Praetorian: The Price of Treason

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘When is the next regular courier due?’

  The man frowned and tapped his lip. ‘It’s Dies Jovis today, yes? Should be through tomorrow morning. We get two a week in each direction, plus the various couriers heading out across the empire and back.’

  ‘So if I give you a message it should be in Rome by tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Barring unforeseen troubles.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’ Cestius returned to the table, where he produced a small scroll case from his pouch, as well as a stylus, vial of ink and petite sheet of vellum, all garnered with surprising dexterity for a man with just one working hand.

  ‘Where do you get such things?’ Rufinus mused.

  ‘You’d be surprised at the things I carry on the off-chance they might be required,’ Cestius smiled. ‘Have a look at this.’ Rifling in his pouch again, he produced a small bronze object half the size of his palm. Rufinus peered at it, counting the surfaces, of which there were twelve, most of those bearing holes of different sizes, the points at the joins all welded with little knobs.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Cestius laughed. ‘But an engineer who got himself killed in mysterious circumstances in Syria a decade ago had four of them in his hand. I’ve been carrying one ever since, waiting to find out what it is.’

  Grinning, he dropped the odd item back into his pouch and began to scribble feverishly, holding the corner of the vellum down with his slung elbow. Rufinus leaned forward and peered at the text. Either Cestius had the worst writing he’d ever seen, or that wasn’t Latin.

  ‘What language is that?’

  ‘It’s a cypher. A message for the Castra Peregrina.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says beware of Praetorians with beady eyes, broken noses and far too much curiosity for their own good.’

  As Rufinus grumbled and sat back, Cestius blotted the ink dry, rolled up the vellum and dropped it into the scroll case, replacing the lid. A moment later he had a block of wax melting on the skillet by the fireside, then dripped it onto the case and sealed it with his ring.

  ‘A fall-back,’ he said finally, as he crossed the bar and left the missive with the owner.

  The frumentarius was returning to the table casually, when he stopped sharply. ‘What is it?’ Rufinus asked, the hair rising on his neck at Cestius’ expression.

  ‘Look at your dog,’ Cestius answered in reply.

  Rufinus looked down. Acheron was still lying on his sheepskin, but he had uncurled and was now alert, his hackles raised, ears straining and flicking. Something was clearly wrong. Rufinus rose slowly from his seat, his hand going to the hilt of the sword at his side. He half expected Cestius to berate him for it, but he felt less confident still as he saw the frumentarius do the same.

  Without warning, Acheron suddenly leapt to his paws and issued a low, keening noise that slowly sank into a growl.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ Rufinus whispered. The only noises he could hear were the crackle and spit of the fire, the muted hiss of the endless rain outside, and the distant clatter of pans from the servants in the back rooms. It was all so thoroughly ordinary.

  Acheron padded slowly across the bar and jumped up, putting his forepaws on a bench below a window, peering out into the deepening gloom of the late afternoon as it turned to evening. He gave a tense little whine, and then jumped down and hurried over to another window where he repeated the process.

  Rufinus started to walk toward it, but Cestius reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Not that way. Just in case.’

  He beckoned to Rufinus and the pair crossed to the stairs, leaving Acheron pacing around. A moment later they were upstairs and moving to their room. Once inside, Cestius crossed to one of the windows, which they had left shuttered against the weather. Leaning close, he put his green eye to the crack between the wooden leaves. Frowning, Rufinus moved to the other window and did the same.

  This early in the year the days ended early, and night was already well on its way, the undergrowth and woodland that surrounded the mansio, with just a small clearing to separate the two, was gloomy and forbidding. Rufinus shuddered, though he wasn’t quite sure why yet.

  Then he saw it.

  ‘Praetorians,’ he murmured.

  ‘Maybe a dozen or more,’ Cestius confirmed, ‘and I think I spied our friend Glabrio the horseman there just now.’

  ‘Glabrio?’ Rufinus lurched back from the window. ‘Then we need to get him away from the others. I want that man dead.’

  ‘You and many others, I suspect,’ replied Cestius still peering through the window.

