‘Shit,’ he whispered.
‘Get in,’ hissed Merc from nearby, treading water.
‘It’s so cold,’ Rufinus replied, reluctantly edging into the harbour’s water a fraction at a time.
‘Yes. My balls have retreated so high I’m having to swallow round them,’ muttered Mercator. ‘Get in anyway.’
Rufinus edged a tiny bit further into the water, and then disappeared beneath the waves with a painful, freezing, heart-numbing shock as Icarion impatiently trod on his head and drove him down. Surfacing in panic, spitting out water and shuddering uncontrollably, the young guardsman glared sourly at the Greek’s grinning face as he trod water.
‘We’re not going to last long in this temperature,’ Icarion hissed. ‘We’ll freeze quickly. Where are we going?’
The frumentarius rose slightly in the water and pointed. Another, smaller vessel lay tied to a jetty some hundred paces along the dock. ‘That one,’ he whispered. ‘They already have two ladders down the side awaiting us and a cradle ready for the dog. No more talking, try not to splash and make sure you keep up. One man at each corner. Push the raft.’
Rufinus swallowed nervously as he took the rear city-side corner of the raft and began to swim as he pushed. Fortunately, his bad shoulder was the one pushing the raft, so he could keep it at a comfortable angle and use his good arm and his legs to propel himself. Better still, the freezing salt water was a veritable balm on his rope burn. He decided he was quite enjoying this.
For a matter of heartbeats.
Then the sheer bone-chilling cold started to get to him. His eyes rose to the small fishing boat ahead and he was dismayed to see that it had hardly come any closer. Already his limbs were starting to feel lead-filled and stiff. Acheron, without the burden of pushing the raft and somehow instinctively knowing where they were bound, was already out ahead, hurtling toward the fishing boat and creating a V-shaped wake in the water. If only Rufinus had that much strength and energy.
‘I’m screwed,’ he whispered, breathing heavily.
‘Shut up and swim,’ Mercator grunted at him from the far side. ‘And if you give up and drown, I’m going to catch up with you in Elysium and kick seven shades of shit out of you.’
The four men swam on, Rufinus determined despite the terrible bone chill. A matter of four score paces away on the dock, men chatted to one another passing the time, and Rufinus tried to keep his swimming as quiet as possible, which was helpfully aided by the stiffness of his limbs, which kept him slow. For long moments he floundered, and the raft began to pull away ahead, forcing him to push life into his weary, freezing limbs to catch up. He began to count his heartbeats to keep himself going, but the distressingly slow pulse of his blood was making him nervous, so he turned his thoughts to military dispositions in one of his many ‘remember-things-by-rote’ aids to time-passing..
Province of Pannonia…
First Adiutrix, based in Brigetio.
Second Aduitrix at Aquincum.
Second Italica at Lauriacum.
Tenth Gemina at Vindobona.
Fourteenth Gemina at Carnuntum.
Provinces of Dacia and Moesia…
First Italica at Novae.
Fourth Flavia at Singidunum.
Fifth Macedonica at Potaissa.
Seventh Claudia at Viminiacum.
Eleventh Claudia at Durostorum.
Thirteenth Gemina at Apulum.
Province of Cappadocia…
Twelfth Fulminata at Melitene…
‘Stop daydreaming!’ hissed Mercator, and Rufinus lifted his tired gaze to see rope ladders at the side of a wooden hull some twenty feet away, Acheron swimming in circles, waiting. Hope flooded through his tired, cold limbs. As he waited at the rear of the raft, Icarion and Cestius helped the dog into the harness that had been lowered into the water ready and as soon as Acheron began his ascent, hauled up by four straining sailors, Icarion and the frumentarius swam to the rope ladders and began to climb. Moments later they lowering a rope for the gear.
Mercator took one look at Rufinus, rolled his eyes and then swam with exhausted languor around to the rope before struggling to tie it to the first bag. As he worked, he looked over the top at Rufinus with narrowed eyes. ‘I’m going to put this down to that shoulder wound and not laziness, but you owe me one, flautist.’
Damnit. The whistle had been gone from Rufinus’ breathing for days now and he’d hoped that little gem of a new nickname had faded into the aether. Sadly, it seemed destined to remain, in the mind of Merc at least.
