but I wondered if I might prevail upon you to rearrange your business and take a full patrol today?’
Rufinus squirmed. The very last thing he wanted to do was refuse. Not only did he need to put forth an exemplary impression for the sake of his guise, but Pertinax was a good man, and Rufinus did not want to disappoint him. But some things could not be rearranged.
‘It is the anniversary of my brother’s death, sir,’ Rufinus said, praying silently that this simple truth would not unravel his identity.
‘My commiserations.’
‘If I cannot be at his tomb this day, I have always found a way to visit a temple of Diana and make offerings. I owe him…’
Diana. The huntress. Goddess of the woodlands where Lucius had died.
Pertinax frowned. ‘I would never stand between a man and the spirit of a departed sibling. But perhaps I can make a suggestion? If I redeploy the Sixth Century, who were due to patrol the region of the Horrea Galbana and the emporium, then you could take your century there. The Temple of Diana is on the Aventine and should be on your route. I’m certain you could combine the two?’
Rufinus paused. It seemed a trifle odd. His annual pilgrimage to the goddess was a very personal and very private thing. To go there at the head of a century of men would be strange. But in truth there was no real reason why he could not. He nodded finally.
‘My men are just retiring for their noon meal, Prefect. I shall give them the orders and we shall leave at the next shift.’
Pertinax smiled. ‘Thank you, Centurion.’
Rufinus saluted and left the office, marching off towards his barracks. As he did so, his mind churned. Finally they were being deployed. Thus far Severus’ worries, and the reason for his placement here had seemed unfounded. Pertinax had been content to command and administrate from his office, had done an excellent job, there had been no grand issues, and neither the prefect nor Rufinus had needed to deal with anything untoward.
But that would change soon, no matter how it looked right now. The mood of the city was spiralling into chaos. At this point it was still building, and the Cohort were managing to contain it. One day, though, and soon, there would be trouble. The crowd would not back down at the sight of the Cohort. Rufinus and his men would have to defend themselves and put down a riot. They would have to do it as calmly as possible and with the minimum of violence. And when all this happened, and the cracks began to appear in the mortar of Roman security, Cleander would be increasingly tempted to step in and become involved.
He delivered the news to his men, who received his tidings with mixed feelings. While they were clearly grateful to be moving back into their standard routine, that would also mean more regular contact with the plague-ridden, starving mob that threatened violence with every breath.
A little over an hour later he and his men marched out of the castrum beneath the aloof gaze of the Praetorians on gate guard, and descended the hills of the northern side of the city, passing the great amphitheatre and the Palatine, circling the end of the circus and climbing the lower slopes of the Aventine. Opposite the barracks of the local vigiles, he called his optio, a competent man by the name of Sura, forward.
‘I have a brief duty to attend to. Take the men on to the Galbana and circle around the streets nearby. If there’s a gathering, keep them under observation and make your presence felt but without threat if you can, and I will catch up shortly.’
Sura saluted and continued to march on along the street with his men while Rufinus turned and headed west, along the slope of the hill. The Aventine was a region filled with housing both wealthy and poor, baths and temples and more, like a microcosm of the city as a whole. An urbs within the urbs. The temple of Diana, though, was one of the oldest structures on the hill, and one of the largest and most impressive. Though it had been rebuilt once, it still retained some work that dated back to the days of the kings in the earliest years of the city.
He approached the massive, grand structure with its double colonnade with a growing sense of sadness. It had been so long since he had performed his libations and offerings at Lucius’ actual tomb. In fact, half a lifetime ago now. And unless he could get back to the villa and retrieve the remains from the tomb there, he might never do so again.
He nodded his silent greeting at a boy with a broom sweeping the colonnade’s marble floor and passed through the open bronze doors into the dim interior. He paused in the trapezium of light from the doorway and blinked a few times. He could see the ancient altar there, so old that the images on it had worn down to indistinct shapes, the marble and wooden statues of the goddess watching over it from both sides. It seemed to be empty, and he strode over to the altar, fishing into the pouch at his belt for his small jar of wine and the incense he had brought along with a few gold coins and an arrow with a silver head he had bought at great expense.
‘I suspected you would come here,’ murmured a familiar voice.
Rufinus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Damn it, but the man must have been lurking in the dark corner as he entered. ‘Father.’ Cold. No emotion. Not a son addressing his sire, but a meeting of strangers.
