Praetorian: The Price of Treason

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Guardsman Rustius Rufinus. And master Icarion, too. How can Peteos help? Are you… after the poppy stuff, sir? ‘Cause I kept a small stock aside, against your return.’

  Rufinus smiled. ‘I’ve no need for the poppy juice now, Peteos, but thank you. Do you have half a dozen friends who would be willing to risk a potential beating for, say ten sestertii a piece? More for you, of course.’

  ‘I can find plenty for that money. What is it you need doing sir?’

  ‘Well, I have a task for you that is very easy, yet extremely dangerous.’ When the lad’s expression did not collapse into a scowl, he went on with a calculating smile. ‘And when that’s over, I need master Pompeianus here and the lady Senova returned safely to a villa on the Via Praenestina without undue attention from the authorities. Can you manage that?’

  Senova shook her head. ‘We will wait here, Gnaeus. We can’t leave now.’

  ‘You can and you must. Only the five of us will go on from here. To go any further is to court extreme danger, and I cannot concentrate on the task at hand if I am beset by endless worries. I need you both to get back to the villa of Gordianus and wait for us there. If everything goes right we can find you there, and should things go wrong, there is no direct evidence then to suggest that you were anything to do with this. And anyway, I need you to keep Acheron safe. He’s feeling a little… lost, I think, since we went back to the imperial villa, and he doesn’t like being separated from me.’

  As Senova began to argue, Pompeianus nodded to him and put his arms around her shoulders, leading her off to a seat to talk sense into her. Rufinus turned back to Peteos.

  ‘As well as the ten coins for each of your friends, I’ll give you a hundred to see it all done.’

  ‘Peteos would be glad to help, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ Rufinus smiled. ‘Here’s what I want you to do…’

  *

  Rufinus leaned against the gatepost of an ironmonger’s shop and watched nervously. Cestius, Mercator, Icarion and Publius lurked in the deep shadow close by, though only the frumentarius was far enough forward to see clearly across the street. Among the complicated alleys and insulae that filled much of Rome’s regions, there were endless ways to move unseen if you knew the area well enough. Peteos had hardly had to pause to think when Rufinus had made his requirements clear, and had led them out of the livery, between poor quality housing, along two alleys that both contained corpses of unfortunate animals, and into the access passageway of the ironmonger’s that looked back out onto the street opposite the arch of Dolabella and Silanus. The shop itself was locked up tight, but the access passage also served two blocks of housing nestled deep behind the stores, and so remained open even at this late hour.

  Sure enough, soon after the five of them had settled in to wait, Rufinus spotted half a dozen figures cavorting drunkenly up the street from the direction of the great Flavian amphitheatre. He wasn’t sure exactly what Peteos had planned, but he was content that the lad was bright enough to pull this off without too much trouble.

  Were the boys drunk?

  If they were not, then they were consummate actors. Their behaviour was thoroughly realistic. Crude, loutish, and noisy. Two of them suddenly started to punch each other until a third separated them and the others helped drag them apart. Slowly, the group approached, up the slope toward the arch, moving along beneath the great Neronian nymphaeum with its cascades and arches, columns and statues, which nestled into the side of the great Claudian temple, some three hundred paces long.

  At the gate, one of the soldiers of the urban cohort drew his companions’ attention to the approaching louts, and the three men exuded an air of disapproval, though they remained steadfast at their post. The men were thoroughly professional, far more so than Rufinus’ memories of their unit allowed for. What could Peteos do to draw them away?

  The six youths began to sing a song with rather eye-watering lyrics about a woman with three breasts as they lurched and staggered closer and closer, the group’s recent argument apparently forgotten. Finally, only perhaps twenty paces away from the arch, Peteos, recognisable by his hair colour and his ruined arm, shouted and pointed at the three guardsmen, seemingly drawing them to the attention of his companions.

