Praetorian: The Great Game

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘I really wish you hadn’t recognised me. It would have made things so much easier. Do you live in these chambers?’

  Senova shook her head and nodded toward the east. ‘The Empress’ chief slaves live in part of the main palace. She likes them on hand all times. Only unimportant slaves live in the hundred chambers, with the storerooms.’

  Rufinus nodded. It would be difficult to contact Senova if he wanted to speak to her. Or just to see her. So far, in his first week here, he had stuck to the outer grounds, where his assigned patrols were. Soon, he was going to have to begin exploring the palace properly, to find the ways in and out of the buildings, even the ones he was not allowed in; especially the ones he was not allowed in…

  ‘Are guards ever brought into the palace itself?’

  He regretted the question as soon as it was out. She might think he was simply lusting after her, or she might worry that he had unsavoury reasons for seeking access to the lady’s private palace. Either way it would look bad.

  ‘What I mean is…’

  ‘Guards come into the palace from time to time. There are always two men patrolling the corridors, but you will not be one of them. You are too new. When there are big parties, more guards are brought in for extra safety, yes?’

  Rufinus nodded, sighing with relief at the ease with which she had openly accepted his question. If he remembered the geography of the palace from his first day and the guided tour by both Phaestor and Glaucus, his fascinatingly-unwell room-mate, the wing occupied by Pompeianus, a sprawling complex of gardens, ponds and well-appointed chambers, was connected with the rest of the palace at some curious circular building that remained mysterious in its use. Perhaps if the worst came to the worst, the Syrian would be able to arrange access to Lucilla’s palace?

  ‘I must go’ Senova said quietly, pointing to the drab blanket swaying slightly in the breeze. ‘I have many chores and must be in the triclinium before domina sits to her meal.’

  Rufinus nodded and smiled as reassuringly as he could manage.

  ‘I am sorry to have dragged you into this and just as sorry for the rough manner in which I did it, but I’m also very grateful for your understanding and your help.’ He found his throat was cracking as he spoke. ‘And I am… I’m very glad to see you again, Senova.’

  He savoured the name for a moment, running the syllables round his tongue. The slave girl climbed wearily to her feet and pulled her cloak around her shoulders in preparation.

  ‘Brigantia go with you, Gnaeus Marcius.’

  ‘And with you, Senova of the Brigantii.’

  As she stepped forward, he reached out and lifted the blanket aside for her.

  The huge, monochrome shape of a hunting hound, half the height of a man, stood on the wooden walkway outside the railing, its eyes boring into his as he slid the blanket aside. The beast issued a low, threatening growl, spittle-soaked lips pulling back across the pink gums and savage teeth.

  Rufinus saw the hackles raised on the dog’s shoulders and immediately pushed Senova behind him, his hand going to his waist. At least, since he’d not been back to his quarters yet, he still had the sword at his side. His fingers closed on the pommel.

  What in the name of everything sacred and sane was the damn thing doing four floors up on a rickety wooden walkway in the slave quarters? Slowly, Rufinus took one step forward. The hound sank toward the ground, crouching into a hunter’s stance, its whole body vibrating with tension as another horrible growl issued from deep within its throat.

  Rufinus’ fingers slid from the pommel down to the sword’s grip and tightened. The beast clearly had no intention of letting them past. And yet, if he was forced to try and dispatch one of Dis’ hounds, how long would the mercenaries’ second in command suffer him to remain unharmed. Assuming he would be able to best the creature, of course. Given the sheer size and feral nature of the dog, he wasn’t sure he would come away on top.

  ‘Shoo!’ he said rather lamely, and then hissed and waved his free hand.

  Another deep growl came as his answer.

  A distant shrill whistle pulled the beast up short just as its front legs were tensing.

  ‘Acheron! Heel!’

  With a last look that conveyed a lot more intelligent malice than a dog should really be capable of, the Sarmatian hunting hound rose and stalked away.

