‘This is how soldiers move. It’s how you move. I’ve watched you.’
‘Yes, when we’re parading, or on the march or suchlike. Not when we’re off-duty and just wandering around. Try to walk naturally, not move as though someone had pushed a vine cane up your rectum. You stand out like… well, like a man marching.’
Publius slowed and tried to move normally. The result was less than spectacular. Trying to walk normally, it appeared, resulted in something that looked far from normal.
‘Let me go first. Then hopefully they’ll pay attention to me and not notice that the man with me is walking like a deranged chicken. And keep your hand off that pommel.’
‘Soldiers do that too. I’ve seen it.’
‘Not on the Palatine. You’re at the heart of the pomerium, where traditionally weapons of war are forbidden. The Praetorians are exempt and are used to it. It’s like second nature to them. But it should feel unnatural and uncomfortable to anyone else. Note when we go in how everyone seems to treat their blade as though it’s untouchable. As though it’s searing hot. Just don’t touch the sword, and try not to walk as though you just shat yourself.’
Hoping that no one would pay enough attention to Publius to notice how oddly he walked, Rufinus led the way back along the gravel path toward that door and the complex that contained Perennis.
‘Maybe we should have waited for legionaries?’ Publius whispered behind him.
‘What?’
‘Well if that’s where the legionaries from Britannia are quartered, we might stand out going in as men of the urban cohorts, yes? We’d blend in better as two of their own.’
‘And if they speak to you?’
‘Eh?’ Publius frowned.
‘If someone speaks to us and we’re dressed as men of the Twentieth? Do you think you can mimic their thick northern accents? Hades, you’ve still got a Hispanic twang to your Latin, and I’ve spent long enough in Rome that I’m practically Italian by dialect. Neither of us would pass muster as legionaries of Britannia, but we can both pass as men of the urban cohorts. Anyway, let me do any talking.’
‘Do you know the way?’
‘Sort of. I have patrolled the complex occasionally, but not for some time. Come on.’
A moment later he was at their destination and holding his breath as he reached out, gripped the handle and swung open the door.
The large hallway inside had seen better days. This area of the Palatine had only ever been the haunt of servants, slaves and guards, and so lacked the grandeur, decoration, and even upkeep, of the public areas or the imperial residences further across the hill and occupying the storey above this. The painted walls were chipped and peeling, there were cracked tiles in the floor, and the furnishings were basic and functional. In fact, it was far more reminiscent of a legionary fortress at the empire’s frontiers than a palace at the heart of Rome. The Twentieth were probably quite at home. Once again it struck him how much he’d changed since he left the ranks of the Tenth in Pannonia. He’d apparently even acquired the snobbishness of the Guard. Four years ago he’d been just like these legionaries.
The various tables and chairs were covered with cloaks and tunics dripping dry, water pooling on the tiles beneath, and three burly, hairy legionaries stood in a corner, stripping out of sodden kit from their latest patrol. As the door opened, the three looked up but, noting the uniform of the urban cohorts, quickly lost interest. It seemed there was no great love lost between these two forces under Cleander’s control, though not enough animosity to create friction either. Rufinus took this to mean a chilly acceptance of mutual authority, and made no move toward acknowledging their presence. Instead, he let Publius follow him in and took time turning and closing the door behind them and shaking off the rain from his cloak in order to examine his surroundings subtly.
He had patrolled this area a few times in months and years gone by, but it had been all-but abandoned then, the haunt of servants and slaves and no others. Now lit, with active residents and new furnishings – albeit poor ones – it was rather hard to remember the layout.