  ‘He is Cleander’s man through and through,’ Rufinus muttered. ‘He was one of six men who killed your colleague at the villa of Hadrianus a few years ago.’

  ‘Was he, now?’ mused Cestius. ‘He may just have made my list also, then. Dionysus was a friend of mine?’

  ‘Dionysus?’

  Aulus Junius Dionysus. Dis to his friends.’ Cestius leaned back. ‘Do you think he’s come to kill you?’

  ‘I’m positive of it,’ Rufinus replied, ‘ though he won’t do it until we’ve finished Caelus Perennis off. He’ll not have Cleander’s permission to be here – this is personal – but he won’t scupper his master’s plans so readily. He’s waiting ‘til it’s over, then he’ll finish me. Or at least that’s what he thinks will happen.’

  ‘Good,’ Cestius smiled. ‘Until now you were wetter than the horse-ride here. I doubted you had the emotional strength left in you to do what needs doing. It seems that sight of Glabrio fires you up. Excellent. We might be able to do this now. But things will have to unfold at their own pace. Glabrio will have to wait, but bear in mind that we could be here for days, and while we are waiting for Caelus Perennis with a roaring fire, food and wine, Glabrio and his men are waiting for the same thing in a cold, damp leather tent in the rainy woods with only hard-tack biscuits for food. Feel a small victory there if for nothing else, young Rufinus.’

  XXII – A killing

  January 25th 185AD

  The door of the mansio opened and a figure huddled from the chilly dark evening into the lamplight of the common room, looking around for a moment before striding over to the counter to speak to the owner of the installation. For the tenth time in three days, Rufinus straightened in his seat near the roaring fire. The strain of being ready for anything every time the door opened was beginning to get to him, for every visitor might be their quarry. Three days’ worth of visitors had come and gone with that tension. All, of course, were here with military authority or letters of permission from the imperial court or some functionary of government. And all were passing through, arriving tired and travel-worn and expecting a bath, a meal and a warm bed before heading back out into the early morning.

  All bar one. The previous day, a young tribune on leave from the Eighth Augusta in Upper Germania had arrived and told the man at the counter that he intended to stay for four days, waiting for a colleague to catch up before moving on to Rome.

  Cestius had sauntered up to the counter, smiled warmly at the tribune and then explained very politely and patiently that this would not be possible and that he should move on to Rome at Dawn. The visiting tribune had almost exploded at the impertinence of this black-clad man with the odd eyes, but, perhaps disconcerted by that same gaze, had allowed himself to be drawn off into a corner where the two had held a whispered conversation. Whatever Cestius said to the tribune turned him white as a sheet and the young man had nodded meekly before returning to the counter and changing his request to a single night stay and a fast horse.

  And so the days had passed, overnight visitors coming and going, none staying long enough to raise concerns. In the late afternoon today, a courier had called in on the first stop of a journey that would take him all the way to Vindonissa high in the Alpes. Rufinus had slipped into his usual concern over the trouble a witness might cause, but Cestius seemed not to be bothered. Couriers, he
said, were always tired, and usually heavy drinkers. Sure enough, the man had eaten early, bought two jars of wine and one of water and had retreated to his room, not to show his face again. That had been three hours ago. Rufinus could remember all too easily those days, just weeks ago in fact, when an evening could vanish in a haze into the bottom of a wine jug and pass unnoticed. The courier was now up in his room and probably out for the count.

  Time to concentrate on the latest visitor.

  The figure who had just arrived from the cold, damp darkness outside exchanged a muted conversation with the owner, and Rufinus felt a thrill run through him. He’d not seen the man’s face yet, but somehow he knew it to be Caelus Perennis.

  Thrill turned to nerves in a heartbeat. This was it. Cestius’ plan was simple enough in basis – fake the death, draw the Praetorians in and deal with them – though the intricacies of what would have to follow were beyond him. Not to mention how they would deal with a dozen Praetorians. Cestius seemed to like secrets. All frumentarii liked secrets, of course, but Vibius Cestius seemed to revel in them especially. When Rufinus had questioned the parts of the plan that still seemed vague and unworked, the man had issued platitudes like ‘the gods will lend a hand’ or ‘things will work out, you wait and see’ and so on. Something about the man’s eye – the green one, not the creepy black one that drank in the light and let nothing out – suggested that Cestius already had something in mind for every step of the way, and that was perfectly in keeping with the man’s personality.