  Rufinus watched it go, his heart pounding in his chest as he let go of the sword grip and flexed his fingers. If he ever came up against both of those hounds at the same time, the contest would go entirely the canines’ way. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the fear in Senova’s eyes and understood it perfectly.

  Listening, he could hear the heavy paws clattering down the wooden staircase over the persistent drumming of the rain.

  ‘It’s gone. We’ll be safe now, but I think I’ll escort you back to the palace, just in case.’

  Senova nodded nervously and clung tightly to him as he stepped out onto the slimy wooden walkway. A quick glance over the edge revealed the dog leaping the last eight feet or so from the lowest landing and scampering across the sodden grass to where Dis stood, hunting bow in hand, with the other dog, looking up at the walkway. His eyes never left the pair of them as the savage hound ran up to its master and squirmed around his legs like a puppy until he dropped his free hand and ruffled the hair behind its ears.

  Rufinus felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the figure. Dis stood motionless and silent, like some marble sentinel. Something about him was almost inhuman.

  ‘Come on.’

  Grasping Senova’s hand, Rufinus walked her toward the stairs, ignoring both the heavy rain lashing down at them and the stare of those hollow eyes boring into him. As quickly as he dared in the conditions, he hurried them down the slippery steps. For the first three flights, every time the grass below came into view, Rufinus could see the shape of Dis watching them, hunting bow in hand, a dog by each shin, until finally, as they descended to the lowest landing, the figures had vanished, quickly and silently.

  Rufinus cursed to himself, invoking the name of three Gods just in case. Likely a confrontation was coming with Dis. A hollow man like that was a challenge enough in the ring, let alone out of it and with no rules, and with two hounds of Hades thrown in to boot!

  Hurrying onwards, they descended into the welcome shelter of the passageway that echoed with the drip of rain from a score of light wells. Back along the corridor they shuffled together, the chill of the weather seeping deep into their bones, until they reached the place where Rufinus had first entered.

  ‘I can go from here. I must hurry. Thank you.’

  Rufinus opened his mouth to protest that he should walk her to the palace, but closed it again as common sense took control of his head. She was in no danger, particularly with Dis and his dogs on the far side of the villa, out in the grounds. And it would do her no good to be seen consorting with a guard, given the mistress’ rules of non-fraternisation.

  ‘Alright. Go safe, and thank you.’

  Senova treated him to a heart-warming smile and, climbing the stairs, disappeared off into the distance. Rufinus stood for a moment and then, deciding on a course of action, climbed the stairs himself and veered off to the left. He would yet go and make use of the baths and dry his clothes, but not until he had done something else first. Besides, by then Phaestor and his companions would have left and he could relax in peace.

  At the top of the stairs, where a decorative arch opened out into a well-tended lawn surrounded by sculpted hedges and bushes, the right led off to the olive-tree strewn hillside and the largely abandoned buildings at the south end of the villa’s grounds. Straight ahead, past which Senova had hurried, was the bath house. To the left, where he now trod with purposeful gait, was the nearest wing of the palace.

  Marching through the downpour, he made for the doorway into Pompeianus’ interior garden, a portal that he had spotted several times on his visits to the baths and had noted was almost always open. Few peopl
e cared about the security of the mistress’ consort.

  Taking a deep breath, aware that he could land himself in serious trouble if he was found wandering the palace without permission, he strode through the gateway and into the long, well-kept garden. Stretching some hundred and twenty paces and bisecting the two built-up sections of the palace wing, the stadium-shaped garden, with a curved decorative exedra at the nearest end, was a beautifully designed space of ponds, fountains, hedges, flower beds, and gravelled seating areas.

  A figure moved among the small conifers growing in huge pots near the centre, snipping and pruning, and Rufinus shrank instinctively back against the wall, fearing discovery.

  As he slunk along the wall’s edge, his mind raced. Pompeianus lived here, unpopular and almost in seclusion, with his own servants and hardly any contact with the guards or his wife. Any servant Rufinus found here would be one of the Syrian nobleman’s own.

  Another deep breath. Nothing ventured: nothing gained.

