And it was busier.
‘Doesn’t look like there’s any issue with the barracks, after all,’ Rufinus noted quietly as they walked across the wide square toward the basilica hall which would contain the legate’s office.
‘And this looks like a full legion to me,’ Mercator replied in similarly hushed tones. ‘In fact even at full strength you don’t usually see so much heavy occupation. The entire legion must be here, with none of the usual vexillations posted elsewhere.
‘Do you think that man at the theatre was right?’ Rufinus almost whispered conspiratorially. ‘That the prefect is building an army in Pannonia?’
Mercator gave him a sharp glance to silence such talk, but Icarion shrugged. ‘This is the fullest legionary fortress I’ve ever seen, even without the annexe of overflow barracks out of town.’ When Mercator flashed the same look at the Greek, he smiled. ‘There’s nothing treacherous about noting the strength of a unit, even if there is in considering the reasons.’
‘Let’s just not talk about this until we’re alone, you two, eh?’
Dexter grunted. ‘Fat pigeons don’t fly well.’
He gave them a grin as though he’d cracked a cunning joke and then strode on toward the door ahead. As they passed from the cold grey into the relative comfort of the huge basilica hall, lit by torches and warmed by braziers, Rufinus peered ahead with interest, squinting to see into the prized sacellum, where the standards of the legion were kept. Despite the dim interior and the suspicious looks of the two men guarding it, he could identify the flags of the Tenth within, and of no other legion. That was it then. There were no visiting legions accounting for the extra strength. Vindobona was home to one extremely over-strength legion, along with numerous other auxiliary units. It looked as though the place was about to play host to an invasion of barbarian lands across the river. In fact, the last time he had seen such a build-up of troops had been before the last great push that had won the Marcomannic War. But Commodus had made peace with them. And there might be ongoing troubles in Britannia, Hispania and Dacia, but none of those might account for a military build-up in northern Pannonia.
So why so many men?
The conclusion was, of course, inescapable, yet he still struggled to see the martinet Perennis, the prefect of such devotion to duty and favourite of Commodus, as a traitor to the throne.
Dexter was already leading, and the others formed up with him into a tight square as they approached the doorway to the office complex. A legionary stood at attention by the doorway and he moved into position to prevent admittance as they came to a halt.
‘State your business.’
Brusque. Not over-friendly. But then, they were Praetorians, and if Rufinus ever needed a reminder as to how popular Praetorians were with the legions he would just have to reach up and tweak his nose. In fact, the only group the legions hated more than the Praetorians were the frumentarii who were rumoured to hide among the legions gathering information for imperial records and hunting out trouble.
Mercator gestured to Rufinus with beckoning fingers and the younger guardsman passed over the documents once more, which Merc then showed to the soldier, who was now busy peering at Rufinus’ brow. ‘We’ve come from Rome via horse relay with private correspondence for your legate. Please show us to his office.’
The soldier shook his head, tearing his eyes from Rufinus’ wound. ‘No one sees the legate without an appointment. Wait here.’
Mercator turned a suspicious look to Rufinus as the legionary disappeared inside the corridor, closing the door behind him with a very definite click.
‘What’s this all about, then? Everything here is putting me on edge.’
‘Me too,’ Rufinus agreed.
The four men stood, looking around at the grand basilica, waiting in the eerie silence. The sounds of the busy fortress were thoroughly muted by the great building’s high walls and ceiling and the few figures of clerks and soldiers moving around between the various doors were all doing so quietly.
‘How do we ask the legate about troops numbers?’ Rufinus whispered, and then looked around guiltily as even a whisper carried too well for comfort.
‘We don’t,’ hissed Mercator. ‘We do our job as we were tasked and then we leave. If we stay within our official remit we can be accused of nothing other than performing our duty. Don’t start asking questions that could land us in trouble.’
Icarion nodded his agreement and Dexter seemed to be examining the ceiling carefully.
Rufinus was spared a reply as the door snapped open again and the legionary gestured into the corridor. ‘Tribune Cestius will see you.’
