He sighed. ‘Yet at the same time, we must begin to move slowly but surely ourselves. I fear we need a further meeting. Just us, though, and perhaps a friend or two I have in mind. I have the bones of a plan, but I would prefer to add to it a little muscle and flesh before I open it up to you. Keep a low profile for now, and I will be in touch with you all. And while our friends out there were short-sighted enough to leave in a group, I would prefer that we depart in a staggered manner, perhaps slowly over an hour. That way we are considerably less noticeable.’
Rufinus was surprised and a little disappointed when Severus indicated that he should be the first to leave. It felt a little as though the governor had got rid of him first to share a private moment with the other two prefects and Rufinus forced himself to accept the likelihood that Severus would leave last and was simply separating out a man with whom he was known to share a bond first.
Rufinus left the building and exited into the afternoon sunshine, blinking repeatedly. The men outside the warehouse did not acknowledge him as he passed, and closed in protectively once more. They would be counting the men leaving and would know when the building was empty. Now that he knew more, Rufinus realised that the men were mostly Praetorians in disguise. He resisted the urge to demand that they open their tunic necks. If only one of them were wearing a scorpion pendant then it would suggest that Cleander knew something of what had happened and their lives would all be forfeit. Still, all seemed quiet, and he could hardly do that, so he ignored the men and made his way by a roundabout route away from the warehouse and out of the commercial district. He strolled back between the Aventine and the Little Aventine, and around the end of the Circus Maximus.
As he walked tensely along the side of the Palatine hill towards the great Flavian amphitheatre and his headquarters beyond, he looked up at the great aqueduct that marched across the valley from the Caelian, remembering that dreadful night when they had crossed it, pursued by dangerous enemies. The night another Praetorian prefect had been doomed: Perennis.
He shuddered, remembering that night and their dangerous flight across the lofty bridge, and brought his eyes back down to ground level only to almost leap in shock. His old friends Mercator and Icarion were strolling towards him along the street, dressed in togas but with their swords showing as bulges beneath.
He felt a wave of panic. Of all the men in the Guard it was these two he would automatically trust, but right now he couldn’t afford anyone to recognise him. In a panic he almost fled, running across the wide road to the other side to be out of their way, but such urgency would only draw extra unwanted attention.
Gritting his teeth and sweating like a roasting hog, he forced himself to maintain that same steady pace as he walked forward. The two soldiers, his oldest friends in the Guard, glanced at the man approaching them and angled to the side, talking quietly to one another.
They passed Rufinus right by at a distance of less than five feet and gave him not another glance.
Shivering at the close encounter, and wondering once more whether he was really cut out for this kind of subterfuge, Rufinus marched on, willing himself home where he would await Severus’ next message and perhaps a clue as to what the future held.
Chapter Five – An unconventional party
Rome, July 187 A.D.
Rufinus felt the litter tip to the side a little and grumbled. He still felt more comfortable moving about by horse, or better still by the feet the gods had gifted him, but he was a senior man in the empire’s military now and certain standards were expected, especially when he was on official business. The interior of the shaky little vehicle was stuffy and very hot, and with the heavy wool toga he wore for appropriateness he was probably losing a pound of weight in sweat with every couple of paces the bearers took.
He twitched aside the curtain of the litter, partially to look at the bearers once more, and partially to see if he could stir a faint current of air, but there was no more breeze outside than in, and all it did was admit the dry-dung aroma of a city summer to the vehicle.
The litter bearers raised suspicion in him. He had rarely ever travelled by this mode of transport, but he’d seen plenty of litters before. The bearers were generally specially chosen for their matching size, their strength and their ability to keep the vehicle level and comfortable. The four men currently lifting Rufinus had apparently been selected for their inequality in height, their ham-fistedness and their inability to stop the bloody thing swaying sickeningly. But then he was fairly sure they were not normal litter bearers. They were probably soldiers by the look of them, and likely serving ones rather than retired veterans. In fact, once again he had the notion that perhaps they had come from the camp of the frumentarii. That the prefect of the Castrum Lecticariorum, who would have been the man who assigned the vehicle to Rufinus, had been in that warehouse did not go unnoticed. Perhaps he had been assigned extra protection by other conspirators. Perhaps they were keeping an eye on him for the prefect. Whatever the case, he would play his role perfectly, and if the worst happened, he had his guard of eight burly marines and a personal slave here anyway.
