Praetorian: The Great Game Page 12

  ‘Time for your first lesson, shit-heel’ the bully snapped and lunged forward.

  Quick as a flash, already recovering from the blow to the head, Rufinus dodged the attack and danced out of the way. Gritting his teeth, he cracked his knuckles, forcing a feral grin.

  ‘Alright, Scopius. Let’s do it.’

  VIII – Glory and distress

  MEN rushed into position across the turf, cursing and gesturing to their compatriots. The Praetorian Guard, along with various other military units, chariots and drivers, wagons of ‘spoils’, roped lines of captive ‘tribal chieftains’ – all very much a charade, and even four elephants, a great grey beasts from south of Aegyptus with a horn on its nose, four lions and half a dozen camelopards. It was a spectacle the like of which Rufinus had never thought to witness.

  Despite the supposed austerity of the triumph, with the priestly colleges to add the appropriate tone of piousness and zeal, the emperor had even acquired a troupe of acrobats from Armenia who danced on the back of horses, ate fire, leapt through burning hoops and suffered needles to be thrust through their cheeks, apparently without harm.

  The veterans and officers of the First cohort rode or marched alongside and behind the chariot that would carry Commodus himself and the freedman Saoterus, who had rarely left the emperor’s side in the week since they had returned. Mercator was there, perhaps six feet from his master.

  Far ahead, standing mopping their collective brow in the shade of the great mausoleum of Hadrianus, the white and purple toga-clad figures of the senate were involved in their own chats and intrigues, along with the magistrates and senior officials of the city. They would lead the column. Behind them, the musicians of the city’s cohorts, Praetorian, Urban and even the Vigiles and Speculatores, tested their instruments, issuing a sound like nothing more than a herd of wounded oxen. Next came the carts laden with so-called treasure from Marcomannia: great chests of coin and gold and priceless paraphernalia, all - Rufinus was sure - of Roman manufacture and bearing the marks of the palace. If the defeated tribes lived up to their side of the treaty, they would be sending large chests of treasure to Rome on an annual basis but even the victorious Commodus had not expected a beaten people to manage to organise the gathering and delivery of such a princely sum in half a year from a ravaged and destroyed land.

  Following the treasure carts would come the bizarre and motley collection of entertainers. During the first gathering this morning, Rufinus had found himself with a couple of moments free and had tried to speak to one of the Armenians in the troupe, but his Latin had been so rough and heavily accented that it was almost impossible to communicate and he had quickly given up.

  The priests, with their sacrificial animals roped together, stood sombre and disapproving behind the cavorting easterners, a peculiar juxtaposition. Indeed, the oxen and bulls, goats and cages of birds flapped, stamped and shook nervously, an exotic parade of wildlife following on a little closely for the doomed creatures’ liking.

  More carts lined up behind, the column already stretching around the corner of the mausoleum’s base and lining up across the grass toward the Tiber where it curved and looped back to the northwest. These carts bore the very same trophies of arms, armour and banners that had hung on the back wall of the dais when Rufinus had received his decorations in Vindobona.

  And then came Rufinus.

  A far cry from the glorious position of Mercator and his compatriots, surrounding the golden child of Rome, Rufinus and his seven sour-looking companions stood at attention, one eye on the spectacle, the other on the pathetic, dirty and degraded collection of mismatched Thracian, British and even Sarmatian slaves roped together, playing the part of the captured leaders.

  He looked at the other seven guards. They were not all recent arrivals, though four clearly were. The other three were miserable, sour looking veterans who smelled of cheap wine in the sort of quantities that no amount of bathing this morning had been able to clear. Apparently those out of favour and awaiting hearings for disciplinary action were on a par with the new recruits, duty-wise.

  At least it was an easy task. Even in the worst of circumstances, the slaves were unarmed and unarmoured, bound at the wrists and roped together both there and by the neck. In this particular case, though, there was an added incentive to behave. The prefect had made it clear, in some cases through a translator, that any man that played his part well this afternoon would be retained in an easy position in the palace, and the most outstanding would be granted his freedom.