  Striding out from the wall, his boots crunching on the wet gravel, Rufinus approached the hunched figure of the gardener, busily tidying a decorative conifer, his straw hat waxed for extra protection as the torrents of rain ran from it and fell onto the cape he wore beneath.

  ‘Excuse me’ he said loudly, over the sounds of the rain striking leaves all around.

  The figure paused in his work and turned.

  ‘I need to speak with your master. Would you be so kind as to take me to him?’

  Pompeianus, former highly decorated general of the empire and husband of the most powerful woman in the world, turned with a smile, tapping the brim of his hat so that a fresh sheet of rain bounced off it. ‘I was wondering when you’d decide to show up, young man. Best come in out of the rain.’

  Gesturing for the surprised Rufinus to follow, Pompeianus strode towards a door into the building to the left. ‘I have a rather good bottle of Falernian resting open and breathing the cool air. I’m sure after your exertions you would not be averse to joining me for a tipple while you tell me what is on your mind?’

  Rufinus nodded seriously. ‘I think the time has come for us to have a talk, general.’

  XIV – Understandings and revelations

  POMPEIANUS sat back and exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. Rufinus sat nervously, having revealed every last detail of his involvement with Commodus, the two Praetorian prefects, the lady Lucilla and her personal slave. He had found, as he talked frankly and openly, that such a weight lifted from him that he had gone far beyond his initial intentions and had laid his soul bare before the Syrian former general. Somehow the man’s presence was comforting enough that it felt good to do so.

  Now, however, was crunch-time. What would Pompeianus do?

  The general nodded to himself, apparently mulling over the information as he digested it.

  ‘You have been a busy man.’

  Rufinus nodded, his breath held. He’d even spoken in careful and peripheral terms of his confrontation and disposal of the animal Scopius, though omitting both name and location. He’d given over enough secrets to see himself executed five times over, for all the extenuating circumstances that had influenced his actions. But the only way anything was possible here in this palatial villa was through the acquiring of allies. And the only way to ally with Pompeianus was to come clean with him. A gesture of trust.

  ‘I remember you from Vindobona. I suspect that my wife and most of the notables will have only seen a soldier, for all your valour. Paternus clearly saw something else; Perennis too, else he would hardly have cared about your sudden prominence. I saw something in your eyes that at the time I took as deviousness, and I wondered whether you were busy engineering your advance. I see now that I was wrong.’

  He gave a light chuckle. ‘You may very well be the only honourable member of the Praetorian Guard in its illustrious history!’

  Rufinus gave a small nervous laugh. ‘But general, what of prefect Perennis and his meetings with your wife? Do you not feel conflicted, given your familial connections, your acceptance of his patronage and his possible involvement?’

  That was dangerous too: all-but accusing the prefect of treason, even to this man, was a death sentence waiting to happen.

  Thankfully, Pompeianus shrugged and reached for the wine, refilling his cup. ‘Perennis is a snake, young man, but at this particular moment, he is our snake. Try not to think in absolutes. I fear you see only good and bad, but you need to understand that the world is one great, enormous grey area. There are no good or bad people. Everyone is a little of both; it is simply a question of proportions. Perennis is no more or less trustworthy than any Praetorian prefect that has held the position, including Paternus. Both of them would eat you up and spit out the bones if the need arose. Never think you can trust a man this close to the centre of power. You would do well to place less trust in me, for instance.’

  Rufinus’ heart skipped a beat, but Pompeianus smiled and waved aside the sudden chill. ‘Have no fear. I do not mean to cause you trouble, but remember that I too move in these circles and there may come a day when I am in dire need of something and you become a vital stepping stone. Do not think for a moment that I will hesitate in making use of you if I need to, but not now.’

  He paused and took a sip of his wine. ‘Perennis is the emperor’s man, through and through - at this time. What the future holds, who knows? But for now, you may rely on Perennis to support and carry out the wishes of the golden boy. He is to Commodus what Paternus was to Aurelius. The balance of power within the military has shifted to the new prefect due to his connections. Paternus is still a loyal man, don’t get me wrong, but he is already beginning to work his machinations to suborn his counterpart.’

