Just for now, Fulvius was content to let him go, as he thought he was Rufinus’ only target.
There were two option, then. Either he prayed for luck and went after Fulvius anyway, hoping to put the man down before he could do anything, or he let the man go and foreswore his vengeance for the time being, at least until the mess with Cleander was over. He would have to be careful if he did make a move. There was always the possibility that Fulvius had put something into place, such that if he died, Cleander would hear about Rufinus. That would unravel all of it.
But the very idea that Fulvius had threatened Senova cut deep. Cleander had done the same with his brother, and he would not allow someone to threaten his loved ones again.
He realised with a start that not once had Fulvius said he would not move against Rufinus. His terms had been very specific. He had said they would have status quo, but that just meant things going on as they were now. He had said he would not arrest Rufinus, that he would not reveal his secrets. Not once had he said he would not have him killed.
Rufinus was going to have to watch his back. Neither he nor Fulvius would be a ready target within the fortress, but then neither of them could avoid duties in the big, open, dangerous city.
Damn it. Why hadn’t he dealt with Fulvius first?
Chapter Seventeen – Proposal
Rome, April 190 A.D.
Rufinus looked down at the note.
Visit me. Bacchus
It had been mysterious when it had arrived at his room, delivered by one of the empire’s couriers, though Rufinus had spent only a short time puzzling over it. It had not taken him long to unravel Bacchus, being the Latin name of the god Dionysus.
It had also not been difficult to rearrange duties so that his century pulled the Aventine shift that afternoon. Pertinax had been happy so long as every shift was adequately covered, and the centurion whose duty it was had been more than happy to swap the troublesome region of the grain warehouses for the Transtiberim, which had been Rufinus’ assigned region for the day.
They arrived at the horrea in damp air that promised another downpour, and the previous shift gratefully greeted them as they gathered and set off for home.
‘Sura? Deploy sixteen men in the streets around the Horrea Galbana. Split the rest into two patrols. I want this place watched as a potential trouble spot.’
The optio saluted and gestured to two tent parties to detach from the unit and guard the horrea.
‘I shall be inside, conferring with the Praefectus Annonae.’
Sura nodded and moved away, for there was nothing strange in Rufinus meeting the prefect. Grain was a contentious subject now, and the horrea was a target for public ire. Graffiti and damage were a daily occurrence here now, and every other angry demonstration that arose did so here. Every century that pulled this duty appointed a guard to the horrea, such that the place was under twenty four hour a day surveillance and protection, and yet still the damage occurred.
As the sixteen men moved into position, four at each side of the huge complex, Rufinus strode in through the doorway and made straight for the prefect’s office at the far end. Two men stood outside brandishing clubs, both scarred and dangerous looking, almost certainly ex-legionaries.
‘Urban Cohort. I need to see the prefect.’
The two men shared a look, but nodded and opened the door for him. The Urban Cohort were trustworthy. They did, after all, provide the main protection for the place at the moment. Rufinus walked in between them and closed the door before wandering over to the desk, where Papirius Dionysus sat, looking tired and drawn.
‘I take it all is not well. You’re hiring your own guards here now?’
Dionysus looked up with watery eyes. ‘It’s all well and good having your men here at the horrea and my own guards at home, but given the mood at the moment, I prefer to have a small entourage when travelling between the two. In fact you’re lucky to catch me here. I’m not at the horrea often now. There’s little that can be done here anyway.’
‘Can we talk?’
‘As long as you do it quietly.’
‘You wanted to see me.’
Dionysus nodded. ‘I am having some difficulty. Our mutual enemy is resisting my suggestions. Everything is ready to move, but there is nowhere yet to move it to. He is steadfastly refusing to take on the grain. He insists that it remain in public storage. I think that the worry over becoming a target of public anger is stronger than the desire to be seen to be in control. The worrying thing is that he seems to be drawing away from me somewhat. I think my pressure on him is making him suspicious.’
Rufinus chewed his lip. He had wondered what was the delay in moving the grain.
‘And the longer it stays in this situation,’ Dionysus went on, ‘the more chance there is of me taking a knife in the dark from some disaffected citizen, and the more people starve. We cannot keep this up much longer.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘I agree. I have been itching for things to move. But what can I do?’
‘Our opposition has called a meeting. The emperor is blissfully unaware of the level of trouble in the city – he has been cloistered away in his seaside villa for long enough that he has missed the rising danger. I think the chamberlain is desperate to resolve Rome’s issues before they are drawn to the emperor’s attention. The meeting is at the Palatine tomorrow morning, and has been called with a view to sorting the situation finally. I will be present, as will the Praetorian prefects, two or three aediles, and Pertinax, as head of the Urban Cohorts. I need you to find a way to be there too.’
‘I fail to see what use I can be,’ Rufinus sighed. ‘I’m only a centurion.’
‘You are Pertinax’s eyes on the streets. You see what is happening. You can marshal a persuasive argument. I need the support. Cleander must be persuaded to open his granary.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I also think there needs to be added impetus. Let me think on things. I will be there, though.’