  Rufinus glanced over his shoulder at the main section of the procession. Behind the lictors, bearing their fasces, the emperor’s chariot sat awaiting its occupants, four magnificent black stallions champing at the bit. Behind the chariot and the officers and senior commanders, stretched the ranks of Praetorians, two cohorts of the urban guard, Speculatores, Frumentarii, Imperial Horseguard, and even the marines of the Misenum fleet that had arrived in the port of Ostia yesterday. It was a magnificent show of power, given the absence of even a single legion, let alone the ones that had actually been involved in the war.

  There was the sound of a prolonged fart from among the ragged slaves roped behind Rufinus and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. They smelled bad enough when they weren’t flatulating!

  Turning, he cast his eyes over the thirty four dejected slaves and the eight guards standing in two lines boxing them in. Amazingly, several of the captives gave him a defiant glare.

  Gingerly, Rufinus reached up and probed the cheek below his left eye. Even a week after the punch-up, he was tender in so many places that every movement of his body, no matter how small, caused him to draw sharp breath as the pain writhed and lanced through him.

  It had been a short brawl, really, that afternoon outside his new room.

  Had it been an official match in the ring, there would have been jeers and catcalls at its brevity. After an initial blow that had taken him by surprise, Rufinus had quickly recovered and made the fight his own. Scopius had been careful in selecting his accomplices this time, though, and both men had been strong and fast.

  Though short, it had also been a hard fight, and he’d heaved a sigh of relief as the first man folded up, his eyes rolling into his head and the imprint of the door jamb on his forehead. The second guard had fought with renewed vigour and had broken two of Rufinus’ ribs before he managed to smash the man’s head onto the flagged floor and drive the wits from him.

  True to form, after the first blow, Scopius had stayed back and let his thugs take the brunt of the fighting. As the second man passed into unconsciousness, Rufinus had looked up, gripping his painful side, blood swimming in his eyes, his ear burning and leg wobbling, threatening to give way, only to see the back of the retreating Scopius as the man escaped the scene entirely unharmed.

  Exhausted, Rufinus had collapsed and passed out, gratefully. When he came to, a jovial little guardsman with a slight Greek accent had been crouching over him, a look of concern on his face. His new room-mate, Icarion, had come back from his training session to find the three unconscious guards lying on the floor outside his room. He’d been wondering what to do about them when Mercator had arrived, having finished his tasks early, to fetch Rufinus to the bath, and the pair had brought him slowly and painfully around.

  The guards’ medicus had given them an appropriately sceptical and despairing look as they explained how the wounded Rufinus had been thrown from his horse. The medic had raised an eyebrow as he lifted the tunic and examined the red and purple ribcage, and had asked ‘how many times?’

  The man had shown little surprise when, while finishing off tending Rufinus and salving his wounds, two more guardsmen had been shown in, one of whom was still unconscious and being stretchered. The other had fixed Rufinus with a baleful glare.

  Revenge would come soon enough, when Rufinus could think of how best to accomplish it. Where the bruised thugs were today, he didn’t know, but for certain they had better duties than he. Icarion - only
the second Praetorian to appear on the list of men Rufinus actually trusted - was back near the chariot, alongside Mercator.

  Clearly, despite the small number of free bunks, Rufinus had been lucky in his assignment – or more likely Mercator had contrived to provide him with the best possible situation. Icarion hailed from Thessalonica. The son of a wealthy silk importer, he had tired of the mercantile life within half a year and signed on to the Fourth Scythica Legion, posted to Zeugma, on the Parthian border. There, he had fought in the campaigns of Lucius Verus, the former husband of Lucilla, winning great renown and honour during the sack of Ctesiphon. Along with the torc and phalera he had received, he also carried a locket on a chain around his neck that contained a piece of the Parthian royal palace he’d carved off with his gladius.

