Praetorian: The Great Game

by S. J. A. Turney

  Then: the meat of the conversation, following an interrogative style of question and answer. This was when real decisions were made, important information exchanged, and critical questions asked.

  Finally, the whole thing would begin to devolve into repeat phrases and trivial comments and, eventually, one or more of the speakers would decide all that could be said had been said and the encounter ended.

  His rhetoric tutor in Hispania would have applauded him for his attention to the conversational habits of others and he had to thank his reading of Greek philosophers for the belief that humans were creatures of habit and such patterns were universal and hard to break. Better still, those folk he overheard who had something private to say followed the very same pattern, but in a more defined manner, being sure they were alone and unheard before launching into the problems of their love-life or their empty purses.

  He’d allow five hundred beats from the moment the conspirators entered for them to pass the initial pleasantries. Then it would be time for him to listen in.

  It had taken a lot of subtlety to set everything up over the day the guests arrived, and he’d watched them all carefully in order to be ready when necessary. It had surprised and concerned him that young Quintianus was not among them. At this stage, everything could be significant, but he could not afford to change his plans and wait for the young man if he was to be a late arrival.

  Contriving to be off-duty, Rufinus had watched until the guests had gathered together and were ready to move into the private chamber, and had rushed off to the revetment of the palace gardens, watching for slaves rushing in or out of the tunnel. The furnace would be lit an hour before use and fed every half hour, further defining Rufinus’ timing.

  He had waited behind the olive tree as the slave rushed in and added a number of fresh logs to the fire, smiling as the man returned to the main complex. He’d then rushed across to the hollow where he had secreted a barrow of logs, wadding, and the small jar of oil. Gathering his gear, he’d hurried for the tunnel, disappearing inside just before the duty guard came strolling round the corner, idly twiddling a dagger.

  It had taken less than a hundred heartbeats to light the lamp, reach the furnace and tip the bucket of grit over the flames, dumping fresh materials nearby. The activity and nerves had sped his pulse to the point that he could no longer use his heart to measure time, but relied on a well-spaced count.

  By his estimate, Lucilla and her guests had been in the room for eight hundred beats now. Longer than he’d anticipated, but at least they would have got past the initial pleasantries. He just had to hope he hadn’t missed the pertinent parts.

  Taking a deep breath and squinting, he nudged the sizzling, black timbers out of the way with the metal prong and rushed along the narrow heating corridor, his shoulders brushing the hot walls and gathering fresh soot.

  Finally, gratefully, he emerged into the hypocaust chamber. Tiles and brickwork pinged around him and the hiss of the fresh air being drawn through the system, clearing out the smoke, was a balm, given the stifling heat of the chamber.

  Sweat ran down his forehead, bringing with it rivulets of black dust that stung his eyes and soaked his face and neck. As long as he could make it back to his tree, he could use the bowl of water and clean clothes he’d left there yesterday in a greased cloak.

  Concentrating, he listened intently as the sound of voices began to cut through the rush of wind and the pinging of the stone, blinking sooty sweat from his eyes and flapping his arms as best he could in the crouched, cramped circumstances to allow air access to his warm, damp armpits.

  ‘I don’t like the choice, is all I’m saying,’ the voice sounded petulant and female. Lucilla’s daughter, presumably.

  ‘Then it’s a good job the choice was not left to you,’ snapped Lucilla irritably. Perhaps the stress of the situation was getting to her?

  ‘A private place might have been sensible?’ a male voice interceded. ‘I understand the need to make a spectacle of the event, and you’re nothing if not a show-man… -woman… but at the amphitheatre he’ll be accompanied by the entire Praetorian Guard. Are you sure you wish to sacrifice ease for meaning?’

  It was Annianus, Lucilla’s cousin, sounding nervous. As he should, Rufinus thought grimly, his teeth clenched.

  ‘Perennis has his dogs around my brother everywhere; even in the latrines. There is nowhere easy. The prefect suspects something, else he would not have arranged for the frumentarius to infiltrate.’

