Rufinus stared. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was no goddess, but an agent of the frumentarius – perhaps a girl from the theatre? Yet despite having an understanding beyond that of the majority of onlookers, even Rufinus felt divinity shining from the girl. Was it possible that she had somehow become a vessel for the goddess in this important moment?
She had to be connected with the theatre, or at least some choral or musical endeavour, for into the silence of the circus her voice poured like a golden wave. Rufinus was perhaps two to three hundred paces from her, and half the seating stand higher with thousands of people in between, yet he heard her voice as clear as anything. Either she was the most amazing orator, or the goddess was really taking a part in events.
‘Marcus Aurelius Cleander,’ the girl declared, her voice calm and resonant, no hoarse shout or bellow and yet somehow reaching every ear in the silent circus. ‘Chamberlain of Rome, Praetorian commander, companion of the emperor… slave of Phrygia.’
Rufinus couldn’t see Cleander’s face at this distance, but he had no trouble at all imagining the look on it at those words. His less than humble origins were known far and wide but nobody, be they low-born or high, would ever speak of it so in public, and certainly not in front of the man.
It was a master stroke. In a dozen words, the goddess had taken the most important man in Rome and reduced him to less than nothing in the minds of one hundred and fifty thousand people. For months now they had hated him, but at least he had always been feared. Now, suddenly, he was turned into nothing more than a humble, jumped-up slave in another man’s boots for a tenth of Rome’s population.
Rufinus actually felt the mood of the place shift. He tensed, fingers gripping his shield. He was dressed as one of Cleander’s men. This might not be a good time to be so garbed. Carefully and slowly, eyes still on the girl, he backed into the entrance to the staircase.
‘Cleander the granary owner,’ the goddess continued, ‘who took the horrea that belonged to the imperial family for himself and filled them with grain while the people of Rome starve.’
Rufinus stared. Gods, but it was true. To the very letter it was true, even if not quite to the spirit.
‘Cleander who buys all the grain that no one can afford, yet hoards it for himself.’
True. Again not true, but still in a very real way also true.
There was an angry roar from the crowd now, like a pride of lions thousands strong.
The imperial box was becoming a hive of activity, Praetorians unsheathing their swords and drawing close to Cleander. What had Cestius done? It had started well, but this had the makings of a major riot, and that would be appalling for the Praetorians clearly now had no qualms about butchering citizens on the word of the chamberlain.
‘These are your people, slave-tyrant,’ the goddess announced, spreading her arms and encompassing the children around her. ‘Each and every one the last in their family, their parents and siblings all dead of starvation while your warehouses burst with grain.’
Another outraged roar from the crowd. Louder now, tipping back into silence as the goddess raised her arms once more. Rufinus could hear people shouting that they’d heard the granaries were full and had been for days. Now where might they have heard that, Cestius?
‘What monster feeds his trained killers while the innocent starve?’
A scream punctuated the line.
How had she timed that? Or had it been Cestius, or perhaps pure chance. Whatever it was, as her last word drifted away, somewhere near the imperial box, a small fracas that had broken out was ended as three Praetorians butchered a man in front of the mob.
The roar began again. The crowd was moving. Every man was up from his seat and most were surging towards the imperial box. Rufinus held his breath. This was dreadful, or would be soon enough.
Then it happened.
The goddess sang. It was a beautiful, haunting song of hope and growth, of spring and renewal, intoned annually at the Ambarvalia festival of the crops, sacred to Ceres and known to almost every ear. The surging of the crowd faltered and then failed, every spectator coming to a halt amid the beautiful melody.
Severus was suddenly there. Close to the imperial box, yet surrounded by togate men in a protective ring, the African consul seemed a challenger to the chamberlain as he lifted his arms in oratorical stance.
