Praetorian: The Price of Treason

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Supposedly. It looks like great Brigantia from my homeland to me. She is more powerful. Minerva is just one of Brigantia’s masks.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he chuckled, thinking a silent apology to the goddess so beloved of the legions in case the comparison offended her. ‘What now, then?’

  ‘Swear on great Brigantia. And Minerva if you wish. Swear that you will be careful in the coming days. Swear to me that you will survive this unscathed and come back to me.’

  Rufinus was touched. His family had never held to such gentle sentiments. Indeed, even before Lucius’ death their father had treated his villa more like a livestock breeding farm than a family. Never had such personal sentiments been used toward him. He forced himself not to shed a tear by thinking over the difficulties that lay ahead.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Because I lost everything, half a lifetime ago,’ she added, breathlessly. ‘I lost my family, my people, my land. I lost parents and sisters and a future I had planned. I was carried like a trophy half way across the world and made to serve a woman who was not fit to shovel dung for my people.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘And you helped me out of that. And you and master Pompeianus have freed me and given me hope. A new future. I do not wish to see it disappear before my eyes in the same way as my future among the Brigantes did.’

  Rufinus smiled warmly. ‘I will survive this. Because the gods are always on the side of justice. And because I am strong and bright. And because I am surrounded by people who are even stronger and brighter. I will not only survive this, but I will win. We will win. We will save Perennis and therefore his remaining family. And we will see Cleander falter and fail. And we will see the emperor freed from the sick influence of such men. We will win and then you and I will marry. I promise you this on the memory of my mother and my brother. On the scars I bear and on the image of your goddess and mine.’

  Senova smiled and leaned forward, throwing her arms around him.

  ‘When do we have to leave?’

  Rufinus, startled by the abrupt direction change in the conversation, faltered. ‘In half an hour, I think. The others are going to load up the chests first.’

  ‘How,’ she asked in spine-melting tones, ‘could we possibly pass half an hour?’

  Rufinus felt that familiar blush flood his face again, and this time it brought with it a lot of friends.

  XVII – Rome after dark

  ‘You there… stop slouching. You’ll tip your master!’

  Rufinus winced as an ash rod tipped with silver jabbed painfully into his shoulder. Grunting, but holding his peace, playing the part of truculent slave to the best of his ability, the young Praetorian straightened, his shoulder almost numb with aches now as the weight bore down on him. He caught a momentary glimpse of Publius, who wielded the rod, half expecting him to be grinning with the excitement, but his younger brother seemed to be playing his own role as well as any of them.

  The litter had been the lightest one in the stables at the villa of Gordianus – just a high-quality single-seat vehicle with space for small baggage or a table of snacks. The least burdensome choice they could make to maintain their guise, and Pompeianus, seated within, was not particularly heavy.

  At least they were not shouldering the burden of Acheron inside now, and that was a blessing, since he would probably weigh more than the general. The great hound had been obliged to stay in one of the three wagons on the way back from the great mouldering imperial villa, to conceal him from suspicious Praetorian eyes. There had simply been no other way they could think of to get Acheron to their destination without him tipping off any patrol they met, and so they had settled the enormous hound inside at the general’s feet and trusted to luck and the gods.

  Still, even containing just Pompeianus, the way the litter’s carrying-strut dug into Rufinus’ good shoulder gave him a newfound respect for the burly slaves and servants who bore these things day in and day out. He was almost certain that by the time they reached their destination he would have one shoulder noticeably lower than the other and a pole-shaped furrow across the muscle and bone.

  He hissed his discomfort and shifted slightly, repositioning the strut to ease the pain.

  The others seemed to be bearing up better than him, irritatingly. Mercator hadn’t even broken a sweat, Icarion seemed calm and at peace with his role, and even Cestius hunched under the strut with a quiet, content professionalism. And not one of those three was less than a decade older than Rufinus, the bastards. The younger guardsman hefted his burden, blew out an explosive breath and concentrated on the Via Praenestina as it marched into the city.

