Lions of Rome

by S. J. A. Turney

  It was starting to become light enough to make out much of the room’s Spartan interior when the first new sound arrived. Footsteps. Rufinus steadied himself. It could be someone bringing food and water. Probably not, though.

  The door rattled and then creaked open, three figures in the light. As the two cavalrymen stood in the exit, Appius Fulvius strode into the room. Rufinus calculated his chances and was not pleased with the result. Fulvius was in full uniform and armoured. Rufinus had a splinter and two fists. He was good, but probably not good enough for that. Still, he was ready for it. His large splinter held in a tight grip behind his back, he eyed the tribune’s neck, the only real place he could strike a killing blow with his feeble weapon. As soon as the man came close enough. Let him be the one to move.

  ‘The chamberlain sends his regards,’ Fulvius said quietly. ‘He compliments you on your tenacity and chided himself for ever accepting unconfirmed reports of your demise. I’m afraid your captivity is not over, Rufinus. The chamberlain himself wishes to be present when we peel you for every jot of information you have on whatever strange conspiracy you’re involved in. Sadly, he has more pressing matters in the meantime.’

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ Rufinus said nastily.

  ‘It will. In good time. But while we wait for that, the chamberlain is bending his considerable resources to locating your brother and your woman. He is not in the habit of leaving behind anyone who might consider revenge an option. The slave whore and your brother will die without ever knowing why. But then they should be grateful. At least their death will be quick.’

  ‘No,’ moaned the old man from the corner. ‘Not my son. He has nothing to do with this traitor.’

  ‘Father, quiet,’ Rufinus urged him.

  ‘No,’ the old man barked. ‘Not Publius. He is loyal. The future of the family. He will serve the throne.’

  Rufinus winced, but there was nothing he could do. Fulvius straightened, his head turning. ‘Ah yes, the sycophantic old fool. A man who knows less than nothing. I have to admit to a grudging respect for Rufinus, for his tenacity and his sticking to his morals, askew as they might be. You, though, old man, have betrayed and lost everything, and you can blame whoever you like, but it is all your own doing in the end.’

  The old man gasped and staggered forward, arms reaching up, though Rufinus couldn’t tell whether it was imploring or in intended violence. Either way, the tribune simply lifted his left hand which Rufinus now realised contained a pugio dagger. His father never stood a chance. The dagger came up as he stepped forward and slammed into his neck, at almost the exact point Rufinus had been eyeing up for his own attack.

  The old man gasped again, this time in agony as the blade tore through flesh, muscle and sinew. For good measure, as Fulvius pulled it back out he dragged it across the throat, and then leapt back, keeping his pristine white uniform out of the range of the blood spray. With an irritated hiss, he held his dagger out behind him and one of the soldiers in the doorway hurried in and took it.

  ‘Clean that for me.’

  With a tut of disapproval, the tribune removed his scarf and began to wipe the blood from his hands. ‘The old man had very much outlived what little usefulness he had.’ He turned to the other men, one of whom was now diligently cleaning the dagger. ‘Hold the prisoner.’

  Rufinus, his eyes on his father, who was miraculously still alive, though now on his knees, wheezing and bleeding his last, stepped back. The two cavalry soldiers moved in, one handing a now-clean dagger back to his commander. Both men were armed and armoured, but their swords were sheathed and they carried no shield. Their strong hands came up ready to grab Rufinus. He felt the panic rise, and forced it back down. This was not to be torture, for Fulvius had stated plainly that Cleander wanted to be present for that. Just a little roughing up, then. Rufinus could take that.

  For just a moment, he considered trying to take on the two guards. He had his splinter and fists, and they were empty-handed. If he was quick, he might just…

  No. By the time he took them down, if he could, Fulvius would have his sword drawn and be moving in for the kill. And Rufinus was not naïve enough to believe there weren’t more men waiting outside. Fulvius rarely went anywhere without an escort these days. And these two men might one day be redeemed, despite serving Fulvius. No, it was the tribune Rufinus had to deal with. He couldn’t risk losing his only weapon in a futile attempt to fight off his guards. He would either use it to kill Fulvius, if the opportunity arose, or if not, he would keep hold of it for that last chance to see himself to Elysium in peace before men came to break him.

