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The Praetorian

By Nathan D. Maki

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Chapter 1: The Carcer




Dusk was falling over the city of Rome, the dying sun casting its last light between the monolithic marble columns to draw an ominous pattern of blood-red beams and black bars of shadow across the forum. At this time of day the usually-bustling forum was all but empty, save for a single lean figure in the muscled breastplate and high-crested helmet of a Praetorian tribune striding quickly across its broad limestone paving stones.
To anyone who did not know him well – and there were only a few who did – the young man would have appeared the very picture of confidence. His dark-complexioned face was hard and wolfish, with a prominent nose and skin stretched tight over high cheekbones as if all excess weight had been chiseled away. But beneath his helmet’s brim the young man’s dark brows were drawn down causing his dark brown eyes to narrow just slightly, and there was a twitching tension in the muscles of his strong jaw.
Theudas ben Yair was nervous.
It was not a feeling he was accustomed to, and he hated it.
He was a warrior, a fighter. He had faced more battles in his twenty-one years than most men fought in a lifetime. The scars of a trident thrust running parallel across his left cheek and forehead attested to only one of many times when death had been just an inch off the mark. He had fought in the Coliseum and on battlegrounds from Syria to Gaul and he had survived. No, he was not accustomed to being nervous.
But then the message had come half an hour before. Half an hour that his stomach had spent twisting in on itself as he crossed the city from the Praetorian fortress.
Meet me at the carcer immediately. Come alone.
The carcer. The prison. Rome had only one prison, so everyone simply called it ‘the carcer.’ This was due not to a lack of lawlessness, but rather because lengthy incarceration was not a penalty meted out by the courts; prisoners were held in the carcer only until their trial. Justice, or what passed for it in the Empire, was swift. The guilty were either fined or exiled – if they were rich or fortunate – or else flogged, enslaved, or executed. Only if the verdict handed down was execution would the prisoners be returned to the prison, there to be cast into the miserable hole known as the tullianum beneath the prison. There, in the perpetual night of what was once a cistern, the condemned would come to long for the day of their execution.
But it was not the reputation of Rome’s infamous gaol that caused Theudas’ heart to beat heavier than usual under his cuirass and caused his knuckles to whiten on the hilt of his sword as he loosened it in its sheath for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was the name and seal pressed into the wax tablet beneath the single cryptic line that summoned him to the carcer.
Gaius Fulvius Plautianus.
To meet the newly-appointed Prefect of the Praetorian Guard, Theudas’ direct superior and the second-most-powerful man in Rome after the Emperor himself, would be nerve wracking enough. To be commanded to meet him, alone, at the carcer caused cold foreboding to writhe down his spine and settle heavily in his guts.
Is it possible that he knows? Theudas wondered. Can he have discovered my secret so quickly?
As Theudas turned right past the columned bulk of the Senate House a sight greeted him that nearly made him break stride. He had come alone, but the Prefect had not. For a moment the sun’s last rays painted armored ranks of Praetorians with a ruddy glow, then it fell behind the bulk of the Tabularium. The blocks of men that flanked the door of the carcer fell into shadow against the thick stone walls. Theudas’ heartbeat quickened even further, adrenaline pushing energy to his limbs, readying him for either fight or flight.
To his left, in a shadowy cleft between the Temple of Concord and the carcer rose the Gemonian Stairs, the Stairs of Mourning. For a moment Theudas considered fleeing up those stairs, or simply turning and running back the way he had come.
He knows! he thought desperately. He knows I’ve been going to the services.
By sheer force of will he fought down the panic that threatened to overwhelm his reason. This could as easily be just a routine assignment, he told himself. Running away would only prove guilt where there may not even be suspicion. So instead of running he forced himself to advance with a steady, confident stride. His hobnailed sandals echoed loudly against the buildings around him, the sound all the more obtrusive in the presence of the silent scores of soldiers watching him approach.
With a rusty creak the heavy, iron-bound door of the prison swung open and Prefect Plautianus stood in the doorway, the dim torchlight from the interior glinting off the golden shoulder bosses that held his crimson cape in place. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick-chested under his ornate, form-fitting breastplate. He simply stood there impassively, waiting for Theudas to approach.
The two blocks of soldiers flanking the doorway – eight on each side, five rows deep –created a narrow path for Theudas to pass down in order to reach Plautianus. His muscles tightened in the center of his back as he passed the first row of Praetorians, then the second. He forced himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then another. If this is a trap I’m walking right into it, he thought, but what choice do I have?