Mercator narrowed his eyes and wagged the transit documents at the soldier. ‘We asked to see the legate, not one of his tribunes.’
‘Take your pick,’ the soldier sniffed. ‘Cestius or the exit. Your choice.’
Merc turned and shrugged a question to the others, who variously shrugged and nodded in reply.
‘Alright. Where is this Cestius?’
‘Second door on the left. And you’ll have to leave your kit bags here.’
The four men exchanged looks and then dumped their bags against the wall nearby. As Merc rummaged in his and removed the two missives for the sons of Perennis, Rufinus retrieved the treasury package from his, slipping it into the satchel under his cloak, and retied the bag. Nothing else inside was of great value. His only truly valuable possession – his prized silver spear – was safely secured in the shrine back in the Castra Praetorian in Rome.
‘Come on,’ said Mercator, moving toward the doorway again.
‘Be careful. He’s not in a good mood,’ the soldier smirked as they walked past, and Dexter took great pains to accidentally stand on the man’s foot as they passed. Rufinus tried not to snigger as they moved into the corridor, leaving the swearing legionary in the basilica hall.
The first door was marked ‘PRAEFECTVS CASTRORVM’. The camp prefect’s office, showing no sign of occupation. The second door stood open and the four men approached and then entered, filing out into a line facing the desk as they came to a halt.
‘Tribune Cestius, sir?’
The man had been hunched over a pile of documents covered with lists and figures, and as he sat up, Rufinus flinched and almost stepped back. The tribune’s face was drawn and narrow, his cheek bones prominent. His eyebrows were thick and black, in odd contrast to his white hair. His chin was clean-shaven in defiance of current fashion, and he wore an unconventional black tunic beneath his leather subarmalis, bearing the broad stripe of a senior tribune. But the strange thing – weirder by far than the non-regulation tunic, the almost skeletal face and the mismatched hair and eyebrows – was the man’s eyes.
The left eye was such a deep, dazzling green that it almost shone like an emerald in a shaft of light. The right eye, however, appeared to be plain black within the white, almost as though it were all pupil with no iris. Rufinus found that he was staring at the man’s face and, even as he realised this could be a terrible career move with an unhappy senior officer, still he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
‘Vibius Cestius,’ acknowledged the tribune in a very old high-born Roman accent with a slight sibilant hiss to the ‘s’ of each word. Rufinus shuddered.
‘We have come at speed from Rome with private correspondence for the legate of the Tenth,’ Mercator said in a business-like fashion.
‘So the legionary informed me. From whom does this correspondence originate?’
Mercator straightened. ‘Respectfully, tribune, that information is for the legate.’
‘Then your journey has been wasted, Praetorian. The legate is very busy and I handle a great deal of the overflow work, including vetting suspicious visitors who are unwilling to answer a few basic questions. Your choice is simple: you answer my questions and I decide whether to bother the legate with you, or you retain your stubborn silence and I have you ejected from the fortress as undesirables, for that is clearly what Praetorians are this
far from Rome. Make your choice. I also am a busy man.’
Merc turned to look at the others. For some reason, despite misgivings, Rufinus found himself nodding. There was no point in coming this far and being thwarted now.
‘Very well, Tribune,’ Mercator replied.
‘Good. Who sent the correspondence you carry?’
‘I bear one missive for the legate from his father, Prefect Perennis of the Guard, and another for his brother, who commands the Fourteenth Gemina at Carnuntum.’
‘Perennis?’ mused Cestius, steepling fingers so thin that the knuckles stuck out like pommels on sword hilts. ‘The legate will be pleased to see this, I am sure. Tell me, even this far out we hear rumours. Is the prefect really in such trouble as I hear?’
Merc’s lips tightened and Rufinus found himself cutting in, despite himself. ‘The prefect is beset by enemies in the city, sir, who are intent on blackening his name. Beyond that – the truth of the matter – we cannot say, sir. We are but soldiers carrying out our duty.’