  He managed to tuck the shard of wood into the waist of his towel just before the soldiers reached him and grabbed his shoulders, pulling his arms back and holding him in vice-like grips. The scratchy tip of the wooden splinter in the back of his waist repeatedly scraped his flesh but he ignored it, his gaze locked on the tribune.

  Fulvius stepped forward. ‘I really don’t want to do you permanent harm, Rufinus. Cleander would be most disappointed if I damaged you before he could join in. But I feel that my former tent mates will haunt me if I don’t at least try to achieve some level of revenge, and I owe you something myself for the numerous difficulties you have caused me over the months. So I am going to strike at you six times. As a former boxer, I gather, I’m sure that while this will hurt, you will be able to weather the blows with fortitude and remain intact for the chamberlain when he wants you.’

  Rufinus steadied himself and braced. Fulvius rubbed his fists and then pulled his arm back.

  When he punched Rufinus hard in the gut, the younger man could have laughed. The man was no pugilist. His blow was weak, badly-aimed and inexpert. Oh it hurt, but Rufinus would have been so much better at it. Fulvius straightened.

  ‘That was for Glabrio.’

  Rufinus coughed noisily for a moment, and then took a deep breath. ‘You punch like a little girl, Tribune. Release me and I’ll show you how it’s really done.’

  The second blow almost cut off the last word as Fulvius lashed out inexpertly once more, his fist catching Rufinus on the jaw, but only glancing, snapping his head to the side. In truth, the sudden jerk of his neck was more painful than the punch.

  ‘For Arvina.’

  Rufinus spat out a gobbet of blood. In fact, he’d done it automatically without thinking or aiming, but to his immense satisfaction the blood-filled saliva landed perfectly centrally on the tribune’s pristine white sleeve.

  Fulvius looked down at his tunic, and Rufinus chuckled darkly as a twitch crept into the officer’s left eye at the sight of his marred uniform.

  ‘Messy. Uncouth and pathetic. This is for Pollius.’

  The third blow was much harder. As Rufinus swayed back from the punch, he reflected that its strength was more the result of sudden rage than actual skill. That and luck. Rufinus hung limp for a moment, hacking and coughing, spatters of blood from his mouth spraying his attacker.

  ‘Best have… a bath before you… see you master,’ he coughed with a crimson grin.

  ‘For Vedius,’ the tribune said, his twitch more prominent now, as he landed a fairly light left hook.

  Rufinus shook. ‘I can see why you were in the cavalry. You’d not have lasted long in the infantry with a punch like that.’

  The fifth strike was more brutal, smashing into the side of Rufinus’ head and sending it snapping to the left painfully again.

  ‘And that was for Curtius.’

  ‘Just you left, then,’ spat Rufinus with a grisly smile. He coughed and spat a wad of red onto the officer’s boot. Well if Fulvius was getting so peeved over his white tunic he’d have to change, he might as well have to have his footwear cleaned as well. In actual fact the officer was a bit of a mess. Rufinus’ repeated coughing had coated the man head to waist with a fine red spray anyway.

  ‘My last blow,’ Fulvius said with a particularly unpleasant smile as his eyelid jumped up and down, ‘is not a punch, but a blow of an entirely dif
ferent kind.’

  Rufinus felt the nerves return now. What had the man planned?’

  He watched with a sinking feeling as Fulvius crossed to the now-still body of his father. He watched impotently and with a great deal of distaste as Fulvius stepped gingerly for a moment in all the blood, and then gave up, given how Rufinus had already marred the boots, and crouched over the corpse. There, the tribune spent a grisly few moments using his recently-cleaned dagger to saw through the neck until the head came free.