Wondering if he’d ever feel his toes again, and harbouring a faint concern that the first time Senova saw his manhood all there would be in its place was a frozen blue raisin, Rufinus watched his friend speedily and methodically attach the four bags, working with two different ropes lowered by Cestius and Icarion to complete the task as fast as possible. As soon as the last one disappeared upwards, Mercator let the empty raft start to drift away and gripped the rope ladder, turning with a wicked smile.
‘Why are you still in the water, genius? You could have been on deck by now.’
Rufinus, realising he’d been slowly succumbing to the cold entirely unnecessarily while his friend worked, grunted and pushed a few strokes toward the ladder, hooking his good arm over the rope ladder’s rung and slowly, painfully, hauling himself out of the water. It took him an age to near the top but finally, as he counted only three rungs to blessed safety, arms reached down and grabbed him, hauling him the rest of the way and over the side.
Two sailors stood nearby with rough blankets.
‘Strip,’ one commanded and Rufinus, too cold and tired even to pretend modesty, simply peeled off his freezing sodden tunic and dropped his waterlogged subligaculum to the deck with a splat. A sailor threw a blanket over him and Rufinus huddled in it as he bent, like the others, to his sea-splashed kit bag to retrieve his dry Praetorian whites. Once they were below in this new vessel they could safely dress in their own kit again. Shuddering, he pondered whether he might lose a toe or two. With a frown he swiftly opened the blanket and glanced downward and what he observed suggested that he’d had a sudden and unexpected change of gender. Still, he was alive and on a ship that would leave with the dawn with no suspicion of their presence on board.
As he rubbed himself vigorously, trying to coax life back into icy limbs, he looked back to the dock. Their arrival on board seemed to have gone unnoticed and those on the quayside meandered about quietly as they had been doing all night.
‘Good job,’ Cestius said quietly. ‘Now we have a warm meal, a night on board, a short jaunt down the coast to Aternum, and then we can make for Rome in relative safety. Whichever gods you hold to be your own, pray to them now that your prefect can hold on until we get there.’
Rufinus nodded emphatically, but his attention was already elsewhere. The fate of Perennis was critical of course, but right now the gentle aroma of chicken stuffed with peppercorn and ginger began to rise from the cooking area at the boat’s rear and there was little room in Rufinus’ mind for anything other than a warm, tasty meal.
Then, when he felt more alive… the race for Rome.
XV – A nest of vipers
January 20th 185AD
‘Stop!’
Rufinus reacted before his brain had even caught up, Cestius’ warning coming in a quiet bark from behind him. Reining in his horse, he turned. The others had halted and the frumentarius was pointing up ahead. Rufinus peered between the trees, past the old ruinous building that bordered the road, following Cestius’ gesture in the early evening sun.
The road they travelled wound along the hillside like a serpent, above the wooded valley of the rushing Anio River. Ahead, the road curved sharply out of sight to the right while, from that projecting bend, a bridge carried the Via Valeria over a series of high cascades and into the town of Tibur. The bulk of the place lay squat and uninviting across the valley, but the ancient acropolis with its grand temples and civic structures rose on a gr
eat spur above the deep ravine and the waterfalls of the Anio, like something from legend.
He couldn’t see anything out of place. Houses, public buildings, a few people moving around, despite the chill of the evening. No walls or gates here to be defended, so therefore no guards. He was about to turn and say as much to the frumentarius when his eyes picked out a detail he’d not initially spotted.
White tunics, at the highest, furthest part of the city.
The Via Valeria, as Cestius had anticipated, had been devoid of Cleander’s Praetorians, who were likely concentrating their efforts on more expected routes of approach, and the four men’s journey across the Apenninus mountains had been swift and peaceful. Not once had they spotted a potential enemy, though now, here, where the Via Valeria became the Via Tiburtina the rest of the way to the capital, finally they had encountered the first white tunic.