  Almost there...

  The small party had returned from the sprawling ruins of the imperial palace near Tibur to the villa of Gordianus at sunset, the four new additions safely concealed beneath helmets and cloaks with their kit stored in the bags on their steeds. Masquerading as the escort riders who had left the place hours previously had been easy enough. They had been stopped and questioned three times on the journey and not once had the patrols taken the slightest notice of the eight escort riders, concentrating their focus on the vehicles.

  The first obstruction had occurred at Aquae Albulae, where a unit of Praetorians had taken the opportunity to watch the road from the luxurious comfort of the thermal bathing complex with its associated taverns, hostels and brothels. A cursory spate of questions had seen them on their way with no real trouble.

  Then, later, they had been questioned by a surly pair of men from the urban cohorts who watched the crossroads at the hamlet known as twin houses. Exhibiting considerably less authority than the Praetorians, the pair had been swiftly put in their place at the mere mention of the general’s credentials.

  Finally, a very professional and stringent Praetorian patrol had kept them for some time at the crossing of the Anio, where they would leave the Via Tiburtina and cut across narrower local ways to the safety of the villa of Gordianus on the Via Praeneste. While those first two interruptions had been simple and the name of Pompeianus, coupled with his angry face at being held up when he peered through the curtains, had been enough to see them on their way, the river crossing near the city had been a different matter.

  Despite the impressive weight of the general’s name, these latest Praetorians had been adamant that they check all three carriages carefully. Rufinus had found the examination heart-stopping as the leader of the patrol had pulled back the curtains of each and peered inside. The vehicle containing Senova and Publius had been fine, of course and, though they had insisted on opening each of the mouldering chests in the second carriage, nothing untoward had been found. Pompeianus’ carriage, though, held the secret that could undo them all. Yet, as the Praetorian had twitched aside the curtain of that final vehicle, somehow the general had contrived to cover Acheron with a blanket and had been resting his feet on the great animal like a footstool while he expressed his displeasure at the interruption. How he had managed to get Acheron to acquiesce to such an indignity, Rufinus couldn’t comprehend, but as they had moved on their way along the local routes to their friend’s villa, he had thanked Fortuna, Pompeianus and Acheron in equal measure for the parts they had played.

  At the home of Gordianus they had changed out of their soldier’s cloaks, donned the gear of common litter slaves, and hidden their weapons in the vehicle’s base, dumping the rest of their kit in the villa. The main difficulty had been leaving Acheron. Following the hound’s mournful moping around the villa of Hadrianus, searching for Dis and his long-deceased brother, he had slumped into a quiet, dejected state. That had been useful in a way, while trying to keep him concealed in the travelling carriage, but now that he was back at Gordianus’ villa and somewhere familiar, Acheron had cleaved to Rufinus and refused to leave his side even when he slipped into a private room to change. Gordianus had been dubious – nervous even.

  ‘You can’t leave him here. He’ll eat the staff.’

  Rufinus had sighe
d. ‘Acheron trusts only half a dozen people in the world, and almost all of them will be coming into Rome. We cannot take him. Even if we were willing to court the danger of bringing him along when half the military of the empire are looking for him, in what we are planning he simply cannot physically follow. But when we were here in early winter, he was warming to you, Gordianus. We all saw it.’

  ‘Warming, yes,’ Gordianus agreed, eyeing Acheron nervously. ‘But far from trusting. Look at how he’s attached to your leg like a limpet. You think he’ll let you leave him?’

  ‘He has no choice,’ Rufinus had said flatly. We cannot take him, and I know you to be a good man. I cannot imagine you will let him suffer, and you know that with what we are attempting, we cannot bring him.’

  Even with Gordianus’ faltering agreement, it had taken a full quarter hour of urging, pushing, commanding, begging and wheedling to separate himself from the great hound and leave. And as the small party of litter-bearers had trudged down the drive away from the villa, Rufinus had glanced back and regretted it, catching the look of mournful accusation the dog levelled at him. Once again, he mused sourly, evidence that the events of that dreadful year at the imperial villa were corrupting and infecting the present for all of them. When would they be rid of the ghosts of that place?