  ‘I thought only the emperor could command his agents?’

  ‘In theory that’s true, Annia, but you know our brother. He’ll have given authority to one of his prefects, and Perennis is his pet.’ There was a pause and Rufinus could picture Lucilla turning to take in all her guests with a sweeping gesture after the fashion of great rhetoricians.

  ‘Commodus has ignored everything to which he should be turning his hand. His generals consolidate the borders in Britannia, struggling to hold back barbarians that would never have dared come south in my father’s reign. His treasurer deals with the crippling payments that keep our freshly conquered Marcomannic enemies from rebelling again and negating the success of two decades of war.’ She snarled. ‘Perennis, Saoterus and Cleander control everything else. All our dear brother has done for the last six months is play at being swordsman, get drunk, and arrange grand games for the Agonalia down to the finest detail. It is only fitting that his reign should end there.’

  Rufinus’ pulse quickened. The first Agonalia festival was only two days away!

  Talk of the great games to be held in the Flavian amphitheatre had been everywhere for weeks. The strangest and most impressive animals had been brought from all over the world: elephants from India, single-horned monstrosities and horses with stretched necks from the lands south of Africa, bears and wolves from Germania. Every gladiator available for sale with traders from Lusitania to Syria and Britannia to Carthage had been brought to Rome… some of whom now patrolled outside this very tunnel. It was said that these would be the greatest games held since the days of Titus Flavius, when the amphitheatre had been consecrated.

  Two days!

  He had to get to Paternus and Perennis and let them know. Clearly the venue was the great amphitheatre at the heart of the city. Now he knew when the attack would take place, where it would happen and who was to strike the blow. His task could hardly have been completed any more thoroughly. And yet, with another two hundred beats to go, it made sense to listen on and see if anything else relevant turned up.

  ‘Is Quintianus up to the job?’ Annianus again.

  ‘He’s already in the city and has been scouting the amphitheatre during the preparations. He knows what to do: It has to be a killing blow, so he’s been practicing on cheap slaves at an estate near Tusculum for weeks, and I’ve had former soldiers training him. He’s prepared.’

  ‘And if the Guard are so thick around Commodus that Quintianus can’t get near?’

  Rufinus nodded. That would certainly be the case once he had spoken to the prefects. Lucilla’s voice began to take on an impatient edge, as though she was sick of explaining things to a dullard. ‘We have been over this a dozen times, Annianus.’

  ‘No, Lucilla. We agreed on the location, though only with your pushing it down our throats. We agreed on how it would be done, but you have been evasive at best over how Quintianus is expected to get past the Praetorians who will flood the place.’

  Rufinus could almost hear the empress’ teeth grinding. ‘I have not been evasive, Annianus. Quintianus has always been present at our meetings. He may have his heart and soul in the task, but he is still young and impressionable. I have tried to keep all potential problems and doubt from him. We cannot afford for him to question his ability or all will be lost. What you think is evasion is actually attention to detail.’

  ‘So tell us now how he is supposed to get past the guards. The time’s almost upon us!’

  ‘It’s a simple fact of timing and l
ocation. I would rather that the young man plunge a knife in his heart before the entire crowd, but that is impossible due to those same Praetorians that plague your thoughts. So we are forced to deal with Commodus before he reaches the interior. The emperor always enters the amphitheatre by the north entrance, as tradition demands, so we know where he’ll be. The arch and passageway behind it to the interior are fourteen feet wide… possibly a little less. Given the fact that no one would risk brushing against the emperor’s person, there simply isn’t room in that corridor for the Praetorians to line the edges without risking impeding my brother’s grand entrance.’

  There was a murmur of understanding.

  ‘Instead, the Guard will keep the crowd away from the corridor, behind barriers at the inner junctions. They’ll keep the entrance corridor completely clear; that and each other inner passage he will pass through to his seat. The crowd will be held back by a line of men at least two deep, but the route will be emptied for him. The only people who’ll be close will be his sycophantic cronies about whom I have no concerns, and possibly Perennis, who will be at the back, behind the ‘advisors’.’

