Lions of Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Fulvius is going to die for a number of reasons.’

  A distant horn honked the new watch, and the two Praetorians at the doorway straightened. ‘Listen, Rufinus, we’ve got to go. We needed an alibi for this and so we came while we’re on duty. We’re supposed to be on guard at east turret four and if the next shift gets there and we’re absent, we’ll be in the shit, and we‘ll get linked to that guard’s bad headache.’ He thumbed towards the white heap in the corner of the room beyond.

  Rufinus nodded. ‘Go. And thanks. I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Damn right you will. Now get to safety.’

  With that the two Praetorians hurried from that outer room and into the light, running across the street and into a narrow alley between workshops beyond on their way back to their post.

  Rufinus shivered. He was free. Still deeply in danger and in the nest of his enemy, but at least no longer caged. Now he had a fighting chance, thanks to the gods and his old friends. He prayed they got back to their posts before their relief arrived. If they did, and their brief absence had not been noted, then they would never be tied to the release of the prisoner. Besides, shortly Rufinus would make sure that Fulvius and his loathsome master both died a traitor’s death, and then he could be himself again and Mercator and Icarion would be exonerated of any wrongdoing.

  First, though, he had to get out of here and quickly, before anyone found him. Fulvius might…

  No. He remembered the man’s parting comment last night, after the beating. He had to prepare for the circus in the morning. Fulvius would be at the circus right now for some reason. That not only bought Rufinus a little more freedom of movement in the fortress, but also gave him an objective. Somehow, before the sun set on this day, Rufinus would be staring down at the tribune’s corpse, and the circus would be the place to start.

  He hurried over to the outer door and looked this way and that, trying to get his bearings. He was indeed in the stores area of the cavalry section. He didn’t know it well, but he could see the tops of towers over the roof to confirm his rough position. There appeared to be no one in the alleyways nearby. For a moment he wondered why, and indeed how Merc and Icarion had managed to get to him so readily and unchallenged in the cavalry section of the busiest fortress in the empire. The answer was simple, though. Fulvius would have given orders to keep the area off-bounds. He could hardly afford for anyone not in his direct control to discover that he was keeping a centurion of the Urban Cohort prisoner. That at least played into Rufinus’ hands. It had meant that this friends had been able to get to him to release him, and it meant that he could leave the store room without worrying too much about being immediately observed.

  But he could hardly leave in a towel.

  His jaw ached, and he could feel the bruises and pulled muscles of his beating last night, but there was no permanent damage, and he could deal with it. It was part and parcel of being a boxer, learning to deal with the effects of a punch.

  He moved over and crouched at the form of the unconscious guard. The man had been struck on the back of the head by Rufinus’ friends, with the pommel of a sword, he guessed. A quick probe of the man’s hair revealed a lump the size of an egg, but no blood. They’d done well.

  Aware of the pressing need for speed, he began to remove the man’s armour and clothing. The way he was going to get out of the fortress at least was clear. As he worked, constantly keeping an eye on the unconscious guard he undressed, just in case the man suddenly came to, he silently cursed that the man was a different shape. Not a great deal, but sufficient difference that this could be uncomfortable. Taller, he was, but narrower in every other aspect.

  Moments later, Rufinus was pulling on the man’s white tunic with some difficulty. It was, obviously, longer than his own, and hung to just below the knee. He fretted for only a moment. Many centurions clung to the old fashioned notion that only a child or a slave would have a tunic hanging below the knee, but these days, with the influence of plait-haired Gallic and Germanic troops, longer tunics were much more widely accepted, and some units had already begun to wear breeches, especially on the northern frontiers.

  Swiftly he gathered the rest and pulled it all on, tutting irritably with each new piece of clothing. The socks had holes in and were uncomfortable, a piece of loose wool catching between his toes. The boots were too big by far, and his feet would slip back and forth inside as he walked, even with the socks on. The subarmalis was a smidgeon too tight, but at least with lace-up sides he could get it to a comfortable fit without too much difficulty.