  He had wrenched his gaze from the howling animal and then they were out on the Via Praeneste and making for Rome. With difficulty, Rufinus tore his thoughts from the past and focused on the immediate future. He and his three military companions hefted the litter containing the general, cursing the recent rain shower that had made the struts slippery and praying that further downpours held off. Senova strode alongside in the manner of a good obedient slave, and Publius, dressed well, if functionally, played the role of overseer perfectly, the small group beginning the final stretch to the Palatine in the gathering darkness of a Roman evening.

  That had been half an hour ago, and now less than two miles remained to the great imperial palace. Two miles and an impenetrable wall of Cleander’s forces, anyway.

  Almost there…

  Trudging through the glorious triumphal arch of the Claudian aqueduct which marked their entry to the city proper, they passed a small knot of coarse youths at the roadside, who jeered at the litter as they supped from cheap wineskins. Rufinus craned his neck to give them a disapproving look, returning to form as he slipped on a wet flagstone and the vehicle lurched violently to one side, drawing barks of annoyance from the other three bearers. Publius, once more playing his part perfectly, laid into his older brother with a stream of invective and a drubbing from the stick. The gang of ruffians stopped their jeering at in surprise the shouts of consternation from behind the curtains, and then roared with laughter, pushing each other and pointing at the vehicle. Rufinus focused on the road ahead once more and swallowed nervously as he caught sight of uniforms a little further along the street. Urban cohort. Were they watching them? Had they seen?

  He observed them tensely as the litter veered off to the left of the main road that led into the heart of Rome, choosing instead to follow the Claudian aqueduct as it skirted the city’s southern districts, making for the Palatine, where it fed the baths and fountains of the sprawling imperial palace. He half expected that patrol to run back along the street shouting for them to stop, but they passed onto the Via Caelimontana unmolested, and the soldiers disappeared from sight. Here there were fewer lamps and torches, and the street was narrower and bounded by high structures which, added to the clouds obscuring the low-hanging moon, made their way gloomy and threatening.

  The Aqua Claudia aqueduct marched alongside the street, massive, solid arches carrying drinking and bathing water for a million citizens. Here and there the height reduced as the hill rose and dipped, but it remained impressive even at its lowest – the water channel rushing along at least thirty feet above them. Of course later on, as it neared its destination, it would be twice that. A breath-stealing monument to the engineer’s art. Once more he wondered about the wisdom of his plan, but every time he ran through the options, they narrowed inescapably to one, leaving him no choice, even if that one happened to be stupifyingly dangerous.

  They passed the wide open space of the Campus Caelimontanus, where lurked the brooding walls of the imperial horse-guard’s barracks, and Rufinus could not help but note with a slight air of personal sadness the glorious bronze statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback that had been raised there not long before that great emperor’s death in Vindobona. The former emperor seemed to be looking at them accusingly in the deepening gloom, as clouds covered the moon again and began to settle over Rome with an air of finality like a thick, dismal blanket. Were the horse-guard under Cleander’s control now, he wondered? They had been largely overlooked by Commodus since his rise to power, the young emperor’s favour falling so heavily on his Praetorian prefects instead.

  Just beyond the great square, where the road plunged once more into the gloom of crowded buildings, the aqueduct that ran along the street to their right changed form from single, high, graceful arches to two tiers of shorter, heavier ones supporting the same channel. He glanced up. Here, the arches were dark and forbidding, though they would not be so for long.

  Rufinus almost jumped and dropped his carrying-strut as an officious voice ahead barked for them to halt. Desperately, he scrabbled at his shoulder, trying to right the vehicle. Mercator gave him a vexed look but swiftly returned his gaze ahead, hissing through clenched teeth ‘You’re on, young Publius. Be careful.’