Though this complex had an upper level, that was part of the palace proper, and not directly connected with this area, so that could be ruled out. Passages led off to left and right and straight ahead, each with a door that stood open. The right-hand – northern – side of this complex contained a large bath house, fed by a pipe from that very distribution tower whence they had descended from the aqueduct a quarter of an hour earlier. There was a very good chance that the right-hand passage went to that bathing suite. The central one, disappearing off toward the heart of the hill and the great imperial palace, would be the main area of the complex, where the barracks were and the various living areas. That way also would lie most of the connecting doors and passages that would lead to the Domitianic stadium and the imperial residence. But he was sure he remembered cellars to the left at the hill’s edge. ‘In the old Flavian guardrooms,’ was the phrase Pompeianus had used. But the prefect would not be held in the guardrooms per se. They would not be secure enough, and would currently be full of men from Britannia, anyway. Only one area of the complex would be suitable for the detention of a prisoner, and that was the storage chambers, which could be locked tight to prevent access to important supplies.
The left passage was the obvious choice.
Having made these observations and decisions in mere heartbeats as he closed the door, he turned without looking at the disrobing soldiers, and made for that door, Publius in tow. He could feel eyes on them as they entered the passageway and hoped they hadn’t piqued the interest of the men in the main hall, especially with his brother’s curious gait. This corridor ran south along the external wall of the complex, lit poorly by oil lamps on small shelves and with no window at all opening out onto the world.
After almost two dozen paces a door opened to their right, and Rufinus turned his head slightly while they walked on, as if casually glancing in passing. No luck yet. This room contained hastily assembled bunks of poor quality, crammed in to almost ceiling height on each wall, several of them occupied by slaves, rough wool blankets pulled up to their chins against the cold of the evening. None of the occupants even spared them a glance.
Ahead, the corridor turned to the right, running along the crest of the hill parallel with the great Circus Maximus below. Rufinus felt his step falter as he caught the sound of muffled conversation somewhere beyond the turn. Giving a nod of warning to Publius, he paced on, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders as though returning from patrol and instinctively keeping his footsteps light.
Gesturing for Publius to slow behind him, Rufinus peeked around the corner. The southern corridor contained no more windows than the eastern one had, and was just as poorly lit with small oil lamps, but the interior side of this passage opened in a series of brick arches, sub-vaults supporting the more peripheral parts of the imperial palace above. These would be where Perennis was to be found, he was certain. At the end of the corridor stood a solid-looking door that would lead through into the stadium garden and to the main palace beyond. There was no sign of the speakers he’d heard, which meant that they had to be inside one of the vaulted arches. He peered at them without approaching, Publius waiting tense and impatient behind.
Nine arches, each the end of a twenty foot wide vaulted chamber, shoring up the great palace above. And, as Rufinus confirmed from a subdued murmur, the men he’d heard were in one of the nearest. For a moment he dithered, pondering their next move. To continue on at the normal pace, brazen it out as if they had every right in the world to be there, or to move cautiously and quietly?
Brazen would see them past any other men of the Twentieth, he was sure, but if Perennis was being held in this area, it would not be men of the legion they would face. Nor, he suspected, would it be the urban cohorts. Decision made, he slipped around the corner and peered into the first brick vault. His expectations had been well founded. These chambers were long, going some sixty or sev
enty feet back into the gloom. This one contained barrels of something, stacked against the wall two-deep and welded there by cobwebs that could well be older than him. There had to be hundreds of them, and the chamber was divided up into sections by iron railings driven into floor and ceiling, with doors in the centre. Perfect for detaining someone.
He was about to step carefully to the next one when he realised that the hushed conversation he’d heard had gone silent.
The hair rising on the back of his neck in anticipation of trouble, he flexed his knuckles and rolled his shoulders.
Three men emerged from the next archway, already alert. They wore white tunics under mail shirts and sported scarves that marked them as men of Rufinus’ own cohort, though they were not men he recognised, fortunately. Their hands twitched uncertainly at their sides, he noted, rather than reaching for their swords, which told him that though they were suspicious, they were not simply prepared to launch at the pair of urban cohort soldiers who had entered their domain expectedly.
‘Where are you two going?’
Publius opened his mouth to speak, but Rufinus immediately trotted out a blasé reply.
‘Centurion Holconius sent us for a jar of wine from the stores.’