  The chain shirt was another matter entirely. He struggled with the damn thing longer than the rest of the man’s clothing and equipment put together. The man was not especially thin, but Rufinus had a boxer’s build. Getting the shirt over his torso was a struggle, and once he was in the thing he found that he was limited to fairly shallow breaths. It was not comfortable, and far from ideal, but it was necessary right now. Strapping on the sword belt, he found that the next difficulty was bending low enough in this shirt to reach the helmet that had been placed carefully on the floor. At least the man had brought it with him. Rufinus was well aware that his face would be bloody and bruised, and the helmet would help hide the damage. As he scooped up the decorative item, he couldn’t help but grin. The Praetorian cavalry were always so vain, having to have the best and most decorative of everything, and though it was far from a requirement many of the cavalrymen wore as standard the silvered facemasks usually saved for parades. Their officers allowed it, as it only made them look all the more fierce.

  It would be of the greatest use to Rufinus. He pulled the helmet on with the latest in the line of curses. It was very slightly too small. It went on well enough, but bits of it felt tight and oppressive, and the end of his nose touched the steel of the face mask uncomfortably.

  He straightened. Even a shield stood leaning against the wall close to the door. An elongated hexagonal board painted blue and gold with the scorpion emblem repeated amid the stars and half-moons. He swept it up. No one could possibly recognise him in this. Through the somewhat limiting eye slits, he peered at the back of the shield and there, sure enough, beneath the painted owl of Minerva for protection, was the name and unit of the owner.

  Titus Didius Curio, Third Turma, Second Cohort.

  Titus Didius Curio. He would have to remember that name, just in case, but at least he had a handy little reference note with him.

  It felt odd to be in Praetorian uniform again, and not just because of the ill-fitting nature of this particular example. He had been proud of the white once upon a time, and in some ways he was looking forward to the day when he could wear it again officially and openly, and yet wearing it now he felt tainted, as though the corruption that had spread throughout the Guard had seeped into the very uniform. It had begun with the treachery of Paternus, and had become exponentially worse since the rise of Cleander. Now, Rufinus suddenly realised that with the Guard as they were, barring odd examples like Mercator and Icarion, he no longer wished to be a part of them.

  It was a strange realisation, especially while wearing the uniform once more.

  By the time he stepped out into the light, he had managed to adjust the kit with stretching and leaning and rolling of the shoulders to the point where it was merely a little restrictive and uncomfortable, and could walk relatively normally.

  He forced himself to move with relative slowness in order to attract the least attention possible. The area around the store rooms was clear of humanity, and he shut the door on his prison and strode away from it, emerging soon onto a small road between there and the nearest cavalry barrack block. He had his bearings properly now. What he would have dearly liked would be to return to the Urban Cohort barracks and change into his own kit. There were, however, a number of downsides to that. First of all there was the danger and difficulty of marching in there dressed as a Praetorian and not having seven shades of shit kicked out of him, given the current climate. Then there w
as the fact that his room might be under surveillance. But the big issue was that he had been absent without leave for almost a day now. Even if he could persuade Pertinax of the truth of what had happened, he would almost certainly be detained in the Cohort’s barracks for the foreseeable, while things were sorted out.

  He simply couldn’t afford that. Both Fulvius and Cleander were onto him now. They thought they had him contained, and meanwhile the city was at boiling point. Anything could happen at any moment, but whatever occurred, Rufinus had to make sure they were dealt with before they came back for him.

  He had to get to the circus, and find Fulvius.

  Turning his back on the quarters of his own unit, he marched towards where he knew the cavalry stables to be. A certain amount of stealth was going to be required shortly, but combined with a quantity of bare-faced nerve. Luckily there were few people as arrogant as the Praetorian cavalry.

  He was in the populated area now, moving along roads filled with other soldiers. Almost all wore the uniform of the cavalry, though there were infantry guardsmen evident here and there. No one batted an eyelid at the slightly ill-fitted masked cavalryman walking among them, and Rufinus swiftly began to settle into the role. While it would have been nice to be back in his own uniform, if he wanted to get to Fulvius, wearing this kit would make it a great deal easier, he was sure.

