These four men had to be something different…
He moved on with the other two. As they approached the villa’s own surrounding wall, just a three-foot defining barrier of brick with grey capstones, he nodded at the two riders and they dismounted, tethering their horses, and peeled off heading both left and right, disappearing among the rows of vines. The plants were only at the start of their annual cycle, budding and low, pruned and neat, and the two men moved low at a crouch, surprisingly quiet and barely visible half a field away.
Rufinus put his hand to his sword hilt. He wouldn’t draw it, but it felt better to be ready, just in case. There was every possibility that the villa was clear, yet he felt oddly certain that eyes would be on it. Unfriendly eyes. Cleander was sharp, if nothing else, after all. He might have let Publius go, believing Rufinus to be dead at the base of a cliff at the edge of the empire, but he would not be so overconfident that he would not keep tabs on the youngest of the Marcii.
No, there would be watchers.
Playing the open, honest, above-board bait, Rufinus rode towards the decorative arch. The family might have been away for some time now, his father in Rome trying to rebuild their influence, but the slaves had maintained the place well in their absence.
The thought of slaves drew him back to a mental image of his captivating better half, Claudia Senova, who remained in Gaul in a villa owned by one of Septimius Severus’ most trusted clients. Of course she was a slave no longer, but a freedwoman. More than that, since Rufinus had purchased a ring in Emesa and offered it to her, they were betrothed. It wasn’t entirely official, of course. Both of them were under assumed names, and he felt also that he ought really to seek the permission of Pompeianus, being her benefactor and the man who had freed her, before it could be announced. But all of that would have to wait anyway. When Cleander was no more, and Rufinus could be himself once more, the whole thing would become official, and Senova would be his in the eyes of all of Rome.
More realistically, he thought with a wry smile, he would be hers.
He walked his steed in through the gate, making for the door at a sedate pace. His eyes were fixed on the building ahead, but he had long since learned the value of peripheral vision, and that was why he saw what he saw out of the corner of his eye. Just a shadow. A shape. An impression of a human figure near the wall by a small stand of fruit trees. And that figure vanished without a sound. One moment there was a hint of a person, the next it was gone.
Another figure replaced it, and Rufinus turned and nodded at the soldier from the Eighth who now stood at the wall, cracking his knuckles meaningfully.
Paying no further attention to the scene, he concentrated on the reason he was here. Walking his horse over to the low hitching post for visitors, he dismounted and tethered the beast. He then paused for a moment, breath caught in his throat as he looked at the door. This was his house – he had been brought up within its walls – yet oddly he had been away from it for so long, living a new life, that if felt like someone else’s now in a strange way. His and yet not his. He wondered whether propriety allowed for him to simply stroll in through the door as though he owned the place.
Surrendering to his social removal from the old homestead, he strode over to the door and clanged the bronze, dolphin-adorned bell hanging outside. There was a brief pause and then the shuffle of footsteps behind the door. The portal opened with a well-oiled silence and Rufinus looked into his ancestral home with odd trepidation.
‘What can I do for you, sir,’ muttered the old, stooped man at the door.
Rufinus stared. Ildutas had been the doorman at the villa in Rufinus’ youth. He had been a big bruiser of an Iberian, a slave who had been used as a boxer for entertainment – the reason Rufinus had first gained an interest in the sport. He had always been a figure of whom Rufinus lived in a little awe. While it was impossible to deny that this stooped old man was Ildutas, it was also hard to reconcile the two after all this time.
The words ‘Ildutas? It’s me,’ died in his throat. He wasn’t him. Couldn’t afford to be with anyone he didn’t trust entirely.
‘Is your master home?’ he said finally.
‘Do you have an appointment? The master is very busy.’
‘He will make time. Tell him an old friend is here.’
‘I need a name. The master is very…’
‘Just tell him, man.’
The old slave gave him a suspicious look but, recognising that the man at the door was both important and determined, he nodded his acceptance and opened the door. ‘If you’d care to wait in the atrium, sir, I will advise the master of your presence.’