‘People of Rome,’ he cried, somehow managing to join with the melody and rhythm rather than fighting it, ‘let us not be lawless, for Rome is a land of law and always was. The chamberlain has starved you and succumbed to greed and tyranny, but it is for the emperor to condemn him, not us. Take your plea to Commodus, to the living Hercules himself, for you know he is your champion.’
Rufinus lifted his gaze to the figures in the imperial box. Again, he could not see Cleander’s face, but his expression would be priceless. Suddenly very publically denounced by the very man who had placed him in this situation, he would be apoplectic with rage.
Sure enough, though the crowd had fallen still, the Praetorians began to move at snarled commands from the chamberlain.
Men started to die beneath Praetorian blades.
Severus suddenly shook off his toga and as well as his tunic beneath he bore a blade, in contravention of the sacred laws of the Pomerium. No one was going to argue with him about it that day, though. Moreover, that ring of toga-clad men around him did the same, revealing blades. Praetorians were moving on them now at Cleander’s orders, trying to get to Severus and kill him. But Severus was not just a consul of Rome now. He had denounced Cleander alongside the goddess. He was a champion of the Roman people now, and salesmen and housewives and blacksmiths and fishermen leapt to help, tackling the Praetorians alongside their consul.
There would be no riot, Rufinus realised. All there was was the whole of Rome against Cleander and his Praetorians. His gaze slid up to the imperial box in time to see the shape of Cleander slip through the rear door with a number of his men. It took precious moments to locate Fulvius. The tribune was gathering his dismounted cavalry and gesturing back towards the disappearing chamberlain. They were leaving, both of them.
Rufinus knew the two men, though. They were not fleeing. To run would be to admit defeat and lose, and neither of those men would think like that. They would be regrouping somewhere safer and gathering men, probably sending to the Castra Praetoria for the full Guard. More unexpected movement caught Rufinus’ eye and he frowned to see the goddess and her children running across the sand again, making for the carceres at the end, whence the chariots emerge before a race. The mob was pouring after her, and Rufinus could not for long moments think what was happening other than pious citizens flocking after a goddess. It came to him in a flash: Severus had told the people to go to the emperor, and that was precisely what they were doing, let by their goddess and her diminutive court.
There would be no need for one influential man to see the emperor now and denounce Cleander, for the whole of Rome seemed to be going.
Rufinus shook his head. Severus, Dionysus, Nicomedes and Cestius. Himself too, he supposed, and Senova perhaps even more… between them they had taken an ordered city ruled with an iron fist by an untouchable tyrant, and they had brought him low in a land of chaos. Now his time could be measured in hours, for since the days of Caesar no sane emperor would dare deny a demand from his whole empire.
Where would Cleander and Fulvius go?
His heart sank. Where else? They had to stop the mob getting to the emperor, or get there first and put their case to Commodus.
Breathing as deeply as possible, he turned and looked up at the top of the great arch.
It was hard to see, but he was certain Vibius Cestius was nodding at him.
Before the crowd began to pay attention to the masked Praetorian in the stairwell, Rufinus turned and descended. He had to get to Fulvius, and help stop Cleander. Cestius had done his part in setting the crowd to riot, and Severus had done his in directing their energy at the emp
eror. Now it was the turn of men like Rufinus to stop the evil bastards. And while Cleander had to fall by imperial command in order to remove all his influence, Fulvius could die any time.
He smiled at the thought, and rounded the corner to the next staircase. His heart skipped a beat. Another Praetorian was running up towards him, three civilians after the man, howling for blood. The soldier had lost his sword and his shield, but was clutching his dagger as a man chased him, threatening him with his own blade. Rufinus had only a moment to think. He was dressed as one of them. He would be every bit as much a target.
Regret weighed heavily. He did not know the guardsman, but it was him or Rufinus, yet still possibly both. Unless…
The Praetorian started to shout something at him, but as he got close Rufinus lifted his shield and punched the man in the face with the iron boss, sending him falling with a cry, sprawling across the stair. The three citizens stopped, confusion replacing their anger for a moment as their enemies attacked one another. Rufinus pulled away his face mask.