  Rufinus peered into the dim street ahead. A party of eight or ten men of the urban cohorts were stomping toward them, hands on the nightsticks at their side. Here in the heart of the city, the urban cohorts upheld the ancient laws that forbade the bearing of weapons of war, but a swift clout from one of their clubs would be enough to fell most villains. Rufinus was suddenly acutely aware of the five sets of blades that nestled under the boards of the litter. Should anyone crouch and look underneath, they wouldn’t have to search too hard to find them. His relief that it was the men of the urban cohorts and not the more senior Praetorians who’d stopped them was soon dashed aside at the sight of a tribune’s plume of voluminous feathers. The urban cohort so far had been much more deferential in the face of Rome’s nobility than the Praetorians, but a tribune might just consider himself senior enough to cause them trouble. Rufinus tried to look servile and downtrodden, keeping his gaze lowered, though just enough that he could still see them if he strained his eyeballs upwards. He made a mental note of where the nearest blades were secreted and wondered how fast he could retrieve them if the need arose. About fifty heartbeats after he died, was the most probable answer.

  ‘You! Where are you bound?’ the tribune demanded, striding over, his men retaining formation across the street behind him.

  Publius stepped out ahead and Rufinus was impressed at the expression of superior indignation his younger brother managed as he cast a scornful look at the tribune. ‘General Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus, equestrian citizen of Rome, senator, and friend of the emperor, is bound for a social engagement with the lady Annia Cornificia Faustina, sister of the emperor, at her domus on the Caelian hill. By whose authority do you delay us?’

  Rufinus felt his heart lurch. His brother had played the officious role a little too well, he thought, and the inclusion of the emperor’s sister was, while a clever decision with regards to name-dropping, a dangerous one, too. What would happen if the noble Annia Cornificia was out of the city and known to be so? What if the tribune knew her? Rufinus held his breath as the officer’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I don’t care if you have Mars himself in that litter, no mere lackey talks to a tribune in such a manner.’

  The officer took a step forward, his hand resting on the vine cane at his side, a hostile expression on his face as he towered over Publius in an attempt at intimidation. Rufinus willed his brother to back down, but Publius simply took a step back and rolled his shoulders. ‘Your rank might frigh
ten thieves and beggars, Tribune, but I serve a general and a hero of the Marcomannic Wars, not a cohort of half-trained law enforcers. Unless you wish your behaviour to be brought to the emperor’s personal attention, stand your men down and let us pass.’

  Rufinus felt the cold knot of fear grow in his stomach. The tribune bridled at the barefaced insult and his knuckles whitened on his vine stick. Rufinus took the weight of the litter with one hand and shook out the other, ready for a fight, wondering if he could reach the sword nearby and extract it without dropping the litter.

  ‘Publius? What is the hold up?’ called Pompeianus from inside in a bored, tired voice.

  ‘A tribune of the urban cohorts, Domine, on some sort of patrol.’

  The tribune was about to snap out a retort when Pompeianus, still in his languid tone, called out ‘Send him along, would you?’

  The officer, caught off-guard and not quite certain whether he should be offended and refuse, or simply acquiesce, finally strode forward to the litter, casting a hate-filled look at Publius as he passed. The tribune stopped at the side of the litter less than a foot behind Rufinus, who almost gagged at the stench of stale sweat and strong wine that poured from the man. He felt the litter wobble as the general leaned over and pulled aside the curtain. ‘What seems to be the issue, Tribune?’

  The officer cleared his throat, rather nervously, Rufinus thought, from the sound of it. Pompeianus was a clever man and somehow seemed able to regulate the gravitas he exuded at will. From the sudden drop in temperature at the litter’s side, Rufinus could imagine just how impressive the old general appeared right now.

  ‘We are on the lookout for enemies of the empire, Senator,’ the officer swallowed.

  ‘A commission for which you should certainly be applauded, tribune. Am I considered an enemy of the empire?’

  Rufinus could almost feel the uncertainty pounding through the tribune’s veins as he coughed nervously. ‘Well, Senator, it’s just that…’