‘Step aside,’ the chamberlain snapped once more, gesturing to the three of them. Rufinus, not wanting to be the man to give the order and condemn the crowd to violence, looked at Severus.
‘Consul?’
‘We have no choice, Centurion. Stand your men down and step aside.’
Rufinus nodded.
‘Men of the Cohort? Fall back in a two-man column through the doorway at double time, presenting a shield wall to the front at all times. Form up in the courtyard as you are relieved.’
Immediately the rear ranks of his men began to pour back through the gate in pairs, hurrying into the courtyard and leaving just enough space for the three conspirators and Cleander in the gap. As they fell back swiftly, the Praetorians began moving to the doorway, preparing to take their place. Rufinus was relieved to note that not one face among them showed any joy at what they had been ordered to do. The Guard may have been corrupted almost beyond repair, but there were still limits to which they seemed unhappy to sink.
Rufinus and the other two stepped back now into the courtyard, as did Cleander. The man was no idiot. When his men set upon the crowd he intended to remain safely at the rear. Rufinus watched, tense, as his men fell in at attention within the courtyard. It seemed the mere blink of an eye passed before the last men arrived, walking swiftly backwards, keeping their shields to the crowd.
‘This should be stopped.’
Severus nodded. ‘It should, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good. If you step in their way, they will simply cut you down too. You know that.’
With a heavy heart, Rufinus watched a few of the braver civilians edging into the gateway, following the men of the Cohort. They were greeted a moment later by the rhythmic tramp of nailed boots as the men of the Praetorian Guard, four abreast, marched into the gateway, shields forward and swords drawn. Cries of panic and disbelief arose outside, and Rufinus shuddered. This would be butchery, pure and simple.
It was only moments before a whistle blew a command that Rufinus knew all too well and the screaming started. He bit into his lip. How far the Guard had fallen since the day he’d been proud to be elevated to their august ranks. Now they were commanded by a villain and his two snivelling sycophants and had set to work murdering civilians.
Even as he felt the last shred of respect he had clung to for his former unit fade away and die, he saw Appius Fulvius kick his horse and ride forth to join the fray. Once again, Rufinus vowed vehemently to see the vile tribune die. Serving Cleander was bad enough, and murdering a frumentarius unforgivable, but willingly joining in the wholesale slaughter of innocent civilians condemned him all over again in Rufinus’ eyes.
The Praetorian column was twenty men long and four wide as they marched into the gateway, and Rufinus could imagine just what was happening outside, even without the screams. The fact that the column continued to march at speed and without even a sign of slowing spoke unpleasantly of just how little resistance their swords were meeting.
As Cleander flashed them one last disdain-filled look and then walked his horse after his men into the gateway, Rufinus, gorge rising, turned to wave at his optio.
‘We all know what’s happening out there, but we are not a part of it. Once the Guard have gone, I want you men back out there, but I want your nightsticks tightly sheathed and the only thing you’re doing with your shields is using them as stretchers. Capsarii, I want you moving through the victims, identifying those who can be saved and giving aid where you can. Get the wounded either walking or on shields. We’re taking them to get assistance. The dead will have to wait.’
‘What about the rest, sir?’ Sura called.
‘I doubt there will be a man out there who’s not wounded or dead by the time we get there. Any survivors will have run away. The Praetorian Guard have just shown the Roman people that their proud unit can no longer be trusted or respected. I don’t want that reputation clinging to us, too. The Urban Cohort will be remembered today as the men who came to their aid.’
The optio, and Rufinus’ fellow centurion further over, saluted with expressions of grim satisfaction. Rufinus had just grown in their estimation, and the Guard had finally plummeted into the depths.
‘Where do we take the wounded?’ the other centurion asked. ‘Can’t take them back to the Castra Praetoria, for the love of Mars.’
Rufinus nodded. ‘Quite right. The nearest place to here with large scale medical facilities is the Castra Peregrina. Take them there.’
The other officers stared at him. ‘We won’t get in there, sir, not without passes and a bloody good reason. And we don’t know if there’s a hospital, anyway.’
Rufinus clenched his fist. ‘I’ll go ahead and get you in. And there is a hospital there. I’ve been before.’
Ignoring the burning curiosity among his men, Rufinus turned to Severus and Dionysus. ‘This is a dark day.’
Severus nodded. ‘There may be darker still, but you did what was both right and prudent. Today has done more to damn Cleander and commend your own men than anything we’ve achieved over the last year. It has been an awful event, but in the end it will play to the good. It will help end this nightmare.’
‘Gods, I hope so.’
They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, and Rufinus listened to the sounds outside change. There were no longer screams of panic and a roar of anger. Now it had become wails of bitter lament. It was over; this was the time.
‘Men of the Urban Cohort, follow me.’
Tucking his vine stick into his belt to make it clear that he was not intending violence, Rufinus moved into the gate. He was no Cleander. The chamberlain might lurk safely at the rear of his men as he ordered them into murder, but Rufinus would go first as a centurion should, leading his men and facing the crowd outside alone at first.
