As he waited, he peered around the room. His gaze settled with surprise on a small desk by the far wall, and he padded over to it. A pile of vellum notes and letters lay on the desk beside a stilus and a block of sealing wax. Surely the man was more careful that that? He lifted a list and peered at it. It seemed to be a timetable of someone’s daily routine, though he couldn’t identify whom. Gods, but this stuff was gold! The man clearly still had the mentality of an ordinary soldier, even if he’d risen to playing the great game with Cleander. He had not yet discovered that even his own home was not safe. Grinning nastily in the darkness, Rufinus gathered every sheet he could find, rolled them up and stuffed them into one of the scroll cases on the desk, which he then secured into his belt.
He was just congratulating himself when the door opened and he leapt behind it urgently, poised. He lifted the sword ready to strike as the door moved again.
It was a slave with an armful of bedlinen. The poor sod avoided death by a hair’s breadth as Rufinus changed the grip on the falling blade and instead struck the slave with the pommel, driving all sense and consciousness from him. The slave went down like a sack of turnips, and Rufinus dragged him to one side, kicking the linens away.
There he waited in the silence and the gloom of the one dim lamp.
As he waited, now focused, he worked through his first moves time and again. He had to be quick. The slave had not seen him, so at least that was good. He began to feel the tension of the wait, counting to one hundred repeatedly.
Still, despite his preparedness, the opening of the door took him by surprise.
‘Attalus?’ called the voice, clearly expecting his slave to be within, perhaps making the bed. A figure stepped into the room, his shadow huge in the golden rectangle of light from the door. As he passed the door itself, Rufinus gently pushed it shut behind him.
Decimus Curtius turned in surprise at the movement and it was the last thing he ever did.
Rufinus’ blade hit him in the ribs, entirely unprotected with just a tunic in the warm night, and slid in, piercing the heart even as the young attacker’s other hand clamped itself over his victim’s mouth just before he screamed, dampening the sound to a muffled gasp.
‘This if for Dis. Dionysus of the frumentarii, who you and your tent mates murdered in an imperial villa on the orders of a traitor. There will be no coin for your passage, and the ferryman will not take you. Wander here forever if you must, knowing that justice still exists in Rome.’
He watched the light die in the man’s eyes. For years he had not been able to do that, but so many things had changed since he had started playing the great game. As the body of Decimus Curtius went limp, he lowered it gently to the floor, trying avoid what seemed to be an ocean of blood. With care, he positioned the body facing the bed that was close by and bent the man’s arms, wrapping his hands around the hilt of the sword through his chest.
After a few moments he rose and realised with irritation that he had trodden in the blood. Swiftly he removed his boots. Whoever found the body, and he prayed it was that poor slave, else he might somehow be blamed, would have to come to the inevitable conclusion that Curtius had fallen on his sword in the ancient manner. That might not pass if a bloody footprint were found at the scene, of course. Unarmed now and holding his boots in his hand, he padded back across the room and checked for anyone outside before slipping out of the window and into the night.
The return journey should be easy.
Another of the murderers had met a just end and Rufinus could hardly wait to reach safety and read these documents. What revelations they could hold…
Chapter Seven – Unexpected encounters
Rome, December 187 A.D.
Rufinus trod wearily and angrily through the frost-coated glory of the forum, documents confirming the appointment of three trierarchs and ordering the construction of two new triremes clutched in his right hand, knuckles numb with the cold. The irritation flooding through him was nothing to do with the work, though, and unconnected to the seasonal drop in temperature. It was to do with the tense necessity of doing nothing.
Once more, months had passed since Severus had left for Gaul and Rufinus had hunted down the fourth cavalryman, and the danger of being arrested seemed to have abated fully. The “plot against the emperor’s life” by two disaffected senators and their cadre of friends had been almost forgotten and the world crept quietly on. Rufinus had finally broken the silence, unable to take the immobility any more. He had found a reasonable work excuse to visit Nicomedes, the prefect of the courier service, and had discovered that his fellow conspirator was as tautly impotent as he. Nicomedes had now reorganised his service sufficiently that he could, he believed, safely convey messages between them all with no danger of the letters dropping onto the chamberlain’s desk. Still they had been careful to hide any real discussion among a slew of droning daily work, for in the Rome of Cleander only a fool believed himself truly safe. And so the two of them and Dionysus had begun to discuss their next moves carefully, though none of them dared contact Severus or Cestius.
Sadly, as Rufinus could really have predicted, no one could really move without Severus detailing what had to happen next in his scheme, and so they meandered on, still impotent. At least the documents he had taken from the cavalryman’s villa had been of use. Among the huge array of names that identified men and women working as Cleander’s eyes and ears in the city, the conspirators had discovered a man in Nicomedes’ courier service, two in Dionysus’ employ and one among Severus’ own personnel. After some discussion among the three of them, they had decided that the best way of dealing with those men was not to remove them for fear of alerting their master, but to make sure that nothing more important than a wage chitty passed their way, keeping them bored and with nothing to report. Rufinus had sent a very carefully worded note to Severus warning him about his man, carried by one of Nicomedes’ own relations aboard one of Rufinus’ personally-appointed ships. There had been no reply, and no one felt like nudging the governor, just in case.