  Though small and reedy, Icarion had proved to possess a steely strength that few would expect, an iron will, and a speed that would make him a dangerous opponent. These powerful soldierly qualities, however, were wrapped up tight in a pleasant, engaging personality that displayed a genuine love of life. Icarion was infectious. Just being in the room with him improved a man’s mood.

  But that was no help today, with the Greek out of sight back among those with the honour of protecting the emperor himself.

  A shout went up from an officer somewhere to the rear and was echoed along the line by every centurion, decurion and optio, every soldier in the column snapping to attention. The noise was like the roaring of the sea.

  A carriage rolled to a halt a few paces from the column and the door opened before the wheels were even stationary. Commodus took two steps down and then lightly dropped the last three feet to the turf and stretched.

  His armour was almost laughable from a military point of view. The great, burnished, golden breastplate, embossed with a complex image of Hercules struggling with the Lernaean hydra, would hardly stop a sharp stick, let alone a sword. Still, the purpose of the armour was not to protect the emperor, but to impress the crowd, something it would do with gusto. The leather strips that hung in twin rows from shoulders and waist, were brilliant white, bordered with imperial purple and with fringes of the same colour. The emperor’s cloak was a deep Tyrian purple, embroidered in gold with designs of Hercules’ other eleven tasks. The cloak alone would cost five years’ wages for the average soldier.

  As the young emperor flexed his stiff muscles, grinning like a boy with a new toy, the figure of Saoterus descended carefully, his tightly curled, oiled black hair glistening in the sunlight, his chin dark with carefully-trimmed stubble. The emperor’s young favourite wore a simple tunic and cloak of undyed linen, deliberately plain to help draw all eyes to his master. Pausing, Saoterus reached into the carriage and retrieved a gilded crown of laurels and a military sceptre of plain white and handed the sceptre to his master.

  Commodus examined the baton for a moment and then clasped it in both hands behind his back, rocking on his heels.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I trust everyone is well?’

  He grinned as a ripple of good humour ran along the column.

  ‘As a commander, many times I’ve had to order a column of men to march. It’s always a tiring affair, I know, and usually with a scuffle at the end of it. I hope the same will not be true today!’

  Another ripple of laughter.

  ‘Today is a triumph granted me by the senate, in their infinite wisdom. Would that my father were still alive to receive it, given that the campaign was his work. And so I would have you all remember, while I bask in the adulation of the crowd, that I accept all acclaim not only in my name, but in the name of Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus, who will be watching today from his seat among the Gods.’

  A roar of approval ran through the column and Commodus waited patiently, still rocking on his heels, for the clamour to die away.

  ‘There is more to today than imperial grandeur, though. You are the backbone of imperial power, you men who shed blood for the security of Rome. You are the arches upon which the empire is constructed. And so, today is as much about each of you as it is about my father and I.’

  Thousands of burnished steel figures cheered once more and Commodus smiled indulgently. ‘Revel in the adoration of the crowd and, while it is not possible for each of you to receive personal blessings and honours, rest assured that I have arranged for a small gift for each of you that will be distributed by your officers this evening, when the triumph is over and the city revels.

  Another cheer, louder than ever. Coin, no matter the quantity, was a guaranteed way to secure the love and loyalty of the army. The emperor’s name would be toasted in every bar, gambling den and whorehouse from the Capitol to the outskirts’ last building tonight.

  Raising his free hand, the sceptre in his left, Commodus saluted the crowd as he bounced lightly across the grass and leapt up into the chariot. Saoterus strode across and climbed up behind him. Turning his head, Rufinus could just see the two men high in the chariot, beyond the crowd of slaves and the column of lictors. Saoterus already had his arm extended, holding the golden victory wreath above the emperor’s head. Then figures moved, obscuring the view of the great man.

  Rufinus couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before the last ounce of strength left the man’s arm and the wreath fell to his side. Saoterus was hardly a strong man in the first place, and the procession would take hours.