  He passed the cavalry parade ground and noted with interest a dozen cavalrymen formed up there with their optio checking them over. They were kitted out fully, in the same manner as Rufinus, and were clearly assembling ready to move out somewhere, since a parade or exercise would surely involve a full turma. He smiled behind that expressionless mask. There was his way out of the fortress.

  Moments later he was at the stables. He walked around a little, unfamiliar with the place, until he noticed the legends visible on the buildings and realised that the stalls were arranged by cohort and then by turma. It did not take long to find the horses of the Third Turma, Second Cohort, and he took a deep breath, hoping the gods were still with him.

  Opening the door at the end of the block he stepped inside, forcing himself not to look around curiously. He was supposed to be familiar with the place, after all. A stable hand came hurrying out of one of the stalls and Rufinus was immensely thankful that it was a slave who’d come to deal with him and not the equisio, who would hold rank and might be suspicious. A slave would surely never refuse a cavalry trooper.

  ‘Titus Didius Curio, Third Turma, Second Cohort. Saddle my horse and bring it out.’

  No pleasantries or easiness. He had to sound arrogant and sure of himself. To his immense relief, the slave bowed and scurried off about the task. He waited nervously for a short while until the slave reappeared, leading a grey mare from the stall. With a slight tinge of guilt that he’d not thought of her in so long, Rufinus felt keenly the absence of his own precious Atalanta, who he’d left with Severus’ own horse in Lugdunum. It had not occurred to him to ask after her, and he wondered whether she was still in that distant city being cared for by the next governor, or whether she had been moved to Rome alongside Severus’ mare. Thoughts of Atalanta inevitably led him to Acheron, who in turn brought him to Senova, and he had to shake his head a little and clear it of such troublesome nostalgia.

  Without a word of thanks, he took the reins of the mare from the slave and turned his back with traditional cavalry arrogance, leading the mare from the stables. In the lee of the building, out of the sight of all and sundry, he pulled himself up into the saddle with difficulty and a total lack of finesse. Better to do this out of sight. A cavalryman should look natural mounting his horse, and being seen to struggle might raise questions. He was no stranger to the saddle, of course, and could normally mount with ease, but in such restrictive armour it was an entirely different matter. Still, moments later he was in the saddle and urging the beast along the street with a more expert air. He moved on two streets until he was in view of the parade ground, and was just in time to see the unit of horsemen departing at the far side. Tense, he picked up speed and moved in an arc around two other streets until he reached a position level with them. Holding his breath, he glanced ahead at the gate and then across at the optio leading the patrol.

  He waited. Prayed. Controlled his breathing behind the mask. The last man in the patrol walked out from the street that led to the parade ground and, seamlessly, Rufinus walked his horse forth and fell into line at the rear. He realised with relief that the man in front of him, and indeed half the unit, wore similar silvered face masks. Not only did that help him blend in, but it also helped restrict sight and sound and, with the overall drumming of hooves and the jingle, clonk and shush of armour and equipment, the rear-guard of the patrol had not noticed he had picked up a follower.

  The optio handed over his orders to the officer at the gate, who perused them for only a moment, and then had his men swing the great timber portal wide. No one counted the number of horsemen as they passed beneath the gateway, and Rufinus heaved a great sigh of relief as he emerged into the city’s sub-urbs from the fortress.

  The gods were with him. They had sent Merc and Icarion to deliver him from his cell, and they had watched over him all through the Castra Praetoria and out to freedom. The unit had exited the fortress through the north gate and the optio immediately led his men off to the left, heading along a street that Rufinus seemed to remember crossed the Nomentana and connected to the Via Salaria heading north. Wherever they were bound it was out in the northern region of the city, and outside the sacred Pomerium, for they were armed and armoured. Entirely the wrong direction for Rufinus. He waited until they passed out of sight of the gate, the few miserable, plague-ridden citizens in this region cowering out of the way of the despised but deadly Praetorians. Then, as soon as he judged it safe, he turned away, slipping off into a side street on the right and immediately picking up pace, moving away from the mounted patrol.