  She had managed to pour so much contempt into the word ‘advisors’ that Rufinus could not help but be impressed with her vehemence. She truly believed that she was doing the right thing, but whether she believed she was in the right or not, it did not excuse treason against the emperor.

  Her voice was strong and clear, full of confidence as she went on.

  ‘There will be two thousand Guardsmen in the amphitheatre, but in those tunnels that lead from the entrance to his seat, Quintianus will have the room he needs.’

  Rufinus nodded. Not just a location, but the whole plan laid bare for him. Paternus and Perennis would be able to prevent the attack in plenty of time, arresting those responsible before the games began, but he could also give them complete details of the plot.

  Furthermore, he knew who had attended the meeting and was in the room. Their very presence condemned them. It was all rather neatly tied up: he had the conspirators’ names, the time and location of the attempt, and even the method and wielder of the blade.

  Rufinus’ mind raced. He was short of time and had to get to the Castra Praetoria to warn them all. He wondered briefly how Pompeianus fitted into Lucilla’s plans? Was he expected to take a back seat, as father of the next emperor, perhaps in voluntary exile on Caprea, or would Lucilla find a way to remove him from the picture as soon as she had power?

  A thought struck him, unpleasantly: once Rufinus’ absence was noted they’d be alerted to the fact that their plan had been discovered, and everything would fall apart. He would have to engineer some way to leave the villa overtly. Perhaps Pompeianus would be able to help him? Perhaps he could even get the Syrian to safety. Could they go on a hunting trip? Or visit Tibur? Certainly he would not be expected to accompany Lucilla to the amphitheatre.

  He would take Acheron with him, of course. Strangely, in the months since the death of Dis of the Frumentarii, he and the dog had forged such a bond that he could no longer imagine life without the hulking Sarmatian hound.

  His stomach knotted as another thought occurred to him. How would his disappearance affect Senova? He had not seen her since the jewellery recovery, and even then just momentarily to involve her in his troubles. If only he had time to see her… to perhaps figure out a way to take her with him?

  First thing’s first, though: he’d visit Pompeianus and go through everything with him, trying to find an excuse to leave the villa that raised no suspicions. Hurriedly, he turned and, grasping the guttering oil lamp, made for the tunnel. Ahead, he could see the small rectangle of grey light that stood at the end of the tunnel, though his initial destination was the furnace, half way along that length.

  Desperate now, knowing his continued secrecy depended on getting that furnace flame relit as fast as possible, Rufinus blundered along the narrow tunnel, his shoulders scraping painfully along the soot-blackened walls, head occasionally connecting agonisingly with the ceiling. A few moments later he burst out into the furnace room, oil lamp in his left hand, his right reaching down for the iron fire-rod before him.

  As he rushed from the passageway, a figure stepped directly into his path, and the two went down in a surprised flurry. Rufinus’ mind whirled and panic hit him as his eyes made out two other pairs of legs in the flickering flame of the lamp which fell to the floor on the far side of the furnace fuel.

  Not slaves, then. Only one slave would be required to service the furnace; not three. Instinct and his experience in the ring took over and, before he could make a conscious decision, he pounded a flurry of blows on the face of the man who’d tried to intercept him only to end up beneath him on the rough floor. Rufinus felt the nose shatter and heard a crack, a sharp spray of blood slapping across his face.

  As he tried to bring his mind into focus, one of the other men made a lunge at him with a blade, and Rufinus rolled just in time, receiving an angry red line down his arm for his efforts. It was all so familiar, as his boxer’s mind began to superimpose a ring over the scene.

  Three men in a snow-covered dell in the north - a perpetual barbarian hell of frozen forests and blood-crazed attacks. The first had gone down the same way, in surprise, with a broken head. The second in for a slash, while the third dithered.

  He’d lost that fight. Three against one, even with a surprise opening move; the odds were against him. If it hadn’t been for Mercator’s timely intervention, he would have been spitted and bled out on that barren forest floor.