His destination, a large house on the Esquiline, lay ahead and the noise and bright lights from it were already overwhelming, even above the other wealthy estates of the region all celebrating the festival.
Tonight Rome celebrated Neptunalia in honour of the sea god, his main festival of the year. Papirius Dionysus, the grain commissioner, was hosting a grand gathering and a group offering to the god for his favour in the coming year in terms of the grain fleets and their voyages. Naturally, he had invited all the great and good of Rome but, being Neptunalia, he had also invited all those with a vested interest in the favour of the sea god.
Shipping magnates, priests of the god, the prefects in charge of water supply, drainage, river control and more, the Ordo of Ostia, to which Rome looked for almost all seaborne trade and, of course, the prefects of the two main fleets: the Misenum and Ravenna classis. Rufinus was here in his official capacity and had no need for subterfuge, which was nice even if it meant playing the pampered pillock.
He sat back as the vehicle slowed, listening to his men jingle to a halt and line up. With a sickening lurch, the litter was lowered to the ground, and Rufinus adjusted his toga carefully. While he generally disliked wearing a toga, he had to admit that it was the perfect garment when it came to maintaining a disguise. Gnaeus Marcius Rustius Rufinus was easily recognised by the simple absence of the fingernails on his left hand. It had not been noted among the majority that Aulus Triarius Rufinus favoured his right, his left hand often hidden or tucked into his belt, or gloved when aboard ship or riding. But with a toga, things were perfect, for it was standard practice to drape the heavy wool folds of the toga over the left forearm and use the right hand. Just a little adjustment allowed him to hide his maimed hand within the garment without looking at all out of place.
Satisfied that he was attired just right, he stepped out of the litter. His men were lined up like the soldiers they were, and he nodded to the officer among them. ‘If you head around to the servants’ entrance, I am led to believe there will be food and drink for you all while the festivity continues – cheese, hazel nuts and wine. I shall send for you when I am ready to leave.’
With that he stepped away, towards the door in the perimeter wall, which remained closed, lit by two lamps and with a huge, heavy knocker. The sounds of revelry arose from within, but the street was empty. He was approaching the door, hand rising towards the knocker, when he sensed something amiss. Pausing, he listened intently. There was the faintest susurration behind him, across the street where a small park stood with an ornate fountain at its centre. The sound could so easily have been a faint breeze brushing the leaves of the trees. But there was no breeze.
He turned, hand instinctively going to where a sword would normally sit. His guards had noticed nothing unusual, and were watching him with concerned interest. He tensed, and a moment later a figure stepped from th
e shadow of a tree. Rufinus almost exploded with relief at the sight of Vibius Cestius, the officer of the frumentarii he had met two years earlier while trying to save Perennis. Cestius was one of very few men in the city he would trust without question. His eyes widened in surprise as he noted Cestius sliding a knife back into his belt as he emerged. There was no visible evidence of violence, and by the time he was in the open street the frumentarius was perfectly relaxed, but now Rufinus knew what the susurration was. Poor bastard, whoever he’d been.
Cestius nodded. ‘Prefect.’
Rufinus felt a momentary panic. Was he supposed to know openly who Cestius was? Should he reply as a polite stranger? He had no idea. Nor even whether Cestius was here with an invitation. The man was wearing a white toga which had somehow, miraculously, escaped blood spatter among the trees, and so Rufinus presumed the man was also bound for the door. Settling for something nondescript, he returned the greeting nod, but said nothing.