Without a word Plautianus turned in the doorway, gesturing with outstretched arm towards the interior of the prison for Theudas to enter. Instead, he stopped in the doorway and pivoted smartly to face the prefect. He would take this man’s measure before walking voluntarily into prison with Plautianus behind him.
Theudas raised an arm in salute while rapping the other fist against his breastplate. “Tribune Theudas ben Yair, reporting as ordered, sir,” his voice was level and hard. He searched the prefect’s features, looking for any hint of his intentions.
Plautianus’ face was craggy and powerful, as though it could easily smash stone. In the muted glow of the torches, shadows turned his eyes into dark pools under craggy brows and a deep-furrowed forehead. His nose was blunt, his cheeks outlined with wrinkles. Steel-grey hair was cropped short and a tightly-curled beard and mustache lent further strength to his heavy jaw. His complexion was slightly swarthy, giving him a foreign appearance, and Theudas realized that the prefect shared the Emperor’s skin tone. He vaguely remembered hearing that they both came from the same town in North Africa.
Theudas was skilled at sizing up an opponent, could almost invariably discern their thoughts written on their faces. The talent had saved his life more than once. Today it failed him. Plautianus’ face was inscrutable. In response to Theudas’ salute he merely nodded, once, and flicked the fingers of his out-stretched hand to again indicate that Theudas should proceed him into the prison.
Every muscle in his body coiled spring-tight, Theudas stepped across the threshold and into the carcer. The rank smell of unwashed bodies, human waste, and damp rot hit him like a punch in the nose. Prisoners huddled in miserable bundles of rags on the floor or sat slumped against the massive hewn stones of the prison wall. Any small stirring brought the clink of chains. Despair was palpable in the fetid air. The hairs on the back of Theudas’ neck prickled, half expecting the door behind him to slam shut.
And it did.
Theudas spun around, shocked out of his composure, to find Plautianus standing inside the door behind him, a slight sardonic smile on his thin lips. He had an ugly mouth, Theudas realized. Just a narrow red line in his beard, far too small for his broad face.
“My apologies,” the prefect said, in a tone that was anything but apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Plautinus’ voice was surprising. It was warm and strong instead of the gravelly growl Theudas had expected. But there was an undercurrent of sly menace to his voice that made it all the more chilling for its smooth tone. “I assumed you would be used to barred doors…” the prefect paused as if searching for a polite phrase, “…given your history.”
A sudden flame of anger flared in Theudas, but he beat it out quickly before it could reach his face. He mentally berated himself for showing his shock when the door slammed, and now forced a cold veil across his features every bit as impenetrable as the prefect’s. But inside, his mind was whirling.
Did the Emperor tell him about my past? Before Theudas had been elevated to the Emperor’s guard he had been a slave and a gladiator. Only his skill had kept him alive and drawn the attention of Septimius Severus who had raised him and his friend, Antonius Maximus, on a mere whim. The next thought was more troubling. Or has Plautianus been investigating me? And if so, how much has he learned? What if he’s had me followed?
When he spoke, Theudas’ voice was hard. “You ordered me to report here. What further orders do you have for me?”
“Do you know the history of this place?” Plautianus asked, ignoring Theudas’ question. Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Many notable prisoners have been executed here.” He gestured toward a perfectly round hole carved in the floor at the center of the room. “Take a look.”
Theudas gazed at the prefect levelly and was rewarded with a slight twitch of anger that flickered across his face and then was gone. He didn’t know what game Plautianus was playing, but he refused to play along with it. He had heard the tullianum described before, that horrific dungeon to which that dark shaft was the only access, and he felt no need to gawk.
Plautianus crossed the room, stepping over chained prisoners who scurried to get out of his way, to peer down into the circle of deep darkness that seemed to swallow the torchlight. “Jugurtha, king of Numidia, was thrown down this hole. They say it took him several days to starve to death.” Plautianus’ tone was conversational, as if he were discussing the price of Egyptian wheat in the marketplace. A horrified murmur ran around the room. “Julius Caesar sent Vercingetorix the Gaul to his death there too, though he died rather quicker. Strangled.” He looked up at Theudas, his eyes glittering intensely. “Which would you prefer, if you were given the choice? Starvation? Or strangling?”
“I’d prefer to die with a sword in my hand,” Theudas said tensely. His hand itched to grip the hilt of the gladius at his side and he kept one eye on the door, expecting a flood of Praetorians at any moment.
Plautianus laughed. “Spoken like a true soldier.” He walked back toward Theudas, his cape whipping around his ankles, orange flames glinting off his armor. He suddenly paused, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I wonder if Simon ben Gioras thought the same thing before he was captured, dragged through the streets of Rome in Titus’ Triumph, and then thrown down that hole and strangled?”