  Rufinus silently reaffirmed his vow to kill this man as Fulvius rose, gripping the old man’s staring, horrified head by the hair. ‘All he wanted, I think, was to be a mid-level noble of Rome. And because of you, instead he will be remembered as a traitor. His head is bound for the Gemonian Stair, where I shall have it jammed on a spike for the people of Rome to spit at as they pass.’

  The prisoner forced himself to remain still and not fight his captors. Whatever he’d done, his father did not deserve the treatment of a traitor. Men like the tyrant Sejanus had gone down those infamous steps. His father was just a misguided fool. Rufinus made another silent, private vow to retrieve his father’s remains if at all possible, once he got out of this and it was all over, and see them put to rest honourably.

  And he realised with this second vow that he had subconsciously decided that he was going to get out of this. Somehow, though he didn’t know how yet, he was going to escape. He was fairly sure that the gods as a whole disapproved of the sort of things Fulvius and Cleander were doing. The gods would not let him die here when there was vengeance to be had and such wrongs to right. No, he was going to get away.

  He spat more blood and turned an expressionless look on Fulvius as the man brought the dangling head close.

  ‘I shall do the same to you, before this is over,’ he said quietly. ‘You and your master both. And I shall not do you the courtesy of making sure you’re dead first.’

  Fulvius’ lip pulled back as if he were about to sneer, but perhaps he saw something he didn’t like in Rufinus’ face – something that frightened him, for he drew back in a flinch and, righting himself, gestured at his men. ‘Come, I must prepare for the circus on the morn. Leave him.’

  The two cavalrymen let him go, and he dropped to the floor as the three soldiers marched out through the door without a further word and locked it behind them before disappearing.

  Once more in the dark, illuminated only by the tiniest cracks around the window shutter’s edge, Rufinus sat for a moment in the company of his father’s headless body, breathing in the smells of recent death. Not too bad now, especially since the room had smelled of urine for some time anyway. But if they didn’t take away the body, within a day the smell would change entirely, especially with the weather of a Roman summer.

  ‘Hear me, gods of Rome,’ he said with difficulty around an aching jaw and with a mouth full of bloody saliva. ‘Great Jove and cunning Nemesis, staunch Mars and wise Minerva, and most of all bright Apollo, master of oaths. I vow here, this morn, to put up the grandest of altars to you, and to offer a bull annually, if you will allow me vengeance. Deliver me from this carcer and put the neck of Appius Fulvius beneath my sword. This I vow.’

  And he lowered himself to the floor, delivering his fate into the hands of the gods.

  Vengeance.

  Chapter Twenty Four – Friends and enemies

  Rome, June 17th 190 A.D., morning

  Time seemed confused in the empty prison. Rufinus had known when it was night during his frequent awakenings because of the lack of white lines around the edge of the window shutter. He had caught the blasts of horns announcing the watches in the fortress occasionally, but had slept through some and missed them, and could never be quite sure what was coming next.

  The last time he had woken it had been morning, as he’d determined from the pale square on the wall leeching between the wooden boards, and he’d guessed it was quite early from the colour and strength of the light. Then he’d slipped into sleep once more.

  Slumber had not come easily, hence the repeated waking in a cold sweat, but he had forced himself to rest as much as he possibly could. There was, he’d reasoned, no chance of escape now. He’d pulled his one trick and it had failed utterly, and try as he might he could see no other way out. The window was barred to him, as was the door, and there was still a cavalryman guard out there. And having executed his little ploy with such spectacularly failed results, Fulvius was hardly going to leave him with a guard susceptible to a repeat performance.

  No, there was no way out. But he had commended his future to the gods. There was no earthly way out of this, and so he would have to trust in the divine. But even the gods liked men to help themselves where possible, and so Rufinus slept, for it had to be better that he was well rested when the gods rolled the dice for him.

  He had found himself thinking idly in one waking moment of his marine centurion adjutant, Philip, who he hadn’t seen since he had laid down the prefecture and ‘left’ Rome. Philip had been a Christian. Did he have the same sort of belief in the divine? Jesus Christ, he seemed to remember. How could one god possibly be enough? Rufinus had prayed to five for deliverance, yet had added another three into the mix over the next hour as possibilities continued to crop up.