Up by the beautiful temple of the Sibyl, two men in Praetorian kit paused at the drop down toward the rushing water, perused the landscape for a while and then retreated from sight. Rufinus almost yanked his steed’s head off desperately pulling back into the shelter of the ruined building, but Cestius shook his head calmly. ‘Through these trees and at this distance there is next to no chance of being spotted. But one thing seems sure: if there are Praetorians at Tibur, then they are certainly watching for us. Your friend Glabrio will have been in Rome for more than a day now, and has had plenty of time to report to his master. Assuming Cleander knows we’re coming and thinks we might have enough evidence to thwart him, then he will have flooded the region with patrols.’
‘So what do we do?’ Mercator sighed.
‘We have to get to Rome one way or another, but not without appropriate caution.’ He gave them a wry smile. ‘I know that to Praetorians caution means keeping your shield up while you run, but in the service we learn to be much more subtle.’ He ignored the sour looks from his companions as he went on. ‘Firstly, we are too obvious with you three in white. And four of us, travel-worn and on horseback is attention-grabbing enough that we might draw suspicion, so we should change into drabs and separate. Two pairs of visitors arriving separately will draw less attention,’ he eyed Acheron who was busy pacing around in the undergrowth impatiently. ‘And preferably one of them none at all. There are no walls at this side of town, so we should be able to enter easily enough and without undue commotion.’
‘And then do what?’ Icarion queried. ‘Might we not be better skirting the place entirely and making our way down to the plain. We could follow the old road down the gorge past the city and forget Tibur completely?’
‘We then run the risk of bumbling into other dangers between here and Rome. Tibur is a matter of hours from the city and Cleander will have men on every road and every crossing. We need more information on the area and the situation, and Tibur is where we will find that.’
Rufinus felt a small smile cross his face.
‘You’re talking about Constans the merchant, aren’t you?’
Vibius Cestius frowned and turned to him. ‘You know Constans?’
‘I dealt with him a few times when I was undercover at the villa of Hadrianus.’ At the baffled expression of his friends, he shrugged. ‘He’s a merchant with a base in Tibur, who has something of a side-line in passing messages and goods for the Praetorian prefect. Or at least he did for Paternus. I presume he still does for Perennis.’ His expression faltered. ‘Unless Cleander has him now, of course.’
‘No,’ Cestius said, shaking his head. ‘Constans is a former member of the frumentarii, retired but still running the occasional job for us. His loyalty to the emperor is beyond question. He may not be Perennis’ man these days, but he certainly isn’t Cleander’s. He’s the emperor’s alone, through and through, and he will be able to tell us a great deal. You know where he lives?’
Rufinus nodded.
‘Good. Icarion and myself will cross the bridge in open view and take lodgings as though we were ordinary travellers. With luck, any Praetorians patrolling will pick up on us and watch us while we do nothing untoward or interesting. You take Mercator on along the hillside. Go a thousand paces or so beyond the bridge, where the river’s descended the falls into the ravine, and you’ll find a side path off down the slope. Take that and it will bring you to the river’s edge below the acropolis. You will find that at the far end of the pool below the falls the Anio narrows briefly in the gorge and can be crossed without too much difficulty. You will have to leave the horses and carry your kit from there because of the incline. A narrow track winds up the valley side and enters the town on the far side of the acropolis near a bakery and a warehouse. From there it’s a nice quick run to Constans’ place.’
Rufinus frowned and peered down into the gloom of the river valley. ‘Why don’t we just wait and follow on an hour or so later across the bridge? Separate groups?’
‘Because,’ replied Cestius with audibly strained patience, ‘you have with you the most recognisable animal in the Italian peninsula. I can make myself surprisingly average and forgettable at remarkably short notice, and Icarion here could be any ex-soldier on a journey, but you can be certain that any description of us includes Acheron. You cross that bridge and you’ll announce our arrival like a fanfare. No. You two need to sneak in across the river with Acheron while the Praetorians are watching Icarion and I and trying to decide whether we’re of interest or not. Get to Constans, find out what you can and wait there. Once we pass midnight and Tibur is quiet and dark, Icarion and I will make our way through the town carefully and join you. Then we’ll decide what to do next.’
