Praetorian: The Price of Treason

by S. J. A. Turney

  Cleander wore an expression of disbelief so artful that anyone who didn’t know them might think he felt for the prefect. Rufinus could see beneath that mask and could picture the look of smug vindication on the bastard’s real face inside.

  The emperor reached across, placing a delicate hand over the angry trembling of the prefect’s. He leaned in close and said something in Perennis’ ear, then rose to his feet and strode across to the stage, where one of the stage hand bruisers knelt to provide a step. A moment later, Commodus, the golden emperor of Rome, beloved of his people, was vaulting lightly up to the stage, where he bowed gracefully to the chorus and then turned to the crowd. Rufinus couldn’t help but feel an odd thrill. It had been two years since he had stood close to this man, and the emperor’s intoxicating energy filled the stage.

  ‘Dear friends,’ Commodus began, his voice clear and smooth, like silk sliding over a delicate glass. ‘Dear senators and citizens, officials and visitors, I beseech you pay no heed to the words of an itinerant madman. He will be dealt with, I can assure you, and nothing further will delay or mar this most excellent of performances for which we wait with such anticipation. I maintain the innocence of my most trusted soldier, my right arm, and the man who keeps the writhing form of the empire at rest for me. Sextus Tigidius Perennis is the very best of men, a close confidante and one whose view has ever been to the good of the empire and my own security. These unfounded lies must be driven from your memory, lest they fester. Now be of good cheer and observe Hosidius Geta’s masterpiece. Tonight every fountain in the city shall flow with the best of wines. Enjoy the show and then drink your fill of my largesse!’

  The crowd erupted into cheers, whistling and applauding before they took their seats once more. As the emperor dropped back into the orchestra and took his seat, Rufinus saw him call across to his chamberlain: ‘see to the wine fountains, Cleander.’ The chamberlain gave a respectful nod and murmured a reply, but Rufinus caught a glimpse of irritation about the man. Presumably such a feat would involve a great deal of work, organisation and expense. Of course the man was rankling over the task. Not because the emperor had so clearly supported Perennis, surely?

  The prefect was suddenly on the stage. He pointed to two Praetorians at the rear where the offender had been taken from view.

  ‘See that the man is beheaded and burned as a traitor. I will not stand for such foul and baseless accusations. And find out which centurion commanded the security backstage. After morning call, I want him and his men beaten within a hair’s breadth of their lives. That vagrant could have been an assassin. He might have tried to kill the emperor!’

  As the commander dropped back down to the orchestra to rejoin Commodus, and the rest of the guards and staff cleared from the stage, the musicians prepared their introduction once more, and Rufinus scurried from the stage back to his position by the vomitorium.

  The play began to the delight of the crowd, but now Rufinus’ attention was elsewhere and his heart not in it. Several thoughts crowded upon his consciousness as he stood at attention.

  The emperor had not done that just for show. Rufinus had been close enough to see Commodus’ eyes as he addressed the crowd. The golden prince truly believed his prefect innocent as he’d said. Equally, Perennis had been genuinely shocked, though whether that be because of unfounded accusations or perhaps the making public of dangerous truths, Rufinus could not hope to say. Cleander had maintained a serious and sympathetic face throughout, though the glee at Perennis’ predicament almost leaked from his very eyes. And the man who had come as a philosopher had fought like an athlete and his arms and legs were toned like a fighter.

  And somewhere, nagging at the back of Rufinus’ mind, the memory of Perennis telling him about the assignment of trustworthy equestrian commanders in Britannia joined a near-forgotten bit of gossip from almost a year ago…

  …that the sons of Perennis had secured the two legionary commands in Pannonia despite their youth and inexperience.

  A shudder of uncertainty ran through Rufinus as the play commenced.

  V – An unsavoury task

  November 184

  The eight Praetorians marched along the street with grim faces, the populace hurrying out of their way, hiding behind food carts and jumping into doorways where they would lurk to watch with fascination the emperor’s guard passing by. This was no state occasion and the emperor was not with them, so the unit had not been authorised to leave the fortress in full kit and instead wore the plain white toga the Guard usually adopted within the city’s sacred boundary, though the bulge of a gladius under the white folds produced a tell-tale lump beneath the right armpit and that, combined with the instinctive marching step and the solid military boots, left the surrounding public under no illusion as to who the eight toga-clad men might be.

