Rufinus didn’t think so, but neither did he trust either of them. With a nod, he peeked around the corner once more, picked up the shape of the man a little further away now, and threw the cloak over himself, hurrying out into the street. The light was fading and evening was beginning to draw slowly in, torches and lamps bursting into life, though the crowd in the street was as busy as ever. Rufinus peered off ahead and picked up the figure, hurrying along the street’s side, closing the gap between them. Passing the bakery where the man had picked up his loaf, Rufinus caught another brief glance of the Praetorian when he paused and turned. Rufinus buried his attention in the loaves, hoping his cloak would sufficiently cover his Praetorian whites.
The man was unarmoured, wearing just his red tunic, belt and boots, a sword and dagger at his hips. Not just any sword, either. A spatha – the long, straight blade of a cavalryman. His hair was a ruddy brown, fairly short but long enough to curl slightly, a budding beard covering his lower face – the look of a man who regularly kept himself groomed at a barber, but who had been shorn of the opportunity to do so for a few days. The man’s eyes scoured the street suspiciously and Rufinus felt himself shrink down under that gaze, but the eyes did not linger on him as the man turned and continued along his way.
Rufinus sagged with relief and continued to shadow the man, keeping to the edge of the street, moving between the hand-carts of street sellers and the racks of wares outside shops. For a dreadful moment, he thought he had lost his quarry, but then he caught a brief glimpse of the man turning into a side alley.
Chewing on his lip, Rufinus started to run. Couldn’t afford to lose him now. A few moments later, he reached that corner and peered cautiously around it. The alley was empty.
Damn it!
Speed or caution? But then, caution was no use if he’d lost the man. With a deep breath, Rufinus started to run along the alley, his feet squishing into things he didn’t want to think about too carefully. Dexter’s cloak – far larger than Rufinus’ own – trailed in the murk and threatened to tangle around his legs, but he made it without one of his signature humorous falls, reaching a crossroads of narrow alleys and slowing to a halt.
Taking a deep breath he ducked out, peering first left, then right.
His heart skipped a beat and he leaned back out of view again, for the man was perhaps twenty paces away, standing where one of the side-alleys widened into a small square, and with him had been two more figures, both of them wearing white tunics.
Shit. Why had he come alone? Whose stupid idea had that been?
There was no way he could make it out into that alley unobserved. He ran his memory back over the main street. There had been another side alley a little further along that he was almost certain would open out into that small square. Holding his breath, he edged to the corner and leaned out far enough to give one eye a view. The three men were standing quite unconcerned, chatting as though waiting for something, or for someone.
Decision made, he withdrew and pounded back along the alley, turning into that main street again and running along to the next side passage. The alley bent somewhere along its length and he couldn’t quite see the place where the three men would be standing in the square. Sending up a quick prayer to Fortuna, he ran swiftly but gently down this new alley. Somewhere around two thirds of the way along, by his estimate, the alley jogged left to make room for an apse at the rear of a building, and he slowed as he rounded it.
His heart pounding, he ducked back behind the curve of the building, for he’d almost emerged into the square with them without realising it.
The three men were there, still talking quietly, but now a fourth figure had joined them. Hoping they were too involved in their business to notice the slight flickers of movement along the alley, Rufinus peered around the corner again and felt another piece of the puzzle fall into place.
The new arrival turned from where he’d been fiddling with a door lock, and Rufinus recognised him immediately as the clerk from the quaestor’s office – the one whom Dexter had said bore an urban cohorts tattoo. How could this not be suspicious? Praetorians and urban cohorts together at a clandestine meeting in an alleyway half a thousand miles from the capital.
The clerk gestured to the disguised Praetorian and the two men disappeared inside the building whose lock he had been fiddling with. Rufinus ducked back momentarily as the other two Praetorians scanned the alleys. When he heard no shout of alarm, he edged back to the corner and peered around again. The two soldiers had gone back to their muttered conversation. After a moment, the other two conspirators reappeared from the door and the Praetorian in red was carrying a small bag.