  Rufinus smiled to himself as one of the ‘drunken’ youths – the tall one with the straggly beard – turned and bent over, lifting his tunic to expose pale white buttocks, which he waggled back and forth in the moonlight, slapping them with the flats of his hands. A second joined in as the other four rocked with laughter and jeered at the soldiers under the arch.

  ‘They’re not coming!’ one yelled, ‘Maybe they like it?’ They youths exploded with laughter, and two more backsides were bared at the soldiers.

  Rufinus watched, tense. They really were attentive to duty, these three, though he could see the strain showing among them now, the veneer of aloofness beginning to crack.

  ‘Who needs a piss?’ yelled one of the lads.

  ‘I do,’ barked another, lifting a small jar of wine. With a grin, the lad sauntered over to the great fountain, constructed by Nero over a century ago, and lifted his tunic with his left hand even as he raised the jar with his right. ‘What goes in must come out,’ he laughed. Even as the wine poured out of the jar, mostly into his mouth, but also across his lower face, so an arc of urine burst forth, curving up and over into the frothy, bubbling waters of the public fountain.

  ‘Yeaaaah!’ yelled another as he joined his friend, initiating a second stream of urine.

  Rufinus grinned as he watched the three guardsmen falter in their duty, torn between an important – If excruciatingly dull – posting at the gate, and the overwhelming desire to stop and punish the louts that were jeering at them as they polluted one of the grandest monuments in the city. After all, the law called for a fine of ten thousand sestertii for maliciously polluting the city’s water supply, and it was common practice for not the whole fine to reach the city’s coffers.

  ‘Hey lads,’ the tall one shouted as he scurried over to the great basin. The others looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Zoster’s pies are too spicy. Make way… I think I need a crap!’

  As the other five howled with laughter, their friend jumped up onto the stone lip of the fountain and hung his backside over the water, straining until the veins on his forehead bulged.

  Rufinus grinned as his attention went back to the men of the urban cohort. They were angry now. Really angry. Even as Rufinus willed them to break their professional resolve, two of them bellowed ‘Oi, you!’ and began to run down the slope toward the raucous yobs, nightsticks raised for a scuffle. The six lads scattered, making to run down the street, still jeering. Rufinus had seen such scenes often enough to recognise the fact that Peteos and his friends were controlling their speed carefully, making sure they stayed ahead of the guards but by just enough of a margin that their pursuers would not lose interest.

  ‘Shit,’ he sighed. ‘I’d hoped all three would go. What do we do now?’

  But even as he pondered, Vibius Cestius hissed ‘count to thirty and then move. I’ll catch you up,’ then was strolling across the street to the remaining man under the arch. Rufinus was impressed. The frumentarius was still dressed like a litter slave, but the way he walked made him appear more of an ordinary citizen and, most amazingly, despite the fact that Cestius carried a gladius, Rufinus could see no evidence of it as he moved. He watched as the frumentarius struck up a quiet conversation with the soldier, seemingly sympathising over the behaviour of the youth of today. Then, in a masterful display, Cestius managed to manoeuvre the guard with subtle, friendly gestures and words so that he was standing gazing down the street after his angry friends, locked in an apparently engaging conversation and paying very little heed to the arch that was the focus of his duty.

  Even as Rufinus realised what the man was doing, Cestius used his left hand, unseen behind the soldier’s back, to beckon the others.

  ‘Come on,’ Rufinus hissed.
‘Quietly and quickly.’

  Taking the lead, he edged out from the gateway of the ironmonger’s and skirted to the left so as to take advantage of sightline, crossing the street unseen by the man who remained deep in conversation with Cestius, nodding his agreement to some comment of the frumentarius’. Behind Rufinus, the others followed suit, and the young Praetorian was impressed at the level of stealth they exhibited. Thank all the gods they were wearing the cheap, soft boots of litter-bearers, and not the nail-soled ones of soldiers, which would have sounded like an army marching across the stonework and alerted the guard instantly.

