Praetorian: The Great Game Read online

  The column ahead turned and a huge open area of paving, surrounded by high structures and dotted with temples and fountains, opened up before them. Separating the marching column from the square was an arch unlike anything he’d seen before: the three grand triumphal arches of Tarraco, the commemorative one in Massilia, or even the ones in the forum of Rome itself. This arch was breathtaking. Elegantly constructed of columns and coffered arcs, the triple-arched gate rose delicate and slender, almost to the heights of the huge buildings around it, bestriding the street as a statement of imperial glory.

  The Porta Triumphalis.

  From this point on, the route was sacred, unchanged since the time of the first generals, dragging the leaders of once-great powers such as Carthage through the streets to the jeers and missiles of the crowd.

  Rufinus found that he was holding his breath as they passed beneath the beautiful construction and out into the open space. For just a moment, the shadow of the gate as they passed beneath fell on the soldier in front, his burnished armour taking a tiny, momentary breather from its efforts to blind him.

  Rufinus blinked gratefully.

  He blinked again.

  In that perfectly polished steel plate, he could see his own awestruck face, framed by the helmet and with proud white crest. He could also see the hairy, shabby slave leaping for him, glinting knife in hand. With a desperate squawk he ducked to the left and the blade stabbed through the empty space where his neck had been a moment earlier.

  Chaos should, by all rights, have broken out at that moment, but the men in front, their hearing muffled by their helmets and further stifled by the din of the screaming crowd, marched on, unaware of what was unfolding behind them. The lictors and the imperial party behind were far enough back beyond the group of slaves and the accompanying guards that they could hardly be expected to notice this.

  But what struck Rufinus, as he ducked and turned, was the fact that not one of the seven guards sharing his duty even moved, watching intently as the action took place before them. He shouted for them to help as he recovered his balance and turned, watching the slave in shock. The man was no longer roped to his fellows and had now turned with a Roman, military-issue dagger in hand, to sever the ropes restraining the man next to him.

  Rufinus stared down in horror at his belt, from which the slave must have somehow managed to draw his dagger, but his own pugio was still there and sheathed!

  Now two slaves, one of them armed, were leaping at him, and still the other seven Praetorians did nothing! They simply kept pace as though this were some childish diversion, their disapproving gazes locked on him.

  ‘Scopius!’ he snarled to no one in particular, snatching the hilt of his gladius and drawing it with a rasp. The two men were on him now, though, and he failed to pull the blade free as one slave’s grip went to his own hands and forced the hilt back down. Desperately, Rufinus swung up his free arm and blocked the blow of the pugio as it came down. It was desperate, though; a poor block driven by urgent need and without the time or room for planning.

  The pugio failed to connect with his face as intended, but left a long score of angry red across his forearm and the blood ran free.

  Rufinus felt panic begin to rise as the two barbarians were on him, grappling and punching, grasping and ripping. He felt his helmet wrenched back, the vertebrae in his neck crunching worryingly at the pressure.

  His sword arm was pinned to his side by one man while the other, the dagger drawn back for another blow, moved in with more care and accuracy this time, making for the gap between his helmet and the collar of his armour. One blow there would end it all.

  Two things made Rufinus successful as a boxer.

  Firstly: his skill. He knew exactly how to make his plays, how to react to almost any move the opposition might try, even how to plan a bout so that he could see ten moves ahead how to finish the man off. A great ability to have, for sure, though of very little use when faced with a sudden and brutal surprise attack that left him no time to plan.

  Secondly: the fact that, despite his family’s lofty origins, Rufinus had grown up one of three brothers in a provincial town, had developed on his own merits, largely due to a father’s declining interest in him that followed swiftly upon the death of Lucius, and had joined the army as a low-ranker. All these things had conspired to make Rufinus a dirty fighter with an easily-salved conscience.