While the clerk locked the door once more, the Praetorian returned to his companions and tossed the bag across to one of them. There was clearly something weighty in the pouch and as the other Praetorian caught it, Rufinus heard a tell-tale jingle of coins.
Perennis’ fortune he’d been sending here? But then why would the local quaestor’s man be involved? Rufinus frowned and strained his ears.
‘…to Rome at haste,’ the leader said. ‘Things will move fast now.’
‘And you, Glabrio?’
‘I have other things to do. Take half the boys and don’t stop.’
The other two Praetorians nodded and, filing the bag away somewhere at his belt, the second speaker straightened. ‘Minerva be with you.’
‘And with you.’
The two turned and moved off along the alley. Rufinus thought his heart might soon burst from his chest, so strongly was it pounding. The clerk from the quaestor’s office cleared his throat. ‘Are we done here?’
‘For now.’
With that the two men held each other’s glance for a moment and then separated, going their own ways. The clerk made straight for Rufinus’ alley and he ducked back sharply, looking around. A door a few paces away led into a plain wall and, uttering his second prayer in quick succession to the goddess of luck, he dashed over and tried it. The door swung open easily and he leapt inside and closed it a heartbeat before the clerk came into view.
In the almost-dark of the room, Rufinus held his breath and almost screamed out loud as someone grasped his shoulder. Swinging round he only just stopped himself from punching a young girl in ragged clothes in the face. Instead, as she opened her mouth to ask who he was, he threw a hand over her mouth and held her tight. She struggled for a moment, but Rufinus’ grip, as a soldier and a successful boxer, was strong and he kept her tight and off the floor. He winced as the girl sank her teeth into the heel of his hand and he felt the blood flow. He couldn’t hear any footsteps out there in the alley over the insanely loud pounding of his own blood in his veins, so he counted to a safe fifty before letting go of the girl. She spat out flesh and blood and gave him an evil glare.
‘I’m sorry,’ he hissed as he examined his wounded hand.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded with a lot more hauteur than he would normally expect from what appeared to be a beggar.
‘Sorry,’ was all he could think of to say again, and in mollification, he fished into his belt pouch with his good hand and found two small silver coins, holding them in the palm of his hand and proffering them to her. ‘You never saw me, yes?’
‘I wish I hadn’t,’ she grumbled, but took the coins readily enough.
With a sigh, Rufinus pulled off his scarf and bound it around his bleeding hand, fastening it with the same fibula brooch he habitually wore at his neck. Then with a last look at the ragged girl, who was regarding him as she might some sort of rodent, he edged open the door and, seeing no one outside, emerged into the alley and closed it behind him.
Breathing slowly and steadily, trying to calm his racing heart from the last quarter hour, he padded along the alley, still wrapped in Dexter’s cloak, his hand already leaking into the scarf, saturating it with dark red. The square was empty, but he skirted around the edge first, peering into the two other alleyways to be certain he was truly alone. Finally
content that he was not being observed, he crossed to that door. His attention had been locked on those four men the last time he’d been here and he’d paid little attention to the surroundings. The building was the only one with a frontage onto the square and it bore all the hallmarks of a warehouse, tall and featureless in plain brick. There were no signs and no upper window with block and tackle for handling large loads. Thus it was probably one large, hollow structure, and he would be willing to wager that the main doors that could handle the bulk of traffic would be at the far end of the building, opening into a larger thoroughfare down which carts could fit.
The lock at the rear was good and solid and he tested the doors, which proved to be equally robust. He was no thief with skills at springing such locks . His only means of access here would be to jemmy the door and smash the lock, which was extremely unsubtle and would leave those clandestine conspirators in no doubt that their secret was out. His eyes flicked to the flanking buildings, both of which were shorter and bore high windows. The one to the right still bore the small regularly-spaced holes in the brickwork that spoke of recent scaffolding. Rufinus frowned.