He stepped through the dark passageway and emerged into the light and fought down the mouthful of sick that came up. The first thing that hit him was the smell. The smell of a battlefield was nothing new to him. He had experienced a fair few in his time, and most recently a few short years ago in Dacia. But he had been back in Rome now for some time and even with the rife plague he had not been prepared to experience it in the city’s streets.
Blood, gore and bowels. The smell of the battlefield.
Steadying himself and straightening, he lifted his gaze. In fact, the Guard were not yet entirely gone. At the far side of the square, past the slew of corpses, the last ranks of guardsmen, under the watchful, mounted gaze of Appius Fulvius, were gratuitously slaughtering those few who could not run fast enough. The lead men of the Cohort, along with Dionysus and Severus, emerged behind Rufinus, and he bit off the command that immediately rose to mind – to order his men across the square at the run and bring down Fulvius, beating him to death.
Instead, he glared as the last three standing citizens were put mercilessly to the sword. He watched their bodies fall, heard the screams, and reaffirmed his vow to see that man dead, as the Praetorians finally fully disengaged and marched away. As their crunching footsteps receded, Rufinus looked around himself. In actual fact, the death toll had not been quite as bad as he’d imagined. He’d reckoned there were around a thousand civilians out there before. He estimated the dead and incapacitated at somewhere between two hundred and two hundred and fifty. The walking wounded numbered maybe a hundred more. Of course very likely another hundred wounded had fled home before now, and many of them would likely die of their injuries that night. Still, that meant that maybe half the crowd had managed to flee the scene unharmed.
Never had he been more grateful that Senova was safe in Sicilia.
Around him, the officers and men of the Urban Cohort began to move among the stricken crowd, offering what assistance they could. Rufinus saw out of the corner of his eye a unit of vigiles approach, cautiously and with clubs drawn. One of the men nearby took it upon himself to explain to the newcomers what had happened and within moments the vigiles had sheathed their weapons, dr
opped their buckets, hoses and hooked poles, and were helping with the wounded.
Had it not been for the fact that supposedly noble soldiers of Rome had caused this in the first place, Rufinus might have felt it heart-warming to see men whose jobs were policing and firefighting instead rushing to the aid of their fellow men.
But there was anger gnawing at him now. He had sworn to bring down Cleander, who had made it personal time and time again, and he had sworn to kill Fulvius, whose own actions labelled him a felon. But this was something else. This was villainy on a grand, unconscionable scale. This was death and violence such as men like Nero had caused. He resolved to end it. The grain fleet was coming, and when it did, Cleander would rise once more. If he could not be brought low by then, Rufinus decided flatly, he would be the man to do the deed. If the grain fleet arrived, Rufinus would march into Tribune Fulvius’ house and then march back out with a bloodied blade, leaving only a butchered corpse, executed by a loyal citizen. Then he would find a way to reach Cleander. He would put his blade through that bastard’s black heart, and save Rome. Oh, he would then be tortured and would condemn all his friends, and so instead he would drag his knife across his own throat like a noble Roman of old and expire before he could betray anyone. Senova was not officially connected to him, and Publius was in a safe house a thousand miles away. He would die for it, but none of his loved ones would suffer, and he would bring the pair of bastards down first.
Leaving everyone else, he marched away. It was not a long walk from here to the Castra Peregrina. Half a mile at most. Even as he moved away from the grisly scene, already his soldiers were lifting wounded men up on shields or supporting them from the side and helping them move. Bloody footprints littered the road as he walked, and he peered at their huge numbers with a sickened pity. How many had fled clutching wounds only to die in their loved ones’ arms tonight?
Here and there, he noted new graffiti, some of it even painted in fresh blood. This was different. There was no edge of dark humour to these new slogans and images. They simply spoke of Cleander, and they called him words that made even Rufinus wince, terms that his father would have beaten him for using, calling him an uncouth barbarian.
They were almost there, now. Cleander had gone from being a grand public figure to being the target of the people’s hatred.
Ahead, the Castra Peregrina loomed, home of the transit barracks for all provincial military, but also the home of the frumentarii, one of the most guarded, secretive places in the city.
He would see the wounded to their medicus, and then he would begin the final phase of this plan, ruining Cleander and rousing the populace enough to bring him down.
Part Four
The last lap
“Nam qui dabat olim imperium […] duas tantum res optat, panem et circenses.”
(The mob that used to grant power […] hopes for two things only: bread and circuses)
Juvenal – Satires
Chapter Twenty Two – Confrontation
Rome, June 16th 190 A.D., afternoon
The men of the Urban Cohort worked like beasts of burden, tireless and unceasing. Rufinus, feeling a little guilty that his hands were empty apart from his vine stick and that he hadn’t moved in half an hour, glanced across at the other officers.
