Praetorian: The Great Game Page 14

  The silence was the most unsettling thing. Rufinus was well aware that there were almost a dozen men present in the small courtyard of the hospital, all officers: both prefects, the medicus and one of his senior orderlies, centurions and optios. The location had clearly been chosen partially for the privacy it offered, and partially for the proximity of medical assistance afterwards.

  ‘Begin!’ Paternus’ voice.

  Five more drips of rain and another rumble: slightly closer. The grey, roiling clouds flashed white for a moment some way to the north of the city.

  Despite his being prepared, Rufinus still bit down hard on the leather strap as the first blow landed. A centurion’s cane was carefully sized and weighted. It was never meant for use as a weapon. It was a goad: a switch with which to smack the legs of recalcitrant legionaries as they marched into battle. An irritant that left a sting. Far from strong enough to break bones, though it would certainly bruise and might break the skin if wielded with enough force. The centurion behind him was clearly applying all of his muscle.

  Rufinus’ knuckles whitened where they gripped the wooden crossbar on the punishment post. He forced himself to relax and breathe for a moment and then tensed, just in time for the second blow. This time, he was better prepared and simply winced through the pain.

  With a crash, the clouds finally opened and poured their contents on the city. The preceding night had been sticky and muggy and had left everyone out of sorts. It was commonly assumed that this morning would bring a storm that would clear the air again. It seemed the common assumers were correct.

  The third blow landed painfully, Rufinus once more unprepared as his thoughts had turned idiotically to the weather. Rain began to bounce from the flagged floor of the courtyard, battering at the stone as though in an effort to break through it.

  The fourth blow broke the skin, though the pain was still easily manageable. The trickle of blood running down his back would be lost among rivulets of fresh rainwater.

  Five.

  Rufinus found himself playing a little game as he bit down hard, preparing for the next blow. Five. Five? Fifth legion Alaudae? They had gone when the Flavians came to power, one of the last supporters of that idiot Nero. Five. Five miles from the family villa perched above the blue sea on a rocky headland to the triumphal arch of Licinius Sura that marked the boundary of Tarraco’s urban region. Five? Five turns of the glass was how long his first inter-century match had lasted, when he had first had his nose broken. Five…

  The sixth blow took him by surprise again and he realised with irritation that he had grunted in pain.

  The game continued. Sixth legion. They were up in Britannia somewhere, enduring the Gods-awful cold and damp that was said to be worse even than Marcomannia. Six years he had been serving with the legions. Sextilis: the sixth month as it had once been. Officially it was now ‘Augustus’, of course, renamed in honour of the great man himself.

  He gritted his teeth on the strap.

  Seven.

  And so the game went on for another twenty or so heartbeats, his mind filling in the space between blows with numerical minutiae. His skin had been split perhaps four or five times, and there would be a heavy discolouration of his back. The twelfth blow dealt, the officers waited until he rose with a creak, straightening, and saluted him. He returned the salute, drawing in a sharp breath against the pain as he did so.

  The observers dispersed and hurried in out of the rain. Rufinus dawdled, despite the obvious discomfort of the medics, the feel of the spattering rain drops massaging his beaten back surprisingly pleasant. With a sigh, he strode over to the bench where his equipment rested, his tunic already sodden and dripping.

  ‘We must tend to the wounds.’

  Rufinus shook his head, reaching out and retrieving the soaked garment. ‘It’s just a few small cuts. I’ve had a lot worse.’

  The medicus restrained his hand as he tried to lift the tunic over his head. ‘I frankly don’t give a shit what you think. I need to salve and bind your back; even if you don’t want it, it’s my bloody duty and I won’t have anyone accusing me of abusing a patient after punishment. Now get inside and lie face down on the surgery table.’

  Rufinus noted the flinty eyed glare, shrugged painfully and followed the medicus inside. The tending of his wounds was a quick job and, less than quarter of an hour later, the bruised guardsman walked out from the shelter of the hospital doorway and into the wide street. The freshly laundered tunic the medicus had arranged for him began to darken as the rain soaked into it. The thunder had passed overhead a moment ago and now grumbled over the palatine as if to admonish the emperor. The rain, however, was far from past.