And so despite everything life droned on. Rufinus had begun to get used to his new role and had been surprised, and a little disappointed, to discover that ninety five percent of the role of Rome’s most senior officers seemed to be making dull decisions and accepting or declining requests on parchment. Moreover, much of the remaining five percent seemed to be telling other people to do the same.
With a curse of irritation, Rufinus righted himself as his soft calfskin boot slid across a frosty flag and he almost ended up in a heap on his back. That would not look appropriate for one of Rome’s elite in a public place. Plus it would hurt.
Skittering a little, he made for the portico of the Basilica Aemilia, where the staff had dutifully swept the flags clear and scattered grit for safety. Once beneath the arcade, he made once more for the tabularium to lodge his documents.
He was humming an old tune and frowning to himself, trying to remember the words, when he saw them and stopped dead. A woman in a saffron-coloured stola almost walked into him as he halted, and called him something mean before she haughtily swept past him and away. Rufinus ignored her and stepped into the shade of one of the columns.
His father was at the far end of the arcade, speaking to a man in a pale blue tunic. He’d not seen his father in so long, and the old man looked more drawn and haggard than ever. He felt the bitterness and resentment rising at the very sight of the old man and realised oddly that he was shaking, standing hiding behind a column in a very public place. People were watching him with interest. Damn it. Taking a deep breath, he ducked inside the basilica’s nearest door. Inside, the place was thronged with people, even at this time of the year and in the coldest of temperatures. While it was still a public place, it was much easier to lurk and go unnoticed here among the crowd and so, not entirely sure why he was doing it anyway, he shuffled along the archways inside until he came to another door to the portico closer to his father.
The man his fath
er was with was unknown to Rufinus, and thoroughly nondescript. He was in ordinary, if well-made, clothes, clean shaven and with neat hair. He could have been anyone, really, but Rufinus had the distinct feeling, even if he couldn’t say why, that the man was one of the lackeys from the Palatine. His father seemed to be demanding something from the man, who was clearly telling him that it was not possible. He watched his father becoming quite irate and seriously began to think he might hit the fellow, but finally the man in blue shook his head a final time, turned and walked away.
As his father spun in irritation, Rufinus ducked back out of sight. The old man probably wouldn’t recognise him anyway – might not even have recognised him without the disguise, frankly – but he couldn’t risk it. In fact, he was unlikely to learn anything of value here, and there was nothing he could do. His father was already clutching at Cleander’s tunic hem, desperate for a scrap of power, and yet somehow, having found the old man, Rufinus knew he had to watch, had to learn more.
Carefully, he stepped to the side, pretending to examine of the tablets in his hand but truly looking over the top of them. His father was still there, almost vibrating with anger. Just as Rufinus wondered what the miserable old fool would say if he thought his older son was still alive, his father stomped off across the square, threading between the few stalls who could be bothered setting up on a morning like this.
Without reasoning why, Rufinus followed.
His father passed the great Basilica Iulia and left the forum along the Vicus Tuscus, heading into the busy streets.. Rufinus, practiced enough now at such things and having sufficiently recovered from his initial shock, moved with speed along the street some fifty paces behind, keeping to the far side and pausing every now and then to make sure he didn’t catch up. His father was moving with purpose.
They entered an area Rufinus knew well. In this part of the Velabrum were shops and taverns galore, but the drinking establishments here tended to cater for the better class of soldier from the Palatine. Rufinus had been here a few times, and he knew several of the Guard spent much of their free time in one of the half dozen establishments that had set themselves up as a largely ‘soldier’s bar’. What his father was doing here, he could not imagine.
The old man paused outside a tavern by the name of Thirty Elephants – a reference to Rome’s first great victory overseas, playing to the vanity of the military. He stood for a few long moments, peering in through the door, and then pushed his way inside, much to Rufinus’ increasing surprise. His father was lowering himself to many things that he would have berated Rufinus for doing in the old days.
The young prefect in the street with the armful of documents dithered. In a way, he felt there was little to be gained from taking any further interest, and yet still he could not stop himself. Nibbling his cheek in tension, he paused outside the door for the count of fifty, a habit he’d picked up at Dionysus’ party and a good one to acquire, and then made his own way inside.
The tavern was half full, which was good business this early in the day at this time of year. A quick sweep of the interior with his gaze told Rufinus everything he needed to know. The majority of the bar’s patrons were Praetorians who had come off night duty and were having a few drinks before heading back to the fortress. He half expected to see people he knew, but the gaggle of toga-clad soldiers were all strangers. He found his father easily enough, standing at a table in the far corner, another white-toga-clad man seated before him.
Rufinus, confident that he appeared military enough to be here without raising comment, wandered across to the bar and ordered a small jar of wine and a cup. The jug of water was placed beside them, and he paid the paltry sum, repeatedly flicking his gaze towards his father. The man was having a discussion in low tones with the man at the table and as Rufinus turned, at this new angle near the bar, he saw something that surprised him.
