The Peacekeeper

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Nefer sprawled next to Eleyne. She awarded me with an indifferent glance, twisted around and licked her paws. At least the cat no longer growled when I approached Eleyne. After warning me about the assassination attempt five years ago, I gladly tolerated the cat’s sometimes obnoxious behavior.

  Gazing at me, Eleyne smiled and set aside her needle and thread. As I bent down and kissed her lips, I noticed she wore the gold Celtic torc she’d brought with her from Britannia. It matched the armlets above the elbows, which encircled her pale neck. Now a citizen, and considered an honorable Roman matron, Eleyne’s British ways still died slowly.

  Since our marriage nearly five years before, Eleyne had given birth to our sons, Marcellus, now three, and Sabinus, two. The two boys were a contrast. Small and dark, young Marcellus would grow to be lean and wiry. A quiet child, he seemed to possess insight beyond his years. But young Sabinus was born big and noisy. He was happy and outgoing from the moment of birth. Fair like his mother, his long face and chin resembled his grandfather, Verica, Eleyne’s father.

  “I heard you talking to Porus,” Eleyne said, bringing my mind back to the present. “Was your day so distressing?”

  “Depends on how you view it,” I answered glumly. “I should be thankful, but I’m not.”

  Her face tightened, and for a few seconds she remained silent as if pondering my situation. Despite birthing two children, she had gained little weight. Her delicate face contained few expressive lines at the corner of her mouth and eyes.

  “Here, sit down,” she suggested an instant later, “you look awful. Tell me what happened.” Eleyne reached over and stroked my stubbled face with her soft hand.

  I took the chair next to her and described the murder and my promotion.

  “Drusus didn’t deserve to die so horribly.” She was more forgiving than I.

  I nodded, not really meaning it.

  “I’m happy you received the promotion,” Eleyne said. “You’ve earned it.” She planted a kiss on my cheek.

  I smiled weakly. “Then pray to your God to give me strength. I’ll need his and that of Achilles to restore discipline.”

  “Are they so wicked?”

  “Aye, that’s why he was popular with the Seventh.” I exhaled. “They literally got away with murder.”

  “Is it any wonder they are hated by the people?” Eleyne said. “My Christian friends have been badly treated, too.”

  “They’re treating everyone the same. Keeping the peace, calming disturbances, and fighting fires are their primary duties, but they’ve been derelict. They extorted the shopkeepers far more than other cohorts do. That ceases immediately.”

  We fell silent as Porus entered. He carried a bronze tray, containing two silver cups and a small, blue glass amphora containing a dark Tuscan wine. An earthen jug of water to dilute the heavy drink accompanied it. Placing the server on the ornately carved oak table, he filtered out the resin with a strainer, filled the cups, and waited upon us.

  Eleyne and I quietly sipped our wine.

  “It isn’t a problem that can be solved overnight,” I continued, after Porus left the room. I held my cup with both hands. Then I realized I was holding it so tightly my fingers had turned numb. I loosened my grip. “The Julian Games start in six weeks, and there isn’t any way they’ll be ready to handle a major disorder.”

  “But there have been riots at other games and festivals. How did the Seventh manage then?”

  “Drusus assigned the troops to patrolling the outskirts of the city during the festivals, through bribing tribunes from other cohorts to take their place.”

  “Didn’t Sabinus know about it?” She took another sip.

  “His spies only recently uncovered the truth. Sabinus was in the process of building a solid case against Drusus. The emperor would have had no choice but to dismiss him.”

  “Now, he’s dead.”

  I lifted my goblet and took a long swallow, the slightly acidic wine warming my insides. “Aye, I’ll have to gain the confidence of the Seventh, but at the same time be decisive and firm.”

  “I know you’ll set a personal example as did my father. His warriors trusted and respected him,” she said. Her mind seemed to wander back to perhaps happier times.

  “He stood,” she continued, “right in front when they went to battle. He didn’t expect his men to do anything he wouldn’t do himself.”

  “Your father was a noble man,” I said, thinking of the assassination by his own bodyguards.

