No it isn’t, thought Rufinus in the silence of his own head. A brief flash of memory tugged at his mind, of former consul Capito’s voice at its most accusatory: a usurper snatching at every string of power until you can control us all…
‘Anyway, get back to work, Rufinus. The festival of Jupiter Capitolinus is in less than a week and I want the Guard in perfect condition and immaculately turned out for the emperor’s parade.’
Rufinus saluted and turned to leave, his gaze momentarily passing the map as he spun and his eyes fixing on that blank space above the northern edge of the world. He shivered at the thought as he left.
IV – In praise of Jupiter
October 184
Rufinus tried not to twitch. It had been over a week since he’d last tipped the sweet nectar of the poppy past his lips. He’d looked at himself in the great bronze mirror of the baths this morning, and his face still had a grey, waxy look that seemed extremely unhealthy. Of course, most of that had come from the inevitable return to a mere sliver of sleep each night slipped in between the soul-tearing images of murdered men and dogs, of Syrian torturers and laughing killers. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go on doing his duty for much longer if things didn’t change. He had been late for duty twice this week, slept through a parade after a night of shivering and staring at the door, fell over during a training march and could barely lift his sword when striking the palus at practice.
His centurion had started by shouting at him and doling out punishments for his failures, but it had quickly struck the man that they were making no difference and that perhaps there was something truly wrong with the young guardsman. Word began to spread that he was ill with some mysterious malady and his fellow soldiers began to shun him, giving him a wide berth in the road and leaving the baths when he entered. He did nothing to disabuse them of the notion, as it made his life so much easier if he suffered this alone. Acheron stayed with him, of course, and that did little to make him more approachable.
Finally his centurion had spoken to Icarion, who had explained cautiously that Rufinus’ past experiences – everyone in the cohort knew why he lacked fingernails on one hand – were catching up with him and that he rarely slept, which was killing him by degrees. He had then been promptly sent to the chief medicus, who had examined him carefully and drawn from him his symptoms: insomnia, anxiety, excessive sweating and achiness. It had not taken much delving for the medicus to conclude that he was suffering the withdrawal of some intoxicant and a few harsh and well-aimed words had soon dragged the truth from him. The medicus had harrumphed and noted that he would normally consider such hidden addiction a dismissal offence but, given that this had only come to light after the addiction had begun to break, he was willing to keep the details quiet on the condition that Rufinus visit him every day to confirm that he remained clear of poppy juice.
And so had begun a week of sweating and screaming and shivering out the effects. He’d tried to secure a pass to visit Pompeianus and acquire some of that compound the man said his doctor could supply, but the medicus had made sure that Rufinus was confined to camp unless duty required otherwise. The shaking had stopped after two more days, the sweating and the achiness dissipating shortly afterwards, but the night terrors seemed set in to stay and with them the anxiety they fostered, so while he knew that in principle he was getting better, he didn’t feel any improvement in himself.
Thank the gods for the arrival of the festival to distract him and at least keep his brain busy during the daytime. The Capitoline Games and the associated festival of Jupiter Capitolinus had begun half a week earlier and lasted for sixteen days. They had opened with the traditional sacrifices, speeches and shows of imperial beneficence at the temple of Jupiter on the Capitol, the very heart of the very heart of Rome. The temple had been repainted especially for the festival and festooned with hanging garlands and streamers. There had been a brief panic when one of the streamers had dropped into a burning brazier, but a quick thinking senator in the knot of men watching the emperor had stamped out the flames easily and the rest progressed without a hitch. The great statue of Jupiter had watched the whole event with a benevolent smile, his face painted crimson as was appropriate for a festival in his honour. Rufinus had been due to stand in the honour guard on the main temple steps, given his personal history with the emperor, but his sweaty grey countenance had been deemed inappropriate in the imperial presence and he’d been shuffled into a lesser unit on the steps of Juno’s temple a little further away.
