Lions of Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  He arrived at the door of the office with the slave hopping from foot to foot impotently behind him. Fulvius looked up from his book and chewed his lip for a moment. Rufinus noted that another slave stood in the corner of the room and, unlike the dour and useless doorman, this one bore the network of scars and tattoos that suggested a history in the arena. The man was armed with a sica, a Thracian blade, curved and with a wicked edge, at his belt. Did Fulvius expect trouble, or should Rufinus be on his guard? He had his sword at his side, as well as a pugio dagger and his vine stick. The slave might be an ex gladiator, but he would find he had his work cut out with this centurion. Still, Rufinus attended the tribune with an insolent half-slouch and the ex gladiator firmly locked in his peripheral vision.

  ‘Tribune,’ Rufinus said, as his mind made a boxing ring of the room, noting obstructions, weak points, places of egress and potential weapons. The man was on his right side – potential trouble for a legionary being able to draw his sword and parry in a rush, but a centurion wore his blade on the left and could draw it easily. Plus the stout wooden baton he carried would turn most blades.

  Fulvius drew a deep breath and settled back into his chair, fingers interlocked.

  ‘I could swear that I gave you an ultimatum to leave or suffer the consequences.’

  Rufinus gave his calmest shrug. ‘My whole life is a string of consequences. I’m prepared to suffer a few more.’

  The tribune’s lip twitched. ‘I am not the ordinary cavalry trooper I was when we first met, Rufinus, lacking authority and power.’

  ‘And yet I continue to walk free,’ Rufinus countered. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Do not test me.’

  ‘You will not sell me to your master, because you know the storm of steel and shit that would bring from my friends. No one wants to piss off a consul, especially one close to the emperor. So don’t give me your empty threats, Fulvius. I know you for a coward as well as a murderer.’

  The knuckles of the tribune’s hands whitened as he clenched.

  ‘I cannot fathom why you are still here, Rufinus. You have managed to kill the others in my unit. Well done. Congratulations, but you will not get me and, knowing that, why are you still here, masquerading as a centurion?’

  Rufinus felt his first moment of discomfort. His true reason for being among the Cohort must not become known to this man, and Fulvius believed it to be no more than an attempt to get close enough to kill him. The young centurion narrowed his eyes.

  ‘I am not done with you yet, Fulvius. I swore an oath on the altar of Apollo to avenge the good man you mutilated in the woodlands. And no man reneges on an oath to the gods – not if he is in his right mind, anyway. I give you my word you will be with your former comrades soon enough.’

  ‘Then I think that perhaps it is time to reiterate my own promises. Your woman eludes me. I know she is somewhere in Sicilia, but it seems that your friend the consul has managed to secrete her away somewhere truly inscrutable. I will find her, though, and when I do her cries will make you regret your oath. Moreover, long before she lies on my floor, whimpering and pleading, your father’s dismembered corpse will bounce down the bank and into the Tiber like the common pleb he is.’

  Rufinus flinched. He knew he’d done so, too, despite being determined to hold himself stoically together. Fulvius had seen it as well.

  ‘Yes. Your father who seeks to be Cleander’s slave and wishes you harm. And I can imagine how little love there is lost between the two of you. But family still means something to you sentimental types, doesn’t it? Try as hard as you might, you cannot condemn him.’

  Rufinus shuffled slightly. ‘At the moment I am not ready to deal with you,’ Rufinus growled. ‘That time is not yet upon me, but I swear now on the spirits of my ancestors that if you touch Senova or my father, your death will be a thing that is used to frighten children into line for all time.’

  ‘Brave words,’ Fulvius spat. His hand rose and gestured left to the gladiator in the corner. ‘Meet Carnax. He has been a victorious gladiator and a beast hunter. He knows how to skin an animal with precision. Of course, they’re usually dead when he begins, but I cannot imagine your father has sufficient strength to put up much of a fight. I give you my word that if we pass the calends of June and you are still in Rome, let alone in my fortress, I will have your father peeled alive and crucified for the birds to feed on.