Rufinus nodded and followed him in. Gods, but nothing had changed. The same mosaics, the same wall paintings, carefully contrived to look like the family’s age-old estates in Italia. Even the same drapes and cushions. He stood there for long moments, watching the small fountain in the impluvium as a triton vomited up fresh water into the air only for it to splash back down on his face and into the square pool. The noise reminded him that the last time he had relieved himself had been over the side of the ship as it made for Tarraco harbour some four hours ago.
By the time Ildutas returned with the villa’s current master in his wake, Rufinus was consciously clenching his bladder and trying to avoid crossing his legs. The need evaporated in a moment at the sight of his brother.
‘Master,’ the doorman said as he stepped aside.
Publius looked well. Rufinus took a moment to work through how he felt about that. Of course, he should look well. He had not been kept as a prisoner chained in a cellar after all, for all his importance to Cleander. No, he had been treated as a guest and had lived a life of relative luxury, just one with limits under the ever-watchful eyes of the chamberlain’s men. A cage, but a gilded one.
His brother stopped at the entrance to the atrium. His eyes ranged up and down, taking in the visitor to the villa, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of a nagging uncertainty about this bearded stranger. His eyes fell upon the left hand, hanging at his side, and his eyes agape.
‘Gnaeus?’
Rufinus shifted his gaze pointedly to the doorman, hovering nearby.
‘Ildutas,’ Publius said, ‘we shall be in the summer triclinium. Have the staff give us total privacy, please.’
The doorman cast another wary look at Rufinus but nodded, and Publius gestured onwards. ‘This way.’
Rufinus followed politely, as though he did not know the way better than anyone. Moments later they were in the family’s favoured dining room, its wide windows looking southeast over the headland and out to sea, the whole room warmed by the morning sun and early afternoon. The wall paintings here, too, had not changed in all those years.
‘Sit,’ Publius said quietly and stood at the door for a moment, making sure none of the staff were hovering insolently nearby before closing it. He then, as Rufinus sank to a couch, strode over to the windows, checking that none of the slaves were loitering on the balcony outside either. Satisfied that they were, indeed, alone, he strolled over to another couch and sat, staring at Rufinus, who waited. After some time Publius nodded.
‘It is you. I wasn’t quite sure at first. It’s the beard, of course. You always said you’d rather be dead than bearded.’
‘And now I’m both. And I can tell you that death is still more comfortable than beard.’
‘I held a small ceremony, you know?’ Rufinus resisted the urge to leap up and run across to his brother as tears welled up in Publius’ eyes and he angrily brushed them away with the back of a hand. ‘I couldn’t do much, of course,’ he sniffed, ‘because I was in Cleander’s care. But I made libations and prayed for your ease. They said you died in a fight with an officer out in Dacia. Some sort of personal feud we were told.’
‘I nearly did,’ Rufinus admitted. ‘And it was a lot more than a personal feud, but that’s for another time. Senova saved me. She bore me to safety and I recovered in the company of friends. But gi
ven what was waiting for me in Rome, we decided that it would be better if I was believed to be dead at the base of a cliff in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Gnaeus…’
‘Don’t call me that. Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus is dead. He died in Dacia and until he no longer has enemies, he has to stay that way.’
‘So who are you?’
‘I am Aulus Triarius Rufinus, Prefect of the Misenum fleet and comitus of the Governor of Gaul, Septimius Severus.’
‘Prefect of the fleet?’
‘Yes. Listen, everything you learn here makes things more dangerous. The less you know about me the better for both of us, in case either of us falls into the wrong hands.’
‘Then why did you come? Why put us both in danger? You know that Cleander has men watching me? I see them from time to time.’
‘Those particular eyes are closed right now,’ Rufinus said, glancing out of the window and half expecting to see one of the soldiers from the Eighth hanging around on the lawns and cleaning his fingernails with a dagger.
Publius’ eyes narrowed and his forehead creased to a frown. ‘If they disappear, Cleander will pay even more attention to me.’