  He was free.

  He was in the city, in an excellent disguise and out of the clutches of his enemies.

  Now to find his way to the Circus Maximus and confront Fulvius. Keeping his distance from the fortress, riding two streets back just in case, he skirted around the eastern and southern sides and then headed south across the Esquiline. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to attract undue attention to himself, and so he made sure to stay out of the boundary of the Pomerium, within which weapons of war were forbidden by ancient sacred law, and within which the Guard moved in togas rather than armour, except where duty required otherwise.

  The Circus Maximus actually lay within the Pomerium, which declared its ancient origin, and that meant that he would theoretically be in breach of ancient law if he entered the area equipped as he was. On the other hand, he reasoned, it was unlikely in the current climate that the Praetorians were going anywhere without being prepared for trouble. The circus was at the very southern edge of the Pomerium and almost certainly if Fulvius was there with his men they would be armed and armoured.

  As he rode, he was disheartened by the atmosphere around him. The people cowered at the edges of the streets, fearing the Guard where once they might have respected them. But that fear was also laced with malice, and every gaze Rufinus managed to catch through his restrictive eye slits suggested that if they managed to catch him in an alley without his blade he’d regret wearing the Praetorian white. It was an uncomfortable and unpleasant feeling for Rufinus to be quite so unpopular.

  The fact that no one would consider even approaching him meant that he almost leapt out of the saddle when a voice nearby said ‘I was wondering when you would show up again.’

  He turned, lurching in the saddle, now cursing the restricted view. With difficulty he located the source of the voice and blinked as Vibius Cestius pulled alongside him.

  ‘How…?’

  ‘I’d know you if you sawed off both legs and grew a second head, Rufinus.’

  ‘But where…?’

  ‘I’ve been watching the C
astra Praetoria since late last night when it came to my attention that you had not returned. I missed seeing you bundled in by the tribune’s men, of course, but I was sure you’d been taken there. I even gave some thought to getting you out somehow, but I bowed to Severus’ wishes. He may not be my commander, but the game we’re all playing at the moment is his to control.’

  ‘What?’

  During the night I warned Severus that you’d been taken and asked his opinion. He was extremely regretful that you’d been captured – genuinely so, I believe – but he also felt that we simply could not risk landing everyone in trouble for the sake of getting you out. Rest assured you would have been freed, or at least allowed a quick death, before Cleander reached the fortress and started asking you questions.’

  ‘You’re all heart,’ Rufinus noted acidly.

  ‘Come now, Rufinus, you know as well as I how this game works. Sacrifices and deniability. Care must be taken at all times and we will not risk the result this close to the finish line.’

  ‘We are close then?’ Rufinus murmured.

  ‘Very. I apologise for my recent absence from a variety of important events, but I have been on my own mission, sowing discord and ideas among the mob. I have a number of well-placed puppets in place ready to bring this all to a head. Today is the day, my boy.’

  ‘I am on the way to the circus,’ Rufinus said.

  ‘Of course you are, for Fulvius is there and you mean to kill him. But, young Rufinus, Cleander is also there. It is the largest gathering of citizens for almost a year, all in the presence of Cleander and his armed Guard, all hungry and angry, and harbouring men prepared with my own words. Time to witness unfolding that which we spent so long putting in motion.’

  ‘Fulvius…’

  ‘Yes, I know. Fulvius should die, and I fear we should not have imposed restrictions on you so early in the game. Had you killed Fulvius a year ago, these past few days might have been easier, and especially so for you. But I must caution you: do not put Fulvius above Cleander. I know this is personal, and I shall not stand in your way when the time is right, but things are unfolding as they should, and I cannot have you cause a problem because you intend to march murderously into the circus and hack off a tribune’s head. I will stop you if I have to, but I hope you will see sense and remain patient.’