Regretfully, Rufinus dragged him back into the shadows and then began to move across the street. Ordinarily he would have loped like a gazelle or slunk like a cat. With the tearing pain in his groin, what he in fact did was lurch like a nauseous stork until he reached the wall of the horrea. It occurred to him unpleasantly that he would have to do everything he could until this injury healed to hide the fact that it had happened, for tomorrow, when the repercussions of tonight were being felt, there would be blame attached to a sneaky citizen with an injured groin.
Grumbling to himself at his luck, Rufinus dropped to the air hole at ground level. He was starting to worry whether he had overestimated the size of the opening, but there was little for it now but to try. He had such little time. Eventually Mamertinus would arrive with his men. Soon, mister helpful would wake up. And even if neither of those occurred, one of the other soldiers might just stroll round to say hello to his mate and find him unconscious in the shadows with a bruised chin.
Time was short.
Hissing with discomfort and pain, Rufinus wriggled into the gap, which was dark and cold, admitting a breeze, stank of rats and animal urine and far worse, and was filthy and damp. He wriggled further in until he was happy he was out of view from the street and then stopped, facing upwards. Above him, the stone flags of the granary were not identifiable in the dark, and he had to run his hands across them to find an edge.
He reached into the pouch at his belt that held three things and removed the first of them: a chisel. Moments later he was using it to scrape and tap and crack the mortar between stones. He knew he was succeeding by the simple evidence of mortar powder falling directly into his face. Once he had loosened it enough that he could feel the flag moving as he pushed, he replaced the chisel and pressed both palms against the stone, pushing until it lifted.
He was in. As the stone fell back, he rose like some sewer demon from the rancid air duct and climbed into the room, blinking away mortar dust. The extent of the grain shortage was never more clear than here and now. On any normal day, this room would be almost bursting with swollen sacks of grain, stamped with their provincial logo of origin. This room, large and echoing, held nine sacks, barely enough to feed the vigiles for a few days, let alone any ordinary citizens.
He shook himself. No time to worry and wonder. His groin ached like Hades, but he lurched around, at least knowing that no one would see him here. Once more the chisel came out and this time he moved around those nine sacks, ripping and tearing so that the whole room filled with dust and chaff, a choking cloud. He lugged the sacks into a pile and scattered handfuls of grain around. Then, with a deep breath, praying that he was doing the right thing and that the local vigiles were truly on their game, he reached into the pouch and retrieved his second item.
The fire-orb was an old soldier’s trick. A roughly spherical object wrapped in linen, he unravelled it and peered at the fungus within. Found growing on the side of ash trees, the fungus burned slowly and held an ember for many hours with very little air. Soldiers would ignite the heart of one and then close it, wrap it up and carry it with them. Then, at the end of a long day of marching, they might have to gather fire wood, but at least they would have a ready source of fire to ignite them.
He pulled apart the two halves of the fungus he had lit in his room a few hours ago and, sure enough, there at the heart was a deep orange ember. He blew gently on it a few times to coax it back into life – a trick he had learned in those cold Pannonian winters during the war a decade ago – and once it was properly alight once more he prepared himself. He piled up the linen in which it had been wrapped on the top of the loose grain above the sacks, and then carefully placed the fungus atop it.
With a prayer to both Fortuna and Vulcan, he adjusted the positioning of the glowing fungus and then lurched back over to the hole in the floor, cursing his crotch all the way. At the hole in the floor once more, he dropped and slid himself down into the air duct, pulling the stone flag back over with a grunt.
Moments later he was shuffling along the channel and then pulling himself back up into the empty night time street. He angled for a different side road this time, not wanting to be next to the soldier he’d punched when the man woke up. There, lurking in the shadows, he waited and watched.
Had something gone wrong? Had his fungus simply gone out? His heart fell as he heard the rhythmic tramp of nailed boots announcing that Mamertinus and his century had finally arrived. Rufinus pulled back a little and stood silent, waiting, hoping.