A moment later, the cloak discarded in a shady corner, he was climbing the wall, using the scaffolding recesses as easy ready-made hand and foot holes. He’d not climbed anything in quite a while and was surprised at how much strain it put on his forearms and knees, particularly when combined with the fiery pain of the bite wound, which kept him favouring his right hand and over-careful with the left. Perhaps it was because it had been such a long time since he’d regularly fought in the arena, but it seemed that he was not quite as strong and fit as he remembered.
Still, with only mediocre effort, he hauled himself over the top and onto the roof of the building, having to catch a loose tile to stop it skittering off and falling down into the square. From here it was perhaps seven or eight feet to the roof of the warehouse, where he’d intended to try and effect entry, but in the end it seemed such an ascent would not be required. A series of large windows set in the warehouse wall above the level of its neighbour’s roof granted him a ready access point. Carefully, he skated along the tiles until he reached the wall and touched one of the windows. They were not designed to open, made from uneven sheets of bluey-green glass leaded in place. Cheap but functional – as far as any glass could be considered cheap, that was. The seals between the panes were weathered and Rufinus smiled to himself as he drew his pugio. Four little prods and he had loosened the lead at the corners of the lowest pane. Sliding the dagger back in and praying that the lead on the interior of the window was good and solid, he began to bend back the seal. It seemed an interminable task, but eventually, as the last of the light began to slide from the sky and the oppressive chilly Pannonian night crept up, he gently levered the glass pane and lifted it clear of its setting, lowering it carefully to the tiles nearby, resting it in the crook between that roof’s incline and the sheer wall of the warehouse.
He only now noted just how much blood his bitten hand in its soggy scarf had distributed in droplets as he’d worked. Streaks of it covered one side of the pane. Still, once he was done here, he would hopefully get away unnoticed. He would try to replace the pane when he left, and even if he failed, unless it rained or snowed overnight, no one would notice the missing glass so high up.
Inside, rafters crossed a great open space, but better than that he could see wooden racks immediately below that were fastened to the walls and ceiling to hold whatever goods were stored here. A ladder stood very conveniently against the nearest rack, the top fastened to the timber with twine so that it could be moved left and right along the shelves, but would remain secured to the rack at all times.
Thanking Fortuna for all her aid so far he climbed through, facing backward, and lowered himself into the building. For a heart-stopping moment he almost fell, but his reaching, bloodied hand found the timber uprights of the rack and he enfolded it in his arm, then let go of the window, grasping tight. Trying to ignore the tiny droplets of blood that plunged down into the emptiness below, he struggled along the empty, dust-thick top shelf of the rack until he reached the ladder, and then began to descend speedily, his wounded hand pulsing with throbbing pain from all the activity.
A matter of moments later, he alighted on the ground and began to look around. It was dim in here, closing on true dark, and even with his eyesight adjusted he had to really strain to make out too much detail. He had no source of light, but that was probably a good thing. Lights in unexpected places attracted attention.
Where to start?
The obvious place was the door, so he hurried across, keeping to the edge with its racks climbing into the gloom. The floor here was dusty. This was clearly the rear of the warehouse and from the undisturbed filth on the racks, he guessed they were rarely used. Equally, the floor showed a similar depth of grime. He smiled. Perhaps seven or eight sets of footprints were visible if he crouched and concentrated. Many might well be the same person again and again, but they made off toward that small rear door and, just past where he now stood, they turned and vanished between two racks.
Steadying his breath, he followed them, confident that his own footprints would be lost in the jumble, and moved into the deep dark between the racks. When he found what he was looking for, how would he…?