‘And that is why you are going to disappear too.’
‘I can’t disappear,’ Publius grunted. ‘There is too much to do.’
‘Like what? I assumed Father sent you here to keep you out of the way.’
Publius shook his head. ‘As though Father ever cared that much for us. No, I’m here to pack all our remaining belongings and oversee the sale of any superfluous slaves.’
‘What?’
‘Father finally sold the place. Took him ages to find a buyer. No one wanted anything to do with him, partially because of you, I think. Or possibly the memory of our bad name. Or maybe it’s just that with the recent raids of the Mauri along the coast of Hispania no one is interested in buying property here. Did you know Mauri pirates came almost as far north as Tarraco last time? The African fleet doesn’t seem to be able to stop them.’
Rufinus was floored. He’d felt oddly like a stranger in his own family home, yet now, suddenly, being told that it would no longer be theirs, he felt more like its owner than ever.
‘I didn’t believe he’d actually do it,’ he hissed. ‘Lucius is buried here!’
‘I was planning to retrieve the urn and the inscription and bury him again. Possibly in Rome. Father has rented a town house there.’
‘Who has he sold the villa to? Not Cleander, surely?’
‘No, Cleander wanted nothing of it. I think he’s irritated by Father, who hangs around him like a puppy begging for scraps. It’s embarrassing, really. No, he sold it to some merchant or other. The man got it at a steal, too. Father had knocked the price down five times before it finally sold. He only got half what he thought it was worth in the end. But then I suppose it’ll be worth nothing if the Mauri ships go unchecked and the place gets robbed and burned.’
‘The stupid old man. And you know what he’s sold it for?’
‘To climb the patronage ladder in Rome.’
‘Exactly. You don’t need to bribe and inveigle to do that. All you need to do is be honourable and worthwhile. That’s how I’ve ended up working with Severus. He’s a good man, and he’d going places, Publius. He’s the sort of man we should be hitching our cart to, not some fat senator in Rome.’
He spotted something in Publius’ expression for a brief moment - a mix of embarrassment, worry… fear?
‘What?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Father’s not dealing with the senators. He says they’ve had their day. Freedmen are the new aristocracy, he reckons – the ones we need to watch.’
Rufinus blinked. ‘Don’t tell me.’
A nod. ‘What did you expect. Cleander had his only son captive.’
‘The short-sighted, numb-headed arsehole.’
‘He thinks he will get a suffect consulship soon.’
‘Him and half the empire. Cleander sells them, or so it’s said. So Father sells our home and gives the money to our darkest and most dangerous enemy. I’ll flatten his damn face when I see him.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Gnaeus. You’ve just told me you need to stay dead. You can’t see him.’
Rufinus fumed, but his brother was quite right, of course. He thought through what he’d learned. He’d half planned for this moment, so at least things were in place.
‘Do you trust me, Publius?’
‘You know I do.’
‘I mean really trust me. Above even Father.’
‘Yes. On my honour.’
‘Then forget what you’re doing here. Let Father struggle through it or send someone else to do it. I don’t see why we should spend any of our valuable time helping him make Cleander a little bit more rich and powerful, do you?’
Publius shook his head. ‘But what…?’
‘I have two ships in the harbour. One is a provincial Liburnian I brought from Massilia. The other is a trireme from Misenum. I came on the first, but I’m leaving on the other, bound for Misenum and perhaps Rome after that. The Liburnian belongs to the governor, Septimius Severus, and it’s returning to Gaul. I want you on it in the morning, with all your own gear and any valuables you can carry. I’ll help you pack all that tonight, and you can come to the port with me in the morning.’
‘Where am I going, though,’ Publius asked doubtfully.
‘A safe house in Cemenelum, not far from Massilia. It’s owned by one of Severus’ men and has a private guard of retired veterans from his former legions. It’s about the safest place in the whole world from Cleander, and no one knows about it other than a few of us in the governor’s familia. My fiancée and my dog are there already.’