He could hear shouts, and now they rose in consternation. Whistles were blown and feet began to run. The unconscious soldier had been found. Damn it. He couldn’t stay. They’d be searching the entire area any moment.
He watched the ominously silent and dark horrea for only a moment more, and then turned and ran with the pained gait of a three legged gazelle. He was three blocks away and huffing when the horrea went up. There was an initial crack, almost like an explosive, and then a sudden commotion of cries a few streets back and the whistles of officers.
Rufinus ran.
Not far from the temple of Diana, he stopped at the small privately owned bath house he had visited after the morning shift. There he found the third and final item in his pouch: a chit from the bath house, and handed it to the attendant, whose nose wrinkled at Rufinus’ stench. Still, word of him being here would never reach the Castra Praetoria at the far side of the city.
He bathed and cleaned as fast as he could, and then changed into the clean clothes he had left in the changing room, including proper soldier’s boots. Gathering up his stinking, grotty clothes, he bade the attendant a good evening and went on his way, dumping his used clothes on a refuse pile in an alley he passed and then walking steadily up the street biting down on the pain and trying not to show evidence of his aching crotch. By the end of the second watch he was in his bed, lying on his back, which seemed to be the only option with his groin strain, and smiling to himself, hoping silently that the vigiles had managed to control the blaze and that the horrea, and indeed the whole Aventine, remained standing.
The next morning brought news. Among the stories sweeping across the fortress was a gem about some soldier in Mamertinus’ century who had somehow disappeared as they marched through the city. He had been found half an hour later, after a thorough search, sprawled naked in a fountain, wearing a donkey mask and with a lump the size of an egg on his head, with no recollection of what had happened.
Other news included an arson attempt at the Horrea Galbana. The professional vigiles had managed to contain the blaze well, but it had burned four warehouses in the complex, including olive oil, grain and a stack of expensive cloth from Judea. There was talk that the Cohort would have to start pulling double shifts and concentrating more on guard duties than preventative patrols.
All this whirled around Rufinus’ head as he accompanied Pertinax with his century of men, heading for the Palatine. Securing the duty of accompanying detail had been simple. Pertinax had been happy to accept Rufinus’ request, though he had given the centurion a thoughtful look as he did so, as though trying to remember where he knew him from. That look was starting to worry Rufinus.
Still, here he was accompanying the prefect up the palace steps. Praetorian guardsmen were in evidence all across the Palatine, as strong a presence as if the emperor himself were in residence, which he was not, taking the sea air as he was. Another sign of Cleander’s ever-growing power, that, but not the worst, nor the most shocking. That came as they were ushered into the aula regia. Cleander was seated in the emperor’s own chair, upon the dais and facing the room, as though he ruled Rome himself. Rufinus ruminated sourly on how that was almost the case, now.
He had kept his gaze on the Praetorians as they passed, having left the unit of the Urban Cohort at the door. He’d half expected to see Mercator or Icarion, but they were not in evidence. Part of him wondered at how he’d passed so long now around and among the Guard without seeing either of his
old friends. Perhaps they had retired or sought provincial duties to keep out of Cleander’s way, for he couldn’t imagine either of them falling in with the chamberlain’s lot. The alternative, that they had refused and had met a grisly end, was another worrying possibility.
He tore his thoughts away from Merc and Icarion and instead concentrated on the state audience hall. Praetorians stood at every door, and two beside Cleander’s ‘throne’. The man was always well-protected these days. At least Appius Fulvius was not one of them. The two Praetorian prefects who served beneath Cleander were there, as was Papirius Dionysus and a number of fellows Rufinus did not know. Septimius Severus was notable to Rufinus through his absence. He tried to assign to the consul the honourable notion that he was keeping himself detached in order to drive a wedge between Cleander and the emperor, and not that he was just trying to keep his hands clean for plausible deniability.
‘Tell me what must be done,’ Cleander said sharply as the doors to the chamber clicked shut and left them alone.
‘The food must go to the people,’ said one of the aediles present flatly.