  The two remaining guards advanced on him from either side, converging to block the exit, their silhouettes blotting out the rectangle of light. His only advantage was that the man on the left with the gleaming, crimson-edged gladius hardly had room to manoeuvre his weapon, and would be restricted in the fight. The other held only a dagger.

  Rufinus was unarmed.

  ‘Sword’ man was bulky, while ‘Knife’ was reedy and agile. It was so damned familiar. But he’d almost lost last time because of a simple mistake: he had planned it all correctly, but made the potentially fatal error of allowing a fallen opponent the chance to recover and strike him from the floor.

  Not this time. His face settling into a furious growl, he beckoned to the two slowly advancing guards as he stamped down hard on the fallen man’s face with his grimy hob-nailed boot, hearing the distinctive sound of a head smashing. He felt the tip of his boot dip into something soft and tried not to think too much about it, turning back to the two, who were approaching warily.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Big man first. A blow to keep him off-kilter while he dealt with the little one, same as those three barbarians. Sure enough, the bigger of the two lengthened his step suddenly and lunged, stabbing towards Rufinus’ chest while the smaller man ducked to the side, looking for an opportunity. But these were no barbarians in a forest glade. These were gladiators: trained killers, experienced in combat and quick as the blink of an eye.

  As the man lunged faster than Rufinus had expected, he ducked to his left just in time, bringing his elbow round in a blow that should have connected with the man’s head. But the brute had already reacted, leaning away as he fell past his intended blow, and ducking Rufinus’ raised elbow. As the man staggered toward the flue passage trying to right himself, the smaller man, with a speed Rufinus would never have anticipated, was suddenly across the room, delivering a scything wound across his right shoulder and ducking back out of reach before Rufinus could respond. They were both quick, adaptable and, worst of all, they worked together. It didn’t matter then which one went first. So long as he evened the odds.

  He glanced down at the pile of goods at the centre of the room. The petroleum-soaked logs were still there with their kindling piled atop, ready to be pushed into position with the iron. Nearby, his oil lamp had somehow survived the fall without shattering on the stone floor or being extinguished. The small lamp lay on its side, guttering flame blackening the terrac
otta spout.

  Gingerly, he started to circle into the corridor’s centre, his back to the light, eyes on his foes. The two gladiators watched warily, weighing up the desire to deal with their prey before he could run now against the need to approach carefully without overextending.

  Rufinus’ reputation had got around, apparently.

  Even in the dim light, he saw the thigh muscles in the bigger man twitch. Preparing, Rufinus put his body weight on his left leg, remaining still as stone. Just because the big man had given away his intention hardly meant that Rufinus should follow suit.

  Another twitch, and suddenly the big man leapt for him. As he lunged, Rufinus gave a light jab with his right foot and kicked the oil lamp onto the pile. Just as the bulky gladiator passed across the log pile, the flame of the lamp caught the petroleum oil glistening on the wood and the wadding atop it. The entire heap ignited instantly, dry grass and hemp wadding, soaked with oil, roaring into an inferno, the logs catching immediately.

  The big man shrieked as he passed through the flames, the spray of flaming oil droplets spattering his feet and legs as the lamp shattered, orange tendrils of flame roaring up his shins and rippling across breeches and socks.

  Rufinus had already moved. His weight had all been on his left foot but, as his right came down, he used it to pivot out of the way of the yelling man, back against the wall as the would-be attacker fell to the floor, patting at his legs, trying to put out the burning, though the oil had soaked into his breeches and the rest of the material was already catching. His patting hands picked up the flaming oil and the fire spread to them.

  Across the panicked, shouting form, Rufinus could see the smaller man, eyes narrowed, knife moving from hand to hand as he judged his chances of crossing the fiery gap between them. Keeping his eyes on the smaller man, a nasty smile spreading across his face, Rufinus reached down and retrieved the gladius from the floor, where it had fallen unheeded from the bigger man’s grip as he fought to dampen the flames.