Theudas’ eyes drew tight and grew cold. Ben Gioras was a leader in the Jewish Revolt of AD 66, a contemporary of Theudas’ ancestor, Eleazar ben Yair. The connection was too blatant to be missed, but Theudas refused to be cowed. “Sejanus probably never expected the executioner’s cord either,” he shot back, voice cold.
The shot told. Plautianus advanced on Theudas until their breastplates were nearly touching. His mild tone had given way to icy smoothness. “Prefect Sejanus overreached, tried to gain power too quickly, and was betrayed by those under him. I will not make the same mistake. And you will remain loyal to me.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am loyal to the Emperor,” Theudas said grimly.
“And I am the Emperor’s right hand. If you are loyal to him you will be loyal to me.” Plautianus paused. “And vice versa.” The warning was clear. Any disloyalty toward the prefect would be considered treason toward the Emperor.
For a moment, Theudas considered his options. Plautianus had said nothing about Theudas’ Christian ties and seemed intent only on intimidating him into obedience. Clearly the prefect was trying to secure his own position. Theudas wondered if all the tribunes had been put through the same routine. Either way, there was something in Plautianus’ eyes that warned the Jew that he could either swear loyalty to him or else he may very well never leave this prison alive. Pragmatic, he decided he would play along – for now.
For a long moment Theudas held Plautianus’ hard gaze, then he allowed his eyes to shift sideways, then down and bowed his head slightly as if in proud, unwilling surrender. “I await your orders, sir.”
Plautianus’ small mouth split into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good! Those men outside await you to lead them. A few weeks ago you fought a Christian, Antonius Maximus, in a gladiator bout in the Coliseum.”
Theudas nodded, his face betraying nothing. He had, indeed, fought his best friend. It had been the only way to save him. He had staged Antonius’ death, allowing his escape. The fact that the prefect had said “fought” instead of “killed” made Theudas’ pulse quicken. Can he possibly know?
Plautianus’ next words alleviated those fears while birthing many new ones.
“You killed the son; tonight you will kill his father.”
It was a long moment before Theudas trusted himself to speak. “Titus Maximus?” he managed finally, willing his voice to be steady. “Hasn’t he gone underground?”
Plautianus noticed Theudas’ pause, considered it a moment, eyes narrowed, then went on. “Indeed, perhaps quite literally. These Christians” – he said the word like it tasted foul in his mouth – “have been known to hold services in the catacombs of all places.”
Theudas nodded. “But how will we find them? We suspect there are dozens of different catacombs, hundreds of miles of tunnels, some systems up to four levels deep. It would take the whole Guard a year to find them all, a decade to search them all and if the Christians ever were there they’d disappear long before we found them.”
Plautianus had begun smiling partway through Theudas’ protest, the smug smile of someone who has superior knowledge and is merely waiting for the other to admit their ignorance before revealing it.
“Why do you think we are here?” he asked. He waved a hand before his nose. “Certainly not for our health.” He gestured toward the miserable huddles of humanity about the room. “I received word just this afternoon that an informant led us to a leader of the Christian church and his wife. They are here, and when they talk they will lead us to Maximus.”
“When they talk?” Theudas asked.
“When,” the prefect replied, and there was a cruel coldness in his eyes that made Theudas shudder for the elder and his wife. Already his mind was working feverishly. There has to be a way, he thought. A way to get them out of here before they give up Titus. If only he had more time, but Plautianus was determined to get what he needed tonight.
“Jailor!” Plautianus called.
Against the wall in the darkest corner of the irregularly-shaped room the front legs of a huge oak chair slammed to the stone floor, the noise echoing about the prison and making several prisoners jump and gasp fearfully. The jailor rose and lumbered out into the firelight. He was so massive even the brawny prefect looked small by comparison. His iron-studded leather armor creaked slightly as he walked as if groaning with the effort of containing the man’s bulging muscles. In his right hand he carried a thick club that he swung back and forth in casual viciousness as he crossed the prison, sending prisoners clattering aside in their chains to avoid being struck.
“Marcus and Amelia Verus,” Plautianus demanded, as the jailor drew up before them. He just stood there dumbly, pale grey eyes peering at them from within greasy locks of hair that fell to his shoulders. He was as filthy as any of the prisoners, and Theudas doubted that he had left the prison or had a bath in years. The jailor scratched at his beard, picked something out and flicked it.
“They are prisoners here,” Plautianus said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “They were brought here today. We want to speak with them.”
