‘We know who he is. What does he want?’
The Centurion’s eyes narrowed angrily in the shade of his helmet. ‘The “dagger bearer” wishes to know the level of fill in the granaries and how close we are to being able to distribute the dole.’
Pertinax turned to Rufinus, who remained the Cohort’s chief officer liaising with Dionysus. ‘Maximus?’
‘I spoke to the Praefectus Annonae just this morning,’ Rufinus responded, turning to the Praetorians. ‘His latest records put us six thousand modii short for the general populace without considering those groups, like yourselves, who we still have to feed separately. Given the size of the shipment we received this morning, two or three more at that level might see supplies reach an adequate quantity.’
‘How long?’
Rufinus shrugged. ‘How high is up? It depends on when shipments come in and what size they are, and that is down to your master securing them in the first place..’
‘The chamberlain is becoming impatient.’
Rufinus smiled nastily. ‘Patience is not a trait I have ever observed in him.’
The Centurion bristled at the insult. ‘Watch your tongue, grunt.’
‘I’d advise you the same, Centurion,’ Rufinus smiled. ‘Eighty men will not protect you from a good hiding if a couple of cohorts of real soldiers decide you’re being a bit too big for your boots.’
The centurion growled, readying himself to retort, but Pertinax’s voice cut through the warm, stinking afternoon air. ‘Gentlemen, let’s have a little conduct befitting centurions of Rome and less of these childish insults.’
The two centurions stood and glared at one another, though both remained silent. The air became taut and dangerous. Above, a bird of prey took a pigeon in mid-air with avian cries. A few errant feathers drifted down in the lifeless air between Rufinus and the Praetorian. He was trying to decide whether to attempt to calm things further, wind the man up again, or simply turn away, when disaster struck.
Someone in the crowd hurled a piece of brick.
The red, dusty rock slammed into the shoulder plates of a Praetorian and he yelped at the blow, falling forward and then staggering to regain his stance. Rufinus was forgotten in an instant as the centurion turned away, peering at his men and taking in what had happened.
A dozen or so of the Praetorians had turned their heads to look at the gathered citizenry, and one or two were shouting foul oaths at them. The centurion, realising what had happened, began to bellow orders.
‘Form up and draw swords.’
The loose lines of Praetorians turned with a unified crunch to face the crowd, tightening into a fighting unit, weapons unsheathing with a loud rasping noise. They stood for a long moment like that. The centurion perhaps felt out of his depth now. He’d only come for an update and to deliver the words of Cleander and now he was facing an angry crowd and with hostile men of the Urban Cohort close by. There was a pregnant pause.
Rufinus glanced back at his own men. The soldiers of the Cohort had stopped work on the grain sacks. Even as he glanced around he saw that several centurions and optios had taken the initiative and closed the granary gates to secure the contents, returning any errant sacks to the wagons and then gathering men protectively around them. The Cohort was ready for trouble. Pertinax looked pensive.
‘Sir, we cannot allow a repeat of that disaster at the Galbana.’
The prefect nodded absently, his eyes locked on the Praetorians.
‘Sir…’
‘Yes, Maximus, I know. But we are in a dangerous position. If we lock horns with these men we effectively declare war on the Praetorians and therefore on the chamberlain. I am not sure that any of us want that.’
Rufinus nodded but, true as that was, he was more concerned with stopping a second grand slaughter.
‘Respectfully, sir, that cannot influence a decision like this.’
Still Pertinax was nodding, and said nothing.
Rufinus turned back just in time to see a second missile pelt another Praetorian. Everything happened in the blur of an instant then. The stricken guardsman, hit in the head by the thrown item, lashed out at the nearest civilian, calling him a ‘lawless bastard’. Fortunately, perhaps, he only used the hilt of his sword, but the heavy pommel smacked into the man’s head in retaliation, and that citizen went down like a sack of turnips, unconscious before he landed.