‘What food?’ snorted another.
‘Quite,’ Dionysus put in. ‘There is little more than a trickle reaching Rome now and although the grain fleet grows once more, it will be months or even years before the dole reaches its full flow. We are barely managing to feed the emergency services, let alone the people.’
‘We must increase the tribute and taxation on the grain provinces,’ the first aedile said. ‘And promote new grain farms in the others. I hear Dacia has prime grain land, and yet all we get from there is gold and trouble, and neither of them fill bellies.’
Pertinax shook his head. ‘You can impose whatever taxes you like, gentlemen, but they will not increase the grain flow. The plague has depopulated whole regions. Farms wilt and die untended. I saw it in Africa as its governor. There is no swift solution to this. Many more Romans will starve before the problem goes away. Your first step must be the plague. Have all the physicians you can find bend to seeing this latest outbreak gone. Sacrifice to the gods and pray like a childless couple. For when the plague declines, so will the population in the provinces rise once more, and the farmlands will begin to recover. Then you will get all the grain you need. And by that time, the fleets will have been reassembled. Sadly, that is all there is to it. Time. We must bear out our current discomfort with stoic patience and attempt to keep the city from tearing itself apart while we wait.’
Cleander rapped his finger-ring rhythmically on the emperor’s throne arm.
‘You are telling me that nothing can be done. We can but wait.’
‘I am.’
‘And so, Prefect, what do we do with Rome in the meantime, for the city seethes.’
‘You must hoard the grain,’ Dionysus said harshly.
‘I have told you my thoughts on this time and again, man,’ Cleander snapped. ‘I will not be responsible for the grain. That is your job, and yours alone. Keep it in the public warehouses. It’s not as if you’re short of room.’
Rufinus looked across at Pertinax, a question in his expression. The prefect, who seemed to have forgotten the centurion was with him, nodded, and cleared his throat.
‘Sometimes, gentlemen, we might be accused of seeing things from too lofty a position. Might we benefit from an eye at street level? One of my senior centurions: Maximus.’
Rufinus cleared his throat, desperately hoping Cleander didn’t see through his thin disguise as Fulvius had.
‘Sirs, all I can say is that the unrest in the city threatens what supplies we do have. There are almost daily demonstrations outside the public horrea. Someone vandalised and attempted to destroy the empty grain offices. Last night someone tried to set fire to even the great Horrea Galbana, which is under constant surveillance. Matters are only getting worse daily and the Cohort is becoming stretched in its need to keep control, even with Praetorian support. If this is what we face now, what might we see a month from now, or two?’
He gestured over at Dionysus.
‘I fear the Praefectus Annonae has the right of it, and the only feasible solution for now. The people know there is grain in the public warehouses and as long as they do, those places will remain targets for them. The grain must be moved to secure locations out of the public domain, where they can be safeguarded and rationed out to those to whom it does the most good. Then when the public horrea are empty, the public outcry at such places will dissipate. Think on it, sirs. Grand public edifices known to be withholding grain and guarded by soldiers of Rome, or small private warehouses out of the public eye that can be more than adequately guarded by private forces which do not draw public attention.’
He’d gone on longer than he intended, and had somewhat hammered the point. He could see the worry in Dionysus’ eyes, for the man also thought Rufinus had gone too far. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, just when Rufinus was starting to tremble, Cleander nodded.
‘Claudius,’ he gestured to one of the aediles, ‘we recently took control of several granaries, did we not?’
‘We did, sir.’
‘Details?’
‘The Horrea Ummidiana were the most recent, sir. They’ve been floating around in a state of chaos for years, ever since the emperor’s sister failed in her plot. They were impounded with much of the family estate and have stood empty. Only recently did we look at reinstating them or selling off the land to developers.’
‘So these granaries are currently unused and all-but unknown?’
‘They are, sir. I have the documents for exchange of ownership and change of purpose on my desk.’
‘Then move the grain to there. Keep it secret and do not advertise the fact. The grain’s new location must be hidden from public view.’