  He was in some sort of dream involving Philip when it happened. In the world of Morpheus, he was in the great Flavian amphitheatre with the oddball centurion, each of them on one side of the great arena, each holding one hundred and twenty ropes somehow in their tiny hands and trying desperately to operate the great awning usually handled by two centuries of marines.

  Why they were having to do it, and why it was such a nerve-wracking experience he couldn’t have explained in his waking mind, yet when he awoke it was with a certain relief. He sat up, groggily, trying to shake the panic of rope-handling out of his head and concentrate on what it was that had woken him.

  Just a noise, and not even a loud, intrusive or particularly interesting one. But when one has been in solitude for a length of time any change becomes obvious. It had been a click. That was all. A click. But Rufinus was alert now, the rope dream gone and his eyes and ears open, listening carefully as he sat perfectly still, his breathing shallow.

  The next sound was one that only a man who’d been through the sort of things Rufinus had experienced could hope to recognise. It was the muted faint sound of an unresisting man being dragged lightly off his chair and placed somewhere else.

  Now Rufinus was totally alert. Someone must have overcome the guard outside. His mind rushed through the possibilities. No, it wouldn’t be anything to do with Severus or Dionysus. Similarly it was not Pertinax or Sura, for they would have challenged the guard openly for what had been done. The only name that floated to mind was that of Vibius Cestius, the frumentarius. He was the only man who might have got wind of what had happened and also had the influence and skills to get to Rufinus.

  Whatever the case, this was rescue. The overcoming of the guard could only mean that Rufinus’ desperate prayers had been answered. With a wry smile, he remembered that he now owed the gods a magnificent altar and a rather expensive annual sacrifice. Not that it wasn’t worth it.

  The sounds of the lock being opened seemed to confirm it. Rufinus realised with a strange feeling of embarrassment that tears were tracking down through the grime and crusted blood on his face. Tears of relief. He might have sounded strong and determined earlier, but the very notion of being tortured again had sat as a marble boulder of cold fear in the pit of his stomach, and the idea that the worst he might have endured in his captivity was a bit of a battering was almost too much to deal with.

  The door opened, and Rufinus’ spirits sank to a new low at the sight of two Praetorians.

  ‘Do your worst,’ he said, miserably.

  ‘Shut up and get moving, Rufinus, you daft sod.’

  He frowned. The two figures moved into the room, and as his eyes began to adjust he blinked in surprise. Mercator and Icarion, h
is old room-mates, crossed to him and helped him rise.

  ‘I told you it was him in the first place,’ Icarion grunted as he helped the heavy younger man up.

  Mercator snorted. ‘I was waiting for him to trip up or walk into something to be sure.’

  Rufinus managed to say something, though he wasn’t sure it came out in words. More a sort of grateful, questioning and confused squeak.

  ‘Sorry we took so long,’ Merc said sheepishly. ‘Firstly we had to be sure. It’s not healthy to interfere with the business of these people, and we didn’t want to risk everything only to find out you were some German recruit who looked like Rufinus.’

  Icarion nodded as they started towards the door. ‘But an evening of listening in on conversations in the cavalry’s favourite bars told us that interested parties were looking into the location of a woman called Senova. Once we heard her name, we knew you wouldn’t be far away. If someone was looking for your girlfriend, then you were involved. Finding out where you were being held was the hardest bit. I hope we’ve not landed ourselves in the shit when this all falls apart later. We’ve got just a few moments before we’re missed.’

  Rufinus shook his head, tears still coming. ‘This is Appius Fulvius’ doing, and he won’t last the day, I can promise you that.’

  The other two looked at each other, exchanging worried glances. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Rufinus. We’ve got you out of here, but that’s about as far as it goes. We can’t help you beyond that door. Find a way out of the fortress and disappear like your girl has. It’s the only way.’

  Rufinus stopped and turned, and the other two followed his gaze to the headless lump on the floor.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That was my father.’

  ‘Shit,’ Merc replied with a heavy tone of sympathy.