The crowd roared, and whatever the guardsmen tried to shout disappeared beneath the din of the mob and a sound like the drumming hooves of a cavalry ala as fists, feet and makeshift cudgels thudded against Praetorian shields.
‘Maintain ranks,’ bellowed their centurion. Do not strike until I give the order.’
Rufinus shivered. He couldn’t quite work out whether that was the officer trying to stop his men attacking the public or more an order trying to make the attack an official, coordinated and concerted one. He had a feeling the centurion himself wasn’t sure yet. One or two of the guardsmen lashed out angrily despite their orders, but as yet no one had been cut or stabbed.
‘Prefect,’ Rufinus hissed urgently, not taking his eyes off the scene. Somehow the centurion had managed to bark enough discipline into his men to stop them battering the public, though the crowd continued to lash out at the soldiers’ solid wall of shields.
‘Desist,’ bellowed Pertinax suddenly with such command and force to his considerable voice that the struggling stopped in an instant, soldiers and civilians alike startled by the call.
‘Praetorians take one step back. People of Rome, move away from the Guard.’
Pertinax had no authority over the Praetorians, of course, yet they did as he said without question, a gap opening up between them and the hostile crowd. The centurion spun angrily.
‘Keep your nose out of this, Prefect.’
Pertinax leaned forward over his horse’s neck. ‘Perhaps, Centurion, you would care to remember that you are speaking to the prefect of the Guard, a former consul, procurator, governor and general. And when you do, perhaps you might want to reconsider your badly chosen words. The Praetorians are not untouchable, and I have rather a lot of men here at my command. But then, perhaps what I should do is stand back and let the people of Rome rightfully tear your limbs off.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Hmm?’
The centurion bridled for a moment, and Rufinus thought he might actually argue. Instead, rather bravely, but very foolishly, he said ‘I do not answer to men of the Urban Cohort, no matter how distinguished their history.’
The smile never slipped from Pertinax’s face as he sat back in the saddle.
‘Maximus, have the men fall in, barring two centuries to guard the wagons.’
Rufinus felt his blood pounding at the danger rising in the air as he turned and marched over towards the watching men of the Cohort. They had, of course, heard every word of the prefect’s, as had much of the crowd. It took hardly a word of command for Rufinus to have the men fall in, lined up and ready. Despite his time in the Praetorians, Rufinus had to admit that they looked a lot more like proper veteran soldiers than the white-clad Guard in their posh uniforms. Certainly they presented a threat that Rufinus was glad he did not have to face.
Pertinax, still wearing that smile, rode out of the way of his men so that the Cohort were staring across a short empty space to the rear of the Praetorians, who were still facing the crowd. The centurion faltered truly for the first time, nerves getting to him, aware that his men were already facing a hostile public, but that he had now put an enemy behind them too.
The air sizzled with hostility, and Rufinus felt a rising worry that the Praetorian officer might just be driven by pride to start something. The public had begun to melt away a little to the periphery of the square, all remaining eyes on the two civil military units, every hand among them on the hilt of a weapon. Both units were armoured. Only the Praetorians bore blades, but being restricted to nightsticks would not necessarily make the Cohort inferior. They did, after all, outnumber the Praetorians here by mo
re than twenty to one. At that number they could be wielding sponges and still be confidant of victory.
At a quiet command from the centurion, the Praetorians about-faced and remained in position, now with their backs to the public at some distance and facing the men of the Cohort. He was brave, Rufinus had to give him that. Or perhaps just bloody-minded and foolish.
Silence reigned once more.
Finally, Pertinax leaned forward in his saddle again.
‘I think the time has come, Centurion, for you to take your men back to their barracks and tuck them in for the night, don’t you?’
Rufinus watched the centurion’s face. He was struggling. He was well aware of his chances if it came to a fight, but backing down now in front of Pertinax would dent not only his pride, but also his reputation and the authority he wielded over his own men.