  ‘Do your worst, but always keep an eye open, even when you sleep, Fulvius. The boatman is coming for you.’

  The tribune started to say something, but Rufinus simply turned his back and marched out, that doorman once more hurrying along in his wake, trying to get ahead. Despite the confidence he exuded through the house and the sense of aggrieved strength he portrayed, as he emerged into the open once more and the doorman closed up behind him, he felt distinctly shaky. It was not the threats that had done it, either, or not so much. It had been the sudden realisation that he still cared enough for his father to matter. He might not count for anything to his father, but the reverse was apparently not true.

  Before he realised he was doing it, he had passed through the fortress gate once more and was stomping out purposefully into the city. He had made two important decisions. The first was that despite the way he and his father had last parted, he owed the old man and the family name enough to at least warn him against what might come. The second was that the moment he had the opportunity, Fulvius had to die. No slow master plans that found a climax with him standing above the tribune with blade in hand making him beg for mercy and renouncing his crimes. No. Just a quick death at the first opportunity.

  That might not be so easy, mind. When Fulvius was in the city he was inevitably accompanied by Praetorian horsemen, and would be hard to get to. In the camp he was almost always escorted by two of his men these days and he had clearly even gone so far as to hire slave guards in his own house. Perhaps he was more worried about Rufinus than he seemed to let on. One thing was sure: he had surrounded himself with steel and muscle and that single opportunity Rufinus now sought might be hard to secure.

  Half an hour later he was at the tabularium waiting to see one of the clerks. A quarter hour after that he had an address for his father’s new, modest town house.

  Less than an hour after leaving Fulvius’ quarters he stopped outside a house on the Caelian hill in the shadow of the great Temple of Claudius. He realised now just how low his family had sunk on his father’s quest for power. Rather than a sprawling estate in Hispania with a going concern in wine and several impressive wings and gardens, two bath houses and a huge cistern, his father was content to settle for a house that had probably been the home of a small-time merchant whose business had failed and forced him to sell up. It was in need of repair and decoration. Even the two shops built into the front were of poor quality and one lay empty and derelict.

  Half tempted to turn and walk away, Rufinus paused and, steadying himself, hammered on the door. There was a long pause and then a strange thumping, shuffling noise. Finally the door opened and Rufinus looked at the man responsible. His father had clearly also been forced to the cut-price slave dealers. The old doorman was venerable enough to remember Aeneas landing. One leg was lame, dragged behind him and accounting for the strange noise he had heard, and the man’s filmy grey eyes looked out from a face like parchment stretched over a skeleton.

  ‘I am here to see my father.’

  The slave dithered for so long over this information that Rufinus gave up and simply walked past him into the house.

  ‘Father?’

  The old man appeared suddenly in a doorway. He looked older than ever, and bitterness fought with sympathy in Rufinus’ heart for a moment. Then the old man ruined it as usual.

  ‘What do you want, wretched unwanted offspring?’

  ‘Charming as always, Father.’

  ‘You told me we were done for all time. It was a weight off my heart not to have to consider your foolish, selfish ways any more. Sooner or later
my other, true, son will come back. When you’ve died your traitor’s death.’

  ‘I warned you about selling me out to your master.’

  ‘And despite the fact that I should, I have not.’

  ‘But you did sell me out to a Praetorian tribune who is now threatening me.’

  ‘He knew about you already. He just came to me and pressed me for more details. What do I care?’

  ‘You should care because he has as scant regard for you as Cleander does. He wishes to hurt me, and to do so he will kill you.’

  ‘Lies.’

  ‘No, they are not. Appius Fulvius has threatened your life if I do not leave Rome. And I have no intention of leaving Rome until both he and the chamberlain are walking hand in hand into Tarterus. So that leaves you in a difficult position. You must leave Rome before they come for you. I know you’ve sold the villa but we still have relations that might take you in. In Abellinum, they might shelter you.’