‘For the emperor,’ he said. ‘Go to the emperor! Tell him of this.’
These simple words seemed to put him in their camp, and the three men nodded and, ignoring both soldiers further, ran on up the steps. Rufinus looked down at the guardsman. He would most certainly have a broken nose, and possibly worse, but at least he was alive.
Gritting his teeth, Rufinus ran on down the stairs. Somewhere out there Appius Fulvius was marshalling Praetorians to face the crowd and save his loathsome master.
Cleander’s time might be measured in hours, but Fulvius’ time was counted in mere heartbeats now.
Chapter Twenty Six – Revolution
Rome, June 17th 190 A.D., morning
By the time Rufinus emerged from vomitoria of the circus, Rome was in chaos. Where the surrounding streets had been filled with only sullen silence before, now they were crammed with bodies moving in every conceivable direction, either with furious intent or in aimless panic. It was a disappointment, but no great surprise, to find both his horse and the boy who’d took it entirely gone. On the other hand, there were still those Praetorian cavalry mounts about two hundred paces away being held by a group of terrified-looking slaves. There was no sign of the soldiers who’d been there when he entered, but he suspected they had already come to a nasty end, given that their horses were still there. The mob might have overwhelmed the cavalry, but they had left the slaves alone and, not sure what to do, those slaves had stayed exactly where they were, still holding the horses.
Rufinus ran along the side arcades of the circus, pausing here and there to avoid people, ducking and dodging. As he ran, half a dozen burly, angry-looking citizens gave a great shout and ran for him. Not liking the odds, Rufinus ducked behind a small group of women who were arguing over something and ran on. Twice he felt something hit him, but they were little more than glancing blows and he didn’t stop.
He reached the horses without being consumed by the angry mob and tried to vault onto a horse. The utter failure of the manoeuvre reminded him that the shirt he wore was far too constrictive for such activity. With the aid of one of the slaves he managed to pull himself into the saddle. Once again something bounced off his shoulder without causing real damage, but he grabbed his shield back from a slave and lifted it protectively regardless.
He had to find the Praetorians quickly, and for two reasons. Firstly, if he stayed alone in Praetorian white in this mob, someone would soon succeed in bringing him down and he would be torn to pieces by angry citizens. Secondly, wherever he found the largest group of Praetorian cavalry, he would find Appius Fulvius, and probably Cleander too. The pair had both been at the far side of the circus, to the north, and would have exited through that side. There was precious little chance of him making it round to there without falling to the crowd, though. He had to get somewhere safe for a moment and think.
Where would the tribune go?
His eyes scanned the area as something dinged off his helmet and made him wince. The mob was surging this way and that, but the strongest flow seemed to be south, along the various roads heading across the Aventine or down the shallow valley between the Aventine and the Little Aventine.
Something hit him hard in the back and almost drove him from the saddle, and his head snapped round urgently to see that a man with a broom and jabbed him hard and was drawing it back to swing it in an attempt to push him from the saddle. Hands were grabbing his legs and grasping the horse’s bridle now. They were trying to bring him down and the slaves looked disinclined to help him. Time was up. He had to get out of here.
Wheeling the nervous, nickering horse, he urged it forward into the crowd. People were still hanging on to him and to the horse’s tack, and the broom caught him a glancing blow on the shield as he pressed forward. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt the citizens of Rome – he was on their side, though they couldn’t possibly know it – but there was nothing else for it. He had to harden himself to the fact that if he wanted to survive this, he was going to break heads, however regretfully.
He pushed the horse on, using his shield to batter people out of the way, steering with his knees as his right hand worked constantly, flailing and pushing, slapping and punching, knocking away hands and once or twice pulling them off his reins. Slowly, he started to pick up speed, amid occasional shrieks as rabid citizens disappeared beneath his hooves in the press. He felt the repeated battering of blows upon him, though his shield and helmet and the mail shirt took the worst of it. Still, he would hurt later. They were landing better blows than Fulvius had managed in the storeroom.