‘The Praetorian Guard,’ Pertinax added, conversationally, ‘was founded to protect the emperor. That is the very meaning of their name. They were formed originally as the body guard of a praetor – a general who wielded imperium. Augustus made them officially an imperial guard, and Tiberius created you as you are now. In nearly two centuries your role has never changed. Your duty, no matter how tangled in intrigues it might have become, is still to protect the emperor.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. The centurion probably didn’t want to be reminded of that, since no one had seen the emperor for a year, since he had taken his mistress out of the diseased city to his villa at Laurentum. There, a few Praetorians were quartered, bolstered by a force of gladiators selected by Commodus himself. But the bulk of the Guard never saw the emperor, protecting instead a complex of palaces that housed the chamberlain and the imperial staff.
‘Policing the city and keeping order in the streets is not the job of the Praetorian Guard any more than it is the job of the virgins of Vesta,’ Pertinax smiled. ‘The Urban Cohort was formed to perform those tasks. Leave us to our duty and return to your barracks.’
The centurion bridled. We have standing orders from the chamberlain, who speaks for the emperor, to put down riots wherever we find them in the city, since the Urban Cohort have proven themselves to be too womanly to do it themselves.’
Brave. And very, very stupid. Every man of the Cohort changed their stance. The mood among them had slipped from amused threat to very real anger in an instant. They were truly walking a knife edge now, and Rufinus was half inclined to released his men to beat the white-clad bastards to a pulp. He restrained himself with difficulty. That was a stupid notion. Right now the Guard was hated almost as much as the man who called himself ‘dagger bearer’ and commanded them, while the Urban Cohorts maintained a solid level of respect in the streets. They had to rise above this, else that important distinction might just blur.
‘Leaving aside entirely the question of Cleander’s level of authority,’ Pertinax sighed, ‘which I suspect he sees as larger than life, you might want to re-examine the definition of a riot. A thrown pebble and an apple do not a riot make. This was, in fact, a peaceful crowd of citizens until your men stomped into view and started throwing your weight around. There is no riot here to put down, unless you happen to trigger one. Now I will say this only once more, and then I shall stop smiling, and I don’t think you want that to happen: this crowd is under control. There is no riot. The Urban Cohort is doing its duty with aplomb and care, and there is no requirement here for the Guard. Take your men back to their barracks now, because even in Praetorian white it’s very hard to walk that far with a nightstick jammed up your backside.’
Sniggers broke out among the men of the Cohort, and Rufinus turned, along with other centurions, and silenced them with a look. This was not the time. Rufinus himself would have a good laugh about it, but later on, in a bar with his men. Not now.
The centurion was actually shaking, he was so angry. But he was not as foolish as Rufinus had worried. There was no way this would end well for him if he argued. He straightened.
‘The dagger bearer shall hear of this, Prefect.’
‘Yes, he will. I shall tell him myself. Goodbye, Centurion.’
Humiliated and angry, the centurion turned sharply and ordered his men back to the Castra Praetoria. They marched away with a shush of mail and the crunch of nailed boots, and the Cohort watched them go with a sense of immense satisfaction.
Rufinus heaved a sigh of relief as Pertinax walked his horse back over.
‘D’you know, Maximus, I rather enjoyed myself there.’
‘We were damned close to a proper fight, Prefect.’
‘I disagree. The centurion had to know we would have given him a good hiding. Anyway, I fear we may have just somewhat ruined what little working relationship we had with Cleander and his thugs. I may have to visit the palace and smooth things over with him.’
He frowned at Rufinus. ‘What you said earlier, about the grain quantities, is it true?’
Rufinus nodded. He hated lying to this man, but Pertinax had thus far left all matters of grain to him, and if the prefect found out now that they were hoarding sufficient to feed everyone, Rufinus could not imagine it going down well. ‘Yes, sir, according to my reports from Papirius Dionysus.’
He also hated laying any potential blame on his fellow conspirator, but things were about to explode, and he couldn’t afford the prefect unpicking a lie here, in case everything unravelled in the process. Muddying the waters of blame would at least buy time. He was uncomfortable with the way Pertinax was looking at him again.