On the bench behind the table, next to the toga-clad soldier, was a vitus – the vine stick of office of a centurion. Sure that somehow this was important, Rufinus took a few sips of wine, each time taking the opportunity to look over the cup’s rim at the man, committing to memory ever detail he could. The man had a long face and was clean shaven with pronounced lines from his nose down to the ends of his mouth, and prominent cheekbones, giving him something of an equine look. His hair was a spray of black and grey curls, cropped reasonably short in a somewhat archaic fashion – the one favoured by Rufinus, truth be told. One of his eyes had a slight film of blue, suggesting that his sight was slowly going on the left hand side. He was perhaps forty years old, and the blotchy red of his nose and cheeks spoke of a long-time drinker. This last was confirmed when the man poured himself another cup of wine and did not bother adding water before taking a large swig.
His father seemed to still be angry, and the centurion was handling it with the blasé attitude of a man who knew it made no difference to him at all. If only the bar were a little quieter, Rufinus would be able to get hints at least of what they were saying.
He returned his attention to his own drink, adding yet more water, stung by the sight of the centurion’s habit and the memory of his own dark time with that demon on his shoulder. Every now and then he glanced across at them, and could see that his father was arguing fruitlessly about something. The Praetorian centurion was not about to agree to whatever it was, and was happily sitting and taking the tirade, waiting for the old man to finish and simply go away. Rufinus tensed. He knew men like that. Happy to sit and let it wash over them, but prone to snapping. He could see it building now in the man. If his father didn’t stop and leave soon, the man would turn on him, and a Praetorian centurion was not a man to anger.
Fortunately, it seemed that his father was aware of the building tension, too, and finally subsided, sagging with angry disappointment, and turned away. Rufinus took another sip of his own wine and found himself torn. His father was now heading for the door once more, but the centurion remained at the table in the corner, brow folded in thought as he watched the old man go. Should Rufinus follow his father or now keep his eyes on the centurion? He wasn’t sure. He felt oddly certain that both had a tale to tell.
Another toga-clad man entered the tavern, grunting for Rufinus’ father to move out of the way, and the new arrival jolted Rufinus into a realisation. He had been side-tracked from what had been a normal and unsuspicious activity and had begun to lurk and pursue his father. But numerous times now he had learned that he himself had been followed. What if one of Cleander’s men was on him even now? He would certainly be giving the man something to report, wouldn’t he.
The old man left the tavern, turning left, and Rufinus fretted. The centurion could wait. He had a good image of the man committed to memory now. He would follow his father, but if he did so and he was being followed himself, then he could be heading for trouble.
He paused for the count of fifty, sipping wine and taking in the rest of the occupants carefully. If anyone had been following him, he was content that they were not in the bar. Everyone in here was a soldier and committed to their drinking. Only two men had come in after him, and neither was anything but a Praetorian with a thirst, he was sure.
He thanked the barman, finished his cup and left. As he emerged into the cold light, he blinked repeatedly and held up the documents he carried to shade his eyes from the glare. As he did so, his gaze took in every face in the street. No. He was sure none of them had been there when he entered. Off to his left he could just make out his father’s shape in time to see him turn left again towards the slopes of the Palatine.
Hurrying, he lowered the documents and followed his father. As he reached the corner where the old man had turned, he carelessly dropped one of the wooden tablet cases and crouched to retrieve it, his gaze darting momentarily between all those around him. No one seemed suspicious.
He turned down the alley, which ran between ancient crumbling brick walls, up the gentle slope. A little higher the alley wound around the rear of a small bath h
ouse and then a side passage connected it to the Scalae Caci, the ancient staircase from the end of the circus up to the plateau. Rufinus knew the place. He had spent enough time as a guard here to have used the alleys as a cut through between work and drinking pit. Few people of quality used it – only soldiers and slaves and beggars – for there was simply too much danger of one of the city’s many muggers lurking in a dark corner.
He could not see his father, but there were few places he could go. He was either headed for the baths or the stairs. Hurrying now, he padded up the slope until he reached the corner, where he slowed. He turned to look back. No one had entered the alley behind him, and no one was watching from the entrance. He hadn’t been followed today.
Gritting his teeth, he turned the corner slowly to see his father standing in the next alley, learning on the wall and catching his breath. The climb was not especially steep or gruelling, but then his father was not a young man.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ his father snapped suddenly, turning to face him.
Rufinus felt a shock of worry flood him. They were alone in the place together, and he’d made no attempt to silence his own footfall, being concerned more now with who might be following him. His father had become aware of his own pursuer.
Somehow, suddenly, in the presence of his father, Rufinus felt an odd and overwhelming sadness that his family had come to this. His mother long dead, his older brother buried in a tomb on an estate that had now been sold out of their hands. His younger brother in danger and hidden in a safe house in Gaul, his father clutching at the heels of the empire’s greatest villain just for a taste of the good life once more. And Rufinus: dead, yet walking.
Before he had truly decided what to do, he stepped forward, arms low, unthreateningly.
‘Do you not know me?’
Lions of Rome Page 10