  ‘You cannot fool me so easily boy. I am of value.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Can you not see just how worthless you are to them? Fulvius will kill you, and soon. Very soon. I cannot stop him. He will do it, and he will do it in the most agonising and gruesome manner, purely to make me hurt. So do yourself a favour old man and run.’

  His father turned back towards the door. ‘Dalo, go out and find the first Praetorian you can in the streets and tell him I’ve apprehended a traitor.’

  ‘Father…’

  ‘Go,’ the old man shouted, rewarded by that shuffle-thump as the doorman made his way to the front door.

  ‘Come on, Father, I could have saved Rome, killed them both and sired a large family before that slave could even reach the end of the street. And how do you intend to hold me? You were never that strong and age and bitterness make you weaker by the day.’

  ‘If you do not leave my house I shall not be responsible for my actions.’

  ‘Last time, Father. Run away. I dislike you intensely, and you are reprehensible as a human being, but you are my father for all your faults and I would not see you crucified. Go today.’

  ‘Get out,’ screamed the old man in banshee tones

  Rufinus drew a deep breath. ‘I have done all I can. What you do now seals your own fate. Farewell, Father.’

  He could still hear his father ranting and calling him names as he passed the lame doorman and emerged into the street. He could not save his father. Senova was, for now, beyond danger. Cleander’s time drew nigh and there was nothing he could do to change any of that now, and Fulvius moved with a ring of steel around him. Soon, though, it would come to a head. Cleander would fall, Fulvius would make a mistake, and Rufinus would be on them both.

  They were nearly there.

  Chapter Twenty – Boiling point

  Rome, Late May 190 A.D.

  ‘Maximus, you lazy shit, get up!’

  Rufinus surfaced from the deeply unpleasant dream he’d been having, in which Cleander had hold of one of his testicles and Fulvius the other while his father kept telling them to pull harder. On some days he might wake blearily, but he had been a soldier for most of his life and he was alert enough that a call to duty could cut through the deepest sleep.

  Consequently, even as he sat bolt upright and swung his legs from the bed he knew he wasn’t as late for whatever it was as the voice suggested.

  He’d heard…

  Yes, as Cleander had heaved and his scrotum groaned, he’d heard the first blast from the horn cutting into his dreamscape. Then as his father chided the chamberlain for not pulling hard enough, the second blast had intruded too. Then he’d woken. It had not been more than four heartbeats since the alarm arose, he was sure.

  He was up a moment later, smoothing down his tunic and looking around for his subarmalis to go beneath the chain shirt. The figure in the doorway who’d called him was Centurion Priscus, an old fashioned type of officer, risen like Rufinus from the Marcomannic wars and commander of the Sixth Century, barracked across the way.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Trouble at the granaries,’ the man barked before leaving the room to head back to his own men. ‘Whole cohort’s been called out,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Rufinus paused for only a moment in the midst of dressing. Did the man mean a cohort of men or the entire unit of the Urban Cohort? The former would mean maybe half a thousand men. If it were the entire force, that might mean two thousand. Rufinus drew a sharp breath. Two thousand men pulled to duty could only mean a complete disaster.

  He grabbed the rest of his kit and pulled it on, even as Optio Sura appeared in his door.

  ‘Sir, did you… oh, you’re up.’

  ‘Yes. How many of us?’

  ‘Our full cohort. You’re the senior officer. Best get out there prompt, sir. I’ll fall in the lads.’

  Rufinus nodded. No time to argue now. If whatever was happening at the horrea had been enough of an issue for the guard to send an alarm, then what they were facing was proper trouble. He glanced out of the window. It was still true dark.

  Once he was fastening the last few straps, he stepped out of the barracks to see his men lining up outside, ready to move.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Less than an hour after midnight, sir,’ one man responded. Rufinus nodded and moved on, still fastening his chin strap.

  By the time he barrelled out of the barrack street and ran onto the parade ground, three centuries were already assembled and Prefect Pertinax stood on the tribunal as though he had been dressed in his uniform all night. Perhaps he had.