There he had found himself standing not far from the thinning grey-brown hair and lined, calculating face of Cleander, chamberlain to Commodus, Rome’s ultimate social climber. The man had been born a slave in Bithynia and brought to Rome for sale. And here he was three and a half decades later wielding unthinkable power with the blessings of the emperor, married to a great beauty who some said was Commodus’ mistress, seemingly vying with Perennis for the most powerful positions in the empire. No one Rufinus spoke to seemed to be able to answer how the man had risen so high from such humble origins, but one thing that was certain was that Perennis disliked the man intensely, just as Paternus had before him. As Rufinus had stood at attention on the steps of Juno’s temple, he’d occasionally caught the baleful glances the prefect threw at the chamberlain across the festivities. Cleander had spent the ceremonies applauding and cheering at appropriate moments, but in between had held clandestine court with a series of the most important men in the city. Rufinus had recognised Egnatius Capito again, as well as Aebutianus and senator Pertinax and the swarthy quaestor of Sardinia, Septimius Severus. All of them exchanged apparently furtive words with the chamberlain and all went away with satisfied expressions. A secretary continued to take notes for Cleander after each exchange and Rufinus found himself wondering how many secrets of the great city he might unravel if he could get his nose into those records.
The following day had brought with it the start of the games proper: a modern echo of the ancient Olympic games which these days only drew competitors from the local states. The Ludi Capitolini, on the other hand, brought in the best competitors from all the provinces of the empire, filling every venue in the city and its environs with endless displays of sporting prowess. All the city’s circuits held events – chariots thundered around the Circus Maximus, foot races in the Circus Flaminius and the circus of Claudius across the river, other athletic contests filling the Domitianic stadium, the great Flavian amphitheatre and the smaller arena of Trajanus. The people of Rome flooded the streets and venues as the capitolini priests attended each event, handing out crowns, wreaths and various prizes to the winners, the greater events presided over personally by the Flamen Dialis – the high priest of Jupiter – or even the emperor himself.
The strictures on Rufinus’ personal freedom imposed by the Praetorian medicus had made little difference to him. The majority of the Guard took the opportunity whenever their duties ended to drop their kit in their rooms, don a more personable toga and head into the city to take advantage of the festival atmosphere – and often of the more wanton girls that came with it, especially at ‘whore central’ in the aqueduct arches on the Caelian hill. Rufinus had no such desire for festivities at the moment, and spent his off-duty time either shivering in the baths or attempting to drink himself into a comfortable stupor in his room.
Now, on the ides of the month, the festivities took a turn for the more staid. As the athletes heaved a collective sigh of relief, celebrating their victories or drowning their sorrows as appropriate, the sporting arenas were cleared to make way for parties and social events, while the theatres and odeons that had been decorated and refurbished over the days of games now filled with the next phase of the festival: competitions of poetry and music, of song and drama, the most popular plays performed across the empire having been brought to the capital to compete for a grand prize gifted by the emperor himself.
Thus here was Rufinus, standing by the vomitorium doorway above the first tier of seats
in the great theatre of Pompey, shivering slightly as he stood at attention, his gaze wandering back and forth across fifteen thousand rapt faces. The populace of Rome clamoured for tickets to the best shows in the empire all brought to the one city for the festival, and inevitably only the most important and the wealthiest citizens secured a seat. Hosidius Geta’s latest masterpiece, Arrius Varus, which had been playing to great appreciative crowds in Sicilia, had drawn the most discerning viewers, while the presence of the emperor had drawn the most ambitious.
The emperor himself, along with his various courtiers – including both Cleander and Perennis who shot bolts of hate at one another with their eyes – were seated on plush couches in the orchestra of the theatre, close to the action, where they had an unrivalled view.
Rufinus had to admit that his own outlook was pretty good, if fairly peripheral, since he was almost at one end of the stage. And despite his ongoing condition, the guardsman was looking forward to the performance. The eponymous hero of the piece had been the emperor Vespasian’s Praetorian prefect during the dreadful year following Nero’s death, the man who had led the great emperor’s ousted Praetorians against the rebel guard of the usurper Vitellius. It should prove to be a very entertaining piece and he was interested to see how the empire’s most famous current dramatist might portray the Praetorians, both good and bad. In his head he had already pictured Arrius Varus as Perennis and his opposite number as the traitor Paternus.