  “By the way,” Eleyne added, “Aurelia has invited me to the naval games.”

  I raised my eyebrows, and then studied her face. “Since when have you taken an interest in gladiator shows? Aren’t they against the beliefs of your god?”

  “They are, but Aurelia pleaded with me to go with her. It will be the event of the Julian Festival, so I said I would.” She sighed and gestured with a hand. “Poor dear, she seemed so lonely and depressed—I don’t know why.”

  “Doesn’t she have lady friends among the senators’ wives?”

  “Yes, but she says they’re boring, and she’d rather have my company.”

  “Very thoughtful of her. It’s obvious she loves you like a daughter.”

  Eleyne blushed, and then smiled. “I know, and it’s very flattering. She has been like a mother to me.” Earlier, Eleyne had related how she lost her real mother when she was five years old. A chill had settled in her lungs, leading to her death.

  “You know Candra will fight in the games?”

  She lowered her head and stared at the shining, tiled floor. “I’ve seen the posters—they must be drawn on every wall in Rome. I’ve never wanted to see him fight, because I’m afraid he will be killed.”

  “What if it happens?”

  “I don’t know what I will do,” she answered gloomily. “Of course, since Gallus is sponsoring the games, I’m sure he would celebrate his death.”

  Quietly, Gallus had regained the emperor’s favor. Working his way through the junior offices, required for readmission to the Senate, he currently held the office of Aedile of the city water works. Appropriately enough, the finale of the Julian Festival was the naval games in which Candra was scheduled to fight. Next year, Gallus would take his dead father’s seat in the Senate.

  “I’ll pray for Candra’s survival,” Eleyne continued, “even though the chances are great that he will die.”

  Sensing her uneasiness, I changed the subject. “Let’s not talk further about Candra tonight.” Somehow, I doubted the thought of his possible doom left her mind.

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 12

  My promotion to commander of the Seventh Cohort created bitterness among the troops. I ordered to muster the Seventh for roll call and inspection on the first morning of my command. Nearly one thousand men formed ranks on the small parade field by the cohort’s barracks, in the Trans-Tiberina District near the Via Aurelia.

  Ten centuries, each containing nearly one hundred Watchmen, lined up in the usual contubernii of ten men in ten columns. Unlike the undermanned army, the Watch was kept at full complement.

  As I approached the formation, followed by a trail of centurions, another officer called the men to attention. The loud clattering of chainmail, stomping of hob-nailed sandaled caligae on the cement pavement, echoed across the parade field and bounced off the barracks walls. A brilliant sun glared off their burnished chainmail armor and the wide, protective cheek guards of their red-plumed helmets.

  “Appointing an outsider is an insult,” a Watchman somewhere in the ranks grumbled.

  “We ain’t forgetting Drusus anytime soon,” another said.

  Although I couldn’t see the malcontents, I stopped and glared in their direction. The eyes of the troops who stood at attention before me looked down at the pavement of the parade ground in apparent unease, instead of staring blankly ahead.

  I stepped closer to the formation and halted, smelling sweaty bodies and garlic on their breaths. After turning t
o my entourage who stopped behind me, I faced the troops again and surveyed the ranks.

  The morning grew warmer with each passing minute—Rome was in for another scorching day. Sweat poured down my chest from inside my uniform. The scarf I wore around my neck as a guard from the chafing heat of my medal cuirass offered little protection. It was as if I were a prisoner in heated bronze.

  I addressed the men. “I will say this only once.” I paused to let the words sink in. “From now on, I will hold every man of this cohort accountable for his acts. Under your old commander, you turned into fucking slackers. No more! Disobedience to orders or infractions of rules and regulations will be met with swift and severe punishment!”

  A groan erupted from the ranks.

  “Silence!” roared the chief centurion behind me.

  “Know this,” I continued, “my loyalty to the emperor and Prefect Sabinus is absolute. I demand no less from you.” I paused again.

  Silence.

  I turned to the officers behind me. “Prepare the men for inspection.”

  The chief centurion barked the command.