He rapped the knocker on the gate three times and the door was opened by a thick-set man with a face that looked like he’d been danced on by horses. There was a momentary flicker of recognition between the doorman and the frumentarius, and Rufinus congratulated himself on his ever-growing powers of observation. So, Dionysus’ doorman was working for the frumentarius. Nothing was simple in Rome, even opening a door…
The man stepped aside and gestured for them to enter and as they did so, a slave hurried over with a tray of pastries and glasses of wine. The two visitors took a glass and a small delicacy and then followed the slave into the gardens.
Dionysus had outdone himself.
Neptunalia was one of those unusual festivals that was held outside in the open air rather than in the house. A rough shelter was often made of bent branches and foliage, but what had been constructed in Dionysus’ garden must have taken days. Weeks, even. The entire garden, which was a huge and sprawling affair, was covered by a series of wicker structures, all interlinked by passages made of the same stuff. The wicker had all been interwoven with live flowers, specifically chosen for their night time scents. With the lamps burning all around it was like some sort of divine thicket. Figures milled about under the branches, chatting and laughing, wine in their hands, and slaves darted hither and thither, making sure that no glass ran dry for even a moment, and no hand was devoid of sweet pastries.
The slave led them to the centre of the garden, where they entered the largest of the wicker domes and Rufinus goggled, his breath stolen. Dionysus’ garden had a large ornamental pond at its centre, and this huge dome covered that pond, while wooden walkways had been constructed and floated out onto the water, bound together to make a latticework of paths across the expanse. At the centre a fountain shaped with four tritons spewed water up into the air. Before it stood an altar to Neptune, at which guests had already begun laying their offerings.
He spotted Dionysus speaking to a togate man with dark hair and started to stride towards him. The prefect of the grain spotted him and smiled, waving him over and Rufinus returned the smile, his blood turning suddenly to ice as the man next to the prefect turned.
Cleander!
Rufinus felt his blood start to surge, his skin prickling into a shiver despite the overbearing heat. He felt panic rising. He had been invited here ostensibly, and quite reasonably, due to his position as Prefect of the Fleet, but the note from Severus that he had dutifully eaten as soon as he’d read it had told him to attend, for he would find it useful. Was this it? Had Severus somehow moved his plan towards fruition without even letting Rufinus know what was happening? Would the chamberlain die tonight? Here?
He chided himself for his panicky stupidity. Of course they wouldn’t try anything here and now. It would be exactly the kind of precipitous move that Severus had argued against. Of course, those senators might have a different idea. He wondered if they were present, and his gaze swept around the garden with a new purpose, peering at the other attendees. Now, he realised that there were Praetorians all over the place, indistinguishable from the rest of the men in white togas but for the suspicious bulge of a concealed blade. It would be nice to think that they were loyal men placed here by that prefect who had been in the warehouse, but the presence of Cleander suggested that they were far more likely his own hand-picked men. Suddenly, Dionysus’ glorious garden felt like the most dangerous place in Rome.
‘Ah, Prefect,’ the commissioner said warmly as Rufinus approached, and reached out to clasp his hand. Rufinus glanced momentarily down, making sure his maimed fingers were hidden within the folds of the toga. The last thing he wanted was suddenly to be horribly recognisable right here.
‘Prefect,’ Rufinus replied, bowing his head, neatly avoiding meeting Cleander’s gaze. He realised with a start that he had automatically affected a faint Gallic accent, so prepared was he to hide his identity that very moment.
‘Have you met the chamberlain?’
Rufinus felt his flesh pucker again in worry as he turned a horribly false smile to Cleander and nodded his head. ‘I do not believe I have had the pleasure.’
Cleander looked at him carefully, clearly checking him out, sizing him up, and Rufinus wondered for a moment whether despite everything the chamberlain had seen straight through his hirsute disguise. ‘Prefect Triarius Rufinus, I believe,’ he said in a deep voice that made Rufinus squirm with panic and hatred in equal measures.
‘Chamberlain,’ Cestius said, leaning past Rufinus to shake Cleander’s hand. The chamberlain gave him a blank look. Oh to be so anonymous, Rufinus thought.