A short whistle blast from the top of the seating signalled that all guests had arrived and all seats filled and, mirroring the action of every other soldier on duty at the vomitoria, Rufinus turned and signalled down the passage to his counterpart in the tunnels beneath the seating, who fastened the iron gate there and locked it, preventing unauthorised entry by the opportunistic and the desperate.
As he turned back to the heart of the theatre, two men scurried onto the stage carrying a small gilt table bearing a golden bowl of fruit, which they placed just off-centre. Others followed, unrolling a rich carpet and placing a few seats and plants. Such frippery was often shunned by players as distracting from the main event, but Rufinus had to admit to agreeing with Hosidius Geta that it created a level of realism otherwise absent from such performances. An emperor’s luxurious apartment was unfolding on the stage before his eyes.
The imperial court murmured with low exchanges in the orchestra and a gentle hum of conversation filled the auditorium. The weather was being kind, the chill of October still in the air, but the sky remaining clear and sprinkled with dancing stars, presenting no threat of rain to hamper the performance. Someone in the crowd exploded in a choking coughing fit and a small commotion ensued as his friends tried to slap his back and seat him once more. Commodus, his flow of conversation with Cleander interrupted, rose and turned to the crowd.
Rufinus pitied the choking man. He himself had no small history of embarrassing falls and clumsiness that had brought colour to his face at great events, and he could quite imagine that poor fellow’s embarrassment at drawing the emperor’s personal attention. Men had died for that sort of thing in Nero’s day.
‘Pray contain yourself, Aelius Rufus,’ called the emperor with an artful expression of mock concern. ‘If the stage props have such an effect on you, I fear for your health when the real action begins…’
The crowd erupted into a roar of laughter and the unfortunate senator held up a mortified hand in acknowledgement of the emperor’s joke as he recovered and took his seat once more. Commodus essayed a masterful bow, sweeping it around the crowd, and sank once more into his seat, gesturing for Cleander to be quiet. The chorus were emerging from the wings now, forming a single group at the rear of the stage. The whole auditorium fell into an expectant silence.
Wordlessly, the chorus arranged themselves ready and four musicians moved to the side, lifting horns and preparing to blow some fanfare. Half a note had emerged when a lone figure suddenly burst from one of the seemingly false doors at the rear of the stage and ran forward between the ranks of the chorus, coming to a teetering halt at the stage front.
The entire theatre filled with frowns. This was not what they had expected, but Hosidius Geta had something of a reputation for surprises. Rufinus stared at the figure for a moment, and then looked around the seating and down to the orchestra. The other Praetorians on guard were doing the same, waiting for someone to tell them whether this was a threat that needed to be dealt with or whether it might be part of the show. Even Perennis, seated quite close to the emperor, was frowning in uncertainty.
The young guard decided to let it go. The strange man – the actor? – who had run forth was naked barring a loincloth of the eastern style, his hair ragged and his beard straggly, a gnarled staff in his hand and a leather satchel over one shoulder. Perhaps he was supposed to be a philosopher? He looked like one – like those strange, bearded Greeks who filled agora and forum across the eastern empire spouting their beliefs to anyone who would listen.
Rufinus’ theory was clearly well founded as the man stopped, playing to the crowd, and threw out both arms wide in a strange oratorical manner. Was this to be the play’s narrator? Strange choice, but who was to say what went on in the mind of a playwright. A murmur of excitement filled the crowd, and Commodus exchanged some joke with Cleander that sent the chamberlain off in fits of exaggerated, sycophantic laughter. If Rufinus hadn’t already disliked the man, he would have done so now.
The strange new arrival at the stage front swept an arm across like a dirty, flesh-coloured scythe, reaping the audience’s tongues and bringing forth a hungry silence.
‘You come to see Praetorian fight Praetorian before the gates of Rome. You come to celebrate the great festival of Jupiter.’