It was a stab in the dark at best, and his hope of bluffing it out disappeared as the men before him frowned in suspicion and distrust.
‘No wine here. Piss off.’
One of them – a weaselly one – put a hand threateningly on the pommel of his sword.
Rufinus’ boxer’s mind took over, their surroundings falling away to be replaced by a fighting arena in the eye of his mind.
Three men. One, obviously the leader, standing slightly in front with his arms folded and eyes narrowed. He had the look of a campaign veteran, a scar above his eye suggesting active service, perhaps in the Marcomannic Wars, or maybe even Verus’ Parthian campaign. He did not look surprised or worried – just suspicious. At his left shoulder loomed a large man – big, but young and unmarked. The sizeable Praetorian’s fingers were twitching rhythmically as though drumming on the empty air. He was nervous, despite his size. He would be slow to react. The one at the leader’s right shoulder, however, was the weaselly one with his hand on his sword hilt. He looked hungry, as though bored and spoiling for a fight. He would be quick, but probably over-eager, which would work against him. The leader would be the troublesome one.
Would Publius be ready? He had to be expecting a fight.
Rufinus and his older brother Lucius had sparred and wrestled a great deal as boys. It had been there that Rufinus had first learned he had some ability in the sport. But Publius had been little more than a toddler then, laughing and throwing around his wooden blocks while his brothers tussled. And though he was now wearing the toga of a man, he’d not served in the military yet. Had he ever even landed a punch in anger?
There had to be a way to bring the odds more into their favour. First: mister Eager. Then take the leader out of the fight temporarily to give Rufinus time to put down big man. Then he could spare the time to deal with leader properly at his leisure.
Good. Once he’d plotted the action in the arena of his imagination, the coming moments felt a lot less unsettling. He smiled with false warmth at the man in front.
‘If your girlfriend there doesn’t take his hand off his sword, I might have to jam it up his arse, pommel first.’
Eager lurched forward, blustering angrily, but the leader held out a restraining hand, his face calculating. One more nudge…
‘But then, looking at him, I think he might like that…’
The dam of anger broke. Despite a shout of restraint from the leader, Eager lunged for Rufinus, angry enough that he’d taken his hand from the pommel in order to use both fists. Rufinus, prepared for such a predictable move, neatly side-stepped, letting the feisty idiot barrel past and straight into Publius.
‘No killing,’ he barked, in the hope that Publius would both hear and understand.
And survive…
Though he cast no further glance at the precipitous man, he heard the thud and kerfuffle as he and Publius met. Hoping that Publius would be fine for a moment, he flicked a quick look at the big man and then settled back on the leader. Big was hesitant, uncertain and nervous, and would be so for another few heartbeats yet.
The leader opened his mouth to roar something – a command for his over-eager friend to stand down perhaps? Or maybe a challenge or ultimatum to the brothers. Either way, clearly, he still considered this a mere unauthorised straying by lesser soldiers, and not a serious attempt to breach security, else he would be reacting with considerably more vigour.
It was his undoing.
Rufinus jabbed him sharply in the gut with his left hand – not a powerful blow, especially given the protective mail shirt, but delivered unexpectedly and to the softest area of body available. The mail shirt spread the impact of the blow, which in the case of a sword strike can save a life, but from a punch merely expands the area affected. Not a move Rufinus generally favoured, for such a blow could be as painful to the attacker as his victim, but he did not have time to work out anything better. Rufinus felt the scabs from the bite wound on that hand open up in places, raw and hot, chain links catching on the hard, healing flesh and tearing at it. While his fist immediately sent shockwaves of pain to his brain, his knuckles bloodied from the metal rings’ tiny rivets, the blow struck the leader all across his abdomen, and he gasped and doubled up in automatic reaction.
