Rufinus gestured to his optio and the man nodded, relaying commands to the soldiers, sending them along the line to provide adequate protection to the seventy two wagons full of grain. The private guard that had accompanied the grain all the way from Gaul were men selected by Severus during his tenure there, and could be trusted. They settled in alongside the Urban Cohort for the last two mile stretch into the city centre, the combined force allowing an allocation of two men to each wagon.
The rise crested and then dipped a little between the estate walls of large sub-urban villas owned by the rich and powerful. Here and there they caught sight of the aqueduct at almost ground level and then it began to reappear as the land dipped, marching once more on arches across the ground to the city.
Rufinus braced himself. This last section was the part that might bring trouble. The road began to rise once more to the top of the Janiculum hill. The aqueduct disappeared again and the road began to sprout houses and shops to either side. Then, finally, they crossed the saddle and Rome lay before them.
He sighed at the sight. Rarely had he ever approached Rome from this direction, but the scene was breath-taking enough to make him wish he did. Truly she was the queen of cities. From this vantage point he could see the Transtiberim region marching off down the slope to the river, at the bottom: the bridge they would cross. By dint of accident and natural routing, they would then have to ascend the Aventine and pass right by the Horrea Galbana on the way to their final destination.
Now, people were appearing at doorways and peering out.
The wagons were covered and could, in theory, have contained any kind of goods, but a convoy this long with this level of guard pointed very clearly to the likelihood of long-awaited grain. Breathless awe rippled through the crowds they passed. The people of Rome watched in stunned relief as seventy two wagons bore down on the capital.
Rufinus felt his pulse quicken. All it would take was one man with a little too much bravado and they could be fighting off hungry citizens. Even those floundering at the kerbside, covered in buboes and coughing up their life, lifted their faces in hope. Rufinus was once more struck by guilt at the knowledge of what they had done to the people of Rome, and what they must yet do.
The wagons rolled down the slope, the drivers applying the brake poles with every ounce of muscle to prevent the heavy vehicles racing out of control down the hill. Rufinus’ men and the Gallic guards both occasionally leapt to the aid of teamsters to keep their wagons moving at the steady pace required to avoid disaster. After what seemed an age, the aqueduct long gone and the high, strong buildings of central Rome closing in, they neared the river, as any man could confirm by smell alone.
The Pons Aemilianus stood before them, and a small unit of the Urban Cohort who happened to be on patrol moved to clear the bridge of common traffic to allow the wagons past. Rufinus breathed in slowly. As yet no sign of Praetorians. That was unusual. They were often to be seen in the city, if only in pairs. With luck their kind would not encounter the wagon train until it was at least past the Aventine.
Their kind! As if he were not one of them in truth.
Across the river the wagons rolled, now within sight of the Palatine and the Capitol. Rufinus wondered if Cleander perhaps stood on some balcony up there, observing his city and unaware still of the convoy rolling through it that would spell his doom.
As they climbed the Aventine it became clear that they had picked up quite a crowd of citizens. By the time they reached the Horrea Galbana, there was something of a throng in their wake. At the head of the column, Rufinus turned the corner and found Papirius Dionysus standing outside the front of the complex, a dozen of his private guard around him. At the sight of Rufinus, he gave a signal and the doors of the horrea opened.
A second crowd had gathered outside the public warehouses, drawn by the sight of the grain commissioner himself. Now, they gave an awed rumble as four more wagons rolled out of the horrea. Clearly, after days of moving uninteresting goods from here, these four could have contained anything, but the arrival of such a huge caravan to combine with them suggested otherwise.
As the four wagons moved to fall in line with Rufinus’ convoy, filtering in among the foreign vehicles, Dionysus strode over to Rufinus, his litter borne aloft behind him, guards staying close.
Rufinus nodded his greeting.
‘Prefect.’
Dionysus looked about. The only men close enough to hear anything over the din of the wagons and beasts and the thuds of footsteps were his own guards and Rufinus’ soldiers.
‘This is it.’
‘Yes.’
‘When Cleander finds out there is ample food in the granaries, he will explode.’
Rufinus snorted. ‘Or when he finds out more grain has arrived from Gaul without him being notified. Or when he discovers that despite his intentions he now owns the Horrea Ummidiana. Or when he discovers that the public are aware of the storage. We’re up to our necks in the latrine now, Prefect. All we can do is hope that he doesn’t learn of much of this until it’s too late.’
Dionysus nodded, and shivered. The dank cellars under the Palatine and the men of a rather specialised Praetorian unit awaited any man who sufficiently aggravated Cleander. All they had to do now was string it out until things had gone too far.
‘How will the people find out that Cleander owns the granaries?’ Rufinus said quietly.
‘I have no idea. I left that in the hands of Severus and his pet frumentarius. But I feel confident that it will happen. Come on.’
They moved ahead once more and Dionysus climbed into his litter, moving like the high-ranking public figure he was, Rufinus stomping alongside. As he marched, Rufinus ran through everything, as he had done night after sleepless night.
Yes, Cleander would explode. And the only thing that would save any man he targeted would be an adequate excuse or no clear culpability.