  Suddenly, horns were sounding, officers were barking out orders, animals were snorting, horses whinnying, slaves groaning and Armenians clambering into position.

  The column began to move, haltingly at first as the various sections tried to fall into step, struggling in some cases with their animal charges. In a few moments though, the entire procession was on the move at a stately pace, slow enough to allow an adoring public plenty of time to marvel at the display and throw their affections at their master. By the time the carts full of trophies had rounded the corner of the great mausoleum, Rufinus, his companions and slave charges behind them, the senators that led the column were already on the Pons Aelius, the great bridge constructed five decades ago and linking the emperor’s tomb to the city.

  It was strange how standing in the lee of the huge funerary monument had muted the sound of the urban sprawl. As soon as he rounded the corner, Rufinus’ ears caught the clamour of a city in the throes of celebration across the river. With a last look at the roped slaves behind him, Rufinus straightened, his head high, and fell into the steady pace of the processional march.

  In front of him, as they descended the gentle slope to the bridge, the luckier guardsmen selected to man the trophy wagons held their heads proud. Just to add a further dimension of irritation to Rufinus’ day, the soldier little more than three feet in front of him had polished his segmented armour to such mirror brightness that every time one of the plates caught the sun, it blinded Rufinus, leaving dancing yellow and green squares in front of his eyes that slowly turned purple and obscured half his vision. Rufinus looked wistfully at the single, white fluffy cloud that hung on the western horizon, mocking him. A slightly overcast day would clearly have been too much to ask!

  He blinked away a fresh green rectangle of sunlight and turned his head to see one of the other men on slave duty giving him a very odd look. Filing the face away on a list of people who needed to be watched, he tried to enjoy the day.

  Slowly, grandiosely, the column passed across the beautiful marble bridge of Hadrianus and into the Campus Martius. Once upon a time, this had been the field where the army had camped when at Rome, forbidden by law to enter the city as a force under arms. Indeed, it was from this very place, when it was simple turf, that the triumphs of old in the days of Pompeius, Crassus and Caesar had begun.

  Now, the entire area was solid city, packed with housing and shops, criss-crossed by narrow streets and sporting some of the grandest monuments of the city. Rufinus began to feel a little excitement returning as he thought about such things. He’d been so busy with preparations and settling in to
life in the Castra Praetoria that he’d had no time to explore the city as he’d initially hoped. The only time he’d been able to leave the fortress had been that first full day, escorting the emperor to the senate and the temples, but even then he’d only seen the Palatine and Capitoline hills and the forum, and only where Commodus had needed to be. And his whole body had ached all the long day as though he’d fallen from a wall, making it a fairly miserable experience.

  Now, the route entered the streets, members of the urban cohorts who were not taking part in the procession lining the way at strategic intervals to maintain control. The people of Rome, from the very poor to the stinking rich, would line the streets today to shower praise upon their new emperor. Here, it was almost entirely the former. Beggars, poor workers and occasional merchants, along with their families, crowded the pavements and colonnades on each side of the route, packed into alleys and side streets, standing on crates and boxes for a better view.

  The buildings to either side of the street, high three-storied insulae for the most part, hid the wonders of Domitianus’ great circus as the procession moved forward but, straining to look over the mess of carts, animals, cavorting acrobats and suchlike in front of him, Rufinus kept catching a tantalising glimpse of the great curved parapet of a theatre. Rufinus grinned despite himself. His father’s geography had been a little confusing for a boy who’d never seen the city, but that had to be either Domitianus’ Odeon or one of the theatres: that of Pompeius or of Balbus. Marvels he could hardly wait for were so close he would be almost able to touch them as he passed.

  Slowly, the procession moved on. Rufinus had been struck by at least three thrown flowers before they reached the first of the great structures. He was still unable to get his bearings enough to identify the buildings, but in quick succession he passed a grand theatrical building of marble columns and great arches, followed by an even greater version, half as high again and large enough to house half the army, and yet another semi-circular structure, almost as grand, facing temples and shrines and decorative fountains across the road.