  Opposite, under the colonnade of a large building, two men stood, sheltering from the weather. As Rufinus emerged, they waved at him and he hurried across to join Mercator and Icarion beneath the columned frontage. Every step brought fresh aches and pains. He had suffered beating and attacks in one form or another so many times recently that one set of wounds had not had the chance to recover before the next lot superimposed itself. Though none of the injuries he’d suffered were dangerous or life-threatening, he would dearly love a few weeks’ breather to recover.

  ‘You alright?’

  Rufinus nodded. ‘No thanks to the ‘emperor’s largess’.’

  He frowned as he saw his two friends’ faces contort in an effort to prevent breaking into a smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘Like what?’ Rufinus hissed irritably.

  ‘Word sort of leaked out and people are calling officer’s canes the ‘emperor’s largess’. Sorry, but it is funny.’

  ‘Piss off.’ Rufinus levelled an evil glare at the pair, which failed to have the desired effect as their smiles broke out.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go get some food.’

  Rufinus shook his head. ‘I’ve got other things to attend to. Need to check something, then think on my next move.’

  Icarion furrowed his brow. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of doing. What I do will be very well planned and far from stupid. Best the pair of you know nothing about it.’

  Icarion opened his mouth to speak, a look of concern on his face, but Mercator nodded emphatically and grasped the small Greek by the shoulder. ‘We’ll be in the cohort’s mess hall when you’re done with your plotting. Neither of us is on duty ‘til late afternoon, so come find us.’ Rufinus nodded and smiled weakly. Mercator touched his shoulder gingerly, taking care not to apply any pressure just in case. ‘Glad you’re alright, anyway.’

  Rufinus took a deep breath and waved farewell as the pair strode off before turning and making for the headquarters building. The ornamental, pedimented entrance provided a brief respite from the pounding rain, and inside he kept to the surrounding portico until he found the door he sought.

  The quartermaster’s office stood welcoming with glowing light and open door, and Rufinus made his way inside, grateful to be in the dry. The office was small and tightly packed with scroll racks and shelves, the latter stacked neatly with wax tablets. A short man with reddish hair sat scratching hurriedly at a fresh wax sheet. He looked up as Rufinus entered.

  ‘Can I be of assistance, soldier?’

  ‘Armicustos Allectus? Mercator said you might be able to help me?’ Rufinus said quietly.

  The man narrowed his eyes. ‘You’d be the new lad Merc’s spoken of, then. Spot of bother you landed yourself in, eh?’ He pursed his lips at the soldier’s sour expression and shrugged. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I think someone had to replace a missing dagger in the past week or so. Can you check?’

  Allectus nodded, and Rufinus waited patiently as the red-haired quartermaster dug through piles of pressed-wood pages in a large cabinet. As the man scoured the racks, he murmured ‘It’s a little irregular. I don’t usually give out such details, but Merc’s told me of your predicament, so I think we can brush t
his under the mat so to speak. You can owe me a favour. Have to be quick, though… I was just on my way out.’

  A few more clunks and shuffling of piles, and he straightened. ‘Here we go’ he said, retrieving one sheet and dropping it on to the desk between two lamps. Rufinus squinted at the page. The small, spidery script was almost illegible to him in this light.

  ‘Can you see what it says?’

  Allectus nodded and peered closely at it. ‘There’s been three different draws of pugio this past week. A man called Urbicus needed a replacement. Brought in his old one, broken near the hilt due to a fault in the steel.’

  Rufinus nodded.

  ‘Then there was a substitution for a lost one, full replacement charge applied, to a man called Scopius.’

  Rufinus nodded at the confirmation.

  ‘There’s another one to Numerianus. Partial cost applied as it was damaged during training.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rufinus said quietly. I’ve got enough now.’

  Allectus straightened, grasped the sheet and replaced it in the cabinet, in its proper position. ‘Anything else?’

