Extract:
JUNIUS Calo, centurion of the cohortes urbana, stood outside the small stone building which served as their lock-up, looking down the slopes of the Viminal Hill towards the barracks of their hated rivals, the Praetorian Guard. The fact that the urban cohorts got landed with the dirty jobs while the praetorians enjoyed far greater wealth and prestige never failed to rankle with him, and most of his colleagues. Greedy bastards the praetorians, most of whom had never put in a decent day’s work in their lives. Ordinary legionaries worked harder for less pay and far less prestige or political influence.
A man was making his way up the hill by the old Via Tiburtina from the Praetorian camp towards the barracks of the cohorts. A shade above medium height, neither young nor old, fair for a Roman, but darker than most of the northern barbarians who infested the city nowadays. If it were up to Calo they’d all have stayed in the hovels east of the Rhine where they belonged. Or at best they’d be slaves.
As he neared Calo the man stopped and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Salve. You have a prisoner here named Flavia Rufina?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Annius Granua, adviser to the Emperor.’ The man took a sheet of papyrus from inside his tunic and displayed it vertically, without handing it over. Calo peered at it closely. He was literate, but found reading difficult. Impossible to infer the man’s degree of authority from his appearance; nowadays citizens dressed in simple tunics like slaves, and no-one wore the toga except on the most formal of occasions. However he had an air of quiet confidence about him. Men like that were often more dangerous to cross than those who threw their weight about. And the document certainly bore what appeared to be the imperial seal.
‘We have a woman here of that name,’ Calo conceded reluctantly. ‘Arrested last night for brawling, drunkenness and assault upon a member of the cohortes.’
The newcomer did not seem impressed. ‘I have orders for her release.’
‘Upon whose authority?’
‘The Emperor’s.’
Unless the context suggested otherwise, ‘the Emperor’ tended to mean Severus’s elder son Antoninus, whom men called Caracalla. His younger brother Geta, while technically joint holder of the imperial title, was generally regarded as wielding less auctoritas, though some thought that was about to change.
Calo scowled. ‘She’s due for a flogging at noon. Tribune’s orders.’
Granua shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about that. My orders are to convey her to the Emperor without delay.’
Calo found the man’s self-assurance irritating. A senior officer of the cohortes was not to treated in such cavalier fashion. ‘And my orders are that she is to be flogged at noon.’
‘Do they come from the Emperor?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Mine do.’
Calo hesitated. The bitch had given him some trouble, and he had been looking forward to seeing her flogged. On the other hand this fellow seemed very sure of himself, and if he really had the Emperor’s authority there was nothing much that could be done about it.
‘May I have another look at your papers?’
Silently Granua displayed them again, and again without handing them over.
‘It doesn’t say anything about the woman’s release,’ Calo concluded uncertainly.
‘No, it’s a general authority, requiring all persons whatsoever to co-operate with me, and render any assistance I may require. But no matter. I’ll go back and tell the Emperor you weren’t happy about things, shall I?’
‘No need to take it like that,’ said Calo morosely. ‘But I still think the bitch ought to be flogged. A hell of a lot of trouble she caused us last night.’
‘It wants an hour and a half to noon,’ said Granua. ‘And my orders are that she’s to be taken before the Emperor without delay. Maybe she’s wanted for questioning about something more serious, I don’t know.’
A clear hint at maiestas, treason. In which case the bitch would soon be begging to be flogged senseless rather than have to endure the fate in store for her. Calo was somewhat cheered. ‘I’ll fetch her.’
He disappeared into the small gaol. Marcus heard him descend the stone steps into the cells. Not a busy morning at the Viminal barracks, and discipline seemed relaxed, verging on the slack. In the terrace in front of the main entrance a couple of soldiers were playing half-heartedly at a game of their own invention using a cloth football. A clumsy kick inadvertently propelled it towards Marcus, who kicked it back. They thanked him casually. He paced up and down, cloak flapping behind him in the breeze. By Roman standards a chilly morning, though nothing to compare with that of a February in north Britain. A quarter of an hour went by. Marcus entered the gaol and sat on a bench near the duty officer’s desk. He still betrayed no sign of impatience.
He had taken something of a chance by invoking the Emperor’s name. For to the best of his knowledge the Emperor knew little about Flavia Rufina, and cared less. His credentials were six months out of date; had the officer been more thorough in checking them he would have realized as much. Since his disagreement with Caracalla last May, Marcus had half expected to be arrested himself. Not many men could have told the Emperor to his face that he was wrong, and got away with it. Yet he seemed to have done so. A week ago Caracalla had sent for him, and far from its being the fatal summons he had half-expected, the Emperor had suggested to Marcus that they bury the hatchet.
So now he was the Emperor’s man again, albeit perhaps not quite so well regarded as before, and certainly less employed. He had not been entrusted with any particular duties for the present, and it might be that his period of political influence, such as it had been, was at an end. From the personal point of view this troubled Marcus not at all. Rome however was a different matter. For one thing the man he considered Emperor and his younger brother would never be able to govern jointly. They could not even live together in the royal palace, but had had to partition it off into separate quarters. Sooner or later one or the other would have to go, and the only place ex-emperors ever went to was the grave. The imperial diadem was not a job from which one could retire peacefully.
At length the man reappeared, dragging his stumbling captive behind him. As ever, she was dressed soldier-style in leather jacket, skirt and caligae. The fiery red hair was plastered over her face by a sheen of sweat. The six years since Marcus had seen her had not been kind to Flavia Rufina. The same age as him, she looked ten years older. Her left cheek was disfigured by a deep scar in the shape of a jagged semi-circle. It had healed unevenly, puckering in places into swollen lumps. Several hours must have elapsed since she had had anything to drink, but she still stank of it, and of vomit. The gaunt, rather masculine face was blank of expression.
She glanced up at him and stiffened in surprise. For a moment he could have sworn that she flinched. Then she shrugged and pursed the corners of her mouth in a wry expression. He noticed a swelling of her lower lip. A couple of buttons on her jacket had not been fastened. He guessed.
‘This woman has just been flogged.’
‘So?’
‘The Emperor’s orders did not authorize that.’
‘They said nothing to the contrary,’ said the man belligerently. ‘And she was due a flogging.’
‘When the Emperor orders someone’s release he does not, as a general rule, intend that she should be flogged first.’ Marcus shook his head and clicked his teeth. ‘The matter will have to be reported. Your full name and position here.’
‘Now look here,’ said Calo uneasily. ‘I try to do my duty, and …’
‘Your name.’ The other hesitated. ‘If you are thinking of giving me a false name, I can only say that I think that would be most unwise.’
‘Publius Junius Calo. Centurion of the Second Urban Cohort.’
‘Thank you. Your conduct will be reported. Good day.’