  In fact, the frumentarius had spent the first day whittling a piece of wood with the expertise of a professional carpenter, down to a stump almost the shape of Italia – well, Italia without the heel, anyway. When Rufinus had asked him what he was doing, Cestius had tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially and told the young guardsman that he had a job for him. Rufinus had then spent a miserable two hours in the bushes behind the mansio in the rain, picking putrid old blackberries that had rotted on the cane way past harvesting season. He had kept his eyes open while doing so for any sign of the white-clad watchers, but had surprisingly seen none. By the time he was sodden, freezing and thoroughly miserable, he’d had a small bowl of the ancient ruined fruit. When he’d asked Cestius what they were for, the frumentarius had simply tapped his nose again and sent Rufinus to the baths to clean up and dry out.

  And for the last three days, any time they had not spent sitting watching the door from their favourite table, Rufinus had passed in strange, seemingly unimportant, odd errands for Cestius while the frumentarius carved his lump of wood and peered out of the windows with interest, catching the occasional glimmer of white in the woodlands. The strangest of tasks… A pair of pincers from the stables. A clean towel. A pair of shears and a bucket of urine. Ginger from the kitchens. The list of odd requirements was many and varied and often – in the case of the urine at least – quite distressing.

  Were they ready?

  For whatever Cestius was planning, were they ready?

  ‘It’s him,’ Rufinus whispered under his breath.

  ‘I know. Come on.’

  Slowly, Cestius rose from the table. ‘As we rehearsed, alright? Don’t go getting all over-excited and doing anything precipitous. For things to work out, we do as we planned.’

  Rufinus nodded as he extricated himself from the table and the two men crossed the common room, heading for the new arrival. As they approached, Caelus Perennis removed his damp cloak. He looked tired and worn, but still bore that innocent, youthful energy that Rufinus remembered, even if it was slightly muted through the understanding of the horrors the world was throwing at him. His brother had died and, while he would not yet be aware of the fate of his father, step-mother, and young half-brother, he knew the trouble his father was in and must be expecting the worst.

  Rufinus had panicked that Caelus would arrive with a full military entourage, making their task impossible, but the frumentarius had been adamant that young Perennis would arrive alone, and it appeared that he had been correct. Vibius Cestius had been convinced that Cleander’s summons with imperial authority would have allowed only for his individual travel. The chamberlain would not have risked letting the young man come to Rome with a unit of fiercely loyal Pannonian soldiers at his back. When he heard about the execution of his father, anything might happen if he had soldiers with him. And so he had been instructed to attend the emperor as a civilian, alone and with no ceremony or entourage. Not even a body slave.

  The young legate turned as the two men closed on him, his eyes widening in surprise.

  ‘Tribune Vibius Cestius? By all the gods this is a surprise. A welcome one, I might add.’

  As Cestius moved to him, Rufinus crossed to the counter and beckoned to the owner. ‘Go to the back rooms, lock yourself and your people in somewhere very safe, and no matter what you hear stay there if you value your neck.’ He tried to give it the tone of a warning, but was more convinced that it had come out as a threat. Whatever the case, the owner frowned at him in suspicion, but a quick glance at Vibius Cestius sealed the bargain, and he nodded and retreated through a door into the workings of the Mansio, leaving the three men alone in the common room.

  Cestius was speaking in low tones.

  ‘Legate, I want you to listen very carefully. Do exactly as I say, when I say it.’

  His hand went to the sword at his side, and young Perennis’ eyes widened again as he looked down. Finally he looked at Rufinus and a thrill of recognition ran through him.

  ‘I… Do I still know you, Cestius?’ he hissed, eyes on the sword hilt.

  ‘Trust me. You always have.’