His focus seemed to shift from the auditorium as a whole to the orchestra, his eyes locking on those of the emperor.
‘But, great Commodus, son of Aurelius, this is no time to celebrate such festivals with the serpents of your court.’
The emperor was frowning now and Perennis’ expression suggested that he believed something to be wrong. Another whistle called from above the seats and the guards were beginning to come forward. Those Praetorians in the orchestra for the emperor’s protection were moving now, ready to defend their master at all costs. At the rear of the stage, two burly men wearing the tunics of staff emerged, looking this way and that and starting to move toward the half-naked man.
‘Majesty, the blade of the snake Perennis sits at your throat!’ bellowed the mock philosopher. His peripheral vision caught sight of the men running at him and he focused on the emperor again.
‘The danger is not in your provinces, emperor of Rome. Not in Britannia, or Dacia or Hispania. It is by your side, and death will stalk and take you if you do not heed dire warnings.’
Rufinus was moving now. Close to the stage, he was as near to the man as any guard here. Fortunately, it appeared that those two heavy stage hands would reach and subdue him first. He watched as he ran, the first of the two men leaping at the philosopher, the second flexing his knuckles as he closed. Yet despite his beard, his apparent age and his nakedness, the strange performer simply stepped to the side with as much celerity and agility as any man Rufinus had ever faced in the arena. The man who had dived at him gave a cry of alarm as he sailed past his prey and over the edge of the stage into the orchestra to crash into a small group of Praetorians who were making for the action. The second bruiser moved to take advantage of the man’s lack of time to prepare, but as he stepped in and swung a great meaty fist, the philosopher ducked and jabbed out with his staff, sliding it between the man’s knees and then jerking it to the side, bringing the big bruiser down in a heap, where he too slid from the stage to hinder the approaching guardsmen. Rufinus and his opposite number from the far end of the stage were now clearly the nearest to the man and were running full pelt. And yet the philosopher, rather than run for his life, simply stood and began to address the emperor again, placing his life in mortal peril. And
his words continued to sink into Rufinus’ ears like honeyed poison as he ran.
‘Majesty, your prefect fills his own coffers and raises an army to unseat you. Already his sons command the swelling armies of Pannonia, and his favourite equestrians now take control of the legions in Britannia…’
Rufinus was on the man. Again, the philosopher side-stepped, but Rufinus had seen him work and was prepared. As the man moved aside, so did Rufinus, ploughing into him with a shoulder and driving him to the boards of the stage. Reaching down, he grabbed the staff and tore it from the speaker’s grasp, throwing it away across the stage, where the Guard from the other end grabbed it and scurried across to help.
The man struggled, but only for a moment, seeming to submit rather curiously. As Rufinus pulled up his arms behind his back and lifted him with the help of the other guard, the philosopher managed to lock eyes with the emperor one more time.
‘Act or die, Commodus. Act or die.’
He was silenced as the other guard smashed him across the mouth. Now the rest of the nearby Praetorians were arriving and Rufinus felt the burden of controlling the man taken from him as half a dozen guards dragged him away. One of the men trod hard on Rufinus’ foot with a nailed boot as he did so, causing sharp pain, and the young guardsman took but a moment to register that the man had the grey scarf of a cavalryman.
Even here? Even now would they press that feud?
But the man and several of his grey-scarved compatriots were now bustling the speaker from the stage and out of sight. Rufinus turned back to the auditorium. The seats were buzzing with urgent speech as the whole crowd, stunned, discussed what had just happened.
In the orchestra Commodus still lounged languidly on his couch, but his face was a picture of shock, thunderstruck by what he had just heard. The emperor’s eyes flicked once, twice, thrice to Perennis, but when he turned fully to the Praetorian prefect, Rufinus could see only support and a solid belief and trust in his eyes. Perennis had gone purple. His face had turned the colour of a beet and he was straining not to act, the cords of tendon in his forearms tight and prominent as he gripped the arms of his chair, half ready to hurtle to his feet and kill someone.
Praetorian: The Price of Treason Page 6