The granaries they were heading for now belonged to Cleander. The chamberlain couldn’t know that or he’d have had the whole thing stopped. And though he’d been unaware of his ownership, somewhere along the line, he had to have put his seal to the documents of ownership without realising it. With the amount of empire building Cleander had achieved in the last few years, claiming stolen property and lands for himself, it had probably been easy enough to slip this one through with a slew of others. While some of his minor administrative staff might suffer for the failure, the end guilt could fall with no one but himself for approving his ownership.
For the public knowledge of his ownership there could be no clear fault. Even Rufinus didn’t know how that would be achieved, though all it would take was one whispered comment in the forum and within an hour it would be rumour flying through the city. It would be easy enough and locating the original source of the rumour would be like hunting a specific turd in the Tiber.
The moving of the grain had been done on Cleander’s orders and while he might whine that he’d done so on the advice of the prefects of both the grain supply and the Urban Cohorts, the decision had very definitely been his and he would have to shoulder that blame.
The knowledge of the grain being shifted was something different. Dionysus had thus far managed to accede to Cleander’s wishes and keep the whole thing quiet. Now, though, the public would know. They would know that the grain had been moved to these private granaries, and they would know just how much there was. All they could do with that was hold up their hands and say that they simply couldn’t move grain in the city without drawing public attention. It was such a focus for everyone’s mind, it would be near impossible. That might land any of them in trouble, but in the end it would be labelled an unavoidable issue. Still, given how heavily Cleander’s hand might come down in response, Rufinus was ready to run and change clothes once more. Better a night flight from the city than an evening with a hot knife in a cellar.
Then came the big one. The arrival of the foreign grain. If and when Cleander learned of that, he would seek someone�
�s head, and only solidarity across the whole conspiracy might save any of them. Rufinus and Pertinax could claim that all they had done was supply an appropriate guard to the wagons, and when asked why they didn’t report such important news to Cleander’s men, they would have to shrug and say that they had not realised it was their responsibility to do so. They were the Urban Cohort, not the grain dole.
Severus would come under scrutiny, for it was he who had coordinated the ships and the naval grain supply from Arelate in Gaul, through his friend and fellow governor. He would be identified as the source of the grain. Severus would shrug and tell Cleander that he arranged relief for the city. He would escape the worst of trouble, though. Cleander might not baulk at confronting a consul, but Severus was a powerful man and had the support of the emperor. Not only that but when it was made known that Severus had been the source of the food sent to save Rome he would be a public hero. No, Cleander couldn’t afford to come down on him.
That left Dionysus. As grain commissioner, he would naturally be the target for blame. Dionysus had done the best he could. He and Nicomedes of the courier service had arranged for several couriers and messages to be recorded as missing. If Cleander accused them of not warning him of the impending grain shipments, they would lay the blame with the missing couriers. It was a poor excuse and not guaranteed to save them, but it was the best they could do.
What they needed was for the city to turn all its hate and anger now against Cleander. Once he was firmly villainised in the eyes of Rome, one demand made of the emperor and the chamberlain’s life would be forfeit. It was still a waiting game, after all, but an ever more taut and dangerous one, and now close to the end.
And Rufinus faced a difficult time during that wait, regardless of what happened with Cleander. He had to keep peace in the city, stop riots and destruction, and yet manage somehow to shift any resentment and blame to the chamberlain.
They crossed now the dip between the Aventine and Little Aventine hills and passed the high walls of a villa that had once been a private urban residence of the emperor Hadrian, bearing down on their destination.
The Horrea Ummidiana consisted of an ‘L’-shaped complex of three storeys set around a deep courtyard. Only one entrance pierced the exterior into the courtyard, though small shops and offices let out onto the side streets from the lowest storey. Rufinus wondered for a moment why all the shops seemed to be closed up and dark, and then realised that with the ownership of the complex having been somewhat vague over the past decade, those folk who had rented spaces for their stores could no longer do so and had moved out to other locations. As they neared, Rufinus located the set of keys he had been given and gestured to Sura.
‘Go ahead and open up the main gate. Take eight men and secure it all, and then another eight inside to check out all the storage and equipment. Should all be in order, but let’s be sure before we commit to unloading.’
As the optio saluted and began to give out orders, Rufinus peered at the structure ahead of them. Theoretically the place had been cleared and made ready, but Rufinus was not naïve enough to believe that without checking.’
‘How do we do this sir?’ the nearest teamster asked, waving at him. It was a fair question. At the Horrea Galbana they would be able to fit all these wagons in the three great courtyards. The Horrea Ummidiana was far smaller, with a correspondingly minor courtyard and only one gate.
‘We taken in four wagons at a time. Unload, and while the shipments are being moved into storage, the empty wagons can manoeuvre back out and head for the compound near Mons Testaceus and the next four can move in. If we’re efficient enough we can have the granaries full and every vehicle in storage by nightfall.’
The teamster smiled. ‘Look at that lot, general. Rather you than me.’
Rufinus followed his angled thumb and felt his nerves rise once more. The crowd they had slowly gathered since they crested the hill across the river was now huge. In fact, if Rufinus were inclined to apply a collective noun to it, that noun would be ‘mob’. All they were missing now were a load of broken half-bricks and flickering torches and…
As if the gods were laughing at him, someone on the edge of that crowd produced a stout club of light wood and hefted it.