‘Publius once told me you did this. It was the only place I might be able to find you.’
‘And now you’ve found me. This is important to me, so say your piece and begone.’
There was a bitter silence and when the old man spoke again there was a quality of strained anger to the voice.
‘You are chaos, child. Where you move in the world you create disaster. I should have known you were still alive when Rome began to descend into misery and trouble.’
‘You are too kind.’
‘I’m quite serious. You will be the ruination of our family. You began that task many years ago when you took Lucius from me. It was a relief when you left, and I began to concentrate upon rebuilding our ruined family with my hopes pinned to Publius as an heir.’
Rufinus felt his lip twitch. He and his father had never been close, but he’d not realised that the old man had even cut him from the inheritance.
‘I managed to sell the villa,’ the old man said. ‘Despite everything, I managed to offload it and sink the funds it gave me into tying our family to the one man in Rome who has the power and influence to make us great again. I put everything in order and I send Publius to finish up, and then the ghost of my deceased offspring Gnaeus appears and stirs the pot. You took Publius from me too, now, despite my threat. And you are making trouble for the one man upon whom I am relying for our family’s future.’
‘I warned you not to hitch your cisium carriage to Cleander’s mare. I told you it would end in disaster. I will not let Publius be part of the explosion that is coming.’
‘I was livid for a while that you had kept my last son from me. That you had him hidden away. But now I am finally grateful. And when this is all over, if we are still alive, I will discover where you hid him and I shall retrieve him once the danger has passed.’
Rufinus felt a lurch then. What danger in particular? His eyes must have narrowed in suspicion, for his father nodded as if answering a question.
‘Yes, there is true danger now for our family because of you. The last time I met with the chamberlain he rather expertly steered me into conversation about my sons. He asked after Publius, since he has not been around recently. I had to brush him off with an explanation that Publius was still in Hispania seeing to our old property. I am not sure he believed me. And then he asked me about you. He asked me how keenly I felt your passing, and in an almost
kindly manner asked whether it would please me if he had your remains located and returned to me.’
Rufinus flinched. Cleander knew. How, he had no idea, but there was no other explanation. Cleander either knew, or at least strongly suspected, that Rufinus was still alive. Was it the fault of one of the Praetorians he had faced? He remembered with a sinking feeling the cavalry tribune he met on his first day in the Cohort. He had seen the scars. Had he put two and two together and told Cleander?
No. Not that. If he had, someone would have come for Rufinus before now. But still, it sounded as though Cleander knew.
‘I understand that the chamberlain sent someone to accompany the Prefect of the Fleet and his wife to Sicilia, but miraculously, the man he sent never managed to board the ship. He was waylaid by thieves in the Subura and had his throat cut. Even I find that suspicious, so imagine how the chamberlain feels?’
Rufinus shivered. Cleander must have suspected that Rufinus the prefect and Rufinus the Praetorian were the same man. Gods bless Vibius Cestius, since it had to have been he or his companions who had stopped the spy. At least Senova was in the care of Severus. She would be as safe there as anywhere. But things were becoming difficult. It Cleander now suspected he was still alive and had been playing Prefect of the Fleet for so many months, then he was closing in. How long before he made connections with Papirius Dionysus and Septimius Severus, or had he already done so?
He realised with another plummet of the spirits that if his father was being probed for information, then almost certainly the old man was being watched, too. And his father wasn’t shrewd enough to notice and throw off anyone following him. There were probably eyes that belonged to Cleander outside watching this very temple. And they would have seen a centurion of the Urban Cohorts entering.
‘Whatever you are doing, stop doing it,’ the old man said. ‘You are causing new trouble now. Stop playing your little games and disappear. I fear that Cleander is starting to suspect that I am working against him, when nothing could be further from the truth. And I will not see our last hope for a return to prominence disappear because of you. I will not suffer for your stupidity, boy. If I find myself up against a cliff I will sacrifice you. Believe me on this. If Cleander demands it of me, I will give you to him. To save our name and my one remaining loyal son, I will give you to him, and I will do so gladly. And so I give you once again my one demand. Go away. Stop interfering in matters in Rome and go away. If you do so, perhaps there is still a chance that all this will disappear with you. If not, you will fall and badly.’
Lions of Rome Page 22