‘As is good and proper. What happened to your face, soldier?’
‘Our ship ran into an Adriatic storm, tribune. I met the business end of a swinging spar.’
‘Really?’ The tribune’s weird eyes narrowed. ‘And it happened to hit your right between the eyes. How strange. And left a triangular imprint. I will assume that there is some new Dalmatian vessel with triangular spars and leave it at that. I presume your fingernails went the same way…’
As the eyes widened again, Rufinus found himself staring into the unplumbable obsidian depths of that eerie black pupil. There was a tense silence and the four men jumped slightly as Cestius slapped his palms down on the table.
‘Very well. Caelus Tigidius Perennis is in his office. I will escort you to him. I also act as a personal courier between the legate and his brother in Carnuntum, so if the legate is content that you are what you seem and nothing more, then I will also escort you to Secundus Perennis in due course. Come.’
With a clap of his hands, he rose. Rufinus noted that the unconventional uniform carried on below desk level as the tribune’s lower half came into view and his sword belt held a spatha – a longer cavalry blade – of black leather and gleaming silver, the pommel formed into a stylised dragon. The tribune was thin as a rail, his legs like marching poles bulging with knots of muscle. The man’s boots were black with silver medusa heads on the tongues, which lolled out over the laces, and as he moved with cat-like grace in complete silence, Rufinus realised that the boots’ soft soles bore no hobnails.
He found himself feeling extremely grateful that tribune Vibius Cestius was not his enemy. Something about the man suggested that he was not a good man to fall foul of. His age was oddly indeterminate due to his peculiar appearance, but he was probably rather old for a tribune’s role. Not that Rufinus would dream of expressing such an opinion. Not unless there was a wide river between them and a fast horse between his knees, anyway.
‘You will, of course, leave all swords and daggers here,’ the tribune said quietly.
Why so protective? Did Cestius really think they might be assassins? Mind you, given the rumours spread about Perennis and what Rufinus had seen of Cleander, he had to admit that an over-cautious tribune might have a point. The four men unfastened their gladii and pugios and dropped them to the low table near the door indicated by the officer.
Cestius stepped out of the office and padded quietly along the corridor until he came to another door, where he paused. There was a moment of silence and then he rapped four times, slowly, on the wood.
The voice that called for them to enter sounded strangely light and innocent even muffled by the timber. Reaching out, the tribune turned the handle and swung open the door, crossing the threshold and entering the office of the most important man in Vindobona.
Rufinus was not at all sure what he was expecting from Caelus Tigidius Perennis, son of the Praetorian prefect, commander of the Tenth Gemina Legion and arguably the most important man in Pannonia. Given his father and his lofty position, certainly this wasn’t it.
As the four Praetorians repeated the business of lining up at attention inside the door, with Dexter closing it politely after them, Rufinus studied the man behind the desk. The boy would be more appropriate. Caelus Perennis was clearly younger than Rufinus by some years, and Rufinus himself was still treated almost like a boy at times by the older veterans.
The legate was short and thin, with a pale, bookish face, unruly hair that had not seen a comb in some time and half a dozen wisps at his chin that he probably believed was a beard. He sat in just an expensive officer’s tunic, fiddling with a carved ivory image of Minerva as though he’d forgotten what he was saying and was searching for his train of thought. He looked up, scanning the faces of the visitors and lingering for a long moment on Rufinus’ purple face.
‘Legatus,’ Cestius announced, ‘these four Praetorians claim to be bearing a missive from your father. I have had them remove their weapons but that is simply a precaution.’
‘Do you trust them, Vibius?’
The legate’s voice quavered and was light and lilting, full of youth and artlessness. Despite any misgivings about Prefect Perennis, Rufinus found himself now quite determined to prevent anything untoward happening to this young man. Innocence emanated from him like the glow from a lamp. If Perennis was truly planning something, then Rufinus felt sure that his son was being manipulated and guided, for he could hardly believe there was any guile in the boy. His gaze slid momentarily to the gaunt, dark figure of Vibius Cestius, a strange officer in a position of authority, power and influence who had a very Roman accent as though he had spent most of his life in the higher circles of the city and relatively little time out here on the frontier. A man too old really for the role he played. The idea that the man had been placed here by either Perennis or by Cleander in an echo of their little game of control in Britannia was hard to ignore.