  ‘Trust is hard to come by these days,’ the young legate muttered, watching with wide eyes as the frumentarius drew his gladius from the sheathe with a whisper of steel.

  ‘Cestius?’ There was real uncertainty in the lad’s eyes now. Panic, even.

  ‘Trust him,’ Rufinus whispered as he drew his own sword and stepped round behind Caelus Perennis.

  ‘Move,’ barked the frumentarius sharply, gesturing toward the table where they’d been sitting at the far end of the room. Young Perennis, still clearly caught between the desire to trust them and the automatic urge to flee in panic, stumbled forward.

  ‘Just to the table,’ whispered Cestius as he prodded Perennis with the tip of the blade, ‘where we can be seen from most of the windows. The three men approached the wide alcove with the fireplace and its roaring conflagration.

  ‘By order of the emperor and the senate of Rome,’ Rufinus said loudly, ‘the family of the Praetorian prefect Tigidius Perennis are sentenced to death for conspiracy to commit treason.’

  ‘No!’ yelped the young legate, suddenly struggling.

  ‘That’s right,’ hissed Cestius with an unpleasant grin. ‘Struggle. Struggle hard.’

  The young man needed no such encouragement and Rufinus was surprised at the strength in that small frame as the legate fought back while Rufinus pushed him down against the table with his free hand.

  ‘Apologies in advance,’ Rufinus hissed as he held the lad down.

  Cestius struck with his gladius and his victim screamed as the tip buried itself in his shoulder. Blood spurted up into the air in a short jet, and the frumentarius’ crimson blade rose again and fell once more into the unprotected flesh of the arm, accompanied by another shriek and a brief spray of blood.

  ‘Lie still,’ hissed Rufinus, but Perennis was writhing and bucking in pain and panic. With a tense breath and his one free hand, Rufinus sheathed his own blade and used his considerable strength to hold the young man down.

  ‘Scream a little more,’ Vibius Cestius said quietly. ‘And then if you really value your neck lie still and play dead.’

  ‘What?’ gurgled Perennis, his eyes wild and dancing.

  ‘I’ve wounded you twice but not badly. I needed the screams to sound real and there needs to be blood, because they’ll be watching. Scream and lie still. Caelus Perennis has just died, and he’ll
fuck everything up good and proper if he gets up again or starts to chat with us.’

  Perennis stared, wide-eyed.

  ‘Scream and go still,’ hissed Rufinus.

  Again, the young legate shook, fighting back, eyes darting this way and that.

  ‘There are Praetorians outside,’ Rufinus whispered. ‘The ones who killed Secundus in Carnuntum. Enemies of you and your father, who need to be convinced you’re dead. Some of them are here to kill me, but you can be sure that at least one of them will be dispatched to Rome with tidings for Cleander, either of your death or of my failure. If he bears tidings that we let you live, then everything we do is for nothing. Now scream. And then lie still.’

  Perennis stared and Rufinus, starting to lose his patience, pressed gently on the wound in the legate’s shoulder which had been carefully positioned by the frumentarius to drive through a thick blood vessel and produce the maximum spray for the minimum potential damage. As he pressed, Perennis shrieked like a man possessed and started to shudder.

  ‘Good,’ Cestius murmured. Now lie still. You’re dead. Try not to breathe too heavily. We don’t want to see your chest visibly rise and fall. Now stay there and don’t move until we tell you.’

  The two men let go of the young legate, half expecting him to sit up, but Perennis, apparently convinced of the severity of the situation, lay still, breathing as shallow as he could while his body leaked blood from shoulder and arm. As they turned, Cestius cleared his throat.

  ‘They’re on the move.’

  Rufinus glanced sidelong at the window. White shapes could just be made out in the undergrowth, moving swiftly and with purpose.

  ‘You really think Glabrio will have sent a man to Rome with the news?’

  ‘Possibly. But it had to look real anyway. One thing I can guarantee is that if he saw us not killing Perennis, a man would be kicking his horse to death to get to Rome with those tidings. Now Glabrio thinks the deed is done and he is free to kill you.’