  Slowly, I paced along the lines, inspecting each man. The laborious process took most of the morning, with dismal results. I placed one hundred fifty-nine troopers on report for failing to pass inspection.

  This was only the beginning. I surveyed the men as their centurions barked commands and snarled insults and led them in riot drills—a fiasco. They failed to maintain a solid shield line—any mob could have smashed their disorderly ranks.

  Heat rushed to my face. Clinching the hilt of my sword and cursing, I turned to the chief centurion. “I’ve seen enough. Stand the men down—they’re a disgrace. You and the rest of the centurions are to report to my office immediately.” I turned and walked away, kicking pebbles down the street.

  I sat behind my desk glowering at the reeking, perspiring officers who stood fidgeting at attention. “Never have I seen a sorrier group of troops in my life!” Briefly, I stopped to allow the words to sink in. “I realize these are Watchmen, and not legionaries. But they’re dressed and armed like soldiers. Therefore, I expect them to look as sharp and perform in the same disciplined fashion. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the centurions answered glumly in unison.

  I leaned slightly forward. “Your men—my men, will comply to all rules and regulations and follow standard training procedures. Discipline shall be enforced immediately.” I jabbed a finger in their direction. “Any centurion who disobeys my orders will be broken to the ranks. By the gods, if you can’t lead, then you will follow!” Lowering my hand, I studied the face of each of the ten centurions. Some remained passive; others stared in fear or hatred. Only one appeared to be pleased, Casperius Niger, who slowly nodded his approval. I remembered him as an Optio. He had been a member of the thirty Watchmen I had led on that infamous raid of the thieves’ hideout beneath Rome a few years earlier. It was after we had killed or captured the bandits that we discovered the note leading to Gallus as the head of a conspiracy to kill Emperor Claudius.

  “We have a lot of work ahead of us,” I resumed. “Return to the parade field and begin at once. Dismissed!”

  That afternoon the backs of many rankers incurred the stinging pain of a centurion’s vine cane as I observed their drills on the parade field. They knew I was watching. No doubt the centurions, their commands laced with strings of profanities and threats, took out their dislike for me upon the backs of their men. This pampered lot deserved the boot and the rod if any discipline was to be instilled.

  *

  The first two weeks, Crispus and I traveled around the Trans-Tiberina District at all hours of the day and night, making dozens of surprise inspections of patrolling Watchmen. Upon discovering infractions or misconduct, I admonished or relieved the violators on the spot and reprimanded the centurion in charge.

  One evening, Crispus and I, and an escort of picked troopers, stumbled upon a squad of bucketmen, extorting money from the proprietor of a wine shop along the Via Portuensis Road. I placed the entire detail of ten men under arrest and court-martialed them the following day.

  Only in firefighting, the original function of the Watch, did the Seventh show competence. During the same period, under my close surveillance, the units quickly and efficiently used their tar-lined rope buckets and cart-wheeled water pumps to extinguish a dozen tenement fires.

  Gradually, the Seventh began to improve. My inspections had the desired effect. After a long wait, I publicly praised appropriate conduct, which raised their pride and instilled confidence. The men grumbled, but soldiers always complained. So long as they obeyed orders, I didn’t care. Due to the incompetence and poor leadership, I sacked centurions of the First and Third Centuries. The Seventh Cohort required further discipline and training before they gained my confidence in their abilities to be an effective police unit. There was progress, but the road to professionalism demanded by the emperor was still over the horizon.

  One humid day, as I reviewed the daily reports in my spartan-like office, Casperius Niger, the tall and swarthy centurion from Tuscany, unexpectedly reported to me. Conducting the investigation into the death of Drusus, he had proved to be the best centurion under my command. Because his ideas on discipline were similar to mine, I promoted him to the command of the First Century, traditional assignment of a cohort’s best centurion. Casperius snapped to attention, saluted, and gave a fitness report on his unit.

  When he finished, I was about to dismiss him when he peeked over his shoulder to the office door and hallway. No one was about. His olive skin tightened over his lean face as if troubled by a problem. “Sir, may I say something personal?” he asked in a slow, Etruscan drawl.