Suddenly, he managed to push into an open area and immediately kicked the horse into a run. Two more men came for him, but now he was too fast, those few grasping hands still trying to hold him back and bring him down fell away with cries of anger and disappointment.
He was across the open space now and riding into a side street past the temple of Dis Pater. He jogged right and left then, fleeing the mob, and stopped only when he made it into a quiet street with an archway leading into a livery stable. There he moved into the shadow of the arch, stretching sore muscles, wincing at all new pains and trying to think.
The mob were largely surging south, or at least a significant portion of them were. They would be following Severus’ call in the circus, running for the emperor to denounce Cleander. It was a good ten miles at least to the emperor’s coastal villa at Laurentum. Even if they ran, it would probably take the lead elements of the crowd a couple of hours to get there. Few would have horses, after all. They would surge through the old Porta Raudusculana, now little more than a gap between the crumbling sections of the ancient, forgotten wall. Then, they would race along the main road towards Ostia and Laurentum.
And if the mob were going that way, then so would Cleander. And if Cleander went that way, then so would Fulvius and his cavalry. The imperial box was closer to the western end of the circus, where the carceres lay and where cavalry could assemble easiest. Cleander and Fulvius would come that way, around the end of the circus and then up the long Clivus Publicius, joining the main road to the Raudusculana Gate. There they could perhaps halt the flow of humanity.
Confidant that this would be the Praetorians’ plan, he guided his horse back out of the gateway and through a few smaller back streets until he sat in the shadow of the baths of Licinius Sura. People were moving along the main street beyond and heading for the gate just as they were along other streets. It is in the nature of a mob to move like herd creatures, and the Roman people were doing just that – or at least that part of the throng which had decided to head to the emperor’s residence. Consequently, the bulk of the mob were moving in groups along the larger main streets, ignoring the small connecting side roads and alleys. No one seemed to notice the mounted Praetorian in the shady side street as they passed.
Rufinus was beginning to wonder whether he had misjudged the situation as he sat there waiting, and started thinking about where to go next
when he heard the trouble. It began as a distant roar, but as it came closer it rose in volume and coalesced into distinct sounds. It was horribly familiar to Rufinus after that dreadful day by the horrea. It was the sound of vicious slaughter.
He edged closer to the street and peered out. Another wave of humanity was pouring up the street, but they were running in blind panic and screaming. Behind them, he could see Praetorian horsemen riding them down, blades flashing in the sunlight both steely grey and washed crimson as they rose and fell.
Nausea rose in Rufinus at the sight of Praetorians butchering innocents once more. How his once-noble unit had fallen.
He waited, steeling himself. He would not become involved. He would not kill citizens, yet he had somehow to get to Fulvius. His current Praetorian garb might make it possible to get close enough to the tribune to take him on, but it also put him in danger, making him an enemy of the mob.
Tense, he waited as the mobile slaughter closed. Terrified people rushed past the street end, and a few turned into the entrance, though at the unexpected sight of the white-clad horseman in the shadow, most of them returned to the main street and ran on. A few slipped past him and disappeared into the alleyways.
The mob fled past, and finally Rufinus got a good view of the force chasing them down. Several turmae of cavalry were involved in the butchery, more than a hundred in all, and he could see both Fulvius and Cleander in the heart of the mass, along with several other lesser officers. Silently, he cursed. There was little chance of him getting close enough to Fulvius here, and if he did he would get caught up in the slaughter, forced to kill civilians or fall to fellow Praetorians instead.
Angry and impotent, he watched the Praetorians pass by. Ridiculously, he could hear authoritative voices demanding that the crowd disperse rising above the din even as Praetorian blades hacked them down in their flight.
Lions of Rome Page 38