‘One day soon, I might take a look at those supplies myself.’
Rufinus swallowed nervously and nodded. ‘Any time, sir.’
The prefect pursed his lips, eyes still slitted with suspicion, but there was an odd coy smile there too as he wheeled his horse to face the crowd gathered at the periphery of the square.
‘Those of you who were close enough will have heard that entire exchange, and they will therefore be able to tell the rest of you how the grain situation stands. The time of relief and plenty is coming, and it is coming very soon. Let us work here and disperse to your homes. I do not want to risk attracting the attention and the blades of the Praetorian Guard again. Thank you.’
He turned away from the crowd, who were already beginning to move.
Rufinus shook off his worries for now. All he could do was pray that Severus’ belief was well founded and that events were now snowballing beyond their control. He watched as the last of the crowd melted away and the soldiers were left alone to finish unloading the grain. Despite his worry, Pertinax made no attempt to enter the granaries or request the records. Instead, after another quarter of an hour of supervision, the prefect sighed and rode off to the Palatine to attempt to mollify the chamberlain who would undoubtedly have heard by now of the near battle in the streets of the Little Aventine.
The Cohort finished work an hour later, secured the horrea and then waited for the next shift. A short while later three centuries of men arrived to take over security detail on the granary complex, and the rest of the tired soldiers set out for the fortress, where every man would stick close with his mates and be sure to stay in the Urban Cohort’s region and not stray into Praetorian areas, just in case.
Rufinus intended to spend some time in one of the soldier’s bars on the Vicus Longus – one of those favoured by the Cohort and shunned by the Guard, for obvious reasons. But first, after this day all he wanted was a bath. He had yet to bathe in the fortress baths, even though there was a separate, smaller complex set aside for the men of the Urban Cohort. His rather distinctive scars might easily cause his true identity to slip out, he’d reasoned, and so he had begun to use a small private bath house three streets away from the fortress. It was exclusive, and not cheap, but there his anonymity remained intact and he did not have to worry about being discovered by any one of his many potential enemies.
Thus it was that on the way back to the fortress, Rufinus left his men in Sura’s charge for the last few hundred paces, and sl
oped off into a side street, making for his favourite baths. It was a relatively small complex that could only really cater for half a dozen clients at a time, each of whom was granted a good level of privacy. Unlike the great baths where people went for hours at a time to socialise and do business, this sort of balneum dealt with wealthy clients who wanted quiet time to relax, or who perhaps wanted to dally with an acquaintance without their family knowing. For Rufinus the solitude was perfect. The only thing he really missed was being able to swim, for the small pool here allowed for only general floundering.
He greeted the slave at the apodyterium, who showed him to an alcove and brought him towel and clogs, and there undressed before moving through into the warm rooms. He spent half an hour sweating out the day in the laconium, then allowed a pleasant, shapely slave girl to use oil and strigil and scrape away the dirt. He was comfortable these days with his relationship with Senova, but still spending any amount of time in the company of a pretty girl automatically made him feel guilty, no matter that he had no designs on her. From there he moved out into another steam room, where the last trace of oil trickled from his skin with the sweat. On a normal day he would revive himself then with a sharp plunge into the cold pool, waking him instantly and energising every sense. Today, with the hours of strain both physically and mentally, he favoured quiet relaxation instead.
He passed through into the warm bath room, grateful that he was still alone, and sank slowly and gratefully into the warm water with a sigh. There he lay at the edge of the pool, his head leaned back over the edge, body floating and legs idly kicking occasionally.
He had no idea how long he relaxed there, and wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t drifted off to sleep a couple of times for just a moment or two, but he was finally managing to relax.
Until he heard the footsteps.
He was on the alert instantly. There were three types of footstep one heard in this place: the clack of wooden clogs or the gentle slap of bare feet from the bathers, and the soft ‘shup’ of fine calfskin from the attendants.
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