  Rufinus shook his head and smiled. ‘That’s it. Thank you for your help.’

  Allectus nodded again. ‘No problem. Just for you - and for Merc. Off the book enquiry.’ Pausing, he frowned. ‘I take it you’re off duty, Rufinus?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Care to help me out’ Allectus smiled. ‘Favour for a favour? I’m two men down on my cart escort. Perennis commandeered the men I had assigned.’

  Rufinus was about to decline as politely as he could manage. Still sore from the punishment, he was looking forward to some recuperative cot-time, but quite apart from now owing Allectus a favour, Mercator had suggested that the quartermaster was a useful person to get on the good side of, and a stroll out across the city might be as good as a rest in barracks.

  ‘Give me a moment to run and kit myself out.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Smiling grimly at his confirmation that Scopius had lost a dagger, Rufinus exited the office and strode along the street to his block, where he quickly dipped into his room, pulled on his armour with a hiss of pain and some wincing, threw on his sword baldric, and then collected his helm and shield, fiddling with the armour ties as he made his way back to the quartermaster’s.

  By the time he reached the headquarters once more, Allectus was already out front with an empty cart hooked up to a snorting donkey. A guardsman he didn’t know was watching with a bored expression as the quartermaster checked the yoke.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. ‘I can’t be back late.’

  ‘Just a quick run to the Castra Peregrina to collect a supply load. Won’t take long, and I’ve signed you out in the admin office. Given the rain, the faster we get going the better, I’d say. Come on.’

  Rufinus nodded and fell in next to the quartermaster who was unarmoured beneath his heavy rain-cape as he goaded the beast into motion. The other guard gave him a tedious look and fell into step as the column crawled laboriously down the main thoroughfare and passed into the shadow of the gatehouse. Blessedly out of the downpour, Rufinus waited for the briefest of pauses as the guardsmen on duty glanced at Allectus’ orders without paying any real attention. The duties of clerks and couriers were so regular and mundane that only the most thorough of men even gave them a second glance. Indeed, the other guard took the job of leading the cart and didn’t even slow his plodding charge down, continuing to roll toward and through the opening gate even as the quartermaster presented his chit.

  Rufinus felt the patter of rain as they passed once more into the open ways of the city. This short road ran only a few hundred paces from the camp before meeting the great Vicus Patricius, which led down to the heart of the city, and as soon as they were moving downhill Allectus moved from goading the beast to applying the braking pole as necessary.

  The quartermaster began to tell the other guard a surprisingly lewd story about his cousin on her first visit to Rome, but eliciting little reaction from the man turned his wit on Rufinus. The young man smiled and glanced around, only half-listening as the cart passed along the street and turned the corner. Rufinus’ sharp eyes suddenly picked out three shapes moving among the crowd and the unbelievable sexual exploits of Allectus’ cousin faded into the background.

  He stared at Perennis as the prefect strode down the wide street, the two men he had commandeered from the quartermaster at his shoulders. Scopius! The sight of his nemesis with the prefect raised unpleasant questions and he turned to the guard at the other side of the cart to see if the man had noticed. Apparently not - he still bore the same stupendously bored expression.

  His heart drumming out a fast beat, Rufinus turned back to look at the prefect, but the three Praetorians had disappeared. The long, wide road descended the slope almost continually from the outskirts on the Viminalis hill to the forum - one of the longest thoroughfares in the city. Squinting, Rufinus’ heart sank. No figures in guard uniforms could be seen. He sagged.

  ‘Where are we going again?’ He asked Allectus wearily.

  ‘Castra Peregrina. They’ve some supplies to transfer to us, apparently.’

  ‘The castra what?’

  ‘Castra Peregrina’ repeated Allectus, frowning. ‘You don’t know the city well, do you?’

  ‘Not had much time to look around yet. What’s the Castra Peregrina?’

  Allectus’ face took on an exaggerated look of suspicion and slyness. ‘Home of the spies and assassins, my friend. Spooky place.’