  Rufinus strode over to the podium. As senior centurion of the gathered force, it was his place to speak to the prefect.

  ‘Ah, Maximus, good.’

  ‘You will address the troops, sir?’

  ‘No. Not if you are ready to take them out. Optio Pavo of the Third Century, Fourth Cohort commands the guards currently on duty at the Horrea Ummidiana. He sent a runner. He thinks we’re about to have a small riot on our hands. I’m committing a whole cohort to keeping things settled. You are in command. As soon as your force is gathered, move there with all haste and deal with the problem. I cannot join you as I am required to attend the Palatine momentarily, though I will come with all haste once that meeting is done. If things escalate out of control send for the rest of the Cohort, but only if you really need them. We could do without committing the entire force and raising a public outcry.’

  Rufinus saluted.

  A riot. At the granary. He didn’t know whether to panic or cheer. The responsibility of quelling the trouble was more than he had ever taken on, yet it was a sign that their goal was tantalisingly close; The pot of the city’s emotion was boiling over. Cleander still held all the grain. His would be the cursed name here.

  Pertinax hurried off with his adjutant, leaving Rufinus alone on the tribunal. He shivered as his own century formed up, along with the Fifth. A sheepish-looking centurion led out the last unit, and moments later they were all formed up in uniform. An odd thrill ran through Rufinus. He was commanding. Finally, properly, he was commanding. And these were proper soldiers. Better, even, for they were soldiers trained with the extra skills required for peace keeping in the city. If only he could be himself…

  ‘There is trouble at the Horrea Ummidiana,’ he announced to the parade ground. ‘I realise that our tactics will be defined by what we encounter when we arrive, but I want to be prepared. This could be a full-blown riot, so I want the Sixth Century to take on the pioneer role. There may be damage to the granary, and there is undoubtedly a unit of the vigiles attending. You will liaise with them and help them secure the building.’

  A nod from the bull-necked officer of the Sixth.

  ‘Second and Third Centuries, you are on flanking duty. Contain things. One of you up the Vicus Portae Naeviae and come in from the left. The other up the Vicus Portae Raudusculanae and come in from the right. That way we have them in a vice, and here’s the weird one: Fourth Cohort? Get a requis
ition chit and take five hundred horse from the stables. I don’t care if they’re Praetorian horses or the Praetorian prefect’s own steed. Take them. Lay the blame with me, but mount every man and take them out of the city by the fortress. Bring them in from the rear along the Vicus Dianae. If the gods are with us, the entire crowd will lose the will to fight when they are trapped and pressed from every side. I will bring the First and Fifth centuries by the most direct route and demand they stand down. Are there any questions?’

  He’d expected some argument, especially from the men who he’d just told to requisition Praetorian horses, but every man nodded and rumbled their approval. Good. At least they might pull this off if they all believed in what they were doing.

  ‘Alright, you have your orders. Move out. First and Fifth centuries on me.’

  Without looking back, he turned and marched down from the tribunal, across the edge of the square and off towards the gate. As they emerged into the city, Rufinus felt the lightest touch of rain in the darkened street and cast a quick prayer to Jupiter Pluvius that this single drop herald a downpour. Should there be another attempt at arson, the rain might play a vital role, and such inclement weather had a tendency to put an end to public unrest. Many a rioter suddenly found their vehemence in question when they discovered they were rioting in a rain storm.

  Still, only one drop.

  He prayed again as he led one hundred and fifty men along the street, heading for the Horrea Ummidiana on the secondary southern slope known as the Little Aventine. The sound of scores of hobnailed boots on the road drew out late night denizens – drunks, thieves, whores and the homeless, all to watch the Urban Cohort stomp past at speed. This particular class of people were the Cohort’s usual prime concern. It was often they who the city’s soldiers were policing, arresting or muscling off the street. Yet now the air of discontent and menace they gave off was strangely less pressing than that emanating from the ordinary folk of Rome.