He yelped as he cracked his shin on something hard-edged and unyielding in the dark. Biting his lip, he crouched and ran his fingers across the painful item. It was some sort of box, crate or chest, iron-bound and solid. The top had a lip and he tried it gingerly. The lip lifted easily and, fearful of what he might be touching, he reached inside with his good hand, using his elbow to hold up the lid and continually aware that he was leaving scattered blood droplets as evidence of his passage. His fingers closed on rough material and he felt around. He could identify coins within. His heart pounding, he fumbled and managed to find the drawstring at the top of one of the pouches. Three short tugs and it loosened. Hardly daring to breathe, he drew a coin from within and then tied the pouch again. In the darkness he couldn’t see what it was, but it felt like a sestertius from the dimensions and weight. His mind boggled at the size of the chest and the value of the coinage it must contain.
Lowering the lid, Rufinus stepped back. It was too dark in this place to see the coin clearly, and he paced back into the main hall of the warehouse, raising it to the feeble light to examine it. Gleaming and crisp, it had that feel and look of brand new money that you occasionally handled after a fresh run at the mint. It was so shiny and perfect, in fact, it might have been minted that morning. The image on the coin showed the god Silvanus with a branch over his shoulder – a common enough symbol in Pannonia that Rufinus could recognise it easily enough even in the poor light. He flipped over the coin, wondering how well the die-makers had captured Commodus, given that Rufinus had met the emperor and knew exactly what he looked like.
His blood ran like ice water.
Staring back out of him from the coin’s obverse face was a very familiar figure that certainly wasn’t Commodus. He had stood before that man and sweated with both exertion and nerves time and time again. His horrified gaze ran around the edge of the coin, tilting it so that the wording caught the light. Yes, sure as dawn follows night, there was Perennis’ name, along with the damning ‘IMP’ that labelled him an emperor.
Rufinus shivered. He held in his hand physical evidence of the prefect’s treason. Merely knowing about this could get him killed by a number of different factions, he felt certain.
‘Oh turds.’
His heart leapt again as there came a clatter from the small door at the end of the hall some ten paces away. Rufinus stared in mounting panic as the rattling stopped and the door crept open. Left with no other option, Rufinus stepped back into the darkness between the racks. He could hear the footsteps pacing inside and then the tell-tale sounds of a fire-making kit being used. Sure enough, a moment later, a faint orange glow lit the main hallway, which became brighter as the
door was closed and the flame settled. The footsteps started again and Rufinus didn’t need to listen carefully to know where they were going. He pressed himself up against the rack and started to draw his pugio in tiny jerks, timing it so that each fraction he withdrew it fell upon a footstep.
The paces became louder and louder and then, finally, a small oil lamp in the shape of a winged penis rounded the corner, ruining Rufinus’ night vision but displaying the shape of a man behind it. The interloper took three more steps before he realised anything was wrong and by that time Rufinus was moving. His wounded left hand came round and slammed into the new arrival’s lamp. As the thing fell from its owner’s grip, the oil flowed out and soaked him, but fortunately, the flame was contained in the lamp until it cracked on the ground and extinguished, plunging them both into darkness again.
The man was quick to respond, but Rufinus still had the edge and lashed out, his pugio reversed in his right hand, using the fist wrapped around the hilt for the strike, and not the blade. It might only be the slimmest of possibilities, but what if this new person was not one of the conspirators?
His blow sent the man floundering back and Rufinus felt one of his knuckles crack painfully.
As he moved again, the man straightened in the feeble light of the main hall and Rufinus recognised with no real surprise the clerk, formerly of the urban cohorts, who had been here earlier. Perhaps he had forgotten something? Whatever the reason for his return, he couldn’t leave this place alive.
Rufinus hardened his heart. He didn’t like killing outside a military scenario, but this was a matter of honour, of imperial justice, of Praetorian duty and, most importantly, of simple survival.
His opponent dropped into a combative crouch and drew his own dagger.
Not just a clerk, then?
Rufinus leapt, his left, wounded hand held up to try and block any blow while his right hand, with the pugio, swung around in an attempt to skirt the man’s defences and plunge it into his side. The clerk was swift and the blow met resistance just as his own strike met Rufinus’ arm, and both men drew back and circled.
Praetorian: The Price of Treason Page 19