  His left foot stamped down hard, the hob-nails breaking most of the bones in the slave’s foot. The barbarian screamed and released his grip on Rufinus’ arm and, in that tiniest sliver of time, Rufinus’ hand grasped the man’s groin and used it as a handle to haul him round and use him to block the pugio strike.

  The military knife, so accurately on line for his windpipe, now plunged deep into the other slave’s back between the shoulder blades: a killing blow which would likely now be a mercy for the dirty man with the smashed foot and the ruined groin.

  Rufinus the boxer had control again.

  But just as he let the screaming, dying barbarian, who was convulsing in agony, fall away in order to face the second, knife-wielding slave, the other guardsmen on slave duty were finally pitching in, two of them grabbing the knifeman and snapping his neck back, killing him instantly.

  The pugio fell away from a spasming hand and was kicked somewhere unseen in the scuffle of multiple feet.

  Rufinus’ mind whirled. Why were they so suddenly getting involved when a moment earlier they had been happy to watch him decapitated?

  The answer swam into focus as it cast a shadow across him. A decurion, an officer of the Praetorian cavalry in full dress uniform, with a chest covered in decorations, reined in his horse. ‘What is the meaning for this disruption?’ he snarled at them.

  The column had stopped now. Though brief, the scuffle had caused a blockage in the route, and the column ahead had begun to separate from the rear section at the point of the fight. Rufinus, his neck aching unbearably, lifted his arm, blood streaming from the knife cut and dripping from his fingers, and pointed at the two men on the ground.

  ‘They had a knife, sir! A Roman knife!’

  The officer narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

  ‘Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus, sir. Of the First cohort.’

  ‘Well, Gnaeus whatever-your-name-is Rufinus: report to the prefect’s office as soon as we return to barracks tonight!’

  Rufinus sagged as he saluted, the blood running down his raised arm and into his armpit.

  ‘You two!’ the decurion snapped at the guardsmen who had finally come to his aid. ‘Bind these two and tie the rope to my saddle.’

  Rufinus, bleeding, tired and not a little angry, watched as the two bodies were tied to the decurion’s saddle horn. As soon as the knot was tightened, the officer barked orders for them all to fall back into position and gave an arm signal back to the imperial party. Horns sounded and the column began to move again, little more than a couple of dozen heartbeats after it had stopped.

  Rather than re-joining his unit, the decurion rode slowly alongside the slave group, the corpses of the two would-be assassins bouncing across the flags and cobbles, teeth breaking free and pinging away across the road from ruined faces, limbs snapping and stretching as they made their grisly way, even in death, to the triumph’s conclusion, a long trail of blood winding out behind them.

  Rufinus took the opportunity, as the decurion looked away for a moment, to peer at his companion guardsmen. Not one would meet his gaze. Somehow, the incident had failed to perturb the crowd. Indeed, they had cheered all the louder as the scuffle concluded and jeered and mocked the slaves as the two dead men were re-tied, mutilated and dishonoured. A good fight would always be popular, as Rufinus knew from his lucrative little side-line, and one where enemies of the state died? Perfect.

  Rufinus swallowed nervously as the column wound on into the great square. This was no unhappy accident. A slave, who should have been safely roped up, had instead been armed with a Rom
an weapon and left to cut his own bonds. The notion that he had somehow acquired the knife during the march was simply ludicrous. And the other guardsmen had simply watched, waiting for him to die, and had only acted in his defence when suddenly in danger of discovery by an officer. Convenient how they had managed to both instantly kill the would-be assassin, and to lose the only evidence.

  Corruption among the Guard! He had somehow been saddled with seven accompanying soldiers who were either deeply involved in a plot to do away with him, or had been persuaded to distance themselves and fail to come to his aid.

  Given the lack of questionable witnesses and the absence of the dagger, it would likely be assumed by his superiors that his attention to the slaves that were his duty had been too lax and that he was therefore at least indirectly responsible for the escape and the attack. He would be made the scapegoat for the whole affair, as sure as blood was red. Not even his decorations, his record, or his passing acquaintance with men of power would help him there.