The jailor considered that for several seconds, then with a grunt and a nod motioned them to follow him. Theudas was appalled at the condition of the prisoners they passed. Some wore what must once have been clothes of some quality, others were dressed in little more than rags. All now were filthy, frayed, and lice-ridden. There was hatred and fear on their faces, directed not only at the jailor and the prefect, but at him as well.
Looking back, Theudas almost tripped over a white-haired man dressed in a once-fine toga. He locked his sunken eyes on Theudas and with a start the young soldier recognized him. The old man was a Senator, one of those who had backed Clodius Albinus in the civil war that had brought Emperor Severus to power. On Severus’ orders Theudas had arrested this man and condemned him to this fate. He felt a deep pang of guilt and thought for the thousandeth time, Why am I still a Praetorian? He shook his head and hurried on.
“Thur,” the jailor grunted, motioning toward a couple who stood together against the wall. They stood out from the rest of the prisoners because their clothes were not yet worn and filthy. Though their hands were chained they managed to hold each other awkwardly, clinging together as though their world would shatter if they let go. And it probably would, Theudas thought. All they have left is each other.
The woman was the first to sense their approach, her red-rimmed eyes opening wide in fear as she saw the jailor and two Praetorian Guardsmen approaching them. She whispered something to her husband and he turned quickly, pressing her behind him. He was a tall man, with a square-jawed, handsome face now lined with sadness and worry. He was in his mid-thirties, with black hair just turning to grey at the temples. Theudas had met the elder before and a sudden startled recognition and hope blazed for an instant in the man’s eyes, then was buried deep.
Theudas felt relief as the man quickly hid that recognition, then felt an immediate pang of guilt at the selfish thought.
“Marcus Verus?” Plautianus asked. He had assumed the warm, smooth voice in which he had first addressed Theudas.
The man tipped his chin up slightly. “I am.”
“You have been denounced as a member of the sect called Christians, how do you respond to this charge?”
Marcus’ voice was firm. “I am a follower of Jesus Christ.”
Behind her husband, Amelia made a slight sound of sorrow, then stood a little straighter, and Theudas could see the fear in her pale oval face and large eyes, but when she spoke there was only a slight quaver in her voice. “As am I.”
Theudas felt shock shoot through him. Why are they confessing? Do they want to be a lion’s lunch? But at the same time he felt a surge of respect. Here I am unsure what I believe, and they are willing to stand and die for what they believe!
“Touching.” Plautianus smiled sympathetically at the pair. He held up his hands, palms upward. “To be honest, I don’t care if you are Christians or not. Why should I? But Titus Maximus escaped the Emperor’s justice and Emperor Severus does not like to be made to look the fool. He has ordered me to bring him Maximus as my first act in office, and I intend to do so.”
The prefect stepped closer to the couple, voice deep and caring. “I would like to simply let the two of you go. Just tell me where to find Titus Maximus.”
Theudas’ heart pounded. To interrupt the questioning would be to tip his hand. But what if they gave up Titus? As one of the church elders Marcus was one of the few entrusted to know about the tiny villa several miles south of Rome where Titus was hiding with his son Antonius and daughter Julia. He was willing to die for Christ, but would he die for the Maximus family? Would he be willing to watch his wife die?
Marcus drew himself up, his voice firm and unflinching. “I can no more betray my brother in Christ than I can my Lord Himself.”
Plautianus looked genuinely pained. “Be reasonable, Verus. I know you will tell me sooner or later.”
Marcus just looked back at him levelly.
The prefect considered him for a long moment. The silence stretched long in the prison as if everyone in the room was holding their breath as they watched the clash of wills.
Plautianus was the first to break the silence. He motioned the hulking jailor toward Marcus. “Chain him to the whipping post.”
“No, please God, no!” Amelia gasped, then grabbed fistfuls of her husband’s tunic as the jailor grabbed the chain joining his hands and began to drag him across the room to where an oak beam stood upright from the floor.
Theudas’ heart was in his throat and he felt sick to his stomach. I have to do something! he thought desperately. Unbidden, the Psalm etched in ancient Hebrew into the dagger at his side, his only memento from his father, came to his mind. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the LORD, maker of heaven and earth. He sent a sudden prayer heavenward. LORD, tell me what to do! And in that moment the vague outline of a plan began to take shape in his mind.
With no more effort than if he were lifting a kitten the jailor lifted Marcus by the chain connecting his hands and hung the chain over an iron hook set high in the whipping post. When he released him the elder could just barely reach the floor standing on tip-toe.