Then Rufinus’ real punch hit him. Even as the first punch was withdrawn and the man began to lean forward into his pain, Rufinus’ right fist struck out, tightly balled, horizontal and thrown from half a foot in front of his shoulder. It carried the full weight of the young guardsman’s powerful shoulders, and the blow caught the man even as he folded, directly on the forehead.
The pain again ran up Rufinus’ arm and, though with no blood this time, he was sure he’d felt one of his fingers fracture with the strike.
The leader was out of it, at least for now. Rufinus danced back a pace, shaking out his fists and trying to ignore the pain in them. His victim collapsed to the ground, moaning, even as the big man, finally active, stepped forward over him. The nerves and uncertainty had gone from the man now, and he was pulling back a huge fist for a punch.
Too easy. Rufinus prepared to duck the lumbering blow and deliver a speedy counterstrike.
And suddenly his world exploded into shards of painful, fiery whiteness as something hit him hard on the back of the head. He barely had time to register the fact before the big man’s slow, predictable punch also hit him. Fortunately, the blow from behind had spun him slightly, so that the big man’s fist struck him in the upper arm and not the chin as intended. Still, Rufinus was thrown like a child’s doll against the wall, agony from both head and arm flooding him.
He was vaguely aware of desperate shouting from Publius as he floundered.
Publius. On his own now.
Somehow summoning up an unanticipated reserve of strength, Rufinus pushed himself upright on shaky knees and turned, back against the outside wall, to see that Eager and Big both considered him out of the fight and were closing on Publius now. His brother had a split lip and blood pouring from his nose but, bringing a little pride to the surface, he raised his fists defiantly at the pair. Rufinus squinted as his eyes blurred, and concentrated.
Again, Big man was the main threat.
He pushed himself from the wall and was a little distressed to find that his legs rebelled and he slumped back against it. Neither of the two men busy with Publius even bothered to look.
Again he pushed away from the wall, and this time tottered for a moment, trying to find his balance. The pain in his head had gone from being a sharp one to a dull throb and he could see blood on the bricks, which meant that the wound in the back of his head was bleeding. But his senses were slowly righting themselves and his pain was bearable. Hadn’t he lived with the worst pain imaginable for weeks �
� months, even? Had he not endured agony upon agony, and then the sheer hell of withdrawal to compound it all? Iron resolve strengthened his shaky legs, bringing force back into his body and control to his mind.
His eyes narrowed, he took a small step. Then another. Then he was running. It was only perhaps eight paces to the arch where Publius was backing away from the pair, but he managed to reach a good speed regardless. The sudden noise drew the attention of both of them. They turned in surprise just as Rufinus, his hand raised ready, ploughed into the big one. His momentum carried the weighty Praetorian on into the brick wall of the chamber, which he hit hard, becoming instantly winded. Rufinus’ raised hand gave him no time to recover, grasping the fashionable curly locks at the front of his head and using them as a grip to smash his skull back against the bricks.
The brute was done in an instant, his eyes defocusing and then closing as he slid down the wall, leaving streaks of blood to mirror those left by Rufinus across the corridor. The young guardsman turned, preparing to deal with the impatient one, only to find that Publius had taken advantage of the man’s distraction to land a punch of which any trainer would be proud. As the younger brother stood rubbing sore knuckles and cursing under his breath, blood pouring down his face, the feisty Praetorian had slumped back against the wall, his nose spread across much of his face, blood pouring from it down his scarf and white tunic.
Rufinus shook his head. In a competition he’d be hard pushed to say who would win ‘most misshapen nose’ now – himself, Publius, or the man he’d just hit.
‘Good punch,’ Rufinus said quietly. ‘Come on.’
Pausing at the other wall, he not-so-gently rapped the broken man’s head back against the bricks, driving his remaining wits from him. Publius also gave the man a token punch as they passed. In the centre of the corridor, the leader was finally recovering, starting to rise.
‘No, no. Back to sleep,’ Rufinus muttered as he delivered a kick to the back of the man’s head, sending him rolling across the floor and into unconsciousness.
Praetorian: The Price of Treason Page 31