  Rufinus, dark circles under his eyes now the only visible manifestation of his ongoing malady, was in the second pair of the column, Icarion and Mercator in front, the unusually taciturn Dexter beside him, the other men of his contubernia following up behind. It said much of his advancement over the past two years that he was now the third-most senior man of eight.

  The crowd looked unhappy.

  But it was no wonder the public scurried away at the sight of Praetorians. The past month had seen a veritable deluge of rumours concerning the army, the Guard and their commander. What right-thinking man would trust them at the moment?

  Rumour.

  It was said that a quaestor sent on a low-profile mission to investigate the work of the prefect’s sons in Pannonia had disappeared en route. The stories varied from a pirate attack on his ship out on the Adriaticum – unlikely since it had been a century since the last pirate had been found along those coasts – to a freak landslide in the Alpes, to – rather unsurprisingly – Praetorian interference. It had struck Rufinus as he listened to the public announcements in the forum that Perennis might be a fine commander of a military unit, but he would never make a successful diplomat. His public denials of involvement held a ring of falseness and culpability and the more the prefect argued his innocence, the more guilty he seemed to become.

  But whatever was happening with the control of the Pannonian armies and Perennis’ sons, the worst was yet to come. One of the prefect’s pet equestrians he had assigned to command a legion in Britannia, Caerellius Priscus, had been leaving his headquarters building in that damp, unpleasant isle, so the story went, when his men laid a purple cloak across his shoulders and proclaimed him emperor. Priscus, apparently as surprised and horrified by the act as Rome had been to hear of it, had rebuked his men, refused the cloak and the title and quickly professed his loyalty to both emperor and empire on the fortress’ altars. But the damage had been done. No matter that the intended usurpation had fizzled out in a snowy doorway with a cloak trodden underfoot, the fact was that a legion had revolted against the emperor – a legion whose senate-appointed commander had so recently been replaced by Perennis.

  On the back of the disaster, the other new equestrian commanders in Britannia had swiftly professed their ongoing loyalty, but the armies of the province were now viewed in Rome as potential usurpers influenced by Perennis and the Praetorians. Only the Sixth Legion remained trusted in the public eye, it’s traditional senatorial commander Ulpius Marcellus having been assigned by Cleander in opposition to Perennis’ new men.

  A tomato hit Rufinus on the shoulder and he almost spun in anger. Not only was it unthinkable that a member of the public might consider it acceptable to sling food at the emperor’s guard, more importantly, on a personal level, tomato would be absolute hell to get out of a white toga once it had had an hour or two to settle in. Thanks to the plummeting public opinion of Perennis, the whole Guard’s reputation was sinking into hitherto unknown depths.

  Keeping his eyes rigidly forward along with the rest of his unit, Rufinus marched on.

  Ahead, the house of the senator and former consul Egnatius Capito sat in the lee of the temple of Salus that
dominated the Quirinalus, northernmost of the city’s seven hills. It’s owner’s high status was indicated by the decorative, painted front wall which was not given over to mercantile premises as was the case in much of the city. The door stood closed, a single bell-pull next to it.

  As they moved across the last small square toward that door, Rufinus addressed Mercator in a low voice.

  ‘Is this right? This doesn’t feel right.’

  Mercator replied with a grunt that suggested both agreement and unwillingness to do anything about it, and Rufinus sighed. As they approached that door, he found himself quailing, but managed to contain it. Had he still been blanketed by the comforting mental mist of poppy, would he be worrying so much about things?

  His moral compass had been much more flexible before his enforced withdrawal.

  It had been almost seven weeks now since he’d last touched the liquid and he had to admit to his body feeling more alive and responsive. And once he’d settled on the solution to keeping the night terrors at bay things had improved immeasurably, his sleep returning if not to normal, then at least to something closer. Of course, the medicus would spit feathers when he discovered that Rufinus was purchasing and drinking a large jug of strong unwatered wine in a few dozen mouthfuls before bed each night, driving himself into a hazy, blurred, inebriated sleep.