  He laughed. ‘The politics of the Praetorians are every bit as convoluted and dangerous as those of the palace, young Rufinus. Perennis has been tying himself ever tighter to Commodus to secure his position and diminish Paternus’ power. When you saw him with Lucilla in Rome, you saw him endearing himself in order to learn more of her plans. He is a snake, but not yet well enough versed in palace politics to succeed in such a ruse. Lucilla would have nothing of it and spurned his company. This is, of course, why he came to me.’

  He gestured to Rufinus’ empty cup and nudged the wine across the table. Rufinus thought for a moment, wondering whether he should risk addling his brains, but accepted the wine, watering it well.

  Time to ask another important question. ‘If it is not too impertinent, general, may I ask why you have agreed to help the prefect investigate your wife? Is the rift between you that wide?’

  Pompeianus laughed again with genuine mirth. ‘You’re seeing things in too noble a light again, young man. I have a comfortable life, for all the coldness of my wife. We have a son, for whom I care a great deal, and who loves us both despite our division, though he stays in Sicilia with his tutor and a cousin of mine, safely away from the intrigues of Rome.’

  He took a breath and narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. ‘It is a question of survival, Rufinus. If you manage to live through the first few years of a new reign, in the circles of power and the ranks of the Guard, you will understand what a driving motive survival can be. Commodus is not yet secure, while Lucilla hungers for the throne. Soon, lines will be drawn and the fight will commence with knives in the dark. All that matters now is to be on the winning side.’

  Rufinus frowned. ‘Surely it’s better to be on the right side, despite the consequences?’

  The Syrian shook his head. ‘Only to those who have yet to meet the stare of a torturer in the Palatine cellars. I have seen the result of heroic stands for the truth, and it is rarely pretty. If you hope to do any good, the first rule is that you have to survive long enough to do it.’

  Rufinus felt somehow saddened by this statement. He had, in his mind, built up the general to be some sort of noble Roman hero and the discovery that the man was driven by base instincts for survival undermined something in his system of values.
>
  ‘Do not judge me, Rufinus. Tell me what you know of your new emperor.’

  The young guardsman sat silent, ruminating for a moment, and then cleared his throat. ‘He is clearly the right successor and has a history of military successes…’

  Pompeianus waved a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t mean his curriculum vitae. I mean what you think of him. Your impressions. But I will comment on your bold statements immediately by qualifying them. The ‘right’ successor is not always the best one - a fact worth remembering, and secondly: how many emperors are truly responsible for their victories? Think deeply about what you say, Rufinus. Now tell me of Commodus.’

  Again, the young guardsman cleared his throat nervously. ‘He is…’ he paused, wondering what to say.

  ‘Don’t consider it, Rufinus. Just tell me what you think. Your first impressions. Talk.’

  ‘He’s a clever man and a fun, interesting one. I think he inspires men and charms women. He’s a lover of beauty and form. He loved his father and I think respects his country and his people…’

  ‘But?’ Pompeianus leaned forward conspiratorially.

  ‘But he is changeable, I fear. I think he is prone to sudden shifts of mood and I fear could be dangerous, especially if crossed.’

  ‘See how you start to picture things in more colours now, young man?’ Pompeianus nodded. ‘What do you think of his desire and suitability to rule?’

  Suddenly Rufinus felt his blood chill. Could it be that Pompeianus himself was part of the plot against Commodus? Or possibly harboured plans for a usurpation of his own, entirely separately from that of his wife? The Syrian nobleman smiled.

  ‘No judgement shall be passed on your thoughts. Call it a frank exchange of views.’

  Rufinus felt his throat tighten as he talked. ‘I think he wants to rule. He could easily have allowed Lucilla to take the throne for your son. It would have been unpopular in some quarters, but he could have done it and the succession would occur smoothly. As to his suitability? I think it is too early to judge a man’s ability. I have heard of few new laws passed and little in the way of civil projects. There are no military campaigns looming and the borders are peaceful. How could anyone judge?’