With that he nodded, turned, and strode from the room, back past the two mercenaries and out into the Horrea Galbana. He stopped in the centre of the huge courtyard, usually filled with the bustle of working men and the smells of grain and goods and sweat and horses. Now it was deserted and silent.
How to persuade Cleander to move what paltry grain remained in official sites like this to his own private stores? There had to be a way.
He frowned as he turned a slow circle. What if the grain were endangered? Would that be enough of a spur? If what little existed was imperilled.
Ideas began to filter into his mind. There were half a dozen places like this across Rome. The others were easier targets than the Horrea Galbana, but that would only urge authorities to rely all the more on this central store, which would defeat the purpose.
No. This very place had to be put in danger. But the horrea was under twenty four hour guard by his own Urban Cohorts. His memory helpfully supplied him with an image of the grain offices, a window shutter torn away and black smoke rising into the sky from the windows. Could he dare? He shivered. It was horribly risky. He’d not worried so much about the attempted arson at the statio annonae, for the building had been almost empty, made largely of brick and concrete and with good spaces around it. But the Horrea Galbana was a different matter. It was huge and complex, formed of hundreds of tightly-packed offices and storerooms, some of which contained combustible items such as oil and grain. A fire at the horrea could easily and quickly get out of control, and Rome had a disturbing habit of catching fire, the flames rippling over whole districts and wiping out block after block. It was a very dangerous gamble to even consider a fire.
The only redeeming factor was that with the increased unrest in the city, the vigiles were more attentive than ever. Their stations were on permanent manned alert, and their squads could be spotted around the city, particularly in areas of high risk… such as this.
Was it possible? Was it wise? It would have to happen tonight if it were to be
of use in tomorrow’s meeting. He shivered again. It had to be done, and in his unique position, he was the only man who could do it. And he thought he knew how it should be done, but it would require a little help.
Moments later he was back in Dionysus’ office.
‘I heartily recommend that you do not work late tonight. And in the meantime can I borrow vellum, ink, wax and a scroll case?’
Rufinus sat at the window of one of the soldiers’ bars on the Vicus Longus, the great sloping road that ran from the heart of the city up to the Via Nomentana and the Praetorian fortress. He smiled bleakly. Nine years ago, he had slid and fallen in the road just outside here, on his desperate, drug-addled rush to save the emperor from his sister’s blades. Now he was here waiting to betray his own unit, attempt arson and lie to the imperial authorities, all in an attempt to bring down one man.
Had he fallen so far? Still, not as a far as the Guard who served that man, he consoled himself.
He had hoped to gods that the roster hadn’t changed when he quickly penned his note in Dionysus’ office. It had not been difficult to find a street urchin who would deliver it to the Castra Peregrina for the promise of coin. Whether it had actually reached Cestius and whether the frumentarius could, or indeed would, do as Rufinus asked remained to be seen.
He would find out soon enough. He peered up at the sky. It was just about true dark now, though it was hard to tell with so many torches and lamps in the busy Vicus Longus. He’d heard the blasts announcing the second watch not long before, and had waited at the window, expectant. He had until the end of the second watch. He’d been granted leave in the city for the first two watches of the night and had spent the three hours of the first one firmly establishing his presence in the soldiers’ bars along the road, buying drinks for people indulgently and taking part in small inter-century competitions, even goading a bunch of off-duty Praetorians into an almost fist-fight over their honour. He would be remembered as being here. His name would be linked with excess and good humour. Now he had three hours to play with before he needed to be back in the camp, ostensibly sleeping off his hangover.
In actual fact, while raising a cup many times and buying numerous beverages, he’d hardly touched a drop himself. He tensed at the sound of nailed boots crunching along in perfect time and then deflated as a patrol of Praetorians marched past in white togas, on their way to some duty or other.
It was only fifty heartbeats later that the men of the Urban Cohort put in an appearance, another set of crunching boots on stone. Rufinus watched, heart pounding, as they closed on his position. It was Mamertinus’s century, as he’d expected, and he let out his first exhaled sigh of relief. It had been the third century under Mamertinus that he’d labelled in his missive to the frumentarii. He’d got the first part right. The second part depended upon Cestius.
Rufinus waited until the unit had moved past, marching on down the street, and had paused until there was a cheer at the bar and the entire occupancy looked away, then slipped from the door and out into the cold air of a Roman spring evening.
He was wearing a nondescript military tunic and belt, with no weapons to hand and neither armour nor badges of office. He could be anyone, at any rank and from any unit, on a night out in the city. Taking a deep breath, he began to follow the men of Mamertinus’ unit, slipping in and out of crowds, pausing here and there. He had followed enough people – and been followed by enough – these days to know precisely what he was doing.
The unit took the left hand fork in the road at the grand Avidian nymphaeum. Rufinus wondered where Cestius would strike, if he did, and how. Even prepared as he was, it came as a shock when it happened. The unit of eighty men were marching past a colonnade that sheltered a number of shops closed for the night and now the traditional night time home of beggars and homeless waifs and strays. As they passed there was a sudden strangled shriek and one of the marching men was pulled out of line between the columns. How it had happened was beyond Rufinus, for it was so quick.