  Waking up to every day of duty with a blistering hangover was small price to pay.

  The unit stopped before the door and Icarion reached up to ring the bell. Next to him, Merc unfastened the leather scroll case he’d been carrying, fished out the contents and replaced the container. There was a tense pause and then the sound of muffled footsteps approaching within. A clunk and a rattle, and the door swung inwards on silent, well-oiled hinges. An older man with the look of a legionary veteran peered out into the cold morning.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Icarion straightened. ‘Stand aside, citizen.’

  The old man’s eyes narrowed and there was a fumbling sound that Rufinus suspected was an unseen hand questing for a club that would be resting on a shelf near the door as was common practice in the dangerous city.

  ‘You have no right…’ he began.

  Mercator gestured with the scroll in his hand. ‘This gives us the right. We are here on the authority of the Praetorian prefect. Please stand aside. Our business is with your master.’

  Rufinus could see the uncertainty and the hate in the doorman’s eyes. He was clearly a former legionary and as such he suffered not only the ubiquitous animosity legionaries bore the Praetorians, but also the recognition of the Guards’ strength and authority. Rufinus could almost feel the man struggling between the desire to produce the club and flatten Merc’s head with it, and sad acceptance of what was happening. Common sense finally won out and Rufinus heard the club drop behind the door before it opened wide and the doorman stepped back to allow access.

  With a simple nod to the man, Mercator and Icarion strode into the corridor, the others following along behind. The last two remained at the entrance under the baleful glare of the doorman, while the other six traipsed purposefully through the house, their nailed boots clacking and scraping across remarkable and very expensive mosaics.

  Rufinus felt leaden and cold, and it was nothing to do with the weather. Would this have been the fate of the house of the Rustii had Rufinus’ family not abandoned their holdings and fled to distant, self-imposed exile? They had narrowly avoided proscription, after all.

  The atrium with its small but beautiful impluvium pool held a central statue of a nymph cavorting with a jug, her chiton covering half of her form at best. For a brief blessed moment, Rufinus’ thoughts were drawn to Gordianus’ villa a few miles from here and the shapely, intoxicating form of Senova. He could imagine her in such a revealing garment. The cold that had been sending shivers through him retreated instantly with the flare of heat in his face, and he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He’d expected a search, but his friends marched on forward and the young soldier realised he too could hear the voices of the family ahead.

  The next short corridor, painted with fabulous eye-deceiving scenes of exquisite gardens and lakes and orchards, let out onto the townhouse’s peristyle garden. A wide example, the garden centred around an ornamental pond in a diamond shape, surrounded by well-tended flower beds. Around the periphery of that, neat lawns gave rise to painted statues of Greek heroes and whimsical beasts of ancient times. The surrounding portico was painted in white and red and was wide enough that at the far end the family sat on benches beneath it, eating from a plate of fruit and discussing the issues of the day.

  As Icarion and Mercator stepped out into the garden, straight for the family, Dexter nudged Rufinus. There was no need for the man to speak – a good thing, really, given the incomprehensible nature of his discourse – to draw Rufinus’ attention to the three muscular men standing to one side. Slaves? No… guards. Either mercenary former soldiers or ex-gladiators, most likely. Behind them a doorway led off to another part of the house where slaves and guards would live. The Praetorians behind Rufinus had also spotted the men and took up a position at the door between the atrium and the peristyle. Four men marched on across the delightful garden.

  Senator Egnatius Capito rose from his seat at the interruption, holding out a restraining hand to his wife, who had gone to stand beside him. Three boys watched, astonished, from the next table, the oldest not far from taking the toga virilis and becoming a man, the youngest perhaps just six summer old.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Capito demanded with all the hauteur and nobility he could muster. Rufinus felt his doubts rise once more, and this time they brought with them their old friend self-loathing. Was all of this right?