  Rufinus stared at the small man, who suddenly burst out laughing and shoved his shoulder playfully. ‘It’s the barracks for the Frumentarii and the Speculatores. Very few people get inside and even they only get to visit the offices or stores. What goes on in there behind locked doors no one but them and the emperor knows.’

  Rufinus nodded. The Frumentarii particularly had a reputation for questionable activity that had spread throughout the army. They were to be found in uniform, for sure – certainly in the city, but people said they hid among other units, gathering information for the emperor. You never knew who or where they were. The man serving alongside you could be one of them, or any merchant you spoke to in the street.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked, irritation at having lost the guards mollified a little by this sudden interesting turn.

  ‘You know the Caelian hill well?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Allectus sighed. ‘Well from here, we go around the great amphitheatre, up past the temple of Divine Claudius on its left hand side, where the nymphaeum is, and keep following that road. We’ll pass under the Claudian aqueduct at the top of the hill and then the road comes between two high walls. Right side is the local station of the vigiles; left is the Castra Peregrina.’

  Rufinus frowned as he tried to picture the route in terms of what he had managed to see of the city - not a great deal - combined with his father’s scant descriptions. Still, the directions sounded straightforward enough.

  ‘I think…’ he began, but stopped dead. Ahead, a glimpse of glinting armour had drawn his attention, and he could now see white tunics. ‘The Castra Peregrina’s easy to find?’

  ‘If you can find the amphitheatre and the great temple, then yes.’

  ‘And how long will it take to load the new supplies?’ Rufinus watched the white figures as they dipped behind a crowd and then reappeared, gaining distance on the cart.

  Allectus frowned. ‘Perhaps half an hour. Certainly by fourth watch we’ll be heading back. Why? I’ve signed you out.’

  Rufinus felt guilt wash through him. Allectus had been nothing but friendly and helpful, and he hated risking this potential friendship - and his entire career - but the sight of Perennis and Scopius together in the streets was too suspicious to let pass.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Allectus.’

  ‘For what?’ the man asked suspiciously, but Rufinus had already burst into a run, away from the cart to the side of the
road, where he ducked and charged between two small groups of people, catching a blur of silver and white ahead.

  The rain battering down on him, soaking him to the bone and saturating his white crest so that it sagged idiotically, Rufinus hurried along the paving as fast as he could, dipping between the members of the public who had braved the weather. Beggars reached out from shadows at the side, from urine-soaked alleys between buildings, desperately calling for alms, their stumps and rotten, gangrene-eaten limbs in horrifying evidence. Paying them no heed, Rufinus kept his eyes locked on the white figures moving down the street’s centre. Slowly, he was catching up with them; they seemed unhurried, talking in a conspiratorial huddle as they moved.

  Suddenly the thought struck him that, as they in their white tunics and armour stood out among the colourful crowd, so would he for the very same reasons. Frowning, he hurried on, hunching down slightly to keep himself partially-hidden behind the traders’ stalls that stood at the street side, leather covers keeping the rain from their wares.

  Rufinus’ world blurred. His hob-nailed boot had slid on the shiny, wet surface of an uneven cobble, and the hapless guard found himself falling forward, his helmeted head slamming into the wooden strut supporting a stall. A gallon of water sprayed from the jostled leather roof and further soaked him as he struggled upright to the amusement of the people nearby, collecting his shield.

  His ears were ringing and his forehead felt badly bruised where it had jammed into the rim of his helmet. As his eyes swam into focus, he could just see the figures in white further down the street. Shaking his head, he refocused on the stall and the merchant, who was yelling at him with a spittle-flecked chin.

  ‘Sorry’ he said sheepishly and, frowning, added ‘how much are your cloaks?’

  The merchant glared at him and said, after a moment’s thought: ‘to you? Thirty sesterces!’

  Rufinus deliberated for only a moment before whipping the money from the purse at his belt and grasping the low-quality, almost threadbare, brown wool cloak from the stall. He’d expected more deference to a guardsman from the common folk, but was more than used to being treated less than respectfully.