  With a backward glance at the lone sentinel, who was languishing under the hypnotic spell of Cestius’ voice, Rufinus gestured through the arch and, once he had disappeared into the shadow, out of sight of the soldier, he stopped and examined the situation. Ahead and to the left lay the great market – the macellum magnum of Nero – silent and dark at this time of night. To the right, the huge, monumental bulk of the temple of the deified Claudius rose into the night, its ornate architrave and tiled roof glowing gently in the light of the lamps that burned there throughout the night. But between the temple and Rufinus the aqueduct marched on to its destination, and a heavy, square shadow the size of a townhouse attached to it blotted out part of the light.

  The cistern.

  Though he couldn’t see them from here, the stairs ran up the near side of the structure. They did not grant full access to the top of the aqueduct, since they were more for the routine maintenance of the cistern itself, but the structure was by necessity attached to the aqueduct, and the climbing distance between the door above the staircase and the aqueduct top was eight feet at the most.

  He contemplated the approach, only to feel the first tiny droplet of rain ping off his forehead. If it was going to rain then they had to get the ascent out of the way quickly, while the steps and bricks and cap stones remained dry, else all could easily be lost. With a deep breath, he beckoned for the others and ran over to the steps.

  Moments later, as he hurried up the staircase, Vibius Cestius appeared through the gate, walking at a steady pace until he was out of sight of the guard, and then running to catch up. Rufinus reached the top of the flight of steps and the cistern maintenance door, his brother close behind. Mercator and Icarion arrived as Rufinus began to use the gaps between the bricks to climb the last short stretch to the aqueduct top, using his right arm to bear all the weight, his left with the sore hand and the dubious shoulder providing more balance than lift.

  Publius was at the wall a moment later, beginning to climb the short distance, and Mercator and Icarion were sharing unhappy glances as Cestius bounded up the steps three at a time with a sprightliness that belied his age.

  With what felt like more of monumental effort than it really should, Rufinus hauled himself up onto the top of the aqueduct, which was already dotted with rain. A heavy drop of water blatted against his forehead, heralding the arrival of a more serious downpour. He swallowed nervously. With flat cap stones covering the rushing water within and a width of ten feet, and with a calm, still, cold evening with little wind, a careful man should have no difficulty running along the top – at least in the dry... Leaning over to look back down at the others, he could feel the throb and thrum beneath his feet as the vast, high-speed torrent of water funnelled on to its destination, its pulse reverberating even through the stone.

  ‘Hey! Who’s there?’

  Rufinus froze, and then, realising that it was probably him, standing proud on the aqueduct top, who had been spotted, dropped to a crouch. Publius pulled himself over the lip and lay flat on the damp stones next to him, breathing heavily. Rufinus’ desperate eyes scoured the darkness.

  ‘You up there!’ called the same voice. ‘Stay where you are!’

  He could just make out the shapes of people in the narrow street that led to the staircase known as the Clivus Scauri, which descended to the valley beside the Palatine. There was no hope of determining exactly how many figures there were in those deep shadows – though there was definitely more than one – nor whether they wore white tunics or the ordinary red of the urban cohorts. But the tone of officiousness in the man’s voice clearly labelled him a patrol officer of some sort.

  Shit. What were the odds, after managing so stealthily to sneak past the guards at the arch, that they would then accidentally happen across a random patrol.

  His eyes dropped to the stairs below him. Mercator and Icarion were sharing a brief exchange under their breath, and then the pair leaned back and looked up.

  ‘Go!’ Merc yelled. ‘Take Cestius and the coin dies and save the prefect. We’ll watch your back!’

  Cestius wasted no time in argument and began to climb up after Rufinus and his brother. The young guardsman watched with a sense of dreadful foreboding as his two old friends, the veterans of the Guard, drew their swords and began to jump back down the stairs to the street below. A cry of alarm rose from the patrol as they realised there were more strange interlopers than just the pair on the aqueduct top, and someone shouted something about the vigiles. If the barracks of the fifth vigiles cohort up the street a little were alerted, then Mercator and Icarion could find themselves facing a hundred or more of Cleander’s men.