Cestius turned to look Rufinus directly in the eye as though he had heard Rufinus’ thoughts as clearly as the chiming of a bell. The young guardsman snapped his attention back to the legate with yet another shudder.
‘Trust, sir? Hardly.’ Cestius folded his arms. ‘But I do believe that the reason they are here is exactly as they claim.’ He gestured to Mercator. ‘Unburden yourself, guardsman.’
Merc reached down to his belt and retrieved the two scroll cases, examining them before selecting the appropriate one and placing it on the legate’s desk. Young Perennis looked at the scroll case and blew an errant coil of hair away from his eye. After some time, he reached down and picked it up, turning it over and over before cracking the seal and withdrawing the parchment within.
Rufinus cleared his throat. ‘Respectfully, Legate Perennis, given the circumstances, perhaps you should be alone with your father’s correspondence?’
He’d wanted to suggest that tribune Cestius be dismissed, but couldn’t think of a way of doing it without the four of them going too. He caught Mercator’s eye expecting the veteran to silently scold him, but Merc was nodding his agreement. Something was not quite right about the tribune and no good could come of him being privy to the private correspondence of father and son. Rufinus watched the legate, whose eyes rose to meet those of Cestius, who gave a shake of the head, almost infinitesimally small. Surely not? Was the legate so hopelessly under the control of his own tribune that he could not even manage to be alone to peruse a piece of family correspondence? Rufinus examined Cestius in detail, committing every nuance to memory. He felt sure this would not be the last time they would meet.
‘No,’ Perennis said finally. ‘Cestius is my right-hand man. I have nothing to hide from him.’
Gods, but I hope not, thought Rufinus, eyeing the scroll case.
At last, the legate lifted the scroll, unrolled it and tilted it to catch the light of the oil lamp behind him. The four Praetorians stood stiffly at attention, waiting, and finally Perennis allowed the parchment to furl once more and sl
id it back into the case. In a move that caused a sinking of Rufinus’ spirits, he stoppered the top and passed the missive to Cestius, who tucked it under his arm. Rufinus could already picture the tribune sitting in his office an hour from now, carefully reading every line.
‘What am I to make of this?’
‘Sir?’ Cestius frowned.
‘The last thing my illustrious pater said to me before I shipped out for Vindobona – even after our farewells – was “trust no one”. He was very clear on that point. I feel sure that he did not include my brother in that list, and you of course come very highly recommended, Cestius, but now he tells me to trust these four men.’
Rufinus almost exploded with the release of pressure. He hadn’t quite realised how much he had expected the document to be some sort of treason and carry with it a warrant for their death.
‘And yet the tone of the letter is not the usual air of my father’s correspondence. If I were a suspicious man, I would say it was written under duress. It certainly has that feel. So am I to trust you, Praetorians, as the letter requests, or am I to trust no one, as my father recommended directly?’
‘Might I speak, legate,’ Rufinus asked.
‘Go on.’
‘Your father is under a great deal of pressure at this time.’ Should I really reveal so much? ‘He is beset and believes a net of conspiracy and accusation to be closing on him. Your father explained to us that these documents contained details of who you can trust. Not just us, but men of influence and power. He is preparing for the worst. I have no doubt that his words read as though he is being pressured. Not, however, by those of us in his guard, sir.’
‘I wish I could believe that, guardsman,’ the young legate sighed. ‘But my experience with Praetorians – even my recent experience – suggests otherwise.’
‘Sir?’ Rufinus asked. He felt a chill strike him at those words. Why would young Perennis have cause to distrust the men of his father’s guard.
Praetorian: The Price of Treason Page 15