  He could hardly imagine what the punishment might be for holding up an imperial triumph, even for only a moment. It wouldn’t be light. Almost certainly the emperor had been told the name of Rufinus. Would that help, or would it make things yet worse? With a sigh, Rufinus held his arm a little further out as he walked, allowing the slow drip of blood to smack onto the paving stones rather than further soaking his already blood-stained white tunic.

  He’d meant what he said in the midst of the fight, though: Scopius.

  There was no way to link him to the incident. The man had clearly planned well. Even if the seven apparently deaf-and-blind bastards who had left him to his fate could be persuaded to talk, the chances were Scopius had used someone else as a go-between. And their testimony would hardly be listened to by the officers anyway if they had a comfortable scapegoat.

  Rufinus ground his teeth. Scopius had upped the stakes now.

  Bullying was one thing. Petty theft, tricks and trouble and even the attempts at irregular beatings were almost to be expected; certainly, he could deal with them. This, though, was an entirely different matter. Scopius had plainly had in mind no goal other than simple murder. And even though that murder had been thwarted and Rufinus lived on, the punishment he would face tomorrow would be severe.

  Hopefully not fatal, he suddenly thought with a start.

  Dark thoughts continued to assail him as he marched on past the circus maximus, a wonder he had waited a lifetime to set eyes upon; now all but forgotten.

  Rufinus would bear whatever punishment was meted out with stoic fortitude. Even if they demanded he be beaten with clubs by his colleagues, the dreaded ‘fustuarium’, he would somehow survive it. He would clench his teeth as he listened to his bones break, and live through it. He was not afraid of death; serving in the legions soon drove that fear from a man.

  But he would not die before he had the opportunity to even the score with Scopius.

  The rest of the day passed successfully for the emperor, the crowd cheering and singing as the column passed along the Via Sacra and approached the capitol, where the priests at the great temple of Jupiter blessed him, surrounded by the blood of the dozen sacrifices and the energy of the Roman people.

  For Rufinus it passed in dark foreboding and seething, fiery notions of vicious revenge. The more the day wore on, the worse his plans became, sinking to sinister, gory levels that would horrify even the criminal gangs known to operate in the depths of the city.

  By sunset, when the great triumph was over and the guardsmen were marching back to the Castra Praetoria, a thousand mental revenges had come and gone, each more painful than the last, but no real plan had coalesced. Even in his silent, cold fury, his eyelid twitching as he marched, Rufinus could recognise that he was simply too angry and aggravated to think such things through to a logical conclusion.

  The time for revenge would come, as soon as current problems had been resolved. In less than an hour’s time he would likely know the fate that awaited him. The procession, following the triumph’s glorious end, had broken up on its return to the square before the imperial palace. The animals had been led off to their cages by the keepers, likely to await their first, and last, appearance in the arena; the goods were all taken in through the palace’s side gate; the senators had already dispersed at the capitol.

  The slaves, following the display of violent disobedience, had been marched away to the ludus magnus, where they would await either gladiatorial training or simple execution. There would be none of the promised mercy now.

  And the Praetorians had wearily stomped home, Rufinus gingerly touching the crusted scab across his arm, latest among the many injuries he had sustained since his arrival in Rome.

  A quick stop to drop his kit into the room, and Rufinus had stepped back out of the barracks, preparing himself for the inevitable confrontation at the headquarters. Outside, Mercator and Icarion stood together in the doorway, muttering angrily under their breath.

  ‘’Scuse me’

  Mercator shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Next to him, Icarion nodded, and Rufinus bridled.

  ‘I’m already in enough shit without delaying presenting myself to Perennis.’

  Mercator was still shaking his head. ‘Not yet. I’ve seen that look before, in the eyes of other lunatics. You go in in that mood and you’ll say something that’ll make it ten times worse.’

  Rufinus glared at him. ‘Ten times worse than dead?’ he snapped.