  Damn it.

  Rufinus had no time to think. Merc and Icarion had bought them time at least, and to not use it would be disastrous. There was no viable alternative and so, with a sense of trepidation at having lost two fifths of their group and gained the opening salvo of a rainstorm, he rose and began to move along the increasingly wet aqueduct top. His brother and the frumentarius would be with him, and that would have to be enough. After all, it was Cestius’ testimony and the prized dies that mattered now. Publius was at his heel a moment later and even as he began to pound along the surface carefully, passing the great temple of Claudius to his right and with his gaze locked on the bulk of the Palatine ahead, Cestius clambered up over the lip behind them, rose, and began to run.

  All or nothing now, Rufinus. All or nothing…

  XVIII – Path to destruction

  ‘Why have we slowed down?’ Publius mumbled from behind.

  Rufinus wiped the rain from his face and peered left and right in the darkness. Here, the Caelian hill fell away to the west and though the top channel of the aqueduct, of course, continued on at the same height, the ground was now heart-stoppingly far below. Along this valley between the Caelian and the Palatine, he could see Rome’s two greatest venues of entertainment: the great Flavian amphitheatre – where he had saved the emperor those few years ago – to the north, and the Circus Maximus to the south.

  ‘Take a look,’ he replied, shuffling slightly to give his brother a view of the way forward. There were only perhaps five hundred paces between the cistern up which they’d climbed and their destination at the Palatine, and they had covered maybe two thirds of that distance already, but now the rain was starting to come down properly, and the way ahead was becoming extremely treacherous.

  Moreover, this high, rather inaccessible area of the Aqua Claudia featured no maintenance hatches and had not seen a city worker in years. Consequently, the build-up of bird muck, moss, grime and other unpleasantness had created its own little ecosystem. Here, at the highest section, so close to their destination, a slippery mass of wet horribleness coated the flat stones, threatening to tip the unwary down into the nothingness.

  ‘Better slow than dead,’ he added, pointing as he tested a mossy patch with the toe of his boot. Sure enough, as he put pressure on, it came loose and slipped a little.

  ‘This is going to be difficult.’

  ‘Weigh your difficulty against that,’ Cestius called from the back and as Rufinus turned, he could see figures emerging onto the top of the aqueduct back at the cistern.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Indeed. Move forward.’

  Gingerly, Rufinus took another step, his advanced foot sliding a little as he put his weight on it to bring the trailing foot up.
Swallowing nervously he took two more steps and almost shrieked as Publius, himself slipping on that first patch of moss, grabbed hold of him to stop himself plummeting out over the edge.

  As he turned, wild eyed, to berate Publius, his eyes caught movement below and he suffered a terrible mix of relief and worry to see the familiar figures of Mercator and Icarion, blades out, emerge from the Clivus Scauri staircase and hurtle off toward the Circus Maximus. A heartbeat later a dozen men burst from the same entrance in pursuit, bellowing furiously.

  Gritting his teeth, Rufinus took another pace forward, and then another. A pile of bird droppings that he could only consider to be the product of an eagle with an upset stomach caught the ball of his foot with a sucking sound and sent him slipping forward.

  ‘I don’t mean to hurry you,’ grumbled Cestius rather urgently from behind.

  Rufinus looked ahead, then down, then ahead again. The ground was at its furthest away here, more than sixty feet, and with nothing soft that might break a fall – just hard paving. One hundred and fifty paces to go to the distribution tank and safety. And the last hundred paces of that was relatively clear. Moreover, the drop lessened as they went on, the slopes of the Palatine rising to meet the end of the aqueduct.

  ‘Run, or we all die,’ warned Cestius in a flat tone.

  Rufinus looked over his shoulder again. Two men in Praetorian white were approaching along the top of the aqueduct, the whole scene greyed and blurred by the torrential rain. They were moving with more speed than care, since they were on the relatively clear surface. They would be on Cestius by the count of ten, then the rest of them shortly after.