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.
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.