‘Vibius Tribulus,’ Cestius introduced himself, ‘commander of the Euxine fleet currently on detached duty in the camp of the foreigners.’
Cleander nodded and shook, having immediately written Cestius off as unimportant. Rufinus stared at his friend. Such a bare-faced lie that could easily be uncovered by checking out who was the Euxine prefect. Moreover, the camp of the foreigners was the Castra Peregrina, also home base of the frumentarii. So brazen. But then Cestius had once told him that the best lies were ninety per cent truth.
Rufinus was saved further panic and decision when a voice called to Cleander and the chamberlain excused himself and wandered off. Papirius Dionysus gave two newcomers an impudent smile and then spoke in low tones to Rufinus. ‘Wait for a count of fifty and then walk away past the statue of Diana. At the end of the passage there you will find a door. It appears to be locked, but that is only because it sticks. Nudge the edge two feet below the handle and go in. Then you,’ he turned to Cestius, ‘count another fifty, get yourself another drink and do the same. I will join you shortly. Now laugh outrageously as though I have been telling you the crudest of jokes.’
Rufinus roared with laughter, and Cestius smirked and chuckled. Grinning mischievously, Dionysus walked away. Rufinus strolled over to the altar to Neptune and began to count to fifty as Cestius circulated. Reaching the end of his count, Rufinus strode off. The door was easy enough to find and, courtesy of the planning of the wattle domes and passages, out of sight of everyone. A quick shove in the appropriate place and the door groaned open, revealing a garden shed or outbuilding that had been re-plastered recently and was lit with three oil lamps, couches arrayed around the walls. There were no windows and the door was thick and solid. He took a seat and was just fidgeting with the folds of his toga when the door creaked open and Cestius entered.
‘Greetings, Prefect of the Fleet,’ the man grinned, and closed the door behind him.
‘Who was that you killed in the park?’
‘None of your concern, young man. But before anyone else arrives and we get down to the business of treason, I needed to speak to you privately.’
Rufinus frowned. He’d not seen the man since before he went to Dacia, and Cestius had immediately dropped back into conversation as though he’d never left for the edge of the empire, uncovered a conspiracy, and died there.
‘I told you I would find you the names of your six horsemen.’
Rufinus felt a
sudden thrill of grim hope, leaning forward hungrily. The six men had killed a frumentarius at the imperial villa half a decade ago, and Rufinus had vowed a just death for each of them.
‘Tell me.’
‘Well we know Glabrio, who you dispatched at the mansio during the Perennis trouble, and Pollius who you accidentally hit a little too hard in a boxing match.’
Rufinus nodded, nothing more. Both men had deserved what came to them, and Rufinus felt not a jot of remorse. He would do it exactly the same again. In fact, he would do similar to the others.
‘And Vedius died of bite wounds in the Praetorian fortress, which I presume was your little pet.’
Rufinus nodded. He’d been a lucky find. The first of the six to die, the morning Rufinus saved the emperor’s life. ‘So I know about the dead. What about the others?’
Cestius sucked his lip as though trying to decide whether he should tell the eager Praetorian or not, but then he started to count them off on his fingers.
‘Appius Fulvius has had a meteoric career change. From ordinary trooper to a tribune of the Praetorian cavalry, coinciding almost precisely with Cleander taking control of the Guard with the new title of dagger bearer. Fulvius seems to be one of Cleander’s chosen in the Praetorians and can do no wrong. You’ll not find anyone in the Guard who’ll dare stand against him.’
‘I will. Who else?’
‘Decimus Curtius. He was the oldest of the six. He seems to have been given an honourable discharge from the Guard due to some minor injury, but his pension outweighs that of most tribunes. He lives a rich and easy life now in a house on the Quirinal hill, where he seems to remain one of Cleander’s men, a hub of information and blackmail, I suspect. His nose is officially clean, but the man’s working something for Cleander, for sure.’
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