  “You may, providing it’s honest and not disrespectful.” Puzzled by his request, I nodded to a stool by the desk.

  He sat and leaned slightly forward. “I’ve listened to the men comparing you with Drusus,” he said in a lowered voice. “The younger ones are doing a lot of complaining, but the old veterans are praising your name. You’re no friend like Drusus, but this cohort needed a commander like you.”

  “Thanks for your confidence.”

  “Well, I’ve known you about five years, sir, and I like how you handle the men. You’re fair but keep a tough stick on them, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s my duty, Casperius.”

  His narrow lips curled in disgust. “Drusus did his, too.”

  “In a perverted manner of speaking, yes,” I remarked dryly. “I know the ones he considered his pretty boys, whom, shall I say, ‘loved him?’”

  “Aye, he had his pets—not centurions, which made discipline impossible,” he added. He rubbed the hilt of his short sword in a circle motion with his stubby fingers.

  “I know.”

  He wrinkled his thick brows. “The centurions gave up, disgusted. Why crack the vine cane when Drusus kept interfering and playing favorites?”

  “Didn’t anyone report his activities to Prefect Sabinus?”

  “No, sir, because the superiors weren’t much better. The centurions had little doings on the side, too.” Niger’s jaw tightened.

  “Go on.”

  “The men went unsupervised, and Lord Sabinus was too busy to inspect the Trans-Tiberina. With all these foreigners living there, it’s like a different land. He depended on Drusus’s lying progress reports instead of using spies, or better yet, his own eyes. And you saw how poor their discipline was on your first day in charge. They would have been chased by the first dung eater pelting them with a brick. But now, that’s changed,” he added with a satisfied grin, glancing to the vine cane lodged inside his sword belt next to the dagger. “My lads know what I’d do if they disobeyed orders. They fear me more than the dung eaters—just like it should be in a fighting force.”

  “That’s comforting, but we still have lots of work ahead of us.”

  He grinned, revealing long, white teeth. “Aye, so we do, sir. They’ll get a lot mo
re of the stick on their miserable backsides and up their arses before I’m through.”

  *

  The search for Drusus’s assassin or assassins continued. Many suspects were arrested and questioned. All denied the murder, even under the questioning of Abroghast, the supreme rack master. At last, a pair of accused thieves named his killers. Sabinus’s spies verified the information and was later confirmed by Scrofa’s beggars, who had overheard three men bragging about Drusus’s death in one of the local wine shops. Although offered twice the amount of gold, the mendicants, with their vast knowledge of Rome’s caves, failed to pinpoint the hideout.

  *

  The Julian Festival was celebrated in recognition of Julius Caesar’s victories over the Gauls more than one hundred years before and his enemy, Pompey, during the last ten days of July. Garlands in a rainbow of colors adorned the closed public buildings and temple. An army of state slaves scrubbed the streets unusually clean around the Forum, temples, and amphitheaters. Hundreds of bronze and gilded statues, gracing the Imperial Capital’s squares and buildings, were polished to a blinding sparkle. Special events each day included theatrical performances, chariot races, and gladiator shows. The festival’s celebration culminated with mock naval games given in the great basin, the Augustan Naumachia. Gladiators would reenact the Battle of Salamis, in which the Greeks defeated a huge Persian fleet off the coast of Athens over five hundred years before.

  Rumors pervaded every dingy wine shop, sleazy back alley, and market place that three thousand trained gladiators would fight to the death. Although pecuniary in most financial matters, when it came to gladiatorial games, Emperor Claudius threw all costs to the Aeolian winds. His love for blood and gore in the arena knew no bounds. On dozens of occasions, he had violated the Augustan Law of using no more than one hundred pairs of gladiators fighting in one day. In superb physical condition, thousands of trained fighters, drawn from the Imperial and private training schools of the empire and skilled in the arts of slaying one another for entertainment, were about to add further color to the spectacle. Only Rome could feast upon such blood lust.