  Icarion smiled nervously. ‘No death sentence if you wait quarter of an hour. Probably wouldn’t even be considered anyway – a few lashes at worst, I’d say. There’s no evidence against you. Merc and I already told the decurion we’d like to testify to the prefect as character witnesses and to confirm that certain unnameable parties are bearing a grudge against you.’

  Rufinus shook his head, though the anger was starting to fade in the face of his friends’ professions of loyalty.

  ‘Can’t name Scopius. I need to deal with him myself.’

  Icarion narrowed his eyes in worry, but Mercator nodded. ‘Fair enough. We’ll stay out of it unless you ask for us, but calm down first anyway. Go over to the fountain and dip your head to cool off. But don’t get that nasty scratch clean. That’s a nice little mark to support your defence. Quarter of an hour at the most, then you can go.’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘Why all this quarter of an hour business?’

  Icarion smiled. ‘Because Perennis has been sent for by the emperor. In quarter of an hour he’ll be hurrying for the Palatine, and you can take your case to Paternus. Perennis isn’t a bad man, you know, but he doesn’t suffer trouble. Paternus can be a bit softer.’

  Rufinus nodded, thankful for their help. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the road-side fountain and, leaning over, thrust in his head, pulling it back out in a spray of water droplets that twinkled in the dying sunlight. The rush of refreshing cold water, backed by the soothing words and presence of the two veterans, washed away his anger and doused the fire in his blood.

  Now was the time to be calm, diplomatic and careful. Only by staying on the right side of the law could be hope to get away with what he was planning to do next.

  Time for Scopius to pay a visit to Hades.

  IX – Discipline, discoveries and surprises

  THE ‘Emperor’s Largess’. The phrase threatened to make Rufinus laugh. Looking up with some difficulty, he could see the leaden grey sky and felt the first drop of rain spatter on his forehead. Somewhere not too distant, thunder rumbled ominously. Apparently even Jupiter disapproved.

  Paternus had been torn, the intense irritation at being forced to discipline one of his personal projects weighing against his strict desire to maintain camp discipline. There had been no evidence to prove that Rufinus had done anything wrong. The ropes on the slaves had clearly been cut with a knife and the wound on the guardsman’s arm did a lot to back Rufinus’ story. Sadly, there was only such scant, circumstantial evidence to acquit him
, too. Without the solid evidence of the pugio and only the confused and less-than-helpful accounts of the other guardsmen, little could be done to support Rufinus.

  A grey-area. Unresolved, but requiring some show of discipline.

  Rufinus opened his mouth as ordered and felt the leather strop as it was inserted between his back teeth. With a heavy sigh, he bit down on it.

  After an hour’s interview, bordering on interrogation, Rufinus had been sent to the hospital to have his wound checked, cleaned and bound by the medical staff, while Paternus deliberated. Called to the prefect’s office once more a couple of hours later as the camp began to settle for the night, Rufinus had been worried at the presence of Perennis, who had returned from the emperor’s side and had clearly been involved in the deliberations with his counterpart.

  The two prefects had agreed that something must be done but that, given the lack of evidence and the high likelihood of Rufinus’ innocence, it should be nothing too severe or shameful. Indeed, Commodus himself had urged Perennis to go easy on the man, muttering about the untrustworthiness, deviousness and duplicity of the barbarian type.

  The ‘emperor’s largess’, Perennis had called it.

  A dozen strikes with a vine staff, to be carried out in a closed location and with no audience. A token punishment to go down in the records, in the name of order and discipline.

  Somewhere behind him, Rufinus could hear the centurion swishing his vine staff through the air, getting in a few practice swings. Three more drops of water pinged off Rufinus’ face and he closed his eyes. The strap between his teeth was a requirement for the punishment, though hardly necessary. Had he been given lashes, particularly with the barbed whip, then he might be in danger of biting off his tongue, yes, but not a dozen whacks with the stick.

  He’d suffered far more damage than the vine staff could inflict just defending his title in the ring at Vindobona.