Chaos broke out immediately. The entire column bellowed in rage and men ducked between the columns. What had happened to the man was clearly a mystery for though it had happened only heartbeats ago, the rest of the century immediately spread out into the colonnade and side streets, bellowing the name of their missing compatriot in anger and astonishment.
Rufinus shook his head in wonder. How in Hades had Cestius managed that? What he did know was that Mamertinus, like all the centurions of the Urban Cohort, was devoted to his men. He would no more abandon his soldier to an uncertain fate and let the unknown abductors get away with it than he would fall on his sword. That century of soldiers would turn the whole district upside down and inside out looking for their missing man. And that would take time.
Bless you, Cestius.
Happy that the second shift were now preoccupied he moved at speed, down the Vicus and across the valley of the amphitheatre, past the Palatine and beneath that aqueduct that still harboured unpleasant memories, up onto the Aventine.
Less than half an hour later he rounded a corner and stopped in the shadows, peering out at the Horrea Galbana. The men of the previous shift were still in position. Chewing his cheek, Rufinus moved back a block and circled the entire complex, which took more than a quarter of an hour. His expectations were met. The men of the century on guard were laid out the same as usual, with four men to each side. A unit of vigiles lounged in a small bar beside a fountain that overlooked the complex, their equipment close to hand. The rest of the century on duty were patrolling, but even now they were angling back towards the horrea. Rufinus moved around until he could see the optio commanding the horrea’s guards. There he lurked in the shadows and waited.
The rest of the unit arrived and there was a short, heated debate between the centurion and his optio. They had expected relief in the form of the next shift by now. By rights they should already be marching off back to the Castra Praetoria. But Mamertinus and the next shift had not shown up.
The frustration among the men built over the next quarter of an hour, and Rufinus could imagine how irritated the centurion would be. Finally, the officer called out to his men and offered extra pay and wine rations for four volunteers who would stay to watch the place until the relief arrived. There were sufficient takers and in short order the four volunteers were positioned one to each side of the horrea while the rest of the unit stomped off back towards home.
Rufinus huffed. Stupidly, he had assumed that the centurion would just take his unit home and that for a brief window the horrea would be unguarded. It was an obstacle he would have to overcome.
Content that the rest of the unit had gone, he moved back a block again and circled until he was at his chosen position. During their patrols earlier he had selected his entry point with ease. Like all the exterior walls of this structure the only windows were small and high, making entrance almost impossible. An enterprising thief – or arsonist – though, could still find a way. Like all granaries, the storehouses that held the grain in the Horrea Galbana were constructed on raised floors to allow air circulation that stopped rats nesting beneath the supplies and prevented rot at the base. Most of the apertures for air circulation were too small to admit a human comfortably, of course, but Rufinus had noted one in passing where the brickwork between the gaps had fallen away and was in desperate need to repair work. It would just about admit a man if he struggled.
What he hadn’t counted on was doing it under the watchful gaze of a soldier.
With a sigh of regret he admitted to himself that he was going to have to put that man out of commission first and hope that the alarm wasn’t raised. Arriving at his chosen spot, he peered from the gloom.
The soldier was leaning against the wall of another warehouse nearby, watching the horrea, his position sufficient to display the entire length of this side wall at once. Even as Rufinus moved closer, he heard the man yawn and grumble. He would not be at his best. He’d already have done a full shift and would be t
ired and cold and bored. Rufinus moved on the balls of his feet now, the soft leather of his shoes making barely any noise. No one in the bars among the commotion had noticed that he was wearing soft civilian boots, not hobnailed military ones.
He approached the corner, preparing to silence the guard non-lethally, but as he reached the edge of the shadow, Lady Fortuna turned her back on him. He’d always had a tendency to clumsiness and, while it had ebbed somewhat with maturity, it still came back to haunt him from time to time. His foot slipped on a wet flag and he almost went down into the splits, his groin straining at the sudden pain. He yelped, and the guard around the corner was suddenly alert to hear.
Rufinus tried to recover, but the strained groin was painful and he was only just stopping himself from collapsing in a heap. The soldier, nightstick out now, had turned and spotted the man in the uncomfortable position at the corner, gasping with the pain.
Rufinus prepared himself to defend against the man, but instead frowned as the man slid his nightstick back into his belt and reached out sympathetic hands.
‘Gods, man but that was impressive,’ the soldier said with a grin. ‘Can you walk?’
His helping hands reached Rufinus who, with help, pulled himself back upright.
‘Thank you so much,’ he said to the soldier, with feeling. ‘Thank you, and I’m so sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ the man said, befuddled. ‘What for?’
‘This,’ said Rufinus as his uppercut connected with the man’s jaw and sent him sprawling back onto the ground. Rufinus braced himself for another round just in case, but the man simply lay still on the street. Rufinus bent over him, worrying momentarily that he’d done some proper harm, but the man was breathing. He manipulated the jaw a little and was relieved that it didn’t appear to be broken. The soldier had been doing his duty and had gone above and beyond that duty to help a citizen in trouble. He’d not deserved this.
Lions of Rome Page 25