Rufinus tried not to smile. Tried not to let his elation show. He could see in Papirius Dionysus’ flat face the fact that the man was also holding in his jubilation. There were many nods around, and Rufinus settled back now into silence, feeling the approving gaze of Pertinax upon him. He’d done well, as far as everyone in the room was concerned, no matter what their goal.
He allowed himself a small covert smile as the discussion moved on to what to do to increase the grain flow once this current crisis was over.
As the discussion ebbed and flowed, Rufinus let it all wash over him. In his private silence, he was wondering at what must happen next. The whole point of this was to make Cleander responsible. Having the grain held in hidden granaries under the name of dead traitors would be of little use.
He looked up briefly and caught the expression of Dionysus as the man looked back at him. There it was. Determination and contentment. Rufinus had no idea how he was going to do it, but Dionysus clearly had a plan for the next step. In the meantime, Rufinus would have to keep the peace, preserve the grain and try not to fall foul of a blade in the dark sent by a certain Praetorian tribune.
At least life in Rome was never dull.
Chapter Eighteen – The Aventine
Rome, late April 190 A.D.
The century of men of the Urban Cohort waited patiently at the second mile marker of the Via Aurelia. Rufinus shuffled from foot to foot. After so long here he was, facing the calends of May and finally beginning the push that would end this drawn-out nightmare.
True to his knowing smile, Papirius Dionysus had somehow contrived to get the impounded warehouses of the Horrea Ummidiana signed over into Cleander’s name. The confirmation had arrived two days ago in another cryptic message that had come courtesy of one of Nicomedes’ trusted couriers.
All was in place. They had the flames roaring and they had the pot of water. Now they needed to put the pot on the fire and watch it boil. The granaries belonged to Cleander, and he had given the order to fill them with the meagre grain from the public warehouses to keep it safe, on the condition that the move remained secret.
Dionysus had been very conscientious over that last part. Complying with Cleander’s
instructions, he had begun shipping out oil and all manner of goods stored in the Horrea Galbana on the pretext of ordering repairs to the burned parts of the complex. The movements had initially drawn a crowd who had been interested in the moving of goods out of Rome’s main public granary, but they had dispersed and lost interest when it was revealed that it was other, non-critical goods that were actually being shipped out.
Dionysus received the approval of Cleander for his care. And both knew that the grain could now be slipped out amid the other goods without raising a public outcry.
What remained now was for Rufinus to ruin all that.
He had waited patiently as the timing unfolded. Dionysus continued to ship out nonessential and uninteresting loads right until the next coded message came. Senova’s fleet had docked at Centum Cellae in secret some forty-five miles north, along the coast and out of the main focus of trade and officialdom. There, sufficient grain to feed Rome for a month or more had been unloaded in secret at night and transferred to very nondescript wagons. The next morning the huge caravan had begun to travel the Via Aurelia to Rome.
Rufinus had made sure some time ago that Pertinax assigned him to the grain project, which the prefect was happy to do given the centurion’s close involvement thus far. Rufinus and his men had been taken off regular duties and assigned full-time to liaise with Dionysus and the grain office. Consequently here they were, outside Rome to the west of the city, watching the long grain caravan rumbling towards them.
This was it. It was all about to explode, and he knew that as soon as word reached Cleander the man would be furious. Blame would have to be carefully spread around so that no one man took the chamberlain’s ire, else there would be executions.
The wagons began to roll past him and up towards the rise. Alongside the road the great arches of the Aqua Traiana carried the least palatable of Rome’s long-distance water supply into the city, where it spilled into decorative fountains and sporting facilities, eventually flushing out latrines and baths before pouring into the Tiber having never once been drunk from. The aqueduct gradually converged with the rising ground until it became little more than a low wall with a flagged top that continually rumbled and gurgled alongside the road. Rufinus tried to neither look at it nor think about it. He’d had enough of aqueducts in his short and eventful life. Rarely had they been a good thing.
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