Rufinus nodded. He hadn’t considered the hound, but Cestius was quite right – Acheron was far too recognisable. The four of them dismounted and changed into the same tunics they had worn on board the ship while hiding from the authorities at Ancona. Yet again, Rufinus marvelled at how, brushing some dark powder into his hair to turn the white to a drab grey and lowering his gaze to conceal his striking eyes, the frumentarius became a simple, miscellaneous traveller. It was a skill at which the man was clearly a master. Suitably unobtrusive, the four men returned to the horses and mounted once more.
‘Good luck, then,’ Rufinus waved to his friends. ‘See you at Constans’ place.’
Icarion and Mercator exchanged farewells, then the Greek veteran and the frumentarius geed up their horses and began to walk them steadily along the road toward the bridge and the town of Tibur. Rufinus and Mercator shared a look and sat in the obfuscating safety of the trees, listening to the gentle babble of the Anio running along the valley toward the falls, and the less-than-gentle babble of the population of Tibur going about its evening business. They would wait until the others had crossed the bridge before moving on, making sure that the four of them were not seen together.
For an agonising quarter of an hour they watched their friends plod unconcerned toward and then over the graceful, high-arcing bridge as though there was no reason to hurry. Finally, as Cestius and Icarion disappeared into the town, Rufinus counted to twenty under his breath and then said, ‘let’s go.’ Almost as if the gods were with them, a drifting wisp of cloud passed across the face of the setting sun and threw the entire land into a deep, shrouding gloom.
The two of them rode steadily, as though they were local villagers returning from a day out, Acheron thankfully, due to his dark colouring, flitting between the shadows of trees and bushes, wraith-like and almost invisible. Along the hill-side road they plodded, around the curve and past the end of the bridge. There was no sign of activity across the span, and the sound of their passing was here drowned out by the crash of water below as the Anio broke and sprayed over half a dozen falls in its three hundred foot descent to the gorge below. And then they were moving on, past the town and along the river’s right bank, the road narrowing and clinging to the side of the hill above the deep gorge.
It irked Rufinus intensely, especially given the urgency of their mission, to be perhaps twenty miles from Rome and to be so obstr
ucted that they must spend precious time sneaking around Tibur’s periphery. But in the same way that Cestius had been right about which road to take across Italia, he was also correct that they must move carefully here and acquaint themselves with what lay ahead, lest they stumble into danger. Being late might result in Perennis’ death, but moving fast and blind and getting caught by Cleander’s men was a guaranteed failure.
The two men rode on in subdued silence, Acheron padding along close enough to the steep drop that Rufinus couldn’t watch without a pounding heart. Not far ahead, where the road curved around the valley side and then off north toward Nomentum, they could see the faint signs of a trail descending into the gorge. At least there, on that wide curve, the valley side was shallow and the descent would be easier. Conversely, once across the river, climbing that ragged crag to the town would be a nightmare.
Throughout their ride, in plain view of the acropolis with its great temples, Rufinus sat with clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists about the reins, tense and half expecting a shout of alarm to rise from the town. Yet they arrived at the turning without incident and left the main road, moving into the shelter of the wooded valley, only occasionally catching a glimpse of the town on the rock above the gorge as they moved.
Another tense quarter hour and the pair arrived at the bottom of the ravine, Acheron running – rather too excitedly for Rufinus’ comfort – ahead of them and occasionally circling back through the woodland. The view as they emerged next to the water was breath-taking and Rufinus stared, mouth agape. Three hundred feet didn’t seem so high when it sloped gently away from you, but looking up at it from below…
The Anio leapt over a final cascade and plunged the remaining fifty feet into the ravine bottom opposite them – they could just make out the bridge atop it in the distance. Where the water struck, it had formed a small half-moon lake in the valley bottom, the shore of which they had now reached. At the other end of it, just as Cestius had predicted, the river plunged down another short cascade and became a narrow torrent carving its way along the valley to the plains of Latium where it would flow unimpeded until it joined the Tiber just outside Rome. But the falls – for all their impressiveness – the lake and the river paled into insignificance against the great rocky spur upon which Tibur crouched like an eagle in its nest. The temples they had seen from the level earlier were now almost hidden from view due to the gradient, the top half of their painted marble exteriors just visible above the cliff top.
Praetorian: The Price of Treason Page 23