Prefect Pertinax looked as tense as the rest of them, and that was no small number of officers. Fully two thirds of the entire force was present at the Horrea Ummidiana. Two cohorts. One and a half of those cohorts was engaged in moving the grain shipment and seeing it into the two remaining granaries safely, stored away. It was not the Alexandrian shipment, of course, of which there was blessedly as yet no sign. This latest set of wagons was the stock of a merchant from Puteoli who had been pressed into relinquishing it into imperial hands for a relatively low price.
Cleander was getting impatient, demanding to know when there would be enough grain stored to feed the dole recipients and defuse the ever more dangerous city. In truth there was enough in there to cover the grain dole almost twice over now, but the chamberlain remained blessedly unaware. Rufinus had worried for a time that one of the men of the Urban Cohort would let slip the truth, since they had to know how much grain they had moved, but the Cohort were a loyal bunch. They were never going to let the truth get to the Praetorians who despised them, and therefore not to their master Cleander either. So the small shipments the chamberlain claimed continued to turn up, and the Urban Cohorts continued to liaise with Dionysus and his office over security, transport and storage.
The other half cohort present, who were not lugging grain sacks, were standing in a defensive line around the entire operation, watching the crowd like hawks.
The sad fact was that despite the horror of what had happened nine days ago outside the grain offices, the public had not been cowed. In fact, Cleander’s violent attack on the restive mob had had more or less entirely the opposite result. In the wake of murder and maiming, the people of Rome had not slunk away into their homes and hidden from the chamberlain’s wrath. Instead, they had begun to rise up angrily. Had it not been for the awful event that had triggered it all, Rufinus might have been rather satisfied with the result. Never since the days of Sejanus had the Praetorian Guard and their master been so reviled by Rome.
Cleander’s fruit-pelted statue in the forum had gone. It had simply vanished one night. Wherever his name was found painted or carved had become makeshift urinals for the population of Rome. His name was spoken with hatred, and slogans demanding his death appeared nightly. Had the emperor not been locked away in seclusion, he would have had no choice by now other than to seek the end of his chamberlain. But no ordinary man could get to the emperor on his private estate, and any man of influence who might consider approaching the emperor had been threatened sufficiently by Cleander that they had dropped out of sight.
Demonstrations arose across the city time and again, angry and troublesome, always on the edge of violence if never quite achieving it. The men of the Urban Cohort, their reputation unblemished among the people, quietly and calmly dispersed any gatherings. The Praetorians tried to avoid such places. Once, not so long ago, no citizen would have dared insult a Praetorian. Now they only went out in groups, for a guardsman caught on his own would be pelted with rotten food and shit. It had become so bad that outside the palace gates on the Palatine, the Guard had cleared gatherings by force often enough that the people had stopped gathering there.
Things were at breaking point. Rufinus had spoken to the others several times, desperately hoping for some suggestion as to how they could make the emperor aware of what was happening in the city. Repeatedly he had come away disappointed. Severus maintained that it would happen and they had to let things run their course, now. They had done everything they set out to do, and had made Cleander the most hated man in more than a century. Now they had to step back and let natural events take over. If they were seen to be engineering it, they would fall as badly as the chamberlain. Severus was content that it would all work out now.
Still, daily Rufinus kept an eye on the acta diurna and the emporium, half expecting the Alexandrian fleet to arrive and solve all Cleander’s problems. Still, thank the gods, it had not.
Rufinus glanced at the crowd now. They were as restive as ever, but at least he felt no danger or malice emanating from them. Where across the city crowds would threaten violence against the authorities in the form of Cleander’s Praetorians, no such hate was now aimed at the Urban Cohort or the vigiles. Their heroism and concern for the people in the wake of the recent slaughter had become the talk of Rome. Still, they remained on edge. The crowd might not wish to rise against the Cohort, but the level of anger and desperation was still reaching a critical point.
The men continued to strain under the weight of the sacks as their fellows on guard stood watch, eying the crowd. Rufinus continued to glance back and forth between them.
‘Uh oh,’ Optio Sura muttered next to him, and Rufinus turned to see what he was worrying about
. His spirits sank. A century of Praetorians was stomping in their direction, which boded ill in every way. Rufinus peered at the group carefully and sighed. At least Cleander and Fulvius were not here. This was an ordinary infantry unit under the command of a centurion, and Rufinus didn’t recognise the man’s crest.
‘I wonder what they’re after,’ Sura mused.
‘I don’t know, but with that lot over there,’ Rufinus thumbed towards the crowd, ‘it won’t take much to start trouble.’
Pertinax rode across towards Rufinus now, another senior centurion alongside him. ‘We appear to have friends visiting,’ the prefect said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
The Praetorians approached the granary and at a gesture from a centurion, the men of the Urban Cohort closed ranks a little, making space for the new arrivals but coincidentally also forming ready for trouble. The white-clad soldiers came to a crashing halt and turned to face Pertinax, their centurion stepping forward and giving him a still salute.
‘Centurion, to what do we owe this honour?’
The Praetorian glared at him. ‘Marcus Aurelius Cleander, Chamberlain of the…’
Lions of Rome Page 32