Showing more alacrity than he’d displayed the whole time they had been there, the jailor hurried across the room and returned with a many-tailed leather flogger. Anticipation wreathed his brutal features, like a bulldog who has been promised a particularly tasty morsel.
“Back,” Plautianus growled, pulling the whip from the jailor’s meaty fist and pushing him back with its handle. “You’d kill him.” The jailor snarled, then backed away utterly dejected.
“Here.”
Theudas looked down in shock at the whip the prefect shoved into his chest.
“Take it!” Plautianus snarled. Gone was the mild manner, the warm tone, even the sly menace.
Numbly, Theudas grasped the handle of the whip, letting its long, knotted tails hang by his side. He steeled himself to execute his plan. He could show no squeamishness, no hesitation. Plautianus must believe Theudas to be every bit as ruthless as he himself for the plan to work.
Throwing the tails of the whip casually over his shoulder and letting the handle hang against his chest as though a flogging was an every-day occurrence for him, Theudas walked over to Marcus. As he took hold of the neckline of the man’s tunic with both fists he whispered intensely, just loud enough for the elder to hear, “Tell them about the catacombs. I’ll get everyone out. Trust me.” As he spoke the last words he ripped Marcus’ tunic open from neck to waist, peeling it aside to expose the tightly-stretched muscles of the man’s back. Even as he did he saw the elder nod slightly. He understood.
Theudas stepped to the side, grasping the handle of the whip and swinging it down to his side with a swish of leather. He drew back his arm for the first strike, then stopped suddenly, as if a thought had just occurred to him.
He turned to Plautianus, pointing back at the bound man. “He was willing to let lions tear him apart rather than renounce his faith. I doubt a whipping will break him. But what would he do to spare his wife that torture?”
At Theudas’ words Marcus began lashing about, pulling against his chains so hard that the oaken beam actually shuddered in its hole. “No! Don’t touch her! Please!” he begged.
The violent reaction lent all the more weight to Theudas’ suggestion, and Plautianus’ face split with a predatory little smile. “How very ruthless of you. I do believe you’re right. He will tell us anything to save his wife from the lash.”
Theudas felt a wave of relief. His plan would work. Marcus had a plausible reason to break and he would be spared torture. But Plautianus’ next words sent an icy chill through him.
“Give him a taste of the whip first though. Let him know the pain his wife will feel unless he talks.”
To hesitate was to expose the plan and Marcus and Amelia would face far worse than scourging Theudas realized with despair. Hand trembling slightly, he drew back his arm and brought the scourge down across Marcus’ back. The elder arched into the oak post, a guttural groan slipping out through gritted teeth.
Theudas’ own flesh crawled, the old scars of whippings he’d endured as a slave itching maddeningly under his breastplate. He knew all too well the pain of the lash, the white-hot streaks of fire, the hornet sting of the knotted leather.
Theudas looked to Plautianus enquiringly, but the prefect just waved him on. “Again.” As the lash rose and fell again he motioned to the jailor, who began dragging Amelia toward the whipping post.
“Again.” This time Marcus cried out in pain. Theudas was doing his best to pull his blows at the last moment without being obvious, but the strikes of the whip were still raising red welts and purple bruises from the knotted ends.
“Alright, chain her up,” Plautianus said, his voice hard and cruel.
“No!” Marcus grated out, straining around to look at the prefect, real fear evident on his face. “I’ll tell you how to find the catacomb where Titus leads worship, just please, let her go!”
Plautianus’ smile was warm again, but it still chilled Theudas. “See? That’s so much easier. Now tell us how to find this place. Tell us precisely. Your life and your wife depend on it.”
Theudas only half-listened as Marcus described the location of Titus’ underground meeting place. He knew the location well from several services he had attended himself, so his mind was free to race ahead, out of Rome, between the rows of mausoleums, and into the depths of the catacombs where he must attempt the impossible: to allow the Christians to escape without exposing himself or jeopardizing the Verus’.
“If you’re lying to me,” the Prefect was saying to Marcus, “I will return, and visit tortures on you and your wife that will make you beg me to merely whip you.” He turned to Theudas and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“You’re coming?” Theudas asked, feeling the first tendrils of panic.
Plautianus shot him a hard, suspicious glance. “Of course.”
The panic wrapped around Theudas’ throat and he didn’t trust himself to try to speak. His odds of success had just plummeted. Appear too incompetent and Plautianus would become suspicious of him. Lead his men to the wrong catacomb and the prefect would think Marcus had lied to him and no doubt have the elder and his wife tortured and killed. His desperate mission had become even more impossible.
He sent another agonized prayer heavenward. God, I need a miracle.

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