  The unit stopped and Mercator cleared his throat, taking a deep breath. ‘On the authority of Sextus Tigidius Perennis, prefect of the Praetorian Guard, servant of the emperor Caesar Marcus Aurelius Commodus Antoninus Augustus, I hereby charge senator Marcus Egnatius Capito under the lex majestatis with conspiracy to falsify public documents, incitement to commit acts against the good of the emperor and the state, consorting with enemies of the state and intent to influence the assignment of governors and military commanders contrary to the benefit of the empire.’

  ‘Preposterous,’ snorted Capito. ‘Does Perennis really think I’m going to bow down and submit to his spurious allegations?’

  ‘You deny the charges?’ Mercator asked in a dead voice.

  ‘In the main. I have certainly done my level best, though, to influence the assignment of governors and military commanders, though contrary to the benefit not of the state but of the Praetorian commander.’

  A piece fell into place for Rufinus as he realised that this was probably the man who had helped Cleander have Ulpius Marcellus assigned to the armies in Britannia. Would Perennis really arrange an arrest on just those grounds? Surely there was more?

  ‘Your denial is noted, senator. Unfortunately, the charges stand, as the document I bear is not one of charge alone, but also of conviction and sentencing, ratified with the imperial seal and agreed by the emperor himself.’

  Rufinus felt his eyebrows rise in surprise at that. The emperor had agreed a summary sentencing of this man without a trial? The last time Commodus had done such a thing was to the traitors in the aftermath of the Lucilla plot. He watched the look of mixed contempt and disbelief on Capito’s face as Merc held out the scroll. The senator grasped it and began to read. Clearly, despite the irregularity of the whole thing, the legal side was in order, for he watched the man’s face crumble under the realisation of what was truly happening.

  His wife’s hands flew to her mouth in horror as she let out a shocked squeal. Capito spun to her, apparently having been unaware that she’d been reading over his shoulder. As he saw her back to her seat, the three hired thugs were moving across the lawn toward the Praetorians. Beside Rufinus, Dexter put his hand on the hilt of his sword under the folds of his cloak, mut
tering in a quiet tone. ‘Time to eat the crust of law.’

  Rufinus shook his head. Now was not the time to try and cut through the Aegyptian veteran’s gibberish in an attempt to divine a meaning that might not even be there. His own hand went to his sword hilt and he realised with a sinking feeling that the eldest of the three sons had risen from the table now, a sharp knife in his hand and a look of righteous indignation on his face.

  Fortunately, Capito seemed to have noticed, and even as he clutched his wife in a tight embrace he gestured to the boy. ‘No, Marcus. This is not your fight. Sit down. You will need to be strong now, for your mother.’

  The son, a moment ago determined and angry and almost a man, was suddenly just a boy again, the knife falling from shaking fingers to the table top, his lip trembling in fright. He sat, shivering, as Capito clutched his wife. ‘Servilia, this is a farce. I will find a way out of it yet, for there is no truth to the charges.’

  His wife grasped and tore at his tunic as she held him tight, sobbing. Rufinus felt hollow inside. Was this the glorious duty for which he’d been dragged from the ranks of the Tenth? Bile rose into his mouth.

  ‘And even if the worst happens,’ Capito went on, ‘the charges are so spurious Perennis could only ever make them stick to me. You and the boys will be safe, and the property too. I give you my word.’

  Wrong, thought Rufinus. And Capito must know it. Treason, if the charges held, would condemn the entire family. He’d seen it happen a dozen times after the emperor’s sister had failed in her murder plot. The lesser conspirators had been tortured and given up name after name of those great men of Rome who had promised to lend their support to a new regime when the deed had been done. And those doomed and blood-spattered names were seared into the collective memory now: Julius Quadratus, Velius Rufus, Vitruvius Secundus, Salvius Julianus, the Quintilii,... so many more. And if anyone thought the punishment might stop with the paterfamilias of the family, they need only look to the brothers Quintilius, for one of their sons had feigned his death and fled, hiding out in Syria for months, and yet still the emperor’s agents had persisted until they finally tracked down the lad and put an end to him in the dusty desert there. No. When the imperial seal condemned a man under the lex majestatis, it condemned his family entire.