‘Shit.’
The mob were moving ever closer to the wagons, and the men of the Urban Cohorts and the Gallic mercenaries who had accompanied the caravan moved together to hold them back.
‘This is going to get messy any moment, sir,’ one of his soldiers said close by.
Rufinus nodded. In a way that was good. In a very personal and unpleasant way, it was also really, really bad. Time to capitalise on it. He rushed over to the wagon close by and, to the driver’s surprise, launched himself up onto the board seat. There he could see the streets around them, and he swallowed sudden nerves. There were a lot more people here than he had realised. In fact, if this went really wrong, by the mere law of numbers, his men stood no chance. He was walking a very fine line between keeping the peace and provoking a dangerous mob. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
‘People of Rome…’
It took precious moments for the crowd’s unruly rumble to die down and Rufinus realised with irritation that he had chosen the lead cart for his rostrum just as Sura had opened the gates. The next four wagons began to rumbled past him and towards the door of the horrea. Rufinus waited foolishly for them to pass and for the entire column to shift four wagons closer before trying again.
‘People of Rome, please remain calm.’
‘Fuck calm,’ bellowed an unseen orator from the crowd.
‘What you see here is not what you think. This is naval supplies and goods for the circus and arena going into private storage.’
An uncertain murmur rippled across the crowd. Rufinus narrowed his eyes. Were they really that credulous? Surely they had already decided all the way across Rome that this was a grain shipment. Rufinus had been trained in oratory and rhetoric as a youth, but even he would not have believed this.
‘This operation is carried out under the aegis of the Urban Cohorts on the orders of the chamberlain, Marcus Aurelius Cleander.’
It sounded so impressive. It was the Urban Cohorts job, but it was Cleander’s fault. The crowd looked a little mollified. Rufinus stared in disbelief. Were they really going to disperse on such a flimsy lie?
‘Why’s the grain prefect here, then?’ someone bellowed, much to Rufinus’ relief.
‘We have shipped a few supplies from the public warehouses under his control,’ Rufinus stated glibly.
The crowd grumbled once more, but Rufinus was pleased to hear a note of suspicion about it. Now was the troublesome moment. He couldn’t afford this to erupt into a bloodbath, but the people needed to leave today knowing that Cleander was withholding their grain.
He stood on the wagon and watched. The crowd seemed to tense, in preparation. Rufinus hoped his men were prepared.
Time passed with infinite slowness, every breath of civilian and soldier alike grating on Rufinus’ nerves, and the tense wait was broken suddenly as the four carts began to emerge from the horrea once more, now empty and hurrying off into a southern side street, making for the huge mound of discarded broken pots that had become so mountainous that it had taken on a hill name of its own.
Rufinus watched them go and willed the waiting crowd to see what he could so clearly see. He realised they had spotted the sign only when the tone of the constant grumble turned cold and sour. They had spotted it. Chaff and fragments of grain bouncing from the empty carts as they departed. The bags had been nicely sealed on arrival and there was no tell-tale sign on the waiting convoy, but those carts that had been emptied had caught stray grain and were now discarding it as they bounced along the street.
‘Oi,’ bellowed someone. ‘That’s grain.’
Well done, Rufinus thought. A golden wreath to Citizen Brains over there.
The crowd suddenly surged with discontent. Rufinus looked bac
> k along the line. Four more wagons were moving into the horrea and he realised that the drive of the one upon which he was standing was glaring at him, willing him to move so he could get in there, unload, and get gone before he ended up being torn apart by hungry Romans.
The convoy shuffled forward once more to the soundtrack of anger and misery. Sixty four wagons remained waiting to unload, sufficient number that Rufinus could not see more than perhaps halfway along the line, the last ones a distant haze. This was going to take a while, and every moment things became more dangerous.
A few hundred paces away along the line, a small scuffle broke out. Rufinus bellowed for his men to hold position and watched nervously. Some of the braver members of the watching crowd had pushed forward, barging one soldier and one Gallic guard out of the way. While half a dozen of them tried to keep those two busy, others were suddenly up into the wagon and checking the contents.
‘Grain,’ the man bellowed from the wagon top. The crowd roared.
Rufinus watched the two men defending the caravan struggling not to disappear under the weight of the crowd. This was enough. He’d done what he needed to. The people knew now without a shadow of doubt that Cleander was hoarding grain in some private granary. And when the rumour began to circulate, quite truthfully in fact, that these granaries were now also owned by the chamberlain, nothing he could do would repair the damage done to his public reputation.
Now, the critical point was not letting this evolve into a full-blown riot.
He dropped from the wagon and hurried along behind the nervous line of guards until he was close to the trouble spot, where his men were pushing and shoving back at the public jostling them, all of them angry, no one yet wounded or wielding a dangerous weapon. Nearby, he climbed another wagon and pulled his way along the side above the seething crowd until he reached the one the angry man who’d found the grain was on. He stopped as the man turned to face him and lifted both hands in a gesture of peace.
Lions of Rome Page 27