‘Fiancée?’
‘Long story. You’ll like her. But stay there and stay out of sight. Wheels are in motion, Publius. Sooner or later, Cleander is going to fall, and when he does he’s going to fall further than anyone in the empire’s history, right from the Tarpeian Rock. I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but I want you out of the way.’
‘I could help?’
Rufinus shook your head. ‘No, you can’t. You are too well known and you lack any real influence. Besides, the moment anything starts to move and Cleander feels the pinch, he’s going to put pressure on anyone he can to try and hold on, and that would include you. I want you safe. I’ve lost one brother… I’m not going to lose another.’
Publius looked unhappy, but he nodded nonetheless. ‘Father will be furious. He’ll be angry that I’ve vanished, and even more so if I take anything valuable with me.’
‘And that, right there, is as good a reason as any to have nothing to do with the selfish old fool: putting monetary value above family. Now, have someone stoke the baths’ furnace up, prepare us an evening meal and organise a cold breakfast to leave in the kitchen for the morning, then dismiss the whole lot of them.’
‘What?’
‘Father doesn’t deserve their help, nor the money you’d raise from their sale. Dismiss the servants and free the slaves and send them on their way with whatever they can carry. I want the villa to be empty of anyone but us by nightfall.’
‘Gnaeus…’
‘Aulus,’ reminded the bearded prefect. ‘Just do it. You won’t need them after breakfast. The governor’s men will see you safely to Cemenelum, and I’ll give you the address to find there. You’ll be safe there, and you’re half expected already.’
There was a drawn-out pause and finally Publius, still looking rather unsure, rose from his couch and opened the door, calling for the major domo.
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Rufinus told him, ‘to eat and to help pack. Don’t let the slaves take anything too valuable and portable. You’ll need them.’
Without further ado, Rufinus rested a hand supportively on his brother’s shoulder and smiled, then strode off, back through the atrium, and opened the front door, exiting into the late af
ternoon warmth. Oddly, it was not that much further south here than in Lugdunum – perhaps three hundred miles – and yet the climate was totally different already.
Stretching, he set himself ready. The old world was passing. His home was sold, his father estranged, his legion days far behind and even his time in the Guard now little more than a memory. Time to make a new world. A one without Cleander’s poison in it. And perhaps then, when that monster’s influence was lifted, the Guard would be a thing he could go back to.
Balling his hands into fists, he strode across the grass. A legionary bearing the signs of the Eighth Augusta sat on the boundary wall, sunning himself with a smile. He straightened and dropped to his feet as Rufinus approached.
‘Sir.’
‘The man you took out. He’s still alive?’
‘Yessir.’
Rufinus vaulted up onto the wall and looked down the far side. The figure on the ground was dressed as any vine-tending field-hand might be, curled up on his side in the dirt, his hands bound with a cord that connected them with clear discomfort with his similarly-tied ankles. Once more, looking at the expert work of the knots, Rufinus could not help but suspect that the calm man in mail standing so casually nearby was one of the agents of the Castra Peregrina.
He crouched next to the field-hand-who-wasn’t. He might be appropriately dressed, and his skin was rough, his hands hard, calloused and leathery, but Rufinus was not fooled. The callouses were consistent with a swordsman, and with the hardened grip of a shield. Moreover, the man was too pale to work in the fields.
There was blood on the back of the man’s head, and a few paces away sat a rock that glistened wetly. That was how he’d been downed so swiftly and silently, then. Rufinus turned him over. He was wounded, but conscious and angry, his eyes blazing, if a little dazed. He had something balled up and stuffed in his mouth. A piece of his own torn-off tunic, Rufinus realised.
‘I am not going to remove your gag or your bonds, I’m afraid. I don’t think there’ll be the need for an interrogation.’
He reached down and pushed his hand under the man’s chin, while the bound figure struggled and grunted trying to fight back in any way he could. With little difficulty, Rufinus located and exposed to the light the pendant of a scorpion on a chain.
Lions of Rome Page 3
